Work Text:
there is a crack in everything,
that’s how the light gets in
- Leonard Cohen -
It’s not that he doesn’t understand. It’s that he does.
It’s a monthly thing, this gathering at David’s house; not even dinner, just “food and casual conversation”. David is his supervisor, a thoroughly decent man who likes to help people and who zeroed in on Killian most likely in lieu of rescuing puppies for a living. The man has a serious savior complex.
Killian doesn’t really enjoy the company of others, least of all large groups of people; he has few friends and all of them are no less than 6000 ocean miles away. That is no accident. Yet David invites him to his house every month without fail for these casual evenings and every month Killian goes.
It’s not that he likes spending time with David’s motley group of friends, but he doesn’t exactly dislike it either, and quite frankly, it’s impossible to say no to David.
Impossible.
The woman has nothing to do with it.
He knows her name is Emma. She’s another outlier, someone at the very fringe of this social circle, and he is certain she only shows up at these gatherings because she can’t say no to David either. Killian usually hangs back somewhere near the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, close to the food, not really part of any conversation unless asked to participate directly. They seem to accept it, his need for distance, even though David’s wife - a force of nature with short black hair who has perfected the art of the stern-yet-mischievous glare - does occasionally toss the conversation to him. When he replies, she beams at Killian in a way that makes him feel much better than it should.
Emma is a bit more integrated into the group, but she is not made for large gatherings or fast-moving conversation either, he can tell. He can tell almost to the moment when she goes into overload, when she stops listening and starts nodding, when she’s reached her absolute limit. She likes this group of people, it’s clear that she feels comfortable among them, but she talks very little, and she is always the first to leave. It takes Killian unprecedented amounts of willpower to wait a suitable amount of time after she says her good-byes, before he can take his own leave.
He really would like to talk to her someday. She’s smart and has interesting thoughts, and he thinks it might not be so hard to uphold his end of the conversation with her. That she might not mind long pauses and silences, that she might like them, in fact. The problem is that he can’t really talk to her at David’s, not with ten other people around, munching on Mary Margaret’s excellent fingerfood and wrapping Emma up in discourse until she has to leave. He can’t be just another piece of dialogue, and he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be part of the overload.
And he definitely doesn’t want to follow her, doesn’t want to bother her after she has obviously had enough. So he listens mostly to her and waits at least ten minutes after she leaves and never does talk to her, and it’s probably best that way.
Probably.
Definitely.
Then there’s the fact that Emma shows up injured. Not often, but much too often for his liking. A bruise here, a stiff joint there, twice obviously limping -, but no one seems to be overly concerned. Instead there are lots of jokes about people who “should know better than to run”, and even the occasional “another one bites the dust”. David’s eyes tend to get very dark and his mouth becomes a thin line, so Killian knows he’s not the only one who’s bothered by this, but David keeps his comments to himself. Aided by many a pointed look from Emma. It’s not until six months in that Belle - a lovely, bookish sort with kind eyes and a knowing smile - pulls Killian aside and explains that Emma is a bailbonds-person, and that sometimes the skips she captures resist said capture.
Violently so.
It surprises him just how much he hates the thought of Emma going after dangerous culprits. Just how worried it makes him. He starts to look for damage every time he sees her from then on, tries to gauge how rigid her stance or prominent her concealer, but months go by and everything remains fine and he relaxes a bit.
And then she shows up with her left arm completely immobilized in a sling which wraps around her torso for good measure.
Emma says, “Everyone please relax, it’s just a dislocated shoulder.” -- but while the conversation does move on, the jokes remain noticeably absent. Killian finds himself almost hovering, venturing out from the counter several times, only to draw back, because Emma is surrounded by more people than usual. There is an artificial brightness to each conversation that night, and David is scowling like thunder, and Killian wishes he could talk to David and give reassurance, or talk to Emma and get reassurance, and yet he can’t manage either.
But when Emma gets ready to leave he finds himself close to the coat rack, and sees her uselessly pull at the collar of her jacket in an effort to get it around her bound shoulder, and he simply takes a step forward and reaches for the fabric and lifts it so she can grasp it with her right hand.
He doesn’t say, “here, let me”, or “there you go”, or “got it”. He doesn’t say anything at all. He keeps his head down so as to not draw attention to his actions and only looks up when he steps back after she’s sorted.
She’s looking straight at him.
Years ago Killian had the misfortune of touching a live wire while standing on a wooden stool. The stool saved his life, because it didn’t ground him, but there was a hum vibrating through his entire body as 110 volts of current traveled through every blood vessel, muscle, and sinew, looking for egress.
That’s exactly what it feels like now, meeting her eyes.
She just looks at him, biting her lip, and then her gaze travels down to where his left hand should be. To his empty sleeve. And then back up to his face, and she smiles, a small, wistful, grateful smile. She pulls her coat closed and nods at him, still biting her lip, still with that grateful smile, nods and turns and quietly leaves.
And Killian stands there for a long time, unmoving, because he just had a whole conversation without saying a word.
He goes home in a daze. Goes to work the next day in a daze. Is preoccupied enough for David to notice and ask several times if Killian is all right and by the end of the day Killian is angry, very angry at himself for not being able to focus. He walks home instead of taking the bus, tries to let the cold air and the harsh wind clear his head and excise her from his thoughts, but it doesn’t work. He arrives home, still muddled and out of sorts and is on his second shot of rum when the doorbell rings.
And there she is.
Standing in his hallway. Here. In this building. Where he lives.
Killian’s jaw drops.
“Sorry,” she says and promptly bites down on her lip again.
She looks cold. Her jacket isn’t closed all the way, doesn’t fit over the sling, and she looks thoroughly windblown. She’s holding a scarf in her right hand. It trails down to the streaked linoleum.
He doesn’t know what to say.
He doesn’t even know what to think.
“I am so sorry to bother you,” she says, and he still can’t think. Then she shifts her weight and he blinks and opens the door wide and nods for her to come in.
“Thanks,” she says. “Again, so sorry to bother you.”
He points to the couch and she sits down with an awkward twist away from her left side and a measured exhale. He pours her a shot of rum and hands it to her.
“Drink this,” he says softly. “It’ll warm you up.”
Her smile turns unmistakably grateful and she downs the shot in one go.
“I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” she says as she puts down the glass and wipes her mouth.
He is wondering exactly that, and nods, but what comes out is, “How do you know where I live?”
She chuckles. “I find people for a living. Your whereabouts were not hard to figure out.”
He looks at her and she rolls her eyes.
“I asked David.”
It’s his turn to chuckle. Of course David would tell her.
She awkwardly tries to unzip her jacket with one hand and he gets up to hold the bottom.
“Thanks,” she says and then bites her lip again. “As a matter of fact---” she points her chin at the zipper--- “this is kind of why I’m here.”
That doesn’t clear anything up in the least, and Killian sits back down and waits.
She is silent for a long time, and then finally sighs and says, “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to come here. Please forgive me for barging in on you like that.”
She starts to get up, but Killian stays her movement, puts his hand on her good arm.
“Wait,” he says. “Tell me why you’re here.” She sits back down slowly, looks a bit like a deer caught in headlights, and he says what he’s been wanting to say for a year. “Talk to me.”
“It’s silly.” She huffs, clearly uncomfortable, and surely her lip must be worn down by now, but he waits and tries to nod encouragingly and finally she says, “I think I need help.”
It looks like that sentence nearly killed her.
She looks down, stares at her shoes, and doesn’t move until Killian says, “Help? Help with what?”
He doesn’t like speculation. He likes for people to say what they mean.
She lifts her head but doesn’t look at him, stares off into the distance. “It’s really hard to do things with just one arm.” Her voice is very quiet. “So much harder than I thought it would be, you know? Just getting dressed, well---” she snorts--- “it’s no accident I’m wearing sweatpants, let’s just leave it at that.”
He had not noticed, but now that he looks, yes. It appears she’s wearing some sort of gym wear.
“You were really nice yesterday.” Her voice is a whisper now. “You were nice and you have experien----”
She cuts herself off abruptly.
He smiles at her. It’s OK - it’s not like missing a hand is his secret.
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “I just thought--- maybe you could give me some pointers? Or am I----” she suddenly looks up, mortified--- “am I being impossibly rude right now? Am I totally crossing a line here?”
She looks like she’s gearing up for a flood of apologies and he shakes his head.
“No,” he says, and looks straight at her so she can see that he means it. “No, Emma. Of course not.”
She breathes a sigh of relief.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Another sigh, this time accompanied by a smile. She has a very nice smile.
“But your situation is a bit different from mine,” he says, lifting his left arm. “Your whole left side is immobile, right?” She nods. “And I assume moving is painful?”
“It’s OK,” she says, and he knows it’s a lie. She’s a tough lass for sure.
“I’m so sorry.” He shrugs. “There really aren’t any tips I can give you other than wait it out.”
He thinks of a physical therapy nurse, a large smiling man named Robin who taught him how to function again, of no less than three mates who kicked him into gear repeatedly as he struggled to adjust to tragic loss and a missing limb and would not let him give up. This is not the same thing, but it’s close enough.
“The only help I can offer you is, well, help.”
“What do you mean?” She looks as shocked as he feels by his own offer, but there is no turning back. He owes this to every single person who helped him after the wreck.
“I could help you out.” His voice is not quite steady. “If you want. Come by, bring you groceries, help you cook. You know, that sort of thing.”
There is a long, long silence and then there are many, many words that erupt from Emma and all of them are a testament to the war inside her, the fact that she cannot truly admit to herself that she needs help and the fact that she thinks she’s not altogether worthy of it, either.
Killian knows this war very, very well.
He lets her talk for a bit, but then she says, “I can’t ask you to do that” for at least the third time and he decides that now is the moment.
“But you’re not asking,” he says, cutting her off as gently as possible. “I’m offering.”
It takes the wind out of her sails. Her mouth opens and then closes again, silently.
Killian smiles, and pulls out his phone.
“Put your address in here?” He says. “And your number?” And then he realizes something. “Have you eaten?”
She takes the phone slowly, as if not quite sure what is happening, and says, “I’m not very hungry.”
He shakes his head. Oh, how well he knows this particular brand of pride.
“How did you get here?”
“Bus,” she mumbles, eyes on his phone as she types in her contact information.
He looks at his watch.
“Why don’t we take a cab back to your place,” he says. “It’s late, but you can order some food for tonight, and I can make a list of groceries to get you tomorrow.”
“I can carry groceries,” she huffs.
“Emma,” he says quietly. “It hurts you to sit.”
She looks up, as if caught in a lie.
“I’m happy to help,” he goes on. “This is only temporary, remember that.”
Her eyes snap to his empty sleeve, his very permanently empty sleeve, and when she looks back up her eyes are huge and even more mortified than before.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to---”
The last thing he wants is pity. Not from anyone, but especially not from her.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he cuts her off, a bit more brusquely than intended, but she seems to understand.
She nods.
“Good,” he says. “Let’s get a cab.”
-/-
“What about vegetables?”
Killian turns from the fridge and Emma pulls a face. “Not my favorite things in the world.”
“I did get that impression,” he says, smiling. “What with their utter absence from your fridge.”
Emma laughs. Having him in her apartment, in her space, is much less intrusive than she’d feared. She’s almost bothered by how much it does not bother her. Almost, because being around him is effortless. It doesn’t require her to do anything or be anything, least of all a sparkling conversationalist.
Then again, all they’ve talked about so far are groceries. How much work could it be?
She realizes he’s looking at her expectantly, waiting for a response, and she says, “sorry, what?”
“I asked if there’s food you absolutely despise,” he says. “I think I can just work backwards from there.”
“Pickles,” she says. “I will not eat pickles under pain of death.”
He chuckles.
“And tomatoes.” That gets her a raised eyebrow, but she really hates tomatoes, so she just raises her own arch eyebrow right back at him. It gets her another chuckle.
“And mustard. And tuna.”
“What an interesting assortment,” he says, grinning. “Anything else?”
She shakes her head.
“Good.” He smiles. “I’ll be by tomorrow after work. Will you be all right for tonight?”
She nods. “I’ll just wait for my food and go to bed. I’m not doing leg work for the next couple of days anyway.”
“Good.”
He doesn’t smile much, Emma has noticed that, but he means it when he does.
.
He shows up the following evening with a large backpack and two paper bags full of food and proceeds to cook her dinner. When she offers to help he looks at her sharply.
“I know you didn’t want to mention it last night.” His voice is soft, but determined. “But you have at least one cracked rib under those velcro straps.”
She sputters, because it’s true, and then gratefully sinks down on the counter stool. Damn that man for reading her like an open book. And for knowing what a cracked rib feels like. She’s still quietly steaming when she notices he is blushing.
And pulling lettuce leaves with much greater force than necessary, although she does appreciate the sheer engineering ingenuity of using the rim of an upside-down glass bowl, pressed down on and held in place by his left forearm, while his right rips the leaves from the stalk.
“Killian?” She asks, and his blush increases. “Killian what---”
And then he blurts out, “You’re going to want to take a shower at some point.” The tips of his ears go fire-engine red and he looks positively abashed.
She nods and says “Yes”, because she’s overdue, and he looks up.
“Look,” he says. “I have no designs on your modesty. And I’m sure you can manage. But just in case you don’t---” He huffs. His eyes dart around the room. His cheeks are bright red. “Just promise me. Promise me you won’t do it when I’m not here. Promise me you won’t do it when you’re alone in your apartment. There are so many things that could go wrong.” He’s so serious. The thought of danger had not occurred to Emma at all, but it does now. “Please.” Even more serious now. “I’ll stay out here, I won’t bother you at all. Not unless you call for me.”
Emma still thinks he’s exaggerating how dire the circumstance, but there is nothing she can do in the face of his earnestness but nod. So she does.
-/-
It’s so easy.
That’s what sticks. It’s just so very easy to be around her. To talk to her. To sit on her overstuffed couch and not have to work at being comfortable, but just be.
Be.
She tells him that she got into bail bonds by accident after helping a friend run her wayward, non-alimony-paying husband to ground. She says she feels like her work makes a difference, that it’s important to hold people accountable for their actions. She says she knows she won’t be able to do it forever, but it’s what she wants to do right now. He looks at her sling and bites his tongue. She lapses into silence and it doesn’t feel like pressure, doesn’t feel at all like it’s ‘his turn to talk now’, like he needs to come up with words quickly to fill the pause.
Her breaths are even and calm, a thousand yard stare in her eyes, and there’s no rush to do anything.
Maybe that’s why he speaks.
Tells her that he’s from Cornwall and has always loved the sea. Tells her that he likes it here, likes being near the ocean, needs it, in fact. She asks if that is why he works at the docks and he answers it is, and she nods as her eyes flick down to his sleeve and he tells her that his job involves push buttons and joysticks and he can manage fine with one hand.
He doesn’t tell her how he lost said hand and she doesn’t ask. He doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t wear a prosthetic because they are intricate and custom-made and quite frankly he cannot afford one. Or that he’s self-conscious about it in social situations and that’s one of the reasons going to David’s house once a month takes such an effort. He stays silent and she doesn’t push, but smiles instead, clearly enjoys their quiet moments as much as their conversation.
“So how do you know David?” he asks, because he wants to know more about her. Know everything about her, if possible. That’s never happened to him before.
“He’s my foster brother,” she says. His brow furrows. She smiles. “I grew up in the system. Got sort of moved around a lot before I ended up with David and his mom.”
For a moment he doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but it’s oddly painful. She catches sight of his face and smiles again. Her smiles are lovely.
“Was it hard?” His voice is a whisper. They are in extremely personal territory suddenly. How did they get here?
“It’s fine,” she says. “I had a bit of trouble starting out, but once I got to Ruth’s it all turned out well.”
“Trouble?” He can’t stop asking questions. The dull ache in his chest is still there.
She rolls her eyes. It’s supremely self-deprecating.
“I did a lot of running away. Had a bit of a problem with authority. Also with overbearing foster fathers.”
The way she says ‘overbearing’ makes an ice-cold shiver run down his spine and before he knows it he has taken her hand in his. She stills, looks at him for a long time and then says, “Don’t worry. It’s all fine now, I promise. This is ancient history.” She shifts her weight, groans, and lets go of his hand. It feels cold. It takes her a moment to settle back in, and then---
she takes his hand.
So natural and comfortable. And warm. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to squeeze her fingers, not to draw attention to this link between them.
“It’s really OK.” She looks up. “They were wonderful to me. Ruth was tough and wouldn’t put up with any of my shit, but she also really liked me. I could tell. And David--- you know how when you fuck up he just looks at you like he’s supremely disappointed?”
Killian can’t help but smile. He knows exactly what she means.
“Yeah. He has that look like ‘come on, you’re better than that.’ It’s lethal, really.”
Killian laughs out loud. “He gave me that look the first time I didn’t show up to his party, after I said I would. Saw right through my flimsy excuse, too.”
Her grin is knowing.
“I haven’t missed an evening since,” he says, and does not add that it has anything to do with her. Because it doesn’t.
Does it?
But then she smiles again and asks him if he bought anything sweet and he gets up to grab a pack of chocolate cookies he added to the groceries at the last minute because he guessed she might have a sweet tooth and he stops thinking about what it means to see her on the David nights.
-/-
Late that night she offers him the couch and he accepts. He sleeps on her couch every night after that. He keeps her fridge stocked with ridiculously healthy food, but he always gets her chocolate cookies.
They cook together. She jokes that between them they have enough hands to make light work. He chuckles and doesn’t comment on how little she knows about making food.
She never needs his help in the shower. But she does need him to put her sling back on afterwards, and he does so calmly and competently. There is neither awkwardness nor innuendo.
Rough weather over the Atlantic upsets several cargo routes and throws the harbor into a logistical nightmare when the amount of docked freighters suddenly triples. He ends up working double shifts for 17 days straight until she puts her foot down because he’s pale and exhausted and looks like he could fall asleep standing up. She calls David and yells at him for overworking his crew and then tells Killian in no uncertain terms that he’s on 48 hour leave and he better spend most of it resting. Killian looks absolutely affronted while she shouts at David and then helpless when she points to her bedroom and demands he lie down in there. He protests for one weak moment before she gives him a look that could have melted steel and he capitulates. He sleeps like a baby for 13 hours straight.
She starts to look into getting a private investigator license. His whole face lights up when she tells him, tells him this could be a next step for her. All he can think about is that this means she may not chase down criminals three times her size forever. If he never sees her injured again it will be too soon.
She gets better.
And better.
And better still.
And then one day, the sling comes off, and it’s over.
-/-
For two whole weeks after he goes back home, she doesn’t hear from him. For two whole weeks he doesn’t call, doesn’t come by, nothing. And Emma realizes--- she misses him. Misses his quiet presence and his delicious cooking and his warm smile. Misses his sharp wit and his encouragement and the way he fits into her space.
Into her life.
On day 16 Emma stops hemming and hawing and simply shows up on his doorstep with pad thai takeout.
He’s delighted . Truly happy to see her. They have a lovely evening. She tells him he’s welcome at her place as well, anytime. But she doesn’t hear from him afterwards.
This time she only waits two days before she calls and when he picks up he says he’s happy to hear her voice and she can tell he means it. When she gets to his place he has her cookies already laid out. She tells him he has a standing invitation to her place, too. But he doesn’t call, and doesn’t come by. Again. And she realizes--- this is who he is. This is how he works. She will have to be the push.
Emma can be the push.
They spend many relaxed evenings on his couch. Emma falls asleep on him several times. Wakes up twice in his bed, carefully covered with a blanket, while he’s out on the sofa. But most times she wakes up to him fast asleep as well, his arm around her shoulders, his nose buried in her hair and a slight smile on his face.
He usually wakes up just a few moments after she does and every time his smile gets bigger as his eyes open. But she always ends up going home.
And then one night he does show up uninvited.
There’s a vicious storm howling and she can’t sleep and when her doorbell rings at 2:37 AM she assumes she’s hearing things. And then it rings again.
He’s soaked to the skin and the look on his face is one she has never seen before. On any face.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t be here.”
His voice sounds strangled and she’s afraid some of the water on his face might be tears. She shakes her head and pulls him inside. Where he shouldn’t be is out there, not in this storm, with that expression on his face.
“What happened?” She tries to make her voice as calm as possible as she pulls off his jacket. He just stands there, head hung low, dripping on her carpet.
“Killian?” She tries again. “Are you all right?”
He looks at her, his eyes huge and sad and just says, “No.”
And Emma feels a sharp stab of something she has never felt before. It is oddly painful.
She guides him over to the couch and he protests because of his wet clothes and her dry cushions and she tells him to please forget about fabric while thinking she’s never seen eyes this haunted before. The ache inside her gets worse.
“I’m sorry,” he says again as he finally sits down.
“Please don’t be sorry,” she says. He is stiff and yet slumped, and he’s studying his knees.
“Don’t be sorry,” she says again. “Just talk to me.”
He shakes his head and in a low, resigned voice he says, “It’s ten years today. I thought I could handle it, but----”
Ten years today. Emma is not stupid. An anniversary of something so traumatic it drove him outside in the middle of the night, drove him to her doorstep. This is about his hand.
She very slowly puts her own hand on his left arm, just a light touch, and his eyes snap to hers and they are desperate .
“Tell me,” she whispers.
“Royal Navy,” he says. “I joined up right after my exams, followed my brother. We crewed together on the Monmouth .” He has to take several deep breaths before he can go on. “Ten years ago we ran into choppy waters right off the Skeleton Coast.” He looks up. “You can be in a state of the art frigate with five thousand tons of displacement and all the latest technology, but let me tell you, off that stretch of Namibia the Benguela current can still show you who your master is, and that day she did .”
He’s no longer looking at her. He is lost in time, stuck inside this decade-old moment that still bleeds like a fresh wound, and all she can do is wait.
Wait out his perfect silence as he stares off into the distance, not moving, just breathing, shallow and fast. The arm below her hand trembles, while he sits perfectly still.
After an eternity he shakes his head.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he says. “I shouldn’t bother you with this. But----” he sighs and shrugs, helpless--- “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
She squeezes his trembling arm.
“You should be here,” she says.
He chuckles, small, empty, defeated.
“Please, Killian,” she tries again. “This is the place you should be.”
“Yeah?” He says, and it sounds bitter and resigned, but then he looks up and oh god, the hope in his eyes. The hope .
She nods.
“I lost my brother and my hand all in the space of a few hours,” he whispers. “That morning I got up and life was normal and less than 24 hours later I was in a Navy hospital with nothing.” He shudders. “And I usually get through this night with copious amounts of rum just fine, but tonight….”
His voice trails off and she knows.
She knows that sometimes getting just a little bit of what you need is worse than not getting it at all, she knows that they made a connection right when both of them had given up hope, she knows that he belongs in her life now, that she can’t go back to before, can’t go back to life without him, because he fits, fits into her like a missing puzzle piece and she knows, knows , beyond the shadow of a doubt that it is the same for him.
That their lives belong together.
“I’m here,” she says and then leans forward, cups his cheek, and he leans into her palm. “I’m here for you no matter what.” His eyes flutter closed and she brushes her lips across his and for a moment he just breathes, but then his hand winds into her hair and he kisses her back, soft and hard and desperate and gentle all at once.
When he pulls back he leans his forehead against hers and whispers, “I love you.”
And she knows there is so much damage between them - loss and pain and heartbreak and grief - but she also knows that above all else one thing is true, and so she answers, “I love you, too.”