#i put them in overnight in very lightly dampened hair and get all day waves and curls

[leaving-fragments]

i must tell you. about a life-changing tool: hair rollers

[wistfulcynic]

where none intrudes

SUMMARY: Emma has been in love with Killian for a long time, but it takes a pandemic and eighteen hours of panic when he’s not answering his phone for her to realise it. Now they’re quarantined together and sharing a bed and she needs him to know how she feels. If only she could find a way to tell him. 

Killian has been in love with Emma for as long as he’s known her, but he knows the quickest way to send her running would be to tell her how he feels. Now he’s waking up every morning with her in his arms and all he wants is for this to be his life forever. If only he could find a way to tell her. 

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SO here it is, the AND THEY WERE QUARANTINED fic. I realise this is a sensitive subject for some people, so please do be forewarned that there is some discussion of the coronavirus here, though it is primarily a soft and fluffy idiots-in-love story with much emoting and sharing of beds and very little angst. If you choose to read it I hope it brightens your day and helps get you thorough these challenging times. 

Copious love to @ohmightydevviepuu for stopping me from banging my head against the wall ❤️❤️❤️

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Rating: a soft M Words: 4.7k

On AO3

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where none intrudes: 

Killian pulled up in front of the tall brick building, slipping neatly into a parking spot he could barely believe he was lucky enough to find. Normally he had to park several blocks away from Emma’s place—his old place—and drag his loaded satchel or his groceries or now his suitcase through the streets of the neighbourhood trying not to feel self-conscious as curtains twitched in the windows as he passed. 

He whistled a little tune as he took his suitcase out of the trunk, his heart racing in anticipation of seeing Emma again. It had been far too long. Just over a year ago he’d moved to Chicago for a job opportunity far too good to turn down, and since then he’d only managed to see her twice. The last time was Christmas, when they’d both been so busy with the rest of their friends and their family obligations that they’d barely had an hour together to catch up. 

Killian wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than it had been before, when they’d lived across the hall and had seen each other every day, spending most evenings at one or the other of their apartments cooking together and watching TV. As much as he missed just hanging out with Emma—as much as he missed her—he didn’t miss the ache of longing that had pretty much permanently taken up residence just below his heart. It was less acute in Chicago, or maybe it was just different—an ache born more of missing than of wishing—wishing for things he knew could never be his. 

He dragged his suitcase up the steps to her door and rang the bell. It swung open immediately and he barely had time to catch a glimpse of Emma’s pale face before she was in his arms, her own wrapping tightly around his neck as she buried her face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my God, Killian,” she whispered. “I was so worried.” 

“What?” His arms had come around her automatically and now his hand stroked her back soothingly as she began to tremble. “What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong?” she snapped, pulling away and punching him in the arm. “What’s wrong? Haven’t you been watching the news? Why aren’t you answering your damn phone?” 

“I’ve been driving for the past eighteen hours!” he protested, rubbing his arm. “You know I always turn my phone off in the car. Safety—” 

“Don’t you dare say ‘safety first,’” she hissed. “Not when I’ve spent the past eighteen hours wondering if you were dead!” 

“Why would you wonder that?” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, I—” 

“Look, would you come inside?” She grabbed his arm—the one she’d punched—and pulled him into the apartment. He barely had time to snag his suitcase and haul it in behind him before she’d slammed the door and locked it. 

“Go wash your hands,” she said. “I’ll be in the living room. Leave that!” She scowled as he reached for the suitcase handle again. “We’ll disinfect it later.” 

“Disinfect—” 

“Hands, Killian. Living room.” She turned on her heel and stalked away. 

Frowning in confusion, he retreated to the small bathroom off her kitchen and washed his hands thoroughly. This must have something to do with that virus, he thought. He may not always pay as much attention to current events as Emma thought he should, preferring to give his attention to his books and his research, but he did work in a university library and though his role wasn’t normally student-facing he was aware of the recent hand-washing and social-distancing edicts designed to protect them all from its spread. Still, Emma’s reaction seemed extreme. 

When he entered the living room she was there, pacing back and forth with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and a frown still creasing her forehead. 

“What is all this, love?” he asked, resisting the urge to pull her close again and soothe her obvious upset. “What’s going on?” 

“It’s the coronavirus,” she said. “You are aware of that, right?” 

He ignored her sarcasm. “Aye, of course I am.” 

“Well, it’s been officially declared a pandemic. The number of cases in town has more than doubled overnight. Businesses are shutting down and we’re all being told to self-isolate. No going outside except to get food, and even then we have to stay six feet away from each other. People are hoarding toilet paper and you weren’t answering your damned phone and I thought…” Her voice broke and Killian strode across the room and wrapped his arms around her. It was a sign of how deeply upset she was that she didn’t hold herself stiffly as she often did in hugs but melted against him, fisting her hands in his sweater and pressing her face against his neck. 

“I’m fine, love,” he said softly. “I was driving, that’s all. I had my phone turned off and I wasn’t listening to the radio. I’m so sorry I made you worry.” 

“It’s okay.” Emma sniffed and his heart broke a little as he felt tears leak from her eyes and dampen his collar. He hugged her tighter. “I’m just glad you’re safe,” she murmured. “And here.” She swallowed audibly and snuggled against him. 

“Aye, love,” he agreed. “Me too. And we have a whole week to spend together to catch up.” 

“Um, yeah. About that.” She pulled back from his embrace and reluctantly he let her go. She crossed her arms again and shot him a wary look. “The thing is, we’re basically quarantined now. No going outside. For um, the foreseeable future, they say. You might—have to stay a bit longer.” 

He frowned. “I can’t stay longer, I’ll have to get back to work.” 

“Your university’s closed. All the schools and universities are closed. You can maybe work from home, but you’d have to talk to your boss about it.” 

He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s really something I can do. I work with rare books and they can’t leave the library. Maybe I should call Belle now—” 

“Do it on Monday,” said Emma. “You’ve just driven a thousand miles, you must be exhausted.” 

“I am, actually. But love, I don’t want to impose, I can get a hotel.” 

“Hotels are closing too. You’ll stay here.”  

“Are you sure? You really wouldn’t mind having me here, possibly for weeks?” 

Emma smiled, the soft, warm smile he loved so much. “No, of course not. Stay as long as you need.” 

—

It was remarkable how quickly they fell into a routine—a quarantine routine, he said, nudging Emma with his elbow as she rolled her eyes—though actually, Killian thought, it wasn’t really that remarkable at all. They had always meshed so well together, fitting so easily and so naturally into each other’s lives. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed that in Chicago until he had it again, even more of it now than when they were neighbours. Back then they’d seen each other every day but always within the boundaries laid out by their friendship. Now, though… now he saw Emma all the time, in ways he never dared imagine he would. Fresh from the shower with her skin pink and dewy and her hair wrapped in a towel leaving her long neck bare, or blinking sleepy eyes and grunting in response to his cheerful greeting when he poured her a cup of coffee every morning. And then a week into his stay both the best and absolute worst way of them all—curled up in bed with him, sound asleep and snoring softly with her head on his chest. 

Naturally he had insisted on taking the sofa. That had been their plan anyway for the week of his visit, and though Emma reminded him multiple times that the sofa was so old the upholstery in the armrests had worn down thin and flat and there was that one broken spring that always seemed to know just where to poke him, he’d waved away her concerns, reminding her that it was only a week and he’d manage. He’d slept in far less congenial circumstances during his navy years. 

And manage he did. The spring gouged holes in him and the armrests put a crick in his neck no matter how many pillows he wedged beneath it, but though he never uttered a word of complaint after a week of watching him wince as he rubbed at the ache in his neck each morning Emma confronted him, hands on her hips and wearing her most no-nonsense scowl. 

“You’re sleeping in the bed tonight,” she said. “No arguments.” 

“Love, I—” 

“I said no arguments, Killian!” 

“You can’t expect me not to argue when you try to give me your bed!” he protested. “That sofa is considerably less than ideal and I won’t allow you to—” 

“Oh, I’ll be sleeping in the bed too,” said Emma lightly, as though she hadn’t just dropped a metaphorical anvil on his head. “We don’t know how long you’re going to have to stay here and if you sleep on that sofa much longer it’s going to permanently disable you. We can share the bed.” 

“But—” Killian gaped at her. “I—I mean—are you sure?” 

She shrugged. “It’s not like we’ve never fallen asleep together before,” she pointed out. “It’ll be fine.” 

It was true. Many nights they had dozed off on her uncomfortable sofa while watching a movie, curling around each other to avoid the poky spring and resting their heads together in lieu of pillows. Each morning after Killian would wake slowly, taking as long as he dared to enjoy the soft weight of her against him and to indulge in a reckless fantasy or two, letting himself imagine, just for a moment, that things were different and he could wake her with a kiss. He would imagine kissing her, softly at first and then gradually deeper until she was desperate and trembling beneath him and then—and then he would remind himself firmly that she was his closest friend and the best and surest way to fuck that up would be to act on his feelings for her. Then he would pick her up and carry her to her bed, and go home. 

Waking with her on the sofa like that had been difficult enough, but as he discovered the following morning, waking in her bed with her curled tightly against his side, her hand on the bare skin of his stomach beneath the t-shirt he didn’t normally wear was considerably worse. Unlike the mornings they’d woken on the couch they were both stretched out comfortably and it would be easy… so easy… far too easy to roll her beneath him and kiss her awake just as he had dreamed of doing for so long. It would be so easy and the idea of it was so tempting that he couldn’t even allow himself the indulgence of fantasy. Instead he held his breath as he eased Emma gently back on her pillow and slipped from the bed with a sigh of relief. Her bed may be more comfortable than her sofa but it was also seriously dangerous and Killian knew that he would need to be on his guard. 

Just keep it together for a few more weeks, he told himself firmly as he put the coffee on and scrolled absently through the news on his phone while it brewed. All you have to do is not tell her you love her, and you’ve been doing that successfully for five years now. 

Of course, he’d never been completely engulfed by temptation before, never offered this tantalising glimpse of what his life could be if they were together. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it, the longing lodged beneath his heart fiercer then ever. This was what he wanted of life, him and Emma and all those tiny intimacies you only come to know when sharing space with someone. He wanted his toothbrush in the same cup as hers, their clothes all jumbled together in the dryer. He wanted mundane conversations about whether they needed milk and what kind of bread they should buy. He wanted that so badly, had wanted it for as long as he’d known her and always managed to keep it contained, but now that he’d had a taste of paradise he had no idea how he could ever give it up.

With a groan he let his head fall against the cabinet above the coffeemaker and banged it softly. How was he ever going to go back to Chicago and resume his life there, now that he knew what it felt like to spend the night in Emma’s bed and wake with her in his arms? How could he leave the woman he loved a second time?

—

Once the bedroom door had closed behind Killian Emma curled up on her side, hugging her pillow tightly and wondering what the fuck she thought she was doing. They were friends, she reminded herself. He was her best friend, the only friend she’d ever had that she felt completely comfortable with, yet here she was doing her best to fuck that up by trying to sleep with him. Even wanting to sleep with him already had her so much on edge that she didn’t know how much more of it she could take. 

It wasn’t like she’d never noticed before how ridiculously handsome he was, or taken advantage of the occasionally blurry boundaries of their friendship to snuggle up to him as they watched TV and fall asleep secure in his arms with her head on his shoulder. It was that she’d always been able to compartmentalise the attraction she felt for him, to lock it away where it couldn’t endanger their relationship. 

The people Emma loved always left her. If she never loved Killian, she told herself, then he would never leave. They would always be friends, slightly too-close friends maybe but still just friends and that meant she could keep him, have him in her life forever. 

Too bad it was too fucking late for that now. 

She had not been prepared, not anywhere near prepared for the sheer chest-gripping, knuckle-whitening terror she’d felt the week before as his phone had again and again and again gone straight to voicemail and she’d begun to imagine him not just struck down by the virus but in all kinds of dire scenarios. 

If Killian died, she’d realised in a single blinding flash, it would break her. She very literally did not know how to live without him. Even this past year when he’d been in Chicago she’d known he was always on the other end of the phone and that no matter when she called or what he was doing he would drop everything to talk to her. And if she didn’t have that—didn’t have him—she would be completely, utterly lost. 

She couldn't deny her feelings any longer, and so now here she was with that ever-present simmer of attraction brought to a full rolling boil by the stupid, inconvenient, seriously annoying fact that she was in love with him. She was in love with him and all she could think about was touching him, her hands on his skin and in his hair, wrapping herself around him and never letting go. This past week she’d woken in a cold sweat every night, heart pounding and tense with anxiety, and each night she had snuck silently into the living room to make sure Killian was still there, still breathing, letting the sight of him soothe her frantic heart as she trailed her fingers gently over his face, the familiar beloved features softened by sleep. 

She couldn’t let him stay on the sofa, not just because it was uncomfortable but because she needed him close enough to touch. Close enough that she could slip into his arms as he slept, snuggling into them and enjoying the way they tightened around her, hoping that maybe if he woke and found her there something might happen. 

Exactly what she didn’t know. Something. Anything to ease this unbearable tension, this endless itch beneath her skin. 

With a sigh she dragged herself from the bed and slipped a cosy sweater on over her pajamas, then trudged to the kitchen. Killian was there of course, already pouring her a coffee. Her heart skipped several beats then soared when he looked up with that bright smile he gave her every morning. 

“Morning, love,” he said. “How’d you sleep? I didn’t disturb you, I hope?” 

“Huh uh,” she muttered, accepting the mug he offered her and taking a generous, delicious gulp. Killian’s coffee was always just right. Not too hot or too strong and the ideal ratio of creamer and sugar. It was perfect. He was perfect and she was so, so fucked. 

“Eloquent as always,” he teased, though a small frown creased his forehead. “Are you sure? I can always go back to the couch if I bother you—” 

“No,” she said firmly. She wanted him in her bed, even if it was just to sleep. She needed to be able to reach out and feel him there beside her, needed to hear the gentle rhythm of his breathing and know he was here and he was safe. “It’s fine. I slept really well, actually. Um, did you?” 

“Aye, I did.” 

They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment. 

“So,” said Killian with a wry smirk. “What shall we do today?” 

Emma emptied her cup and smirked back at him, finally feeling caffeinated enough to form coherent sentences. “Well,” she said. “It’s hard to choose given our wide range of options, but I think we should start with a movie. Then maybe we could have a few episodes of a TV show, and after that you’ll probably want to read something—” 

“I can’t stare at a screen all day, love.” 

“—and at some point we’re going to need to have something to eat and I’m pretty sure we’ll dance around the kitchen and sing along to terrible music as we cook it, and then, I don’t know, maybe another movie. Or three.” 

“Quarantine, eh?” grinned Killian. “What a life.” 

Later, as they sat snuggled together beneath a blanket, cosy and contented, those words rang through Emma’s mind. What a life. 

—

They did of course occasionally have to pause in their movie watching and bad song singing to do some actual work. Killian had journal articles to write and a project to digitise the special collections library he ran, and Emma had case files to read and emails to answer, and traces she could run in preparation for hunting down her skips after the lockdown was finally over. Every few days one or the other of them would venture out to buy groceries from the newly replenished supermarket shelves, carefully maintaining the required social distance and washing their hands thoroughly when they returned. Each night they cooked together—a healthy meal at Killian’s insistence, which Emma pretended to hate but secretly loved—and watched one final thing before heading to bed. 

Every night Emma waited until he was asleep before easing across the bed and snuggling into him, relaxing against his chest when she felt his arm curl tightly around her waist. And every morning she woke up back on her own side of the bed, to the sounds of Killian whistling cheerfully in the kitchen as he made coffee. He never said a word about waking up with her wrapped around him, and neither did she. But as the days went by she felt more and more strung out, antsy and aching and growing increasingly desperate. 

So caught up was she in her own struggle that it took far longer than it should have for her to notice that Killian too was growing tense and restless, with lines of strain around his eyes and his smile gone brittle at the edges. They still cuddled on the sofa but now he seemed to brace himself before opening his arms to her, holding very still as she curled against him, his breathing carefully even. When it was time for bed he changed into his pajamas in the bathroom, never emerging until she was safely tucked beneath the blankets and with a strange, unreadable expression on his face as he slid in beside her and wished her good night. And each night she waited longer for him to fall asleep.

Emma knew she should probably stop what she was doing, should stay firmly on her side of the bed and quit tormenting herself and possibly Killian as well, but as much as she tried she couldn’t do it. She craved that nightly contact, needed it, more than she could remember needing anything in her life before, and she looked forward to it with equal amounts of eagerness and dread. 

Still, they couldn’t go on like this forever. Something needed to break, to change, before she lost her mind completely and simply threw herself at him. Emma knew how she wanted things to change. She wanted this life, not the quarantine specifically but this intimacy with Killian, sharing everything with him from food and clothes to her bed and her body. She wanted it all but expressing feelings had never been her strength, and cuddling him each night was the only way she knew of to tell him how she felt.  

—

One sunny Wednesday morning just over three weeks into the quarantine Killian came awake slowly, as was his new custom. All his life he’d been an early riser, bright and alert the minute he opened his eyes, but since opening them now meant facing the reality of untangling himself from Emma and leaving her bed he tried to keep them closed for as long as he could manage. 

Waking up was the best and worst part of his day. Best because it was wonderful, to start the day with her soft warmth pressed against him and the sweet scent of her hair in his nose, the way her hand always found his bare skin and made him ache. Worst because he knew even before he opened his eyes that none of it was truly his and all too soon it would end. 

That morning they were more entwined than ever, and as consciousness, unwelcome as it was, began to break he became aware that his leg was between hers, wedged so tightly she was basically riding his thigh. His hand was splayed on the small of her back, spread across the warm skin beneath her tank top while hers rested on his chest, her head tucked into the curve where his shoulder met his neck. 

Her skin was so soft, like silk beneath his fingers, and Killian tried to move his hand away, he truly did, but it did not obey. Instead it stroked up her back and then down again, slipping under her pajama shorts to curl around her ass and pull her hips more tightly against his. 

Bad idea, Jones, his brain screamed at him, pointing out that she could hardly fail to notice his erection at that angle, but his body still refused to listen, and when Emma moaned deep in her throat and clenched her thighs around his leg he gave up thinking altogether. 

He rolled her onto her back, pressing his leg harder against her core and glorying in her gasping groan and the helpless way her hips bucked up as her eyes fluttered open. For a breathless moment their gazes met and held and Killian waited for her to realise what was happening, to push him away. Instead her hand trailed up his chest to curl around the back of his neck and pull him down into a kiss that fulfilled every dream he’d ever had of her and more. 

Her mouth opened beneath his and he groaned, losing himself in her taste and the softness of her tongue against his and the dizzying pleasure of finally kissing her. He wanted to kiss her forever but he also wanted her naked, and when the second desire was impeded by the first he actually snarled in frustration.

Emma shoved him back and yanked his shirt off followed by her own, and at the sight of her bare breasts his breath stuck in his throat and he stared for a moment, still struggling to believe that this was really happening, still unsure it wasn’t all another dream. Then she was pulling him back down again, kissing him hard and frantic as they fought their way free of the rest of their clothing. And then—oh God, then— he was nestling between her legs, sinking deep into her heat and softness and wondering if it was possible to die from sheer bliss. 

She gave another little moaning gasp as he began to move, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, and locked her legs around his waist, her fingernails digging into his skin as she clutched at him and rocked up to meet his thrusts. They fit together in this as in all things, so naturally it seemed inevitable, and Killian knew as he felt her begin to flutter around him, her climax sparking his own, deeper and more intense than ever before, that their friendship was over. There was no way he could go back to it after this, no way he could live with something so tame when this fire and beauty could exist between them. 

He collapsed onto his side and pulled her against him, and when she hummed in pleasure as she snuggled close his feelings overcame him. 

“I love you,” he murmured, wincing internally even as his mouth formed the words. He waited a beat and when she didn’t reply tried to recover. “I’m sorry, I—” 

“I love you too.” 

“—shouldn’t have said—wait, what?” He pulled back, just far enough to gape at her. 

She flushed and bit her lip, not meeting his eyes. “I said I love you too.” 

“You… do?” 

“Yeah.” She nodded, still not looking at him. “I think I have for a while, but I didn’t really know that’s what it was until that day when I couldn’t get ahold of you and I just kept thinking terrible things, like what if you were sick or hurt or—or dying and I couldn’t get to you and I never saw you again—” She blinked rapidly and drew a shaky breath. “And I realised—I mean, I always knew it but it really struck home how you’re the most important person in my life and I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don't ever want to find out.” 

“Emma.” He tightened his arms around her, tucking her head against his shoulder. “I’ve loved you for so long... I never imagined you might feel the same.” 

“I did. I just couldn’t admit it. I always lose the people I love—” 

“You won't lose me.” 

“You can’t know that, Killian.” 

“No, I suppose I can’t. But I’m a survivor, as you know, love, and I will never, ever leave you. Not as long as you want me to stay.” 

“I want you to stay. I want this life. Not the quarantine—” 

“The quarantine routine.” 

“—oh my God you’re so annoying,” she sighed, and he could almost feel her eyes roll. “Not the quarantine routine, if you insist, but just—this. Us, together like we’ve been these past few weeks.” 

“I want that too. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted.” 

“What about your job, though? It’s your dream.” 

“Well, how would you feel about moving to Chicago? It doesn’t have to be forever, but for a few years maybe?” 

A small smile curved her lips. “I could consider it. People jump bail in Chicago, right?” 

“I’m certain they do.” 

“Well, then.” She snuggled closer, her fingers tracing patterns through the hair on his chest. “It’s a plan. Just as soon as they let us out again.” 

“No rush, then,” he murmured, nuzzling her cheek. “Now that we’ve discovered these more enjoyable activities I find I’m not all that eager for the quarantine to end.” 

“Me neither. And we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” 

“Very true." He stroked his hand down her body, fingers teasing at the tops of her thighs. "What do you say we get started on that?”

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title taken from this lovely poem:  “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,  There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more” ― Lord Byron

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