summary: Some souls, no matter how you twist and turn the hands of fate and time, in a hundred lifetimes, in any version of reality, will always destined to be together, to find one another, to choose one another, to love. Emmaxkillian, Captain Swan through space and time.
a/n: For my beloved Elfieee, my dear tallahasseee who deserves a wonderful Christmas, here’s your Secret Santa gift. I’m no longer a secret, and I hope you had fun, and I hope you like it. This 3 part series was inspired by Kiersten White’s The Chaos of Stars – all quotes are from there.
“I didn't fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way. I do believe in fate and destiny, but I also believe we are only fated to do the things that we'd choose anyway. And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you.”
six fifteen.
The first time Emma sets her eyes on him she just knows. Knows he is special, knows that however it is he’s supposed to affect her life that he’s one of those pretty-eyed boys girls just die to trust. So she knows (and tells herself viciously, before he even opens his mouth, that she should never ever see him again).
Her only saving grace is that he appears just as affected as she is.
He blinks, as if clearing haze from his vision, before straightening his gaze on her.
“Well, hello there beautiful,” he all but purrs, looking more put together at 6.15 in the morning than any man in a suit has the right to be.
The unamused glare she throws his way comes more easily than she expects, even as her cheery tone welcomes him to their store.
“What can I get you?” Emma asks, when he makes no move to place his order.
The blue-eyed devil makes a show of glancing behind him, checking to see that he has her full attention, before leaning slightly on the counter and eyeing her nametag with a smirk.
“Well, Emma,” he says, and Jesus H. Christ, no one has ever intoned her name like that, “your phone number wouldn’t be remiss,” and it’s such a pity, she thinks, that the fiendishly hot have to be such arrogant, expectant misogynists, but before she can shut him down, he continues smoothly, backing up a little, “but in lieu of that, the house brew, please. To go, sadly.”
“House brew it is,” she intones with purposed monotony, keying in his order.
“And your name, sir?” she remembers to ask, grabbing a sharpie to jot down his name on the side of the cup, next to where her fellow barista has already written ‘Have a great day!’ in bright green ink.
“Killian Noah Jones,” he says, and Emma barely suppresses her eye-roll at the pompousness of this man, choosing instead to take his offered store card, which gives her a spelling and transaction history to work with. All it takes is one glance for Emma to deduce that the man is either an accountant or in finance – he only ever orders the house brew, and he comes in everyday, consistently within 10 am to 10.10 am.
Despite herself, she looks over at Killian Jones, who is eyeing her with an intensity that would make her squirm if she wasn’t so curious. As it is, he speaks without prompting, correctly reading the question in her eyes.
“Change of shift equals earlier times to work. You and I will be seeing a lot of each other, I gather.”
“Fantastic,” she says with a fake smile, though the twitch of his lips and twinkle in his eyes lets her know he’s on to her. He’s such a cheery (and good-looking) fucker it almost makes her angry. All her regulars know she’s got a resting bitchface so they know not to take her seriously, but the idea that this guy will see her as Grumpy McGrumpy Pants and that it may somehow affect his day makes her want to actually be a cheerful morning person – and if that’s not the most ridiculous thought she has had all year, she doesn’t know what is.
“August will be devastated to miss you during his shift.”
He laughs, a short bark of a noise, “He’ll survive without my dashing good looks. I, on the other hand, will despair if I don’t see you here on the morrow.”
Emma turns, his coffee cup half full from her careful filling, and says incredulously, “Who talks like that?”
“Why, I do.”
Weird British people, she thinks, as she hands him his card and receipt back. Instead of just taking the proffered items with his fingers like a normal person, he brings both hands and takes it with his palms.
The brush of contact is so shocking that it brings her back to the time she’d been stung by a baby jellyfish when she’d taken a trip to Florida with David. The tingle that runs from her arm to her spine is similar, though more pleasant – nevertheless, she pulls her hands back hastily.
What is wrong with this guy? Is he looking for a sexual harassment suit? Or is he trying to get laid because he’s so hot?
She moves quickly after that, (wondering where the hell August is – must be napping while taking inventory, that lazy ass) and finishes with Killian’s cup.
He takes it with a nod of thanks, but doesn’t move from the counter. Instead, he takes a delicate sip as he studies her, and she stares right back, eyebrow raised challengingly, because whatever mind games he thinks he’s playing, she is not going to be intimidated.
“I apologize if I was a little too forward,” he says after another sip, tone completely sincere and unthreatening.
Whatever it was she was expecting, this was not it.
“It’s just, I’ve lived enough of life to know that when you see something, or someone,” and here he nods at her, “special, you have to fight for the chance to explore it.”
She sees it, then. Sees him. Understands the intensity of his gaze, the heaviness of his words (even if she doesn’t particularly like their weight against her frazzled heart).
“Near death experience?”
“Aye,” he answers, sipping his coffee languidly, waving his left hand slightly. It’s only because she’s looking that she catches it – a dark, jagged keloid scar running the length around his wrist.
She thinks of Neal – juvi and pregnancy scares and how close she’d been to being a single mother on welfare, her own personal brand of near death, and nods at him in understanding. Where he has embraced life, she has lived in fear of it.
In that moment, she both admires and envies him.
They stare at each other, and Emma thinks there’s a part of them that’s having a conversation she isn’t privy to, a part of her that’s fundamental and base in its existence that recognizes him, even if her brain is telling her that she’s being unprofessional in dealing with this customer.
She drags her eyes away from his, surveying the empty store – which Emma promptly takes as a sign, because by now, people are usually swarming in for their caffeine fix, and says, “If you’re halfway done, I’ll refill it for you, on the house, just for today, but it’s our secret, okay?”
If she thought he was handsome before… it is nothing compared to the way his blue, blue, eyes light up like a damn Christmas tree at her words. He’s looking at her like she just offered him something far more precious than a free refill, and sardonically; she can’t help but wonder if she has.
“Our little secret,” he repeats, popping the T with all the flirtatiousness he can muster.
When she hands him back the cup, he takes it carefully without brushing fingers, something that leaves her feeling simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
Instead, he says, “See you tomorrow?” tone all sincere and earnest, and Emma is beginning to think this guy must suffer from some sort of multiple personality disorder where one self thinks he’s a flashy Casanova and the other a little adorable puppy.
Wondering which one she’ll be dealing with tomorrow, she retorts, “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
“See you tomorrow, Emma”.
* *
He comes in at precisely 6.15 the next morning, and every morning after.
Emma gives him her phone number one week later, goes on a date with him the following week, and says yes to forever three hundred and sixty five days later.
