#because a lot of it got categorized as ‘filler’ pretty quickly.

[heyclickadee]

“Well, my interest is certainly piqued.” In the ancient puzzle game of horrors or in Phee, Tech? Both? It’s both, isn’t it.

[let-it-raines]

Not Your (soul)Mate {12/16}

Killian Jones doesn’t like the idea of soulmates. He sees how happy his friends are with theirs, but he still doesn’t like the idea, not when he’s found love and lost it time and time again only to still not know his sign. He has no markings on his skin, no voices in his head, but then one day he meets Emma Swan and everything changes. Because, well, he may not have ink on his skin to tell him who to love, but the very first time that he hears Emma’s voice he knows that she’s the one for him. Then again, that could simply be his desire talking. After all, for every word she speaks, he becomes aroused.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to be incredibly attracted to a beautiful woman, but things aren’t that simple when she doesn’t have any interest in being his soulmate.

He’s screwed. And not in the good way.

Rating: Mature

A/N: As always, thanks to @captainsjedi for all of the time and effort she put into making all of the wonderful artwork for this story! It’s the coolest thing to get to have❤️ And thank you to the organizers of @cssns!

Also, look! I add a chapter! You guys now get an epilogue! Woohoo!

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @snowbellewells @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @emmas-storybook @searchingwardrobes @spartanguard @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @xellewoods @thejollyroger-writer @galaxyzxstark @cssns

-/-

Killian: But categorically, you cannot tell me that cold pizza is better than fresh out of the oven pizza.

Emma: Ugh. I’m not saying that. I’m saying that if you get nasty delivery pizza, it’s just as good cold as it is warm.

Emma: If you’re getting wood fired pizza, obviously you eat that shit warm.

Killian: ‘Eat that shit warm’ is not a sentence I ever wanted to read.

Emma: Don’t make it gross.

Killian: It’s too late for that.

Emma: I seriously want Ariel to get a pizza oven in her house because I have to put on a bra to go to Eric’s restaurant.

Killian: I mean, I wouldn’t complain if you didn’t.

Emma: Again, don’t make it gross.

“Are you texting your boyfriend again?”

Emma jumps in her office chair, her phone tumbling out of her hands and onto her desk, bouncing around until it lands on top of her computer’s keyboard, jamming down on several keys all at once like a toddler that just got one of those toys that make too much noise when you press a button. That’s not going to mess the database she was going through up or anything. They finally got the funding to computerize their files, so she spends all of her days doing just that. She’s really regretting putting in that request right about now. She won’t in a few weeks, but she does now.

(At least they didn’t have to make a calendar or do a bake sale. She really doesn’t need to see a picture of David wearing, like, a “Kiss the Cook” apron and nothing else just to raise a little money.)

She also regrets tossing her phone in the air and how quickly her heart is beating. David’s going to see the nerves all over her face, going to see how frazzled she is, and he’ll see right through it. Hell, he pretty much already does. At least he’s a hell of a lot more chill than Mary Margaret.

Not like that’s hard.

(What, like it’s hard? Elle Woods for the win, always.)

Last night she was eating dinner with them at the farmhouse, and for approximately three seconds she looked down at a text on her phone and apparently smiled. She’s sure it was nothing more than a slight curve of her lips, a whisper of happiness, but Mary Margaret practically threw her fork across the table (which is a great way to stab someone in the eye) and demanded to know who she was talking to.

It was Killian. It always seems to be Killian.

She’s not sure how she feels about that even if she’s admitted to herself that she kind of (definitely, really, truly) likes him. It’s a very odd feeling that makes her soul feel like it’s not connected to her body.

She told Mary Margaret that it was Ariel complaining about how much it sucks to be eight months pregnant in the summer heat. The fact that Mary Margaret didn’t call Ariel right then and there and offer up every bit of advice was a miracle. Honestly, looking back, Emma knows that she should have said that she was talking to Ruby about a date that she has. Mary Margaret rarely asks for more details on Ruby’s dates than what Ruby offers up, not that the girl leaves a lot to be desired. It’s one of her best and worst qualities all at once.

But Mary Margaret believed her and got carried away talking about the joys and sorrows of motherhood, and if it weren’t for David, she would have gotten away with her lie unnoticed.

She feels like a freaking Scooby Doo villain thinking something like that.

If only she had a creepy mask to take off too.

Or maybe not. That could be weird. No, definitely weird.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, and you know it,” she says as calmly as she can, reaching forward and grabbing her phone only to look up at David and the smirk that’s plastered on his face with his hands behind his back. “What’s with the creepy look you’ve got going on there?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a horrible liar.”

“So are you.” He moves his hands from behind his back to reveal a small vase full of yellow roses and whatever that white filler flower is. It’s some weird name like breath of a baby or baby’s breath because that’s totally what a flower should be called. “Because I don’t know about you, but I don’t send baskets of baked goods and flowers to my friends.”

She’s definitely going to kill Killian. The word is in his name, so it’s basically fate.

Murder should not be where her mind goes.

That is probably not the reaction most people have when they’re sent flowers by the man they may possibly have some major feelings for, but she is not most people. She thinks of murder when she should be thinking of...romance? Is that the word she’s looking for? Do these flowers signal romance?

It’s all confusing. Seriously. She has no idea what’s going on. She has no idea if there should be feelings of romance or murder or even friendship.

Okay, friendship seems like the best option. Murder seems like the worst.

“Those probably aren’t for me,” she lies, knowing that it’s a horrible one, especially since David already knows who sent them.

David rolls his eyes before placing them on her desk. “Your name is on the note.”

She glances toward the flowers and at the note, Killian’s handwriting largely penned across the envelope, before she looks up at David, nerves working their way down her arms. Which, technically thinking, that’s how nerves work, but she was never really very good at biology.

“Did you read it?”

“I can be an ass, but I’m not going to read the closed note that your not-boyfriend sent you.” David shrugs his shoulders and sits down in his desk chair, rolling it up underneath the desk. “And I’m not as nosy as my wife.”

“Which is why I can spend so much time with you.”

“You have to spend time with me. Did you notice that we’re missing the hard copies of the files for the Anderson case from two years ago?”

“Yep. I’ve already emailed the records office at City Hall to see if they have anything. I don’t know why it would be there, but it always could be.”

“If this town ever had serious crime, we would be screwed.”

“Hey no, I kick ass. We could totally work that thing out.”

“You’d intimidate everyone until they confessed.”

“I am a very intimidating woman.”

“Who receives flowers from men who are pining after her.”

She huffs, not wanting to even respond to that, but she grabs her empty to-go cup from her coffee this morning and throws it at David, hitting him in the back of the head. He doesn’t even acknowledge it, letting the paper fall to the ground and clatter against the tile floor all while he hums to himself a theme song that she recognizes from one of Leo’s shows…which means she’s heard that theme song far too many times since it’s not her kid.

Seriously.

And Killian Jones is not pining after her. Definitely not.

(David knows far too much, but at least he doesn’t know that Killian is her soulmate.)

They fall back into work after that since they are technically supposed to be competent professionals in a very loose sense of the word, and she tries not to look at the vase of flowers on her desk for the next few hours, telling herself that it’s not a big deal and she absolutely will not read the note until she’s finished getting through this section of files. She will do her job first…whatever it is with Killian can come second.

Surprisingly, working on her computer keeps her busy until her shift is over, and since it’s Friday, she picks up her vase of flowers and holds them in her lap as she drives home, hoping that there’s not pollen or anything to get onto her shirt since she knows from experience that it’s hard to get out. Plus, she really likes this shirt. And it’s not until after she’s changed out of it and into some shorts and a t-shirt that she remembers to check her phone and the note that came with the flowers.

The note with the flowers comes first. Priorities and all that.

Swan,

So I couldn’t decide between sunflowers and yellow roses. And before you get any ideas as to why I’ve sent you flowers (besides the fact that I imagine whoever delivers them to you will tease the hell out of you. I’m hoping for Dave.), just know that Luis and Luca made me buy a voucher booklet from their school, and the one to the floral shop was about to expire. So it was either you or Will, and Will isn’t quite as pretty as you are.

I hope they bring a little extra sunshine to your day.

Killian

She pulls out her phone and sends of a quick text, unable to stop the small smile that’s formed on her face. Unable to want to stop it, really, as she falls back against the couch, her legs hanging over the end.

Emma: I’m glad you used your flower shop voucher on me.

Killian: Yeah, well, like I said, the other option was Will.

Emma: If he comes over tonight, I’ll tell him they’re for him.

Killian: They viewing apartments still?

Emma: Yep.

Emma: I have ‘All By Myself’ playing on repeat.

Killian: That’s very fitting.

Emma: I thought so. Any fun plans for you tonight?

Killian: I am wrapping all of the gifts for tomorrow and then going to sleep early to celebrate the near end of summer and my mildly busy season.

Emma: You are the life of the party.

Killian: Just wait until the baby shower tomorrow. I’m going to crush all of those awful games. No one can change a diaper as fast as I can.

Emma: Is that on your resume?

Killian: Yep. Liam is a bloody stickler of a boss. The skills we have to have here are insane.

Emma: I thought you were co-owners? I don’t think of Killian Jones of ever being anything other than a boss.

Killian: I have that commanding of a presence, do I?

Emma: Well, your ego does demand a lot of the space in the room.

Killian: Luckily for you, I’m happy to share the space so your ego can have a little room to breathe as well.

-/-

When she wakes up the next morning, it’s to the sound of movement in Belle’s bedroom, and she instinctively pulls her pillow over her face. Maybe it’s to cover her ears. Maybe it’s to smother herself over the sounds that she’s hearing in the next room. Who knows? She certainly doesn’t. And as sad as she is to be losing Belle as a roommate whenever she and Will find a place of their own, she is certainly not going to miss the muted sounds of Will’s dirty talk.

Seriously.

A woman can only take so much.

(Belle can apparently take a lot. She keeps asking for more.)

Instead of suffering in silent misery, she gets up out of bed and slips into a pair of sandals, figuring she can go check her mail just to get out of the apartment while Belle and Will finish. She and Killian have mostly been texting over the last few weeks, their conversations going deep into the night and throughout the day, but they’re also still sending letters. It’s a weird thing, she knows, and every internal instinct that she has is telling her to burn the letters and run, but something keeps her from setting it all aflame.

Someone.

She’s lost her mind. She really has. Killian is…he’s Killian. He’s a nice, handsome guy who makes her laugh and causes the bricks weighing down her shoulders to lift one by one until she’s not feeling quite so weighed down anymore. He’s her – they match up well, and she still doesn’t know how to feel about that. She knows how she feels about him, she knows that she likes him, that she enjoys talking to him in the limited way that they can, but then, in the back of her mind that demon comes out and whispers in her ear that he only likes her because they’re soulmates, that the knowledge is tainting their...relationship thing.  

That’s been one of her worst fears ever since she found it.

Because what if she falls in love and he doesn’t? What if they break up? What if it doesn’t work out? What does she do then? What happens if the one person she’s supposed to be with forever doesn’t want to be with her? Is she supposed to then live out the rest of her life as the poor girl who was too broken for even the universe to help out?

The ‘what ifs’ kill her.

Not really. She’s obviously still alive and breathing and all that fun jazz, but they still keep her up at night wondering of all the ways this could go wrong. And she doesn’t really know how any of this can go right. She likes sex. It’s a great time, it feels freaking fantastic, but she and Killian can’t possibly live out the rest of their lives wanting to constantly have sex whenever they have conversations. Logistically, that’s not possible. And, like, she knows it’s better now than the first time they met, than the second time too, but every time she spends an extended amount of time with him, especially when they talk, all she wants to do is grab him by the collar again and kiss him.

Just without the clothes and all.

Definitely without the clothes.

If she could put into words how she’s feeling, she’d write it in one of these damn letters and never mail it simply so that she can maybe understand.

Understanding is never going to happen.

There’s no one at the mailboxes or in the laundry room, so before she even gets her mail, she runs back upstairs and grabs her basket of clothes and detergent, humming to block out the noises still happening, and then walks back to the basement, putting her clothes in the washing machine before getting her mail, taking the one letter that resides there, and propping herself up on the wall of unused machines as she reads.

Emma,

I’m going to blame the rum for this letter. I really am. It’s around two in the morning, the moon high in the sky. We’ve just spent the day together, which was bloody wonderful by the way, and I can’t seem to stop thinking of things. Even as I write, it seems rather foolish to put my thoughts onto paper, but hopefully I won’t think to mail the letter. Or maybe I should. I honestly don’t know. This is all uncharted territory for me, and I seem to be diving in headfirst even if I am wearing a life jacket.

You see, I rather fancy you, Emma (No Middle Name) Swan, and it’s been a long time since I fancied a woman for more than one night or possibly a few weeks. The last time that I did, I had my heart broken so horribly that I retired from the Navy and moved across an ocean. Quite dramatic, don’t you think? I’ve been told that I’m a dramatic ass. That may have been Liam, but it also may have been you. I can’t recall at the moment.

Her name was Milah. She was beautiful, absolutely stunning, and I loved her with what felt like every beat of my heart until her heart was no longer mine to love. We met at a Naval Christmas ball. She was there with her brother, and I’ll never forget the black dress that she was wearing. We danced, and as they say, the rest is history. But as you know, I’m a bit of a history buff, so I like the details. I imagine you might too. I always knew that she wasn’t my soulmate. I didn’t have a sign, but she did, a simple tattoo on her hand. It was something we didn’t talk about in our three years together until one day we came across a man with a matching tattoo. She didn’t leave me, not at first, but as she got to know him, she fell for him. And who was I to keep two soulmates from having each other?

I think that’s what makes it worst of all. There was nothing wrong between us, but she had someone who she belonged with. It wasn’t me.

So you may think you’re the only person with an aversion to soulmates. You’re not. We all have our issues, our baggage, but I’ve found that since spilling that iced water down your dress (you should wear that dress more often by the way) the weight on my shoulders seems to have lessened. I’m…happier, I guess. I have such a wonderful life, but lately, I’ve had more reason to laugh. I think it’s because of a certain blonde with a penchant for mismatching her socks and junk food that no sane person would ever eat so regularly.

But who knows? This could all be the rum speaking.

Love,

Killian

She reads the letter three more times before she truly allows herself to let all of it sink in. It’s been three weeks since Labor Day, three weeks of the two of them going on and continuing to text and write letters – ones other than this one – and yet this one has shown up in her mailbox this morning. Either the US Postal Service really sucks or Killian didn’t send this the night he wrote it. He was likely drunk, at the very least tipsy, but he’s the most well-spoken (written) drunk man she’s ever seen.

And he bared his soul to her.

Because she makes him happy.

She does that.

Her gut feeling is to run, not really sure where she’d run to since this town and these people are her family and she’d never leave them, but she wants to run from her feelings, from the way that her insides unpleasantly twist and the way her heart squeezes. She knows that she feels the same way about Killian, that he makes her happy, but seeing it written out like that, seeing the words in Killian’s handwriting, that’s an entirely different story. And it doesn’t matter that he was drunk. Drunk words are sometimes the most truthful.

How in the world is she supposed to handle any of this?

Does she push it away? Pretend she didn’t get the letter? Does he even know that he sent it? Does he remember writing it? Should she write something back? What the hell would she write back? How would she even do that without having a little liquid courage too?

She can’t get drunk today, not with Ariel’s baby shower, but she really, really wants to.

That’s the thing too. She’s not even sure if she wants to get drunk for herself or because Killian’s letter brought back every feeling of abandonment she’s ever experienced. He was left, just like her yet again, and whether she likes it or not, they do understand each other.

(Of course she likes it, likes being understood.)

Her brain never quite turns off after that, reading the letter over and over again so many times that she might as well have it memorized, and she only knows that she moves because she changes her clothes over into the dryer, cleaning out the lint filter before twisting the knob and listening to it rattle to drown out all of her thoughts.

Goodbye shower. The laundry room is now the place to have an existential crisis.

But she does somehow manage to turn her thoughts off enough to know that she really does need to shower, so while her clothes are drying, she heads back upstairs and takes one, quickly washing her hair and her body, shaving her legs up to her knees since her dress for today only really shows half of her calves. She’s got three hours until Ariel’s baby shower, but she needs something to do, so she tugs on her dress, letting the blue and white striped print hug her body, and takes the time to apply her makeup, going through an actual routine instead of simply slapping some mascara onto her lashes.

Today really must be shaping up to be a day.

“Why are you already dressed?” Belle asks when she walks out of her bedroom, making her jump at the sight of Belle sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal in pajamas that she definitely wasn’t wearing an hour ago. “And why do you look like a deer in the headlights?”

“Oh, I, um…”

She tugs at the waist of her dress, pulling the tie a bit to tighten it as she thinks of a lie. As much as Belle knows about she and Killian, she doesn’t know the half of it. She purposely hasn’t told anyone. She can’t. If everyone thinks that she and Killian are flirting and maybe fucking, that’s fine with her. That’s nothing. But if anyone were to know that they were soulmates, it’d make everything far more complicated. There would be expectations and hopes, and if others have those, how could she not? And why can she not figure her brain out?

But Killian told her he wouldn’t tell anyone, so no one else is going to know.

“I’m doing laundry,” she finally says, knowing that the best lies are routed in truth. “I needed something to pass the time, so I went ahead and got ready. Well, with everything but the mess of my hair.”

Belle’s brows pinch together, but she doesn’t say anything else, scooping her spoon into her bowl before taking another bite. “So Will and I think we found an apartment yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, nodding her head. “It’s downtown, in that cute little complex across the street from Granny’s with the pink awning. I loved it. I mean, it’s bigger than this place, but it feels very homey. And there’s this built in bookshelf that I think I might love more than I love Will.”

“Oh good. That means I can keep the one here.” Belle rolls her eyes, and Emma walks forward to pull out her chair from the table before sitting down. “I’m so happy that you guys found a place. Like, obviously I’m going to miss you, but after the show I heard this morning, I think we might need a little space.”

Belle doesn’t even blush. All she does is reach into her bowl and pick up a dried strawberry, flicking it at her. “In all fairness, you never wake up that early on a Saturday.”

“I mean, how could I sleep through such a performance? Whatever you’re doing, you’re obviously doing very well.”

“You’re going to share all of this at the wedding, aren’t you?”

“Oh absolutely. And if you put a little tequila in me, I might even act out my own version of the events.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll get arrested for that.”

“I’m on good terms with cops. Where is your partner in crime, by the way?”

“I left Ariel’s present at his place, and he went ahead and went home to get it and get ready. You want to drive there together?”

“Absolutely.”

-/-

“Why do you look like you’re dying?” Ariel asks, wrapping her arm around Emma’s waist as she stands in Ariel’s kitchen looking at the spread of food out ahead of her, Max wandering around the table in an attempt to get scraps.  

“Because I am. What’s up with the creepy pigs in a blanket snacks that are made to look like babies? Am I supposed to eat those?”

“No, no.” Ariel rubs her hand up and down Emma’s back, and if she wasn’t already thinking about the fact that one of her best friends is having a baby while the other is getting married, she’d definitely be thinking of all of the motherly instincts that Ariel possesses and how she has likely never had those even if she thought that she did at one point. “That’s just a weird thing that Mary Margaret brought. I think she saw it on Pinterest and thought it would be cute, but it’s super creepy.”

“I mean, like, the creepiest. And the deviled eggs are the same way.”

“I’d stick to other foods if I were you.”

“Anything not baby related.”

“Ah, yes, but save room because I believe there’s a game later where we have to eat baby food.”

“Just kill me now.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

She rolls her eyes and leans her head over to Ariel’s shoulder, wrapping her arm around Ariel’s waist knowing that she’s taking up too much time from the guest of honor, but everyone else seems to be just fine milling around the kitchen and living room, most of Ariel’s regular furniture pushed aside to fit in table cloth covered tables with flower centerpieces sitting in the middle of all of them. It’s cute, and she has to admit that Mary Margaret definitely knows how to host a party, weird food choices aside. But it most definitely hasn’t been the worst hour of her life, especially since she knows every single person here. The only real issue was when Killian showed up because she thought that she was going to have to stop talking, which isn’t the easiest thing in the world when she’s with her friends. But he stayed away from her, making sure to speak quietly instead of being his usual commanding presence.

His words, not hers.

And mostly she was thinking about how refreshing it is to have both the father of the baby and male friends at a baby shower. She gets that the woman pretty much does all of the work (she’d like to speak to someone about that because it seems fundamentally unfair), but both Ariel and Eric are having a baby. It’s not simply Ariel’s to raise. It’s Eric’s too. And yet most fathers don’t show up to showers, don’t put in the effort, and no part of her has ever understood that. But maybe she’s simply hoping for something that’s better than most people’s reality. She doesn’t know. She never had parents, never got to see it first hand, but when she thought…no, it doesn’t matter. None of that was real, and there’s no use in thinking of it now even if thoughts of Neal have been niggling themselves into her mind since this morning.

She’s simply glad that Ariel has Eric, that they have each other and baby Fisher.

They have a family.

“I’m not eating pureed food unless it’s, like, pureed donuts or something.”

“They don’t make pure sugar for infants. That would be a fundamentally awful idea.”

“Eh, I don’t think so. The babies would probably be super happy.”

“You’re going to be the person who gives the baby sugar right before you send them back to me, aren’t you?”

“You bet your ass I am.”

“Alright,” Mary Margaret claps, making Emma turn her head to look in the living room, “who wants to play a game?”

The game isn’t eating pureed baby food, but somehow it is much, much worse. In reality, she knows that it’s really not that bad. It’s cute and funny, and if she wasn’t who she is, she’d be thankful that this is the game that Mary Margaret picked out because it’s damn fun.

Who’s That Baby?

She’s got a large board full of baby pictures, some of them adorable, others a little scary (not that she would ever say that out loud), and everyone is having to guess which baby is who. She hasn’t guessed a single one because, really, she’s selfish and can only think about the fact that her picture isn’t up there.

And she knows this because, well, Mary Margaret never asked her for one. While Mary Margaret can work wonders, it would be pretty much impossible for her to gather baby pictures of everyone without anyone knowing, so she must have asked everyone to send them in. But Emma was never asked, not at all. Sure, she could pass it off as an oversight, as a mistake, but she knows that none of that is true.

Mary Margaret didn’t ask for her baby picture because she knows that she doesn’t have any.

Today was not supposed to be emotional like this. Today was supposed to be…a sob suddenly catches in her throat, one she has to force to keep down, and when she feels hot tears forming in her eyes, threatening to escape, she quietly excuses herself from the room, knowing that she won’t be missed if she ducks into the bathroom for a moment. But the bathroom is locked, and since she sure as hell isn’t going to go into the nursery right now, she opens Ariel’s bedroom door and collapses against the wall, letting her legs bend until she’s sitting on hardwood and pulling her legs to her chest as she tries to breathe.

Breathing is seeming pretty difficult at the moment.

So is not crying.

Why does she want to cry?

That’s a dumb question. She knows why she wants to, why she’s about to, but it’s been almost eight years. Things like this shouldn’t hurt anymore, should they? She should be over it. She has to be over it.

She isn’t over it.

Another sob rumbles through her, this one escaping from the confines of her throat, and when she hears it, even she notices how ugly of a sob it is. It’s one of those where she can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but let her shoulders tremble and tears fall down her cheeks. The more she tells herself to calm down, the more uncontrollable she gets, the more she feels like she has no control over anything.

And then there’s a click, a turn of a knob, and she’s paralyzed in fear and embarrassment that is only exacerbated when she sees tight blue jeans over muscled legs and a simple white button down with small light blue stripes that she knows belongs to Killian.

Words don’t come out of her mouth even though she’s got an excuse on her tongue, a pathetic one about being allergic to the weird baby themed foods, and while she expects him to be snarky, he’s not. It’s so much worse because after she takes one look at the raised brow on his forehead, he slides down on the wall next to her, their thighs hitting each other as his arm wraps around her shoulder so tentatively that she nearly grabs onto it and pulls it over her shoulder herself.

She definitely has gone crazy.

But when she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move away from his embrace, he moves closer to her, his embrace a little tighter, and she can feel the heat of his body all over her as his hand rubs up and down her shoulder while she buries her face in his shirt near the slight exposure of his collarbone and the chain that resides there. He smells like the spice of his cologne, something warm and comforting, and even though it’s ridiculous, that’s what calms her, what makes her stop crying, just the smallest of whimpers and hiccups occasionally escaping her lips.

It should hit her that she’s having a meltdown in her best friend’s bedroom at said best friend’s baby shower in front of the man who she has…something with. But honestly, she feels puffy and exhausted, and she’s more concerned with the fact that her mascara is going to ruin Killian’s shirt and the way that his hand seems to be large enough to cover every inch of her as he comforts her.

And she focuses on the fact that he’s silent.

Well, he was.

“You know, darling, I think that you should cry in here a little longer so that Ariel and Eric can get some practice with someone crying in their bedroom at weird times.”

She huffs into his chest, rubbing her nose into his collarbone as his scent consumes her. “That’s bold of you to assume that there’s not already someone crying in here on a regular basis.”

There’s a thud against the wall as Killian’s head falls back with laughter, his chuckles deep but light, and she hiccups again in response, not really able to do much else.

“Now, Swan, I don’t think their sex life is that bad. They are having a baby.”

“Believe it or not, an orgasm is not required for conception.”

“No, it’s not.” He rubs his hand up and down her arm again, squeezing her bicep before continuing and moving along her back so that his nails trace patterns into her skin. She must be really upset and out of touch with herself right now because they’re talking, and she feels no shivers running down her spine or heat curling between her thighs. Maybe all it takes is for her to be having a meltdown. That makes it even worse. It’s probably just that they haven’t talked enough. “Would you like to talk about what’s got you hiding away in here, or do you want to talk about our friends’ sex life for a little longer?”

“Can I have the option of neither?”

“No.”

“That’s unfair.”

“So is life.”

Emma rolls her eyes knowing that Killian can’t see it, and maybe that is the reason why she rubs her eyes into his shirt some more. “Aren’t you going to get a boner if I talk too much?”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Ridiculous man.

(Sweet man.)

“I got your letter about Milah this morning.” Killian’s hand stills and his tongue clicks, but she keeps going, knowing that if she’s going to talk, it’s got to be while she can’t control her body and emotions and her tongue basically has free range. “I don’t know if you knew that you sent that, if you did it on purpose or got drunk again, if the mail was just late. I don’t know, but I read it while washing clothes and I hated it. I hated that you were screwed over, that you were screwed over by the whole soulmate thing. I mean, you were in love, and it ended because of what? Because she had a tattoo that matched another man? That’s such bullshit.”

“It’s okay, love.”

“It’s not. Nothing about any of this is okay. But, like, that’s not even why I’m having a meltdown. I mean, you definitely put me in a confused mood because you talked about your heartbreak and how I’m helping with that, and I – I can’t deal with any of that right now when all I can think about today is the fact that there are all of those baby pictures up on that board and not one of them is of me. Mary Margaret didn’t even ask because she knows that I don’t have one, that no one cared enough about me to take a picture and give it to me. And obviously I’m spiraling because then I get upset about a baby that never even existed. I’m not even one of those people who desperately wants a baby or something.”

“What are you talking about, Swan? What baby?”

The only reason she has the bravery to say this is because she’s not being forced to look at Killian, to look at the blue of his eyes, and if she can’t see his eyes, none of this is real, right? It’s like the texts. They’re separated enough that it’s not all overwhelming for her.

“When I was seventeen, I met a guy, Neal. You’ve probably heard of him from our friends. They’ve never met him, but I guess…he’s kind of a legend in the group. Anyways, we dated for three years, and when I was twenty, my period was late. So obviously I’m freaking out, probably having a panic attack, but then I take a test that says I’m pregnant. And weirdly, I feel calm. I feel calm because, you know, I’m going to have a family, have something I’ve never had.”

“Swan – ”

“I wasn’t pregnant,” she interrupts, not wanting him to stop her and ask any more questions. “It was a false positive, a cheap test. But I didn’t know that until after I told Neal, and he basically told me that I should have kept my legs shut before packing his bags and leaving to go live with his father in fucking Tallahassee. So I was left alone with no boyfriend, no kid, and a hell of a lot of bitter thoughts because I thought the man was my soulmate and I’d never have to feel alone again. I thought I was done being abandoned. The joke was on me.”

She’s not crying anymore, not even sniffling, but she feels cold and stiff and like she can’t really breathe through her nose. Here she is baring her soul to this man who has all of the power to break her, and yet she still told him, still let the words pass her lips are they were spoken into his skin. But he did tell her about himself too, tell him how he was broken too, and maybe that comforts her.

Maybe it also comforts her that she knows Killian’s got to be pitching a tent right about now. She’s been talking for ten minutes at the very least with her long pauses and ramblings, and there’s no way that he isn’t struggling. And yet he’s sat in almost silence listening to her and comforting her all the while he wants to fuck her.

What the hell even is their lives?

And that’s why she starts laughing, a chuckle bubbling up through her throat while her shoulders shake, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile, and she moves her head up to look at Killian even though she knows that she probably looks like a raccoon would after a night out at the bar.

That thought is unsurprisingly not the weirdest thought she’s ever had, not even the weirdest this week.

“There’s that smile,” Killian encourages, nodding his head and thumb at her chin while his own smile appears on his face, making eyes crinkle. She likes that a lot. It makes her stomach twist in unfamiliar and yet not entirely unpleasant ways. He complains about them only being there because he’s older than her, but she doesn’t mind in the slightest. “The sun would rise early to see your smile.”

“But then I would literally get less sleep or have to spend money on blackout curtains.”

“I’ll buy them for you.”

She chuckles again and shakes her head even as Killian’s thumb moves from her chin to beneath her eyes, wiping away the tears that remain and probably still continue to flow. She feels like jelly or a blob or something else shapeless, something else that can’t be contained. They haven’t been this close since…she wants to say since she kissed Killian on the fourth of July, but it’s most likely as close as they were on Labor Day.

Summer holidays seem to be a pattern for them.

But it’s nearing autumn now, and her breath hitches as she looks at the scar on his cheek, the freckles near his nose, the long, dark lashes contrasting against blue eyes. He’s such an attractive man, almost so much that it would take her breath away if it wasn’t already gone. She’s not going to kiss him now. She knows that he’s not going to kiss her. But their breaths are intermingling, and she can still feel the warm presence of his hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry that you were hurt like that,” he whispers, her gaze flicking up from his lips to his eyes. “I’m sorry that you were hurt by Neal and Walsh and your parents and every other person who doesn’t deserve you and your funny sense of humor and kind heart.”

“It’s fine. It was all a long time ago.”

“Wounds made when we’re young tend to linger, and it very obviously isn’t fine. You’re having a bit of a time hidden away in our friends’ bedroom, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to be hurt. I wrote you a drunk letter about my ex because I was hurt. I still get angry over my dad leaving and my mom dying. The universe has fucked me over in a lot of ways, but I think it did something right in letting me meet you.”

Oh well damn. That’s just not fair.

“No one should be as good with words as you are. Like, even your drunk letters were basically professional novels.”

He shrugs at the same time that he reaches forward to tuck her hair behind her ear, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down her spine. “I was a wonderful English and literature student if I do say so myself. And for someone who reads as many books as you do, I’m surprised you’re not always speaking in limericks.”

“Yeah, well, besides the occasional historical romance, I read a lot of books about murder and mystery. They’re not exactly teaching me to speak like Shakespeare.”

“All I got out of that was that you know how to murder me and get away with it.”

Emma chuckles, shaking her head as she gently pats his chest, their faces still impossibly close. “I’ve told you before, I’m not someone you really want to mess with.”

His brows raise in the way that they always do, the lines on his forehead appearing. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve told you how I quite fancy with you even when you’re yelling at me, haven’t I?”

“You fancy my ass,” she deflects.

“I am a fan of every part of you,” Killian sighs, rubbing his hand over her back in the way that he does where his hand nearly covers all of her, his forearm pulling her closer. “If that includes your ass, so be it. Though, I always considered myself a breast man. You seem to have converted me to both.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or completely and totally disgusted.”

“You can compliment my ass if it makes you feel better.”

Rolling her eyes, she pulls back from him, putting more space between as she moves back to sit a little closer to the bed, her limbs still a little shaky. “I’m not falling for that.”

“Damn, I really could have used the ego boost.” Killian stands from the ground, and she’s not at all distracted by the way his thigh muscles look under his jeans. But maybe she kind of is as she doesn’t notice the way he holds his left hand out, the one covered in scars from the accident, until he’s looking down at her expectantly. She takes his hand, the warmth and roughness overwhelming her, and he helps her stand so that her legs are a little more stable. “Do you think you’re ready to go back to the party? I’m sure they’ve moved onto A opening up breast pumps and someone doing something entirely inappropriate with them. How could we miss that?”

“I mean, the only thing that could top that would be if there were more weird, baby-shaped food.”

“Isn’t that bloody disturbed?” Killian laughs, his face lighting up with joy in that way that makes her stomach twist yet again. Her intestines must really hate her. “I mean, why would I eat that?”

“Because it tastes good.”

“You should not say things like that. I can’t look at you the same way hearing those words come out of your mouth.”

“Hey now.” She holds her hands up before reaching back and tucking the hair that keeps falling in her face behind her ears. “At least there’s not one of those cakes with the baby’s head coming out of a frosting vagina.”

“Swan,” he groans, leaning forward and resting his head against her shoulder while his own shoulders heave with muted laughter, “please don’t talk about that. I’m rather fond of that particular area, and I’d rather not imagine things coming out of it.”

“That sounds kind of painful for all of your sexual partners if you can’t pull out.”

“Well, the baby does have to be made somehow.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.”

“You can’t say that about everything that I say.”

“I can if you keep getting that ridiculous.”

Killian laughs once more before leaning back off of her and wrapping an arm around Emma’s shoulder, the weight heavy and comfortable while he opens the bedroom door with his free hand. “Come on, love. Let’s go see if there’s a cake depicting Ariel giving birth. If not, I hear Mr. French takes requests.”

Ridiculous.

Such a ridiculous man who is making her laugh and feel comfortable with his arm around her shoulder after she just spilled her guts to him about some of the darkest parts of her life. She should feel uncomfortable, awkward, ready to run. She’s been waiting for all of those things since she read his letter. They’re not coming. They could later, but for now, all she can do is laugh at Killian telling her about Liam nearly passed out when Elsa gave birth.

In all of this, all that has happened, all that she has revealed, only one cohesive thought truly remains.

She and Killian are inevitable, always have been, always will be, and she’s fallen into the trap of liking him much more than she ever intended to.

Maybe even loving him.

That’s the craziest thought of them all.

But she has to wonder about the fact that she didn’t feel aroused once in that conversation when she always thought that was the thread that was holding the two of them together.