#next to you

When I lick the food off your fingers, it always tastes delicious!

.

“It breaks my heart to see you cry, dry those eyes and show me a little smile to melt my heart..”

It ALWAYS melts my heart when you are beside me, I could live forever in a look - eUë

Summary: (Modern AU) Killian had taken one look at Emma Swan and knew she was every kind of trouble a man ought to steer clear of if he wanted to keep his sanity. Beautiful, vulnerable—probably with a heart-rending backstory—but hiding it admirably behind a tough exterior. She was an open book to him, and he’d read one just like it before. The last thing he needed was to have her as a flatmate. Unfortunately, he was outvoted.

Rating:T

Previous Chapter (Also on AO3)

A/N: Therapy is a great thing. Like, your therapist says, “So, what do you do for self-care” and you answer “Um, self-what-now?” Eventually, I had to ask if writing was self-care or a job skill for me right now. I chose self-care—which means I can write WHATEVER I WANT WHENEVER I WANT INCLUDING FANFIC. (I’m not yelling at you, I promise. I’m yelling at that stupid “practical” voice in my head that says, “But you’re good enough to sell your work!” That idiot needs to learn that taking care of my mental health isn’t time wasted.)

Anyway. All this to say that I felt like writing more of this story. So I did. And it made me so happy. I don’t know when I’ll add more to it, so no promises on regular updates. We are living life one day at a time, me and my broken brain.

CHAPTER FOUR:Netflix and Chill

Killian cursed under his breath as he rolled to his side. After three hours of staring at the dark ceiling of his bedroom, he had to admit that sleep wasn’t coming. He was bloody exhausted. Tired of double shifts at the pub. Tired of hunting for reasons to stay out. Tired of living like a hermit on the days when he couldn’t stomach another bar crawl, another poker night, another party, or the infrequent tryst with a lass whose name he didn’t bother to know—anything to chase away the old, familiar ache that had dropped anchor once again in his chest.

“What’s going on with you lately?” David had asked this morning, wearing that damnable expression of brotherly concern.

Killian pasted on a smile, feigning ignorance. “Just trying to make the most of life before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Work hard and play harder, right?” He held up his mug of coffee in salute and left the kitchen before David could call his bluff.

The truth was—no. Killian smothered the thought before it could reach its ineffectual conclusion. He’d rather feel nothing than mope like some bloody angst-riddled adolescent over yet another woman he had no business pining for.

That’s bloody enough.

Scrubbing a palm over his face with a groan, he threw off his down comforter and sat up. He needed a distraction. Alcohol and Netflix should do the job at this hour. He swiped the bottle of rum he kept on his nightstand on his way to the living room.

Fifteen minutes and a finger’s worth of liquor into a pirate documentary Killian was only mildly interested in, one of the bedroom doors opened with a soft creak. He knew who it was before she stepped into the dull light emanating from the television. Wordlessly, Emma settled on the couch next to him, drawing her knees up to her chest. She gave him a cursory glance, and damn the woman took his breath away. Even in that threadbare Northeastern sweatshirt several sizes too big. Even with her hair thrown up in a tangled knot at the top of her head. Even with the glasses perched on the bridge of her freckled nose.

For the last month, he’d barely caught glimpses of her, mumbled perfunctory greetings in her direction when he did, and it’d been easy to tell himself that she was just a lass, that she had only been a passing fancy. But as the lavender in her shampoo permeated the air, that tense moment in the hallway came back to him as if it had been yesterday. The way she tipped her chin up, the dare in her eyes.

“You gonna drink that all by yourself,” she said, nodding to the bottle in his hand, “or are you gonna share?”

He didn’t answer right away. He had half a mind to give her the remote and bid her goodnight, but then her gaze softened, tough mask slipping away briefly with a silent appeal for them to be okay. Bloody hell. He’d do it—play pretend for her. He’d dance a bloody jig if she asked it of him, cursing her with every step.

“I’ve never been one to deny a beautiful lass,” he said, giving her his best devilish smirk as he handed the bottle to her.

She snorted and took a healthy nip of rum. “Yeah, I heard you were easy, Jones.”

He tried not to frown at the jab, knowing she meant it only in jest, but the words had a prickly sort of honesty to them that he didn’t care for. “Don’t believe the rumors, love,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “I’m a man of discerning taste.”

“I’ll bet.” She breathed a soft laugh and gave him back the bottle. “So, what are we watching tonight?”

He glanced at the screen, paused on a reenactment of some historical battle between ships. “A little swashbuckling and plunder.”

Emma scrunched her nose. “Pirates again?”

“Again?” Killian frowned. He hadn’t seen this documentary before.

“You’re kidding, right?” She rolled her eyes with a snort. “The ‘Black Sails’ binge. The ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ marathon. You were Jack Sparrow for Halloween. You even dress like a modern day version of a pirate with all the jewelry and black and swagger.” She waved a hand over his body.

He glanced down at his dark t-shirt and pair of flannel pajama bottoms with a pattern of dancing beer bottles—a gift from his nephew last Christmas. Hardly pirate attire, and he gave her a look that said as much.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “It’s definitely an obsession for you.”

“You’re one to talk, lass. Love on the High Seas, sound familiar?” A half second too late, he realized he wasn’t supposed to know about that.

Her mouth dropped open, a lovely pink staining her cheeks. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m perceptive, love.” He wasn’t about to confess that he’d made that discovery when he tucked her in one night months ago. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell her how often he’d been tempted to read the book to see why she found it captivating. “Besides, if I have a fascination with pirates, I come by it honestly. My great, great, great… I don’t know how many ‘greats’ granddad was a pirate.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. He was a pirate,” Killian said. “According to family lore, he was the inspiration for the infamous Captain Hook.”

Emma pursed her lips. “Now I know you’re yanking my chain. You’re telling me your great-whatever-grandfather had a waxed mustache and a perm.”

He huffed a laugh at her reference to Disney’s rendering of the classic villain. “I take it you haven’t read Peter and Wendy.” When she shook her head, he explained, “Captain Hook was actually quite handsome. As you can see, the apple doesn’t fall far from the ancestral tree.”

She rolled her eyes again. “I’m guessing modesty wasn’t anywhere in the family genes.”

“Oh, aye.” He laughed and for a heartbeat the world was right once again. But only a heartbeat. He couldn’t forget Walsh. He couldn’t forget that parting look she wore in the hallway after their heated words. He cleared his throat, picked up the remote to cover the sudden morose turn of his mood. “Shall we?”

Emma shrugged and it was a deflated thing—as if she too was struggling to keep up the ruse. “Since I’m sure this will cure my insomnia, we might as well.”

Killian shook his head with a twinge of amusement. She despised documentaries, called them boring. He, on the other hand, enjoyed learning a bit of history when the fancy struck him. He pressed play without comment, and they watched, occasionally passing the bottle between them.

She lasted all of a half hour before she blew out a sigh. He paused the film again, prepared to switch to something she would find more palatable. Perhaps one of the shows they used to watch together. When he glanced at her, though, the offer stuck in his throat. She stared ahead, gaze hollow as she hugged her knees. She appeared younger, smaller.

“Emma?”

She blinked but didn’t look at him. “Do you ever feel like you’re making all it up as you go?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Like, you want to have a normal, happy life but you have no idea what the hell that even looks like?”

He drew his brows together, uncertain how to answer. He’d given up on the notion of a fairy tale happy ending years ago—after Milah.

Emma let out another thready breath. “I broke up with Walsh.” She glanced at Killian. “You were right about him. About me. I didn’t want to see it, but I was trying to pretend that I’m not broken. I just… I look at Mary Margaret and David, and I’m jealous. I’ll never be like that.”

Her words made Killian’s chest tight with a different kind of ache despite his brief elation over the breakup. He shifted on the couch so he could fully face her, waited until she brought her glassy eyes up to meet his. “You are bloody brilliant, Swan. Just the way you are.”

“You really think so?” Her voice quavered, and he wanted to string up everyone who had made her feel less-than.

“Aye, I do,” he reassured her. “I’ve never known you to fail when you’ve set your heart on something. I’ve never known a more fierce lass.”

The pain ebbed from her features as she gave him a watery smile. “Thank you, Killian.”

A weighted silence stretched between them, and he gave into his instinct to gather her into his arms. She came willingly, resting her head against his chest with a sniffle. Sensing that she’d rather not talk further, he turned the program back on. In a matter of minutes, she began to snore softly. It was unjustly endearing, and he brushed a feather-light kiss to the top of her head before he could think better of it..

There was no going back from this, was there?

~TBC~