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thejollyroger-writer · 5 years ago

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What Happened in Berkshire {{2/3}}

OKAY, ALRIGHT, this is now a THREE-shot, because I don’t know how to write short stories, apparently. In this installation, we meet some more key characters, learn a bit about everyone, and have an excellent aesthetic that @captainsjedi somehow captured perfectly AGAIN in her incredible artwork. Once again, I want to sincerely thank @thisonesatellite for helping me get my thoughts in order and finding ideas inside my head that I didn’t know were there and @profdanglaisstuff for coming in clutch multiple times with historical curse words and Aussie slang.

PART ONE: tumblr // AO3 ; PART TWO on AO3

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The next morning, with Ruby and Mary Margaret on either side of Emma's duffel bag on the backseat of her newly-acquired worn-down yellow Bug, she drops them off at the airport, hugging each of her friends until the security guards head over to ask her to leave — and then she and Killian are on their own adventure.

Emma follows the GPS towards the spot they decided the night before would be their starting point, a walking trail into the woods around the far edge of the town, whose relation to mountains and streams made Killian believe was part of his old map, and a good starting point for their journey.

"So, let me get this straight, love," he says, his eyes still set on her phone in the holder connected to the dashboard. "On this little device, you can access any map with just the press of a button?"

Emma smiles, looking towards him out of the corner of her eye. She found him the night before with the books from the library spread out on the table in front of him, but with his attention focused instead on the owner's manual for the fridge, which he found going through the drawers in the kitchen. It was then she was able to really look at the pile of books he got from the library: a collection of history textbooks, a few books on transportation, some on scientific advancement, and a large book titled "Medicine Since the Middle Ages."

"It can do much more than that," she says, then pauses before shaking her head. "But I'm not sure that you're quite ready for that quite yet."

When she glances at him again, she notices his eyes have gone wide.

“Another day, Killian.” He nods, but does not stop staring at the screen as it changes, informing them they have reached the destination. “For now, it’s time to walk.” She puts the car in park, somewhat surprised how quickly they got to the end of the GPS’ directions.

“Right.”

He climbs out of the car as she does, holding his old map in his hand while Emma stares down at her own piece of parchment: the spell the witch gave Killian that turned him into a statue in the first place.

It’s a foolproof plan, really: Killian with a four-hundred-year old map and Emma with a location spell for a woman that might not even be alive anymore. She’s almost afraid to look at the parchment after she casts the spell on it, but she does anyway — though that does not make her less surprised when it works, the parchment shimmering as it floats in front of them.

Eyes wide with surprise, Killian tucks the map back in his satchel and turns to her. “Ready?”

She nods, reaching out to take his hand before she overthinks exactly what that means.

“Let’s go find a witch.”

As the parchment begins to lead them into the woods, one of Emma’s hands wrapped around Killian’s as the other emits a warm magical glow, suspending the parchment before them, she realizes that she has never felt as confident with her magic as she seems to when she is near him — though she tries to avoid what that means about them, as well.

For a few minutes, they stay as silent as the woods around them, Killian’s thumb moving in soft circles against the back of her hand, and he can swear that he can feel her magic moving through him. It is unlike any other feeling he has ever experienced, and only makes him more drawn to her, though he did not think it possible.

And the connection brewing between them only makes him want to recall his tale to her even more.

“I convinced Milah that coming with me was the only way to save her from the vile, cowardly man she had married,” he says, his voice soft, and he can feel the emotion that rises through her, the surprise and the confusion.

“Killian, you don’t have to,” she interjects, her words coming quickly, but he shakes his head.

“I want to, though, love,” he says, squeezing her hand, “He was a monster, with a heart we all believed incapable of love. And it didn’t take much convincing, because she loved me just as much as I loved her, so we ran. Ran from him and all his terror. For a while, we were happy, far from his reach and able to live in harmony as we sailed the seas together. Time passed, more than a year, and I thought her husband had forgotten about us, until one day, he appeared on my ship, just like magic, and said he could not stand that she chose to stay with me over returning to him. Over the time Milah and I had spent happily aboard the Jolly Roger, he had convinced himself that I — because how could I be anything but a cruel, heartless pirate — had stolen her away; but I loved her with everything I had, and she loved me in return, and that was a fact he could not live with.”

He stops, Emma stopping right beside him, and takes a deep, shaky breath. It’s almost too much to handle, so much sadness and grief, and the feelings he has not been able to feel over the last four hundred years suddenly come flooding back to him. He tries his best to bite them down, and the tears that fill his eyes go no further. “Or, perhaps more fittingly,” he continues, trying to cover his grief with anger, “a fact that he could not have her live with, because he tore her heart from her chest so there was nothing I could do to save her and watched, laughing like a maniac, as she died in my arms.”

Emma says nothing, but she does not have to. Everything she could say, he can find in her eyes as she stares up at him, in the hum of her magic that he feels in his bones through their still-connected hands, in the tears that she does not manage to hold back as well as he does. But the sadness that fills her bright green eyes is almost too much for him to handle, and he turns his eyes back down to the forest floor, softly pulling them back on their way ahead.

“He and I sparred on the deck for a while, and I was a much better swordsman than he ever could have been, but when he added his dark magic into the mix, he found his advantage and took the upper hand. He disarmed me, so I found a rigging hook on the deck and stabbed him in the chest with it before he chopped off my hand and they both fell to the deck, but he picked up my hand before he disappeared. When the ship’s doctor fixed up my arm, I asked that he build a brace that I could put the hook in, a constant reminder of everything he took from me when he killed Milah.

“I sought vengeance against the man for a few years, longing to hurt him the way he hurt me, and I searched all of the known lands to try to find a way to defeat him. But I never found anything, until one day, one of the men who found a place on my ship told of a story he heard once, a story of a witch that knew how to defeat the darkness that took Milah from me, though I realized too late that it was a trick. He led me here, through this very forest, and to the witch, who gave me a potion and marked a spot on my map for me to find. I followed through with her instructions, drank the potion, and when I went to read the spell from the parchment, it turned out not to be a spell, but a curse. I didn’t realize until it was too late, and I was turned into a statue in mere moments.”

Even after he finishes the story, Emma remains silent. But he can still feel what she is feeling, the anguish and sadness that makes her heart pound.

He wonders if she can feel his, too, if this connection between them goes in both directions.

He definitely hopes it does.

“Wait,” she says suddenly, stopping exactly where she is and pulling her hand away from his. He immediately misses the warmth of her hand in his, misses the connection it gave them, but she holds her hands up in front of them, a warm light radiating from them as she takes a cautious step forward with her eyes squeezed shut. He watches closely, unmoving, as she slowly opens her eyes, then sees them widen.

“What is it, love?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer, but then she reaches behind her to find his hand, pulling him the half-step forward to stand beside her — and he sees it, too: the thick layer of fog that has suddenly appeared around them, coming from nowhere.

He turns around, trying to figure out exactly what they’ve gotten themselves into, only to find that the fog now extends as far as he can see in every direction.

“Weird,” she says, breaking the thick silence that has settled between them with the fog. “That wasn’t there a moment ago.”

But even in the fog, she can see the smile that lights up Killian’s face as they begin to take quick steps in the same direction they had been travelling.

“We’re almost there.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because this happened the last time I was here. And if a witch’s spells really do die with them, it must mean she is still alive.”

She is about to comment her agreement, but the words get stuck in her throat after they take another step, the fog disappearing as quickly as it appeared, a chill running down her spine, and a small cottage appearing where there were only trees just moments before. It’s quaint, can’t have more than a few rooms, and has a billow of smoke coming from the chimney.

Purple smoke.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes. “It — did it work? Is that it?”

Killian’s eyes are wide in disbelief, but he still manages to nod his head.

“That’s her.”

“What should we do?” she whispers, terrified to move. She’s seen many things in her years, especially since she has become a magic-wielder, but some things in this world still manage to surprise her.

And the fact that the locator spell worked on a four-hundred year old piece of parchment and led them to a cottage in the middle of the English woods is one of these surprises.

So was bringing a statue to life by kissing it, but she’s at least starting to get used to having him around — not that she would admit it to anyone.

Killian, however, does not seem as surprised by this turn of events, smirking at her even as he squeezes her hand. “Well, love, I suggest we knock, or is that no longer the custom in this world?”

She knows that he is right, but that doesn’t keep her from rolling her eyes at his sarcasm.

“Yes, okay, we knock,” she says, taking careful steps towards the cottage. If she weren’t so freaked out, she would be impressed by the small garden that they walk through, which seems to have fruits and vegetables on one side and herbs on the other; would think the stone and wood architecture is adorable.

But, yeah, she’s freaked out instead.

Killian knocks on the large wooden door with the curve of his hook, refusing to release his grip on her hand — the only sign that he is anywhere near as apprehensive as she is. It swings open almost immediately, and they both take a careful look around them before walking through it together, which Emma is almost thankful for.

Almost, save the part of her that is still terrified of this whole adventure, scared to learn what it might mean about her.

The room is about what she expected: open, with a wooden table and updated kitchen to her right, the walls going up to the angled ceiling everywhere except the loft. The interior is an odd mix of almost every style of decor, from rustic wooden bookshelves to a bright red retro refrigerator to a large wall-mounted television that takes up most of the wall it’s on.

But the weirdest part is definitely what she finds in the center of the room: a woman that does not look much older than she does, in a beige pantsuit, her dark hair pulled into a high bun, standing over a smoking cauldron.

Purple smoke.

"Captain Jones," she says, not even bothering to look up from her cauldron. "I've been expecting you."

Emma's eyes snap to Killian, who is staring at the witch in disbelief. "Beg your pardon?"

This makes the woman turn her attention towards them, taking a long moment to very obviously look over the two of them from head to toe and back before turning back down to the cauldron. "I've been waiting for you to show up here. I could sense your curse had been broken, and I was wondering how long it would take you to decide to test your luck and see if I'm still here."

"Well, it must be my lucky day then," he says, his voice just short of a growl, and Emma can see the muscles of his jaw ticking in anger as he stares at the witch.

This finally gets her full attention, and she moves a few steps closer to them, leaving the cauldron behind, though Emma notices the spoon she was using continuing to stir, not slowing. "It really is your lucky day, Captain," she says, stopping a few feet from them. "I've been waiting for a very long time to help you."

Her words seem to cause some of his anger to dissipate, the tension in the air lessening slightly.

“Excuse me?"

Her features soften, the hardness in her dark brown eyes almost disappearing. "I've regretted what I did to you for over three hundred years."

Her words seem to catch Killian off guard — and Emma, too, though not nearly as much.

"And you didn't do anything about it?"

"There was nothing I could do," she answers quickly, wringing her hands in front of her. "Only your True Love could break the curse, that's how he made me write it, so even after I came to regret all of the things I did for that monster, all I could do was wait for your curse to be broken in order for me to help you."

It's Emma's turn to speak up. "I'm afraid I'm going to need more of an explanation than that, and I'm sure Killian agrees."

They both turn towards him, but he just nods.

"Of course," she says, walking around them and into the kitchen. "Would you like some tea? It's a rather long story."

Killian, of course, accepts her offer for tea, though Emma instead requests a glass of water. Once they're all settled around the small wooden table, the witch starts her story:

"I was young and naive when I was a student of Rumpelstiltskin's —"

"Wait, wait, I'm going to need to stop you right there, witch," Emma says, holding her hands up, and while the witch rolls her eyes, she lets Emma interrupt. “You can’t mean, like, Rumpelstiltskin Rumpelstiltskin, right? Spins straw into gold? Makes deals for people’s firstborns?”

Both the witch and Killian nod.

“That’s how I came to be a student of his in the first place, because of a deal he made with my mother.”

“Because he saved her from an unhappy arranged marriage by turning straw into gold?” Emma asks, completely joking, but the witch’s face stays emotionless.

“Yes.”

Emma sets her head in her hands for a moment, and the other two do her the favor to staying silent as she tries to wrap her head around all she’s hearing.

“Also, my name is Regina, not witch,” she says, obvious annoyance in her voice.

“Sorry,” Emma mumbles. “I honestly hadn’t even thought about it, so I am — I really am sorry.”

Regina just nods.

In the silence around her, pieces start clicking into place, but they only seem to lead to more questions. “Okay, so, you were a student of… Rumpelstiltskin’s.” The words still feel weird on her tongue, even if Regina is claiming them to be the truth. She turns to Killian. “You said that Regina’s teacher was the man whose wife you stole—”

“I didn’t steal anyone, love,” he argues, a bite to his voice that she hadn’t heard before that almost makes her cringe. “Milah chose to come with me.”

Her eyes falling to the table, Emma nods, wishing she hadn’t just made that mistake. “Right, sorry.”

Another terribly awkward beat passes. “But yes, you’re right,” he says finally, his voice much softer. “Milah was Rumple’s wife.”

This is just as unbelievable as the existence of Rumplestiltskin in the first place, but she’s trying to keep an open mind.

“Can I get back to my story now?”

For a witch that’s waited four hundred years to help Killian, Regina sure is impatient.

Emma nods.

“Thank you,” she says in a huff. “As I was saying, when I was younger, I was young and stupid and wanted to do anything to prove to him that I was a worthy student, and at that time, it included cursing all those he asked me to. But I’ve — well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I’ve realized since then that Rumple was simply using me as a means to an end, a pawn to accomplish what he would not be able to alone.” She pauses, takes a sip from her cup of tea, and then turns her attention towards Killian. “So, yes, Captain, if I could have broken your curse on my own, I would have, but since only your True Love could break the curse, I’ve just been waiting for you to find me so I can help acclimate in your new life here, if you’ll allow me that.”

Killian leans back on his chair, stretching his arm out behind her shoulders, obviously contemplating everything Regina has told them.

“What became of Rumpelstiltskin?” he asks after a moment.

Regina’s posture straightens, her eyes widening for a moment before they turn down to the table.

“He, uh,” she starts, then takes a deep breath and looks back up at Killian. “No one knows, honestly. He continued to wreak havoc around the area for a while with curses and deals and — you know, magic always comes with a price’ing everyone he comes in contact with, but then the stories… they just stopped. Some said he got involved in one of the wars, got killed in battle, traveled to a different realm and never returned, or made a deal with someone whose magic was stronger than his, darker than his. I tried my best to keep up with the stories, to keep tabs on where he was — if you’re interested, I still have the book I used to keep all my notes about it — but then the rumors stopped.”

“When?”

“About a hundred years after you were cursed.”

Killian softly hits his closed fist against the table a few times, his eyes squeezed shut.

The room sits in silence, save the steady, unceasing thump thump thump of Killian’s fist.

Until: “And no one has spoken of him for almost three hundred years?” Killian’s voice is soft, almost trembling, and Emma surprises herself by reaching out to rest her hand on Killian’s arm, ceasing his movements, but even as she trails her hand up his forearm to lace her fingers through his, his eyes remain on the table and hers remain on Regina.

And then she feels what he feels, and it is almost too much: fear. Paralyzing, debilitating, bone-chilling fear that chills her much deeper than her bones, and she turns to see how it is written over his features.

It’s not. Of all the expressions that she has seen cross his face since he came to life, she’s pretty sure she has yet to see his face as emotionless, as stoic, as it is in this moment. This fear is unlike anything she has ever felt, and Killian doesn’t even look afraid.

She wishes she knew what she could do to help him, to calm him — and that scares her.

They both seem to realize that Regina has not answered his question at the same time, and when they raise their eyes to her, she is watching Killian, brown eyes filled with uneasiness, as she worries the edge of her thumbnail between her teeth.

She practically feels the angry, worried grind of his jaw. The way his heart races, pounding in time with hers.

“Regina?” she asks, knowing that, while Killian may look emotionless, he definitely does not feel the same.

She shakes her head. “No. Nothing. No one has seen him, heard about him, or spoken of him for three hundred years. The name ‘Rumpelstiltskin’ is not one that people still discuss.” She gestures to Emma, though her eyes never leave Killian’s face. “Not beyond children’s stories, fairy tales.”

Slowly, she feels him start to calm. There is still a nagging fear pushed behind everything else, a fear that perhaps this man could have managed the impossible and remained alive and well for three hundred years without anyone knowing about it, however unlikely it may be.

“We would know,” she says finally, her voice much softer, soothing, even. It’s not something Emma thinks fits her demeanor that well, trying to soothe Killian, but it seems to do the trick, his pounding heart returning to a normal pace, until he releases her hand to wrap his around the almost-empty tea cup.

Finally, Killian nods, content with all Regina has told him, and finishes his cup of tea.

But Emma is not as content, and is perhaps more confused than she was when they got here, and she runs her finger along the rim of the almost-empty glass of water, needing something to focus on as she asks the question at the forefront of her mind.

“So, uh… how do we undo all this?”

Her question is only met with silence and incredulous stares.

“Excuse me?” Regina scoffs, but it is Killian’s hurt “I beg your pardon?” that really gets to her.

She cannot even respond.

“You’ve already undone it,” Regina says, and Emma practically hears her roll her eyes, since she still cannot bring herself to move her eyes from the glass. “You broke the curse. You freed him. That’s the end of it.”

The words Belle said the day before rattle around her head once more: “... he has nowhere, no one, no home. Nothing except us, the people that were there when the curse was broken.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries to stop her mind from reeling around exactly what these words might mean.

She doesn’t want to think any more about what that means for their relationship, what it means for her. While she had to have known deep down it was never going to happen, a small piece of her clung to the hope that the witch was going to offer them an easy answer, another explanation for everything that has happened to them. Alas, all Regina has done is confirm what she’s still too afraid to admit to herself.

She and Killian are True Loves. There’s really no denying it anymore, as much as that scares her. And she doesn’t know what to do about it.

So she just stays silent. They do not spend much longer in Regina’s cottage, though Emma is a little amazed when Regina conjures a full set of paperwork for Killian from thin air: British passport, birth certificate, driver’s license, Naval papers, and who knows what else. Killian’s not entirely sure what all of them mean, but he takes the whole stack, plus a few stacks of money, and drops it all in his satchel nonetheless.

“Thank you again,” he says, shaking her hand as they stand on the stoop outside the cabin.

She smiles warmly at them, not quite fitting with the rest of the demeanor she’s shown them, but Emma appreciates it nonetheless.

“Of course,” Regina says. “And really, if there is anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

There is, of course, so much Emma wants to ask Regina. About practicing magic. About communities of witches. About all of these things that Ingrid barred her from, or perhaps simply did not know about herself. But the part of her that longs for these answers is drowned out by the realization that she has to get back to her life, back to some semblance of normalcy that she had before all this happened — before moving, before Neal’s heartache, before befriending and then bringing to life a damn statue with the bluest eyes and the brightest smile she has ever seen.

For a moment, it helps still the pounding of her heart, knowing that there is someone who can help them —

Until she realizes this means she now has to walk back through the woods with him.

Drive him back into the city.

She’s all he has in the world — the fact that scares her the most — and she now has a responsibility to help him live in a world vastly different than the one he last knew four hundred years before.

Most of their walk back through the woods is silent, Emma’s arms crossed over her chest. She has never felt more lost in her life, and she just packed up her life and moved to a different continent. She can’t have a True Love — there’s no such thing, of course. She still believes that one of these times, she’ll blink, open her eyes, and find that it’s all been a dream.

She’s not entirely sure how much of it she wants to be a dream, where she wishes it would have started.

Anything is better than this being her reality.

“Why are you so desperate to get rid of me?” he asks finally, breaking the silence between them with an obvious anger in his voice, though she also senses a hint of sadness.

Both of which she understands.

She can’t even bring herself to look at him. But she stops, her eyes squeezed shut and her head turned down to the forest floor. She doesn’t even know where to start.

“Do you know that I was ready to marry him?” she says quickly, spilling the secret that she hadn’t told anyone.

“What?” he asks, his eyes snapping to her. “Who?”

“Neal. I decided that I was ready to commit to him, and then he breaks up with me not even three days later. And then it all comes unraveled — his cheating, his lying, everything. He tossed me aside, deciding that maybe I wasn’t actually good enough, trading me in for the next great thing. And it — Jesus, Killian, it broke me.” Finally, she looks up at him, still afraid of what she knows she’s going to find in those damned blue eyes of his: sincerity. She’s not ready for that. “That’s part of why I came over here in the first place, was to start over, closing my heart to the world so that no one can ever hurt me like that again.

“And then I’m over here for a few weeks, still trying to… recover from everything that’s happened to me, and this whole thing between us comes up, and I — I’m just not ready for this. I can’t deal with this.”

For a moment, he is silent; and then, he places his index finger under her chin and pulls her gaze back to his. “Emma,” he whispers. “You broke my curse, and that must have a meaning. But if it’s time you need, then time is what I will give you. I waited four hundred years for you to come into my life, my love. If I have to wait a bit longer for your heart to heal, then I will stand aside and let you heal.”

She's moved by his words and reaches out to rest her hand against his cheek, but before she can make contact, she realizes that the mere thought of wanting to do that scares her, and she backs away, wide-eyed, before taking off through the forest without another word.

What the hell is she doing? What the hell is she thinking?

But at the same time:

Why is she still questioning all of this? What more evidence does she need to prove that this is her reality now?

Killian’s story? Check.

Historical evidence, found at a research library? Check.

The Captain’s Log from the ship, confirming Killian’s story? Check.

The damn witch that cast his curse in the first place? Check.

But somehow, she’s still trying to convince herself that it’s not real.

That he, for some reason, isn’t real. Killian, who, through a thick layer of innuendos and leather, is soft and kind and funny; who seems to wholeheartedly believe that they really are True Love’s. And she… well, she doesn’t blame him.

Even as she thinks it, she’s not sure what it means.

Okay, that’s not true. She knows what it means: that she is coming to terms with… whatever is happening between them. But, at the same time, she knows that she’s fighting with it, as well.

“Swan, wait up,” Killian calls from behind her, and for the briefest moment, she debates not waiting for him. But he did her the service of giving her some time alone with her thoughts, and for that she is thankful.

So she stops. She doesn’t turn to see how far behind he is, though she can hear the crunching of the leaves beneath his boots. She doesn’t turn towards him when he reaches her side. She even pauses for a moment and lets him walk ahead before she follows.

A part of her is afraid to walk beside him, worried that he will try and take her hand as he did on their first time through the forest — worried that he will rely on whatever weird-ass connection they have to figure out what is going through her head right now.

Honestly, she wouldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t blame him, but she also doesn’t want that right now.

Instead, she wants…

Okay, she doesn’t know what she wants.

That’s not exactly the truth, either. She wants normalcy, something from the past thirty years to remain as it always has. Everything has changed, everything at once, and she realizes as she watches him walk a few steps in front of her that perhaps that is what is keeping her from accepting what has become her new normal. She is no longer able to deny what is between them — she brought him back to life, broke his curse, her, not her magic. Somehow, she is his True Love. Really, she has no idea what that is supposed to mean, and it doesn’t allow her to take back any of the hurt and the anguish that she voiced to him earlier, but it’s a start.

She still needs time to heal, time to find her way in this new lifestyle of hers. But she can do it with Killian beside her. They can find their way together.

She picks up her pace for a moment, moving to walk beside him again. They can get through this, can figure out what the hell they’re supposed to be doing — together.

“Alright, so,” she says, turning down the music and breaking the silence for the first time since he caught up with her in the forest. “Since Ruby and Mary Margaret went back home, I was thinking you could just take the spare bedroom in my apartment where Ruby was staying—”

“Swan, really, that’s not necessary.”

She pulls her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at him. “Of course it’s necessary, Killian. What else are you going to do? I broke this damn curse, the least I can do now is give you a place to stay.”

Mulling over her words, he remains silent in the seat next to her. He has never met a more frustrating woman than Emma Swan, he knows that for sure. A brilliant, beautiful, headstrong woman that broke a four-hundred-year old curse and still doesn’t believe that they are meant to be together. That they are True Loves. She still wants to get rid of him, to solve all of this by making everything go back to normal, while he falls deeper in love with her.

Liam would have called him a right idiot for starting to fall for this woman so quickly, but he really can’t be blamed for it. He meant everything he said to her in the forest. Technically, looking back, he realizes that he has never said anything to her that he did not mean wholeheartedly, from I was hoping it would be you to when he told her that he will wait for her heart to heal.

He knows all about that.

The weirdest part of the last four hundred years wasn’t that he spent them as a statue, but that he spent them with a conscience, that he could watch over the people passing him and slowly take in the changes that took place right before his eyes.

That he could think, even though he couldn't move.

He spent four hundred years in his own head, and if there is one thing he knows about after going through that, it is the time required to heal. Half the time he spent as a statue was spent broken-hearted, thinking back on his time with Milah, on how much he loved her.

In the moments he has spent watching Emma, he notices the same sad look in her eyes that he is sure he would have found in his own had they not been lifeless. Sadness, despair, and perhaps even a touch of regret. Regret for putting hope into something that should have been hopeless — a married woman, a cheating man — and having everything fall to pieces around you.

But he has to break the silence between them, silence that may just shatter him if it continues to grow.

“I think I should find myself a job,” he says, quieting the voices in his head by speaking what’s on his mind.

“Killian, it’s a very different world now—”

“You don’t think I am aware of that?” he asks, a bite to his voice that he almost didn’t mean for there to be. “But I promise you, I will do anything to prove I’m not useless.”

A beat passes between them, before she speaks softly. “I don’t think you’re useless.”

It’s just about the nicest thing she has ever said to him, spoken barely loud enough to be heard over the engine, but it’s a start, aided by her soft fingers wrapping around his hand where it rests on his knee.

He won’t rush her, will not do anything to try and get her to admit to anything she is not ready for, but this is a good start, especially after losing so much ground during their conversation with the witch.

▫️▪️▫️▪️⭐▪️▫️▪️▫️

The most distressing thing about sharing her apartment with seventeenth-century Killian Jones proves not to be his unfamiliarity of technology or his inability to fit in well in the modern day, which, though it seems to be getting better and better with each day, frustrates him to no end — no, instead, Emma finds most of her stress around her new roommate to be centered around just how immaculate he keeps everything. For the first time in her life, Emma finds every item within her apartment to suddenly have a "spot," somewhere deemed specifically for each thing to belong. Her bathroom is more organized than she ever felt it needed to be, from the medicine cabinet to the bottom of the vanity to the damn shower; her cups and mugs now have a specific order within the cabinet; even each of the remotes and magazines on the coffee table now have a designated placement.

Everything is clean. Emma almost doesn't know how to function — but given that he is struggling so much with everything else related to his new twenty-first century life, Emma tries her best to straighten up her life, too, making sure that she is doing what she can.

It's not the easiest task, of course, but she assumes that putting her shoes away after taking them off and doing the dishes instead of leaving them in the sink is much easier than waking up after 400 years.

But as her schedule changes, begins taking up more of her time, Killian finds himself alone in the apartment more often.

Which is how he finds Will's, the bar only two blocks from the apartment.

He quickly becomes a regular, finding a barstool of his own in the darkened corner, a spot which allows him to watch over the crowd that fills the bar each evening. He minds his own business, sometimes even bringing a book down with him, but usually he passes the time on his smart phone, reading articles, books, as much information as he can get his hands on.

He tries to mind his own business, at least — until one night, when it becomes impossible.

“You’re making — a huge mistake, you know,” the man a few seats down from him slurs, slamming his fist down on the dark granite of the bar.

He’s been watching the man all night, immediately off-put by his demeanor as soon as he showed up. By Killian’s count, he’s on his fifth beer, and has been slowly making his way closer to Belle, sitting a few seats down from him and waiting for Will to finish his duties.

(Killian has very much enjoyed watching the dalliance that has been brewing between them, still relatively new since he just introduced them only a few weeks before.)

“I can assure you that I’m not the one making a mistake here,” Belle says, almost huffed under her breath, and he’s fairly sure that she specifically said it so that only he and the man beside her can hear it.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he yells, whipping his head to face her, and even with all the space between them, Killian can see the drunken madness that fills his whole expression, from his dark brown eyes to the ticking of his stubble-covered jaw.

“Take a hint, ya derro, and leave me alone.” Her voice is calm, almost too quiet, but she still seems to be holding her ground, so Killian just takes another sip from his glass of rum and remains quiet.

But he stands up, his barstool sliding out from beneath him, and for a moment Killian can swear that he sees the flash of violence cross the man’s face, the look he has seen for too many times just before the start of a fight. Killian almost jumps to his feet, ready to defend his friend, but before he can, the flash is gone, his expression turned to the anger from moments before. “How dare you talk to me like that, you bitch!”

Belle just scoffs, somehow not as angered by this whole situation as Killian is — or, if she is, she is much better at hiding it, not even turning to face him, her eyes set on the pint of beer in front of her.

But when Killian watches him take a step in her direction, his hands squeezed into fists at his side, he can sit aside and watch no longer.

Staying in his seat, he yells, “Oi, mate, I’d suggest leaving the lass alone if I were you.” Both sets of eyes whip towards him, Belle’s wide with surprise until they soften to an expression of gratitude.

“This is none of your business, mate,” the man spits, taking two quick strides towards him, his back now to Belle. “So if I were you, I would suggest not eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.”

“If you’re going to speak to her like that, I’m going to make it my business.” He still has not stood, but when the man takes another step in his direction, now within arm’s reach, he almost does.

“Are you really going to stand up for her? To take her side in all this? All I wanted her to do is answer my fucking question, because I know that she knows where she is!”

This statement catches Killian off-guard, his eyes flicking towards Belle, who is watching him, wide-eyed, and shaking her head.

“That doesn’t give you the right to be a fustilarian.”

The man’s eyes narrow, much of the anger on his face now replaced with confusion. “Excuse me?”

Killian chuckles. “Your not knowing is half of the fun.”

This doesn’t make him any less angry, though he turns his attention back to Belle to let some of it out. "Do you know this jackass? What's his deal?"

At this, Belle smiles, and when she turns back to share a glance with Killian, he doesn't quite understand what it was supposed to mean until she speaks again: "I do, in fact, know this jackass. This is Killian, he's a colleague of mine. Killian, meet Neal Cassidy."

He feels a few emotions rush through him simultaneously: surprise, anger, violent rage. Instead of acting on any of them, however, he reaches his hand out in an attempt for Neal to do the same, though his only response is to glare down at his outstretched hand, so Killian retracts the nicety.

"A fustilarian and a bespawler."

"Christ, Belle, you're friends with this bastard?"

"Yeah, actually, I am, and he's a much better man than you will ever be." Pride surges through Killian — a good man is all he ever wanted to be, and if he were in a better scenario to thank Belle for her kind words, he would.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He speaks up again: "It means you're a right wandought. How Emma ever loved you is a mystery to me."

He doesn't realize quite what he's said — or, especially, what it reveals — until the expression on Neal's face changes to something much lighter than anger, and Belle whips around on her stool to stare at him, eyes wide with incredulity, since he has gone and done what she warned him not to before introducing them.

"You — you know Emma?" Neal asks, all of his previous anger disappeared, replaced instead with something Killian can only describe as hope.

He jumps to a quick decision: "Aye, that I do. And I also know that you are the last person on Earth that she wants to see, so there is no use further inquiring about her."

At this, Neal is no longer hopeful — instead, his anger returns, his dark eyes narrowed at him, though they flash to Belle for a moment when she chuckles in agreement.

"Do you think you know what's best for her?" he asks, his voice much louder than it really needs to be in the practically-empty bar.

Every response that comes to Killian's head is about their relationship, about the fact that he is her True Love, that he perhaps has a sense of what is good for her because of their connection — but he has a feeling that Neal would take to that idea about as nicely as Emma did, so he does not respond. Belle, however, is quick to jump in, instead.

"We know that it bloody well isn't you, that's for damn sure."

This time when he narrows his eyes, it is in Belle's direction, though it only lasts a moment before his expression softens again, this time into one of sadness, as he changes his strategy so obviously that it almost pains Killian.

"I just…" he starts, then lowers his eyes to the floor, running his fingers through his sandy hair as he lets out a long breath. "I need to apologize to her. For everything I've done to her, I was — fuck, I'm just an idiot, okay? I want her to know that I realized that, and that I still love her. I'm stupid not to, I've realized that, and I… I just need her to know that."

Killian has no sympathy for the man, and he assumes the same is true for Belle, until he turns to gauge her reaction and see that she is nodding softly at him. "I'm still not going to tell you where she is, but I can — the least I can do is pass on the message."

"Can you tell her that I want to talk to her? It would…" — he even has the nerve to smile — "It would mean a lot to me, Belle."

Belle nods, a soft smile across her face to match Neal's. "Yeah, Neal, I'll do that."

"Thank you," he replies, pulling money out of his wallet and setting it on the bar. "Thanks a lot." And then, he's gone.

Killian is astounded, dumbfounded, beyond words, and just stares at Belle for a moment, agape.

However, when she smiles, takes a small sip from the glass in front of her, and mumbles, "Get stuffed" just loud enough for Killian to hear, he feels a bit better.

But has a plan nonetheless.

▫️▪️▫️▪️⭐▪️▫️▪️▫️

The nights Emma is the most grateful for her new roommate are nights like this one, where she comes home from her shift after dark, exhausted and starving, to find Killian in the kitchen, working on one of the many recipes he has discovered through extensive internet usage and watching Food Network.

Today was one of the worst, the hospital busier than it should be for a November night, and she was stretched thin for the last ten of her twelve-hour shift. The bright smile that spreads across his face as he turns to greet her almost makes up for some of it.

Maybe, like, six hours of it. So, not completely, but maybe a little more than half.

Because, she's come to realize, she likes him. She likes living with him, likes spending time with him, likes having him there to greet her after a long day (and, yes, okay, she even likes how clean her apartment has been, likes the nights that they accidentally fall asleep on the couch together, likes how he always seems to have a small breakfast and a pot of coffee hot and ready for her when she wakes up, whether before dawn or in the middle of the day.)

Part of her maybe even likes him, in the way the universe wants her to. He's caring, protective, and sweet, seems to actually care about her as a person — all of which are things Neal definitely wasn't. And, on top of all that, he understands her in ways other people don't — ways that she never expected another person to understand her. He can almost sense her moods, can tell when she needs to be left alone, when she needs a mug of hot chocolate, when she really just needs to eat. Every time she has gone to explain herself, to apologize — which she feels she's done more in the past month than before — Killian just smiles sweetly, usually setting his hand on hers or on her shoulder, and tells her it's unnecessary, that he somehow understands without her explanation.

No matter how hard it is for her to admit it, their being True Loves would explain a lot of that. It would explain how he seems to know what she's going to say before she starts to say it, or how he's started to know things about her that she hasn't told him, about her childhood and her food preferences and her magic.

She's assuming this is why Killian is not alone in the kitchen when she gets home, and why his guest is one of the last she would have expected, even if she has been thinking a lot about the last time they spoke.

"Regina," she says, partially meaning it as a question.

The woman just smiles, taking a sip from the wine glass sitting in front of her. "Hello, Emma. It's nice to see you again."

Emma tries to return her smile, but she's fairly certain her face instead becomes something a lot more confused. "Yeah, uh, hi. Nice — nice to see you, too."

Though it only lasts a moment, the silence that hangs between them is a heavy one.

So Emma breaks it. "What, uh, are you doing here?"

"Oh," she says, setting her wine glass down on the table. "I'm here to help you with your magic so you can hex away your ex-boyfriend."

Emma truly has no response to this. She blinks. She blinks again.

"In hindsight," Killian says finally, emerging from the kitchen with one of her kitchen towels slung over his shoulder, a look he absolutely stole from Queer Eye's Antoni. "I probably should have warned you about all of this."

"Killian," Emma groans, dropping her backpack just inside the door, even though she knows Killian will either yell at her for it later, or just put it away himself. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asks, taking a seat next to Regina at the table, reaching across for what is left of the bottle of red wine.

"I met Neal last night," Killian says, taking the seat on the opposite side of Regina.

Again, Emma has no response to this. She think her mouth might actually be hanging open as she looks over at Killian. She takes a sip straight from the bottle of wine.

"At the bar with Belle. He was looking for you, with some cockamamie story about how sorry he is and how he's realized his mistake. And I knew that you've been wondering about Regina's magic, so I took the liberty of reaching out to her for some assistance with Neal, so that you could be sure that he didn't become a problem."

At first, the main thing she feels is anger — not only at Neal for coming all the way here, for chasing after her after everything he's done to her; but, for just a few moments, she's also mad at Killian for taking the liberty of reaching out to Regina, for not telling her about Neal.

Until she realizes just how stupid it is to be mad at Killian. She has never met anyone like him, though she's not sure if it's because he's from four hundred years in the past and is just very old fashioned, or just because she's only ever known men to be assholes. Either way, in the weeks that have passed, since the night she broke a curse and brought a statue back to life (both of which are still a little mind-boggling to her, if she's being honest with herself), she has learned that Killian is nothing if not caring, honest, and always looking out for her best interests.

Because he's in love with her. She knows that, and every time she asks herself what's keeping her from reciprocating, she can't quite answer.

So, as quickly as it rolled through her body, her anger towards Killian disappears, leaving behind only anger towards Neal — an emotion has been simmering just below the surface for the last few months (years).

He must see all of this cross her face over just a few moments, because when she raises her eyes to meet his again, he is watching her intently, picking up every small change in her features.

She tries her hardest to smile, to show some sort of gratitude for what he has done, but she's fairly sure she has not convinced him. She turns to Regina, who has one eyebrow raised at her, waiting for her response.

"Okay," is all she says for a moment, the room remaining silent and still, so she takes another sip from the bottle of wine. “So, where do we start?”

Regina’s face lights up, something Emma didn’t even think was possible, and she sets down her glass of wine before turning her hands palm-up in front of her. Without even so much as flinching, she summons a sphere of white light in her left hand, and a small flame in her right. “First, we have to gauge where your magic skills are already.”

Emma gulps, suddenly realizing that learning more about her magic means practicing her magic — something she hasn’t done for almost ten years, since Ingrid warned her that just using it to practice would be dangerous enough.

Yet another lie.

“There’s no need to be nervous, love,” Killian says, his voice as gentle as the hand that he places on top of hers on the table. “I’m living proof that you can do amazing things with your magic.”

She’s thankful for him, for his calm and his kindness, but she’s still not sure. “I wasn’t trying to use my magic when I broke your curse, Killian. I haven’t tried to use my magic for years, after being told it was something I should hide away from the world.”

“If this isn’t what you want to do, Emma—” Regina starts, but Emma holds her hand up between them.

“No, no, this… This is what I want, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.”

Regina nods, her lips pinched into a thin line, and she turns both of her palms against the table after the magic in them disappears. “Alright,” she says, and nods again. “I think what we need to start with is maybe a bit of a conversation instead of just jumping right into the magic.”

Emma takes a deep breath, obvious in the rise and fall of her shoulders. “Where do you want to start? My twenty-first birthday, where I lit the candle on my cupcake with a small fire I summoned without even knowing I did it? The list of accidents from the apartments I lived in after college? Meeting Ingrid by accident at the library, trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with me?”

Regina sucks her breath in through her teeth, tapping the nails of her perfectly-manicured fingers against the table.

Killian’s hand covering hers squeezes gently.

“No,” Regina says, hitting her hand against the table. “I don’t want to know that. I don’t want to know any of that.”

“Then what do you want?” She doesn’t mean to snap, but it’s already been a long-ass day, and it’s apparently not over yet.

Regina blinks at her twice, her mouth slightly agape, as if taken aback by her tone. Which she doesn’t blame her for, because she’s a bit taken aback by her own tone.

“What does it feel like?” Regina asks finally, her voice soft, though her eyes are still shooting daggers.

Emma really doesn’t know how to respond, her breath taken from her lungs. This day has almost become too much. “What?”

“When you use your magic, what does it feel like?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, both hoping that she can conjure some memory that can answer Regina’s question, and that, once she opens them, Regina will be gone and this will all be a dream. She doesn’t manage the second, but she does manage the first.

“It’s been — when l used it to find you in the woods, that was the first time in a while that I used it on purpose, but it’s always been… warm. Comforting, almost, like it was telling me that it would be okay.” Emma feels the warmth rush to her cheeks, hoping that what she is saying is the right answer — if there even is a right answer when it comes to all this — and the large smile that slowly grows across Regina’s face makes her feel a bit better.

“That’s an excellent start, Emma,” Regina says, her voice warm to match her smile, and Emma begins to feel a bit better, the weight that has been on her shoulders since her twenty-first birthday begins to lighten.

She can only stay awake enough to be helpful for another forty-five minutes, but in that time, she’s made some progress, both mentally and magically, and when she finally makes it to her bed, thankful that she doesn’t work until the next afternoon, she falls asleep with the growing warmth of her ever-present magic fighting to make itself known — and she does nothing to fight it.

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