the story: the fic that installed my buttons for OUAT 3b divergence in all of its glory and delight. it is a testament to the wonders of fandom community that i now get to call @justanotherwannabeclassic a friend, and to have made this for her--a small token of how much i've enjoyed this fic and her company over the years.
binding: half-letter sewn boards, fabric bookcloth cover. kept it simple in the design, leaning in to the contrast of the gray and red and the images it evoked of something bright in a cloudy, snowy time. i decided to bling it up with gem motifs and add a rose as an obi band.
Hey so several months ago @shireness-says, @ohmightydevviepuu and I were chatting about our great love for 3B canon divergence, specifically the kind in which there’s no second curse so Emma and Killian remain in Storybrooke and are forced to deal with their shit.
I mean, it’s the best, right? Emma facing her feelings. Confronting her past with Neal. Preventing her defenceless baby brother from being named after the man who knocked her up and left her in jail. That sort of thing.
Killian pining. Emma pining. Alll the pining. Secret sex. Slow-burn feelings.
There’s just so much potential for goodness.
So what we need, we’ve decided, is a Renaissance. Like the Neverland one, only in Storybrooke with no curse.
A no-curse renaissance.
We’ve written some fics for it. As has @winterbythesea, among others. We’d love some more.
There’s a collection on AO3 now, you can find it HERE. Submissions are open and we welcome them, any fic you think suits the theme, please let us know.
This is *not* an event. Just a movement. Just to say that if anyone finds the inspiration for a little no-curse fic, we’ve got a home ready and waiting for it.
1 - Neal
2 - The time she’d left him with a giant
3 - The time he’d left her in a cell
4 - Milah
5 - True. Love’s. Kiss.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | AO3
--
True. Love's. Kiss.
But it wasn’t that easy.
It couldn’t be that easy.
Could it?
Emma walked from the bar to the B&B because--somehow--even with the ship right there, the Jolly Roger, his home for centuries, he usually stayed in the room Granny had given him. He said he liked the indoor plumbing but--but--that wasn’t the truth, was it?
Killian opened the door before she even knocked.
“Hi,” she said.
The truth was, it was closer to her parents. To Henry. It was warmer when she got cold at night--easier to get coffee and pancakes in the morning--grilled cheese for dinner. He leaned his cheek against the door, his hand above his forehead. “Hello,” he said, and smiled. He really was unfairly good-looking with his stupid eyes and his stupid smile and how suddenly it didn’t seem so dark in the hallway of the B&B at 2am anymore. They did the thing--where they stared at each other, Emma drinking in the sight of his bare chest under his black bathrobe, the soft sweatpants--until, finally, he shifted his head and Emma took a goddamn breath and said, “We need to talk.”
Because this was it, this was the conversation they hadn’t been having since the beginning--since the beanstalk, maybe--and everything that came next would stem from this, right here, right now.
Killian knew it, too; just for a second his face froze and his jaw muscle throbbed and then he moved his hand to the back of his neck and ran it through his hair. “Aye,” he said. “I suppose we do, at that.” He pulled the door the rest of the way open and Emma stepped over the threshold and grabbed him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him until both of them were out of breath.
He laughed and it was shaky, he was shaky as she pushed him farther into the room, walking backward until he backed up against the loveseat. Emma pressed on his shoulders and he sat down, obedient, watched her as she pulled at the sleeves of her jacket and let it fall to the floor, watched her as the put her hands to his chest and lowered herself so that she was on the seat with him, her knees bracketing his hops, one of his hands at her thigh and his hook flipping the hair away from her shoulder. She pushed the black bathrobe away from his bare chest, the foreheads touched and when their eyes met again there was a question in them and he kissed her--gently--softly--searching for answers.
When he finally pulled away, Emma touched her lips; her eyes never left his as her hand brushed against her wrist and the corded leather laces she wore there. “When I moved to Storybrooke,” she said, “of course I didn’t believe the stories Henry told, you know, princes and princesses and curses. But I also--I didn’t believe in much of anything. Happy endings. Love. Myself. And there was this guy, he--” Emma took a deep breath “--I think I could have, with him, you know? Felt something. For the first time since Neal left me.”
Killian’s hand moved to her temple as he caressed her cheek and she leaned into him.
“He left me in prison, Killian. Pregnant. And I couldn’t be--I felt like the only thing I could do was give Henry up, give him his best chance. And I was broken. I was broken for a long time after that. When Graham--died--I thought I would just be broken, you know, forever. It’s easier to feel nothing when what you’re feeling just plain sucks. And then I met you.”
His hand lowered.
“I hated you,” she said, and Killian laughed, a small thing that was barely a sound. “You were just so--” Emma made a face.
“You can say it,” he said. “Devilishly handsome.”
“That too,” she muttered. “But I felt something. Right from the start, even though all I could see were the reasons why not until the curse came for us and I knew. I knew I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t.” She ran her hand through his hair, rested her arm on his shoulder and stroked the back of his neck. “I love you.”
His intake of breath was sharp and audible, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open.
“I learned something a long time ago,” she continued. “That there’s this feeling you get, like, you just can’t outrun it, and that’s how you know you have a home. When you leave it, you just miss it. That’s how I felt at the town line, Killian. I missed--” the pad of his thumb traced the crease under her eye, chasing a tear “--I missed you.”
His hand lowered slowly, back to her knee. His hook anchored against her hip when he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m glad to you got your heart broken. That’s how you know it still works. And I knew, Swan--I knew since you left me on that beanstalk that I could--” she cupped his face with her hands “--and I hated you, too. For making me feel. I hadn’t felt anything in a very long time.”
Killian tried to look away, but Emma wouldn’t let him.
“I knew how I felt about you in Neverland,” he said. “Since--”
The Other Kiss.
“Or I thought I did,” he said. “But True Love is the rarest magic of all and I--”
“Shhh,” Emma said, leaning forward until their foreheads were touching again. Because--now, now, they were on the same page.
“Sometimes I still doubt it,” he said. “That you’re here. That we’re here.”
“I know it’s scary,” Emma said. “I’m still scared, too. Every day. But we’re going to find a way.”
This time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t soft or gentle, as his mouth trailed down toward her collarbone, as his hand went to the curve of her breast before tracing a line down the length of her middle, his hook cool and smooth as it slid under the hem of her shirt.
“You believe in me,” she said, a whisper into his skin. An exhalation, a release of tension and fear and doubt, and when she breathed again it was full of him, of the scent of him and the nearness of him.
“And you give me hope,” he said, twisting his body and hers so that she was on her back on the loveseat, their bodies flush from her chest to her knees. Emma closed her eyes, letting the moment fill her, letting everything else disappear--let it all fall away except him. She threaded her fingers through his hair and he said, “How about we try for some real magic?”
When he touched her and Emma felt the magic there, white-hot silver in her veins, she let it envelop her, envelop them; opened her eyes and felt his chuckle as he reached for her, helping her pull off her shirt as the weight of him, of them, sank into the mattress. His arms wrapped around her and he was insatiable, all of the hunger of that first burning kiss blazing back to life in the darkness as if he could swallow her whole. Emma pulled off her tank top and his eyes glittered, a wicked gleam as he watched her, followed her hands as she unbuttoned her jeans and slid out of them.
They were together, completely, and with the friction between them Emma could feel the last knot of loneliness releasing, coming loose as he watched her; he fucked her with his hand and his mouth and his eyes, watched her and called for her until she shattered and came and came and came and his name was on her hips as he made love to her and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”
And it was just--so easy.
Like home.
--
“For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: that each protects the solitude of the other. This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: the more they give, the more they possess.”
Sunday night smut, anyone? Here’s a little canon divergence, 3B with no second curse, Emma and Killian and a stormy night on the Jolly Roger.
Rating: M
Words: 4.2k
Tags: canon divergence, smut, season 3 divergence, mild angst, many feelz, tattoos and tattoo appreciation
On AO3
--
The Jolly Roger creaks as the wind whips around her, groans as the waves lap roughly at her hull, and in his cabin Killian sits with his flask and his thoughts and the thrill in his blood that storms still inspire even after centuries. It’s a particularly wild one tonight but Killian is untroubled by that; he’s had many a wild night in his time and he knows his old girl can weather this one just as she has all the others. What’s troubling him is a storm of a different sort, and he lifts his flask to his lips and drinks deep as he tries not to think about the last time the Jolly was buffeted by such winds as these. Tries, without success.
…the first mate’s cabin was smaller than his and he could hear more distinctly all the rattles and protests of the Jolly’s old wood as they flew away from Neverland. Though it was only the third time his ship had flown, she was far older now than she had been those first two, and Killian was determined to keep an attentive ear out for anything that sounded off.
A knock came faintly but sharply at the door, and he barely had time to say “Come in” before it was creaking open the merest sliver and then shutting again behind Emma Swan.
“Swan?” He frowned as she approached him, trepidation in her eyes but the set of her jaw resolute. “Is everything all ri—“
She cut him off with her lips on his, as sweet and as demanding as they had been back in that accursed jungle. He gasped in surprise and she seized the advantage of his parted lips, slipping her tongue between them to slide against his, slick and hot and wrenching a groan from his chest as his fingers sank without his volition into her hair and she tilted her head to deepen the kiss still further.
His own head spun, his blood pounding as he groped for control, for sanity—as the woman who’d been plaguing his dreams ever since that bloody beanstalk pressed her body to his and dragged her lips and teeth down his neck.
“Swan,” he groaned. “Emma. What are you—”
“Shhhh,” she hissed against his collarbone. “Don’t talk. If you talk, you’ll ruin it.”
“But, love—”
“Are you going to say no, Hook? Because if not, shut up.”
“But—”
“Shut. Up.”
She pulled his mouth to hers again and he let her, kissed her back with every ounce of the passion she stirred in him and with the other, more troubling emotions that he knew she wouldn’t care to know about. These feelings—the awe, the tenderness, the indescribable pleasure of having a woman he treasured in his arms, after centuries of empty encounters—Killian feared them nearly as much as she did, knowing that he would be all the worse off for having felt them once they were gone. And they would be gone, far sooner than he wished, of that he was certain.
But for now Emma was here, her skin smooth beneath his fingers, slick and wet when he slipped those fingers between her legs—softer than the finest Agrabahni silks, the most precious treasure he’d ever plundered. He ached to taste her, to linger over that silken skin and pleasure her for hours, but this was neither the time nor the place and the almost desperate haste in Emma’s touches told him plainly that she wouldn’t welcome lingering or the kind of worship he longed to lavish on her. So instead he simply stroked her as her fingers fumbled at the laces of his trousers then shoved them down—then her hand was on his cock, gripping it firmly, and he couldn’t choke back a heaving groan. Dimly he felt her leg wrap around his hip, the pressure of her fingers on his cock as she guided him, the rumble of her groan melding with his as he pushed inside her.
Her face was pressed into his neck, her fingers clenched tight in his hair as he moved within her, hard and fast and rougher than he wished. He had no thoughts beyond how good it all felt—his fingers tangled in her golden tresses, their scent in his nose, her moans in his ear, the heat of her skin and his own fierce pleasure at feeling her around him tight and warm and wet—and the helpless certainty that whatever small chance he may have had of breaking free of this infatuation was long gone now—he was hers, completely and for all the time that may remain to him in this life.
Her breath hitched and her grip on him tightened as she began to come, and as he tumbled right behind her, Killian vowed that in this, for once, he would not be selfish. Anything Emma needed he would do his best to give her, whatever the cost to himself. Securing her happiness, her future, that was all that mattered…
Which left him here, thinks Killian wryly, holed up on his ship with his rum and his thoughts, the memories he can’t escape, while Emma is with her family, her son and her parents. And Neal.
It’s for the best, he reminds himself. Families should be together. And if he can ensure for Emma that measure of love and security by ceasing his pursuit of her, well that is what he intends to do.
The wind howls and the Jolly creaks, and Killian shivers as he sips his rum. Even the burn of the alcohol is not enough to keep him warm on this stormy night. He should really go to bed, dig out an extra blanket and quit this pointless brooding, enjoy a rare occasion when he can relax his vigilance and sleep soundly, secure in the knowledge that he is in a place where very few dangers, relatively speaking, lurk in wait for him.
Pan is gone, trapped forever in Pandora’s box. The Crocodile and he have buried their hatchet—and not in Killian’s skull. He’s beginning to settle into this Storybrooke, to become accustomed to their odd ways and lay the foundations for a life here. The few weeks since their return from Neverland have been pleasant on the whole, marred only by a distinct lack of Emma and those small but painful twinges just beneath his heart whenever he’s reminded that she and Neal have been spending quite a bit of time together.
He drains his flask in one swallow and tosses it aside before rising easily to his feet and wishing, just for a moment, that he were drunker. His coat and vest he has long since removed and now he strips off his shirt and boots as well, neatly folding the one and placing the others next to the bed, then gives himself a quick wash at his basin before beginning to unlace his trousers. The wind is whistling shrilly and Killian is deep in his thoughts, and that is perhaps why he doesn’t hear the sound of boots on the deck or perceive the presence of another person on his ship until she flings open the door of his cabin and marches inside, windswept and breathless and beautiful.
“Swan!”
Killian gapes, wondering wildly if his moody thoughts have somehow conjured her, not missing the way her eyes widen at the sight of him standing there in such a state of undress, how they follow the trail of a water droplet as it trickles down his chest. During their encounter his clothing remained mostly on, his trousers shoved down but the rest intact—this is the first time Emma has seen him so bare.
He can feel the flush in his cheeks, the heat rising up his neck and pooling in his groin as she openly ogles him, biting down on her lip in a way that makes him long to do the same. He clears his throat.
“Is everything all right?” he asks. “Do you require my assistance with something?”
“Tattoos,” she murmurs.
“I—beg your pardon?”
“Hmmm?” Her teeth sink deeper into the pink flesh of her lip and Killian grinds his teeth.
“Is there something I can do for you, Swan?” he asks, sharply enough that she looks up and meets his eyes.
“Yeah,” she says. “There is.”
She crosses the room in two strides and runs her hand up his chest, curls it around the back of his neck and tugs his mouth to hers. Killian groans but he’s barely even reached for her before she’s pulling away, whipping off her jacket and sweater then pressing close to him again, twining her arms around his neck as she kisses him. The feel of her bare skin against his own, the soft brush of her hair on his shoulder and her tongue in his mouth—he’s helpless to resist it, or to deny her what she’s come to seek from him.
Their hands on each other are frantic, uncoordinated. Killian vaguely recalls that he’s generally much better at this—when he’s not with Emma, that is, not overcome by the need to touch and taste and feel. He tugs at the scrap of lace covering her breasts with his hook, hears it rip—he supposes he should care about this but then her nipple is in his mouth, hard and pebbled against his tongue, and the noise Emma makes when he nips at it is nearly his undoing. She shoves him away to kick off her boots and shimmy free of those skintight trousers she wears and then Emma Swan is bare before him, and Killian wonders if it’s possible to perish from wanting.
Her eyebrows rise in an expectant look and he quickly shucks his own trousers, then stands straight and lets her see the whole of him, heat creeping up his cheeks again as she boldly surveys his naked form. Her fingers brush lightly across his skin, up his sides and over his chest, tracing the patterns he’s had inked there—centuries’ worth of them, some faded and others bright, jumbled together in the story of his life.
He holds his breath awaiting her reaction but she says nothing, simply wraps her arms around him and kisses him. He groans against her lips and lifts her up, tumbles them both onto the bed, rolling her beneath him as his own hand explores the dips and curves of her body. She cradles him between her thighs, rolls her hips to wet his cock with her arousal, and he wants, oh he wants, to build up to this, to take his time, to make her come at least twice with his fingers and his tongue before he seeks his own release within her—but her nails are scoring deep gashes in his back and there’s a desperate catch in her throat as she whispers “Please… please, Killian…” and so with a groan he sinks into her, giving them both what they most deeply crave.
It’s hard and it’s fast, though still slower than their first time, with no frantic rush for fear of interruption or any need to stifle the noises they make. Emma’s firm thighs grip his hips and the muscles of her stomach flex as she lifts her own to meets his thrusts, driving him near to madness. Strength wrapped in softness is Killian’s weakness, it always has been—and better still when the strength encases something even softer. Emma’s warm heart and the depth of her capacity for love is a thing he longs for as much as he does her body, and the bittersweet bliss of knowing the one without the other claws at his heart even as he groans his release into her hair, as he feels her clench and flutter around him, her arms drawn taut as they hold him close.
When he rolls away they tighten further—just briefly but he takes heart from it and wraps an arm around her before she can slip away, pulling her flush against his chest.
“Stay awhile,” he murmurs, soft against her temple. “Just… stay.”
There’s tension in her body for a moment, then she relaxes and gives a nod. “Okay,” she whispers, so quietly he can barely hear her, but there can be no mistaking the way she snuggles closer, tucking her head beneath his chin and resting her hand on his chest, her fingers playing absently through the hair on it.
He wants to ask her why she’s here when she should be with her family, snuggled up safely with them on this stormy night. He wants to ask but also isn’t sure he’d like the answer, and as they drift together into a slumbrous daze it’s as though a spell weaves itself around them, delicate as a spider’s web, and he is loath to do anything that may break it.
Emma’s fingertips begin to trace along the lines of ink on his chest, following them up to his shoulder and back again, then down his torso to where they curl around his hip.
“What do all of these mean?” she murmurs.
“Various things.” His voice is gruff, with the pain of the memories and the pleasure of her touch. “Some are simply things I found appealing. Others are for commemoration, of battles and other events.”
“Battles? Really?”
“I was in Neverland for a long time, love, and Pan is far from the only unpleasant creature who once resided there. Do you see this?” He indicates a round scar on his abdomen, puckered and still pink even after nearly a century.
Emma frowns at it. “It looks like a bullet wound.”
“Aye, it does rather, but it isn’t. It’s where a manticore stabbed me with its tail.”
“With its tail?”
“They have tails like those of scorpions. Look, here he is.” Killian taps his hook on the image tattooed on his rib, of the lion-beast with the face of a man and an armoured, stinging tail. “Still not wholly certain how I survived that one.”
“Oh.” She traces the scar with her fingertip than leans down to kiss it. He catches his breath as her lips press gently on the raised skin, then the tip of her tongue traces the shape of the manticore, over the curve of the tail and then downwards, along the rope that leads to the broken anchor nestled in his hip.
“Why is it broken?” she murmurs, and Killian grits his teeth against the rush of sensation, the feel of her breath and her voice vibrating against his skin.
“Anchors… represent security,” he grinds out. “Home. And, well—”
“Yeah,” she says, and kisses the anchor. “I get it.”
His skin feels on fire as she drags her lips across it, so slowly it’s agonising, drifting down, down to where his cock is hard and throbbing and desperate for her touch.
“Emma,” he groans, and then her mouth closes around him and he is no longer capable of forming words or even coherent thoughts. All he can do is feel—the heat of her mouth, the soft stroke of her tongue, the pressure of her lips as she sucks him. It’s so good and too much and he can’t hold out against it, and far sooner than he would wish it he is there on the edge, ready to fall. He tries to tell her but the words won’t come—then she is sucking harder and swirling her tongue around his tip and his hand clenches in her hair, hips bucking helplessly as he comes.
It takes some time for him to recover; he lays panting and trembling as she kisses her way back up his body to rest her chin on his chest, and when at last he summons the strength to open his eyes she is watching him with a decidedly smug grin.
“I like having you at my mercy,” she says.
I am always at your mercy, he thinks but does not say. Instead he growls in the back of his throat and kisses her, pressing her into the mattress as he slips his hand between her legs. She’s wet again, gratifyingly so, as though fellating him was nearly as pleasurable for her as he had found it. This he can understand—he’s been desperate to taste her for some time now and this is a game at which two can definitely play.
He removes his fingers—smirking at her whimper of protest—and licks them clean as he holds her gaze, watching as a strange expression crosses her face.
“Oh,” she says, dropping her eyes. “You don’t have to.”
His heart twists as the confident, triumphant woman from just moments ago withers beneath the weight of what he imagines must be years of quick and dirty encounters with thoughtless men who lacked the sense to appreciate the treasure they had in her, and it breaks as he reflects again how similar they are.
“Turnabout is fair play, love,” he says, knowing that the tender reassurance he wants to give her would not be welcomed. “And I have wanted to know how you taste for quite some time now.”
Her eyes fly open and meet his, a bit shocked, a bit wary. A lot intrigued. “Have you?” she murmurs.
“Aye. I have. And so, with your permission?”
She hesitates then gives a tiny nod, and he responds with a quick, rough kiss before moving down her body, pressing kisses as he goes until he reaches the small tuft of dark gold hair at the juncture of her thighs. She’s done something to it, trimmed and shaped it, and while this isn’t the first time he’s encountered such practices he can’t help wondering a bit at the strangeness of this realm, where sex seems to be something carried out in whispers in the dark and yet personal grooming must adhere to rigid standards.
It hardly matters, though, not when he can smell her, musky and intense, making his head swim as he secures his arms beneath her legs, careful not to scratch her with his hook, and then finally—finally—tastes her.
She’s as delicious as he’s dreamed, more so, and the noise she makes when he licks deep through her swollen flesh fills him with both lust and fury. Fury that no one has ever done this for her before, not properly at least, and while she is plainly well-versed in the art of pleasuring a man with her mouth somehow none of the men she’s been with have seen fit to return the favour.
Their loss, thinks Killian viciously, and his gain—for it is his privilege now to be the one to feel her gasp and writhe beneath his lips and savour her on his tongue, and to know the pleasure of working her up ever so slowly, higher and higher, so high and so close that she clutches at his head and tugs at his hair, hissing garbled curses as she frantically pushes herself against his mouth.
When he knows he has her teetering just on the brink he licks hard at her pearl then sucks it between his teeth, glorying in her hoarse scream and the way her hips buck wildly beneath him as she comes. He licks her as she rides it out, until the tremors cease and her breathing evens, then rests his chin on her belly and smirks up at her. Her eyes flutter open and she gives a gasping laugh when she catches his eye.
“All right, all right,” she says. “We’re even.”
“Good.”
He crawls back up the bed to kiss her, deep and messy, until she’s writhing again and digging her nails into his back and then he presses the tip of his cock against her, pausing to give her the chance to say no. She lifts her hips and the tip slips inside, and the edges of Killian’s rational mind go hazy again as he pushes in to the hilt and she groans in pleasure.
He moves slowly this time, savouring her as he’s so long wished to, treasuring the little sighs and hums she makes in his ear and the way her hands roam his body. She traces the ridges of the scars on his back but does not flinch away, gently stroking the roughened skin as her mouth moves against his neck and her other hand buries itself in his hair.
Killian feels swamped with emotion, with love and wonder and joy and agony. He thought their first encounter would be their last and now that she’s here again, letting him touch her in ways he’s only dreamt of and giving him a glimpse of what they could have together, he’s already dreading the pain of letting her go again as he knows he must. He knows her, knows she’ll run from this, and he promises himself he won’t try to push for more than she can give, however much he yearns for it.
They fall softly this time but with resonance, bodies humming at the same frequency as ecstasy overcomes them. Once he’s back to himself Killian rolls again to his side but it’s Emma now who keeps him close, fitting her body to his so naturally it makes him want to weep, and he has to force himself not to squeeze her too tightly or let the words in his heart slip from his lips as he wraps her in his arms and strokes her hair.
“I can’t stay,” she whispers.
“I know.”
He lets a moment pass before seeking the answer he needs, though he does not want it. “Why did you come?’
“I missed you.”
He can tell she didn’t mean to say those words from the way her breath catches and her muscles tense, so he presses a kiss to her temple and murmurs “I missed you too.”
“Then why,” she cries, shoving at his shoulder. “Why haven’t you been around? I thought you’d left again, that’s how much I’ve seen of you since we got back.”
Killian swallows hard. There’s pain in her voice and he hates himself for causing it. “I didn’t wish to interfere with your family,” he says gruffly.
“That’s stupid,” she snaps. “I know you’ve been sparring with David, he told me so. And Mary Margaret—well, she’s a bit tougher maybe, but—”
“I didn’t mean your parents, love, I meant your son. And his—his father.”
She stares at him as comprehension dawns. “You think I want to get back with Neal,” she says flatly.
“Not necessarily, I just—didn’t wish to be an impediment if you did.”
“That explains why he’s been so smug,” she mutters. “But you’re an idiot.”
“I’ve destroyed a lot of families, Emma,” he says quietly. “Including Bae’s. I merely didn’t wish to harm another.”
“Well, you didn’t. You couldn’t. Neal destroyed whatever hope of a family we may have had when he left me pregnant in jail.”
Killian jerks back to stare at her. “He left you?”
“Uh huh. Pregnant with his kid and in jail for his crime.”
“Bloody hell,” he snarls.
“Yeah. Still want to step aside so we can play happy families?”
“Bugger that.” He brushes her hair back from her face, strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m sorry, Swan, I didn’t know.”
She shrugs. “No one does. But I’m not getting back with Neal, Killian, I can’t. I’ll always have some feelings for him but I can never trust him again. And I can’t have a relationship without trust.”
“Of course not.”
His chest tightens and he swallows again, though a throat gone desert dry. If she can’t trust her first love and the father of her child after one betrayal, however terrible, there’s no way she could ever trust the pirate she left at the top of a beanstalk, a man who turned on her more than once and in doing so nearly cost the life of her son. The fact that he later turned back and helped to right his wrong is far too small an act to balance the weight of all his other sins against her.
It’s what he deserves, he knows that, but that doesn’t make the taste of it less bitter as he forces a smile and says “Well, don’t let me keep you love, if you need to get back to Henry.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She blinks in surprise then frowns, but makes no move to leave the bed. The wind howls around the ship and rattles the ancient glass in the cabin windows. “Is it raining?” she asks.
He listens carefully until he can detect the faint patter of raindrops against the glass. “Aye, I think so.”
“Hmmm.” She still doesn’t stir but he gradually becomes aware that her fingers are moving, the tips trailing mindless patterns through the hair on his chest. His heart begins to pound. “Henry’s with Regina tonight,” she says. “Maybe—I might just stay a bit longer, until the rain lets up. If, um, if that’s okay?” She casts a glance up at him and he nearly chokes on his breath at what he sees in her eyes.
“Emma,” he breathes. “You must know, love—you can stay as long as you like.” Stay forever.
The smile that breaks across her face is bright with relief, warm and hesitantly happy. “Okay,” she says, and snuggles closer. “Okay.”
for the continuing, ongoing celebration that MUST be @profdanglaisstuff birthday, i present to you part two of 3B canon divergence goodness. at least, i think it’s good. i can only hope you feel the same.
thanks again to @katie-dub and @thisonesatellite.
for @shireness-says and the NO! CURSE! RENAISSANCE!!
part one
AO3.
Things Emma and Hook Haven’t Talked About Yet:
1 - Neal
2 - The time she’d left him with a giant
3 - The time he’d left her in a cell
4 - Milah
5 - True. Love’s. Kiss.
--
Neal.
God. Neal was just--
Jesus fucking Christ, Neal was the worst.
He walked in with Hook--with Killian--and Emma couldn’t help it, she was basically checking them for bruises or whatever and it’s not--it’s not like she wanted them to be fighting.
Over her.
She did not want them fighting over her, hard pass on the performative macho bullshit, thanks, and besides, it wouldn’t be fair if Killian got to punch Neal first when Emma was really the one who had earned the right. Eleven months in a goddamn cell and another eleven years after that had given her plenty of time to think and at least, if nothing else, that was behind her. Forever.
But the look on Neal’s face suggested that he hadn’t quite accepted it yet and Emma, she looked at her parents and looked at Henry and yeah, okay, she had to talk to Neal.
Emma looked at Killian and he--he nodded.
What. The. Fuck.
He nodded, as if she needed his fucking permission and then he gestured, and turned away but not in time to hide the little twitch he did with his fingers when he was nervous, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger and spinning the ring there with literal centuries of practice. Emma exhaled. Okay. Okay.
But first, Neal.
“Seriously, Emma?”
No.
Emma didn’t--she didn’t do feelings, or at least, she didn’t like expressing them, and this--this was Neal’s fault. But Killian, he just--he knew her, open book or whatever he wanted to call it, and he didn’t question it, or question her. She remembered how they met--she’ll never fucking forget it--and the beanstalk and the look in his eyes, the look you get when you’ve been left alone and how even then, there was something. Maybe it hadn’t started off great but now it was--
It was--
When I win your heart, Emma--
So.
Yes.
“Yes, okay?” Emma practically shouted. “Not like I need your permission, Mr. I-Was-Engaged-To-Someone-Who-Shot-Me. Six days ago. Six days, Neal, after eleven years of you being gone and then you were dead and I had to deal with that.”
“In six days?” He was angry, too. Practically shouting. Emma hoped Henry wasn’t listening.
“A lot happened in six days,” Emma said, suddenly tired. The bean. Her father, her kid. The kiss--the Other Kiss, the one that should have been a warning because she had felt it, felt him, as if she could fly and that--
That was probably magic, too.
Emma snorted a laugh that was maybe a hair away from being a cry. “I love you,” she said. To Neal. She was saying it to Neal who didn’t deserve to hear it but his father died today and she needed to get this shit off of her chest and out of her life and be in a place where she could look at the father of her kid without wanting to throw up or throw things or laugh-cry. “I loved you. And you left. And that is never going to be okay. I am never going to be okay with that. I was a kid, Neal. You took advantage of my love, and my trust, and I literally have not been able to trust another person since then.”
Until Hook. Killian.
“Killian came back,” she said.
“He didn’t come back for you,” Neal snapped, and if this was supposed to be his parting shot, his killing blow, wow, did that backfire because--
“I know,” she said, and that’s when she smiled. “He came back for Henry. To help. Because Henry is your kid. Because he wanted to do the right fucking thing. Be a part of something, for once, instead of running away.”
“You’re a runner too, Em,” Neal said. “You know it, and I know it.”
“Maybe I am,” Emma said. “But maybe this time I want to be a part of something.”
She did. She did, and it wasn’t this conversation. Emma turned and scanned the room, looking for Hook. For Killian. But he was--
Gone.
And Emma’s heart, it did something painful, contracting or maybe exploding until she saw Granny, saw the old woman’s wink and the way she tilted her head toward the back and the sign that said RESTROOMS.
Very romantic.
But Emma gathered it up inside herself, pulled together the yes and the when I win your heart and the be a part of something and the magic she could maybe sort of still feel tingling in her lips and took a deep breath and went to find him.
Killian. She went to find Killian.
So.
Here’s what didn’t happen:
There was no gentle, reassuring kiss. No smiles, no hand-holding, no words of any kind and certainly none of the ones Emma preferred to keep locked away.
True. Love’s. Kiss.
There was no moment of exquisite pining and connection as they leaned against the wall, him in the restroom and her in the hallway, their hands lined up, their postures mirrored, as they felt Feelings.
Instead, there was rum proffered and accepted; a long, slow pull and a long, even gaze. The windows of his eyes were open again as he watched her, hungry. Another pull--and that time, she watched him, watched his tongue as it traced his bottom lip, as she reached for him and let her finger follow its path.
There was the countertop for the sink, which had the right height and the right angle as he--
Well, it was better than the back of a Volkswagen.
It was quick and dirty and hot, something secret, something forbidden, and how had they never done this in Neverland when it had been there simmering between them since the Other Kiss, since the beanstalk, since the handkerchief and the swordfight--when I jab you with my sword you’ll feel it--and god, god, did she feel it.. A fuck-your-Feelings kind of fuck, a get-it-out-of-our-systems kind of fuck, a holy-shit-what-the-fuck-just-happened kind of fuck.
oh hey hai guess what we’re still here celebrating @profdanglaisstuff. A VERY MERRY UNBIRTHDAY, etc. ❤
@katie-dub and @thisonesatellite again deserve thanks for their insights, as ever. @shireness-says and the NO! CURSE! RENAISSANCE!!
part one | part two | part three | AO3
Things Emma and Hook Haven’t Talked About Yet:
1 - Neal
2 - The time she’d left him with a giant
3 - The time he’d left her in a cell
4 - Milah
5 - True. Love’s. Kiss.
The time he left her in a cell.
Okay, but.
Hook had left her. He’d left her, locked her in a cell and she could still hear the malice in his voice, the way it dripped from every letter, from every syllable. Emma closed her eyes and could hear it, the bite and the anger when he said, The time for that is done.
When Emma looked into his eyes and understood exactly what her mistake might cost her.
Just as I am done with you.
She rolled over, the sheet slipping away from her in the bed that wasn’t hers, sunlight streaming in through the open curtains, and waited. She waited for that feeling, that feeling in the pit of her stomach that always told her to run--but there was only the feeling she got when she thought she’d have to leave, like she was missing something. Home.
Emma got up from the bed and looked for her jeans on the floor, her jeans and her shirt and her underwear, and thought again about the qualities of a werewolf’s hearing because she was in one of the rooms at the B&B, the room that--apparently--Granny had given to Killian so he could “use the facilities” or whatever, like Emma even believed that.
Granny had a crush and Granny liked to look and Granny totally had a plan and they had played right into it which was fine. Great, even. Orgasm(s) and Feelings and she had kissed him and she hadn’t made out with someone like that since--ever, god, just lying there and feeling the other person against her as the kisses went from sweet to sexy and back again, her heart pounding as his eyelashes brushed against her cheeks and she felt the softness of his hair in her fingers.
Killian was gone but there was a note on the table with a little swan drawn at the top and the words i’ll return soon, please stay as long as you like and a little hook drawn underneath and next to the note was a cup of coffee mixed with exactly the right sugar-to-coffee ratio and a generous splash of milk. It was still hot.
Neal had never learned how she took her coffee.
Speak of the devil: Neal was in the diner, in a booth with their son and a plate of French fries between them. Emma watched them and couldn’t stop herself imagining the same scene playing out with Killian at the table, probably teaching Henry how to cheat at dice or poker or whatever games pirates played when they gambled. She couldn’t stop herself imagining another version of the scene, between Hook and Baelfire on the decks of the Jolly Roger where he’d apparently stayed for a time in Neverland.
Teaching him to fight with a cutlass that sat in his cabin some two hundred years later.
Neither of them ever talked about it, but Hook had taught Neal to sail and to play cards and to pick locks, never break in without a plan to break out and all of that; Hook had cared for him, maybe even loved him. Knew him well enough to decipher the drawings on the cave wall, port and starboard and a hook and an abandoned accounting of time when all hope was lost. Only that last one Killian knew the same way Emma knew, from painful personal experience. The look you get when you’ve been left alone.
They were--all of them--sentimental; Killian with the cutlass and Baelfire with his scrawled memories and Emma with the weight of an old keychain around her neck like an albatross.
They were, all of them, Lost Ones.
Emma slid into the booth next to Henry and grabbed a fry. (Wondered if Killian knew she preferred onion rings.) Met Neal’s look as it shifted from a smile to something less pleasant--yes, Neal, sex hair was a thing, too bad they so rarely got to do it in a real bed with so many orgasms; Emma smirked and raised her eyebrow.
Henry, smart kid that he was, excused himself to go to the counter and sit with Ruby, climbing over the divider in his haste to escape.
“Jesus, Em,” Neal muttered.
“Don’t be a dick, Neal,” Emma snapped.
“Fine,” he said. “Fine, how about I just break into your room and--”
“I was right about her.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Neal said.
“None of this is okay,” Emma said. “You showing up here acting like Henry’s father--”
“I am Henry’s father!”
“Do you even care at all about me, what it’s like for me having you here, the mess it’s making with Regina--”
“So the Evil Queen gets a say?”
“She’s his mother,” Emma said, exasperated. “He loves her.”
“And Hook? You don’t know what I know about him.”
“So tell me. Tell me what happened.”
Neal ran his hand through his hair and looked around and said, “Emma, he killed my mother.”
Emma’s response was immediate. “No, he didn’t.”
“As good as--he might as well have torn her heart out himself!”
“Seriously?”
“He wanted to kill my father,” Neal said. “He tore my family apart.”
“Neal.” Emma tipped her head to the side. “You know that’s not true. Your family--they were a disaster. They left you. Both of them. You told me that.”
“So that’s how it is now,” Neal said. “A good screw and you’re just--”
“Fuck you, Neal.”
“--is that what he told you, now you’re just making excuses for what he did, apologizing for him after--”
“Wait, what?”
“Come on, Emma, you know he tried to pull this with me the other day. He wanted to talk. About his regrets or some bullshit. You know I wished we could have been a family, Bae.” Neal rolled his eyes and suddenly Emma knew exactly what happened.
Not on the Jolly Roger. Only Neal and Killian would ever truly know that, but--in the cells.
And, well, maybe on the Jolly Roger. Because this--this was what Neal did: he lashed out, he pushed, he blamed everyone but himself. It’s what she did, too, and once upon a time it had been something they’d had in common, that fuck-the-world mentality.
And Killian--he’d pushed back. Let his anger overtake him, because that’s what he did, that’s how he coped, how he covered up his hurt and his pride and that’s what she’d seen in his eyes when he’d looked at her all just as I am done with you.
Disappointment.
And it was so easy, wasn’t it, to play down to expectations; Hook left her because she left him and now--
“Neal,” she said. “I can’t live in the past anymore.”
“You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”
“No. I’m not.” Emma shrugged. “The time for that--it’s done. You know that. I want to stop running.”
“You think Captain Hook is going to stay here, with you?”
She did. She believed.
The door opened and every head in the diner turned.
Not Emma’s. She didn’t look away from Neal, couldn’t, really, not before she said this: “No, Neal. I believe that Killian Jones is going to stay here. With me.”
And then she turned and the fry in her hand dropped onto the plate and her mouth fell open because Killlian-fucking-Jones had just walked into the diner like he’d stepped off of the pages of, like, GQ or something--in perfectly-fitted blue jeans and black boots and a red partially-unbuttoned Henley under a black vest and a black leather blazer.
A leather blazer.
And Emma didn’t miss the coat at all because--that view, it deserved to be on display. Wow. Did it ever. Granny was gonna break her neck, seriously.
Killian Jones walked in, not Captain Hook, and Tink trailed in behind him clutching a bag in her hand and looked around and saw Emma and winked and waved and gave her a smile, all, It’s good, right and fuck, yeah. It was. Killian turned back to Tink and followed the direction she was looking and saw her with Neal and Emma didn’t even think.
She left the French fry on its plate and stood up and walked straight over to him and this part would get easier, right? They’d figure out the routine and the comfort level but right now she just wanted to touch him, to let him know that she was there.
She understood.
She’d already known but now he was there in the clothes and she understood.
“Hello, beautiful,” she said and watched the smile blossom on his face.
the celebration of @profdanglaisstuff continues 😘
and so does the NO! CURSE! RENAISSANCE!!
part one | part two | AO3
Things Emma and Hook Haven’t Talked About Yet:
1 - Neal
2 - The time she’d left him with a giant
3 - The time he’d left her in a cell
4 - Milah
5 - True. Love’s. Kiss.
The Time She Left Him With a Giant.
One in the morning. Emma was still watching the ceiling.
Two in the morning. Her eyes were dry. Open. Each time she closed them she could see the purple smoke, the way he looked at her. Each time she closed them she could feel the warmth, the light (the rainbow fucking light); she could feel his lips and his tongue and his fingers and his beard. The orgasm(s). The Feelings.
Emma wasn’t used to feelings, she knew this, it was not a mystery to her. She was strong, she was indifferent, fucking rolling with the fucking waves.
But.
It was weighing on her heart, screaming in time with her heartbeat. Apologies.
What was he apologizing for?
What the fuck was even happening?
True. Love’s. Kiss.
Emma had no one to talk to.
(That was a lie.)
She just--she chose not to. Maybe that should change. Be a part of something, et cetera.
Okay.
Except--
“Neal does have a point,” her mother said. “About the running.”
Whoa. “Whoa,” Emma said.
“I mean, you did leave Hook on the beanstalk.” A pause, a sip of coffee. “And in New York.”
“Yeah. But, Mary Margaret--” Emma gulped, swallowed “--Mom, I mean, you have to understand how it was with Neal. I had my reasons.”
“I’d like that, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, her eyes wide and her cheeks pink. “I’d like to understand." She put the coffee cup down on the little kitchen island and reached for Emma’s hand, pulling it into her own. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”
Emma gulped again. Looked at her mother’s hand wrapped around her own and what the hell, try something new, darling and all of that, so:
Emma told her. About the car. About the cons, the hotel rooms. Tallahassee and the watches. About giving birth chained to a bed in a prison hospital ward. The story spilled out--all the things about herself that Emma always let her mother assume but never know, because she still wanted her parents to be proud of her, to see the best of her, to want her. To not see the mess she had made of her life, to not think that maybe they’d been better off without her. Because she was still angry at them for the choices they’d made. She’d trusted Neal because she’d wanted someone to trust her, to love her, to put her first and it had ended badly and she’d looked into Killian’s eyes on that first day by the beanstalk and felt Feelings and saw all of it happening all over again.
Just another person she shouldn’t trust.
Just another person who would betray her.
Emma was the only person who would put herself first and she couldn’t take the chance she was wrong about that.
When she finished, Mary Margaret was crying. Both of them were, Mary Margaret still clutching her hand and Emma had her hand on top of her mother’s and it was, for the first time, a Moment. A mother-daughter moment. The coffee was cold and gross but Emma took a sip anyway as her mother wiped her eyes and straightened up.
“So what now?” Mary Margaret asked.
True. Love’s. Kiss.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Emma said. “Neal and I are over--”
“Obviously.”
“--and Hook and I, well, you saw what happened. Everyone saw.” Only Emma hoped everyone hadn’t seen what had happened in the restroom. That was--
“You and dad, like, literally walked off into the sunset and got married. After.”
True. Love’s. Kiss.
--that was complicated.
Apologies.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mary Margaret said, making a noise. It was--it was like a mom noise. Like an I’m not mad I’m disappointed kind of thing. “That’s not what happened and you know it. Our road after the curse was almost as bumpy as the one that led to it. And I think I know you well enough--I hope I do--to know that’s not what you want. Not yet. Maybe not ever?”
Emma looked up at her mother, her eyebrows raised, and shrugged.
“What did Killian say?”
“We haven’t, um, talked,” Emma said.
“But last night you--” Mary Margaret paused. “Oh.”
Emma tried to hide her blush and--well, she failed. Totally, if Mary Margaret’s pink cheeks and shy smile were anything to go by, like Snow-freaking-White just wanted her baby girl--her princess--to live happily ever after with the pirate, married or unmarried or fucking in the restrooms of the diner for all eternity.
Just be happy, whatever that meant.
But then--
Emma’s smile faded; Mary Margaret’s expression shifted, slowly, comprehension coloring her features.
Mary Margaret took a breath and exhaled it, slowly. “Emma, you know how you have those--”
Yes, for fuck’s sake. She knew. She knew, okay? WALLS. She had them.
“Seriously? You think I don’t know that? I literally just finished explaining to you--”
“Let me finish.” Mary Margaret made the noise again, the mom noise. “You have these walls, but everyone in Storybrooke has lost something. Not just you.”
Ouch. Thanks, mom. Could have gotten that from Regina, but, whatever. Okay.
“Neal--”
“I’m not talking about Neal,” Mary Margaret said. “You need to make peace with him. We all do--though I’m not looking forward to having this conversation with your father.”
Emma snorted.
“I’m talking about Hook. About Killian. Obviously.”
Obviously.
“You did leave him, Emma. You had your reasons, and a lot has changed since then.”
True. Love’s. Kiss.
“I’m just saying that you’re not the only one who might have, um, reservations.” Her mother shrugged, eloquently. It was the gesture of a Queen explaining something that should be obvious. (There was that word again.) Gently-laid breadcrumbs for a populace--or a daughter--who did not want to have things explained to them. All of that was fine and dandy except that Emma really, really did not like having her mother explain things, whether it was ogres or giants or pixie dust or Feelings. Especially when she was right--and she was, she was--and when it was obvious, all of the times she’d seen it spilling out of him, reflected in the windows of his eyes: the pain. The hesitation. The fear--of not being enough, not worth helping, not worth trusting.
Until--
Be a part of something.
The fear of being not worth even a goodbye but then she’d looked at him on the town line as he waited, as he said nothing even though they might never have seen each other again and she was the one who’d been afraid. Who’d missed him, even though he wasn’t gone yet.
When I win your heart, Emma--
And he had.
“Mom!” Henry called to her as Emma stood in the sunlight on Main Street, blinking, needing to wash away the leftover cold coffee still lingering in her mouth. They walked into the diner as Emma tried to ignore Granny and her lascivious grin--wait, how good was a werewolf’s hearing, exactly?--but she couldn’t ignore Hook sitting on a stool at the edge of the counter, especially when the bell rang over the door and she looked forward and he looked up and their eyes met. There was a beat but then he smiled, softly, tentatively.
Emma waved. Tentatively.
Henry, who was much smarter than an eleven-year-old had any right to be, looked from Emma to Hook and back again and said, “Why don’t we invite Killian to eat with us?”
“What?” Emma looked down at him and his serious face and it wasn’t what she expected, to have her kid trying to set her up with Captain Hook. Shit, maybe he had heard her and Neal fighting last night, or maybe he just wanted her to be happy. “Sure you’re okay with that, kid?”
Henry smiled. “I just want you to be happy,” he said.
Huh.
Emma’s eyes were back on him--on Killian--and she cocked her head and crooked her finger at him, her smile widening as she did it. There was a dirty joke in there and she knew it and he definitely knew it because she saw his jaw muscle twitch and his eyes light up before his smile grew, wide and bright and less hesitant as he slid from the stool and walked toward Emma and Henry.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hello,” he said.
That was it, nothing else, and they just--they stared at each other for a couple of seconds, grinning stupidly, Emma could feel it on her face and she was almost sure she heard Granny start swearing as she watched them until Ho--Killian cleared his throat and said to Henry, “I trust you’re feeling well, lad?”
Henry shrugged, like having his heart pulled out of his body and getting his soul transposed with a demon’s was all in a day’s work or whatever, and all of that was before The Curse and the Breaking Of The Curse. “I’m okay,” he said. “Can I have chocolate milk with my cereal?”
Emma laughed. “How about some lunch? Maybe some protein?”
Henry just deadeyed her because he totally knew she was going to order grilled cheese so she said, “Fine, kid. Whatever you want. Just don’t tell Regina, okay?”
“What are you going to have?” she asked H--Killian, and his entire face did this thing where it softened and some of the tension he was still carrying in his shoulders dissipated because she hadn’t--because she wasn't mad at him, or something.
They’d spent months as adversaries because of her, because she’d left him and couldn’t trust herself and then--six days--six days where everything shifted underneath their feet, constantly, and an epic fuck wasn’t going to fix or undo all of that in spite of True Love’s Kiss and Emma needed to take a goddamn breath and just--yeah. She watched his fist clench and unclench under the table and as she reached for his arm--as she let herself reach for his arm, trailed her hand down to his wrist and wrapped her fingers around the cool metal of his hook. He stiffened all over and then exhaled, not taking his eyes off Henry but his leg shifted just so until their toes were almost touching and she could feel the heat of him along her thigh and her shin and she knew.
When I win your heart, Emma--and I will win it--
If she let Killian Jones into her life, he would never leave her. She had a choice; she could choose to see the best in him.
SUMMARY: Zelena is defeated and Emma returns to her quiet life in New York with Henry, leaving Killian brokenhearted and her feelings for him unresolved. Three years later they meet again and quite a lot has changed—but will these changes push them further apart or help them find their way back to each other?
Canon divergence with no time-travel adventure.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ohmightydevviepuu! You are brilliant and amazing and a fantastic writer and a kind friend, and so to honour the anniversary of your birth I have attempted to fill this VERY LONG one-shot with all the things you like best. There’s angst and second-chance romance and people needing to sort their shit out before finding their way back to each other and angst and emotions and erotica and did I mention angst? There’s also Tinkerhook and Captain Cobra (implied, but very much there) and oh yeah it’s a 3B divergence. AND the title comes from a song! I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young, which is just about the most Killian thing to ever Jones. I hope that it leaves your boxes thoroughly ticked.
Much gratefulness to @thisonesatellite and @katie-dub for invaluable suggestions and encouragement ❤️❤️❤️
Rated: M
Words: 20k
Tags: canon divergence, angst, smut, angst with a happy ending, minor mentions of suicidal thoughts
On AO3
-
all the perfect things (that i doubt)
Emma parked her bug in front of the red brick row house and got out, hiking her tight skirt inelegantly as she did and teetering a bit on her towering heels as she climbed the steps to the small porch. She went inside and shut the door behind her, then leaned back against it with a small sigh. It was weird being back in Boston after three years in New York—four, really, if you counted the year she and Henry had spent there without their memories—and she hadn’t quite adjusted yet. New York was pretty much home now, or at least that’s what she regularly told herself, and Boston was… well…
Boston didn’t feel like home but it did feel familiar, the uncomfortable familiarity of something—or someone—that knew her far better than she wanted them to. Emma didn’t like places that knew her too well any more than she liked people who did. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen to sublet a place in Brookline—that and the generous relocation allowance her bail-bonds firm was paying—and even though she had to drive into the city every day to help set up the firm’s new Boston branch, coming home every night to a place that wasn’t technically Boston offered at least a small respite.
She hung her keys on a hook by the door and kicked off her heels, flexing her toes in relief. It was only a six month placement, she reminded herself. Six months to get the new office up and running, then she could go back to New York and be comfortably anonymous again.
“Mom, is that you?” Henry’s voice called and Emma grinned, following the sound into the living room.
“Were you expecting someone else?” she teased, collapsing onto the sofa next to her son and putting her feet up on the coffee table. “How was the first day at the new school?”
Henry closed the book he’d been reading and turned to her, his face lit up with excitement. “Fine, fine, the school’s good and kids seem cool, but Mom! You’ll never guess.” He bounced in his seat, almost vibrating with eagerness. Even at fifteen Henry hadn’t lost the enthusiastic nature she’d found so hard to resist in the ten-year-old who’d first come to find her in this city. Despite his occasional bouts of teenage sullenness.
“Guess what?” she asked, smiling at him.
“Guess who my astronomy teacher is.”
“You’re taking astronomy?”
“I need a science and it’s better than chemistry.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“It’s also not important,” said Henry, impatiently refocusing the conversation back to his question. “Guess who my teacher is! You never will!”
“Um, Carl Sagan?”
“Mom, he’s dead!”
“Oh.” Dammit, thought Emma. She’d been pleased with herself for managing to come up with the name. “Um, who’s the other guy? Neil something Tyson?”
“Neil deGrasse Tyson, and no, come on, you’re not even trying.”
Emma sighed. “Henry, I genuinely have no idea. Why don’t you just tell me?”
“It’s Hook!”
“Hoo—what?” Emma stared at him as her heart stumbled then began to pound. He couldn’t possibly mean Hook Hook, could he?
“Captain Hook!” Henry confirmed, and Emma’s heart took off at a gallop. “He calls himself Killian Jones of course and he doesn’t wear the hook anymore but it’s still definitely him! I couldn’t believe it!”
“But I thought…” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Isn’t he living in Storybrooke?”
“That’s what I said! I mean, I’ve never seen him there but I just kind of assumed. But he said no, he’s lived in Boston almost three years!”
“You—you talked to him?” Breathe, Emma.
“Well, yeah.” Henry shrugged. “It would have been rude not to. He didn’t exactly seem thrilled to see me, but he was nice. He said not to expect any special treatment in class though if I remembered what he taught me about using the sextant that one time it would be helpful. I mostly remember, so…”
Henry chattered on and Emma tried her best to listen but her mind couldn’t focus. She felt breathless and chaotic, buzzing with confusion and with a strange eager excitement. Hook is here, was all she could think. Here. Here in Boston. Where she was. Here. Close by. Possibly very close. Her heart felt like it was trying to escape her chest, and she pressed the heel of her hand against it.
He was Henry’s teacher. Hook was a teacher. She tried to imagine that and found to her surprise that it wasn’t actually all that difficult. Obviously he wouldn’t wear his pirate coat in the classroom like in the image her frazzled brain insisted on conjuring, but he’d always been so good with Henry, she could easily imagine him teaching other kids.
And he’s here, her brain kept reminding her. Here. Where you are. You can see him. You can see him. You can see him…
“…and he’s actually a really good teacher, he explains things so well.” Henry was still talking. “He says he teaches math too, I’m actually thinking I might try doing pre-calc with him, you know I wasn’t going to take that until we got back to New York, but I think he might be able to help me, and…”
“That’s great, kid.” Emma felt bad interrupting him when he was so excited but she couldn’t handle any more talking about Hook or thinking about Hook teaching Henry or about him talking to Henry or really just any thinking about Hook at all. “What do you want for dinner?”
Henry’s eyes lit with a different sort of enthusiasm and Emma hid a grin. How to distract a teenage boy 101: Offer him food, she thought.
“Pizza from Dino’s,” said Henry decisively. “But since that’s not possible, how about something Boston-y that we can’t get in New York?”
“Like what?”
“How should I know, I’ve only been here once. You’re the one who used to live here.”
“Um, baked beans? Clam chowder? Lobster roll?”
“Pah,” he scoffed. “I can get lobster rolls in Maine.”
“Well, how about clam chowder then?”
Henry looked dubious. “Okay,” he said. “I’m willing to try new stuff while we’re here. But if it’s gross, it goes on the list forever. Deal?”
Emma laughed. “Deal.”
…
Later that night when Emma finally gave up after hours of tossing and turning in her bed, kicked off the covers and went to her laptop, she knew what she was going to do. She didn’t exactly like it, but she knew it, and as she opened the website for Henry’s school she didn’t hesitate. She clicked on ‘Staff Directory’ and scrolled through the list of teachers’ names and then she caught her breath.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed Henry, just that in the first flush of shock at hearing his name again she hadn’t really been able to process the reality of Hook being here, in Boston, in a normal place with a normal job and presumably a normal life. Not until she actually saw his name, right there on the screen, with her own eyes.
Killian Jones. Mathematics and Astronomy. Latin Club. Debate Team.
With slightly trembling fingers she clicked on it, releasing the breath she’d been holding and gasping in another immediately after as her heart stumbled once more and began to pound against her ribs. The picture was in black and white and tiny, just a thumbnail, but it was unmistakably him. Still with the scruff though his hair looked neater, no eyeliner of course but he’d kept the earring—a small stud barely visible in the tiny photo. And somehow, somehow he still had that look in his eye… the one that promised excitement and adventure and fun… Emma squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to clear it. When she opened them again the look was still there. His students must love him, she thought. What kid wouldn’t want a pirate as their teacher?
She closed the school’s website and opened the professional one she used to dig up information on her skips. Using it to investigate anyone else was unethical enough that she could be fired for doing it but she was prepared to take the risk. He was teaching her son, she told herself. She had information about him that the school district did not. She had to make sure he wasn’t still doing… pirate-y stuff. Yeah, that was it. That was the reason.
Ten minutes later she had his home address and cell number, his personal email and links to his social media accounts. Or rather, his account. Singular. He didn’t have Facebook or Twitter, which wasn’t particularly surprising she supposed, but he did have Instagram. She clicked on the link and a small smile curved her lips as her screen filled with images of the Massachusetts coastline.
He liked to take pictures of the sea. This was also unsurprising. But although various boats and ships featured prominently in many of his photos none of them were the Jolly Roger, and that did surprise her. What had he done with his ship, she wondered. Probably left it in Storybrooke; it wasn’t like he could sail a pirate ship around Boston harbour. Though he had sailed it to New York… She frowned. Hook loved that ship, it had been his home for literal centuries. Emma couldn’t imagine him just leaving the Jolly and moving someplace else.
It was just… weird, the whole freaking thing. Hook’s presence here, his job, the quiet life he seemed to be living, his absent ship. It was a mystery, and mysteries had never sat well with Emma. Before she could talk herself out of it she copied his home address and pasted it into Google Maps, and when the results appeared on the screen she gave a wry snort. He lived a few blocks away from her sublet. Because of course he did.
Good, she thought. It was good that he lived so close. That way, when she went to his house to confront him tomorrow she’d be able to walk there and pick up some dinner on the way home.
…
Hook, as it turned out, lived in a very nice house on a very nice street in a very nice neighbourhood. A very nice neighbourhood, Emma thought, looking around as she strolled down the sidewalk trying to look casual and not as out of place as she definitely felt. Quiet and well-kept, with tall trees and flowers and carefully tended lawns. Not at all the kind of place you’d expect would appeal to a fairy tale pirate.
His house was made of red brick in a sharp and tidy style, with white-framed windows and black shutters and a white portico with actual freaking columns at the top of the red brick steps. It was completely bizarre to think of him living there but also made an odd kind of sense. The house’s unfussy symmetry and clean colours gave it a nautical sort of air, and aside from a few shrubs on either side of the porch the lawn was neatly kept but bare. He’d always kept things neat, she remembered.
Emma’s heart was galloping again, her hand trembling as she rang the bell. She could hear it echo through the house and panic gripped her chest, and she wondered wildly if it was too late to turn around and run away. Then the door swung open and her mind went blank.
His eyes were exactly as she remembered them, as blue as the ocean he so loved and just as deep, their expression shuttered now but still compelling. Still beautiful. They stared at each other for a breathless moment as she scrambled to think of something, anything to say to him, then he stepped back and held the door open.
“Come in, Swan,” he said, and her heart beat even faster at the sound of her name in his voice, “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You—you have?”
“Aye.” He smiled wryly. “Ever since Henry appeared in my class yesterday. I knew your curiosity wouldn’t allow you to stay away for long.”
He ushered her into a living room that was as tidy as his cabin on the Jolly Roger had been, with broad-planked hardwood floors and one wall lined with bookshelves. A large, comfortable-looking sofa sat at the centre of the room and Killian gestured to it. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, tea, beer?”
“Beer.” Emma latched on to the idea of alcohol like a lifeline. “I think I could use one.”
“Aye,” he replied. “As could I.”
He disappeared through a door in the corner of the room as Emma sank weakly onto the sofa and tried to calm her frantic heartbeat. A minute or two later Hook returned with two brown bottles, handed one to her then sat on the opposite side of the sofa and took a long drink from the other. Emma drank as well, surreptitiously studying him from the corner of her eye as she did.
He was wearing jeans. Well-worn, soft looking ones. And a t-shirt in a similar condition with ‘Boston College’ across the front in faded letters.
“Boston College,” she blurted, desperate to fill the stretching silence.
“Pardon?”
“Your shirt. Boston College.”
“Oh, aye.” He looked down and shrugged. “Where I studied.”
“But—you didn’t,” said Emma, feeling thoroughly off-kilter. “You couldn’t have. Did you?”
“Obviously I didn’t,” he replied. “But I have both memories and official documentation that says otherwise. Courtesy of Tink.”
“Tink?” Emma frowned, both at his words and the nasty tendril of jealousy that curled in her gut.
“Indeed. She gave me what I needed to start a new life in this realm. Much as Regina once did for you.”
“But—Regina did that for me as part of a curse. How did Tink… for you..?”
He shrugged again. “Damned if I know. I try not to ask too many questions where magic is concerned. We… rekindled our old companionship after you left. She knew I wanted to leave Storybrooke and once her magic was fully restored she offered to help me do that. The results are as you see. She gave me what she said was the same realm-specific knowledge Regina gave the Storybrooke residents she cursed, along with an identity and accompanying memories so I could get a job outside of Storybrooke.”
“But—” Emma’s head was spinning, the jealous tendril writhing like a snake. “Why did you want a job outside of Storybrooke?”
“There’s nothing for me in that town,” he replied, in echo of the last time they’d sat like this, drinking together. “Why would I stay?”
“Well… I mean…”
He drank again, deeply, and she tried not to watch his throat work as he did. “I saw an opportunity for a fresh start in a new place,” he said. “One that thinks Captain Hook is an object of ridicule with a perm and a waxed moustache.” He smirked wryly though anger flared in his eyes.
“You saw that, did you?”
“And read the book.” He drank again. “And as much as I may like to wring the neck of this J.M. Barrie, he did in a roundabout way afford me the chance to slip unnoticed into this realm and become someone new. And so I did.”
“I’ll say you did. A high school teacher?”
“And why not?” he challenged. “You’ve said yourself I’m good with children. And I enjoy it. It’s honest work, and rewarding.”
Emma shook her head, struggling to get to grips with everything he was saying and everything she was seeing in him. He looked so familiar; even with the drastic wardrobe change his face and his hair and his voice were all just as she remembered. But he was different. A kind of different that couldn’t be explained away by the knowledge Tink had given him or his new life. His face and eyes were so expressionless, his body language cool and distant. She couldn’t detect event the smallest hint of the flirtatious pirate who used to invade her space whenever he could, always challenging her, always understanding her, always watching her with that unnervingly intense focus—like he wanted to uncover every inch of her. That man seemed so thoroughly absent from the one now sitting opposite her that for a moment Emma wondered if she had imagined him.
“Well, you seem to be good at it,” she said brightly. “Henry can’t say enough good things about your class. He’s thinking of taking another one with you, actually. Pre-calculus.”
“Aye. I’ve already approved his request. He’ll start tomorrow.”
“So are you as good a math teacher as you are an astronomy one?” She made her voice light, teasing, edging into flirtatious, hoping to draw out the pirate—even just a brief glimpse of him, just for a moment. Hook’s face remained impassive.
“I do my job to the best of my ability in every class I teach,” he replied, then drained the last of his beer and set the empty bottle on the sea chest in front of the sofa. Emma sipped hers, feeling cold and confused and with a sharp ache of loss in her chest.
Hook leaned back against the arm of the sofa and gave her a hard look. “So is your curiosity appeased, then, Swan?” he asked. “Do I pass muster? May I be allowed to continue with my job and my life?”
She frowned, hurt by the harsh sarcasm in his tone. “I didn’t come here to—to investigate you,” she said, forgetting that this was the exact excuse she’d given herself for her visit. “I just wanted to see you.” I’ve missed you, she did not say. I thought maybe you’d missed me too.
“And now you have,” he replied. “Is that all?”
“I—I guess so.” Emma put her own beer on the table though the bottle was still mostly full. “I guess I’ll be going.”
“I’ll see you out.”
He could sound less eager about it, she thought, following him to the door. He opened it for her and she looked at him again, at this man so familiar and yet so strange, and realised that even though he was standing right in front of her she still missed him. She missed him.
On impulse she leaned in close and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly and kissing his cheek. His scruff was surprisingly soft beneath her lips and she heard him catch his breath, felt him flinch as if to hug her in return then stop himself. She lingered as long as she dared before stepping back, and when she looked into his eyes again she caught her own breath.
There was the heat she’d started to think she had imagined. Heat and longing and that edge of danger that even a black and white thumbnail photo couldn’t disguise. In that split second he looked like he wanted to devour her, his breath hot on her cheek as he leaned closer, his eyes blazing with everything she had missed about her pirate.
Then he blinked and his eyes were shuttered again. He grabbed her arms roughly, pulling them from around his waist and shoving her away, towards the open door. “Well, thanks for stopping by, Swan,” he said, not looking at her. “So nice to see you again. Tell Henry I said hello and not to forget his astronomy homework. Goodbye.” He shut the door behind her and she heard the click of the lock turning.
She fought the urge to cry all the way home.
…
Killian leaned back against his front door and slowly slid down it, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his head drop into his shaking hand. Tremors racked his body and his chest was so tight he struggled to draw in gasping breaths.
Three years. Three years since she’d left Storybrooke, left him, returned to the life she’d had when she couldn’t remember him and never looked back. Three years since she’d shattered his heart.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he thought bitterly, she walks into mine. He should have taken that job in Montana instead. Emma would surely never show up there.
Of course, he hadn’t thought she’d show up here either, not in this city she’d already lived in and left. Emma wasn’t the sort of person to go back to places—or people—she’d put behind her. He’d thought he was safe here.
It seemed he’d thought a lot of things that weren’t actually true. That he could withstand seeing her again, for one. That he was prepared. He’d coached himself, steeled himself, buried his feelings deep and locked them away. And all it took was one brief press of her body against his, one gentle brush of her lips across his cheek to break right through his carefully constructed defences and reduce them to dust.
Tears prickled behind his eyes and he blinked them angrily away. He would not weep over Emma Swan, he told himself firmly, not again. Not today. Instead he would pull himself together again just as he had in Storybrooke, as he did every time thoughts of her overwhelmed him, and he would get on with his life. Now that she’d seen him surely her curiosity would be assuaged and she wouldn’t return. He could find his peace again.
…
The next morning Killian walked to work, a thing he did as often as possible. It wasn’t that he disliked driving, quite the contrary in fact. Cars, in keeping with many of the mechanical innovations of this realm, fascinated him, and aside from his house his car was the one possession in which he had truly indulged.
In the staid upper-middle-class neighbourhood where he lived his sleek gunmetal-grey Aston Martin was almost acceptable, not outrageous enough to give his neighbours anything to actually complain about but more than sufficient to irk them in a way they couldn’t quite articulate when he zipped along their tree-lined streets with the top down. Had they known that the money he’d used to buy it was ill-gotten pirate treasure magically converted into the currency of their realm, they would have been even more displeased. The thought of that delighted Killian nearly as much as the car herself.
And his car did delight him; the powerful hum of her engine and the way she responded to the smallest twitch of her wheel was the closest thing he’d yet found in this world to standing at the helm of the Jolly Roger in full sail. He’d purposely chosen a convertible for the feel of the wind through his hair, and as often as possible he took her out of the city, driving far too fast along quiet country roads and almost hoping the local police would catch him doing it.
Once a pirate always a pirate, at least in some small ways.
But still he preferred to walk to work. Idling in traffic was an insult to his car and a waste of her skills and anyway the walk was not a long one—hardly more than a good stretch of the legs, as Liam would have said. It took him barely twenty minutes along the shortest route and less than half an hour even if he stopped for coffee first.
That morning, he stopped for coffee. He’d not slept well, too plagued by thoughts of Emma and then by dreams of her to manage any real rest. His eyes felt gritty and his head ached, and though the walk in the brisk morning air cleared some of the cobwebs from his brain it hadn’t made much of a dent in anything else.
He ordered his usual black coffee and a not-so-usual blueberry muffin. The intense sweetness of breakfast foods in this realm he didn’t generally care for but this morning he needed a boost of something and sugar seemed as good a thing as any, despite the inevitable mid-morning crash it would bring. There were always donuts in the staff room, perhaps later he’d finally give one of those a try. Anything to get him through this day.
He took his coffee and the bag with the muffin from the barista with the best approximation of a smile that he could manage and wished her a good day. She blushed.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, and Killian shook his head as he turned to go. When had it come to pass that he, the erstwhile Captain Hook, was referred to as ‘sir’ by sweet and blushing young women? Probably right about the time he’d stopped calling himself Captain Hook.
Still, the blush and her shy smile brightened his mood and he was just thinking that perhaps this day might not end as dreadfully as it had begun when he walked through the cafe’s outer door and straight into Emma.
Coffee sloshed from his cup and onto his hand and he barely managed not to drop it or his muffin as he caught her around the waist with his prosthetic before she could fall, hissing in a breath at the feel of her pressed against him for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. She gave a small cry and grabbed his shoulders for balance, her eyes wide and startled.
“Hook!” she gasped.
“Killian,” he snarled, using the arm around her waist to steer her out of the path of the other people trying to get into the cafe. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t use that name anymore, particularly not in public,” he hissed, low for her ears only.
“What, you think someone’s going to recognise you?” She smirked. “You don’t have enough hair for that.”
“This isn’t a joke, Swan,” he said harshly. “I’ve left that man and his name behind me, and I don’t particularly care to be reminded of them.” Her fingers flexed on his shoulders and with a start he realised that they were still standing close together, his arm tight around her waist. He released her and stepped back so abruptly she stumbled, and cleared his throat before he spoke again. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked, though he had a terrible suspicion he already knew the answer.
“Getting coffee,” she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “This place was recommended in all the neighbourhood guides.”
Neighbourhood bloody guides. “So you live nearby, then,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Yep. About three blocks that way.” She gestured vaguely behind her. “I’m working in Boston, though. Setting up a new office of my bail bonds firm. What about you?”
“You know where I live.”
“Yeah, but I mean are you headed to work already? Isn’t it a bit early?”
“The school day begins at 7.30, Swan, as I would expect you to know, being the parent of one of my students,” he said shortly. “And I am now officially running late. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned to go.
“Killian.” Emma caught his arm and he flinched, both from the feel of her hand on him and the way she said his name.
“What?” he snapped.
“Can we—look, can’t we just—”
“Spit it out, love.” He risked a glance at her, his fingers tightening on the muffin bag as their eyes met.
“Can’t we be friends?” she burst out. “Please?”
He stared at her for an incredulous moment and then the fury he’d been so carefully holding back exploded in his chest. He rounded on her, backing her up against the fence of the cafe’s outdoor seating area, keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention, spitting the words in her ear.
“No, Swan, we cannot be friends,” he hissed. “We have never been friends.”
It was far too tame a word, he thought, too tame a concept to ever encompass the complex tangle of emotions that Emma inspired in him. They had always been both more than friends and a good deal less, and as far as Killian was concerned she’d thrown away the more when she turned her back on him three years ago. The less was all that remained.
They were standing much too close again, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes and hear the rasp in her breath and he was so tempted, so bloody tempted to give in. To agree to be her friend and anything else she wanted, to accept whatever scraps of affection and attention she was willing to spare him and be grateful for them. But he’d accepted those terms before and they had all but broken him.
With a massive effort he reined in his anger and stepped back, drawing a deep breath to calm himself. “As it appears that we are neighbours of a sort, I don’t doubt we’ll see each other around,” he said. “When that happens I will nod politely to you and exchange pleasantries about the weather and Henry’s progress in school and perhaps the latest performances of Boston’s various sports teams. Beyond that I can’t imagine that we would have anything to discuss.”
He spun on his heel and stalked away, leaving her leaning against the fence, trembling and once more on the verge of tears. She stared at the door of the cafe for a long moment before turning away, no longer hungry but with an aching emptiness inside her that she had no idea how to fill.
…
As he had predicted, Emma ran into Killian everywhere she went, or at least that’s how it felt. After their third encounter at the cafe—each at a different time—she’d started arriving early and lurking in her car until she saw him leave before venturing in herself. Even with that precaution she still spotted him at the grocery store and at the bank, and at the only pizza place in town Henry deemed acceptable as a temporary stand-in for Dino’s. He was everywhere she turned, nodding civilly at her each time they met and making a bland remark, his face and eyes so expressionless it made her want to claw at something. Preferably at him.
Finally after two awkward weeks Emma found a welcome distraction, a temporary one but at least it was something to take her mind off Killian for one night: a skip that was a perfect target for a honey trap of the kind she hadn’t pulled in far too long. Anticipation buzzed in her veins as she approached the restaurant where they were set to meet, a swankier one than she usually preferred for these sorts of things but the skip was a banker who was clearly out to impress.
Emma was out to impress too, in a dark red strapless dress that hugged every curve and heels that made her legs look endless. Her hair was perfectly curled and her makeup on point, and she flashed a smile at the doorman as she strode in, feeling slightly reckless and more confident than she had in some time, and completely failing to notice the woman standing just inside the doors until she’d bumped into her.
“Oh, sorry!” she said, catching the woman’s arm as she stumbled. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“No problem,” replied the woman with an apologetic laugh. “I probably shouldn’t be standing in the doorway, but my boyfriend’s running late which is really not like him, and I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself while I wait.”
She was a very pretty woman in a wholesome sort of way, with golden brown hair and dark blue eyes, and a warm smile that Emma couldn’t help responding to.
“Well I hope he turns up soon,” she said, smiling back.
“I’m sure he will,” replied the woman. “Have a great night!”
“You too.”
The skip was waiting for her at the bar, with a martini for himself and a glass of white wine for her. Emma ground her teeth behind a brilliant smile. Men who ordered for women without consulting them were the worst kind of assholes. She was going to enjoy nailing this fucker’s balls to the wall.
“White wine!” she exclaimed, settling gracefully onto the barstool next to him and crossing her legs, making sure a generous portion of thigh was on display. “How’d you know?”
“I know what the ladies like,” he replied with a smirk he probably thought was charming.
“You sure do.” Emma picked up the wine glass and took a sip, not missing the way his eyes lingered on her mouth as she did. She set the glass down and ran her fingertip along its rim, looking up at the skip through lowered eyelashes. “So tell me about yourself,” she cooed.
“Well, I work for the biggest bank in the city…” he began, and Emma widened her eyes in feigned interest. From the corner of one of them she caught sight of the woman from earlier approaching a small table not far from the bar, accompanied by a dark-haired man who had his hand at the small of her back and was leaning down to whisper in her ear. Emma smiled to herself, glad that the woman’s boyfriend had finally showed, and then she got a good look at him.
Killian.
Emma’s heart stumbled and she froze, her eyes fixed on the couple as they arrived at their table. The woman was holding a pink rose, sniffing it with a soft smile as Killian pulled out her chair for her and kissed her cheek as she settled into it. He spoke a few words to the hovering waiter who nodded eagerly and scurried away, then sat down next to the woman and took her hand, lacing their fingers together and murmuring something that had her blushing and sniffing the rose again.
My boyfriend’s running late… my boyfriend… boyfriend… the woman’s words rang in Emma’s ears as she watched them. They looked comfortable together but still with an undercurrent of excitement, like the relationship was new but not too new. Killian must have been dating this woman for at least a few months. Long enough for her to know that it wasn’t like him to be late, and not to feel insecure when he was. Long enough for her to casually call him her boyfriend.
The waiter reappeared with a bottle of wine and a small vase for the rose. The woman laughed when he set it down in front of her and the look she gave Killian made Emma’s heart ache. The waiter poured their wine and they clinked their glasses together, then settled into what appeared to be easy and pleasant conversation.
Killian looked… not precisely happy, Emma thought. But he looked content. Relaxed and at ease in a way she’d never seen him be before. He smiled often as the woman spoke and there was no flirtation in it, no smirk or leer or defensiveness. Just simple smiles from a man enjoying the company of his date.
“Hey,” said the skip, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “You’re not even listening to me.”
“Sorry.” Emma dragged her eyes away from Killian and tried to focus on her mark. She needed to stay sharp to spot the moment when she could jump in and cuff him with the least amount of fuss. It would be better if she could get him outside first; he looked like a runner and although she’d taken the precaution of clamping his car she didn’t really want to cause a commotion in a restaurant this nice. He started in again boasting about his job and she did her best to appear attentive but she couldn’t keep her eyes from darting back to Killian. That woman had seemed so nice, sweet and friendly and she didn’t even know who he was, thought Emma with a burst of anger. She didn’t know anything about him, not about his past and the terrible things he’d done… or about the losses he’d suffered… the way he could read her like an open book… how he used to look at her… the way he kissed…
Oh she knows exactly how he kisses, whispered a nasty little voice in the back of her head. And a lot more.
Emma snarled at that thought, clenching her fist on her wine glass so hard that the stem snapped and its jagged point sank deep into her palm.
“Ow!” she cried, loudly enough that several people at the neighbouring tables turned to stare. She didn’t look at Killian—she couldn’t—but she could sense his eyes on her and for a crazy moment she wished she still had magic and could disappear in a puff of smoke.
“What the hell,” said the skip, glaring at her. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing! I just—it just broke.”
“You’re bleeding everywhere.” His lip curled in disgust but he made no move to help her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I—I’m sorry.”
“Fuck this,” said the skip, tossing back the rest of his drink and standing up. “You’re really hot but no lay is worth this much effort.” He tossed some money on the bar and walked away.
“No—wait!” Emma tried to follow but as soon as she stood up a jolt of pain shot through her hand and made her woozy. Her wound was bleeding profusely now, dripping into the spill of white wine on the bar and turning it pink. The bartender was frantically trying to mop up the mess with one hand and waving a handful of cocktail napkins at Emma with the other.
“Ma’am…” he said faintly, “please don’t bleed on the upholstery…” Emma took the napkins and tried again to pursue the skip. She squeezed the paper against her palm in an attempt to stop the bleeding but her wound twinged agonisingly under the pressure and she stumbled, crying out again, and then a warm hand gripped her elbow.
“Swan,” said Killian’s voice in her ear. “Let him go.”
“No—he’s a skip—he’ll get away—”
“You can’t chase him down with a bleeding puncture wound on your hand,” said Killian impatiently. “Let him go. You’ll get him another day.”
Emma looked up at him, her head spinning from the combined effects of pain and blood loss, and his touch on her skin. He eased her back onto the barstool and she didn’t protest, sitting quietly as he took the napkins and dipped them into a glass of water he must have brought from his own table. Cradling her hand in his prosthetic one he gently dabbed the blood from her wound, easing out a tiny shard of glass that had been lodged within it.
“You should get this seen to properly,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. “But I suppose you won’t.”
“I hate doctors.”
“Very understandable, but it might get infected. At least wash it well when you get home.”
“In rum?” she challenged, hoping to rile him. He didn’t look up.
“No need,” he said. “A good antibacterial soap should do the trick.”
He finished rinsing the wound and set the used cocktail napkins aside, pulling a large cloth one from his pocket. She caught her breath as he wrapped it several times around her hand and secured the ends in a tight knot. His new prosthetic moved, she noted vaguely. Much more useful than a hook. No need to use his teeth.
“There,” he said, stepping back. “That should do it.”
Emma’s chest was aching, her mind whirling with how familiar and yet how strange this felt. Never, in all the times she’d thought of him over the past three years, not once had she imagined a situation in which Killian Jones didn’t flirt with her. Didn’t challenge her. Didn’t even fucking look at her. Flirty Hook she could handle, and cocky Hook. Even hot as fuck Hook breathless and wrecked after their kiss in Neverland she could handle. But this calm and controlled man who bandaged her hand without once looking at her face, this man she absolutely could not. She had no idea even what to say to him.
“I guess you think I should thank you,” she snapped. Her pain and confusion were too raw, too much for her to process right now. Anger was easier. It was hot and clean and she had more than enough to spare.
Anger flashed across Killian’s face as well and she felt a perverse thrill at the sight of it. Good, she thought, he should be angry. She wanted to make him furious.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he snarled. “I have no need of any gratitude from you.”
She hissed in a breath sharp with hurt and they glared at each other, the air thickening with the tension between them, brittle and volatile and unbearable.
“Killian,” said a small, quiet voice, and they both turned to see the woman standing awkwardly a few feet away, twisting her hands together. “I’ve paid the bill,” she said. “I—I’m going to go.”
The anger drained from Killian’s face, replaced by regret and guilt and a deep sorrow that made Emma feel ashamed. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll accompany you.”
For a moment Emma thought the woman would refuse, but then she gave a small nod. Killian offered her his arm and she slid hers through it, and they left the restaurant together, not looking back.
Emma shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if a million eyes were watching her. She swept the room with a defiant glare and as soon as Killian and the woman disappeared through the doors she headed towards them herself. With any luck she’d still be able to catch the skip before he could get the clamp off his car. She hoped so. She hoped he ran when she confronted him. She hoped he fought back and gave her an excuse to punch him in his stupid smug fucking face.
…
Killian dropped Anabel at her door with a kiss on the cheek and an apologetic smile, hating himself for the hurt confusion in her eyes.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, squeezing her hand. She gripped his fingers hard.
“Who is she?” she whispered.
Guilt stabbed at him, followed by suffocating regret. He genuinely and deeply cared for Anabel, and he’d tried so bloody hard to be happy with her. He was almost happy, as close as he could remember being for the best part of three centuries, and so naturally he’d gone and buggered it the first chance he got. One glimpse of Emma pale and bleeding had wiped Anabel and his hard-won contentment and every other bloody thing clean out of his mind, and he had acted without a thought for anyone but her.
“Someone from my past,” he replied. “I haven’t seen her in years. I thought I’d put her behind me but—”
“You still love her,” said Anabel flatly. It wasn’t a question.
Killian sighed. He really didn’t want to talk about this here, or now, or ever, but he owed Anabel the truth.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
She nodded, blinking hard as tears filled her eyes. He pulled her into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder, soothing her as they fell. “I’m so sorry, Bela,” he said softly. “I care so much for you and I truly thought that we could—”
She pulled out of his embrace and shook her head. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t make any decisions now. Sleep on it. Talk to her, figure out whatever needs figuring. I’ll wait.”
“I couldn’t ask you to—”
“I’ll wait, Killian.” She leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips. “You’re worth it.”
…
You’re worth it. Those words followed Killian home, chased him through his door and straight to his stash of rum. He’d mostly given up drinking it, needing to be sharp for his classes and limiting himself to a beer or two when he wanted to relax, but there were times that simply called for the hard stuff.
He poured himself a generous glassful and tried not to let the words ring in his ears. You’re worth it. It was worrying, how hard such things still were for him to hear. No one had thought him worth much of anything for so long that he’d come to believe it himself. To internalise it, in the terminology of this realm.
He knew of course that he had some good qualities. He was intelligent and quick to learn, resourceful and decisive and courageous. A man couldn’t survive centuries in command of a pirate crew without at least a few of those attributes. But they counted for little when his shortcomings were constantly cast up at him by the one person he most wished to impress. Well you are a pirate… I’ve got magic, he’s got one hand… let me guess, with you?
Emma had certainly never thought he was worth much. Not worth staying in Storybrooke for. Not worth taking a chance on. Not worth loving.
While he, fool that he was, could never stop loving her.
He was deep into his fourth glass when his doorbell rang, and he knew without even looking who it was. Ignore it, whispered his sensible voice in his ear, but Killian was too drunk and too angry for the sensible option.
The moment the door swung open Emma charged in, shoving him back and slamming it behind her. She rounded on him, fisting her uninjured hand in his shirt collar and pulling him against her.
“I lost my skip because of you,” she hissed.
In her heels and his stocking feet they stood eye-to-eye, pressed together from chest to knee, and every nerve in Killian’s body screamed in pleasure at the contact. He grabbed her hand and yanked it off him, pushing her away so forcefully she nearly fell. “You lost your skip because you broke your glass,” he snapped. “It was nothing to do with me.”
“You distracted me. While I was working.”
He glared at her. “What are you on about? I was having dinner, or about to—”
“You were flaunting that woman—”
“Flaunting?”
“With the rose and the pulling out her chair and—”
“That is simply how I treat the women I date, Swan,” he said, stepping closer to her again, backing her against the wall.
Emma’s cheeks flared bright pink but she didn’t back down. “What, even when I’m not watching?” she sneered.
“I wasn’t aware you were watching tonight!”
“Oh, like you didn’t notice me as soon as you walked in.”
Her breath was coming in short pants, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest with each inhale, and his lust clawed inside him like a living thing desperate to get out. Killian leaned in until their lips were almost touching, torturing himself with her little gasp and the way her eyes darkened. “No, actually,” he growled. “I didn’t.”
He pushed away from the wall and smirked at her. “I know this is difficult for you to grasp, love, but not everything in my life revolves around you,” he said harshly. “Until two weeks ago I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Oh, so you just happened to be out on a date at the same place I was?”
“That place being my girlfriend’s favourite restaurant, where we’ve dined many times before, you mean?”
Emma’s lip curled. “Your girlfriend—”
“Aye. Of nearly a year.”
“—you expect me to believe that Captain Hook has a girlfriend?”
“No, Killian Jones has a girlfriend,” he hissed, stepping closer again. “What, Swan, did you imagine I would pine away in celibacy forever because you wouldn’t have me?”
“Of course not! That was never—we were never—”
Abruptly all his anger, his frustration, his lust, the electric thrill of sparring with her again drained away, leaving him numb but for the gnawing ache in his heart. “Indeed,” he said, and turned away. “We were never.”
“That’s not what I meant, Killian.”
“Isn’t it?”
He stalked into the kitchen and retrieved his glass of rum, tossing it back and refilling it with a hand that was not quite steady. Before he could pick it up again Emma appeared at his elbow, whisking the glass away and taking a long drink.
“Help yourself, love,” he snarked. She handed the glass back to him and he drained it, setting it down on the table. She refilled it without a word and took another drink. He sighed.
“Why are you here, Swan?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know.”
Fury licked at him again. “You don’t know,” he hissed. “Is that so? Well perhaps I can enlighten you.” He took the glass from her and emptied it, then slammed it down. “You wanted to make sure that I was still your faithful pet,” he spat. “That I would still come running the moment you crooked a finger, desperate for any scrap of your attention—”
“That’s not true—”
“—despite your utter rejection back in Storybrooke and your complete lack of interest in me or my life in all the time we’ve been apart.”
“I asked about you, or I tried—”
“You tried.”
“Yes! Every time I talk to my parents I ask—well, not ask but I try to—I thought you were still in Storybrooke!”
“And so you thought you’d just use your parents to check up on me? And it never struck you as odd that they didn’t know anything?”
“I just—I couldn’t—”
“You couldn’t ask them directly because then they would know you were curious,” he concluded. “And we couldn’t have that, could we darling?”
She grabbed the rum glass and refilled it. He watched as she tossed it back, wishing he could ignore his body’s reaction to her—that constant itch to touch, to trace the curves outlined by her clinging dress and sink into the softness of her hair. He still remembered how it felt beneath his fingers in Neverland, the taste of his rum on her tongue… he wanted to taste it on her again, to lick the traces of it from her lips and then deep into her mouth, wanted to rip that dress from her body and plunder her. The dark heat that flared in her eyes as she caught him staring, as she let the rim of the glass trail across her lower lip, said she knew exactly what he was thinking and she wouldn’t stop him. That she wanted everything he did.
Slowly she set the glass down and stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her hair and feel her breath against his cheek. His cock was rock hard and he cursed it, cursed his helplessness to resist the pull she exerted on him. His hand curled around her waist without his permission, and when a small, satisfied smile curved her lips it slid down to grip her arse and pull her tight against him.
She stiffened and for the briefest moment he thought she might pull away, and then she moaned and rolled her hips and he was lost. His arm wrapped around her waist as hers curled around his neck, he plunged his hand into her hair and she tugged at his, bringing their lips together in a clash of heat and lust and fury. She tasted just as he remembered and this time he chased it, battling her for control of the kiss. If they were going to fuck like this, he thought, in anger and animosity and not lovingly, reverently as he had so often dreamed… if they were going to fuck, they were going to do it his way.
He slid his hands beneath her dress and hooked the index finger of his prosthetic beneath the thin strap of her thong, snapping it easily. She gasped against his mouth and he chuckled darkly, trailing into a groan as his fingers found the slick heat between her legs. She was so soft and so bloody wet—wet for him—that his head spun and his knees went weak, and he forgot his anger and their fight and sought only to pleasure her, pushing two fingers inside her and stroking her clit with his thumb, thrilling to the sound of her low moan and the sharp pain of her fingernails digging into his arms.
He tugged her head back and trailed his mouth down her neck as his fingers worked inside her, dragging the neckline of her dress down with his teeth until her breast was freed then swirling his tongue around her nipple.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped. “Hook.”
He jerked away like she’d doused him in ice water, his anger flooding back.
“No,” he hissed. “Killian.”
Emma’s eyes flashed defiance, “Hook,” she insisted, scraping her fingernails down his chest, popping buttons as she went. He knocked her hands away with his prosthetic and backed her up against the kitchen counter, his fingers still inside her, squeezing his hand to grind the heel of it hard against her clit, wrenching a helpless moan from her.
“You want Hook?” he snarled. “Do you?”
“Yes!”
“Well, you can’t have him. It’s me or nobody and I swear by all the gods in the heavens, Swan, if you call me by that name again I will kick you out of my house as you bloody are.”
She glared at him, chest heaving, and he could see how badly she wanted to defy him. He prayed he’d have the strength to carry out his threat if she did. Their harsh breaths sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of the kitchen until Emma bucked her hips against his hand and conceded.
“Killian, then,” she said, grudging but breathless, like the name was an intimacy that she resented but also craved. He pressed her clit harder and she moaned again. “Killian,” she breathed, and it sent a spear of pure lust through him.
He pulled his hand from between her legs and stepped back, holding her gaze as he put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean. “My bedroom is upstairs,” he said. “First door on the left.”
Her eyes flashed again and then she straightened up, reached behind her back and in one quick movement unzipped her dress and shimmied free of it, smirking when he hissed in a breath at the sight of her naked body. She stepped out of the pile of fabric, still in her heels, and tossed her hair over her shoulder.
“I’ll be waiting,” she said, and sauntered from the room.
Killian ground his fist into the countertop and forced himself to count to sixty before following her.
When he arrived she was sitting on his bed, leaning back on both hands with her legs crossed, one shoe dangling from the tip of her toe. He stopped in the doorway and feasted his eyes on the sight of her toned limbs and smooth skin as he slowly undressed, not missing the catch in her breath when he undid his trousers.
“Curious, love?” he taunted.
“Very.”
He pushed the garments down, trousers and underpants together, smirking as her eyes widened and she drew a deep breath.
“Well,” she purred, “you did promise I’d feel it.”
He ignored the stab of anger, bit back the retort that it was Hook who’d told her that, and put a swagger in his hips as he closed the short distance between them. She sat up eagerly and reached for him but he caught her hand and held it back.
“I want your mouth,” he said. “No hands.”
She shot him a venomous glare but complied, laying her hands flat on the bed as she took his cock in her mouth, swirled her tongue around the tip then sucked hard. He clenched his teeth against an aching moan, wove his fingers through her hair and tried not to perish from the sheer pleasure of living out one of his favourite fantasies.
She took him deep in her mouth, alternating hard suction with lazy strokes of her tongue and quick scrapes of her teeth until he couldn’t take any more and pushed her away, shoving her back onto the bed where she lay panting and looking very pleased with herself.
“Too much?” she taunted.
“For now.” He leaned over her, running his hands up the insides of her thighs and spreading them wide, then slipped his arms beneath them and buried his face in her cunt. She gave a strangled cry as he licked through her folds then sucked on her clit, pressing the tip of his tongue hard against it. Her hips bucked as she tried to push them up against his face but he held her down, licking her far more gently than he knew she wanted and forcing her to accept it.
“Damn you, Killian,” she snarled, clutching at his head. He laughed and she gasped at the feel of the vibrations on her swollen flesh, then moaned when he resumed his onslaught, as hard as she liked this time, licking and sucking her roughly until she lay teetering just on the edge.
“No…” she whimpered when he pulled away, blindly reaching for him as he leaned across her to yank open a drawer on his bedside table and withdraw a condom. He handled it with practiced ease, holding it securely in his prosthetic and tearing the packet open with his hand.
Emotions flitted across her face as she watched him, anger laced this time with a touch of hurt. The hurt cut deep into his heart and made him furious. She really did think she’d had him on such a leash that he wouldn’t sleep with anyone else after she rejected him, he thought, giving her a nasty leer as he rolled the condom down his length. Her nostrils flared but she didn’t look away, and when he finished she grabbed his shoulders and shoved him onto his back, straddling him, kissing him roughly and digging her fingernails into his skin as she positioned his cock at her entrance and took him inside her.
They groaned together at the sensation, the tight, slick squeeze of it. He thrust up as she ground down, groaning as she tilted her hips and arched her back to take him deeper, dragging her sharp nails down his chest.
“Ugh that’s so good,” she moaned, and as they found their rhythm and began to move in perfect tandem Killian could only agree. Emma's head was thrown back, her hair curling wildly over her breasts and down her back, her muscles squeezing him as they rocked together in the most glorious dance of his life, and had he not already been as deeply in love as a man could be Killian knew that he would have fallen then. His hurt and anger ebbed away and he lost himself in sensation, in the indescribable bliss of sinking into the woman he loved and feeling her clenched tight around him, the sound of her sighs and moans in his ear. It was a feeling he never thought he’d know again after Milah, and certainly never dreamed he might know it with Emma.
You don’t, he tried to remind himself. This is only sex. She doesn’t love you. She never will.
He didn’t care about that though; in this moment with this woman he couldn’t care. He could only feel, and make the most of this one chance to feel these things with her.
Emma’s breaths grew faster, harsh and short and catching in her throat, and as her rhythm began to falter he could tell that she was close. Gripping her arse tightly he flipped them over until she was spread out beneath him. She hummed in approval and hiked her leg up over his hip as he thrust in deep, driving her hard into the mattress over and again until she gasped and cried out, her eyes squeezed shut and back arching as a pink flush spread across her skin. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen and it sent him flying over the edge, choking out his own cry as ecstasy gripped him harder than ever before. He collapsed onto his side and pressed his face into the crook of her neck, conscious of little more than the smell of her skin and the gentle caress of her fingers through his hair.
They lay like that until their breathing calmed and their skin cooled, and gradually reality began to encroach. Killian forced himself against every will he had to move, untangling himself from her and rolling over to remove the condom and dispose of it in the bin next to his bed then grabbing a handful of tissues to clean them both up.
He dreaded what he would see when he turned back again but Emma still lay where he’d left her, her face calm and showing no signs of panic or regret. She took the tissues he offered without comment and cleaned herself, grimacing a little when she handed them back. He dropped them in the bin along with his own and took a deep breath, waiting for the excuses he knew had to be coming, for the sound of her getting up and running away, leaving him yet again. When the bed shifted but none of those things came he risked another look at her.
She was snuggling back against the pillows, and as he watched she pulled back the blankets and slid beneath them. He held his breath and did the same, swallowing hard when she slid over to him and curled herself against his chest.
“Emma—” he began.
“No,” she said firmly. “No.”
She cuddled closer, slipping a leg between his and an arm around his waist. He tangled his fingers in her hair, stroking a silky strand between his thumb and forefinger as she hummed in contentment and closed her eyes. A moment later so did he.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, his eyes half-closed and his nose in her hair. He was adrift in the moment, this extraordinary, unbelievable moment of softness between them when Emma not only allowed him to hold her but actually snuggled into him, fitting her body to his like it belonged there, like there was nowhere else she wished to be. Killian suspected she would regret it in the morning and when she woke she would push him farther away than ever. But now, here, in this moment, she was his.
Her skin was so soft, he marvelled, so silky beneath his fingertips that he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, gently stroking down her body, the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip, down her thigh and up again, over her arse and along the ridge of her spine to sink once more into her hair.
Slowly he became aware that she was touching him as well, her hand trailing over his thigh and hip, up his back and down his shoulder, pausing briefly to explore the tattoo there then slipping further on to sift her fingers through the hair on his chest. He caught his breath as she discovered the scatter of tiny stars tattooed across his heart, almost lost among the dark strands, and traced the pattern they described with unnerving accuracy.
She looked up at him with eyes hazy with desire, blinking slowly as he brought his hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb caressing the dimple in her chin. He kissed the dimple, thrilling to the little hum of enjoyment she gave. He kissed her nose and her forehead and both her cheeks, and then, finally, her lips.
The kiss was slow and soft and and achingly tender. Killian poured his whole self into it and everything he felt for her, fully aware of what he was confessing but unable to care. Emma knew his feelings whether she wished to accept them or not, and he had nothing to lose.
She opened her mouth with a soft moan and took the kiss deeper, pulled him closer, her tongue on his sending heat licking up his spine, her hands stroking it across his skin. He wanted to touch her everywhere, worship her as he had in his dreams, distil a lifetime of devotion through the prism of this one act. But there wasn’t time for all he wished to do and so he made do with what he craved the most. The soft weight of her breast in his palm and the hard peak of its nipple, how she moaned into his mouth as he stroked it with his thumb. His fingers caressing her, slowly down her belly then between her legs, sinking deep into her velvety heat. Her tongue soft and wet as she licked down his neck, nipping at him, leaving marks that would linger on his skin for days and break his heart anew each time he saw them.
Emma shifted beneath him, aligning their bodies and lifting her knees to cradle him, holding him close and kissing him hard as he slid inside her. The wet warmth of her mouth and her cunt made him dizzy; the squeeze of her legs around his waist and the clutch of her hands on his shoulders and back urged him on. He tried to go slowly, to make this last as long as possible, but the sounds of her pleasure, the way she clung to him, the sheer elation of sharing this with her—however illusory it may be—was too great to withstand, and far too soon they fell.
She gasped and he groaned as ecstasy gripped them both, her fingers curling through his hair and pressing his forehead to hers, their eyes locked as she fluttered around him and that gorgeous flush suffused her skin once again. Caught in the delicate tenderness of the moment, wrapped in intimacy and awash in sensation, Killian struggled to contain the words he longed to say to her. He tried his best to hold on to what he knew was true—that this was just an interlude, a moment soon to end—but against all good sense, his better judgement, and even his will, he felt that tiny, stubborn bud of hope bloom yet again in his heart. Perhaps, it whispered to him as he rolled onto his side and Emma followed, curling herself tightly around him and sighing contentedly against his chest as they drifted off to sleep. Perhaps.
…
A prickly sensation in her arm woke Emma. She resisted it, groaning internally and trying to will herself back to sleep. It was far too early to be awake, she could tell that much even through her drowsy haze. It was early and she was so comfortable but for the prickly arm, warm and contented and relaxed, with Killian’s chest beneath her cheek and his arms tight around her.
Killian— With a jolt Emma came fully awake, staring up at his sleeping face with eyes gone wide in dismay. What the hell had she done?
Slept with Killian Jones was what she’d done—God, she couldn’t even call him Hook in her head anymore. She’d charged into his house and drunk his rum and had sex with him—twice!—and it had been just everything she had ever fantasised about and more. So much more. Far, far too much more.
She forced herself to pull away, away from the warmth of his arms and of him. The fact that she had to force herself had panic gripping her chest. She wanted to stay, she realised with a flash of the same terror that had sent her running from him in Storybrooke and the same regret she’d felt on realising, not even a week after her return to New York, that leaving him had been a terrible mistake. For three years she’d tried to bury her regret over that one rash decision, buried it and ignored it and denied it, without success, and now here, finally, she had the chance to make things right. All she had to do was slip back into his arms, curl up where she wanted so badly to be and go back to sleep.
But she couldn’t—it was too much, too fast, and she wasn’t ready. His feelings were too big for her to deal with and hers… hers she couldn’t even bear to think about. She scrambled away, trying not to jostle him, but his eyes blinked open anyway and she froze just on the edge of the bed, caught by the look in them. He had such expressive eyes, true windows to his soul as the saying went, laying bare his every thought and feeling, and it had always amazed Emma that he never seemed to mind how vulnerable they made him. He’d hidden nothing from her, not since Neverland and not until these past few weeks when the cold, shuttered blankness in those beautiful eyes had cut her more deeply than she’d realised. They weren’t blank now, though, but brimming with emotion—with hurt and anger and a weary, hopeless resignation that clawed at her heart.
“I...” she began, trailing off when she realised she had no idea what to say, how to explain. How to make him understand.
Killian sighed and leaned over the edge of the bed. She heard a drawer opening and then a soft t-shirt landed in her lap. “You can wear that downstairs,” he said. “Your dress is on the kitchen floor.”
“Killian—”
Emma groped for the words to tell him that she didn’t want this to be the end, that she wasn’t trying to run from him again. She just needed some time and a bit of space to process all the things that had happened and how she felt about them. But his face was blank again and his eyes so terrifyingly hard that the words wouldn’t come.
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t fucking bother. Just go.”
She swallowed over the aching lump in her chest. “I never meant for this to happen,” she whispered.
He snorted. “Let’s not kid ourselves, love,” he said, and she flinched at the bitter edge in his voice. “You’ve wanted to know how I fuck since the beanstalk. Now that you’ve finally got it out of your system perhaps we can both move on.”
“Move on,” she choked. “You’ve done that already.”
“I’ve certainly tried,” he said. “Anabel makes me happy. She actually likes me for myself and while you may not think I deserve that I choose to believe I do. I’ve worked bloody hard to put my past behind me and build a respectable life in this realm.”
A life that doesn’t include you, his words implied, and she nodded, fighting the tears that prickled behind her eyes. She slipped the t-shirt over her head and scrambled from the bed, grabbing her shoes as she fled, desperate to get away from him before he could see her cry.
…
Killian managed to hold off his own tears until he heard his front door close behind her and then they came in a torrent. All the anguish he’d kept so tightly locked away these last three years—the heartbreak and the guilt, the regret over the life he’d led and the choices that had shaped him into someone a woman like Emma could never love—came rushing forth like the sea through the hull of a sinking ship. He turned his face into the pillow that still carried her scent and wept for all he had lost in the course of his long life, for every terrible deed he’d done and every beautiful thing his touch had destroyed. He wept until he had nothing left inside him, until he sank into a restless, dreamless sleep.
When he awoke again the sun was pouring in through his windows with offensive brightness and he groaned, rubbing his eyes and wishing that just once the habits born of centuries on the sea would leave him alone to wallow in his bed. Instead he dragged himself up and stumbled into the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face and ignored his hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, then went downstairs.
In the kitchen he found his t-shirt, folded almost neatly and draped across the back of a chair. With shaking hands he picked it up and pressed it against his cheek—just for a moment—then with a guttural cry flung it away against the wall.
…
Emma spent the next week driving herself as hard as she could, working the toughest cases, the longest hours, hounding the staff at the new office with her demands. Anything, anything, to avoid having to think. If she stopped moving even for a second she saw Killian’s face in her mind’s eye and heard his voice telling her to go, and the ache of loss would hit her again, as fresh and raw as the moment it happened.
Losing something she’d never really had shouldn’t hurt so much, she thought, and frankly she resented it. She felt swamped by a strange sort of untethered frustration, an uncomfortable feeling and uncomfortably familiar. She’d last felt it back in Storybrooke, that antsy itch under her skin whenever Killian was near, in the few quiet moments they’d shared in between battling flying monkeys and breaking curses. She’d managed to ignore it then, seizing on the witch and the curses and Neal as convenient distractions, excuses not to think about Killian or her feelings or what he wanted from her. What she wanted from him, what they could have. And as soon as those distractions were gone she had run. Just as she always did. As she would continue to do, damn it, until she found something that made her want to stay.
She refused to think about how badly she’d wanted to stay in Killian’s bed.
...
“Mom,” said Henry the following Saturday, coming into the living room to find her dusting the corners of the bookshelves, “can I ask you something?”
“Hmmm?” Emma dragged her attention away from her determined assault on the cracks in the wood. “Sure. What’s up?”
Henry shifted uncomfortably. “Um, have you—have you seen Hook at all since we moved here?”
“Killian,” said Emma automatically.
“What?”
She felt her face grow hot. “He prefers to be called Killian now.”
“So you did see him!” cried Henry.
Emma set her dusting rag down with a sigh. “Yeah. I did.”
“Did you guys have a fight or something?”
“Kind of, I guess. It’s hard to explain.” She cast a sideways glance at her son. “Grown-up stuff.”
“Mom,” sighed Henry, with his special ‘I’m a teenager now’ eyeroll. “I’m not a kid anymore and I’m not stupid. I know that you and Killian—that there was something going on with you guys in Storybrooke and I know that’s part of the reason you left.”
“Henry—”
“And I saw how you reacted when I told you he was here. It’s okay to talk to me about it.”
Emma made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“I mean, no details,” he said with a grimace. “But like, in general.”
“Henry.” Emma rubbed her temples. “I appreciate it, really. But I can’t. I can’t even think about it.”
“You really should. It’s not a good idea to hold stuff like that inside.”
“Stuff like what?”
“You know. Feelings. You hold yours in too much.”
“I know. I know I do.” She frowned at him. “How did you know there was… something with us in Storybrooke?”
“It was pretty obvious, Mom. He came all the way from the Enchanted Forest to New York to get you, and then when we got back to Storybrooke you two were always talking together or at Granny’s, and when you weren’t with him you asked him to babysit me. Which you wouldn’t do unless you trusted him.”
“That’s true,” Emma whispered. She had trusted Killian. She did.
“And then after we moved back to New York you never asked about him,” Henry continued. “When you talked to Grandma and Grandpa you asked them about everybody in Storybrooke, even my mom. Even Leroy. But you never asked about him. If he’d only been a friend you would have.”
Emma shook her head. “Kid, when did you get so smart?”
“Duh, I always have been. Thanks for noticing.” They were silent for several minutes before Henry spoke again. “And you know,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind. If you wanted to, you know. Date him.”
“Really? Would you really want me to be with a pirate?”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to think of him that way anymore. But I always liked him, mostly. He took me sailing and told me about my dad. And he’s probably the best teacher I’ve ever had. And he’s been looking really sad all week.”
“He has?”
“Yeah. Everyone’s noticed. He’s all quiet in class, not like he usually is. And he hasn’t been having lunch with Miss Hartfield.”
Emma’s heart gave a painful thump. “Miss Hartfield?”
“The physics teacher,” Henry clarified. “They always used to have lunch together. All the girls in my class thought they were dating and now they’re all crying cuz they think they’ve broken up.”
“Is Miss Hartfield a very pretty brunette with dark blue eyes?”
“Yeah.” Henry looked surprised. “How did you know?”
“I—met her. Last weekend. She was having dinner with—with Killian. I guess they really are dating. The girls in your class should be happy.”
“Oh.” Henry’s eyes filled with sympathy. “I’m really sorry, Mom—”
“It’s okay.” Emma swallowed hard and forced a smile when he gave her a skeptical look. “Really! I’m okay.”
“You’re not—”
“I am.” Emma wrapped her arm around Henry’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug. “Or I will be. I just—need a little time. Is your homework done, by the way? Speaking of your teachers.”
“Oh, yeah, nice segue.” Henry rolled his eyes, playing along, though it was clear from his face that he didn’t believe her. “It’s nearly done.”
“Well, get it all done and then what do you say we order pizza and watch some bad movies. Unless you’ve got other plans?”
“Nope. I’m all yours.”
…
By the next Thursday, Emma had almost convinced herself that she was fine. Killian still crept into her thoughts far more than she’d like but the ache he brought she convinced herself was less severe. She didn’t have to fight so hard to stop the tears from welling up or keep herself constantly distracted.
It’s like he said, she told herself fiercely. It was just an itch that needed scratching, and now it’s scratched that’s it. No hard feelings. No feelings at all.
Thursday afternoon as Emma was leaving work, Henry texted her that his friend Becca was having some problems and wanted to talk and he was going to her house for a little bit. His homework was nearly done, he said, and he promised to finish it when he got home.
Said homework was spread out over the dining table when Emma returned and she went to gather it up and put it to one side so she could sit there herself and have some dinner. Her heart skipped when she saw it was astronomy he’d been working on, the book still open to a page illustrated with several constellations. One of them caught her eye. It looked like a slightly tilted cross with bent arms, and it tickled something in her memory.
She frowned and bent down to get a closer look. That pattern of stars looked so familiar. Emma racked her brains trying to remember where she could have seen it before. It couldn’t have been that long ago, she thought, and—oh. Oh. She flushed as the memory resolved with uncomfortable clarity, and her heart began to pound.
She recognised that pattern because she had traced it herself through the hair on Killian’s chest, connecting the sprinkle of stars tattooed over his heart. She remembered thinking how odd it was, him having a tattoo there where it was practically invisible. His other tattoos were elaborate and brightly coloured and on places where he had less hair, but those tiny stars she would never have noticed if she hadn’t had her face pressed right up against them.
It did make sense, she reasoned, for an astronomy teacher to have a constellation tattoo, though all his others featured names and clear associations with people from his past. But this one—Emma peered more closely at Henry’s book looking for the constellation’s name, and when she found it sank slowly into the chair, her knees gone too weak to support her.
It was the constellation Cygnus. The swan. Killian had a swan tattoo. Right above his heart.
He was in love with her.
Emma let her head fall into her hands as the full force of that realisation hit her, with the strength and fury of a hurricane. She was aware he had feelings, strong ones, and though she’d never let herself think too much about them she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t known. But this… this was serious. He wouldn’t put her permanently on his body with Milah and with Liam unless it was big-L love. Killian loved her, or at least he had. Did he still? Could he still, after what had happened between them?
She closed her eyes and thought about the last words he’d spoken to her, about his girlfriend—Anabel—and how happy he was. Her breathing sped up an her hands trembled as she recalled it, the memory she’d tried hardest to escape and with the least success. The closed expression on Killian’s face and the flat tone of his voice were etched into her mind as clearly as if she were back there in his bedroom living that terrible moment all over again, and she realised with a flash of shock that he’d been lying. She’d been too upset to see it at the time but now her superpower was screaming at her. He’d lied to her, and not even well.
A bubble of hope rose up in her heart. If Killian was lying about being happy, about having moved on, then maybe… maybe there was a chance that he still loved her. Maybe if she told him how much she missed him… if she reached out, if she tried… maybe they could actually talk. The way he’d acted the other times they’d met… his coolness, his distance, his anger… of course he was just trying to protect his heart from further hurt. She could certainly understand that. But if she told him, if they talked, then she could fix this. She could get the old Killian back again—the one who looked at her with warmth in his eyes and always believed in her. The one she could now admit to herself that she deeply and desperately missed, not the way you miss a friend you haven’t seen in a while but like a part of herself was gone.
She sent Henry a quick text telling him where she was going and raced out the door. Ten minutes later she was standing in front of Killian’s, practically leaning on the bell.
Killian opened his door and for the first time looked surprised to see her standing there on his small porch.
“Swan!” he exclaimed. “Is Henry okay?”
“Um.” Emma frowned. “Yeah, he’s fine. Why would you think he wasn’t?”
“Why else would you be here?”
“I wanted—” She took a deep breath. “Can we talk?”
“Talk,” he repeated in an incredulous tone, then eyes moved from her face to something behind her and he smiled a huge, fake smile and waved his hand. Emma turned around to see a middle aged woman waving back as she walked down the sidewalk, a similar smile on her face and a very sharp look in her eye. The moment she looked away Killian grabbed Emma’s arm and pulled her through the door.
“Come inside, Swan, before the whole neighbourhood sees you,” he hissed.
“Since when do you care about the neighbourhood?”
“Since I have to live in it.” He glanced around then shut the door tightly. Emma went into to the living room and perched on the edge of the sofa, trying not to fidget. Killian followed but remained standing in the doorway, watching her with a dark scowl.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I told you—to talk.”
“I don’t believe we have anything left to say to each other.” When she didn’t reply he sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
“Your tattoo.”
Emotion flashed in his eyes, apprehension and a hint of alarm. It flared just for an instant and then was gone, as thoroughly as if it had never been. Had she not been looking for it, Emma thought, had she not known how to read him as easily as he did her, she’d have missed it completely. “I have many tattoos,” he replied.
“I’m talking about one in particular. The stars over your heart. It’s a constellation, isn’t it?”
Killian’s face was like stone. “Aye.”
“Which one?”
“Swan—”
“Exactly.” Emma pounced. “It’s Cygnus. The swan. You have a swan over your heart, Killian.”
He shrugged. “What of it?”
“What of it is I don’t think you get tattoos that have no meaning. You’ve got Milah on your arm, Liam on your shoulder, someone called Alice on your hip who I’m willing to bet is your mother, and over your heart is—is—”
“Is you,” said Killian flatly. “Is that what you want to hear, Emma? The swan is obviously for you. Because I love you, and because I can’t resist torturing myself with permanent reminders of everyone I loved who is lost to me, etched into my bloody skin. Is that what you came here to get me to confess? It’s a poor confession when you already knew.”
Guilt swamped her, heavy and suffocating. “I didn’t know,” she attempted to protest, her voice quiet but falling like lead in the face of his stark confession.
Anger snapped in Killian’s eyes, fuelled by a pain she hadn’t seen before. Hadn’t allowed herself to see. “Don’t lie to me, love, and don’t lie to yourself,” he snarled. “Of course you knew. You knew when I all but begged you not to go back to New York, and you still left. You knew when you slept with me and you still tried to sneak away before I awoke. You’ve always known exactly how I felt and it has never once stopped you from breaking my heart.”
“Killian—”
“No. I can’t hear this.” He ran a hand over his face. “Go now, Swan, and don’t come back.”
“Don’t come back?” she choked.
“What would be the point? We both know where we stand and I—” his voice broke “—I can’t live with a gaping wound in my chest.” He turned to look at her, his face for once not blank but open and raw and with a plea in his eyes that tore at her heart. “Please, Emma. If you care anything at all for me, leave me alone now. Let me have the chance to heal.”
Emma’s brain was screaming at her to say something, stop him, don’t let this happen, don’t let him go. FIX THIS. But everything he said was true, every angry, hurtful word of it. She had known his feelings and had she had taken them for granted, even used them against him, never thinking of how that might hurt him. She’d caused him so much pain already that she couldn’t now refuse this one small, heartbreaking thing he asked of her.
It’s too late. You pushed him away one time too many and now he’s gone.
“I talked to your girlfriend, you know,” she said, forcing the words past the clawing ache in her chest. “At the restaurant, before you got there. She seems really nice.” She risked a look at his face and almost cringed at the wariness in his expression. “I’m glad you’ve found someone like her, Killian. I really am. You do deserve it. You deserve to be happy.” She stood and moved towards the door, refusing to be hurt by the way he visibly tensed as she drew near. “I—I hope you’ll be happy.” With one last look to fix his face forever in her memory she turned and ran from his house.
…
When she got home Henry was back, sitting at the table with his homework. He looked up to greet her, the cheerful words dying on his lips when he saw her face. He jumped to his feet and hurried over to wrap her in a huge hug. Emma gripped him tightly and let the tears she felt like she’d been holding in forever finally, finally fall. She cried as she could never remember crying before, great heaving sobs that left her empty and drained and clinging limply to Henry’s shoulders.
“What can I do?” he begged. “Mom, tell me what I can do.”
Emma sobbed again, wondering what she’d ever done to deserve him. “Do you think it’d be okay if I came back to Storybrooke with you this weekend?” she asked. “I just really don’t want to be alone.”
“Are you kidding?” Henry smiled, a bright smile that did nothing to disguise his worry. “Grandma and Grandpa would love that!”
“They would. What about Regina?”
“Honestly, I think she’d be glad to see you too. Everyone would. People have missed you.”
“And you wouldn’t mind me tagging along?”
Henry hugged her again. “I’d love it.”
…
They drove up to Storybrooke as soon as Henry finished school the next day, arriving at her parents’ loft just in time for dinner. Snow and David were as thrilled as Henry had predicted, hugging her between them, smiling widely with damp eyes. Emma found her own eyes growing damp as she leaned into the comfort of their embrace, her heart tripping when David gently cupped the back of her head.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” said Snow when they finally pulled apart, cradling Emma’s face between her hands. “Why don’t you and Henry go sit at the table?”
“Is there anything I can—”
“Nope,” said Snow firmly. “It’s all under control.”
Emma seated herself at the table between David and Henry and looked around at the loft. “Wow, have you guys changed anything in this place since I was here last?” she asked.
“Um, I think those curtains are new,” said David absently as he attempted to wrestle a protesting Neal into his high chair. Henry grabbed a toy and distracted his uncle with it long enough for David to get the toddler’s legs through the holes and settle him in. Emma’s heart tripped again. Henry was so comfortable here, far more comfortable with her father and brother than she was, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
“We’re thinking of moving, actually,” said David, sitting down next to Emma. “There’s a farm just outside of town that’s for sale, we might buy it.”
“You want to be a farmer?” said Emma blankly.
“I grew up a shepherd,” he reminded her. “And this place won’t be big enough once Neal is older and wants his own room. Plus we haven’t entirely ruled out the idea of more kids. So I think it’s an opportunity we shouldn’t pass up. Your mother, on the other hand—”
“I don’t object to it, exactly,” said Snow as she set a bowl of salad and a large platter of chicken on the table. “It would just mean a long commute if I’m going to keep working with Regina.”
“You’re working with Regina?”
“I’m the deputy mayor,” said Snow.
“You are? Since when?”
“Um, about two years now?”
“Oh.” Emma fell silent as her parents launched into a debate on the merits of farm vs town in a way that made it clear that this was an old, comfortable discussion, frequently rehashed. Henry chimed in with a comment every now and then, egging them on, and Emma ate her chicken rather sullenly and tried not to feel left out.
“So what’s it like being back in Boston after so long?” David asked her, when the conversation hit a lull.
“It’s fine, I guess.” She shrugged. “A bit weird. I don’t normally like to go back to places I’ve left.”
An awkward silence fell and Emma felt herself flush. “I mean, I’m not saying I never would, but—”
“How about you, Henry?” Snow jumped in. “How do you like Boston?”
“It’s pretty cool. I like that there’s so much history. And my school’s really good.”
“Are you still having a hard time with math?” asked Snow, smiling fondly. “I remember that was always your downfall when you were in my class.”
“No, actually, I’ve got a really great teacher at the new school.” Henry shot Emma a questioning look and she nodded. “It’s, um, actually it’s Hook.”
“Hook?” David frowned. “What, like Hook Hook? He’s your teacher?”
“Captain Hook?” said Snow.
“How many Hooks do you know?” snapped Emma, irritated by their disbelief.
“Well,” said Snow, now looking surprised at Emma’s vehemence. “It’s just a bit strange, isn’t it? That Hook’s a teacher?”
“I don’t think so,” said Emma. “He always taught Henry stuff when he used to watch him before.”
“And my dad too,” said Henry. “In Neverland.”
“Really?” asked David, still frowning.
“Yeah. He’s the one who taught my dad how to navigate and how to sail. Seriously, Grandpa, he’s really good at it,” said Henry decisively. “Everyone loves his classes.”
David shook his head. “Not that I don’t believe you, Henry, it’s just hard to imagine. It’s hard to imagine Hook as anything but a pirate.”
“It’s not that hard,” retorted Emma, stabbing at a piece of lettuce on her plate.
“Well, you know, after Pan’s curse when we all landed back in the Enchanted Forest he could hardly wait to get back to his pirate’s life,” David pointed out. “He barely stayed with us for an hour.”
“Though to be fair, it was mostly his ship he wanted to get back to,” said Snow. “And it’s not like that was an option for him here.”
“That’s true,” David conceded. “I guess it’s hard to be a pirate when you’ve got no ship. He could’ve stolen one, but I genuinely did have the feeling he wanted to turn over a new leaf.”
“Wait, wait—what do you mean, no ship?” demanded Emma. “What happened to his ship?”
Snow, David, and Henry all turned to her in surprise. “Don’t you know?” asked Snow.
“Know what?”
Snow and David exchanged a glance. “Hook traded his ship,” said David. “For the magic bean he needed to get to New York to find you. Didn’t he tell you?”
“He traded his ship…” Emma’s head began to spin. “For me?”
“Well, yes, in a way,” said Snow. “Did he really not tell you?”
“No. He never said a word.”
“Well I guess we only know because David basically dragged it out of him,” said Snow.
“He was moping around the town so much after you left,” said David. “Drinking and getting disruptive. I threw him in the cells for a night and in the morning tried to gently suggest he might be happier if he took his ship out for a few days to clear his head, and he said that would be a bloody challenge when Blackbeard had his ship.”
“Blackbeard!” Henry exclaimed. “I didn’t know that part. He hates Blackbeard. Said he’s the worst kind of pirate, a man with no code and no honour. Why would he trade his ship to Blackbeard?”
“He didn’t say. I guess he just really wanted to get back here and find Emma.”
No one was looking at her but Emma could feel the weight of their attention, and she groped desperately for something to say, some way to respond to this revelation. But as always when she was overwhelmed with emotion, no words came. She poked at her food, feeling frozen and numb and so terribly sorry, and desperate for a distraction.
One came a minute later in the form of a knock on the door. Emma had never been more glad in her life to see Regina, come to pick up Henry with Robin Hood and a delighted Roland at her side. In the bustle and confusion that followed their arrival, Emma slipped away to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, downing half of it in one gulp then pressing the cool glass to her temple as she tried to calm her turbulent thoughts.
Regina hugged Henry and watched as he hugged Robin and Roland, smiling a smile that made Emma blink with a new shock of astonishment. It was unnervingly soft for the erstwhile Evil Queen, warm and happy.
“What the hell happened to Regina?” she whispered to her mother when Snow came into the kitchen with their empty plates.
“What do you mean?” Snow frowned. “She looks just the same to me.”
“Yeah but remember I haven’t seen her in three years. She looks… well, she looks happy.”
“She is happy,” said Snow. “She and Robin got married last year you know, and—” she broke off when she saw Emma’s face. “You didn’t know.”
“Huh-uh.”
“But didn’t Henry tell you? He gave her away.”
“I—don’t really ask Henry about his visits here. And you never mentioned it.”
“You don’t ever seem to want to talk about Storybrooke with me either,” Snow replied. “You ask how everyone is, but whenever I try to offer details you change the subject. Have you left this place behind so completely, Emma?”
“I’ve tried to,” said Emma, in a burst of honesty. “I wanted to get away from all of it—magic and villains and being the Saviour. I never wanted any of that and I never really felt like I belonged here.”
“You never really tried,” said Snow. “But there’s always a place for you in Storybrooke, sweetie, whenever you want to take it.”
…
Killian parked his car in front of Granny’s and got out slowly, taking in the sight of the familiar streets and buildings with a resigned sigh. He hadn’t been back to Storybrooke since he’d moved to Brookline, hadn’t had any desire to return until seeing Emma again had stirred up all the old feelings he’d worked so hard to bury. This past week his new life had felt like it was suffocating him—the students who looked up to him, the colleagues who respected him, Anabel who loved him. All of them so obviously concerned by the shift in his mood, caring about him, and the weight of all the pretence he’d built around himself threatened to crush him. Not a single one of them truly knew him, what he was and the things he’d done, the life he’d led for so very many blood-soaked years, and Killian hadn’t been able to bear another second of their kindness.
The Rabbit Hole was just as he remembered, loud and raucous and full of people playing their own game of pretend, fuelled by alcohol and shielded by the brittle jocundity of such places. He looked around for Tink but couldn’t see her, and though he strained his ears could hear nothing over the pounding music. He pushed through the crowd towards the bar where he finally caught sight of her, perched on her knees atop a barstool and waving him over.
“Hey!” she cried, leaping down from the stool and throwing her arms around him. He froze in surprise for a minute then tentatively hugged her back.
“Tink,” he said cautiously. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” She released him and stepped back, grinning as she took him in. “I guess I just missed you.”
“That’s new,” he snorted.
“Well you used to call me, if you remember, the first year or so after you left. Now I barely hear a word for months on end until suddenly you text to say you’ll be here in three hours and can I put you up for the night. So I have to ask, is everything okay with you?”
Killian tried to summon his old cocky grin and some quip to reassure her, but they refused to come. Everything wasn’t okay, far, far from it, and he knew this was at the root of his spur of the moment decision to come back to Storybrooke. He needed to talk to someone who truly knew him, all of him, and who had known him at his worst. Tink was, as strange as it may be to think about, his best friend.
“No,” he said, and watched her eyes widen at the stark honesty of his reply. “I’m not okay. At all.”
Tink’s face softened and she looped her arm through his, and he let her lead him to an empty pair of stools at the very end of the bar. They sat and Tink ordered a bottle of rum and two glasses, then rested her hand just above his prosthetic and listened, keeping his glass filled as he told her everything. He told her of how hard he’d worked to make a place for himself in this land and build a new life to go with it, and how at times he felt that he’d succeeded in that aim but at others felt a complete fraud. He spoke about his job and how much he loved it and the joy of helping his students learn, but how he still felt unworthy of the trust placed in him by the school and by their parents. He told her about Anabel and how much he wished that he was whole enough to love her and then finally, haltingly, he spoke of Emma. About seeing her again and all that had occurred between them, and the way he’d spiralled afterwards into a depression so deep he wasn’t sure he could recover.
“I’m so tired of living sometimes,” he said. “You know what I mean.” It wasn’t a question but Tink nodded anyway, memories of long nights spent sharing rum and companionship in Neverland hanging thick between them. “Obviously time passes differently there, you have less of a—a sense of it passing, but—”
“But it still passes,” she said.
“Aye. It still passes, and I’ve passed so bloody much of it. And sometimes I think about how in terms of the physical age of my body I’m only about thirty-five. I could live another fifty or sixty years, easily, what with the medical marvels in this realm, and at times I just wonder—” he drew a deep breath “—I wonder if that’s really what I want.”
“You want to die?” Tink asked carefully.
“Not precisely.” Killian tossed back his rum and she poured him some more. “I’m just exhausted by the prospect of more living. Does that make any sense at all?”
Tink nodded, sipping her own drink before speaking. “Years can be a burden,” she said. “Fairies are immortal so we don’t feel them the same way humans do, but we see how they affect you. Most humans your physical age would still have a lot left to look forward to but you’ve already lived the lifetimes of at least three men. It’s understandable that the prospect of living another might feel overwhelming.”
“So what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”
“Well, assuming you don’t actually want to end your life?”
“I don’t,” he assured her. Though he couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed his mind in his more desperate moments, Killian had fought too hard for his survival to ever end himself by his own hand.
“Then you have to find something to live for,” said Tink. “Or someone?”
He shook his head. “Emma doesn’t want me.”
“It doesn’t have to be Emma.”
“It can’t be anyone else,” he muttered, glowering into the depths of his glass. “Not for me.”
“You felt that way about Milah too.”
“I thought I did, but this is different. Milah and I—we were in love but our relationship wasn’t healthy. I can see that now. We didn’t bring out the best in each other; in fact we probably brought out the worst. She wanted the cocksure pirate and so I leaned into that role, for her. We both leaned into it, and we enjoyed it, the plunder and the destruction and the casual cruelty. I think it made us both feel powerful.” He sipped his rum and shot a sideways glance at Tink, who was watching him attentively and still without judgement.
“But Emma, though,” Killian continued, setting his glass down and flexing his fingers around it. “Emma makes me want to be better. Even when I thought I’d never see her again, even though I know we’ll never be together I still want to be the man she inspired me to become.” He squeezed the glass harder, almost hoping it would shatter in his hand. “But then, if I’m only being that man because of her is that truly who I am? And how can I try to build a life with someone like Anabel when I know I can’t love her as she deserves and I’m only even remotely like someone she might want because of my feelings for another woman?”
Tink wrapped her arms around one of his and squeezed it sympathetically, resting her head on his shoulder. “I wish I had an answer for you, Hook,” she said. “But who you truly are, or can be, is a question you have to work out for yourself.” She paused as they both drank. “Have you ever considered telling Anabel about your past?”
He snorted. “Tell a sensible science teacher from the land without magic that I’m Captain Hook? Oh yes that would go over brilliantly.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Tink. “I meant telling her a modified version of what happened to you, with your parents and Liam and Milah. Letting her see a bit more of who you are and what shaped you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Killian sighed and ran his hand over his face. “I’ve thought about it. I genuinely don’t know if it would help or just be a burden on her. For all she knows I’m just a normal man born in Bristol, England in 1981. How would I even begin to fit parental abandonment, a dead brother, and two tragic romances into that man’s life?”
“Two?”
“She already knows about Emma.”
“Right. Well, you’d have to get creative, but if it helped her know you better? At least you could try.”
Killian drank again then tightened his arm to pull Tink closer, resting his cheek on her head as the the pleasant haze he craved began to settle over his mind. “Do you know why I fell in love with Emma?” he asked. Tink shook her head, her hair tickling his nose. “It wasn’t her courage or her kindness or her beauty, though those are all contributing factors. It was because she understood me. We understood each other, from the very beginning, in a way I’d never known before. It scares her but I—I crave it. And that’s what’s missing with Anabel and with every other woman I’ve known, even Milah. That connection of the whole self. It’s something that can’t be forced or—or brought into being. It is or it isn’t, and that’s that.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure that I don’t have the energy to sort through all of this realm’s women in hopes of finding a pale reflection of it. I’ve found the love of my life, Tink. It took three centuries but I found her, and I offered her my heart, and she refused it. I don’t think the answer is to try to patch over that wound with another woman. I don’t know what the answer is. Perhaps there isn’t one.”
He frowned as Tink tensed against him, her eyes going wide. “Perhaps the answer is Emma,” she said. “And you just haven’t asked the right questions yet.”
He followed her gaze and felt his jaw clench. Tink clung to him for another brief moment, whispering in his ear. “She might still be your answer, Hook. Don’t lose hope just yet.”
…
Once Henry left to spend the night with Regina and her parents went to put Neal to bed, Emma muttered something about taking a walk and fled the loft, desperate for some space and time alone to sort through her muddled thoughts. As painful and chaotic as they were she knew she had to think them, and feel the feelings that they brought. Already she’d lost so much by trying to run from her feelings. More even than she’d known.
Killian had given up everything for her. That was the thought that kept echoing in her brain. He’d given up his ship, his home, his most prized possession. He’d given it to a man he hated, all so that he could get back to her, knowing she wouldn’t even remember him. All to bring her back to her family. Her home.
And what had she done? She’d scorned him and pushed him away, denied her feelings and run away from them and from him the first chance she got. No wonder he was so hurt. No wonder that pain had turned to anger. He should be angry, she thought in disgust, he should hate her. Yet she knew that despite everything he didn’t. He may not want anything to do with her anymore but he didn’t hate her. She almost wished he did. It might actually make the weight of her guilt and regret easier to bear.
For the first time in her adult life Emma actually, genuinely faced her feelings, and thought seriously about what they were and what they meant. She didn’t love Killian, not the way he loved her, but she could. All the elements were there, from the way they had always understood each other to how easily she’d trusted him to the electric sizzle of their sexual chemistry. It was that could that had scared her, sent her running three years ago. The vulnerability it represented, the loss of control, terrified her. It felt like standing at the edge of an abyss with her her toes hanging over the edge and a gale force wind at her back. She’d fallen into that abyss before with terrible consequences, but then Killian was not Neal. She knew, somehow, beyond any doubt, that if she let Killian Jones into her life he’d never leave her.
If she had let him in. It was too late now.
She began to cry again, not with the wrenching sobs she’d cried the day before but with heavy, drenching tears that flooded her cheeks and dripped off her chin faster than she could wipe them away. Her chest felt hollowed out, aching and empty and hopeless.
She caught sight of the neon sign for the Rabbit Hole and swerved abruptly to her right, cutting across the street without looking for cars. Fortunately there were none. This was Storybrooke, after all, even on a Saturday night. And she really, really wanted a drink.
The Rabbit Hole was fairly busy, its noise and bustle comfortingly familiar. Emma kept her head down as she moved towards the bar, hoping no one would recognise her. It wasn’t until she was nearly there that she spotted Killian.
He was sitting at the end of the bar with a half empty bottle of rum and Tinkerbelle beside him, her arms looped through his and her head on his shoulder. The obvious, comfortable intimacy between them sharpened the ache in Emma’s chest and reminded her of her suspicions about what their relationship had been in Neverland. She was certain it was more than either of them had let on.
As she stood frozen and wondering what to do, Tink looked up, her eyes widening in recognition. Killian frowned and followed her gaze and when he saw Emma the look that flashed across his face nearly broke her heart. He shook Tink off and stood up, tossing back the rest of his glass of rum and heading for the door.
Before she could think better of it, Emma spun on her heel and took off after him. She caught his arm just before he could reach the door and he spun around, yanking it from her grip.
“Bloody hell, Swan, can I never be free of you!” he cried, and the hopeless defeat in his voice made her tears well again. She forced herself to remember that his feelings were justified, that she had done this to him and that he didn’t owe her forgiveness or anything else.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t know you’d be here and I don’t want to bother you, but Killian—”
“What?”
“My dad—he told me what you did. How you traded your ship for a magic bean to come find me in New York.”
A faint flush coloured Killian’s cheeks and he shifted uncomfortably. “It was nothing,” he said. “Anyone would have—”
“No, anyone definitely would not have,” cried Emma fiercely. “You gave up everything you had to get me back here and then I just turned my back on it, and on you. And I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Killian, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just—I wanted you to know.”
He swallowed hard and gave her a small, guarded smile. “You made what you thought was the best decision for yourself and Henry,” he said gruffly. “That’s all anyone can do. I’m just glad you’re happy.”
“But I’m not,” she burst out. “I’m not. I mean, I’m not unhappy exactly but I miss—I miss you.” She heard his sharp intake of breath but barrelled on before she could lose her nerve. For once in her life she knew just the words she wanted to say and she was going to say them.
“And you were right,” she continued. “I knew how you felt about me and I threw it back in your face and pushed you away whenever I could. I was scared of my own feelings, of how strong they were, and I know that’s no excuse but all my life I’ve always run from things like that. I run from things that make me feel too much and I still can’t believe that anyone could really care as much about me as you seemed to and so I ran before I could find out that you didn’t. I know I hurt you. It wasn’t always unintentional, and God, Killian, I am so fucking sorry for that too.”
She swallowed hard, twisting her hands together, feeling the intensity of his gaze on her but not daring to meet it. “And I know that there’s no chance for—for us anymore but I wanted you to know how much I regret it. There’s nothing in my life I regret more than ruining things between us before they could even really start.”
Gathering her courage she looked up at him, and caught her own breath at the expression on his face, that soft, intense expression she’d missed so much. “Do you want there to be a chance?” he said hoarsely. “If there was a chance, would you—could you take it?”
Emma gasped again as hope exploded in her heart and it began to race. She nodded. “Yeah. I think I could. I would.”
“You think?”
She stepped closer, looking up at him, hardly daring to breathe. Music pounded through the air around them, voices shouted, bodies danced, and they were the only two people in the world.
“I could,” Emma whispered, “I can and I will if—if that’s what you want too?”
Killian drew a shaky breath and his fingers trembled as he reached up to caress her face, brushing softly across her cheek before sliding into her hair. He pressed his lips to hers in the gentlest kiss of any they had shared, a butterfly’s wing of a kiss, a kiss of promise and forgiveness and hope. Emma sighed into it as it slowly deepened, as Killian’s fingers tightened on the back of her head and hers gripped his jacket and she couldn’t suppress a moan.
When they broke apart she was breathless and dizzy and he was beaming, a bright, dazed grin that made her heart soar as he leaned his forehead against hers. “Do you really mean it, Emma?” he whispered. “You really want—”
“You,” she said. “Yeah. I want you, and I want us.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “I’m yours, love,” he said. “As you know.”
“Just like that?” Emma pulled back enough to look at his face while keeping her arms tight around him. “After all the hurt I caused you, you can just forgive me?”
“Aye, just like that. I’m not saying all the hurt is healed or that we don’t have things to work through. But of course I can forgive you. I love you.”
“Killian—”
“Shhhh, let’s just leave it there for now,” he said. “It’s nothing we didn’t both already know. We’ll work on the other half later.”
“Later,” Emma murmured, snuggling back into his arms. “I like the way that sounds.”
