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let-it-raines · 5 years ago

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Catch Me If You Can (10/?)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

A/N: Happy Day, you guys! I’m giving you a quick update here! I hope you enjoy!

Thank you to @resident-of-storybrooke for being a really awesome beta❤️

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @royalswan @shey-starsfury @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @emmas-storybook @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @galaxyzxstark @qualitycoffeethings @thejollyroger-writer

-/-

Emma: Do you know if we’re getting food on this flight?

Killian:It’s seven thirty in the morning.

Emma: And your point? That’s breakfast time.

Emma: I usually stock up on snacks because I am a bottomless pit, but I didn’t have time to this morning. Do you have anything?

Killian: I have an apple. I can very clearly see that Rob has a box of Wheat Thins in his backpack though. You want me to smuggle some for you?

Emma: How would that even work?

Killian: Easy. I steal the box from Rob and then chunk it three rows up to you.

Emma: That won’t be obvious at all.

Killian: I’m very stealthy, love.

“It’s not even eight in the morning,” Robin groans, reaching for the lever on his seat to recline back in the very little space that they’re given. “Who in the world are you texting that much?”

“Liam,” he lies, heat rising to his cheeks. He has texted Liam this morning, but he’s most definitely not texting his brother right now. It’s a half-truth, really. “He’s trying to nail me down for some dinner plans once we get back home. I haven’t gotten to see them much lately, and he and Elsa always get antsy whenever that happens.”

“You’re pretty much their third child.”

“I feel like I’m their third child but also your second.”

“No,” Robin huffs, reaching down into his bag to grab his crackers, “that’s most definitely Will.”

“I can hear you,” Will mumbles from the seat in front of them as he stretches out and snuggles further into his pillow. Will could sleep on any plane at any time. It’s damn impressive. “And I’m not a child just because you all feel the need to baby me, Professor Jones.”

“So not a child but a baby then?” he teases.

Will sticks his middle finger up in between the seats, not even bothering to open his eyes as he murmurs, “fuck off.”

“I love you too, man.”

“Don’t worry,” Robin placates, a smirk on his face, “he’s only mean to you because he likes you.”

“That’s a load of bullshit.”

“For me, yeah, because I say things when I feel them.” Will pops his head in between the seats, his eyes widened but sleep heavy now. “But I think Emma is so pissy toward you because she does actually think you’re hot.”

Woah. Where did that even come from?

“Is that what she said?” he questions like he’s a fifteen-year-old boy worried about Chrissy Stephens liking him back and not like a grown man who knows that the woman he fancies is also interested in him.

What a world that he lives in that Emma Swan is interested in him.

That or she’s been very good at faking it for the last two weeks. God, he hopes that she hasn’t been faking it, but that seems like a hell of a lot of effort when they’ve talked nearly every day. Sometimes it’s just a few texts, a passing word in the hallway, an interview or a press conference question. Other times it’s a phone call late at night or Emma dropping by his place for an hour to eat dinner. He can tell that she’s still terrified by the whole thing, nervous energy practically radiating off of her when she first starts talking to him, but once they get into the groove of things, he believes that she feels comfortable.

Her wanting this and being willing to try is beyond his wildest dreams, and a part of him still thinks he’s going to be hit in the head with a baseball and wake up from whatever kind of concussion-induced dream that he’s under.

So much shit has gone down in his life, things from years past still haunting him, and he’s clinging to this good thing even if it’s far too early for any of that. He hasn’t done this relationship thing in a long time, and he’s still not entirely sure that’s what it is. They haven’t talked about it, and he imagines Emma is not going to be the person to bring it up first.

If ever.

They could be getting married, and she still might not want to discuss things.

Woah, woah, woah. That is thinking too far ahead for about a million different reasons. He is not going there.

Will’s eyes narrow at him, thick brows pushing together all the while Killian can practically feel Robin’s stare covering every inch of him. “Why do you care?”

He shrugs, his fingers fidgeting with the window shade to let some light in before immediately shutting that away. “I like to know what’s being said about me.”

“She’s sitting right up there. Why don’t you ask her, Professor Jones?”

“Because that sounds like a dumbass idea that will get me in all kinds of trouble.”

“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “You should not be talking to Emma Swan about anything other than baseball.”

His heart drops into his right calf at that. He didn’t know that was possible, but it is. Why would Robin think something like that?

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t want to piss her off anymore. She could flip the narrative on you so quickly that you’d get whiplash and all the sudden you’d be back to who you were four years ago.”

His defenses rise, words on the tip of his tongue at the ready to defend Emma. He doesn’t like that Robin thinks she would do that. They’ve all spent time around Emma. They know that even if she can be a little guarded, she’s got their best interests at heart. Even when they’ve screwed up, him especially, she’s never done anything to wrong them.

“That wouldn’t happen. She’s a professional. You know that. She’s not going to pull shit like that,” he says quietly, wondering how in the world he can change this conversation to something else so as not to show all of the metaphorical cards in his hands. “Can I have some of those crackers, Rob?”

Robin eyes him for a moment before handing him the box. Killian doesn’t even really want these, but he’s thankful for them as the conversation dies down and Will goes back to sleeping after under two minutes of trying and Robin keeps watching his movie, typing a long text to Carol for something having to do with Roland. He doesn’t want to pry, so he tries not to look, reluctantly eating the Wheat Thins before snapping a picture of them and sending it to Emma.

Killian: I can throw these across the plane if you’re ready to catch them.

Emma: Hit me with your best shot.

Emma: Not really.

Emma: Please don’t throw food on the plane. I saw that there are snacks in the back, and I’m going to pilfer them.

Before he knows it, he sees Emma’s blonde head rise up as she gets out of her seat and walks down the aisle past him. She doesn’t look at him, her eyes staring straight ahead, but that doesn’t keep him from looking as she sweetly asks a flight attendant for a packet of cookies. It looks like she’s learned since the last time they flew.

When she comes back toward him, he turns in his seat and goes back to flipping through the movies, pretending like he wasn’t just staring her down. Hopefully she didn’t notice that. She may like him, but everyone has their limits.

Emma: The red-headed flight attendant thinks you’re hot.

Killian: I’ve been reliably told that you think the same thing, and I care much more about that.

Emma: Who told you that?

Killian: You’re not the only one who can have sources.

Emma: At least mine are reliable.

Killian: So you don’t think I’m hot?

Emma: I didn’t say that.

Killian: I knew you thought I was sexy, Swan. You flatter a man.

Emma: Shut up and eat your Wheat Thins.

-/-

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

Small pinpricks of pain are spreading down his arm while his shoulder stings. Someone might as well be out here stabbing him with a knife. It would likely be less painful than this.

Not again.

Not tonight.

He’s been doing so well, his shoulder not bothering him, all of his physical therapy working to keep his muscles strengthening and his body in check, and then shit like this happens. There’s no way he can make it past the inning, and even if he wasn’t about to call it, he knows that Al is going to pull him off the mound in no less than three minutes with how many runs he’s giving up.

It’s…not good. They’re down 2-8 in the bottom of the fourth, and he might as well be dying out here under the Florida sunshine and the humidity that has his bones weighing twice their normal weight. Spring Training never prepares him for this when it’s this muggy outside.

He might as well be in a damn swamp. Tropicana field sounds so cheery, so pleasant, but he’s dying inside. Why the hell do teams agree to name their fields things like Tropicana and Minute Maid? How much exactly are they getting paid to suffer like that?

How much is he getting paid to suffer like this?

Taking a deep breath, he tries to focus on what’s in front of him. That’s all he can do when his body is failing him like this, and with a quick windup, he releases the ball from his grip and watches it fly right into Will’s glove.

Strike three. Byrd’s out.

Immediately, he jogs to the dugout, opening the small gate and going straight for the water cooler, gulping down a cup before pouring himself another one and covering his head to try to cool himself down. He’s so damn mad at himself for playing like this, for having a body that’s failing him when his body has always been his livelihood and the thing he maintained with precision and dedication, and all he wants is to punch every single member of the Rays even though none of them have ever actually wronged him.

Anger takes its way out in strange places.

“You’re done, Jones,” Al tells him, his voice clipped.

“Good.”

He tosses his cup to the ground in annoyance and turns to make his way to the bench, figuring he’ll suffer out here for a little while longer, only to see Emma standing with her bottom lip tugged between her teeth and her phone in her hand.

Right.

She’s sitting in the dugout with them tonight recording videos and doing fun little segments for her Instagram and Twitter, and he’s probably looked like an ass in all of them.

Because he is an ass.

“You okay?” she mouths.

He doesn’t respond with more than a shake of his head no before he’s turning away and heading toward the tunnels that will take him back to the locker room so he can get this damn shoulder massaged and have Archie yell at him once again for trying to keep all of this under wraps.

-/-

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Killian sighs into his phone as he runs the towel over his waist, drying his body as much as he can before knotting it over his hip. His brother doesn’t seem to understand that people are busy and life is busy and maybe he wants to shower for fifteen minutes simply so everyone will leave him alone.

It’s been three hours since he left the field after the game, and it’s still not enough time to let him simmer in his thoughts.

“Are you sure because you kept grimacing and – ”

“I know what happened, Liam. God, I…” He runs his hands through his damp hair, water droplets falling over his face and tracing the lines where the beginnings of a sunburn are forming. “My shoulder hurt today. You know it, and I know it. There’s no point in denying it. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore when I already got my ass handed to me by Archie and Al.”

“I’m worried about you,” Liam laments, the sound of his television in the background. The girls should be asleep by now, so it must be Elsa sitting quietly listening in to their conversation while she pretends that she isn’t. He doesn’t know why she does that when she and Liam don’t keep anything to themselves when it comes to him, their honorary third child. “You have been nothing but healthy you’re entire life, and then I convinced you to go sailing with me and – ”

“Please do not blame yourself for that accident anymore.”

“Why not? I’m the one who insisted we go on the weekend trip. I’m the one who – ”

“For fuck’s sake, Liam, it’s not your fault. The drunks who ran into us are the only people who have any kind of fault. We probably should have died that day, and we didn’t. I just got a fucked-up arm. I’ll take that over anything else. You don’t have to act like you’re my father taking responsibility for all of my actions.”

The moment he says the words, he regrets them.

How could he not?

Comparing Liam to their father is the absolute last thing that he wants to do. Liam, even with his faults and his judgmental ways, is nothing like Brennan. Brennan Jones never cared unless it benefitted himself, and Liam cares because it’s what good family does. It’s what people who love each other do.

His brother is the greatest man that he knows, and yet here he is taking all of his anger out on him because he can’t always play the sport that he loves like he used to.

“Our father never took any responsibility for our actions.”

“God,” he groans, running his hands through his hair again and yanking at the strands, “I don’t know why I said that. I just – ”

“You’re angry right now.” The way Liam says the words calmly, like they’re talking about the weather or a lunch up on the rooftop of his building, weirdly calms him down and makes his heart beat a little less erratically. “I would be angry too if the accident had kept me from doing something I love the way I had done it before. You got hurt, and I got a small scar on my knee. It’s not fair, and you can be angry. Just…don’t let that anger ruin your relationship with others.”

“I hate that you’re so wise sometimes.”

“It’s only some of the time,” Elsa pipes in, confirming his thought that she was in there simply listening in. “He’s an idiot most of the time, actually, and it drives me insane that the girls think he is the smartest man alive.”

“Hi, Els,” he laughs, opening the door to the bathroom to let some of the steam out and walking back into his hotel room. “You should really announce yourself before you start listening in on a conversation. I know you’re there.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to think I’m too nosy.”

Killian barks out a laugh at that because there’s no other word he could describe Elsa as other than nosy at this moment. Compassionate and kind also come to mind, but right now she’s nosy.

Shuffling through the room, he sits down at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping down underneath his weight, and picks up the remote to turn the television if only because he wants some background noise, so he doesn’t get too lost in his own thoughts.

“You and my brother are a packaged deal, darling,” he sighs, “and Addy and Lucy. I know that you are all far too much into my business.”

“It’s only because we care, little brother.”

“Younger, you asshole.”

“Language,” Elsa scolds.

“I’m twenty-eight years old and sitting in a hotel room by myself. I think I can say the word asshole.”

“Sorry, force of habit.”

“You’re such a mom,” he groans, falling back against the mattress, his towel coming undone the slightest bit.

“I did not push those two children out of my vagina to go by any other name.”

“Oh my God, stop. I don’t like to think about how those two were created.”

“Killian, childbirth is natural.”

“I’m talking about the creating, not the delivering.”

Liam and Elsa both start coughing before their coughs turn into laughter, the two of them sputtering and bickering back and forth with each other, and he sits up on the bed and starts mindlessly flipping through the channels until he finds a Dodgers game. Why is he watching baseball when he’s trying to get away from it all?

Because it is his life.

“You know, little brother,” Liam chokes out, emphasizing the little because he is, indeed, an asshole, “if you had a girlfriend, you would probably feel more comfortable talking about sex.”

“I am perfectly comfortable talking about sex. Just not yours.”

“I know but – ”

There’s a knock at the door, and he feels like he’s saved by the bell (or the knuckles) at the sound, not really wanting to have this conversation with Liam even if he goaded them into it and if it’s more pleasant than talking about his shoulder.

“Hey, guys,” he starts, already getting up and tying his towel a little tighter around his waist, “there’s someone at my door. I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Let us know if you need to talk,” Elsa sighs, quietly echoed by Liam. “We love you.”

“Love you guys too.”

He hangs up the phone and places it on his dresser before crossing the room and looking through the peephole to see who is knocking on his door.

It’s Emma.

She’s standing just outside his door in an oversized white sweater and a pair of leggings, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, and he can tell by the way that she’s unable to stand still that she’s anxious. Immediately, he twists all of the locks and swings open the door, catching it before it slams into the wall.

“Swan,” he smiles, already reaching forward and tugging her inside, looking from side to side in the hallway to make sure no one is around.

“Hey, so I – ”

He stops her before she can finish her sentence, closing the door behind them and quickly dipping his head down to slide his lips over hers, just the barest hint of a touch in greeting but enough to make all of his body begin to stand at attention.

“Hi,” he whispers when he pulls back.

Emma’s lashes flutter as she looks up at him, a little redness of her cheeks. “Hi. I’m guessing you don’t mind that I dropped by then.”

“Truthfully, I’m very upset about it.”

“You’re a liar,” she laughs, adjusting the bag that she’s holding. Wow, he didn’t even notice the bag. His mind is all over the place tonight. “You’re also not wearing any clothes. Why are you not wearing any clothes?”

A shiver runs down his spine as Emma’s eyes glance over him, very obviously cataloging his body in the same way that he’s done to hers in the past. The room is more heated, the steam from the bathroom permeating into the bedroom, and he knows that it would be so damn easy to step a little bit more into Emma’s space and capture her mouth with his as his hands explored her body the way that her eyes are exploring him. It would be so damn easy to forget about the difficulties of this day, to forget about the ache in his shoulder, and let his body do all of the talking that it couldn’t do today.

He could prove that his body still works, that he can still do good with it, that he can still bring himself pleasure, bring Emma pleasure.

…but he can’t do that. Not yet.

It’s not the right time when he’s riddled in self-doubt and frustration, and even if Emma was ready, he wants to do this right. He doesn’t want to use her and his affections for her to make him forget everything for a night.

They need more time to get to know each other.

When the hell was the last time he wanted to get to know a woman well before he slept with her?

Why would he even ask himself that question when he knows the answer?

“Well, darling,” he finally sighs, backing up from her to give himself room to breathe all the while he makes sure to flash her a grin, “I did this thing called showering, and I don’t often do it with clothes.” “That’s smart. It’d probably get a little messy like that.”

“Most definitely. What’s in the bag?”

“Oh,” she gasps, her shoulders shrugging up the slightest bit as her eyes light up, the darkness turning back to light green. “So, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous or whatever by coming here, but you didn’t seem to have the best day, and I figured I would bring you, like, a snack or whatever to help you out. Then I thought maybe I could stay for a bit, but if you want to tell me to fuck off, I can be back in my room in a minute.”

How in the world does he find everything she does so charming? He was in a piss-poor mood, still is, and even though he wasn’t exceptionally friendly to her when she was doing interviews in the locker room, she’s being more than kind to him.

“Love, the absolute last thing I would do is tell you to fuck off. I’m glad you decided to come see me even if I don’t know how you know my room number.”

She winks before turning around and placing the paper bag down. “You’re not the only one who knows how to charm people to get information.”

“Apparently not. What kind of spoils have you brought me?”

“Totally ignoring the fact that you said spoils,” she laughs, pulling out a bag of salt and vinegar chips and then several snack cakes. And then one banana which doesn’t seem to fit at all. “But I raided a vending machine and also the hotel front desk for the banana, and figured maybe we could pig out a bit since I know for a fact both of us are going running tomorrow.”

“Do you have strawberry short cakes in that pile?”

He steps closer to her, and she holds up a package of Pop-Tarts, strawberry flavored. “Is this close enough?”

“Only because we’re in a pinch.” Killian takes it out of her hand, and tosses it over to the bed before picking up his bag of clothes and sliding it into the bathroom. “I’m just going to put on some pants and then we’ll – ”

There’s another knock on his door, and this time he’s not saved by the bell. He doesn’t want this conversation to end. Emma stops what she’s doing, dropping the chips she’s holding back onto the desk, and she turns to look at him with wide eyes and parted lips, panic written across all of her features.

“What do we do?” she whispers, her voice probably echoing from here all the way back up to the east coast.

“I’m just going to ignore it,” he says quietly, stepping back over to the door to look to see who it is. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Emma whispers, stepping closer only for him to hold out his arm in front of her.

There’s another knock, this time really more of a pounding, and then Ariel’s voice comes through the wood. “I know you’re in your room, Killian. Open the door.”

Emma’s eyes widen even more, and if he wasn’t currently freaking out over what to do, he’d laugh at the comic relief over the whole thing. “Get in the bathroom, love.”

She nods her head, quickly picking up the food she brought in and scrambling into the bathroom, closing the door behind her at the same time that he opens his hotel door, his hand furiously scratching at his ear.

“What, A?”

“Well, that’s a way to greet me.” She immediately moves past him and into the room, never one for understanding personal space. “Why do you have a package of Pop-Tarts on your bed?”

“I got it from the vending machine,” he lies, closing his door behind her and walking back over to his bed. “I was hungry but didn’t feel like ordering anything in. Why are you here? Where’s Eric?”

Ariel rolls her eyes and stretches out onto his bed, picking up the remote and immediately changing the TV from the game he was watching. “Believe it or not, I am capable of being in a separate space than my husband.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

She simply waves him away. “Whatever. I just wanted to check on you. I know you get all moody after losses, and you didn’t come join everyone for dinner. Also, can you put some clothes on while we have this conversation? I love you, but I don’t need to see every bit of you.”

“You’re the one who came barging into my room,” he groans as his mind runs through about fifteen scenarios on how to get Ariel out of his room, “but fine. I’ll go change.”

Killian steps away from his bed and walks the few steps to the bathroom door, quietly opening it up and immediately shutting it behind him in case Ariel for some reason decided to move behind him.

This is by far the weirdest thing that has happened to him this year. He’s hiding his girlfri – he’s hiding Emma in his hotel bathroom.

And she’s sitting on the countertop with her legs crossed over each other eating the bag of chips like that’s not the loudest food she could have chosen.

“What are you doing?” she hisses. Putting the chips down.

“Ariel has requested I put on some clothes.”

“But there’s no place for me to move in here so you can do that.”

Killian rolls his eyes at her flustered movements and far too loud hushed voice. It’s what has him turning on the sink before he leans forward and presses a kiss to Emma’s cheek. “I can slip my sweatpants on under my towel. I promise I’m not going to scar you.”

“You wouldn’t scar me. I just – ”

He reaches down to his bag, grabbing a pair of pants and pulling them on underneath his towel, his mind fighting with him to think of every delicious and dirty thought about having Emma in the shower, and tugs them up before dropping his towel to the ground and finding a t-shirt to wear. How is his bag so disorganized?

“What was that now, love?”

“Nothing,” she hisses, blushing. “How long am I supposed to stay in here? I’m kind of freaking out.”

“You’ve got food, water, and a bathroom. I think you’ll be good for a week or two.”

“Asshole.”

“I try.” He flashes her a grin before leaning forward and quickly gliding his lips over hers and tasting the salt and vinegar of her kiss. Damn does he love that he can do that. “I’ll try to get her to leave as soon as possible, okay? Be quiet on your chip eating.”

Emma scrunches up her nose before sticking her tongue out at him and grabbing another chip with one hand while the other turns the faucet off. He sighs, amused and exasperated all at once, before opening the bathroom door and stepping out only to find Ariel eating the Pop-Tarts.

He kind of wanted those even if there are a million better ways to consume five hundred calories.

“Why’d you turn your water on?”

“Didn’t want you to hear me pee.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugs her shoulders and pats the spot on his bed next to her. He takes the small desk chair instead. “Tell me why you’re in such a bad mood.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not a liar.”

(He is a liar.)

“Okay,” Ariel murmurs as she takes another bite, “so if you’re not in a bad mood, would you at least like to explain why you didn’t come to dinner?”

He swivels in the chair a bit, his legs antsy to tap and stay moving, but that’ll make him seem anxious to Ariel. That’s the last thing that he wants when he is, indeed, anxious for her to get out of the room.

“I – I felt like I let everyone down today,” he admits, leaving out his own self-loathing about his injury. Half-truths. He’s always speaking in half-truths. “I played a shitty game. I was in a bad mood. I was awful company and didn’t want anything to do with anyone. So, I kind of figured I’d come back here and work that out on my own instead of making everyone else miserable.”

“Killian Jones, you know for a fact that we are not miserable around you. At least Eric and I aren’t. Neither are Robin or Will or even August. The only person who would take issue with you being all pissy is Arthur and that’s because he’s got his own set of issues.”

He scoffs and closes his eyes as he stretches his legs out. She’s right. He knows that she is because she’s always right. She’s basically another version of Elsa in that aspect.

“I know. I’m…you know how I get, A. I’ll be fine. Tomorrow, I’ll come to whatever team-mandated meal you arrange.”

“That’s all I ask.” She rises from the bed, picking up the Pop-Tart she hasn’t eaten, and walks over to him to briefly press her lips against his temple. “I’m going to let you wallow, okay? But tomorrow after you’ve finished your practice, we have to talk about your calendar for the rest of May and June. I’ve got some charity stuff lined up for you.”

“I will be at your beck and call.”

“As you should be. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Will do.”

Ariel nods her head and smiles before walking out the door, letting it slam shut behind her. Letting out a sigh of relief, he places his face in his hands and simply takes a moment to breathe and let his mind stop racing about how horrible of a human being he is for lying to everyone.

He’s the worst, isn’t he? He has to be.

When he’s finished with his little pity party, he sits up and raises his fist to the wall, banging on it to let Emma know that she can come out of the bathroom.

The door clicks, and she emerges, flipping the locks on his door and then walking toward him, stepping into his space until he’s pulling her in by the hips to stand in the open space between his legs, his head resting against her stomach.

Maybe he’s not quite finished with his pity party.

“So,” Emma hums, her feet moving into his line of vision as her hands scratch at that back of his head, which may very well be the best fucking feeling in the world, “apparently everyone in the world knows you’re in a bad mood, and you don’t want to talk to any of us about it.”

“Do you want to talk every time you’re in a bad mood?”

“Hell no.”

“Exactly.” He leans back in the chair, the loss of her touch immediate. “I think I just…you want to watch a movie with me or something?”

“Can I pick it out?”

“Yeah, Swan, you can.”

They settle down onto the mattress, pulling the thin sheet that’s at the bottom of the bed over them instead of settling under the covers, and Emma tucks herself into his side so that her head rests on his collarbone and her hand is covering his stomach, a leg tucked between his. In all of the time they’ve spent together in the past two weeks, he thinks this is the most comfortable she’s ever been around him.

He likes it.

It’s…refreshing. He keeps thinking that, thinking about how this is so different than how he’s been the past few years. If he was with a woman, it was to sleep with her, to scratch an itch. It was not to settle down and watch Men in Black because despite insisting that she wanted to pick the movie, Emma refused to let him pay for them to rent a newer movie.

And obviously he wants to sleep with Emma, his mind racing with thoughts of what exactly that would be like to do to her, but he’s good just like this.

This is by far the best part of his day, and Florida isn’t seeming like such a hell hole anymore as his fingers play with the wisps of her hair that have fallen out of her bun and her hands toy with his mom’s ring that’s fallen outside of his t-shirt. He doesn’t even think she realizes that she’s doing it.

“The ring was my mom’s.”

Emma stops her movements, her fingers stilling, before looking up at him, her face only lightened by the glow of the television now that the sun has set, and everything is covered in darkness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess with it.”

“Swan, it’s fine,” he promises, reaching down to take her hand and place it back against his chest and against the ring. He smiles a little, the left side of his lips curving up, to try to reassure her of the fact that it is fine. He doesn’t mind. “I simply figured you wanted to know why I wear a ring around my neck. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m secretly married.”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking that until right about now.”

Later. He’ll tell her about Milah later. He can already tell that he’s about to tell her too much about his family tonight. She doesn’t need to know about his ex-girlfriend too.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.” She pats his chest and readjusts herself so that she can look at him a little better. How are her eyes so green? “So, tell me about your mom. If you want to.”

“Her name was Amelia,” he starts out, scooting down a little further so that he and Emma are nearly eye to eye, “and she was just…she was amazing. I have a terrible memory, so I don’t remember much, but I remember that she had this red hair that would make Ariel jealous and this big belly laugh that kind of reminds me of Liam. I don’t – I guess I never thought about it before, but she was really into baking, which is probably why I eventually came around to it. That’s likely the only thing I got from her other than the red in my beard.”

He knows that it’s not true, that he is more like her than he’s willing to admit, but it’s not what he usually thinks about. It’s not what Liam talks about either even though he was seventeen when she died.

“How did she – ”

“Cancer,” he murmurs, tracing Emma’s pointer finger until he lifts their hands and treads his fingers through hers, squeezing their hands together. “It was very sudden, not a lot of time to say goodbye, you know?”

Emma presses forward and brushes a kiss to his knuckles. He’s sure it’s because no one ever knows what to say that, and Emma is likely no exception. “She would be so proud of you, I think. I know that’s probably overstepping my boundaries to say that, but I don’t see how anyone could not be proud of you for working so hard to achieve your dreams and for being so good to your family.”

Maybe she’s the exception then.

He’s not sure that his mom would be proud of him, not lately.

“Thank you, darling. I’m not sure if that’s true, but thank you.”

Emma’s brows pinch, her lips pursing. “How could that not be true, twenty-nine?”

Because he’s a self-loathing bastard who can never seem to bury his demons even when he needs to.

“Do you want to know part of the reason why I was in such a shitty mood today?”

He can’t tell her the full truth, but the half truth seems okay today.

“Only if you want to tell me.”

He gulps, nodding his head and inching further down to bed to tangle his legs with Emma’s and nearly brush his nose against hers. He’s twenty-eight, but there’s something akin to a childlike belief running through him that nothing can invade the quietness of this hotel room right now.

“I haven’t spoken to my father since I was nineteen years old,” he admits, bringing their hands up to rest between their chests. “That seems like a shitty thing to do when I was only down to one parent, but my dad is an asshole, you know? He was the one who signed me up to play little league ball, and every single day I was outside running or practicing my batting or pitching once I changed to that track. He pushed me so damn hard, which I always thought was a good thing, until I’d lose a game or be a minute slow on my run and he’d make me do everything all over again. I was eleven, and the man had me on a meal plan to make sure I was developing with the sole purpose of playing ball.”

He takes a breath, blinking away the tears that aren’t there but might as well be.

“He became obsessed. Completely and totally obsessed. And since Liam was long gone from the house, he was my only influence. I did what he said when he said it and played it off as it all being part of the game that I loved. But he pushed and pushed and pushed until I hated waking up every day. He screamed at me, calling me a pathetic fucker, told me that I was ruining his life by not being good enough. It was just this constant stream of hatred spewing out of his mouth, and when I got to Vandy, he started betting on my games, started taking bribes and offers and so many things that could have taken the game away from me forever. He’s a piss poor excuse for a dad, and it took me nineteen years to realize that I didn’t have to be subjected to his shit. So, I just…I cut him off. Liam and I both did. And today I – I was mad about how I played, and I took it out on Liam by saying he was not my father and some other stuff. That always kind of spirals us, and that’s why I was so annoyed when you first got here.”

That was too much.

That was far too much.

Killian should have kept his mouth shut, should have never let all of that out even if it’s skimming the surface. Emma likely already thinks he’s insane, that he’s got enough issues, and he just revealed so many more.

Good things in his life do not stay, and Emma is most definitely a good thing.

And he’s not even telling her about his arm.

“Your dad is a fucking asshole,” she spits, untangling their hands and running her palms up over the skin at his neck until she’s softly gliding her thumb underneath his eye. “I can’t imagine how much that has to mess you up in your mind. He took something you loved and twisted it. He was not what a parent should be, and you have every right to be upset about that. I’ve never met Liam, but I know that he loves you and that he understands how you tick. I’m sure he’s not mad at you for being upset with him when he understands your anger was coming from something else.”

Tell her, tell her, tell her.

His mind is screaming at him, but he can under no circumstances tell her everything. Not about Milah, not about his arm, not about all of his thoughts and feelings.

In time.

He’ll tell her in time.

They’re so early in this thing that they’re doing, and even if it’s been awhile for him, he knows that two weeks in is not the time to dumb every bit of baggage that he’s carrying.

“Thank you, love,” he sighs, closing his eyes and pressing forward to slowly guide his lips over hers, another silent thank you for simply being here. It’s nice to have someone on the road with him. Honestly and truly. “I’m sure this is not how you imagined this night going.”

“What?” Emma laughs, a tentative smile curling on her lips. “You think I didn’t come in here expecting you to tell me about your shitty dad as we watch Will Smith kill some aliens? I feel like that’s a pretty normal night.” “So this is normal for you then?”

“Staying in bed as much as possible?”

“Absolutely.”

He hums, inching closer and closer to her so that their foreheads brush together and his nose is pressing into her cheek as he speaks. “I think I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

#catch me if you can #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan

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