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1.
She looks around wildly, across a field of no-longer-animated snow, to make sure no one's hurt, no one's missing, no one's down. The dwarves all add up; David's wiping slush off the shoulder of his jacket--
--there, there he is, a stark slash of black leather against all that white. She meets Killian's eyes for a beat, maybe two, maybe three.
And she can breathe again.
"What did you think you were doing?" she asks when he appears at her side, everyone else still picking themselves up or staring at the powdery aftermath. It's not as casual as she'd like, but not as sharp as she's trying to avoid, so she calls it a push.
"Well, providing a distraction for something large and menacing worked so well when we first met, I thought I'd try it again," he says, with a lighthearted cheer that's been missing more often than not lately, only a few brief flickers between here and New York.
She's a big part of the reason it was gone, she knows, just as she's the reason it came back. His playful tone causes something warm to curl in her chest, and she shoves her hands into her back pockets, lest they do something stupid, here in front of everyone.
(God, she wants to do something stupid.)
Instead, she squints against the snow-glare. "You know, that time, we had a plan. That we discussed. Before anyone went pissing off a giant." She rubs the heel of her hand against her jeans, chasing away the phantom burn of high-test rum.
"You were worried," he says, teasing and soft. He ducks his head, bringing his eyes closer to her level. "Swan, have you already forgotten my talent for survival?"
Her shoulders are starting to ache, and she can feel her resolve threatening to melt away, but she can't do this, not now, not here, not in front of everyone, it's too new, she can"t--
He straightens, just a little, and gives her a quiet nod. "I shall endeavor to keep you apprised of my future dashing heroics," he says. His eyes are very blue in the bright sunlight.
"Good," she murmurs, and turns away to find David again. Killian stays by her, which is absolutely no different than before… this, so she doesn't bother trying to chase him away.
(Her heart wouldn't be in it, anyway.)
2.
There will come a day, Emma is certain of it, when she knows every inch of the woods around Storybrooke by heart.
(Whatever else that day holds, there's going to be vast, possibly poisonous quantities of alcohol.)
Until then, apparently when it's overcast and she's tired and frustrated and really just done with everything, she's going to find every fallen branch and tree root in this godforsaken forest by the simple expedient of tripping over them.
The latest culprit to grab at her boot is a low-lying bush on a downslope, and she stumbles hard into Killian, hanging onto his left arm to keep herself upright.
He turns to face her, and the smirk creeping up the corners of his mouth has her shaking her head. "Just--say it. Whatever it is. Get it out of your system."
He's considering something completely obnoxious, she can just tell--but then his face softens, and he reaches up to brush his fingers through her hair. "I was just thinking how lovely you look, Swan."
Oh. She blinks at him, taken off guard, by the compliment and the tenderness both.
"Especially in earth tones." He draws his hand back, and there's a fallen leaf held between two of his fingers, like a magician's card trick.
She huffs out a breath and reaches to bat the leaf out of his hand, but he drops it and catches hers instead. With her right hand still on his arm, it's like a mirror image of their waltz; she sees the moment he realizes it, too, because he pulls their hands in and sways closer to her. His eyes drop to her lips, and she feels herself leaning in, giddy anticipation surging through her--
--and then a chill wind buffets them both, causing Emma to catch her breath and jolt backwards at the reminder. There's an unhappy ice queen out here, and the rest of the search team is wandering these same woods, and this is so not the time or place.
"Right," she says, and steps away from him. "We should keep moving."
The space between them feels colder than the wind gust did, and her fingers don't want to let his go. She squares her shoulders as she walks on, watching her footing carefully as they go.
When they meet up with David and the others, he gives them a concerned look, which Emma ignores. It's not like there's anything for him to see, anyway.
(Which is seriously turning into a problem.)
3.
"So, what exactly happened back there?"
There it is, the other shoe that Emma's been waiting to hear drop.
(She's not even 100% sure which shoe this is. There are so many back theres, and so very few that Emma feels like talking about.)
David and Killian are out on what Emma can only think of as a playdate, grabbing a quick drink at the Rabbit Hole. (God, she hopes it's quick.) It was Mary Margaret's idea, she's pretty sure, because her comment about getting to spend some time with her daughter had felt a little rehearsed.
And while part of her doesn't mind--thinking you saw your mom getting burned to death is a trauma that takes time to process, it turns out--the other part has been dreading whatever is the actual point of this orchestrated quality time.
"Back where?" Emma asks, keeping her eyes on her brother in his crib (and her finger within reach of his tiny fist).
She catches Mary Margaret moving from the corner of her eye, and glances over to see that she's got Henry's storybook in her crossed arms, close to her chest. Mary Margaret shrugs, raising the book as she joins Emma. "The first time. The original story of how we met. Before--"
"Before I messed it up." Her free hand curls around the top rail of the crib; there's a knot in the wood the size of her fingertip, and she rubs absently at it.
"But you didn't," Mary Margaret says, and Emma looks up at her (the sincerity in her voice is still surprising, sometimes). Mary Margaret smiles at her. "Everything worked out the way it was supposed to."
"Not for everyone," she mutters.
Mary Margaret studies her for a moment, a crease appearing between her brows. "You're still upset about Regina. Is that what this is about?"
"What 'this'?"
"You…haven't quite been yourself." She pauses delicately, takes a deep breath. "You've been a little tense."
Emma takes her own deep breath and paces into the kitchen, away from the brother she doesn't want to startle, but the pause means that her voice comes out less vehement and more pained. "How am I supposed to be? Just when it looked like things were going good for everyone, I went and screwed up her happy ending."
Mary Margaret sets the book down carefully on the countertop, flattening her hands on the cover. "It was probably inevitable that you'd inherit the family tendency to let other people's happiness dictate your own," she says, and shakes her head. "Emma, sweetie, believe me when I say this: you need to stop punishing yourself for the unintended consequences of your actions."
For a moment, all Emma can do is stare at her mother. "I've read the book too, you know. I'm not sure 'irony' is strong enough to cover that."
"I know." Mary Margaret twists her fingers together, her ring glinting for a moment, then folds her hands. "But having your brother made me realize something. I don't want him to get caught up in the same cycle we've been all been stuck in."
Emma has no idea what to say to that. She looks down, tracing a seam in the hardwood floor with the toe of her boot, only looking up when Mary Margaret places a hand on her arm. "Regina is one of the most resilient people I've ever known. And everything will work out for the best." Emma looks up, and Mary Margaret nods over at the book. "Just like with our story."
Emma snorts out a laugh. "Your story was originally about twenty pages shorter and way less convoluted, just so you know."
"Taking the long way isn't the worst thing in the world. As long as you enjoy the journey." Mary Margaret gives her a smile loaded with double meaning that Emma does not want to parse out right now because she is not having that kind of conversation with her mother. She rubs her fingers over the bridge of her nose.
"So the first time around, you robbed his carriage without a hitch," she begins, changing the subject, and her mom, thank god, allows it.
(But talking about Snow and Charming's original history means Emma can't help but be reminded of how they rewrote it; it's not that long before David comes back, alone, and Emma finds herself missing her partner in crime with a keenness that takes her by surprise.)
4.
Emma is the only person in town who's actually seen Frozen, which she can't help but find hilarious.
New York-Henry hadn't wanted to see it; "that's kind of a kids' movie, Mom," he'd said, with all the scorn a twelve-year-old can bring, and while part of her mourned the fact that her kid wasn't the wide-eyed wonder he'd once been, another part of her kind of agreed. In her experience, real life was no fairy tale.
She'd RedBoxed it anyway one night, while Henry was sleeping over at Avery's. Just to see what all the fuss was about; the damn movie was everywhere, and faking her way through conversations was getting old.
Everyone else in Storybrooke missed out on it during the year they were back in the Enchanted Forest. When Regina drops Henry off for breakfast at Granny's, he declares that since the characters are real and, y'know, in town, a family movie night to christen Emma's new apartment is 100% necessary to their continued survival.
And he does it while Killian's standing right there with Emma, clearly including him in the invitation.
(She's honestly not sure whether she wants to strangle the kid or double his allowance.)
Killian looks to her before answering, and just the fact that he leaves it up to her without pushing has her biting her lip and nodding fractionally before she thinks about it too hard.
They buy a bunch of ice cream, because Henry likes to run with a theme, and Emma's not really going to object to having an excuse to load up on five or six different flavors (it's not like there's anything else in the freezer, yet; the only reason they don't have to sit on the floor is because the place came semi-furnished).
Mary Margaret and David end up sharing the loveseat with her little brother, which seems like it should be too much cute for one piece of furniture to contain. On the sofa, Emma's between Henry (who's got all the remotes lined up on the side table like he's running a command center) and Killian, who's been bemused by the production they're making but relatively cooperative the whole time.
(Except when it came to the ice cream. Despite her best efforts, he declared himself happy with two paltry scoops of orange sherbet. She's clearly got a lot of work to do there.)
After powering through her own bowl (a gloriously disgusting heap of flavors), she settles back into the sofa cushions and braces herself for the coming onslaught of "Let It Go" jokes.
She wakes up, and only then realizes she'd fallen asleep.
It's quiet, and most of the lights are off. Killian's the only other person still in the living room--he'd have to be, because she has him pinned down pretty thoroughly. While she remembers dropping her head back against his biceps (she'd been planning to tease him about using the "just resting my arm on the back of the sofa behind you" move when he's not even from this realm), she certainly does not remember tucking her head against his chest, or curling her fingers into his new vest, and she definitely would have noticed his arm wrapping around her shoulders.
He runs the backs of his fingers down her cheek, then tucks her hair behind her ear, and she shifts a little (she's absolutely not rubbing her face against him, and any appearance of doing so is clearly just a side effect of adjusting her neck) before opening her eyes.
"Hello, love," he says, soft and light, barely rumbling through his chest. His little smile makes something somersault in her stomach.
"Hey," she says, and feels her cheeks growing warm. "So, uh, the party broke up without me, huh?"
"No one had the heart to wake you," he says, and traces a finger along her jawline. "They know how hard you've been working."
Regina's apparently decided to distract herself from her relationship trauma by channeling her turmoil into continuing Emma's magical training. While she's been relatively civil to Emma, all things considered, she also seems convinced that anything less than Emma becoming the magical equivalent of the Terminator is a criminal waste of her potential.
Emma's been glad both to learn more and to avoid being turned into a toad or anything, so she's been taking her lessons seriously. On top of everything else that's been going down, though, it's been wearing her out.
Not to mention cutting into her--whatever it is she's doing with Killian, in fits and starts--and apparently both of those caught up with her at the same time.
He smoothes his fingers over her eyebrow, and, screw it, she's absolutely leaning into his hand.
"If you were still intending to keep this quiet," he says, looking down at her, "I'm afraid the cat may be out of the bag."
She should worry about that--there's probably at least one awkward conversation in her future--but she can't, she just can't be concerned about that right now, because all she feels is warm, and comfortable.
And maybe even something she might call peaceful, if she'd ever had anything to compare it against.
"Did they give you any grief?" she asks, running her nail over one of the buttons on his vest.
"Nothing I couldn't handle, love."
He smiles down at her, and she pushes herself a little more upright, the better to see him.
"It's okay, really," she says. "It's not that I don't want them to know. I'm not ashamed or anything." It's suddenly important that he know that, and she probably should have made sure sooner. "I just… wanted you all to myself for a while."
She takes a page from him, runs her fingers down the side of his face, brushes over his beard. His eyes slide closed, and god, he just looks so… content. "I haven't really had that many things that were just... mine," she says, rubbing her thumb along his chin. "Not… important things."
At that, he draws in a sharp breath and meets her eyes again. "I'm yours, first and foremost," he says, with the openness that comes with absolute truth. "For as long as you'll have me."
"Good," she says, and leans in to kiss him.
His arms come right around her, cradling her close, while his lips part under hers. It's warm and gentle, but there's an undercurrent of want and need in him that Emma can't resist the urge to draw out and taste. She presses in closer, scratches her nails across his scalp--
--and then has to pull back on a jaw-cracking yawn. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but Killian just chuckles, cradling the back of her head.
"I believe that's my cue to take my leave," he murmurs, stroking his thumb over her cheek. "I'll not deprive you of your much-needed rest, love."
His eyes are bright, his own color high, but the grin he gives her is genuine, considerate, almost shy. She knows he's right, but sometimes she wishes for a little less gentleman in her pirate. "I'll walk you out," she says softly, and watches him glance between her and the door (only a few feet away), and raise an eyebrow theatrically.
She kisses him again at the door, softly, and cups her hand around his neck. "Good night, Killian."
He leans his forehead against hers, brushing her nose with his own. "Pleasant dreams, Emma," he says, and slips out the door.
When she wakes up the next morning, the apartment is suspiciously quiet. On the one hand, she's glad that Henry isn't exactly the herd-of-elephants kind of kid, but on the other, he does tend to take after both his parents, and she's seen him pull off some legitimately sneaky shit. She throws on a t-shirt and sweatpants to investigate the silence, and stops dead when she sees that there's a pirate in her kitchen, sipping from a paper coffee cup and poring over a hardcover book.
"Uh, hi," she says, everything more intelligent having flown right out of her head. "What are you… doing here?"
"Good morning, love," he says, with a bashful smile that goes a long way toward improving her morning. "Your family suggested last night that I might bring breakfast over. Your boy let me in, and he's gone for a walk with your parents."
Oh, she is so going to kill them. She hadn't even considered that they might blow right past "awkward conversation" and land on "even more awkward matchmaking," but she almost reluctantly admires that.
Almost.
"So make with the breakfast," she grumbles, and tries to ignore his smirk. He was probably going to find out sooner rather than later that she isn't a morning person, but she definitely wasn't expecting that to happen at her parents' suggestion and without the good parts in between.
"I did mention that I suspected you weren't fond of surprises," he says, and retrieves a Styrofoam container from the microwave. "They were, however, insistent."
"Thanks," she says, more genuinely. She takes the fork he hands her and cracks the lid, sighing happily at the chocolate chip pancakes inside. "What're you reading?" she asks, looking at the book while peeling open the little foil-wrapped butter pat. From here, all she can tell is that it's from the library.
"Patience, love," he says, turning his back to her to fiddle with something on the counter, and she rolls her eyes. She hears a spritz of compressed air, and leans around just enough to see--
--he's making her hot cocoa.
She watches him sprinkle cinnamon on top of the ungainly whipped cream blob--looks like the Reddi-Whip can gave him trouble--and tries to act casual.
Her family showed him how to make their hot cocoa, and then cleared out to give them time together, and Emma does not know how to handle this.
"All right, love?" he asks, as the mug appears in front of her. She blinks a few times, and looks up at him.
"Full service, how could I not be?" she says, and smiles at him, hoping it's less watery that she feels. "So, spill," she says, and points at the library book.
It turns out to be a book of Danish fairy tales. Henry Googled it last night, after the movie and before getting sent to bed; Killian had picked it up this morning.
He reads her the highlights of "The Snow Queen" while she eats. It's ridiculously sweet of him, and exactly the kind of thing she needs right now.
After she wipes out the pancakes, she scoops up errant blobs of whipped cream from the side of her mug and licks them off her fingers. He pauses in his reading, eyes dark and fixed on her, fingertips tracing a delicate pattern on the handle of his own mug that she can all but feel on her own skin, and it's good.
She feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the cocoa.
5.
This time it's a false alarm, and the adrenaline fades quickly. When it does, though, she realizes just how much her knee fucking hurts.
The sidewalk's often wet outside the flower shop, and in the heat of the moment, she hadn't stopped to consider that wet and solid layer of ice sometimes look identical. She'd lost her footing and gone down, scrambling right back up (with a hand up from Killian, so focused on the commotion one street over that it doesn't even occur to her how that's become second nature until afterwards).
But it's all just a minor blow-up, and Elsa apologizes so profusely for the trouble that Emma herself feels a little embarrassed. She waves everyone off, making mental notes as sheriff: ask Archie to see about having a careful, casual word with the newly reunited Arendelle folks, and check the town supply of rock salt. It seems like they're going to be needing a whole lot more of it, if this keeps up.
She starts to turn back the way they came, and that's when a vicious stabbing ache shoots through her kneecap. She swears so violently that Killian looks not only concerned, but impressed.
"You truly were born for the seas, lass," he murmurs. He's got her hand again, which is good, because otherwise she'd be on her ass.
She slings her arm over his shoulder, and he wraps his around her waist, and together, they hobble her back to the apartment (it's the closest place to get her off her feet; they'd been on their way there when the skies turned dark and the yelling started).
Once they get inside the front door of the building, Emma glares at the staircase in pure unmitigated loathing; she hadn't thought twice about it when signing the lease, but right now, all she can think is, god, fuck the view.
"I could carry you, if you'd like?" Killian offers, with a lopsided grin, and she knows that he would, too, just as she knows that he knows she'd have to be bleeding, unconscious, or both to accept.
"Wouldn't be the first time," she mutters, and smiles to herself when he pauses to stare at her. It's the last good moment before they tackle the staircase, which seems to have grown about fourteen storeys since the last time she was here.
By the time they get her through the apartment door, her pride has deserted her, her jaw aching from gritting her teeth, pain shortening her breath. She buries her sweaty face against his neck as he picks her up and maneuvers around the piles of supplies she and Henry have been collecting to make the transition between "semi-furnished" and "livable." Gently, he sets her down on the bed, and then presses a kiss to her damp forehead. "I'll be right back."
She eases herself around gingerly, getting rid of her boots with as little bending of her knee as possible. She debates the jeans, but leaves them on; she doesn't have the mental fortitude to wrangle them off right now, and, well. She and Killian aren't really at a pants-free stage in their relationship, yet (though, god, under better circumstances, she wants to be).
He comes back as she's stuffing a pillow under her knee. He's got a plastic bag filled with ice, and Emma's kind of impressed that he found both ice and bag; the apartment's not in any kind of order, yet (too many emergencies, not enough time). He passes the ice pack to her, then steps out again while she's adjusted the bag over her knee. It feels like just a bad bruising--she's taken a few spills chasing perps, not to mention the way that every magical bad guy seems to love throwing people around like dolls, so she knows what that feels like--but icing it never hurts.
Killian returns with a glass of water, which he sets on the nightstand, and then kneels beside the bed with a subtle flourish that looks a hell of a lot like it would make his giant leather coat flare out behind him if he were wearing it (old habits die hard for both of them, and his are older than hers).
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?" he murmurs, with what might almost pass for mild and attentive to Emma's admittedly amateur princess eye, except for a glint of humor he's not even trying to hide.
She grins and waves her best princess-y wave. "Yeah, sure. You can polish my boots or something."
"Right away, milady," he says, standing up smoothly, and he fucking clicks his heels and bows to her, and it's so completely unexpected that she can only gape as he leaves the room.
"I was--Killian, I was kidding!" she yells when her brain catches back up, and struggles to sit up straight. The change in angle makes her knee twinge, and she sucks in a pained breath, gritting her teeth.
He comes back with one of their cleaning rags, damp, and settles down where she dumped her boots off the bed. She reaches out a hand, and when he looks up, she waves it frantically at him. "Seriously. I was kidding. This is completely not necessary."
Without answering, he wipes the salt off her boots, a little smile playing about his face that she doesn't quite understand, but she can feel herself smiling back. When he's finished, he sets down the rag and kneels up, taking her hand. "You should learn to ask for things more often, love. See where it gets you."
He presses a kiss to the back of her hand, slow and sensual, his eyes still holding hers. She exhales, a surprised little breath, and his eyes darken, even as his smile grows more bold.
"Besides, if I please my mistress with my performance as her bootboy, perhaps she will see fit to reward me in the future." He turns her hand over and brushes his lips over the inside of her wrist. His hand is warm, his beard not quite tickling, and his mouth sends a whisper of want up her arm, sensitizing her skin. She immediately feels the absence everywhere he's not touching her. "Or perhaps she will allow me to attend her in a more... personal capacity."
"Yeah, that could be arranged," she says, her voice a little rough. She buries her other hand in his hair and pulls him in for an eager kiss. He seems no less affected by the teasing than she is, hungry, a little desperate, and she shifts for a better angle--
--and fucking ow, her knee is just not having it.
"Tomorrow," she breathes into his neck, her hands twined behind his head. "I swear to god, I am having Regina teach me how to heal this tomorrow."
His forehead is resting on her shoulder, and she hears him give a shaky laugh. "Believe me when I wish you all the success in your studies."
6.
Regina's disapproving frown is particularly epic when Emma limps through her front door. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Ice," Emma says, with a hefty dose of chagrin, and Regina raises her eyebrows in understanding.
"Ah."
Emma gestures down at her knee (which is an impressive shade of purple under her leggings; "bruised" seems inadequate to describe it). "I was... hoping maybe you could teach me how to heal it with magic?"
Regina crosses her arms and studies Emma for a moment. "It's not easy," she says, and then inclines her head briefly. "But you look like you might be sufficiently motivated to learn."
Half an hour later, Emma is frustrated as hell, and Regina's looking at her as if to say how have you managed to stay alive this long. "I don't understand. This should be coming easily to you."
"Well, it's not, okay?" Emma rubs a hand over her forehead; there's a headache building up behind her temples. "I've always been better at breaking things than fixing them."
Regina gives her a flat look that Emma really hopes isn't the on-ramp to Fireball Central (she wouldn't torch her own sitting room, right?), then folds her hands together and leans forward, elbows tucked above her knees. "Healing magic draws on a desire to improve something for the person you're healing--it's easier if you're empathetic, but not actually required. With light magic, you should be a natural. With dark magic, it takes… a little more work."
She stands and crosses to the writing desk, picking up a knife that really looks way too scary to be just a letter opener, holding it across her palms. She brings it back to the couch where Emma's sitting, her bruised knee propped up, and shows it to her. "Rumplestiltskin taught me with this."
Regina lifts the knife and sets the point against her own fingertip, a drop of blood welling up dark against her skin. Then she waves her hand across it, and the wound vanishes with a tiny purple gleam.
Emma can't help but stare at the knife. Having met both the Dark One and the Evil Queen in the Enchanted Forest, you'd think that she'd have an easier time believing the bizarre, twisted shit that happened back there, but no, no, every time, it's still a surprise. "That's how he taught you to heal? He cut you with that?"
"No," Regina says, twisting the knife in midair as if checking the blade (it gleams, just like in every movie.) "I wouldn't trust him with either a blade or my blood." She looks up at Emma, unnervingly steady. "I did it myself."
Emma opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. "And you keep that thing just lying around."
Regina gives her a narrow look, one of her better ones--Emma's seen it before, but the knife in her hand gives it an extra edge, no pun intended. "Sometimes, I keep it in a drawer." She shakes her head a fraction. "Tools are tools, Miss Swan."
Of course, because that's no different than a spatula or a screwdriver. But she doesn't say that, because she really is trying not to antagonize Regina these days. "Right. Okay. So… what do we do with it?"
Regina rolls her eyes, then reverses the blade so that the hilt is toward Emma. "First, you take it."
Emma gingerly takes the knife (it's not her first ever, but it's definitely her first torture practice dagger). Regina reaches over to wrap Emma's hand more firmly around the hilt. "Then, you use it."
Before Emma can react, Regina pulls both their hands forward, and slashes the blade across the back of her own forearm. It's not that deep, but blood immediately begins seeping from the wound in angry red rivulets.
Emma drops the knife in horror. "Regina, what the hell?"
Regina grabs Emma's now-empty hand and pulls it toward the wound. "Now, you heal it."
Emma gapes at her, then looks down at the wound, at her own hand shaking above it. Regina's sitting there casually, her other hand now cupped under her arm to keep her blood from dripping onto the rug, and Emma's mind is just going fucking blank.
"Concentrate," Regina says, with just the tiniest echo of strain in her voice, and it's not the pain that gets through to Emma, as much as it's the fact that Regina's trying to cover it up.
It's the kind of thing Emma understands all too well, and she just thinks, I want that to stop.
There's a flare of white light, and then it's gone--the wound, the blood, all of it, as if it never happened. Even the knife is clean.
Regina twists her arm to inspect it, flexes her fingers, then looks up at Emma with a hint of grudging respect. "That's what I thought."
Emma stares at her own palm, then at Regina. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," Regina says, as dismissive as if she hadn't been bleeding significantly just a few seconds ago. "Now, do the same for your knee."
Emma takes a deep breath, then looks down and holds her hand over the garish bruise. I want it to be better, she thinks.
And nothing happens.
She tries again, this time thinking about the pain when she bends it, how she wants that to stop.
Still nothing.
She pokes it, wincing at the pain, and thinks about not wanting it to hurt anymore.
But she fails.
Again.
She sighs in irritation, then looks back up at Regina. "It's not working."
Regina's frowning at her in a way that Emma can't quite place. She gestures vaguely at Emma and says, "This isn't a magical problem, it's a personal one." She tilts her head to one side, and shit, that might almost be concern on her face. "Your parents, or the pirate boyfriend not living up to his hype?"
Emma leans back, staring at Regina. "Wha--how did you--?"
"Know?" Regina's I am offended by your idiocy look is way more familiar to Emma. "You do realize I'm not the Charmings. I've known since Neverland. After the time portal, it just became blindingly obvious."
Emma's stomach drops, and she rubs her palms over her thighs. "I didn't realize. I... was trying to be discreet."
"Don't bother. The eye-fucking is a dead giveaway."
Emma blinks at that. Regina's not usually one for profanity--preferring her cutting remarks to be more elegant, as far as Emma can tell. Regina herself seems taking aback--she raises a hand before Emma can respond and adds, more quietly, "Though I… do appreciate the consideration."
She lowers her hand over Emma's knee, and with a purple flash, the bruise is gone.
Emma stands up and tests her weight on it. It's perfectly fine, and she gives Regina a small smile. "Thanks."
"We can't have the savior incapacitated, can we?" Regina says, sardonic as ever. She stands up as well, brushing imaginary wrinkles out of her pants. "I think that's enough for today." She picks up the knife from where Emma dropped it, and sets it back on the writing desk, then ushers Emma to the front door. "We can pick this up again when you figure out what's holding you back."
"Thanks again," Emma says on her way out, thinking that she'd really like to have the answer to that herself.
7.
"It's all right, love. You're all right." His voice is soft, just above a whisper, and that's how she realizes everything else has gone quiet around them.
She opens her eyes, and has to blink away bright-dark spots from her vision. She shakes her head to clear it--the haziness, she's guessing, is some kind of magical side-effect. "Is everyone--?"
"Out of harm's way," he says, and he steps around in front of her. Her hands are stiff from having been balled into fists at her sides, and she unclenches them, trying to rub the cramps out against her thighs.
"So, it worked?" The answer seems obvious, but she's still a little fuzzy (and it's comforting to hear him talking, which is a closely guarded secret and one she tries to rely on only in emergencies).
(Then again, shit, if he's here, like this, he probably already knows. Bastard.)
"Aye," he says gently, and gives her a little nod. "You gave everyone time to get clear, while Anna talked her sister down."
Which is where she saw Killian last, escorting Anna through the blizzard, before she had to concentrate on turning aside the force of the storm that had threatened to take out Robin's camp.
(She really needs to have a conversation with Will that includes the words you need to stop being a dick and or else I will have to punch you in the face.)
Killian comes closer, and she hears a crunching sound. Emma glances down, and her jaw drops.
There's a jagged circle centered around her, a moat of melting slush between the new snowfield and the brittle, dry brush underfoot. God, she didn't just melt the snow, did she? She vaporized all the free water, too (that's great, that's not at all fucking terrifying).
"I'd say you're becoming a force to be reckoned with, love," he says, pulling her attention back up, "but then, you always have been."
He ducks his head a little to meet her eyes, and his own are gleaming. She smiles back, and reaches out to tug at his jacket, pulling him in. (It's still so new, that she can do this, reach out to him for reassurance and just get it. Not so much that he'll give it--he's only ever been waiting for her--but that she is learning to ask.)
A curl of steam rises up from under his collar, and Emma goes cold all over again. She looks at him more closely, and this time, she sees clearly--that's not the cold pinking his cheeks, turning the tips of his ears red.
"Emma? What's wrong?" Killian asks, and she only realizes she's backed away from him when she's looking at his outstretched hand from a lot further away.
"I--you need to be more careful," she says, and the fear seeping through her makes her voice hollow, a dead sound in the still air.
It's one thing to know he'll walk through fire for her.
It's another to know he'd probably let her burn him to ashes.
She turns and heads away from him, but she's not running from him, not this time. She's looking out for him.
Because he should be running from her.
8.
It seemed like a responsible, proactive idea at the time: set up emergency shelters and caches of supplies around town, in case they started losing essential services to ice storms (accidental or deliberate, and isn't it great knowing that there's another ice queen in town, that some of the chaos comes with a side dish of malice aforethought?).
And everything's going well--David and about half the dwarves have the town hall covered, while Mary Margaret and the rest are taking care of the school. The hospital's all set, and Granny and Ruby have the inn and diner set up like a freaking supply depot.
Which just leaves the sheriff's station. And that's where Emma's planning failed, because everyone just assumed Killian would be her partner because why wouldn't he be.
And now they're stuck here together, surrounded by cardboard boxes and awkward silence.
She left the boxcutter at the school, so she pulls out her keys and sticks the jagged edge of one under the corner of the tape. It's not pretty, but usually works--except this time, because the tape is either some industrial-grade crap or made of actual magical adhesive or something, because it is completely unimpressed by her efforts. She tries harder, and only manages to yank the key free, narrowly missing gouging it into her own forearm in the process.
She curses viciously and kicks the box (not hard, just enough to make the point). While she's glaring at it, the hook appears and slices neatly through the tape, and Emma clenches her jaw.
"Any excuse," she mutters, pulling open the box flaps with ill grace.
"To keep you from damaging yourself? Yes," he says, and although those are the first words they've said to one another in longer than she cares to think about, she is suddenly, blindingly mad.
"Oh, that is fucking rich," she says, straightening up and glaring at him. "You're worried about me, when you're the one throwing yourself into danger at every turn."
He stares at her, forehead creased in a frown. "Where is this coming from?"
"You," she says, pointing at him with the keys still in her hand. "You talk about self-preservation and survival instincts, but every time shit goes down, you're right there in the middle of it."
He draws himself straight, a hard, dangerous set to his jaw that she hasn't seen in a while. "I'll not stay out of the fight when I'm needed."
"I know you won't, because that's who you are. And it's not fucking fair to you!" she says, and spins away from him, throwing the keys onto one of the desks. She presses her palm to her forehead as she turns back to him. "Being the savior--it's my destiny, Killian. It's not fair that--"
She drops her hand, staring at him. "That I've come to rely on you," she says. Her throat is sore, and it feels like there's a band around her chest. "It's not fair that I need you."
Her face heats up, and her chest heaves with the need for air.
Killian steps in front of her, his expression gone terribly soft. He's never, ever been afraid to get close to her. Even when he probably should be.
"You're right, you know," she says, and spreads her hands to indicate the boxes, the town, her life. "It's never over. It is never fucking over. It's in the job description that I'm supposed to bring back the happy endings. But how can there be any happy endings when nothing ever fucking ends?"
He reaches out to fold his hand over hers, running his thumb over her knuckles and smiling faintly. "Then we shall live eternally in the middle of things."
"Until you get tired of this shit," she says, but can't bring herself to pull back her hand. She tries to hold onto the anger, but it's slipping away, just when she needs it most, leaving her breathless and trembling. "As long as you're with me, you're going to keep getting cursed or frozen or chased by monsters or, god, whatever fresh hell comes next."
"Is that all? Well, then, I accept your terms." His smile broadens, and he snakes his hook behind her hip. "I've never really been one for the quiet life, love."
"And what if it's me?" she asks, raising her free hand to press against his chest. Her voice comes out small, and she feels tears burning behind her eyes. "What if I'm the one who hurts you?"
He shakes his head fondly at her. "You never would."
"I never want to," she corrects him, staring down at the back of her own hand. "I'm supposed to be learning control, but I'm not. What I am doing is tapping more power, which just makes me more dangerous to be around."
"I don't believe that," he says, and uses their linked hands to tip her chin up. His smile is breathtaking in its sincerity. "Given what I've seen you do, love, the safest place I could be is at your side."
She wraps her arm around him, and lets him gather her close, exhaling long and shaky against his neck. He murmurs, "Except when you draw a sword, then you're a bloody menace to your friends," and she breathes a laugh into his skin.
9.
Strategy meetings at Granny's have become a tradition, sort of, and Emma's grateful for that; the residual heat from the kitchen is a welcome buffer against the bitter chill outside.
Sadly, having a warm place to talk might be the only good thing to come from this particular evening.
"That was pointless," she mutters to Killian, as they step into the hallway leading to the inn.
"It was necessary." He lays a hand on her shoulder, and she turns to face him, not bothering to hide the petulant slump to her shoulders. He smirks at her, and says, "Even the best captain can't outrun every storm. All you can do is secure the lines, batten down the hatches, and ride it out."
"With sailing metaphors, apparently," she grumbles.
"Preferably," he says, with a one-shouldered shrug and a twinkle in his eye. She bites back a smile as he adds, "And all the while, above all, keep the crew from panicking."
"How?" she asks, and crosses her arms. "Let me guess--with rum?"
"Doesn't hurt," he says, and flashes his teeth in a momentary grin. With a more somber nod, he adds, "More importantly, they need to see that their captain has things well in hand."
"Do I, though?" She points her chin back at the dining room. "You saw the Arendelle posse in there, how freaked out they were--it's like Zelena all over again. Or Pan. Or--Cora." She blinks, and asks, "We are going to run out of villains at some point, right?"
He makes a little gesture with his hook. "Or you'll convince them all to change their ways."
"Yeah, right."
She hears boots on the stairway at the end of the hall, but Emma's just not ready to play fearless leader again so soon, so she backs into the empty restroom and pulls Killian along with her.
His eyebrows shoot up suggestively, and she rolls her eyes in response. Crossing her arms, she leans against the counter and asks, "So, what happens when the crew figures out the captain is just as screwed as they are?"
"I've never had reason to find out," he says mildly, and she snorts at him. "Nor will you, Swan." He reaches out to brush her hair back, and traces her ear with gentle fingers. "If only you could see yourself the way I do."
"Oh, yeah?" She glances over her shoulder, at the mirror over the sink, and then tips her chin up at him. "Show me."
He considers her for a moment, then turns her to face the mirror, standing in front of him. It catches her off guard, how good they look together, and she has to drop her eyes for a second. He runs the back of his finger down her cheek, and she looks up again, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
Following the line of her jaw, he murmurs, "I see strength." He flattens his hand over her heart. "I see courage," he says, and she shakes her head at his romanticism. He presses a kiss to the back of her head. "I see resourcefulness." Running his hand down her crossed arms to thread her fingers with hers, he says, "I see a stubborn refusal to back down before anyone or anything, no matter who they are or what they think they can do."
She breathes out a laugh. "You see all that, huh?"
"Clear as day, love," he says. He nods to their reflections. "And I see one more advantage that no villain could hope to match."
"What's that?" she says, unable to hide her smile any longer.
He grins right back at her in the mirror. "The devilishly handsome pirate standing at your back."
"Oh, you think that's going to make all the difference?" she asks, unfolding her arms so she can cover his with her own.
"I do," he says, and kisses her temple. "And I suspect that pirate wants to be at your back," he leans into her, and her eyes flutter at the feel of his body, warm and solid, "or wherever you might be inclined to have him," he nips at her neck, and she shudders against him, "for as long as you'll have him."
She draws his arm tighter around her. "Even if none of this ever ends?"
He uses their hold to spin her in his embrace, meeting her eyes directly. "I spent three hundred years in Neverland, love, " he says, his voice soft. He smiles at her like this, like them, is everything. "The prospect of eternity doesn't frighten me."