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Emma rubs the back of her hand along her nose and sniffles for the twelfth (yeah, she’s counting) time in the last minute. She’s barely made it up half of the steps when she sneezes, has to brace her palm on the rail in order to keep from tipping back and colliding with the ground. It’s been a week since these near death experiences via symptoms of the common cold have started, and frankly, it’s driving her insane. She can’t be chasing some ass who refuses to attend his court meetings around the city in six-inch stilettos if she can barely even walk straight.
She assumes it’s allergies. Because she knows she has a pretty great immune system otherwise, and the damn sneezing seems to only get worse when she’s at the stairwell; one that she shares with the backroom of the flower shop that operates under her apartment. The backdoor to the store is almost always cracked open and she thinks that one of the flowers must be what’s causing her recent poor condition. She’d wake up just fine and then she’d walk past the shop and suddenly the rest of her day consisted of her cursing her immune system until the reaction died down, only to come back to her apartment and suffer the same fate.
She decides, dragging her feet to her door and across her apartment to her bedroom, that tomorrow she’ll put an end to this madness.
On Friday morning, she settles on forget-me-nots.
She isn’t sure what is actually causing her allergies to act up, but she identifies some of these flowers as one she’s been around before, so it’s only reasonable to carry out a process of elimination with the more unique flowers. She glares at the offending bunch she’s picked out; it’s beautiful, sure, but you can’t blame her for her disdain when she has to squint through watery eyes to actually see it.
She’s never been inside the store before, in her short few weeks of living above it, but she know it’s quite popular, what with the constant deliveries and the restocking of arrangements in the window. Not to mention the usual herd of women that she notices leaving and entering the shop. The Enchanted Florist, she assumes as she takes in the fact that it seems like every other flower shop to her, must be either very well advertised or brilliant at customer service.
“May I be of any assistance, lass?”
The husky voice sounds from behind her and she starts, turning around to face a man about half a head taller than her with a warm smile, tousled dark hair and a generous amount of stubble over his sharp jaw. She wonders for a second if she’s hallucinating and seeing his eyes as the same colour of the flowers in her hands (she doesn’t know what this allergy pertains, but hallucination is a definite possibility), but even after a few beats, the colour in his amused eyes remains the same.
She mumbles out a no, caught off guard and suddenly aware of the fact that she must look terrible in her state, and manages to pay for the bunch in her hands and dart straight back to her apartment.
She spends her day buried waist length in research for her new perp, eyes constantly darting back to the bunch she’s placed on her bedside table and thoughts shifting to the man at the store.
Before falling asleep, the blue of the forget-me-nots in her direct line of vision as she begins to drift off, she chalks up the store’s definite success to customer service.
She finds herself at the store once again on Wednesday evening, having collected her paycheck after bagging her perp. Her feet are killing her, the muscles in her lower back are sore, and on top of that - she sneezes, hands flying to cover her mouth. On top of that, the forget-me-nots aren’t what she’s allergic to.
The back of her throat is beginning to itch and she’s sure her nose must resemble the scarlet blossoms by the counter. She walks over to them, a hand hovering over the delicate petals. There aren’t too many customers in, barely a handful, but it still feels crowded, and she’s beginning to find it a bit difficult to breathe. Damn allergies.
“Pimpernels. Got those in this morning,” she recognizes the voice and looks up to find him slipping in behind the counter, nodding to the flowers with a soft expression, “they’ve been quite popular lately.”
She hums, taking in the handsome shopkeeper as discreetly as she can manage. And no, her breath is only hitching because of her allergies, nothing else. “I’ll take a bunch,” she manages without a sneeze, feigning disinterest.
“Wonderful,” he beams at her as he rings up her purchase. “Glad to see you’re back.” He seems sincere and almost happy, but Emma figures she would be too if her flowers were selling.
It’s not like she’s happy to be standing in the middle of these damn allergy infested four walls, trying to keep her coughing at bay. Even if the man behind the counter has a rather charming smile and an affiliation with plaid that she can’t deny makes him look even more handsome -
Nope. She’s not going to go there.
She learns his name is Killian. Killian Jones. She doesn’t mean to waltz in again next Friday and strike up a casual conversation but it all just kind of happens.
Her evening was free and she still hadn’t figured out the cause of her discomfort, so she pulled her hair out of her ponytail and changed into something more sightly for the rest of the population (not like she cares, it’s definitely not because she wants to counter her seemingly perpetual gross state, and it’s obviously not for the guy she’s already bumped into twice).
He introduces himself eloquently with an extended hand, rough and yet gentle to the shake, and she reciprocates before he asks her if she’s made a habit of coming down to see him.
“I just live close by, that’s all,” she rolls her eyes.
“I’d assume it would be close, living upstairs and all.”
“Wait, how do you -,” she furrows her eyebrows.
“I saw the moving truck, love,” he says easily and with a hint of amusement, “and, of course, it’s hard to miss someone as beautiful as you.”
“Right,” she attempts another eye roll, somehow manages to pay for the lilies without her heart pounding straight out of her chest.
(Allergies.)
It’s close to just over a month when she groans frustratedly, surrounded by the array of colourful flowers that decorate the surfaces of her shoebox apartment. She’s nowhere near figuring this out, she’s this close to losing hope as she scrunches up her nose and sniffles once more. Ironic, considering her penchant at tracking.
The only reason she keeps going back is because she’s determined - always has been -, the stubborn little girl in her refusing to let this pass by without putting up a fight.
(And, it doesn’t hurt that she’s gotten to know Killian over the time, even though she’d never admit that to anyone.)
She’s ruled out at least eight different blossoms and really, the whole thing is getting kind of ridiculous.
Still, she pulls on a pair of boots and trudges downstairs, trying to keep her lightheadedness to a minimum. It’s for her health, nothing else.
“You either have a very sick relative or a boyfriend that does not partake in the most common form of chivalry,” he smirks, a dimple flashing on his right cheek. He’s made it a habit to find her every time she enters the shop, or maybe she’s just imagining that. He surely does it with all his customers. “In both cases, I offer my sincerest apologies.”
She’s glad her back is to him as she browses the shelves for her latest suspect, because she’d rather not have him being smug over the smile that creeps on to her face. “Maybe I just like flowers.”
“If that’s the case, Swan,” he pauses until she turns around to face him, blue eyes practically dancing as they dart down to a stemless white orchid flower he’s twirling in between his fingers. He pulls up her hand from her side with his free one, pressing the flower into her palm and then lightly closing her fingers over it, “I thank the stars that you chose my shop to fulfil your adoration.”
He punctuates the statement with a wink, but it’s a stark contrast to his honest smile. The base of her stomach is being rammed with butterflies as they both stand there in some strange kind of isolation from the rest of the world.
She’s overcome with the desire to kiss him, her body swaying into his on its own accord.
It’s only the bell chiming above the door as it opens that breaks whatever is sparking between them.
He clears his throat and steps back, grinning.
She walks home with an arrangement of heavenly white orchids in her arms, her fingers still tingling from where he touched them.
It comes to the point where her week doesn’t feel right without seeing him at least once (twice, usually, or thrice, if she’s free and a bit lucky).
And Emma Swan has never been dependent on anyone - not for a long time now - and it scares her that she relies so heavily on seeing Killian, on hearing his jokes and his flirtatious remarks, on him making her smile so effortlessly.
So, okay, maybe she’s attracted to him. And maybe it’s gotten less about her allergy and more about the blossoming the whatever that’s between them.
Then again, maybe she’s just seeing what she wants to; he’s an attractive man with a tendency to flirt, and she, well, she’s pretty sure she looks like Sneezy from the seven dwarves.
He probably just feels bad for her.
“Yellow acacias,” he booms from behind the counter as she enters, his voice carrying over the myriad of people that crowd the store on the Sunday morning.
“What?”
He laughs, a deep chuckle that makes her insides warm, as he makes his way towards her, “They’re fresh, I figured you’d like some.”
He’s in a blue flannel today, one that seems to make his eyes even more striking (as if that were possible), the buttons open and the whole thing loosely draped over a light coloured henley. She heaves in a deep breath, throat suddenly constricting.
He raises an eyebrow (she realizes he does that a lot, almost as if he’s unaware he’s even doing it), and she shakes herself out of her thoughts. “Uh, yeah, sounds good.”
He flashes her a smile, and then leads her to one of the shelves with a hand grazing her lower back in a ghost of a touch.
He’s only gathering the bunch in his hands when a redhead saddles up beside him, twirling a lock of hair on her forefinger. And Emma has never been the type to get jealous, but -
“Could you help me out, Killian? I can’t seem to decide,” the redhead places her palm over his bicep as she leans into him.
But, there’s always a first time for everything.
Emma holds back a scoff at the other woman’s attempt at something like seduction. (Even if she does scoff, she thinks, she’ll blame it on her allergies.)
Killian, for his part, offers the woman a polite smile, gaze moving back to Emma in a heartbeat, “Sorry, lass, I’m a bit busy, perhaps you could ask Belle to help you out.” He turns to point the woman to the brunette - Belle - who Emma knows comes in only when it’s busier than usual.
He’s quiet as she passes him the money, bouquet tucked in the crook of her elbow.
He meets her eyes before she turns to leave, a hand going to scratch behind his ear almost sheepishly, “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
Emma let’s a small smile slip past her lips, one shoulder going up in a light shrug, “Yeah.”
Her latest perp is a pain in the ass.
She’s darting across some street downtown, hot on his heels as he curves into another alleyway. She internally groans, practically pushing the ground beneath her as she tries to catch up to him, thanking whatever deity decided to keep her allergies tucked away for the night.
He takes a sharp turn out of the dark and onto a sidewalk. Her own turn is rushed, an immediate pain shooting through her ankle, but she ignores it and manages a final push that results in tackling the jackass to the cement.
She’s limping as she collects her paycheck, David, her boss, immediately assigning her off the next few cases until her ankle heels. She whines childishly, insisting that she’s fine.
“Emma,” David fixes her with a stern gaze, “go home and rest, and for once, let someone take care of you.”
(The first thought to dart through her mind is that the only person she wants taking care of her is Killian.)
(She’s so screwed.)
It’s two long, restless weeks before her ankle is near healed. And the frustration of not being able to do anything (David had texted her the day after, warning her that if she came to work, he would detain her for another month - the man is more of a father to her than an actual boss), has her constantly wringing her hands together tightly.
On the bright side, her sniffling has been to a minimum so she doesn’t have to worry about having to take care of two things at once.
But the downside is that she hasn’t seen Killian in that time, barely being able to walk to the front door in that time, let alone journey down the flight of steep stairs. She misses him, which is a stupid thing considering that they’re not exactly close.
But somewhere along the way, he’s become a significant part of her life, and she decides she rather likes it that way.
She’s just about to head down to the shop the next evening (her ankle isn’t at what it’s supposed to be, but she can walk, and she needs to see him because she’s gathered the courage so it’s now or never) when her doorbell rings.
Emma doesn’t get visitors, she doesn’t even know anyone, really. So it’s on instinct that her mind darts to every possible place in her home that she keeps sharp items that can be used in a fight.
When she opens the door, though, all those thoughts fly out of her mind.
In front of her stands a rather sheepish Killian, who seems to be shifting his weight between his feet. Only his eyes are visible behind the bouquet he’s holding up in one hand, the other hand shoved into the front pocket of his jeans.
He lowers the flowers from his face slowly, almost shyly, and just like the first time she saw him, the words catch in her throat.
“Killian?"
"Swan, I - you haven’t been the shop in a while and I was worried that you may not be well so I,” he lifts the flowers closer to her and the whole thing might just be straight out of some ridiculous dream. Because, Killian Jones, at her doorstep with a tentative smile and a beautiful bouquet of -
She sneezes once abruptly. Then again. Following it up with a round of coughs. Killian’s by her side in an instant, bouquet hastily dropped on her console table and a hand rubbing her back.
“Are you alright?” His voice is etched with such concern that she can’t help but smile despite the water gathering in her eyes.
“I guess I found the flower,” she murmurs, the back of her hand going to swipe across her nose as she stands straight again.
“Come again, love?”
She catches her lower lip between her teeth and it’s so ridiculous. She thinks of lying to save herself the embarrassment, but she thinks better of it.
“The only reason I bought so many different flowers was because I thought I was allergic to one of them. That,” she points to the bouquet a bit sheepishly, “seems to be it.”
He cocks his head, regards her for a few beats before the side of his mouth curls up in an amused smirk, “And here I thought you only dropped by as much as you did because you wanted to see me.”
“Did you think I was born looking Rudolph?” she huffs out a laugh, the tips of her fingers going to press lightly against her nose.
“A part of me had me believing it was just your blush in my presence,” he raised an eyebrow and catches her fingers in his own hand, holding it between them as he steps closer to her.
“You’re so full of yourself,” she scoffs.
“If you don’t mind me asking, then why didn’t you just go to the doctor to figure it out?” His thumb grazes over her knuckles and sends a jolt down her spine.
“Not a fan of doctors,” his smile falters a bit and maybe she has the same effect on him as he does on her, “and, maybe there is some truth to me wanting to see you.”
His answering grin is almost blinding. He shuffles closer to her, eyebrow raising again, as his lips reach a breath away from hers, “I knew it.”
Before she can surge forward and capture his mouth in a kiss, she quickly turns her head and let’s out a loud sneeze. She throws her head back and groans, as he laughs and pulls her into his arms, letting her nuzzle her red nose into his chest.
The only reason she lets him drag her to the doctor is because she wants to rid him of the worried crease marring his brow once he learns she really does have no plan to get her allergy checked out.
The next day, he informs her that he’s sold off all the snowdrops to customers and other vendors alike, and cancelled all further orders.
She asks him out, then. And it feels like a stupid high school thing when he asks with a wink if he should bring a corsage, but when she shoves him in the chest laughing, she can’t say she minds one bit.
(He’s holding a box of chocolates when she opens the door to him for their first date.
“What? No corsage?”
“Didn't want to take a risk,” he scratches the back of his neck nervously as he hands her the box. And he knows her health has been back to normal ever since he got rid of the snowdrops, but he’s being so careful and caring that it makes her stomach flutter.
She laughs, drags him by the collar and kisses him then and there, because he’s stupidly adorable and because she can’t find it in her to put it off any longer.)
(And sure, she may mourn that she’ll never add a delicate arrangement of snowdrops to the ever growing greenhouse in her apartment, but she can’t really find it in herself to complain when he brings her a different bouquet of blossoms every night and she wakes up to his messy hair and lazy kisses just about every morning.)