Like Whiskey (This Double Life) - Part A
Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian Jones | Captain Hook
Genre: AU
Word Count: 8,800
Summary: AU - Hook came along with the curse and has been living in Storybrooke all this time.
Note: This is the first half of Whiskey 3 (We'll call it Part A); Part B is still in the works. Deal with it. ♥
---
Emma shifted uncomfortably in the little dinghy. Small puddles of bay water had pooled in the bottom. She watched the water trickle back and forth bellow the treads of her hastily-donned rain boots, the boat rocking gently on the tide, and did not look at Killian.
He was looking at her, though; she could feel it. He rowed steadily, his movements smooth and practiced - incongruous with the man Ruby had told her owned a boat but never sailed it; who spent more time in the woods than town, and smelled of rich, damp earth whenever she was close to him.
Emma pulled her sweater tighter around her. It was cold, only just past dawn, but she thought it might help muffle the staccato thrum of her heart from being heard. Ever since she’d felt his seizing beneath her palm, her own heart refused to calm; her entire chest ached from its fervor.
A gull soared lazily overhead, off-white wings catching the thermals. Its caw drew both their gazes, and they were caught looking at one another.
“Emma, when you see...”
“When I see what?” She tightened the cross of her arms; uncomfortable. But though her suspicion remained fixed on him, against her will to look away, Killian chose not to answer.
The boat creaked, Killian rowed, and Emma bit her tongue.
Then, when it became almost impossible to hold her silence any longer, the boat came to a sudden and ungainly stop. Emma lurched forward and Killian caught her by the arms. It was almost as though they’d reached the end of their tether, some anchor holding them back-but the dinghy was still bobbing, still moving of its own free will. Yet each forward swell caused another jerk to halt the boat. It was like they’d hit something, but when Emma looked around, there was nothing but open water and clear grey sky.
“What the hell?”
Killian was still holding her steady, but then his hand slid down to her wrist and she turned her widening eyes to him. With great patience, he guided her arm out over the water. Her fingertips grazed something solid.
But there was nothing.
“What. The hell,” she repeated.
“It’s my proof, lass,” Killian whispered, an eagerness in his voice as she reached farther on her own, her palm smoothing against an invisible something.
“It’s my ship.”
And the moment he said it, Emma could see it. The air became wood, bowed and smooth, against her hand. Her mouth dropped open.
“Come aboard, Whiskey.”
He grabbed hold of the ship’s side ladder and started to climb. Emma had no choice; she could either sit in the rowboat blindly pretending a pirate ship hadn’t just materialized in the bay, or-she could start believing.
She climbed up after him.
“How?” The deck creaked under her boots; real and whole. “How did you bring this with you?”
Killian smirked, pride heavy in his tone as he explained: “Regina may say she chose what the curse took and what it left behind - but there are always loopholes in a curse. Look at Gold’s shop!-all those trinkets? You think Regina would have just let him bring all that to Storybrooke?”
“Well, no, but-“ she gestured all around her. “This is a boat!”
“Ship, darling,” he corrected. “And there’s no finer vessel in any of the realms. I wasn’t about to leave her behind.”
The Roger keened under his touch, his callused palm stroking her rails gone smooth from salt-strewn wind. A pirate was only as good as the ship that bore him, and she was true and loyal, down to the last nail.
“What do you think?”
“It’s, uh, it’s a bit much to take in.”
“Imagine being in my head right now, love,” he countered. “Disorienting is the least of it.”
Emma’s hand ghosted over the mast, just shy of touching. She traced the ship with her eyes instead, taking in the bound sails, the rigging hitched and ready to be unslung at a moment’s notice. Her eyes caught on the deck, the scorch mark of a cannon’s backfire still dark against the wood despite many scrubbings and countless storms. His ability to read her so surely, so effortlessly, could not penetrate the stone resolve of her face; she was entirely closed off to him. Even her movements were slow and calculated, no trace of his Emma - bold and impulsive - slipping through.
He felt longing and anger in equal measure - aching for the return of a loss he couldn’t name but was certain her bright eyes held; a slow resentment kindling at the absence of awe in the ship, his pride and joy so often worshiped by lesser women. But in his indecision he gave voice to neither. It was Emma who finally broke the silence.
“Who are you now?” She’d put the mast between them; a physical barrier that he felt as well as saw.
“I’m both.”
“But you’re not, are you?” she insisted, voice tight. “One is a ridiculous cartoon villain from my childhood, and the other is the man I-“
She closed her eyes, and the wind slipped through her hair as she breathed out. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered.
“Emma.”
Her eyes snapped open. “There are four people on this ship right now, Killian.”
Killian hesitated-torn between desires. “How so?”
She licked her lips. The cool breeze had brought color to her cheeks, but her face was pale and hardset. He tried to recall how she’d looked the night they’d met, but the memory was lost in the jumble.
“A bartender. A sheriff.” Emma lifted her chin, a small gesture of stubbornness; of defiance-and said at last: “And a pirate.”
“And the fourth?” Killian pressed.
“Doesn’t matter,” she answered, and her face cracked into a smile. But it wasn’t happy. “I don’t think she’ll exist much longer.”
Everything about this was wrong, going sour in the air between them. Emma was stubborn and brash and said precisely what was on her mind. It was part of what had drawn him to her in the first place. And yet now she said nothing?
“You’re more a pirate than anyone, lass-what is it you can’t say?”
“I thought I was-“ she kept tripping over the same words; her face flushing with her frustration-and in some small corner of his mind Killian thought that if he could only hear those words...that it would all be okay, then nothing else would matter - but Emma started again.
“The me I was becoming with you-” She was trying to explain, but it kept coming out wrong-and, frustration mounting, she slammed the heel of her fist into the mast. She’d spent twenty-eight years avoiding conversations like this, so that now, when it might really matter, she could only fall back on her anger.
She felt the jolt all the way up her arm, the jarring pain-but it was okay. It helped. It was the only thing she could control.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Killian’s stomach clenched.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Emma exclaimed; unable, at last, to keep emotion at bay. “How much of Killian Jones is really you, how much was the curse?”
In disbelief he reached for her automatically - halting with his arm half-raised between them. He tried to smile, but it didn’t feel like a joke. “You don’t believe that,” he insisted.
Emma, jaw tightening, lifted her chin.
It was too much. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, and though her first instinct was to fight, he held her fast against the mast. “Hear this,” he demanded, and shook her until she held his gaze-still so stubborn, still holding so much in check with that clenched jaw. “I am still me. Magic cannot make a man anything other than what he is. Everything that’s happened…with you, between us - that was me, Emma.”
“You?” she echoed, eyes narrowed.
“Entirely.”
Her fingers skated the stubble of his jaw, and Killian let go of his breath. It was the first time she’d touched him since that morning.
She believed him-she did. But it wasn’t that simple anymore, and she didn’t know the words to make him understand. He was more now - doubled up with life and all the thoughts and desires those lives contained - and she? She’d just become so much less.
“Okay,” she said-like it could possibly be enough.
His relief slipped under her skin, and even as she let herself follow his smile, it settled against her bones, a subtly weighing down she tried hard to ignore.
“What now?”
Killian covered her hand with his own, stilling her absent tracing. His breath edged the side of wrist when he spoke. “I may be a pirate, but even pirates have a code-I won’t lie to you, love...”
Emma pulled her hand back.
Killian faltered, but pressed on. “There are things I must do-“
“Things?” she interrupted, looking skeptical.
“A vow,” he amended, though it did little to soothe the lines of her face. He brought his hand to her cheek, counting it as a small mercy when she did not shy away.
“But after...?” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek bone. “When the curse is broken.”
“The curse,” she echoed with a laugh; but it was forced levity-strained, almost desperate.
“Well?”
“What?” she huffed.
Killian started to grin, the jut of his other wrist pressing soft and entreating to her waist. “Have you ever sailed on a pirate ship?”
She stared at him, with everything that had happened - was happening - still there around them-and it was, without a doubt, the craziest morning of her life; stranger even than her estranged kid showing up at her door and dragging her back to Middle-of-Nowhere Maine.
And all she could think to say was: “No?”
Killian bent his head, lips brushing her cheek, turning to her ear - and the effect his proximity had on her hadn’t changed; only, now, she could hear the scoundrel, the stealer of hearts in his voice when he whispered “Want to?”
Emma swallowed hard, mouth gone dry, and turned her head a fraction of an inch-enough to see his profile, the slow slide of blue as he caught her out of the corner of his eye.
“Are you asking me to sail away with you?” she asked, just as soft.
“Fancy it?”
It was an idea so crazy that she shouldn’t have even been standing there anymore-but it was also the precise thing she wanted, in that deepest part of her, in her heart of hearts; that numb space that had once thought it understood love, waking up under the creak of rigging and the smell of salt on the wind. She closed her eyes.
“Where would we go?”
“Anywhere.”
Emma smiled. He wondered if she knew how sincere his offer was, and her cheek brushed against his as she carefully disengaged from his hold and slipped away, walking to the prow. His almost-offer hung between them, not-quite answered. But now Emma could bring herself to touch the ship she had no choice now but to believe in, and her fingers trailed over its shapes as she walked the deck.
Killian watched her, until he realized it was more than that, more than watching: it was admiration. For the way she was careful not to move a single knot out of place, for the firm curl of her fingers around the rail, sure and tight, as she’d done when she gripped his arm and they’d moved together in the sinking darkness. Killian eyes and heart tracked her in this way for a long time, as she admired his ship, his first love, rocking beneath them both - and he was overcome in a sudden fashion by what an astounding creature she was. How he’d never thought someone so complex and absolutely divine in their flaws and stubbornness could exist in a place like Storybrooke.
And he wondered, briefly, what her life was like before this terrible town sunk its teeth into her. If she wouldn’t rather have stayed away.
But he knew the why. She had told him why, and he knew the pull love could have on a person - even if they didn’t understand it at the time. It was her kid - Henry - that had pulled her here and he doubted-even through the trials and frustrations, the countless times the townsfolk must have tried to run her out on a rail-that she’d ever once thought of looking back.
“We’d have to take Henry along of course.”
Emma started, spinning around in a fan of blonde curls-and he could see her past in her wary surprise, her hesitation to meet his eyes full on.
“He’ll have to earn his way, naturally,” Killian went on. “Learn to be a proper sailor.”
Emma was still staring, and he might not have been able to read her expression, but he could see by her eyes that she was trying to read him. After a long, quiet moment, Emma’s face loosened its reserve-just a little, just a fraction of a smile.
“A proper pirate,” she ventured, cautiously.
He smirked at the correction, and gave a little bow. “I’ll teach him his way around a sword-“
“Oh really?” she interjected, eyeing him with faint amusement as he crossed the distance between them.
“-but failing that, he will of course have to walk the plank.”
“Well, of course.” And there’s almost a smile to match his own; holding to the faint memory of a kiss.
But then the moment broke-and Emma was standing on a pirate ship in Maine again, completely anchorless. She turned away from him and looked out across the bay, her hands on the rail. He watched her anxiously, unable to shake the feeling that the solution was there-if only he knew how to reach out and take it. When she finally turned her eyes back to his, the sea’s horizon was still caught in them, an azure storm.
“Is this real?”
And he knew only one answer for eyes like those. He walked her back against the rails - her face betraying her turn to surprise - and for a moment all he did was look at her; Emma Swan, whose mouth curved like whiskey and made his rotten heart feel almost alive. Then he gently moved a strand of hair from her eyes, a reflex of a dozen times before, letting the curl slip through his fingers.
“It’s the only thing that is.”
Her mouth was cool and soft, and when he wanted heat she tilted her head and opened slow and careful for him, her eyes still open and watching. She let him in, without hesitation but with deliberate care, a measured response. It tasted like a choice.
The memories were still shaking out, settling in-but of one thing he was certain: in all his years, across every realm, he’d never had a woman kiss him like that before.
Then Emma’s hand curved to fit the bend of his neck, and his mind went astonishingly - mercifully - blank. She pressed upwards, eyes fluttering shut, licking into his mouth and pulling want and need from him as surely as if it were a string unraveling. He gripped her waist, fingers finding the dip in her lower back that curved her into him, but the kiss never became a bruise, or a rough and wanton scrap of teeth and skin - and she ended it with a sigh.
His determined Emma was back.
“What’s next?”
---
It became abundantly clear as they traveled back into town that they couldn’t tell anyone of the strange events of that morning. For the rest of Storybrooke-the curse still stood. No one had believed Henry with his book, and they had little more proof themselves; they’d only make matters worse trying to convince the spell-bound citizens.
“We’ll just have to work harder to break the curse is all,” Killian reasoned, tying the dinghy back up to its mooring. Emma watched him from the dock, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“How do you mean?”
“The last person who ‘remembered’...died.”
Killian stopped what he was doing. He took in her defensive posture, the tightness in her jaw and drew on the memory of that night in the bar.
“Graham?” he ventured; but it wasn’t a guess.
She nodded tightly.
“I-I kissed him, and he...remembered, I guess, and then he died.”
“Have a look, Whiskey-“ he spread his arms wide, trying to cajole a smile from her with a smirk. “I’m perfectly alive. I’ve every intention of staying that way too.”
She frowned at him and didn’t step back when he climbed up onto the dock too.
“Idiot.”
He kissed her quick, tugging her by her sleeve into motion, to walk along behind him. “It won’t happen like that-not if you, my brilliant lass, can get everyone to remember all at once.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” she demanded.
“Well, kissing’s probably out...”
Emma stopped again, and Killian stopped with her, his face enquiring. This was ridiculous - insane even. But there was an invisible pirate ship anchored in the bay and even Emma’s disbelief had its limitations. She’d made her choice-only now she truly was...out of her depth.
“We need help,” she admitted - though it clearly pained her to say it. She kicked at a bit of loose gravel and avoided looking at Killian. She felt inept and a bit foolish - two things she didn’t like anyone to witness, least of all him - and when she felt his gaze settle on her, she abruptly began walking again.
Killian quickly matched her pace; his footsteps quiet in tandem with the thump of her boots.
“Whom did you have in mind?” Was all he said.
“Someone who knows about the curse.”
“That’s a short list, darling,” he reminded her curtly; when she risked a glance at him, he was frowning at the pavement. “It’s the Queen’s curse, after all-and I’ll take no help from Rumpelstiltskin.”
His vehemence at the last took her momentarily by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. Nearly everyone in Storybrooke had cause to hate Gold-and truth be told, she wasn’t too keen on seeking help from him either. His sort of favors came with a price she wasn’t keen on paying twice.
But she hadn’t been thinking of Gold.
Emma cleared her throat and did not look away when Killian caught her eyes.
“Technically...there is someone else...”
---
“I knew it!”
“Henry...”
“I knew it, I knew it, I KNEW IT!”
It was still early and Henry had been half asleep when he’d answered her call over the walkie talkie-but discussing this in Regina’s backyard wasn’t exactly Emma’s idea of top secret. Especially not with Henry’s righteous validation rising exponentially in volume.
“I told you, didn’t I tell you?” He was actually shaking with excitement as Emma steered him towards the street. He’d snuck from the house in his bare feet and the hem of his pajamas was growing damp in the dewy grass. “I said-I said ‘Emma, your boyfriend’s Captain Hook!”
Killian tried not to laugh, pressing his fingers to his mouth at Emma’s glare. “Boyfriend?”
“Shut up,” she glowered over Henry’s head. It was such a bizarrely normal thing to be flustered over that for a moment Emma forgot that her life had become anything but normal.
Killian tweaked her elbow, his way of showing he meant nothing by it - and that too was normal in its familiarity. “Sorry. It’s just-we don’t have that word in my world.”
Right.
“It doesn’t exist in mine either,” she muttered. She turned to Henry.
He was practically vibrating, so much so that she had to put her hands on his shoulders to keep him from continuing to jump up and down. Instead, she gave him a reassuring squeeze and crouched down to his level.
“Focus, Henry,” she instructed, not unkindly. The next words she spoke with deliberate clarity. “How do we bring back everyone’s memories?”
Even his crestfallen expression was overwrought; all that adrenaline in so small a frame. He lifted his storybook a little higher in his arms. “I don’t know. Most of the curses in here were broken by true love’s kiss.”
Killian arched an eyebrow suggestively in Emma’s direction. “Clearly we dismissed the kissing strategy too early.”
She ignored him.
“That won’t work, Henry.” If it did, well-it wasn’t a kiss that had broken Killian free from the curse. And that particularly tidbit was something she decidedly wanted to avoid thinking about right now. Maybe forever.
“Now, now - don’t be hasty, love,” Killian argued. “Never know til you give it a try - I say start with Ruby.“
Emma’s face flared with red.
“And don’t be afraid to really get into it.”
Henry looked puzzled. “Wait...”
“Ignore him,” Emma demanded forcefully, bringing Henry’s attention away from Killian and his damn smirk. He’d picked a hell of a time to go pirate.
“There has to be something else.”
She kept her voice soft, and though Henry looked uncertain, he nodded. His fingers curled around the edges of the book. “I’ll keep looking.”
---
“Is that what it’s going to be like now?” Emma demanded; she’d stopped so abruptly on the front steps that Killian nearly ran into her. They’d been silent the entire walk across town, so even her sudden speech threw him.
“Emma-“
“The swagger. The innuendos.”
Killian’s eyes narrowed. She was barring the door with her body; clearly he was not going to be invited inside. Her accusations, however, he could not allow to pass.
“You’ve never had a problem with my innuendos before.”
That brought a flush to her throat, but she stood her ground.
“You can’t just-“ she gestured incomprehensibly.
“Just what?” he demanded.
“Go pirate.”
He was up the steps in a heartbeat, Emma’s hands coming up automatically, but they were trapped between their chests as he crowded her back against the door, and rather than push him off, her fingers curled into the thin cotton of his shirt-betraying her.
He leaned in close.
“When I decide to…’go pirate’-“ he swore, his breath hot against her ear, “you’ll know it.”
His lips grazed her skin, making her shiver. “And I’ll still be more of a gentleman than any man you’ve yet known.”
He was angry-with good reason, too; but Emma didn’t regret it. She’d had to know; had to be sure.
“Killian-“
“That’s a bloody promise.”
She grabbed his arm before he could pull away. Her heart was in her throat. He was a storm ready to break, and - finding herself dizzy with the thought of it - she wondered what that made her.
“I know,” she said, unsticking her throat. She was acutely aware of how silly she must have looked: disheveled, in an oversized sweater and leggings; rainboots. This was hard enough without feeling silly. “I’m sorry.”
The tension between them strained a bit further and then dissolved; Killian’s exhale loud and absolving against her skin. He pressed his forehead to hers and it was intimate in a simplicity that made her close her eyes; just for a moment.
“This--? It’s a minor squall,” he breathed. “Easily overcome.”
“It doesn’t feel minor,” she whispered back, a bit faintly. She opened her eyes to his, fervent and so, so close. A blue that hypnotized.
“We’ll weather this storm I promise you, Emma.”
He sounded so certain.
“You can’t know that...”
How he always managed to look so exasperated with her while still smiling that fond, inescapably tender smirk of his she’d never know, but it was wholly hers, her Killian, that look-and that gave her comfort.
“It’s called ‘trust’,” he chuckled, “my stubborn Whiskey.”
---
It was a tremulous parting-but not nearly as awkward of one as either had anticipated. There was still much to figure out, to understand - maybe too much - but for now all Emma wanted was a hot shower and a bowl of cereal; to start her day under the illusion that it was just like any other.
When she opened the front door, Mary Margaret was there waiting for her.
Snow White.
She’d gamely surrendered the apartment to her the night before, but her “generosity” clearly came with the price of over-eager interrogation, and the sudden onslaught of, frankly, invasive questions almost bowled her over.
Snow White. Asking her about sex. That was bad enough, but Emma decided she could come to terms with it so long as no furry woodland creatures burst through the windows to sing about it.
The fact that Snow White was her mother, well-she’d think about that later.
And it would have been easy to say things went back to normal after that; that she spent her evenings with Killian watching bad television, learning how to cook something more than spaghetti and tacos; that the curse was broken in a matter of days; that she had her parents back at last.
But Emma’s life had never been easy.
---
“We need more information.”
It had been three weeks since Killian had awoken from the curse, since Operation Cobra had gained a third member, but they were no closer to undoing Regina’s magic and Emma’s strained patience was wearing thin.
“Henry, you’re the one who knows the most about magic.”
“Yeah, but in the Enchanted Forest,” he admitted uncomfortably. “It’s different here.”
“Well how does magic work in our world?”
“Emma.” Killian’s voice was even. Settling.
She closed her eyes and took a calming breath. “Henry...”
“I don’t know,” Henry answered in a quiet voice. Emma sighed-and it was the defeat in her face that made Henry pipe up again, his mouth twisting like his mother’s did when she was thinking. “But-“ he interjected, “when in doubt-Hermione always went to the library.”
Emma blinked.“What?”
“We should check the library.”
“Oook,” agreed Emma slowly. The space between her brows was furrowed, but she was getting better at keeping her frank first impressions from her son. At giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“But in case you haven’t noticed - it’s boarded up. Who knows if there’s even still books in it.”
“Yeah. And who boarded it up?”
Emma’s mouth thinned into a line. “...Regina.”
Henry nodded emphatically. “It was the first thing she did.”
Killian was unconvinced. “What danger is there in books?”
“You’d be surprised.” Emma frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. “How do we get in - she’s probably got the only key.”
Killian’s tongue slipped between his teeth and he looked sidelong at Henry who then gave Emma an exasperated expression. Defensive without knowing why, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“What?”
Henry gestured with both hands to Killian. “Pirate.”
---
“This is so illegal.”
Henry had wanted them to investigate the library as soon as the idea had struck him, but it was another week before Killian could close down the bar at a reasonable hour and meet Emma behind the tow shop for a little late-night breaking-and-entering. It was well gone the witching hour when they slipped around back and found a window suitable to their needs. Killian, unfairly attractive in all black, motioned with a jerk of his head toward the window.
“Live a little, Whiskey.”
“Says the pirate,” she muttered, glancing again over her shoulder. “In case you’ve forgotten - I’m the sheriff here.”
He smirked, slapping a flat-head screwdriver into her open palm. “Not very good at it, are you.”
Emma had to be satisfied with glaring at him. His insufferably smug smirk was completely unaffected by it, and with a gallant gesture he bowed and offered her his good hand. “Ladies first.”
Emma made a sound in the back of her throat, a scoff and a scolding in one, and grabbed hold of the windowsill with both hands. She stepped one foot into his palm and with a synchronized push upwards, Emma was up-half balanced on his hand and her grip of the sill. Taking care not to chip away at the paint or wood, she wedged the head of the screwdriver under the sill and began to work it along the seam.
“Lovely night.” Came Killian’s pointed comment from below and Emma resisted the urge to kick him with her free foot.
“Eyes front.”
It only took a moment’s work, and the window gave way. Stuffing the screwdriver into her jacket, she snaked an arm through the gap and undid the chain from the inside. Newspaper rustling and crumpling under the intrusion, she forced the pane all the way up until it stuck, then - with a boost from Killian - pulled herself through the open window. Killian came after - three steps and a jump-arm straining as it held his entire weight, his momentum bringing him almost up-and then Emma had ahold of him by the upper arms. She pulled until he tumbled inside.
They landed together in an ungainly heap.
“You only had to ask,” he smirked, Emma sprawled beneath him. She pushed at his chest until he went up onto his elbows, but he wouldn’t be moved further.
“You’re impossible,” she hissed.
He lowered his head, nudging her cheek with his nose. “Why are you whispering?” he asked, just as low-then he bit her neck.
Emma yelped, flailing upwards and Killian was unceremoniously knocked onto his back; Emma had a hand clapped to her neck and with the other she punched him square in the chest. It knocked the wind straight out of him, but he was laughing even as he wheezed and brought an arm up to protect himself.
“We’re in a library,” she whispered harshly, punching him again for laughing-as if that should mean something. All it meant to Killian was dark corners and no chance of being interrupted.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“We’re supposed to be looking for information.” Emma got roughly to her feet; her movements stiff and too quick. “Besides, don’t you want this curse broken?”
Killian tracked her motions with a suddenly cautious eye. “Yes...” he answered slowly; suspicions rising when she didn’t look at him.
“Then let’s get to work.”
Time had not been kind to the library in the decades since it had been shut up. Dust lay heavy on the furniture, the shelving, even the light fixtures could barely emit a glow when Emma tried the switches for all the grime that had accumulated on the bulbs. He followed in her wake, touching the corners of cabinets, the knotted cord of the telephone on the circulation desk.
Emma was walking a set perimeter, head constantly moving this way and that - keen for anything unusual, anything that might suggest that this was something more than a wild lead they were following on the whim of a ten-year-old boy. And while she looked, Killian watched her.
The lights remained off, dim as they were, to keep their presence a secret from anyone who might wander past the library; though it was so late as to make that a nearly ridiculous possibility. Instead, Emma had clicked on her flashlight - a slender thing that gave off a tiny, but direct beam of off-white light - and between that and the milky blue moonlight filtering through the gaps in the papered windows, they could see just well enough to get by. Killian thumbed a few cracked spines, but eager as he was to break the curse and take his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin, that need felt distant and secondary compared to the one now rising on his tongue, the ache of bones and blood that swelled whenever he was with her. With Emma.
Oh, his need for her was great.
Her back was too him, but it hardly mattered: he could have traced every notch in her spine, breathed the curling S of her hair between her shoulder blades. He knew every arch it made in the dark, had memorized the smooth flush of skin by the press of palm and lips, and though once had proven sufficient enough to haunt him, he could not live on once alone.
If Emma too was haunted, he had no way of knowing. She herself would be hard pressed to answer; she’d put so much energy into not thinking about it that any time the memories threatened to surface-sweat-slick skin and nails digging into shoulders, gasping-she bottled them down with white-knuckled determination. Even now, as she circled the atrium her mind was drifting to the very pirate-like nature that had gotten them there, and - like her own private curse - thoughts of Hook had a way of dredging up the memories of Killian; the ones she held closest. It was fear that made her push them back-the fear that if they saw any light, her own doubts would sour them forever.
So she ignored them now, blocked out the very thought of Killian in the room with her, and bent all her thoughts on the library. She’d been a damned good bounty hunter, and that had helped her fumble through this whole sheriff thing-but it was in catching people that she excelled, not hunting for clues. Still there was one thing even she couldn’t miss: that for all the disrepair and grime, there was one thing that seemed virtually untouched by time and the wearing down of its passing.
“Look,” she said, voice wavering when she realized how close Killian was behind her. “There’s no dust on the floor.”
“Hmm.” Killian turned about, examining this strange detail. “Seems Henry had the right of it.”
“Yeah, but where the hell do we start?”
The look Killian shot her over his shoulder made the tips of her fingers tingle. “There’s a few promising corners. Nice and...dark.”
“Really?”
“I like to not let an opportunity pass me by.”
Emma frowned at him and pointed deliberately. “I’ll take the East Wing, you take the West.”
“Or we could both take the East.” He took a step closer, thumb brushing his lower lip, and Emma swallowed. “Just a quick tumble.”
She walked away from him-the surest way she knew to end the conversation without falling further into his charm. Killian, however, did not take the West Wing. She could hear his footsteps on the carpeted steps behind her, but every time she turned to tell him off-he was nowhere to be seen.
She walked through moonlight to examine the first row of bookcases. Of course, she hardly knew what it was she was supposed to be looking for - distracted by Killian or not - and she ran her fingers along the row, as if touch alone could lend her guidance. They looked like ordinary books to her. Dusty and old, yes. But ordinary. Nothing looked or felt out of place.
She rounded the corner into the next aisle. Killian’s mouth was hot on the back of her neck. She rolled forward; his arm was already there, and they swayed once in the dark. But Killian knew better than to press his luck and even as she whirled around, he was slipping away-his laughter following him into the shadow of the bookshelves.
Emma wanted to be angry-to be annoyed at him for not taking this seriously, for falling back on teenage thrills of dark places-but she wanted it too. Against all her better judgments. And her want was absolute. There was no way now of tamping it down, of bottling it up with all the rest; all she could do was put distance between them.
But he’d seen the flare of want behind her eyes and, like a predator catching the scent, it was now only a matter of time before he had her. His eagerness slipped into anticipation, patient and methodical in his pursuit of her through the stacks. He was all but silent; she was certain her heart could be heard from the street.
“Something the matter, love?”
He smirked at her through a gap in the books. Emma slid a heavy tome on the maps of Britain into the gap, blocking his face and kept walking.
“You sure are persistent.”
Killian laughed, appearing at the end of her row. He flipped idly through the book in his hand, then slid it back amongst the others. “Driving you mad is it?”
“Hardly.”
He tsked. “Oo love. Mustn’t lie.”
Emma knew full well she was blushing, that his seduction of her was working as well as he’d hoped, but she strode up to him regardless-pushing him back with her hand on his chest, until he was out of her way.
She turned down the next row, trying to gather together the frayed pieces of her focus, to try and do what they’d actually gone there to accomplish.
“What’s gotten into you?” she demanded, and the books in front of her parted amiably, revealing Killian’s face, highlighted by shadow.
“I was in Neverland for three hundred years before this little curse; that’s a long time without a proper woman.”
Emma’s face flushed. “And that’s me is it?” she supplied hotly. “How convenient.”
“Oh no, darling.” His voice echoed out, and she pushed aside the books, but he was no longer in the next aisle. She turned, but she was wholly alone.
“Killian?” she demanded, keeping the waver from her voice. She turned again, flashlight cutting the dark, but there was nothing.
And then-“You’re exceptional”-his voice low and wicked in her ear, hand slipping under her shirt, and she shuddered under the touch. He had her now, grip tightening as she tried to turn, and when he pressed himself against her back, their bodies fusing into a hot line, she stumbled forward and they crashed together into the bookshelves.
Books fell all around them, exposing clouds of dust as Emma scrabbled for purchase. She pushed back, tried to get the upper hand, but that only made it worse-there was no space now between her body and the hard press of his arousal, and the moan it pulled from her lips took her by surprise. Killian groaned at the sound, his mouth a hot burn on her neck, her throat and then his hand was cupping her breast and Emma bit her lip to keep from crying out, body shuddering. But he wanted to hear that moan again and he dragged it from her slow and wanton, bodies grinding together and Emma braced with shaking arms to keep from being pressed into the books.
She rocked back, desperate for friction and Killian swore, turning his face into her neck. His fingers tightened in the material of her bra, frustrated when it wouldn’t give way-lace and wires unyielding to his desperation-and she scrambled to help, gasping as his teeth grazed the dip of her shoulder. Something tore. Her breasts spilled free from their confines, bra yanked down around her ribs, and she threw her head back onto his shoulder as his mouth found her pulse and sucked. Her hand shot out knocking more books to the floor.
She tried to reach between them, nails catching on the waist of his jeans, his belt-but he was pressing them too tightly together and in her need she rocked back, seeking friction and the sudden tightening of his hand on her breast. But it wasn’t enough-not nearly enough, and she keened, staggering Killian with the sound.
“Emma,” he groaned, but too slow.
Desperation had taken hold of her and she fumbled with button of her jeans with one hand, Killian’s touch running wild across her flushed skin. Her breath quickened in anticipation and then she had it-her shuddering moan loud enough to draw Killian’s attention, but too late to stop her. Her hand was already down the front of her jeans, cotton underwear stretching over her knuckles, fingers sliding to the ache and pressing.
“Fuck.” It nearly sent Killian over the edge.
He grabbed her wrist, but she didn’t stop. She’d go crazy if she stopped. Every nerve ending was on fire; each time he pressed against her, another neuron short-circuited in her brain until all that was left was the agonizing friction. She could feel the pressure building just behind her navel, every rough and frenzied slide of fingers against that ache sparking her body electric and she writhed against him. “Fuck” he breathed again and again, neither one of them in control - until he pressed his hand in over her own, straining denim and wrists, and she slid unexpectedly inside.
Emma gasped.
Killian pressed his forehead to the back of her neck, his breath gone ragged as he tried to adjust to this sudden turn of events, and Emma-who just couldn’t help herself-shifted her hips, her eyes squeezing shut, and began to move.
“Bloody hell woman,” Killian rasped, the last ounces of his self control slipping away with each faint “oh” panted from her lips.
It was too much. He pulled them back and they both stumbled, Emma’s hands flying free for balance. Killian’s back hit the shelves hard and he grunted in pain, books falling from the impact. Emma spun, trying to catch herself, but Killian pushed off the shelving and chased her back across the aisle and then his mouth was on hers, rough and demanding-and it was Emma’s turn to find her back against the shelves. They crashed into each other, pulling, yanking, lunging at one another in a fevered rush. Her wet fingers branded tracks across his throat, his arm, the small of his back; he captured desire in the jut of her exposed hip, jeans slipping down her thighs.
He tugged at her hips, and she knew what he wanted, knew it in the press of his tongue against the back of her teeth. Her arms locked fast around his neck and then she was off the ground, their hips slotting together agonizingly as he lifted her, Emma’s legs locking around his waist. They crashed into more bookshelves than they avoided; the need to rut against one another overpowering Killian’s ability to walk, to think clearly for more than a few seconds. Her siren laugh would sink him in the end.
She kissed him like she meant to devour him. She pulled hard at his hair and he bit back, eliciting a sharp cry from her and an obscene slide of her body against his. She was insatiable and Killian was intoxicated with her; the smell of her, the rough cries, the fucking brilliant coil of her body against his.
He groaned into her mouth and she laughed, breathless and earnest, thighs tightening around him for the sheer delight of another groan. They crashed into their destination, and he nearly dropped her, but she rolled back in a slow arch, her legs still tight around his waist, and then he had Emma right where he wanted: the circulation desk.
He’d wanted to fuck her on that table since the moment he’d seen it-and if the delicious curl of her mouth was any indication, so had she.
“You little minx,” he smirked, holding his body over hers. She lay where he’d dropped her, on the flat of her back, her arms tangled in the halo of her hair. He licked a stripe across her bared midriff and she laughed, her eyes gone hazy and unfocused. He had to smooth his hand and wrist along her inner thighs until she released him and he could step back to toe off his shoes.
He half-expected her to reach for him - his beautiful, demanding Emma - but she knew what she was doing, and he nearly fell, halfway out of his pants, when he made the mistake of looking back. Jeans halfway down her thighs and underwear a sodden mess-she couldn’t possibly have seen him, but he swore her knees parted an inch further, as if she knew.
Body tight, he kicked off his jeans and grabbed for her boot. She gave a small start, but he pressed the end of his wrist to the rise of her sternum and she stayed still as he undressed her-first her boots, then her jeans, anxious tugging that pulled her to the edge of the desk, knocking a wire basket and a cup of pencils off the edges. Her bare foot pressed to the jut of his hip before she could slip off.
Killian stared down at her, eyes spiraling to deepest blue-and Emma held his gaze, her bared stomach quaking with each tight inhale, body pale and lovely in its thrumming want. Then, with unexpected tenderness, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.
Emma bit her lower lip. Her eyes softened and when she reached for him this time he didn’t stop. Recovering the foil packet from the pocket of his jeans, he tore the gold with his teeth-but it was Emma who stopped him, drawing him down with arms about his neck to kiss her. Open-mouthed and languid, he traced the contours of her mouth, delving with his tongue long after she ceased to hold him there.
Her hands on him ended the kiss, the foil wrapper falling from her fingers as she stroked him through the separation of their lips. Killian couldn’t take his eyes off her slowly spreading grin. Emma gave a little twist of her wrist and he groaned through his own smile - he knew when to get on with it.
Straightening, he hooked his wrists beneath her knees and pulled her to the edge of the desk and Emma parted her legs, her thighs already quivering in anticipation. Her only warning was Killian’s smirk before he pressed inside her. Emma’s slow, glorious exhale was a psalm; every hitch and tightening of her body a holy rite.
He memorized her all over again.
Emma wanted him - pirate, bartender; Killian, Hook - and that was reason enough. He fell to worship. He moved, slowly at first, indulging in the tight heat of her enveloping him, the wetness they’d wrought between them, and Emma moved slowly with him, eyes half-shuttered.
But nothing ever stayed slow between them when they decided to move. They were the boulder at the crest of a hill, the fire at the edge of the prairie-all they needed was a subtle shift in the wind and they destroyed everything in their path.
Emma was his wind.
He knew what she was going to do before she ever did it - the subtle catch of her breath, the sly dart of her tongue across her lips - here, now, she was an open book, her every thought a beacon blazing out from her skin. When she moved he moved, a shifting of stance to catch the heel of her foot when she reached with it to hook him closer; each movement a matched set.
It should always be this easy.
Killian tightened his grip and he took the parting of her lips as incentive to pick up the pace, a rhythm Emma easily followed and then pushed past. It was another game of cat and mouse, each trying to outdo the other, to claim the upper hand. The desk began to shift beneath them. Emma tightened around him in a taunt that became buried in a moan, when Killian’s hips snapped forward, his rhythm faltering with a groan, and white stars burst behind her eyes.
She gasped something and it must have been his name-nothing else brought that look to his face, or undid him so completely. A thrill raced through her, to be the focus of all that intent - his jaw tightening so deliciously she ached to press her mouth to it, to lick the sweat from his throat.
Killian was relentless. He lifted her leg over his shoulder, changing the angle and Emma cried out, her back arching off the table. He pressed his weight into her and Emma took it, the desk groaning in protest. Her nails scrapped the surface, unable to find purchase; only Killian kept them locked together.
Emma was so close, her movements frenzied and desperate, but she held on to the edge of it, too stubborn to give in first even though her toes were curling. Then Killian began to whisper things to her, low and filthy, and she could only make out half the lewd promises but it was enough.
She crashed over the edge, holding to nothing, her body an electric shock dispersing out. Killian came after, hips snapping erratically through the tremors of Emma’s release, and he nearly collapsed against her. He breathed heavy into the rucked up mess of her shirt, his hand beside her shoulder the only thing keeping his full weight from falling onto her. Emma lowered her still shaking legs, letting them hang off the edge of the desk.
For a long moment it was all they could do to regain their breath. Emma’s palm skirted through his hair, then fell away again. His thumb brushed an S into her shoulder.
“This is a library,” Emma repeated, too debauched to sound at all scandalized.
“So you’ve said,” Killian grinned, loose and easy, mouth pressing to the swell of her ribs as he lifted his head. “I’ll be sure to strike it off the list.”
She worked her toes between them and pushed him off by the hip, laughing a little. When she sat up, her hair stuck to the damp lines of her neck. She finally tugged her bra back up to its proper place and maneuvered herself off the desk and onto shaky legs. The desk gave one last aggrieved creak.
“You know we can’t leave it like this,” she said, stepping slowly into her underwear.
Killian stalled his own lazy redressing to watch her slip back into her clothes, regretting nothing even when Emma caught him staring and drawled, “Can I help you?”
“If you insist,” he grinned, undoing the button on his jeans again. Emma burst out laughing, nearly tipping over as she tried to pull her boots back on.
“Good god,” she exclaimed. Killian advanced provocatively, biting at his lower lip as his gaze dropped.
“Literally keep it in your pants,” Emma ordered, still ghosting a smile as she pointed warningly at him. She took two steps back and his grin grew.
“Tease.”
Her lips quirked. “We’ve got a job to do, remember?”
“I remember nothing of the sort,” he cajoled, and dared to take a step forward-one that Emma noted but did nothing to counter. “I think you may have shagged the thought clear out of me.”
Emma wanted to laugh. He was just so-persistent. And it should have been cheesy, or inappropriate, or too much-but it only made her want to laugh; it felt like something pure and feather-light stirring against the heaviness of her heart. She pursed her mouth, fighting against that innate amusement.
“No.”
“No what?”
“Just no,” she repeated, lips twitching. With one last warning look, she began retracing their hurricane steps, re-shelving books any which way.
Knowing exactly what they’d done to cause that trail of abused and discarded books, brought a faint flush to her cheeks-a heat not eased by Killian’s amused chuckles as he followed in her wake. The dark aisle that had started it all was the worst of it; nearly two full bookcases bore empty shelves.
“Impressive,” Killian whispered over her shoulder, making her jump. Then he slid past her, closer than was really necessary, and Emma glared, but it had no effect on Killian’s turned back. In the end, she joined him - but on the opposite side - stepping over great heaps of history books.
“Maybe next time-“
“No.”
“Well, you’re no fun.”
“Please.” Emma stuffed a War of the Roses account next to an out-of-order series on the Civil War without caring. She stooped to grab another. “If I’m not fun, then why-“
Emma yelped in pain and dropped the book, tiny purple bolts sparking against her fingers. The book hit the floor and cracked along its spine, falling open on broken seams at her feet.
“Are you alright, love?” Killian was at her side, concern writ across his brow as he brought her scorched fingers to his lips, but the pain was nothing to Emma. She was looking at the book.
“Killian...”
“Bit of a shock, was it-?”
She cut him off. “Killian. The book.”
He finally looked down, and then he saw what she had seen: the slow scrawl of black ink spreading across the pages as they watched; words bleeding onto thick-pressed paper in an all too familiar hand.
“Is that-?“
“Yeah,” Emma breathed. “It’s Regina’s.”
---
Part B
Genre: AU
Word Count: 8,800
Summary: AU - Hook came along with the curse and has been living in Storybrooke all this time.
Note: This is the first half of Whiskey 3 (We'll call it Part A); Part B is still in the works. Deal with it. ♥
---
Emma shifted uncomfortably in the little dinghy. Small puddles of bay water had pooled in the bottom. She watched the water trickle back and forth bellow the treads of her hastily-donned rain boots, the boat rocking gently on the tide, and did not look at Killian.
He was looking at her, though; she could feel it. He rowed steadily, his movements smooth and practiced - incongruous with the man Ruby had told her owned a boat but never sailed it; who spent more time in the woods than town, and smelled of rich, damp earth whenever she was close to him.
Emma pulled her sweater tighter around her. It was cold, only just past dawn, but she thought it might help muffle the staccato thrum of her heart from being heard. Ever since she’d felt his seizing beneath her palm, her own heart refused to calm; her entire chest ached from its fervor.
A gull soared lazily overhead, off-white wings catching the thermals. Its caw drew both their gazes, and they were caught looking at one another.
“Emma, when you see...”
“When I see what?” She tightened the cross of her arms; uncomfortable. But though her suspicion remained fixed on him, against her will to look away, Killian chose not to answer.
The boat creaked, Killian rowed, and Emma bit her tongue.
Then, when it became almost impossible to hold her silence any longer, the boat came to a sudden and ungainly stop. Emma lurched forward and Killian caught her by the arms. It was almost as though they’d reached the end of their tether, some anchor holding them back-but the dinghy was still bobbing, still moving of its own free will. Yet each forward swell caused another jerk to halt the boat. It was like they’d hit something, but when Emma looked around, there was nothing but open water and clear grey sky.
“What the hell?”
Killian was still holding her steady, but then his hand slid down to her wrist and she turned her widening eyes to him. With great patience, he guided her arm out over the water. Her fingertips grazed something solid.
But there was nothing.
“What. The hell,” she repeated.
“It’s my proof, lass,” Killian whispered, an eagerness in his voice as she reached farther on her own, her palm smoothing against an invisible something.
“It’s my ship.”
And the moment he said it, Emma could see it. The air became wood, bowed and smooth, against her hand. Her mouth dropped open.
“Come aboard, Whiskey.”
He grabbed hold of the ship’s side ladder and started to climb. Emma had no choice; she could either sit in the rowboat blindly pretending a pirate ship hadn’t just materialized in the bay, or-she could start believing.
She climbed up after him.
“How?” The deck creaked under her boots; real and whole. “How did you bring this with you?”
Killian smirked, pride heavy in his tone as he explained: “Regina may say she chose what the curse took and what it left behind - but there are always loopholes in a curse. Look at Gold’s shop!-all those trinkets? You think Regina would have just let him bring all that to Storybrooke?”
“Well, no, but-“ she gestured all around her. “This is a boat!”
“Ship, darling,” he corrected. “And there’s no finer vessel in any of the realms. I wasn’t about to leave her behind.”
The Roger keened under his touch, his callused palm stroking her rails gone smooth from salt-strewn wind. A pirate was only as good as the ship that bore him, and she was true and loyal, down to the last nail.
“What do you think?”
“It’s, uh, it’s a bit much to take in.”
“Imagine being in my head right now, love,” he countered. “Disorienting is the least of it.”
Emma’s hand ghosted over the mast, just shy of touching. She traced the ship with her eyes instead, taking in the bound sails, the rigging hitched and ready to be unslung at a moment’s notice. Her eyes caught on the deck, the scorch mark of a cannon’s backfire still dark against the wood despite many scrubbings and countless storms. His ability to read her so surely, so effortlessly, could not penetrate the stone resolve of her face; she was entirely closed off to him. Even her movements were slow and calculated, no trace of his Emma - bold and impulsive - slipping through.
He felt longing and anger in equal measure - aching for the return of a loss he couldn’t name but was certain her bright eyes held; a slow resentment kindling at the absence of awe in the ship, his pride and joy so often worshiped by lesser women. But in his indecision he gave voice to neither. It was Emma who finally broke the silence.
“Who are you now?” She’d put the mast between them; a physical barrier that he felt as well as saw.
“I’m both.”
“But you’re not, are you?” she insisted, voice tight. “One is a ridiculous cartoon villain from my childhood, and the other is the man I-“
She closed her eyes, and the wind slipped through her hair as she breathed out. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered.
“Emma.”
Her eyes snapped open. “There are four people on this ship right now, Killian.”
Killian hesitated-torn between desires. “How so?”
She licked her lips. The cool breeze had brought color to her cheeks, but her face was pale and hardset. He tried to recall how she’d looked the night they’d met, but the memory was lost in the jumble.
“A bartender. A sheriff.” Emma lifted her chin, a small gesture of stubbornness; of defiance-and said at last: “And a pirate.”
“And the fourth?” Killian pressed.
“Doesn’t matter,” she answered, and her face cracked into a smile. But it wasn’t happy. “I don’t think she’ll exist much longer.”
Everything about this was wrong, going sour in the air between them. Emma was stubborn and brash and said precisely what was on her mind. It was part of what had drawn him to her in the first place. And yet now she said nothing?
“You’re more a pirate than anyone, lass-what is it you can’t say?”
“I thought I was-“ she kept tripping over the same words; her face flushing with her frustration-and in some small corner of his mind Killian thought that if he could only hear those words...that it would all be okay, then nothing else would matter - but Emma started again.
“The me I was becoming with you-” She was trying to explain, but it kept coming out wrong-and, frustration mounting, she slammed the heel of her fist into the mast. She’d spent twenty-eight years avoiding conversations like this, so that now, when it might really matter, she could only fall back on her anger.
She felt the jolt all the way up her arm, the jarring pain-but it was okay. It helped. It was the only thing she could control.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Killian’s stomach clenched.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Emma exclaimed; unable, at last, to keep emotion at bay. “How much of Killian Jones is really you, how much was the curse?”
In disbelief he reached for her automatically - halting with his arm half-raised between them. He tried to smile, but it didn’t feel like a joke. “You don’t believe that,” he insisted.
Emma, jaw tightening, lifted her chin.
It was too much. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, and though her first instinct was to fight, he held her fast against the mast. “Hear this,” he demanded, and shook her until she held his gaze-still so stubborn, still holding so much in check with that clenched jaw. “I am still me. Magic cannot make a man anything other than what he is. Everything that’s happened…with you, between us - that was me, Emma.”
“You?” she echoed, eyes narrowed.
“Entirely.”
Her fingers skated the stubble of his jaw, and Killian let go of his breath. It was the first time she’d touched him since that morning.
She believed him-she did. But it wasn’t that simple anymore, and she didn’t know the words to make him understand. He was more now - doubled up with life and all the thoughts and desires those lives contained - and she? She’d just become so much less.
“Okay,” she said-like it could possibly be enough.
His relief slipped under her skin, and even as she let herself follow his smile, it settled against her bones, a subtly weighing down she tried hard to ignore.
“What now?”
Killian covered her hand with his own, stilling her absent tracing. His breath edged the side of wrist when he spoke. “I may be a pirate, but even pirates have a code-I won’t lie to you, love...”
Emma pulled her hand back.
Killian faltered, but pressed on. “There are things I must do-“
“Things?” she interrupted, looking skeptical.
“A vow,” he amended, though it did little to soothe the lines of her face. He brought his hand to her cheek, counting it as a small mercy when she did not shy away.
“But after...?” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek bone. “When the curse is broken.”
“The curse,” she echoed with a laugh; but it was forced levity-strained, almost desperate.
“Well?”
“What?” she huffed.
Killian started to grin, the jut of his other wrist pressing soft and entreating to her waist. “Have you ever sailed on a pirate ship?”
She stared at him, with everything that had happened - was happening - still there around them-and it was, without a doubt, the craziest morning of her life; stranger even than her estranged kid showing up at her door and dragging her back to Middle-of-Nowhere Maine.
And all she could think to say was: “No?”
Killian bent his head, lips brushing her cheek, turning to her ear - and the effect his proximity had on her hadn’t changed; only, now, she could hear the scoundrel, the stealer of hearts in his voice when he whispered “Want to?”
Emma swallowed hard, mouth gone dry, and turned her head a fraction of an inch-enough to see his profile, the slow slide of blue as he caught her out of the corner of his eye.
“Are you asking me to sail away with you?” she asked, just as soft.
“Fancy it?”
It was an idea so crazy that she shouldn’t have even been standing there anymore-but it was also the precise thing she wanted, in that deepest part of her, in her heart of hearts; that numb space that had once thought it understood love, waking up under the creak of rigging and the smell of salt on the wind. She closed her eyes.
“Where would we go?”
“Anywhere.”
Emma smiled. He wondered if she knew how sincere his offer was, and her cheek brushed against his as she carefully disengaged from his hold and slipped away, walking to the prow. His almost-offer hung between them, not-quite answered. But now Emma could bring herself to touch the ship she had no choice now but to believe in, and her fingers trailed over its shapes as she walked the deck.
Killian watched her, until he realized it was more than that, more than watching: it was admiration. For the way she was careful not to move a single knot out of place, for the firm curl of her fingers around the rail, sure and tight, as she’d done when she gripped his arm and they’d moved together in the sinking darkness. Killian eyes and heart tracked her in this way for a long time, as she admired his ship, his first love, rocking beneath them both - and he was overcome in a sudden fashion by what an astounding creature she was. How he’d never thought someone so complex and absolutely divine in their flaws and stubbornness could exist in a place like Storybrooke.
And he wondered, briefly, what her life was like before this terrible town sunk its teeth into her. If she wouldn’t rather have stayed away.
But he knew the why. She had told him why, and he knew the pull love could have on a person - even if they didn’t understand it at the time. It was her kid - Henry - that had pulled her here and he doubted-even through the trials and frustrations, the countless times the townsfolk must have tried to run her out on a rail-that she’d ever once thought of looking back.
“We’d have to take Henry along of course.”
Emma started, spinning around in a fan of blonde curls-and he could see her past in her wary surprise, her hesitation to meet his eyes full on.
“He’ll have to earn his way, naturally,” Killian went on. “Learn to be a proper sailor.”
Emma was still staring, and he might not have been able to read her expression, but he could see by her eyes that she was trying to read him. After a long, quiet moment, Emma’s face loosened its reserve-just a little, just a fraction of a smile.
“A proper pirate,” she ventured, cautiously.
He smirked at the correction, and gave a little bow. “I’ll teach him his way around a sword-“
“Oh really?” she interjected, eyeing him with faint amusement as he crossed the distance between them.
“-but failing that, he will of course have to walk the plank.”
“Well, of course.” And there’s almost a smile to match his own; holding to the faint memory of a kiss.
But then the moment broke-and Emma was standing on a pirate ship in Maine again, completely anchorless. She turned away from him and looked out across the bay, her hands on the rail. He watched her anxiously, unable to shake the feeling that the solution was there-if only he knew how to reach out and take it. When she finally turned her eyes back to his, the sea’s horizon was still caught in them, an azure storm.
“Is this real?”
And he knew only one answer for eyes like those. He walked her back against the rails - her face betraying her turn to surprise - and for a moment all he did was look at her; Emma Swan, whose mouth curved like whiskey and made his rotten heart feel almost alive. Then he gently moved a strand of hair from her eyes, a reflex of a dozen times before, letting the curl slip through his fingers.
“It’s the only thing that is.”
Her mouth was cool and soft, and when he wanted heat she tilted her head and opened slow and careful for him, her eyes still open and watching. She let him in, without hesitation but with deliberate care, a measured response. It tasted like a choice.
The memories were still shaking out, settling in-but of one thing he was certain: in all his years, across every realm, he’d never had a woman kiss him like that before.
Then Emma’s hand curved to fit the bend of his neck, and his mind went astonishingly - mercifully - blank. She pressed upwards, eyes fluttering shut, licking into his mouth and pulling want and need from him as surely as if it were a string unraveling. He gripped her waist, fingers finding the dip in her lower back that curved her into him, but the kiss never became a bruise, or a rough and wanton scrap of teeth and skin - and she ended it with a sigh.
His determined Emma was back.
“What’s next?”
---
It became abundantly clear as they traveled back into town that they couldn’t tell anyone of the strange events of that morning. For the rest of Storybrooke-the curse still stood. No one had believed Henry with his book, and they had little more proof themselves; they’d only make matters worse trying to convince the spell-bound citizens.
“We’ll just have to work harder to break the curse is all,” Killian reasoned, tying the dinghy back up to its mooring. Emma watched him from the dock, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“How do you mean?”
“The last person who ‘remembered’...died.”
Killian stopped what he was doing. He took in her defensive posture, the tightness in her jaw and drew on the memory of that night in the bar.
“Graham?” he ventured; but it wasn’t a guess.
She nodded tightly.
“I-I kissed him, and he...remembered, I guess, and then he died.”
“Have a look, Whiskey-“ he spread his arms wide, trying to cajole a smile from her with a smirk. “I’m perfectly alive. I’ve every intention of staying that way too.”
She frowned at him and didn’t step back when he climbed up onto the dock too.
“Idiot.”
He kissed her quick, tugging her by her sleeve into motion, to walk along behind him. “It won’t happen like that-not if you, my brilliant lass, can get everyone to remember all at once.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” she demanded.
“Well, kissing’s probably out...”
Emma stopped again, and Killian stopped with her, his face enquiring. This was ridiculous - insane even. But there was an invisible pirate ship anchored in the bay and even Emma’s disbelief had its limitations. She’d made her choice-only now she truly was...out of her depth.
“We need help,” she admitted - though it clearly pained her to say it. She kicked at a bit of loose gravel and avoided looking at Killian. She felt inept and a bit foolish - two things she didn’t like anyone to witness, least of all him - and when she felt his gaze settle on her, she abruptly began walking again.
Killian quickly matched her pace; his footsteps quiet in tandem with the thump of her boots.
“Whom did you have in mind?” Was all he said.
“Someone who knows about the curse.”
“That’s a short list, darling,” he reminded her curtly; when she risked a glance at him, he was frowning at the pavement. “It’s the Queen’s curse, after all-and I’ll take no help from Rumpelstiltskin.”
His vehemence at the last took her momentarily by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. Nearly everyone in Storybrooke had cause to hate Gold-and truth be told, she wasn’t too keen on seeking help from him either. His sort of favors came with a price she wasn’t keen on paying twice.
But she hadn’t been thinking of Gold.
Emma cleared her throat and did not look away when Killian caught her eyes.
“Technically...there is someone else...”
---
“I knew it!”
“Henry...”
“I knew it, I knew it, I KNEW IT!”
It was still early and Henry had been half asleep when he’d answered her call over the walkie talkie-but discussing this in Regina’s backyard wasn’t exactly Emma’s idea of top secret. Especially not with Henry’s righteous validation rising exponentially in volume.
“I told you, didn’t I tell you?” He was actually shaking with excitement as Emma steered him towards the street. He’d snuck from the house in his bare feet and the hem of his pajamas was growing damp in the dewy grass. “I said-I said ‘Emma, your boyfriend’s Captain Hook!”
Killian tried not to laugh, pressing his fingers to his mouth at Emma’s glare. “Boyfriend?”
“Shut up,” she glowered over Henry’s head. It was such a bizarrely normal thing to be flustered over that for a moment Emma forgot that her life had become anything but normal.
Killian tweaked her elbow, his way of showing he meant nothing by it - and that too was normal in its familiarity. “Sorry. It’s just-we don’t have that word in my world.”
Right.
“It doesn’t exist in mine either,” she muttered. She turned to Henry.
He was practically vibrating, so much so that she had to put her hands on his shoulders to keep him from continuing to jump up and down. Instead, she gave him a reassuring squeeze and crouched down to his level.
“Focus, Henry,” she instructed, not unkindly. The next words she spoke with deliberate clarity. “How do we bring back everyone’s memories?”
Even his crestfallen expression was overwrought; all that adrenaline in so small a frame. He lifted his storybook a little higher in his arms. “I don’t know. Most of the curses in here were broken by true love’s kiss.”
Killian arched an eyebrow suggestively in Emma’s direction. “Clearly we dismissed the kissing strategy too early.”
She ignored him.
“That won’t work, Henry.” If it did, well-it wasn’t a kiss that had broken Killian free from the curse. And that particularly tidbit was something she decidedly wanted to avoid thinking about right now. Maybe forever.
“Now, now - don’t be hasty, love,” Killian argued. “Never know til you give it a try - I say start with Ruby.“
Emma’s face flared with red.
“And don’t be afraid to really get into it.”
Henry looked puzzled. “Wait...”
“Ignore him,” Emma demanded forcefully, bringing Henry’s attention away from Killian and his damn smirk. He’d picked a hell of a time to go pirate.
“There has to be something else.”
She kept her voice soft, and though Henry looked uncertain, he nodded. His fingers curled around the edges of the book. “I’ll keep looking.”
---
“Is that what it’s going to be like now?” Emma demanded; she’d stopped so abruptly on the front steps that Killian nearly ran into her. They’d been silent the entire walk across town, so even her sudden speech threw him.
“Emma-“
“The swagger. The innuendos.”
Killian’s eyes narrowed. She was barring the door with her body; clearly he was not going to be invited inside. Her accusations, however, he could not allow to pass.
“You’ve never had a problem with my innuendos before.”
That brought a flush to her throat, but she stood her ground.
“You can’t just-“ she gestured incomprehensibly.
“Just what?” he demanded.
“Go pirate.”
He was up the steps in a heartbeat, Emma’s hands coming up automatically, but they were trapped between their chests as he crowded her back against the door, and rather than push him off, her fingers curled into the thin cotton of his shirt-betraying her.
He leaned in close.
“When I decide to…’go pirate’-“ he swore, his breath hot against her ear, “you’ll know it.”
His lips grazed her skin, making her shiver. “And I’ll still be more of a gentleman than any man you’ve yet known.”
He was angry-with good reason, too; but Emma didn’t regret it. She’d had to know; had to be sure.
“Killian-“
“That’s a bloody promise.”
She grabbed his arm before he could pull away. Her heart was in her throat. He was a storm ready to break, and - finding herself dizzy with the thought of it - she wondered what that made her.
“I know,” she said, unsticking her throat. She was acutely aware of how silly she must have looked: disheveled, in an oversized sweater and leggings; rainboots. This was hard enough without feeling silly. “I’m sorry.”
The tension between them strained a bit further and then dissolved; Killian’s exhale loud and absolving against her skin. He pressed his forehead to hers and it was intimate in a simplicity that made her close her eyes; just for a moment.
“This--? It’s a minor squall,” he breathed. “Easily overcome.”
“It doesn’t feel minor,” she whispered back, a bit faintly. She opened her eyes to his, fervent and so, so close. A blue that hypnotized.
“We’ll weather this storm I promise you, Emma.”
He sounded so certain.
“You can’t know that...”
How he always managed to look so exasperated with her while still smiling that fond, inescapably tender smirk of his she’d never know, but it was wholly hers, her Killian, that look-and that gave her comfort.
“It’s called ‘trust’,” he chuckled, “my stubborn Whiskey.”
---
It was a tremulous parting-but not nearly as awkward of one as either had anticipated. There was still much to figure out, to understand - maybe too much - but for now all Emma wanted was a hot shower and a bowl of cereal; to start her day under the illusion that it was just like any other.
When she opened the front door, Mary Margaret was there waiting for her.
Snow White.
She’d gamely surrendered the apartment to her the night before, but her “generosity” clearly came with the price of over-eager interrogation, and the sudden onslaught of, frankly, invasive questions almost bowled her over.
Snow White. Asking her about sex. That was bad enough, but Emma decided she could come to terms with it so long as no furry woodland creatures burst through the windows to sing about it.
The fact that Snow White was her mother, well-she’d think about that later.
And it would have been easy to say things went back to normal after that; that she spent her evenings with Killian watching bad television, learning how to cook something more than spaghetti and tacos; that the curse was broken in a matter of days; that she had her parents back at last.
But Emma’s life had never been easy.
---
“We need more information.”
It had been three weeks since Killian had awoken from the curse, since Operation Cobra had gained a third member, but they were no closer to undoing Regina’s magic and Emma’s strained patience was wearing thin.
“Henry, you’re the one who knows the most about magic.”
“Yeah, but in the Enchanted Forest,” he admitted uncomfortably. “It’s different here.”
“Well how does magic work in our world?”
“Emma.” Killian’s voice was even. Settling.
She closed her eyes and took a calming breath. “Henry...”
“I don’t know,” Henry answered in a quiet voice. Emma sighed-and it was the defeat in her face that made Henry pipe up again, his mouth twisting like his mother’s did when she was thinking. “But-“ he interjected, “when in doubt-Hermione always went to the library.”
Emma blinked.“What?”
“We should check the library.”
“Oook,” agreed Emma slowly. The space between her brows was furrowed, but she was getting better at keeping her frank first impressions from her son. At giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“But in case you haven’t noticed - it’s boarded up. Who knows if there’s even still books in it.”
“Yeah. And who boarded it up?”
Emma’s mouth thinned into a line. “...Regina.”
Henry nodded emphatically. “It was the first thing she did.”
Killian was unconvinced. “What danger is there in books?”
“You’d be surprised.” Emma frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. “How do we get in - she’s probably got the only key.”
Killian’s tongue slipped between his teeth and he looked sidelong at Henry who then gave Emma an exasperated expression. Defensive without knowing why, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“What?”
Henry gestured with both hands to Killian. “Pirate.”
---
“This is so illegal.”
Henry had wanted them to investigate the library as soon as the idea had struck him, but it was another week before Killian could close down the bar at a reasonable hour and meet Emma behind the tow shop for a little late-night breaking-and-entering. It was well gone the witching hour when they slipped around back and found a window suitable to their needs. Killian, unfairly attractive in all black, motioned with a jerk of his head toward the window.
“Live a little, Whiskey.”
“Says the pirate,” she muttered, glancing again over her shoulder. “In case you’ve forgotten - I’m the sheriff here.”
He smirked, slapping a flat-head screwdriver into her open palm. “Not very good at it, are you.”
Emma had to be satisfied with glaring at him. His insufferably smug smirk was completely unaffected by it, and with a gallant gesture he bowed and offered her his good hand. “Ladies first.”
Emma made a sound in the back of her throat, a scoff and a scolding in one, and grabbed hold of the windowsill with both hands. She stepped one foot into his palm and with a synchronized push upwards, Emma was up-half balanced on his hand and her grip of the sill. Taking care not to chip away at the paint or wood, she wedged the head of the screwdriver under the sill and began to work it along the seam.
“Lovely night.” Came Killian’s pointed comment from below and Emma resisted the urge to kick him with her free foot.
“Eyes front.”
It only took a moment’s work, and the window gave way. Stuffing the screwdriver into her jacket, she snaked an arm through the gap and undid the chain from the inside. Newspaper rustling and crumpling under the intrusion, she forced the pane all the way up until it stuck, then - with a boost from Killian - pulled herself through the open window. Killian came after - three steps and a jump-arm straining as it held his entire weight, his momentum bringing him almost up-and then Emma had ahold of him by the upper arms. She pulled until he tumbled inside.
They landed together in an ungainly heap.
“You only had to ask,” he smirked, Emma sprawled beneath him. She pushed at his chest until he went up onto his elbows, but he wouldn’t be moved further.
“You’re impossible,” she hissed.
He lowered his head, nudging her cheek with his nose. “Why are you whispering?” he asked, just as low-then he bit her neck.
Emma yelped, flailing upwards and Killian was unceremoniously knocked onto his back; Emma had a hand clapped to her neck and with the other she punched him square in the chest. It knocked the wind straight out of him, but he was laughing even as he wheezed and brought an arm up to protect himself.
“We’re in a library,” she whispered harshly, punching him again for laughing-as if that should mean something. All it meant to Killian was dark corners and no chance of being interrupted.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“We’re supposed to be looking for information.” Emma got roughly to her feet; her movements stiff and too quick. “Besides, don’t you want this curse broken?”
Killian tracked her motions with a suddenly cautious eye. “Yes...” he answered slowly; suspicions rising when she didn’t look at him.
“Then let’s get to work.”
Time had not been kind to the library in the decades since it had been shut up. Dust lay heavy on the furniture, the shelving, even the light fixtures could barely emit a glow when Emma tried the switches for all the grime that had accumulated on the bulbs. He followed in her wake, touching the corners of cabinets, the knotted cord of the telephone on the circulation desk.
Emma was walking a set perimeter, head constantly moving this way and that - keen for anything unusual, anything that might suggest that this was something more than a wild lead they were following on the whim of a ten-year-old boy. And while she looked, Killian watched her.
The lights remained off, dim as they were, to keep their presence a secret from anyone who might wander past the library; though it was so late as to make that a nearly ridiculous possibility. Instead, Emma had clicked on her flashlight - a slender thing that gave off a tiny, but direct beam of off-white light - and between that and the milky blue moonlight filtering through the gaps in the papered windows, they could see just well enough to get by. Killian thumbed a few cracked spines, but eager as he was to break the curse and take his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin, that need felt distant and secondary compared to the one now rising on his tongue, the ache of bones and blood that swelled whenever he was with her. With Emma.
Oh, his need for her was great.
Her back was too him, but it hardly mattered: he could have traced every notch in her spine, breathed the curling S of her hair between her shoulder blades. He knew every arch it made in the dark, had memorized the smooth flush of skin by the press of palm and lips, and though once had proven sufficient enough to haunt him, he could not live on once alone.
If Emma too was haunted, he had no way of knowing. She herself would be hard pressed to answer; she’d put so much energy into not thinking about it that any time the memories threatened to surface-sweat-slick skin and nails digging into shoulders, gasping-she bottled them down with white-knuckled determination. Even now, as she circled the atrium her mind was drifting to the very pirate-like nature that had gotten them there, and - like her own private curse - thoughts of Hook had a way of dredging up the memories of Killian; the ones she held closest. It was fear that made her push them back-the fear that if they saw any light, her own doubts would sour them forever.
So she ignored them now, blocked out the very thought of Killian in the room with her, and bent all her thoughts on the library. She’d been a damned good bounty hunter, and that had helped her fumble through this whole sheriff thing-but it was in catching people that she excelled, not hunting for clues. Still there was one thing even she couldn’t miss: that for all the disrepair and grime, there was one thing that seemed virtually untouched by time and the wearing down of its passing.
“Look,” she said, voice wavering when she realized how close Killian was behind her. “There’s no dust on the floor.”
“Hmm.” Killian turned about, examining this strange detail. “Seems Henry had the right of it.”
“Yeah, but where the hell do we start?”
The look Killian shot her over his shoulder made the tips of her fingers tingle. “There’s a few promising corners. Nice and...dark.”
“Really?”
“I like to not let an opportunity pass me by.”
Emma frowned at him and pointed deliberately. “I’ll take the East Wing, you take the West.”
“Or we could both take the East.” He took a step closer, thumb brushing his lower lip, and Emma swallowed. “Just a quick tumble.”
She walked away from him-the surest way she knew to end the conversation without falling further into his charm. Killian, however, did not take the West Wing. She could hear his footsteps on the carpeted steps behind her, but every time she turned to tell him off-he was nowhere to be seen.
She walked through moonlight to examine the first row of bookcases. Of course, she hardly knew what it was she was supposed to be looking for - distracted by Killian or not - and she ran her fingers along the row, as if touch alone could lend her guidance. They looked like ordinary books to her. Dusty and old, yes. But ordinary. Nothing looked or felt out of place.
She rounded the corner into the next aisle. Killian’s mouth was hot on the back of her neck. She rolled forward; his arm was already there, and they swayed once in the dark. But Killian knew better than to press his luck and even as she whirled around, he was slipping away-his laughter following him into the shadow of the bookshelves.
Emma wanted to be angry-to be annoyed at him for not taking this seriously, for falling back on teenage thrills of dark places-but she wanted it too. Against all her better judgments. And her want was absolute. There was no way now of tamping it down, of bottling it up with all the rest; all she could do was put distance between them.
But he’d seen the flare of want behind her eyes and, like a predator catching the scent, it was now only a matter of time before he had her. His eagerness slipped into anticipation, patient and methodical in his pursuit of her through the stacks. He was all but silent; she was certain her heart could be heard from the street.
“Something the matter, love?”
He smirked at her through a gap in the books. Emma slid a heavy tome on the maps of Britain into the gap, blocking his face and kept walking.
“You sure are persistent.”
Killian laughed, appearing at the end of her row. He flipped idly through the book in his hand, then slid it back amongst the others. “Driving you mad is it?”
“Hardly.”
He tsked. “Oo love. Mustn’t lie.”
Emma knew full well she was blushing, that his seduction of her was working as well as he’d hoped, but she strode up to him regardless-pushing him back with her hand on his chest, until he was out of her way.
She turned down the next row, trying to gather together the frayed pieces of her focus, to try and do what they’d actually gone there to accomplish.
“What’s gotten into you?” she demanded, and the books in front of her parted amiably, revealing Killian’s face, highlighted by shadow.
“I was in Neverland for three hundred years before this little curse; that’s a long time without a proper woman.”
Emma’s face flushed. “And that’s me is it?” she supplied hotly. “How convenient.”
“Oh no, darling.” His voice echoed out, and she pushed aside the books, but he was no longer in the next aisle. She turned, but she was wholly alone.
“Killian?” she demanded, keeping the waver from her voice. She turned again, flashlight cutting the dark, but there was nothing.
And then-“You’re exceptional”-his voice low and wicked in her ear, hand slipping under her shirt, and she shuddered under the touch. He had her now, grip tightening as she tried to turn, and when he pressed himself against her back, their bodies fusing into a hot line, she stumbled forward and they crashed together into the bookshelves.
Books fell all around them, exposing clouds of dust as Emma scrabbled for purchase. She pushed back, tried to get the upper hand, but that only made it worse-there was no space now between her body and the hard press of his arousal, and the moan it pulled from her lips took her by surprise. Killian groaned at the sound, his mouth a hot burn on her neck, her throat and then his hand was cupping her breast and Emma bit her lip to keep from crying out, body shuddering. But he wanted to hear that moan again and he dragged it from her slow and wanton, bodies grinding together and Emma braced with shaking arms to keep from being pressed into the books.
She rocked back, desperate for friction and Killian swore, turning his face into her neck. His fingers tightened in the material of her bra, frustrated when it wouldn’t give way-lace and wires unyielding to his desperation-and she scrambled to help, gasping as his teeth grazed the dip of her shoulder. Something tore. Her breasts spilled free from their confines, bra yanked down around her ribs, and she threw her head back onto his shoulder as his mouth found her pulse and sucked. Her hand shot out knocking more books to the floor.
She tried to reach between them, nails catching on the waist of his jeans, his belt-but he was pressing them too tightly together and in her need she rocked back, seeking friction and the sudden tightening of his hand on her breast. But it wasn’t enough-not nearly enough, and she keened, staggering Killian with the sound.
“Emma,” he groaned, but too slow.
Desperation had taken hold of her and she fumbled with button of her jeans with one hand, Killian’s touch running wild across her flushed skin. Her breath quickened in anticipation and then she had it-her shuddering moan loud enough to draw Killian’s attention, but too late to stop her. Her hand was already down the front of her jeans, cotton underwear stretching over her knuckles, fingers sliding to the ache and pressing.
“Fuck.” It nearly sent Killian over the edge.
He grabbed her wrist, but she didn’t stop. She’d go crazy if she stopped. Every nerve ending was on fire; each time he pressed against her, another neuron short-circuited in her brain until all that was left was the agonizing friction. She could feel the pressure building just behind her navel, every rough and frenzied slide of fingers against that ache sparking her body electric and she writhed against him. “Fuck” he breathed again and again, neither one of them in control - until he pressed his hand in over her own, straining denim and wrists, and she slid unexpectedly inside.
Emma gasped.
Killian pressed his forehead to the back of her neck, his breath gone ragged as he tried to adjust to this sudden turn of events, and Emma-who just couldn’t help herself-shifted her hips, her eyes squeezing shut, and began to move.
“Bloody hell woman,” Killian rasped, the last ounces of his self control slipping away with each faint “oh” panted from her lips.
It was too much. He pulled them back and they both stumbled, Emma’s hands flying free for balance. Killian’s back hit the shelves hard and he grunted in pain, books falling from the impact. Emma spun, trying to catch herself, but Killian pushed off the shelving and chased her back across the aisle and then his mouth was on hers, rough and demanding-and it was Emma’s turn to find her back against the shelves. They crashed into each other, pulling, yanking, lunging at one another in a fevered rush. Her wet fingers branded tracks across his throat, his arm, the small of his back; he captured desire in the jut of her exposed hip, jeans slipping down her thighs.
He tugged at her hips, and she knew what he wanted, knew it in the press of his tongue against the back of her teeth. Her arms locked fast around his neck and then she was off the ground, their hips slotting together agonizingly as he lifted her, Emma’s legs locking around his waist. They crashed into more bookshelves than they avoided; the need to rut against one another overpowering Killian’s ability to walk, to think clearly for more than a few seconds. Her siren laugh would sink him in the end.
She kissed him like she meant to devour him. She pulled hard at his hair and he bit back, eliciting a sharp cry from her and an obscene slide of her body against his. She was insatiable and Killian was intoxicated with her; the smell of her, the rough cries, the fucking brilliant coil of her body against his.
He groaned into her mouth and she laughed, breathless and earnest, thighs tightening around him for the sheer delight of another groan. They crashed into their destination, and he nearly dropped her, but she rolled back in a slow arch, her legs still tight around his waist, and then he had Emma right where he wanted: the circulation desk.
He’d wanted to fuck her on that table since the moment he’d seen it-and if the delicious curl of her mouth was any indication, so had she.
“You little minx,” he smirked, holding his body over hers. She lay where he’d dropped her, on the flat of her back, her arms tangled in the halo of her hair. He licked a stripe across her bared midriff and she laughed, her eyes gone hazy and unfocused. He had to smooth his hand and wrist along her inner thighs until she released him and he could step back to toe off his shoes.
He half-expected her to reach for him - his beautiful, demanding Emma - but she knew what she was doing, and he nearly fell, halfway out of his pants, when he made the mistake of looking back. Jeans halfway down her thighs and underwear a sodden mess-she couldn’t possibly have seen him, but he swore her knees parted an inch further, as if she knew.
Body tight, he kicked off his jeans and grabbed for her boot. She gave a small start, but he pressed the end of his wrist to the rise of her sternum and she stayed still as he undressed her-first her boots, then her jeans, anxious tugging that pulled her to the edge of the desk, knocking a wire basket and a cup of pencils off the edges. Her bare foot pressed to the jut of his hip before she could slip off.
Killian stared down at her, eyes spiraling to deepest blue-and Emma held his gaze, her bared stomach quaking with each tight inhale, body pale and lovely in its thrumming want. Then, with unexpected tenderness, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.
Emma bit her lower lip. Her eyes softened and when she reached for him this time he didn’t stop. Recovering the foil packet from the pocket of his jeans, he tore the gold with his teeth-but it was Emma who stopped him, drawing him down with arms about his neck to kiss her. Open-mouthed and languid, he traced the contours of her mouth, delving with his tongue long after she ceased to hold him there.
Her hands on him ended the kiss, the foil wrapper falling from her fingers as she stroked him through the separation of their lips. Killian couldn’t take his eyes off her slowly spreading grin. Emma gave a little twist of her wrist and he groaned through his own smile - he knew when to get on with it.
Straightening, he hooked his wrists beneath her knees and pulled her to the edge of the desk and Emma parted her legs, her thighs already quivering in anticipation. Her only warning was Killian’s smirk before he pressed inside her. Emma’s slow, glorious exhale was a psalm; every hitch and tightening of her body a holy rite.
He memorized her all over again.
Emma wanted him - pirate, bartender; Killian, Hook - and that was reason enough. He fell to worship. He moved, slowly at first, indulging in the tight heat of her enveloping him, the wetness they’d wrought between them, and Emma moved slowly with him, eyes half-shuttered.
But nothing ever stayed slow between them when they decided to move. They were the boulder at the crest of a hill, the fire at the edge of the prairie-all they needed was a subtle shift in the wind and they destroyed everything in their path.
Emma was his wind.
He knew what she was going to do before she ever did it - the subtle catch of her breath, the sly dart of her tongue across her lips - here, now, she was an open book, her every thought a beacon blazing out from her skin. When she moved he moved, a shifting of stance to catch the heel of her foot when she reached with it to hook him closer; each movement a matched set.
It should always be this easy.
Killian tightened his grip and he took the parting of her lips as incentive to pick up the pace, a rhythm Emma easily followed and then pushed past. It was another game of cat and mouse, each trying to outdo the other, to claim the upper hand. The desk began to shift beneath them. Emma tightened around him in a taunt that became buried in a moan, when Killian’s hips snapped forward, his rhythm faltering with a groan, and white stars burst behind her eyes.
She gasped something and it must have been his name-nothing else brought that look to his face, or undid him so completely. A thrill raced through her, to be the focus of all that intent - his jaw tightening so deliciously she ached to press her mouth to it, to lick the sweat from his throat.
Killian was relentless. He lifted her leg over his shoulder, changing the angle and Emma cried out, her back arching off the table. He pressed his weight into her and Emma took it, the desk groaning in protest. Her nails scrapped the surface, unable to find purchase; only Killian kept them locked together.
Emma was so close, her movements frenzied and desperate, but she held on to the edge of it, too stubborn to give in first even though her toes were curling. Then Killian began to whisper things to her, low and filthy, and she could only make out half the lewd promises but it was enough.
She crashed over the edge, holding to nothing, her body an electric shock dispersing out. Killian came after, hips snapping erratically through the tremors of Emma’s release, and he nearly collapsed against her. He breathed heavy into the rucked up mess of her shirt, his hand beside her shoulder the only thing keeping his full weight from falling onto her. Emma lowered her still shaking legs, letting them hang off the edge of the desk.
For a long moment it was all they could do to regain their breath. Emma’s palm skirted through his hair, then fell away again. His thumb brushed an S into her shoulder.
“This is a library,” Emma repeated, too debauched to sound at all scandalized.
“So you’ve said,” Killian grinned, loose and easy, mouth pressing to the swell of her ribs as he lifted his head. “I’ll be sure to strike it off the list.”
She worked her toes between them and pushed him off by the hip, laughing a little. When she sat up, her hair stuck to the damp lines of her neck. She finally tugged her bra back up to its proper place and maneuvered herself off the desk and onto shaky legs. The desk gave one last aggrieved creak.
“You know we can’t leave it like this,” she said, stepping slowly into her underwear.
Killian stalled his own lazy redressing to watch her slip back into her clothes, regretting nothing even when Emma caught him staring and drawled, “Can I help you?”
“If you insist,” he grinned, undoing the button on his jeans again. Emma burst out laughing, nearly tipping over as she tried to pull her boots back on.
“Good god,” she exclaimed. Killian advanced provocatively, biting at his lower lip as his gaze dropped.
“Literally keep it in your pants,” Emma ordered, still ghosting a smile as she pointed warningly at him. She took two steps back and his grin grew.
“Tease.”
Her lips quirked. “We’ve got a job to do, remember?”
“I remember nothing of the sort,” he cajoled, and dared to take a step forward-one that Emma noted but did nothing to counter. “I think you may have shagged the thought clear out of me.”
Emma wanted to laugh. He was just so-persistent. And it should have been cheesy, or inappropriate, or too much-but it only made her want to laugh; it felt like something pure and feather-light stirring against the heaviness of her heart. She pursed her mouth, fighting against that innate amusement.
“No.”
“No what?”
“Just no,” she repeated, lips twitching. With one last warning look, she began retracing their hurricane steps, re-shelving books any which way.
Knowing exactly what they’d done to cause that trail of abused and discarded books, brought a faint flush to her cheeks-a heat not eased by Killian’s amused chuckles as he followed in her wake. The dark aisle that had started it all was the worst of it; nearly two full bookcases bore empty shelves.
“Impressive,” Killian whispered over her shoulder, making her jump. Then he slid past her, closer than was really necessary, and Emma glared, but it had no effect on Killian’s turned back. In the end, she joined him - but on the opposite side - stepping over great heaps of history books.
“Maybe next time-“
“No.”
“Well, you’re no fun.”
“Please.” Emma stuffed a War of the Roses account next to an out-of-order series on the Civil War without caring. She stooped to grab another. “If I’m not fun, then why-“
Emma yelped in pain and dropped the book, tiny purple bolts sparking against her fingers. The book hit the floor and cracked along its spine, falling open on broken seams at her feet.
“Are you alright, love?” Killian was at her side, concern writ across his brow as he brought her scorched fingers to his lips, but the pain was nothing to Emma. She was looking at the book.
“Killian...”
“Bit of a shock, was it-?”
She cut him off. “Killian. The book.”
He finally looked down, and then he saw what she had seen: the slow scrawl of black ink spreading across the pages as they watched; words bleeding onto thick-pressed paper in an all too familiar hand.
“Is that-?“
“Yeah,” Emma breathed. “It’s Regina’s.”
---
Part B