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Emma Swan could predict the future.
Although perhaps that was a misnomer. It wasn’t all the time. No big events; no lottery ticket numbers, no devastating car crashes, or catastrophic earthquakes. Ultimately, nothing remotely important. Frankly, it was a complete waste of time. Figured that Emma had spent most of her life wishing for magic – for something to take her away and give her that fairy-tale end – and all she got was a crappy superpower that she couldn’t even use half the time.
Yet, every time her skin brushed another’s, images of their life would flash before her eyes, and she’d be transported into five seconds of their future at any discernible point in time. A moment of temporary displacement where she was suddenly privy to a new car five years down the line, or a spilt coffee three hours later. No rhyme or reason as to when or where.
So, perhaps it was a misnomer to say Emma could predict the future. But the facts were these:
Emma Swan could predict the future, but she couldn’t control what she saw or even how far into the future she looked.
As a result, Emma wouldn’t say she went out of her way not to touch people, but she certainly didn’t actively seek out unnecessary physical contact.
(“Well, you can be a bit prickly,” Elsa had told her one night. A bottle of wine between them as reruns of House played in the background. Emma had only ever told one person: Neal. It hadn’t gone down well, and it was safe to say that Emma had no desire to brand herself as the village freak to anyone else. But sometimes, just sometimes, she wished she could share it with someone. That someone, somewhere wouldn’t think of her any less, or think her ‘prickly’, or cold, or frigid because of it. But again, Emma had been down that road before; all prison sentence, metal handcuffs, and a pressing loneliness that had made her feel as icy and alone as everyone believed her to be.)
Still, Emma thought, with her power, crappy or not, there was an irony that she hadn’t been able to see this coming.
For the past seven months, Emma had lived in Storybrooke, Maine with her ten-year-old son Henry after a series of shitty events ranging from being fired from her equally shitty job, to their apartment complex burning down with everything in it. It had been a fucking fantastic time all around. At the prompting of her friend Mary-Margaret, they’d made the trek from New York to Storybrooke with all the intents of a fresh start and moving on to better things. Onwards and upwards, right? Wrong. Emma should’ve known her luck would’ve caught up with her.
“It is not that bad, Emma,” Mary-Margaret sighed, sat beside her in a comically large and floppy sunhat that Emma would’ve loved to make fun of had she been anywhere else. “It’s just the town farmer’s market!” Staring down into the depths of her hot chocolate in distain, Emma was overwhelmed with a desperate desire to plunge into its scorching hot depths and be burnt alive.
“I think it’s cute. Quaint!”
Perhaps, if Emma’s ‘gift’ was even remotely useful, she could’ve cut away the offending rotting limb known as Mary-Margaret, long before she’d infected the whole host and led Emma here. Perhaps, if ten years ago, Emma ‘fresh out of the Arizona department of Juvenile Corrections with a new-born baby’ Swan, had seen this coming when she’d shook Mary-Margaret’s hand instead of the rock she’d tripped over two hours later, she wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.
But here she was. At Storybrooke’s farmers market, that boosted an array of events dedicated to some sort of crap. Emma didn’t remember to be honest, and frankly, she didn’t care. But despite it all, there she sat: behind an over-glorified fold up table that boasted 250 pounds of barista equipment, and a crooked sign that declared she was the proud owner of Once Upon a Time – Storybrooke’s newest coffee shop. The name had been Henry’s idea. After so many years working behind the counter at someone else’s shop, the move and all the shitty events that had led up to it had given Emma the opportunity to finally, finally, do something on her own terms. A fresh start or a new beginning as Henry had called it, “And all the best stories start with once upon a time, Mom!”.
She was already regretting this fresh start. Mulan, her store supervisor who stood nearby, likewise looked like she wanted to shove a pencil in her eye. Solidarity, Emma thought.
By hour four, she was ready to go home. Frankly, by ten minutes in Emma had been ready to go back home. But Henry was happy. Running around the stalls and talking to this person and that – the most excited he’d been since the move – so Emma, weak to the whims of her ten-year-old, couldn’t bring herself to leave. It didn’t stop her thinking about it though.
“Coffee. Black.” Leroy stood in front of her as he tapped his watch impatiently, “Come on lady, we ain’t got all day.” Emma smiled a tight, bitter thing as she dropped the Americano in front of him. The drink dropping with a thud and splashing coffee all over the table, dripping down onto his shoes.
“Enjoy.” She said, her tone flat. Truly, customer service was her passion. She was debating joining Mulan in shoving pencils in her eyes and seeing what happened.
“Mom!” Henry suddenly shouted from across the street. Panic gripped Emma for a second until she saw he was running towards with a grin. His hair whipped in the wind and God, for a moment he looked so much like Neal that it sent racing pains across her arms.
“Whoa, kid,” Emma scoffed with a smile. “Where’s the fire?”. She winced. Probably not the best choice of words considering everything that had brought them here. Henry didn’t seem too bothered though luckily. She rubbed the remnants from Leroy’s coffee from her hands onto her apron.
He shoved a flower into her face, “Here!”. It was a bright, pink eyesore of a thing and frankly, the fucking ugliest flower Emma had ever seen. God, she hoped Henry hadn’t bought it. She just knew she’d struggle to say nice things about it, and damn if her kid didn’t deserve more than her half-hearted thanks if he had been trying to do something nice. She plastered a smile on and tried to move the thing away.
“You buying flowers now, kid?” Please say no, please say no, please say no.
“No,” Thank God. “It came from over there”.
Emma watched as Henry pointed in a vague direction several stalls down, her eye catching on the local florists’. Flowers littered the table – purples, reds, pinks, and blues, all tied up in twine and in individual buckets, that surrounded a sign that declared the shop as Neverland. Seriously? Emma thought. Guess they were all going with the fairy-tale theme. Fitting for a place named Storybrooke. Behind the stall sat a woman. Her hair was dark, and messy, and tied up in that artful way that just served to piss Emma off. She’d never felt more unattractive in her life in her sweaty shirt and jeans covered in coffee granules. The other woman in contrast looked like she was having a fucking breeze. Her shirt was low cut, deep enough that Emma could see the lines of intricate waves that crept up her neck which just served to encourage anyone who was looking to look down even further. She looked up and winked at Emma. The flower in her hand felt clunky and large, and blood roared through her veins.
If she was trying to flirt with Emma, using her kid to do so, she had another thing coming.
“I’ll be right back, kid,” Emma smiled at Henry before she stomped off to the florist. The same one who just kept fucking staring at her with that slight smirk. Her eyes were a stunning ocean blue – torn between the colour of a storm and the very depths of the sea itself. A stunning whirlpool that wanted to ensnare Emma until she was drowning with no air to find. That just pissed her off further frankly, and Emma clutched the flower stem tighter.
“Look,” Emma firmly began, as she laid the flower down in front of the florist. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not interested. So, thanks, but no thanks,” Emma’s lips curled into a facsimile of a smile. “Besides, I’m not a flower girl.”
“Killian,” the woman smirked back.
“My name,” she continued with a thick Irish accent and a raspy voice that sent a shiver down Emma’s spine. “It’s Killian. Killian Jones.” Emma watched as she carefully bookmarked her book, placed it to the side and lent forward, her forearms bracketed the flower and for a moment Emma was fixated on the prosthetic which encompassed her left hand before quickly looking away. “And, as flattered as I am to have your attention, love, the bestower of your gift was not me.”
Killian picked up the lily and rotated it between her fingertips as she turned her head to Emma’s left and nodded towards Marco’s stall who seemed to be talking to a little kid. “Alice. The five-year-old you can see there in the…well. Rather hideous, bright green ensemble. She’s my daughter. Thought it would be nice to give out flowers to all the stall owners. So, you have her to thank, lass”. And with that, Killian winked and handed Emma back the flower. Emma instinctively grabbed it, cursing herself as their fingers brushed.
In her mind’s eye, Emma saw a beautiful Victorian model house with a wraparound porch and a stunning sea view. The fixture a hazy blueish-grey colour that Emma had dreamt about for years. A perfect representation of her ideal home that Killian Jones apparently had written in her future, and Emma watched as she opened the door and in a warm shout, called out for another.
“And everyone is into flowers, love,” Killian continued. “Some just pretend they aren’t more than others”.
Emma had never been more pissed off in her life. The idea that this stranger, this random woman – fucking Killian Jones - who sat before her, had a future in which she had everything that Emma wanted was unbearable. A seething pit boiled up in Emma’s stomach and her jaw clenched. Her palm tightened around the flower stem as her heart line, lifeline, sunline, and any other fucking line that Mary-Margaret prattled on about ran rampant with pounding blood as her hand and the lily became intertwined.
“I’m not your love,” Emma finally hissed. She stomped her way back to her own stall and threw the flower into the trash, doing her best to put the whole conversation out of mind. It didn’t work. The bad mood followed Emma all day and a heady want set heavy in her bones no matter how much she tried to push the florist and that damn house out of her thoughts.
___
That night, Emma sat on Mary-Margaret’s porch with a glass of wine in her hand. A thick layer of condensation built up on the glass in the cool summer evening and she swirled it around and around and around thinking of all the things she wanted but could never have.
___
It was just Emma’s luck that she ran into Killian Jones again two weeks later.
Judging by the book the florist had been reading at her stall, it probably shouldn’t have taken Emma by surprise to run into her at the local library but still, with several tons’ worth of Henry’s library books in her arms, Emma was massively caught off guard when a familiar Irish voice drawled a greeting.
“Ah, if it isn’t Storybrooke’s own new and upcoming café owner.”
“Jones,” Emma replied with a tight-lipped smile as she turned to Killian smirking behind her. “If it isn’t Storybrooke’s most annoying florist. Why are you here?”
“So hostile, love. It’s a public library”.
“Yeah well, still not your love,” Emma said as she dropped Henry’s books with a thud onto the table beside her. She turned back to Killian and crossed her arms.
“Aye well,” Killian mimicked - the Irish lilt in her voice drawing out the consonants, “you still have yet to give me a name to use instead…love”. She hooked her thumb into a belt loop and leaned closer to Emma as her lips turned upwards. And damn if she wasn’t right. But damn if Emma had any desire to give Killian Jones her name; to hear the world roll off her tongue or to even have it remotely close to Killian’s lips. But it was that or love – the endearment ringing in Emma’s ears like a heaving bell or a funeral call.
“Emma,” she bit out, “Swan.”
“Emma Swan,” Killian drawled, the vowels danced between her lips as she caressed the syllables, just like Emma knew she would, “Chills”. Emma watched as Killian reached around Emma, her arm just skirting past Emma’s waist as she dropped her book next to Henry’s. Moby Dick stared up at Emma and she watched as Killian slid a photograph out of the book. Their faces inches apart from one another, the heat of their breath intertwining from proximity as Emma spied two young boys printed forever in time on the photograph. She tightened the hold on her arms and wrapped her hands around her leather jacket.
“Brothers?” Emma asked.
“Brother. Just the one.” Killian smirked, the blue in her eyes darkened and Emma’s breath caught for a moment before Killian finally, finally stepped back. A feeling rose in the pit of Emma’s stomach, a heavy dense emotion that ran under her ribcage. It made her want to run. To leave the library, to leave Storybrooke even, and never come back.
“Who’s the other boy?” Emma’s curiosity drove her to ask. Her mind felt hazy with the scent of sea salt and lavender that the other woman seemed to be entrenched in. Emma felt sick from it. Killian smiled, a touch kinder than the smirk Emma’d seen before. Her lips curled upwards and revealed a hint of teeth.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Killian winked as she made her way out of the building, “I’ll see you around, Swan”.
And Emma was left behind with a stack of books, and a feeling that ran rampant through her chest that she wasn’t sure she wanted to examine too closely.
___
And problem was, Emma did want to know, but she couldn’t explain why. She wanted to know everything. She wanted to know this woman: wanted to know who the boys were, wanted to know her history, wanted to know what the gleam in her eyes meant and what the tongue at the edge of her teeth signalled. Emma wanted to know everything.
It was an odd thing, because despite it all, Emma dreaded running into Killian Jones again. Her gut clenched at the thought and her throat tightened in anticipation, but still, something deep inside of her clawed for knowledge all the same. Perhaps it was the fact that somewhere, somehow, and in some future, Killian Jones will live the life Emma had always wanted. Perhaps that drive for knowledge, the thoughts that kept Emma up at night, was the drive to know how to become that person instead. To learn how Killian Jones had done it, and how the fuck Emma could do it next.
She tried not to think on it too much. Did her best to forget that brush of the fingers from the market - the calloused skin on the other woman’s hand and that soft voice that called out for someone in the future. Throughout it all, ‘I’ll see you around’ felt like an omen. The kind that heralded diving birds and warring flames.
Luckily, and despite the warning, Emma didn’t see Killian Jones for days afterwards. And if Emma went out of her way to avoid the storefront of the florist that she would normally pass on her way to work, then that was between her and the extra gas mileage on her car. The look Mulan gave her every morning however, told her it might not be quite the secret she had hoped.
But naturally, Emma’s luck did what it was often want to do and ran out.
Henry had recently made a new friend at school. After the move and having to leave his old friends behind, Emma had been worried that Henry would struggle to adjust. That he’d feel out of place and unwanted in such a small town as Storybrooke, where everyone knew everyone. So, it was a relief to say the least when he’d come home from school one day talking about these twins from his class called Nicholas and Ava. Safe to say, Emma was quick to encourage the friendship, and after a few phone calls here and there, Henry was off to his first sleepover in Maine.
Emma’s excitement for him didn’t make it any easier; didn’t make the apartment feel less lonely and empty without him. It was harder than Emma had thought it would be to drop Henry off. Memories of coming back home to a burnt apartment, their whole life reduced to ashes and the scent of smoke still heavy on her mind. So, when 1am hit, and tendrils of smoke and soot still wouldn’t leave her, Emma knew she couldn’t stay. Her feet itched and her blood sung, and she just had to get away, even just for a little while.
She’d assumed – hoped really – that no one would be out to question her. That she could sit by the docks and breathe in the salt. and rid her mind of everything she didn’t want to think about right then.
Instead, she ran into Alice Jones.
It was late by then. Way too late for a kid to be out on the streets, no matter how much Mary-Margaret went on about how safe Storybrooke was. And yet, as Emma drove to the docks, a faint lullaby echoed from an alleyway just off Main Street. The slightly out of tune singing had been the first thing to alert Emma to Alice’s presence. A flash of blonde hair and a purple sweater had been the second. And no matter Emma’s personal thoughts on Killian - no matter how much she pissed Emma off with her slightly crooked smirks, inability to wink, and lack of personal space – Emma couldn’t imagine she’d be okay with her five-year-old alone at 1am in an alleyway. Fuck, Emma was struggling with Henry just a few blocks away with friends.
So Emma got out of her car and slowly crept forward towards Alice. She did her best to keep her steps light and tried to reassuringly not look like a child kidnapper or whatever.
“Alice?” Emma whispered, once she was a few feet from her. She stretched her hand out in a, hopefully, friendly way and crouched down to Alice’s level. Alice’s head whipped up and a look of guilt and fear painted her expression. Guess Emma didn’t look as friendly as she thought. Damnit.
“It’s okay,” Emma tried to soothe, “I won’t hurt you. I know your mom”.
Emma watched as Alice hesitantly stepped closer. Her hands twisted in her sleeves and her eyes wandered between Emma and an alleyway to their right. Emma wondered what it was she was looking for, and what it was that had sent her away from home. Emma remembered running from foster home after foster home. All cold families, and cold dinner, cold alleyways, and cold nights. She wandered if it was Killian Alice was running from. Emma hoped not.
“Are you her friend?” Alice whispered.
Not really, Emma thought. But she doubted it would help at the moment if she said that. If she told Alice that no, they weren’t friends, because Emma found her mom aggravating, and annoying, and constantly on her mind, and still hadn’t been able to figure out why.
“Yeah,” Emma smiled and lied instead. “It’s late kiddo. What’re you doing out so late? I bet your mom is really worried”.
“We lost Jolly,” Alice mumbled. She kicked the floor absently as she stared down the alleyway to the right again – her shoes scuffing and picking up loose gravel. Ah, a runaway with a purpose then, Emma thought. A flood of relief washed through her, although one she wasn’t keen to observe too closely. Emma told herself it was relief that Alice was safe; that she had a home that was safe. She told herself it was relief that Alice wasn’t like her. She did her best to ignore the relief that went hand in hand with Killian Jones herself.
“Right. Jolly,” Emma repeated. What the fuck was Jolly? Some kind of toy? Seemed like the sort of thing a five-year-old would deem important enough to look for.
“He’s our cat,” Alice explained exasperatedly, as if the answer was obvious and Emma was a moron. For a second, Emma could hear Henry in her tone, the duh which fell from his lips whenever she asked a dumb question about whether he’d done his homework, or if a level 34 mage was better than a level 28 orc or whatever. Right, Emma thought. Jolly. Jolly the cat. Dumb name but whatever. Henry had been asking for a dog called Alphonse for the past three years and Emma still didn’t know why. Who was she to judge?
“And you had to look for him now? I’m sure he’ll be fine till morning, kiddo”.
“He’s mummy’s cat”.
“You know Alice, I bet as much as your mom would love to have Jolly back, I think she’d rather have you,” Emma stretched her hand out to Alice again. Damn her rules on touching. This was a little kid who reminded Emma way too much of her own kid. She looked lost, and scared, and like everything Emma never wanted Henry or any other kid to be. She’d been way too lost and scared as a kid herself to want that for anyone else. Emma didn’t have Killian’s number – had zero way of contacting her – but she could do this. She could get Alice home, even if it meant knocking on every damn door in Storybrooke.
“No. No, my other mommy,” Alice said, disregarding Emma’s hand as she walked away closer to the alleyway. Other mommy. Who the fuck was her other mom? Emma didn’t know Killian was married. A flood of something rushed down Emma’s spine that felt far too close to disappointment for her to feel comfortable acknowledging it.
“She died when I was little,” Alice continued, and Emma tried not to examine the weight that lifted off her stomach. “Mum said she was sick”.
Emma wondered if it was better or worse to have lost family and not remember them, or to lose family and know them. She wondered if Alice remembered the other woman. If Alice truly mourned the cat because she remembered him with her mom, or if she clung to the idea of finding the lost Jolly because he represented a piece of that missing connection between their mother-daughter relationship that death had severed. Emma wondered if Alice even knew herself what she was doing this for.
Either way, Alice had begun to sing again. A skipped beat of lost words and an unsure tune that Alice seemed to make up as time went on. She clicked her fingers as she looked around and Emma didn’t know what to do.
“Hey,” Emma started as she followed Alice towards the alleyway. “Why are you singing?”
“Mummy used to sing to me, but I think Jolly too. Mum said she used to like it – that she’d say you should live your life singing. I thought Jolly might remember it and come home”.
Well fuck, Emma thought. A burning feeling lodged itself in her throat and Emma’s skin felt way too tight. She thought of her baby blanket – all frayed edges, fragile ribbon – and the blankets she bought Henry every year on his birthday. She wondered if anyone had sung to her as a kid. If anyone had thought of her, and home, and soft lullabies to guide her back. Probably not, Emma thought.
“Look, Alice, I get why you want to find Jolly. I do. Really. But I bet you mom is really scared and worried right now. So, tell you what, why don’t I take you home and I’ll come back and keep looking for Jolly?”
“You promise?”
Emma crouched down again and stuck her pinkie out, just like Henry used to do when he was little. Like he still did now when he wasn’t torn halfway between growing up and a belief in magic.
“I promise”.
Alice looked back and forth between Emma and the alleyway as she weighed up the promise in her mind. Then, she leant forward, and interlocked her pinkie with Emma’s. A blue cottage Emma had seen on the outskirts of town flashed before Emma’s eyes and Emma watched as the door to the cottage swung open. Killian – all rumpled clothes and run through hair – raced down the pathway as Emma’s bug rumbled to a stop, and Emma, in Alice’s little hands, grasped the handle of her car and opened it.
Twenty minutes later, Emma watched it all happen again real time.
“Thank you,” Killian damn near pleaded. Her eyes were serious as she bent down to the car window, clutching Alice in her arms. “Seriously, Emma. Thank you”.
___
Emma didn’t have to go back out and search for Jolly. She had no way of contacting Killian, and it seemed unlikely she’d see Alice again anytime soon. Emma was sure the cat would return on its own – a desperation for love and food eventually driving it home. But Emma couldn’t get Killian Jones out of her mind. Couldn’t stop thinking about her serious tone, or thankful eyes, or the way she’d said Emma’s name, and how for a second, just a second, Emma had felt a bit more alive and warm than she had in a long time. More than that, Emma couldn’t stop thinking about Alice. That little lost girl and her dead mom’s cat.
So, when she finally came across a silky black cat with a collar that read Jolly Roger, a well of satisfaction rose within Emma. By 3am, she’d fought the cat into the back of her car – all flashes of a the cat’s future of tuna flooding her mind - and found herself back on the road to the Jones’. Around Jolly’s throat, Emma left her number and a message:
For next time you lose your dumb cat.
___
[Unknown: 03:27]: Thank you again, Swan. You didn’t have to do all this.
[Unknown: 03:29]: I’d buy you a coffee to show my gratitude, but that seems rather redundant.
[Unknown: 03:30]: Nonetheless, words cannot convey my thanks. I owe you.
____
The next day, that a bouquet sat on the porch outside Emma’s shop. An array of bright oranges, yellows, and citrus colours: gerberas, asters, carnations, and carthamus’ carefully arranged into a beautiful vase.
A note was attached: Not a lily this time. Perhaps you’ll like these better.
____
[Emma: 07:10]: Still not a flower person.
[Killian: 09:47]: So, no gerberas next time then, love?
[Read 09:50]
___
From that point on, they weren’t friends as such, but Emma didn’t go out of her way to avoid Killian. It helped in part with the fact that the Jones’ apparently had the most annoying cat Emma had ever met who kept on crawling back to her.
The cat notwithstanding, the next time they met was at Granny’s in late October. Emma and Henry had a running tradition of going to Granny’s once a week for her famed grilled cheese and onion rings. Technically, Granny was Emma’s local competition, but she didn’t care. Emma would give thousands of dollars to that woman to keep her grilled cheese on the menu. Plus, a tiny sentimental part of Emma that she kept buried and deep down inside, screamed that Granny’s had been the first place Emma and Henry had been to once they’d arrived in Storybrooke. A dinner of onion rings and grilled cheese the first meal they’d had to their future. And so, habit struck and Emma couldn’t find it within herself to change it, competition or not.
“This sucks,” Henry grumbled. For the past week Henry had been learning about geometry and seemed dead set on letting everyone know how much he hated it. Emma felt like she was no help to the kid. The extent of her math skills summed up to cashing up for the day and that was about it. The whole thing was just meaningless lines of crap to her.
“Yeah, well, suck it up kid”.
“When am I ever going to use this? It’s useless.” He groaned. And to be fair, he wasn’t wrong. Emma thought she could probably count on one hand how many times she’d used geometry after high school, and she’d still have five fingers left over. Still, after painstakingly taking her GED after the whole juvie thing, and doing everything she could to give Henry a better life than the one she’d had, Emma would be damned if Henry didn’t finish high school. Math homework and all. She tapped the homework in front of Henry and gave him that patented Mom look that she’d done her best to develop over the years. He again groaned and dramatically flung his head backwards into the vinyl seating.
A chuckle rumbled behind Emma, and from it followed an Irish drawl Emma had come to know well.
“What are you attempting, lad?” stated the voice. And there she was. Killian Jones in all her glory, all dark hair, stormy eyes, and sinfully tight jeans. Emma’s hands tightened around her mug, and she had to stop the reflexive glare that she directed towards the other woman. Killian grinned back regardless.
“Emma!” Alice cried happily from beside Killian. Emma smiled as the girl ran over, escaping from Killian’s hold, and crawled her way onto the diner’s seating next to Emma. Emma watched as Killian made a move to stop her, half-heartedly attempting to grab her as if Alice’s errant ways were a familiar act. Considering Emma had met her out on the streets of Storybrooke at 1am, she was inclined to agree. Thank God Henry’s idea of an adventure at five had been going to the stationary store.
“Alice, Starfish,” Killian sighed. “We don’t just sit at other people’s tables without permission”.
“Oh, no. It’s fine. She’s fine.” Emma argued. Alice was way better company than Killian anyway. She could handle a five-year-old. Killian moved to sit down next to Henry, directly opposite Emma, and for a second she wondered what would happen if she drowned herself in her hot chocolate. Emma wondered if Granny would have to fill out an incident report form on that.
“Alice can stay if you can help me understand my homework,” Henry cut in, “Mom is no help.”
“Bartering with my five-year-old. Innovative,” Killian smirked as she rose an eyebrow.
“I’m Henry.”
Emma watched as they shook hands and introduced themselves. She wondered what it would be like to touch someone and not see their future. To not see what movie they go see in two years time, or if they bit on the end of their pen in eight hours time. Not for the first time, Emma envied Henry for his lack of sight. How simple it would be to live life without constant flashes of this and that. A part of Emma even envied Henry because she wasn’t the one shaking Killian’s hand. She shook that thought away as quickly as it had come. God, that dry spell she had going on was doing something weird to her clearly. She had no plans on touching Killian Jones’ anytime soon regardless.
“How’d you lose the hand?” Henry asked as he lent forward and pushed his homework to the side.
“Henry!” Emma scolded. Killian waved Emma off and leaned closer to Henry. She grabbed his homework as she went and pushed it back.
“Lost it to a crocodile,” Killian answered Henry.
“Cool.” Henry grinned back. Beside Emma, Alice happily dangled her legs from the booth as she played with the salt and pepper shakers. She tilted them back and forth like ships on a wave or rockets in the sky. Emma wasn’t sure. It didn’t help that Alice seemed to be making bird noises. Henry pushed his homework back over to Killian and tapped it twice.
“Ah,” Killian sighed in understanding. “The area of a triangle. Base times height divided by two. A tad pointless but not a bad concept to learn. You can hang a lot of shelving units by that principle.”
“I’m ten. When am I gonna hang shelves?”. Point Henry. Opposite her, Killian responded with a wry shrug.
___
After that, it became habit. Emma would return the Jones’ dumb cat and Killian, in turn would help Henry with his math homework.
[Emma: 10:05]: Henry wants to know how you find the density of a cube
[Killian: 10:07]: Isn’t he a little young for such mathematic endeavours? That being said, let it not be I to push a lad away from his academic pursuits.
[Killian: 10:08]: Tell Henry he can find the density of a cube by dividing mass by volume.
[Read 10:28]
[Killian: 10:34]: Grand chat, Swan. These little talks of ours delight me.
[Killian: 10:38]: Oh, they delight you too? Aye, that’s fantastic. And how am I doing I see you ask?
[Read 10:39]
[Killian: 10: 39]: Well, I would say fantastically. Alice has decided to become a ballet dancer it seems. She claims that if she doesn’t, she will simply wither and die. However, she said that last week about being a fisherman, so we’ll see how long this interest lasts.
[Killian: 10: 40]: And how are you doing, Swan?
[Emma: 11:48]: I’m ransoming your cat next time
___
“So, what does a florist know about math?” Emma asked late one evening in November.
Emma was closing up Once Upon a Time for the evening as Killian walked in, and Emma couldn’t find it in herself in kick her out. Over the past few weeks, a friendship of sorts had developed between the two of them that Emma was reluctant to tear down. She thought maybe it was because it was nice to have a friend that wasn’t Mary-Margaret. Mary-Margaret was great and all, but they were different people when it came down to it, and Emma just found it easier on a base level to talk to Killian. She didn’t give out hope speeches or push Emma into feel good lovey-dovey crap, and it was a relief after dealing only with Mary-Margaret. Emma supposed she could call Mulan her friend too, but Mulan was her employee first the foremost. And for all Emma would call Elsa a friend too, she still lived in New York, and Emma was finding it harder and harder to talk to her with the new distance between them. Either way, when eight o’clock rolled in and Killian sprawled herself across a chair, Emma reluctantly admitted, if only to herself, that she was happy for the company.
“Well, it’s a simple enough explanation,” Killian teased. “Who’s to say I always wanted to be a florist, love?”
“Why did you then?” Emma smirked.
“Why did you become a barista?” Killian shot back.
Emma scrubbed at the grate of the coffee machine and thought of Neal. Of prison and the raging screams of a crying baby who’s future looked far too empty and loveless with a large house and wide, lonely tables. The rooting thought in her mind of ‘No. No this baby will have a better life than that. No, this baby will be with me, I will change it’s fate and it will be loved and will never feel alone’. Individual coffee grounds stuck stubbornly to the corners of the machine as Emma scrubbed and scrubbed and dissembled the machine.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Emma evaded.
“Perhaps I would,” Killian answered softly.
Emma looked her in the eyes. Killian’s gaze was captivating and for a second Emma thought of how soft her hair would be. She imagined running her fingers down Killian’s locks and twirling them this way and that. She thought of the jut of Killian’s jaw and her crooked nose – the slight scar down her right cheek and how much more attractive it made her. All her imperfections and differences that formed to create the most beautiful person Emma had known. She knew Killian was attractive. Knew she was Emma’s type even but still, Emma had been down this road before. She couldn’t trust that Killian wouldn’t leave. That she wouldn’t find something in Emma wanting just like everyone else in her life did.
Emma continued to scrub down the grate. Her fingers scratched the metal and Emma wished the cloth in her hand would wash her away too. All the errant and impractical longings – little grinds and granules of unwanted lust that she wished she could dispose of.
A silence beat.
“My brother,” Killian said after a while “Liam”. Emma tried to remember what she had asked and what the fuck Killian was on about. In all her memories of the past, she’d forgotten she’d asked Killian a question first. She watched as Killian traced the table absently and wondered if the reason they got on so well was because they both had a past they’d rather forget. If they were just open books to each other and nothing else.
“What?” Emma scoffed, “Does he really like flowers or something?”
“No, actually,” Killian smiled. Her lips were tight in a curled up thing that looked far too unnatural and stretched on her face. Her hand scratched the back of her ear. “Perhaps once, but certainly not for a long while I imagine,” Killian continued. “On account of him being dead and all”.
Emma stopped cleaning. She placed her rag carefully on the counter, almost afraid to move.
“Got into a car crash, about a decade ago,” Killian said as she looked away – her voice flat. “It was dark. Wet. And the car merely, slid off the road. As it goes, I suppose. I was in the passenger seat. The doctors said it was a miracle that I had abstained from any seriously deadly injury. Although, it did grant me this –“ Killian lifted her left hand and rapped it down twice on the table as she laughed bitterly, “- rather fetching piece of hardware and a three month coma, so I can’t say I ever particularly agreed with the sentiment. Either way, I made it out and Liam…did not. So, I suppose, I did win out in a sense. Can’t recall it felt like that at the time. But, by the time I awoke, Liam had been buried. We didn’t have any family other than each other. No particularly close friends, or at least none that stuck around”.
“He was buried alone. And no one was there to remember him. No one sat shiva. No one bought flowers to his grave. I could mourn him, remember him. But, I couldn’t recite the Mourner’s Kiddish. Couldn’t perform kriah. I couldn’t do anything. And by the time I could, Liam had been buried for three months, and too much time had passed”. Killian laughed a cracked thing before she looked Emma in the eyes and smiled wryly. “But I could give him flowers”.
“I’m sorry,” Emma replied softly.
Killian smiled again. A gentle, kind thing in comparison and looked away briefly before she turned back to Emma.
“That’s why my shop is called Neverland. Tad of a play on my brother as the never-aging boy,” she laughed – a front if Emma had ever seen one - and nodded to herself. “Helps that I’ve only the one hand now, too. Always did prefer Captain Hook anyway”.
Emma moved to sit opposite Killian. She thought of loneliness and grief. Of Alice’s dead mom’s cat, and Emma’s faded, tatted blanket. She wondered what it meant to do something like that for someone. To love them so much – to miss them so much – that you’d love them even in absence. She wondered if anyone had ever loved her like that. If anyone ever would. She wondered what a love like that meant for those left behind. She thought she knew a lot about being left behind. Of police sirens, and a clang of metal handcuffs, and too small walls of a cell, and whilst it was different, she couldn’t stop herself from slowly, so slowly, lifting her hand to wrap around Killian’s leather covered forearm. Touching but not touching. The heat of Emma’s skin burned through the jacket and she swore she could feel Killian’s steady pulse under her palm.
___
“Come on Emma, it’s girls’ night! Live a little!” Ruby screamed in her ear. Her red lips brushed the cartilage of Emma’s ear and Emma knew this night was going to end with Ruby kissing Belle. Their hips hugging, hands intertwined and bodies circling around one another so closely that the lines between them blurred and faded under a heady lust.
The countertop of the bar was sticky as Emma downed another shot. The rum overspilled slightly and added to the mess. Emma wished she was anywhere but here. Wished she was at home with Henry watching a film. Wished she was sat behind her coffee shop counter with Killian. Touching but not touching.
___
[Emma: 02:34]: Found your cat again. [image attached]
[Killian: 06:09]: That good of a night out then, Swan? Driven to searching out my wayward cat?
[Read 08:13]
____
By December, Emma had started to meet Killian at her shop too. It had become something akin to routine by that point. Every Tuesday Killian would stop by Once Upon a Time for breakfast – an earlier stop on her route to the floral market to pick up supplies for the week. And every Friday at midday, Emma would visit Killian with lunch before she left to set up for Shabbat.
Today she’d come with two large coffees in her hand as she waited for Killian to finish her work. At this point, Emma had a long-standing invitation to enter Neverland’s back office whenever she wanted, and Emma kicked her feet as she sat on an empty counter space. She watched as Killian assembled a bouquet in front of her – all purples and pinks and whites. Frankly, a bit of Emma was pissed off because Killian had done it looking like she hadn’t even tried, and a part of Emma that she did her best to bury deep down was impressed.
“How did you do that?” Emma finally cracked. After weeks of watching her, Emma still had no idea how Killian could make something so beautiful look so easy. Emma could pick up a plant and put it in a vase, but it still looked like a crappy plant in a vase.
“The bouquet?” Killian smirked, as she rose an eyebrow at Emma’s scrunched up nose.
“Just. That.” Emma said as she waved her hand around.
Killian stared at her in contemplation.
“Here.” She said. She held out a daisy in Emma’s direction and waggled the end tauntingly. “Come and have a go, Swan. I’ll show you. You never forget your first.” Killian drawled as she attempted to wink at Emma. Emma picked up the flower stem from Killian’s hand. Their fingers inches apart and Emma rotated the daisy between her fingers as she shot Killian a look to let her know just what she thought of the innuendo. Weirdly, the daisy was bare. It had no thorns of leaves, and the whole thing struck Emma as off. It was so foreign and different from the flowers in nature.
“No leaves?” she asked.
“No, love,” Killian replied. “Tend to eat the nutrients in the water. Merely increases the potential for bacteria”.
“Right.” Emma huffed. Of course, Killian would throw in a little science lesson for free, the nerd. Emma threw the flower into the vase. The daisy looked isolated and alone. Emma thought she knew what that felt like; how she’d never felt more alone than around people. Great, Emma thought, here she was projecting onto a fucking flower. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that she didn’t feel that way around Killian. She never felt alone or isolated with the other woman. Emma repressed that thought before it even began.
“Foliage first, Swan,” Killian laughed. She moved to stand behind Emma, her chest against Emma’s back as she leant around Emma to grab some leaf looking thing. Emma could feel the heat of Killian’s body so close to hers and swore she could feel the huff of Killian’s breath on her neck.
“The flowers sit on top,” Killian continued. “And it stops everything getting a little...frustrating, I suppose you could say. First, we green the perimeter - rotate vase when doing so,” Emma watched as Killian placed the foliage in the vase and found herself tracing the eyeliner around Killian’s eyes. The black lines highlighting the blue in the other woman’s eyes and Emma couldn’t stop continuing to trace Killian’s features; the jut of her jaw, the shape of nose. “And then… we add heaviest flowers first”.
She guided Emma towards a lily to the side. Killian’s hand wrapped around Emma’s jacket covered wrist as she puppeted Emma this way and that. “First, we pull the pollen out from flowers like lilies. They tend to stain everything. And whatever you do to one side of the vase, mirror on the other side. Insert everything on a diagonal. It gives everything a more… fanned out look… that’s more attractive,” Killian winked, her breath hot against Emma’s neck, “everything looks a little better…spread out, aye?”
“And this?” Emma breathed as she held up a flower. She didn’t know which one; couldn’t describe the colour, or shape, or even scent. She shifted her legs. Killian at her back with her face so very nearly pressed against Emma’s. The space between them was heavy, and thick, and full of wanting, and all Emma wanted to do in that minute was turn around. To see if Killian was as affected as her. To watch her eyes darken and tongue wet her lips.
“Alstroemeria,” Killian drew out. “We use it to fill in any gaps in a floral arrangement. Keep darker colours towards centre and lighter colours fan out”. Their hands were nearly touching and Emma started to lean backwards. Their lips inches apart from one another.
“Beautiful, don’t you think?” Killian muttered as she looked into Emma’s eyes. Her ears were tinted with a rose blush and Emma watched as Killian’s tongue peaked out.
Suddenly, a cold rush ran through Emma and she thought of Neal. The blare of police sirens – the roaring blue lights flickering and flashing. Of Lily and the trace of her tattoo under where they had once held hands, and the cold empty bus stop where she’d left her. The space between her palm and wrist where Lily had pressed her fingers and lied to Emma’s face.
“I should go,” Emma argued. She could feel her walls rising and she took a step back. She watched Killian’s face crumple and then, Emma ran away. Ran as far as she could without looking back.
The next day, the bouquet they had done together sat on Emma’s front step.
___
“Not everyone is Neal, Emma,” Mary-Margaret gently suggested over breakfast. “Or, Lily for that matter”.
“Yeah. And not everyone is David”. Emma played with the spoon in her hand and thought of that big Victorian house. Of Killian calling out someone’s name. She thought of Killian, and Neverland, and the never-aging brother. Of loving someone so much you’d plant flowers every day and just what it might be like to be loved by someone like that. “I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about her”.
___
Emma avoided Killian for the next three weeks. She felt alone and isolated, but she’d never known a relationship which hadn’t ended in that same way anyway. It was better to preface it and leave before Killian left her. She watched Killian enter town every Tuesday for the market and watched her leave from the back window. The first few times Killian came in and tried to talk to Emma.
“Swan, are you avoiding me?” She’d asked one morning.
“I’m not…avoiding you.” Emma huffed. She crossed her arms and looked away. Tried to fiddle with a cloth, with the coffee machine – with anything that made her look busy so she didn’t have to look at Killian.
“I know what avoidance looks like, Emma, and this? This is avoiding me.”
“I’ve just been busy,” Emma argued. “There’s a lot going on.”
“There’s always a lot going on.” Killian had begged. “You might want to try living, Swan. Else you’ll miss your whole life.”
Killian didn’t try to talk to her anymore. But every morning, a carnation was left on Emma’s shop counter. Soon, they started to litter the back room and a thick scent of oncoming spring overtook the place, but Emma had never felt more cold.
___
On a Thursday night in February, Emma ran into Kilian’s cat. The wretched thing meowed and hissed in the cold night air. Emma leant down and stroked the pet lightly, and love painted itself in a vision across her eyes. Emma saw Killian’s hand sweep across the brow of her forehead – a scratch between her ears as dinner was placed in a bowl on the floor. She raised her lips to Emma’s head and Emma wished she were there. Wished someone, somewhere loved her.
She dropped the cat on the Jones’ doorstep and watched the house before her flicker with warmth and light. The night sky caressed the lavender in the front porch and Emma thought of Killian Jones’ future. That big, beautiful Victorian house with a wraparound porch and sea front view that Emma so desperately wanted but would never have.
__
The following Tuesday, Emma waited for Killian to come into town, but she never arrived.
“You could just go talk to her,” Mulan huffed out as she dragged a cloth down the counter, “Stop letting your fear of rejection ruin your chances of love”.
“It is not love,” Emma hissed. Mulan stared her down, the steamer hissed beside her as she cleaned the machine.
“Why not?” She’d asked. And why not, Emma wondered.
___
Emma knocked on the Jones’ blue cottage door two hours later, but no one answered. Her rapping knock was an echoing companion to the emptiness in her heart. Emma thought about leaving, of turning around and waiting at the back door of her shop for the next Tuesday and the next and the next. She thought of singular carnations littering her doorsteps, and how she still didn’t know what to do with them. How every time she tried to put them in a vase or in a ribbon, they still looked like a crap flower in a bit of glass, and how ultimately, Killian’s flowers didn’t deserve that.
Emma followed the path around the side and walked around the back. Past the plots of lavender, just past the side of house, Emma could see the outline of a greenhouse with a figure inside it. The windows looked smashed, and the door was flung open. At the very back, Emma spied Killian sat alone in front of a patch of ruined flowers. Her shoulders were slumped over, and Emma watched as her jaw clenched.
“Killian?” Emma hesitantly asked.
“Go away, Emma.” Killian whispered. Emma pressed forward all the same and took in the glass littering the floor. She looked at the upended dirt and the scattered shards which pierced through roots and stems.
“What happened?”
“So now you care?” Killian scoffed, her voice tight and hoarse. Her fingers were wrapped around a broken flower stem – her knuckles white and hard as she clutched and clutched and clutched. Emma watched as she brought the flower, all broken petals and torn stem, up to her nose and pressed her clutched fist to her forehead. Emma wished she could unwrap the flower and ease the tightness in Killian’s knuckles.
Emma sat down next to her instead. She picked up another flower, brushed the dirt off the leaves and wondered if the flowers, with their dropping posture and clustered bells, always looked a little sad.
“Campanula,” Killian said with a slightly bitter smile in Emma’s direction. There was more to this than just a broken flower, Emma thought. There were rows upon rows of other flowers – prettier ones, one that smelt nicer. This in comparison was a plot in the corner, hidden in the shade. Carefully tended to but distant from all the rest. Emma thought of Killian’s brother. That young boy in the photograph and a whole store dedicated to a boy buried without flowers.
“Do you use them a lot?” Emma asked as she followed her gut.
“No,” Killian smiled faintly. Their knees were touching from proximity and Emma felt the rub of Killian’s jeans - the heat of her skin underneath. “You don’t use campanula’s for anything but shaping”. Emma watched as Killian traced lines in the dirt in front of her.
“My wife.” She continued quietly and without looking at Emma. “Milah. She used to love them though. They were always her favourite.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma whispered. She didn’t know what she was apologising for; for the flowers at her feet or her absence over the weeks. She thought Killian got it anyway, the slight smile she sent her way a forgiveness all in itself.
Emma felt the dirt under her fingertips as she placed the flower down and thought of pushing her hands through the soil – the rise and fall of that damp, wet earth and of creating something from nothing. Of planting seeds in the ground and seeing it through to the end and all the new beginnings that followed.
She rested her palm on Killian’s knee.
The rough fabric of her jeans all that kept them from touching and Emma wondered what Killian’s skin would feel like. Of the bones in her fingers, the dirt under her nails and the dry skin on the back of her hand. She thought about building something to last forever. Of a widow building a greenhouse for her wife’s favourite flower and the homeliness of a garden. Of putting down roots, content in the knowledge you will watch the seasons change.
Maybe, the future wasn’t all that bad. Maybe, just maybe, Emma – the girl always forgotten, could find something with Killian – the girl who always remembered. Maybe, just maybe, the future wasn’t all that scary.
Emma wrapped her fingers around Killian’s as they stared down at the flowers.
In the future, they laughed.
___
They started to meet up again. This time, they went out for breakfast every Sunday too. Killian would bring a book every week and would read as she waited for Emma to come in. In her hands, Emma saw her turn the pages of the Odyssey. Rising waves mounted the front cover which casted an old ship astray in a storm. Despite every changing book, Killian always kept that photo of the two boys Emma had seen before tucked into one of the back pages as she read.
Emma swung into the seat opposite, her jeans sliding on the vinyl.
“Is that Liam?” Emma nodded at the photo.
“Aye,” Killian smiled in greeting. She took the photo out and tapped on the boy with light brown curled hair. A toothy grin stretched over his face as he sat on a wall next to a darker haired boy. He had scrapes up his knees and a muddy shirt but looked happy all in all. The boy next to him leaned against him, and smiled up at him as he said something.
“He looks happy,” Emma said.
“Aye. I like to think he was.”
“The other kid looks a bit like you.”
Killian grinned back. The same grin as the boy in the photo.
“Aye, funny that.”
___
[Emma: 14:23]: I had braces as a kid.
[Killian: 14:27]: We all had our cross to bare, Swan.
___
By the third week of their weekly breakfasts, Ruby slid into the seat next to Emma when Killian had gone to the restroom. Emma’s cup of coffee cooling in the March morning.
“So, are you two dating yet?” Ruby’s fingers tapped the table twice. Her nails sharp and beautifully painted, and Emma thought of Belle and Ruby’s lips pressed together. Their skin flushed and soft.
“We’re just friends”.
Ruby gave a sceptical hum.
“You should think about it”, she said.
__
The thing was, Emma did think about it. And the more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t get it out of her mind. She thought of the next book Killian would read – her fingers tracing the pages and gently turning them. Of being sat opposite Killian next week – their fingers glancing off the saltshaker millimetres from one another. Of wrapping her hand in Killian’s – the callouses she knew existed there rough against her skin. She thought of the tattoos Killian had underneath her shirt – rising and crashing waves of ink that traced her collarbone. Of biting her Adams apple, following the vessels under her clothes and the scent of her skin under Emma’s ministrations.
Mostly, Emma thought of that future where they laughed.
___
“I’m here to ask you out.” Emma opened with a week later. She stood in the doorway of Neverland, the scent of roses filled the air and Emma felt like her thorns were all stripped bare. Her very self left open and naked to Killian’s eyes.
“On a date,” she continued.
Killian smiled. Her tongue pressed against her teeth and her ears flushed red, as she looked far too pleased with herself.
“One concession, Swan. You let me plan the evening”.
__
[Emma 15:36]: What should I wear?
[Killian 15:38]: Clothes I imagine.
[Killian 15:39]: Though, I shan’t press that point too hard.
___
That night, Emma opened the door to Killian with a rose in her hand.
“I know it’s traditional,” Killian said. “But I thought you might like it nonetheless”.
Their fingers brushed as Emma moved to grab the flower. The scent of sea salt drifted through the door, and Emma felt the cold chill of a walk along the docks. The night sky gleaming against the dark sea as Emma wrapped her hand around Killian’s arm.
As Emma followed Killian out, she thought of the sea breeze swept across her skin and the heat of Killian beside her.
She forewent the jacket anyway.