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let-it-raines · 5 years

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Indirect Deposit (1/3)

Summary: It’s the oldest story in the world, isn’t it? Falling in love with your neighbor. Killian’s sure that he’s seen hundreds of books and television shows starting off that way, and he’s always thought them all to be entirely unrealistic. That is until he started getting to know Emma Swan, who just so happens to live across the hall from him, and he has absolutely fallen for her in a way that he hasn’t fallen for anyone in a long time.

It’s the oldest story in the world...until it isn’t. Because it’s not just Emma he’s fallen in love with. It’s her unborn child too, and while everyone he knows thinks he’s crazy for falling in love with a pregnant woman, he knows that he’s not. Some things in life are worth taking the risk.

Some people are worth loving. And some things about life may surprise you.

A/N: This fic wouldn’t happen without @csmarchmadness and @wellhellotragic. When you guys get to the end of the chapter, some things may seem familiar, and that’s because this was her fic idea that she has graciously passed onto me to write. She’s very kindly given me lots of ideas that have been incorporated. I know I don’t have her magic touch, but I hope I do it justice! Seriously, thank you for letting me write this even when it made me want to pull my hair out! All of the credit goes to you, lovely!

Found on AO3: | Here |

Tag list: Let me know if you’d like to be tagged for the next few parts!

@nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @branlovesouat @dreadpirateemma @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian

The door shakes behind him as he enters his apartment, the pounding sound it makes when it locks into its frame reverberating in his ears while he throws his backpack down on the floor, not caring for its contents or the fact that it’s not his usual spot to keep his things. On any other day, he’d carefully take off his shoes, straightening them next to the door, and purposefully unstrap his bag from his back and place it on the bench seat that he keeps in the entryway of his apartment.

But today is not any other day.

It started as any other day, his alarm going off at six, early enough for him to go for his run and get back home in order to take a shower and get ready for work, arriving on campus a little after eight for his office hours. Very rarely does a student ever come talk to him during Monday morning office hours, which is partially the reason he timed them that way. It gives him time to grade exams, not being a fan of scantrons and their automatic grading when he’s an English professor who gives exams that mostly deal with essays, without distractions as well as helping to fulfill the Boston university-required demands of him having ten hours spent in his office per week.

As luck would have it, though, he had five students waiting for him the moment he walked up to his door, each and every one of them nearly jumping from their seats on the floor and thrusting their newly graded essays in his face claiming how unfair his grading was. But it’s not. He knows that it’s not. If anything, he’s overly kind with his assignments. He’s thirty-three, not that far removed from university himself, and he remembers how much he despised professors who failed students simply because they could. So, usually, he’d take a look at these papers and consider their protests, normally deciding to help the kids, but he knew for a fact that these five never showed up to class, never came to any of his extra lectures, so he said no, not today.

They were not pleased with him, but he didn’t care. He’s lenient, but you have to show up to class or prove that you can do the work on your own if you decide not to come.

That only soured his mood a bit, something he figured he’d forget about, but then his classes were all difficult that day, no one paying attention to a single word he said, no one engaging in discussions, and all of the passion he usually held for teaching seemed to fade away. But it was just a bad day, nothing that a glass of rum at home wouldn’t fix, and then his ex showed up outside of his classroom.

What. The. Hell.

He and Milah broke up seven months ago after he walked in on her, in their apartment, sleeping with another man. That’s a sight he’s never quite forgotten, as much as he’s tried, but it often plays in the back of his mind when he’s up late at night and can’t sleep. He told her to get out then, and that’s the same thing he told her earlier today when she decided to beg for his forgiveness, to ask to come back talking about how much she still loved him. How fucking dare she try to come back, to even think that he’d want to be with someone who broke his heart and betrayed his trust in such a way that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to recover from it all. He had loved her, still loves her really, and he’s never quite understood where he went wrong, where they went wrong. They had a good, solid relationship…and it simply disappeared because of something Milah called one stupid mistake. Maybe he should have listened to her, maybe he should have thought about trying again, maybe it really was simply one moment of weakness, but he doesn’t think he’s ready to try to build up that trust again. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So her face and the memories of her cheating on him replayed on his entire drive home, the only reprieve (or not) being flashes of memories of all of the good times too, and as he walked into his apartment, the place he has completely redone to his own tastes since they broke up, all he can do is see her face and the laughter lines he used to love so much. So no part of him cares if he keeps the place as neat as usual. No one is here but him anyways.

He doesn’t want anyone here but himself.

Huffing, he walks into his kitchen, bypassing the pitcher of water in his fridge and grabbing a bottle of beer. He feels like downing an entire bottle of rum, and not the cheap stuff, but he’s not twenty-one anymore. Hangovers are a bitch, and he’s still got to edit his lectures for the rest of the week, not content with the premade ones his mentor sent him when he took over British Literature at the beginning of the fall semester last month.

He’d really like that rum.

The liquid is refreshing as he tilts the bottle to his lips, letting the alcohol run down his throat, doing little more than giving him the smallest sense of control. But after he downs the one bottle, he tosses it into the bin and pours himself the glass of water he’d just turned his nose up on, grabbing an apple and making his way to his living room, promptly settling himself down onto his couch and turning on his TV, not caring what’s on as long as there’s some kind of noise besides his breathing and the cars driving by outside.

“God,” he groans, running his hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to shut everything out. “What the hell kind of day is this?”

Almost as if the world is out to get him, he hears a knock on his door. The absolute last thing he wants to be doing is talk to someone else, but then they knock again and he stands from the couch, adjusting his pants and shirt before making his way to the door, looking through the peephole and seeing his neighbor from across the hall standing outside of his door with her teeth tugging on her bottom lip and her hands behind her back.

Undoing the locks, he swings open the door, catching it to make sure it doesn’t slam into the wall, not wanting the knob to make a dent.

“Hello, Swan,” he greets, forcing a smile onto his face. He may be right pissed at life today, his mind running the paces of the entire spectrum of emotion, but she doesn’t deserve any of his ire.

They don’t talk often, nothing more than hellos and the occasional friendly small talk. He knows that she’s a lawyer, that her father was a police captain who was murdered in the line of duty on a case that he wasn’t even supposed to be out in the field for. He only knows that because it was all over the news, every local channel covering the story for weeks on end, Emma’s sullen face in the background of every shot. She was always alone, no one standing by her, and in her he always saw himself when he was twelve, standing alone at his mother’s funeral while Liam gave the eulogy. The dead parents club is a club you don’t want to be in, and every time he meets a new member, he wishes that he hadn’t.

But that was five years ago, and he didn’t know her then. He doesn’t truly know her too much now. She just moved into his building a little over a year ago. He figured someone with her kind of money could live in a nicer apartment, not that their places aren’t nice, but they’re not exactly peak Boston real estate. He can only really still afford the place on his own because of the money his mum had put away for him and the extra jobs he picks up.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

That takes him aback, the way she blurted the words out not at all what he was expecting, but before he even gets the chance to answer, she’s pushing past him, running down the hallway and swinging open his bedroom door and disappearing from sight.

This day could not possibly get any weirder.

Sighing, he closes his front door and quickly makes his way back toward his bedroom, not knowing what to expect. She’s nowhere to be seen until he hears the sound of dry heaving from the bathroom.

So this day could get weirder.

He should honestly write a book of his own documenting all of the unbelievable things that happen in his life. Forget writing about academia when he has a best seller about his ex-girlfriend showing up back in his life and making him want to vomit only to have his neighbor actually vomit in his bathroom.

Top of the best seller list. No doubt.

It might need a bit of padding, some more plot, maybe something more unexpected happening, but it’s got potential.

“Love.” He knocks on the door, not really sure why he’s asking for permission to enter a room in his own home, but nothing quite makes sense today. “Swan, are you okay?”

She doesn’t respond, and he can still hear the noise emanating from the other side of the door. Not really sure what to do, he turns the knob, pulling the door open to find Emma collapsed on the floor, her arms resting on the lid of the toilet. For some reason his first thought is that he’s relieved that he cleaned the bathroom Saturday morning.

“Shit, Swan,” he groans, walking toward her and squatting down next to her, tucking her hair behind her ears so that it doesn’t fall into her face or the vomit that he’s attempting not to smell. “Are you okay?”

“Obviously not,” she snarks, her voice shaky and not at all as solid as it usually is, at least from his limited experience of talking to her about sales at the grocery store down the street. “I need – ” she dry heaves into the toilet again, the sound causing his stomach to roll, but he tries to calm himself down by focusing on Emma, holding her hair back and rubbing his hand in soothing circles up and down her back. It’s been awhile since he’s had to soothe someone through something like this, and usually it’s a buddy who’s had too much to drink, but the mechanisms are always the same.

When she’s finished, she leans back against his bathtub, her face covered in a sheen of sweat and all of her color has been completely drained from skin. She looks miserable, and he has no idea what’s going on. So he flushes the toilet and washes his hands, scrubbing up and down his forearms until he feels clean enough. He’s not sure if he’ll ever feel clean enough, so he can’t imagine how Emma must feel. He grabs a washcloth and wets it with cold water, squeezing it out before squatting down in front of Emma and handing it to her.

“Thank you,” she sighs, taking the cloth and dabbing at her face, letting the cloth fall to the floor before she takes her hair, the strands seemingly never-ending, and pulls it up into a sloppy bun, brushing all of the loose strands back and off of her forehead. “I feel like I owe you a million explanations and apologies before I, you know, disappear out of mortification.”

“What? What about this situation could possibly be mortifying?”

She huffs, the smallest of smiles tugging at one side of her lips before she wipes her face down again. He smiles a bit at his own humor. He’d normally find that pathetic, but he thinks he can get a free pass today. “Every bit of it.” “Eh, I’ve seen worse. My ex-girlfriend showed up to my office today, and several of my students witnessed us getting into an argument. Talk about professional.”

He doesn’t know what convinced him to share that, why he thought that would be in any way equivalent to what’s currently happening right now, and the way Emma’s looking at him makes him realize that she thinks the same. There’s not exactly a guideline for how to handle this situation.

Maybe that will be what his book is about: How To Handle When Your Neighbor Vomits In Your Bathroom For Dummies.

“Okay, so bad example,” he sighs, reaching up and scratching behind his ear while his mind runs all over the place on what to say, what to do. “I’ll come up with something better if you tell me why you needed to come into my apartment to vomit.”

Emma scrunches up her face, all of her features distorting, and for a moment all he can think about is how adorable that motion is, how he’d kind of like for her to do it again.

“Well, I lost my key for one. And I’m also having just horrible morning sickness, which is a major lie considering it’s six o’clock in the evening. This sure as hell isn’t morning.”

Morning sickness.

Morning sickness…she’s pregnant. He didn’t even know she was seeing anyone, not that it’s any of his business. She’s his neighbor. That’s all. Sure, he’s always thought she was beautiful, her flowing blonde hair and green eyes calling to him as much as her smile or the way her ass looks in a skirt when he sees her on her way to work. So he has no reason for the way his stomach twists, the way he feels suddenly nauseous as well, the way it has nothing to do with the smell of vomit. He barely knows her.

“Congratulations,” he grits out, wishing he’d been able to express more genuine joy. It’s just a shock is all. And it’s not like there’s really another way to express joy over someone else having a child. He’s not about to tell her congratulations on having sex.

But it is a weird day, so he wouldn’t put himself past it.

“Thanks. I, um, I’m sorry for all of this. I just need to call the building manager and have him unlock my door, so as soon as my legs stop shaking, I’m going to go do that.” “You can stay here as long as you need. I really don’t mind.”

“Look, you’re being nice, which I really appreciate. I was about to vomit all over the carpet outside before I dared come knock on your door. And as great as this little chat has been, I really don’t want to impose on you anymore.” “Swan, I get that, but it could take awhile for Scarlet to get here. He works another job down at O’Leary’s during the evenings.”

“Of course he does.” “So call him, and we’ll hope that he’s not working tonight, but if he is, you can stay here. You can stay in my guest room if you want. It’s got its own bathroom.”

She looks like she could vomit again before her shoulders relax and she reaches up to push her hair back again, catching all of the loose strands and slicking them down. “Thanks.” Emma calls Scarlet, who turns out not to be working, so within an hour, he’s unlocking Emma’s door, griping and moaning about how she should give a friend her spare key instead of keeping it inside her apartment. He only knows this because Will basically screams when he speaks, his voice reaching all the way into Killian’s apartment. He can’t hear Emma’s response, though, but he imagines she pretty much tells Will to fuck off.

What a day.

-/-

“Mate, I’m not bloody doing it.” “It’s been months,” Robin says, taking a sip of his water before twisting on his barstool while Roland continues to color in his book, his curly hair flopping over his eyes. “You need to get back out there.”

“No offense, but you’re likely the last person to give me relationship advice.”

“Yeah, Papa.”

Killian chuckles, reaching out his hand to give Roland a high five, the kid smacking his hand as hard as he can. That’s his best bud, always backing him up even to his dad. “See, even your son knows.”

“That’s because my son is a nosy seven-year-old who agrees with everything his uncle says but not everything his own father says.”

Roland shrugs. “I like Uncle Killian.”

“What? And you don’t like me?”

“You make me eat green beans. Killian gave me a cookie last week.”

Robin sighs, shaking his head back and forth while he smiles. “If you ever have kids, I absolutely cannot wait to load them up with sugar and leave you to deal with the consequences.”

“Considering I don’t plan on dating for a very long time, I imagine that we won’t have this problem.”

“So you really won’t go out with Rebecca?”

He shakes his head before running his hand through his hair, wishing that the thought of dating didn’t make his stomach twist. “I just can’t, mate. I’m still…I can’t. And, honestly, I’m fine with how things are. I don’t need to be with someone.”

“If you say so. But Roland is going to get older, and suddenly single Uncle Killian isn’t going to seem quite as cool.” “Please,” he huffs, rolling his eyes, “I’m always going to be cool.”

He leaves Robin’s house a little after seven, letting him put Roland to bed in peace. Most of his Saturdays are spent at their house after they go to Roland’s football games, even if he cringes a bit at all of the kids calling it soccer. He might have been in America for over a decade, but there are some things he still hasn’t switched over in his vocabulary. Others slip off of his tongue like he’s been speaking that way for his entire life, but the football and soccer distinction is something that’ll likely always stay.

He’s tempted to pull over into several bars on his way home, knowing that he’s not got anything else to do tomorrow since he finished most of his work for the next week Friday afternoon (maybe he really does need a bit more of a social life), but he’d honestly rather go home and change into his joggers and catch up on some television. To some it might make him boring, but he likes doing things that make him happy.

After he parks in the garage a block over from his building, he makes his short walk home, ignoring all of the people passing by who are going out to dinner or going out with friends. He’s spent all day with his best mate and his son, and honestly, that’s how he likes things. He likes being comfortable.

If he had the money, he’d buy a boat and spend his days out on the water reading, letting the waves move below him while he gets lost in the words that others have written.

That would be the perfect Saturday.

When he enters his building, he makes a stop by the mailboxes, figuring he should go ahead and check while he’s down here, but then he sees long blonde hair and the red jacket that she’s always wearing. It’s only been a week since he last saw Emma, since she came into his apartment, and he’s almost sure that she’s been going out of her way to avoid him. He understands. It’s not exactly a situation that you want to have to talk about all of the time. If he were Emma, he’d probably want to just forget about it.

Though it’s not something one easily forgets.

He’s just about to turn around and walk away from the boxes, respecting her space, when she turns, several envelopes in her hand that she’s shuffling. He thinks that he has time to move out of the way, to stay unseen, but then she’s looking up and looking directly at him, her eyes going wide like she’s been shocked.

So, yeah, she was definitely avoiding him.

“Hello, love,” he waves, giving her a kind smile while he makes an attempt not to cringe. “How are you today?”

Her eyes slant, almost like she’s studying him, but then they widen again to reveal the green. “Are you asking because you care or are you asking because you’re scared I’m about to vomit all over your shoes?”

He chuckles under his breath, reaching up to scratch behind his ear while he clicks his tongue, not really sure what to say. He does rather like these shoes. “Can I say both?”

“You can, but I’m not sure that I’ll believe you.”

“Fair,” he sighs, sticking his hands in his pockets so that he can stop his fingers from fidgeting. “You get anything interesting?”

Bloody hell. Why is he even bothering to speak? Everything that comes out of his mouth seems like something a teenager who’s never spoken to a woman would say. Or worse, he sounds a bit like someone who’s just never spoken at all. And the way Emma’s eyebrows raise doesn’t exactly help him feel any less awkward than he does right now.

He’s asking her if she got anything in the mail for fuck’s sake.

“I don’t think you could handle all of the interesting things I get in the mail.”

“I can handle more than you think, darling,” he promises, tilting his head so that he can look Emma directly in the eye while he runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

There he goes. That’s more like him. “Right,” she says incredulously, looking up at him before back down at her mail. “So I’m just going to go. Have a good night.”

She begins to walk away, and he’s not sure what comes over him next. But, honestly, once the words start, he can’t make them stop. “What are you doing tonight?”

Emma stops in her tracks, her sneakers actually squeaking against the tile as she turns around. “I’m just going to watch some TV, catch up on some shows. Why?”

“Would you like to come over for a drink?”

She smiles at him then, something soft and subtle, but it’s a smile. “Pregnant, remember?”

Well fuck. How did he forget that? She’s pregnant. Of course he knew that. Of course he knew that she’s pregnant. And she has a boyfriend, so she probably has no interest in hanging out with someone she barely knows, not that her having a boyfriend means she can’t have other friends. That would be ridiculous. It’s just…he guesses Robin’s words about not being alone and watching all of those people go out with their friends outside, they must have impacted him in some way. He likes being alone, prefers it sometimes, but he wouldn’t absolutely hate to have someone watch TV with him.

Probably just not Emma Swan.

“Sorry, love,” he apologizes, having to work to keep his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t scratch his ear again. “I didn’t mean to impose. I’m not sure why I asked.”

He thinks she’s just going to walk away again, but she doesn’t. “Well, there are other drinks besides alcohol, you know? I happen to be a big fan of hot chocolate.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods, taking a step closer to him and uncrossing her arms from her chest. “And I was thinking about watching Big Little Lies. So if you have hot chocolate and like Reese Witherspoon, I feel like I might agree to having a drink with you.” “Aye, I have hot chocolate, and how can one not love Reese Witherspoon? She’s America’s sweetheart.”

“Aren’t you British?”

He winks. “That’s beside the point.”

-/-

Emma knocks on his door a little after eight, and he lets her inside. The similar layouts of their apartments must make her feel at home as she simply walks into his living room and sits down, spreading out the blanket she brought with her over her legs. He’s never known someone to bring their own blanket with them, but it’s actually a good idea. Oftentimes he goes over to someone’s house and is either freezing or is stuck using a blanket with uncomfortable material.

When the hell did he become such an old man?

He joins her with the hot chocolate he was making before she came. He only had the instant packets, not the ingredients to make the good stuff, but he’s never had the need to use anything but the instant anyways. Honestly, he usually adds rum or whiskey to it, but he didn’t tonight. Solidarity and all.

Besides, he’s genuinely confused as to what the hell is happening, so being sober is probably a bright idea. Emma’s been in his apartment twice. Once to throw up, another to spend a Saturday night watching television. He feels like there should be some kind of in between or, really, a better beginning. But it is what it is, so he’s simply going to go with it.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t know.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at him before placing her mug on his side table and leaning forward so that she yanks his coffee table closer to her, propping her feet up on the wood. “I promise I’ll move it back before I leave. I just have to have something to prop my feet up on.”

“I’m the same way.”

“Yeah? It seemed a little far away for you to be able to do that.”

He waggles his eyebrows, leaning a bit closer to her. “I’m a tad bit taller than you, Swan, so my legs are longer. It’s part of my devilishly handsome appeal.”

“Well, you have to have something to support that large ego of yours.” “Touché. So tell me about this show we’re watching.”

“Wait,” she begins, taking a sip out of her mug, “you haven’t even heard of it?”

“Well, I have, but all I know is that it’s about a bunch of rich women and there’s something about Audrey Hepburn.”

“And murder.” “Spoilers, Swan,” he teases, feeling lighter than he has in awhile. It’s nice to have a friend (maybe) who doesn’t expect anything from him but to watch TV. There’s no prodding into his life, no encouraging him to go on dates. It’s all purely conversation for the sake of lounging around the apartment and watching television. “Alright then, let’s watch this show where Reese Witherspoon is a murderer. I simply don’t believe that to be true after all that time she spent becoming a lawyer.”

“I applaud your pop culture references, Jones. That’s a good quality in a man.”

“Well, you could also technically be legally blonde, so it works.” Emma groans, throwing her head back against the couch before twisting her neck to look at him with a soft smile. “That is so not the first time I’ve heard that joke. You’ve got to be more original if you’re going to make a joke about my job and my hair color.” He raises a brow, the corners of his lips ticking up until he feels as if his entire face is smiling. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that you’re pretty much the definition of blonde ambition.” “Play the damn show, Killian.”

He’s surprisingly intrigued by the show, but mostly he’s surprised how open Emma is as she talks while they’re watching each episode. He doesn’t think she realizes all of the little things she’s revealing with her statements and with the moments that she laughs at, but he wouldn’t either. Hell, he’s probably doing the same thing. Mostly, though, as the hours pass and the episodes continue, he’s as wrapped up in the show as he is with Emma. It’s an entirely inappropriate feeling, this liking her, and he’s got to stuff it down. He will not be someone who cheats, he will not be someone who has feelings for someone who is in a relationship, but he will be friends with someone…just friends. That’s what’s appropriate, and that’s what he’ll do.

Besides, this is one night. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s likely just bored and saw an opportunity not to spend her night alone, which is funny to him because she’s always struck him as someone who likes to be alone. Then again, how much can he really know about someone from only short, superficial interactions?

Not much, but maybe Emma Swan isn’t as stand offish as he once believed.

Maybe Reese Witherspoon really does bring people together.

When it’s two in the morning, Emma lets out a big yawn, covering her mouth to hide it, and when she’s in the middle of saying something, another yawn catches her. She’s exhausted. Has he kept her up all this time? Don’t pregnant women need more sleep than normal people? They do. He’s almost entirely sure that they do.

“We can stop watching, love. You look like you need to go to bed.”

“No, no,” she protests, another yawn passing through her lips, “we have to keep going. We’re almost finished. I want to know what happens.”

“Swan, you’re practically falling asleep sitting up.”

“Jones, suck it up. We’re finishing the show tonight. It’s what Elle Woods would do.”

So he sucks it up and powers on, finishing watching the show and wondering about how the hell they could end it like that. It’s not a cliffhanger, but he needs more. As the credits roll, though, he doesn’t get up to turn the television off and go to bed. No, he stays exactly where he is because Emma Swan, his elusive neighbor, is fast asleep with her head on his lap, her blanket pulled up over her shoulders while she lets out small puffs of air onto his knee.

He can’t wake her. He just can’t, not when she obviously needed the sleep, so even though he’s deeply uncomfortable, he stays how he is and lets her sleep.

Eventually, he falls asleep too.

And when he wakes up, while he’s not surprised that she’s not longer there, he is disappointed.

-/-

After he woke up alone, he tried not to dwell on it too much, tried not to dwell on the fact that he felt like he’d had a really good first date only to have his date not having enjoyed herself. He knows how to woo and charm a woman, but he’s not for everyone. If he was, well, then he’d be crazy. Or he’d just go on the Bachelor. The men on that show seem to attract several women all at once.

Not that he’d do that or even want that. For all of his bravado and flirting, for all of the times that he’s come home with a woman without knowing more than her name, and sometimes not even that, he actually prefers relationships. He prefers the steadiness of them, the friendship, the way that he gets to truly know the likes and dislikes of his partner. So the Bachelor probably isn’t for him, but if he’s desperately bored enough, he might watch it.

Maybe it’ll make his pop culture knowledge soar. Emma seemed to like whenever he referenced anything, always giggling a bit before telling him something just as clever. No, she was normally more clever. And he really liked the way that she’d look like she was so proud of herself after every joke that she told. That was so endearing.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, resisting the urge to kick his foot against his bedframe from where he’s been folding his laundry. He is in deep after one night to an unavailable woman, and no part of that is okay with him.

Wasn’t he just convincing himself that they were friends? Or really good acquaintances? It was one night.

There’s a knock at his front door, more of a pounding really, and his heartrate increases while his cheeks flush. The only person to knock on his door in the past week has been Emma, and he’s irrationally getting his hopes up that it’s going to be her again. He shouldn’t even want to see her, not after she left this morning, not after he knows that he has feelings for her when she’s with someone else.

It’s a crush. It’s like when he was younger. It’s simply a crush, and it’ll go away.

After he finishes folding the t-shirt and places it in its correct pile, he walks out of his room and down the hall to his front door, unlocking the latches and swinging it open to reveal Emma standing there still in her clothes from yesterday holding two grocery bags. What in the world is she doing here?

“So, I woke up this morning and was thinking.”

“Please enlighten me as to what the brilliant Emma Swan was thinking.”

She rolls her eyes but steps inside his apartment, pushing through him and the way he had his arm propped up against the door until she’s completely inside and standing by the kitchen counters.

“Just let yourself in, Swan.”

“I just did,” she laughs, unpacking her bags while he closes his door and moves to stand opposite of her. “So anyways, I was thinking that we definitely need to finish the show.” He opens his mouth to say that he finished it, and she holds her finger in the air and places it on his lips. “Don’t say that you finished it without me. And I thought if we’re going to do that, I absolutely have to get you the good kind of hot chocolate. And snacks. We need snacks, so I woke up, went home and brushed my teeth and stuff, and then ran to the store.”

She’s been unpacking her bags, chocolate, whipped cream, milk, cinnamon, popcorn, and pop tarts all coming out, and for a moment he’s not sure if he’s speaking with a grown woman or with a child.

“Love, what the hell is all this stuff?”

“It’s the provisions, Jones. I’m going to make the hot chocolate the way my dad taught me to make it, which is pretty much the only way to make it, and then we’re going to stuff ourselves with my favorite food.”

“Pop Tarts?”

“Well, no. I like grilled cheese and onion rings, but the grease isn’t sitting well with me right now. And I know I’m supposed to eat healthy and all that, and I do, but I really want the damn Pop Tarts.”

He picks up the box, inspecting it while Emma goes through his cabinets. They look disgusting, but if it’s what she wants, he guesses that’s what they’ll have. “Then Pop Tarts you shall have, milady.”

“I know. I bought the things. Where do you keep your pans?”

-/-

September fades away into October in the blink of an eye, the leaves morphing into warm oranges and reds all the while the air in Boston dips and chill winds begin to blow through. It’s his favorite time of the year without question, though he does enjoy summer months and any opportunity he gets to go out and spend time by the harbor, possibly even on a boat, and even though he’s spent more hours locked away in his office grading midterms than he’d like, he’s happier than he has been in a long time.

Much happier than some of his students are going to be when they get back from fall break.

He tries to attribute it to the fact that he’s moving on from all of his heartbreak in the past, that he’s not waking up in the middle of the night and seeing flashes of Milah and the life they used to share, and he’s finding a new rhythm that he likes. That he loves really.

In the mornings, he wakes and goes for runs down by the river. Some days he listens to music, other days he lets his thoughts keep him company. Afterward, depending on when his lectures are, he either runs errands or heads to work, both of which give him the same amount of joy. Usually he’s much more fond of his students, but this semester he only truly likes the English comp class that he took up teaching for extra pay.

And he despises teaching English Composition.

But his class is full of bright-eyed freshman who for some reason actually show up to class and ask questions, a lot of them begging to write about something more interesting than your run of the mill essay topics when all he’s trying to teach them is proper grammar and punctuation.

As someone who doesn’t always use proper grammar and punctuation, it’s a bit of a difficult task.

After his lectures he usually goes to his office, talking to some of his coworkers and preparing lectures and grading assignments. It’s his normal day, really, but there’s a pep in his step that he hasn’t felt in a long time. And it definitely comes from the fact that every day a little after seven, he eats dinner with Emma.

Yeah, so that’s a new part of his routine. It used to be that he’d eat alone, going over to Rob’s once or twice a week to join them, but ever since he and Emma started their binge watching sessions and he saw how dreadfully she ate at home, they’ve been eating dinner together.

He’d gotten a little carried away from himself and googled examples of diets for pregnant women, knowing that it was none of his business and that Emma was perfectly capable of taking care of herself and her baby, but he also knew from their time together that she didn’t cook. At all. And she said the things she did occasionally cook were making her feel sick. So one night while making some stir fry for himself, he realized how easy it would be to add a little extra food and have enough for two people.

And maybe after the first few times he offered Emma food, claiming he had extra, he made a little more so she’d have leftovers to take to work for lunch.

So, yeah, he’s got a little pep in his step every day.

He’s making salmon for them tonight, and he needs to get home and get it prepared. He also needs to get some coffee before he gets home. Emma’s trying not to drink any caffeine, claiming she used to drink too much of it to begin with, so he’s been staying away from it when she’s around. He can’t stay away from it completely, so he definitely just drinks it and chucks all of the evidence before she can see it…or smell it. She usually smells it on his breath.

They’ve formed a strange friendship over the past six weeks.

And he knows that it’s a friendship, he does, even if he has feelings that are far from appropriate for her. For awhile, he felt infinitely guilty, like he was doing something wrong, but he and Emma aren’t dating. He’s not doing anything wrong. There’s no cheating involved, and he would never make a move on a woman who’s in a relationship.

It’s just not good form. Not for him. He’s sure there can sometimes be extenuating circumstances that can make it be reasonable, but he just…he can’t. Not after the way his heart was ripped out by having his relationship broken apart.

But from what he’s figured out, Emma’s not seeing anyone. If she is, she’d have to only see him during the day since she seems to spend every night with him, and that would be one of the strangest relationships he’s ever seen. He’s decided, though, that Emma must have been dating someone and when she told him she was pregnant, he bolted. The bloody asshole. He’s not even sure who the wanker is or what exactly happened, but when he thinks about it too much, all he wants to do is tear the man apart. She doesn’t talk about it, though, doesn’t allude to having gone through a breakup, and if she doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t ask.

They work how they are, and he doesn’t plan on changing anything.

He hears the knob on his door jingle, the lock twisting, from his spot in the kitchen pouring the sauce over the salmon. He’d given Emma a key last week, and just two days ago, she’d come to his door with a reluctantly happy look on her face while she held up a key.

“I need you to keep my spare key for me.”

“What?”

“I need someone to keep my spare key for me, and I don’t have anyone who lives near here who can do it.”

“So you want me to do it?”

“Are you going to steal any of my stuff?”

“No, but I don’t think anyone would answer yes to that question.”

“This is a good point. So no stealing, but I wouldn’t hate it if you left me food.”

“I believe leaving things in someone’s apartment is the opposite of stealing.”

“Shut up, Jones.”

Emma comes into view a moment later, the door opening and quickly closing. She’s already changed out of her work attire and into the sweatpants and sweater she’s been fond of lately, but she hasn’t removed her makeup or pulled up her hair so it’s like she’s a mixture of professional and casual.

He’s rather fond of when she wears her hair down. It’s long and flowing, always a slight wave to it, and it’s soft to the touch. Plus, it smells bloody amazing. He doesn’t know what kind of shampoo she uses, but he hopes that she uses it for a long time to come.

(He may have to vacuum his apartment and shake out all of his throw pillows from all of the blonde hair everywhere.)

“Hey,” she greets, a timid smile on her face. She’s holding a brown paper bag, and he’s really not sure what’s in there, especially since she’s holding it rather closely and stays on the other side of his island with it.

He continues to pour the sauce over the salmon before turning around and sliding it into the oven. When he turns around, it’s to Emma still standing there with her bottom lip tugging between her teeth. “What’s up, love? Why do you look nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Your nerves are practically radiating over your entire body.” He takes a step closer to her, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong, Swan?”

“Nothing.”

“Swan.”

“Okay, okay,” she concedes, raising her hands in the air, “so I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but some of my coworkers brought me a cake today.” “Why is that a big deal? It seems sweet.”

“Because today is my thirtieth birthday.”

“Happy – ”

“No, no, no. Okay, so I haven’t really celebrated my birthday in a long time, and I don’t usually like it. But I figured we could eat this after dinner. It’s, like, a birthday cheesecake or something. And before you say anything, yes, I checked to make sure I could eat it. There’s no funky cheeses in or anything. I just thought it’d be nice.”

He smiles to himself, shaking his head a little bit before stepping toward her and brushing a brief kiss against her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin underneath his lips. “Happy birthday, darling. I’d love to eat your cheesecake.” “How did you manage to make that sound dirty?”

He pulls back and winks before moving his brows across his forehead in the way that he knows makes her laugh. Sure enough, she giggles, shaking her head back and forth as she takes the cheesecake and moves it into his fridge.

“So what are we eating?” “Salmon and a salad.”

“Really?” “Yep, gotta cancel out all of the cheesecake we’re obviously going to be eating over the next few days. It’s good, though, love. I promise. My brother makes it all the time when I visit him.”

“So you’re telling me that you fly to London just for your brother to make you salmon you can make yourself?”

“I mean, I do enjoy seeing my brother too.”

“That seems like it’s not reasonable at all. You guys should be eating, like, tea and crumpets or something.” He raises a brow. “Darling, is your entire knowledge of London based on television shows set centuries ago?”

“Maybe,” she begins, scrunching up her face in the way that he’s really come to like, that he’s always liked. “I’ve literally only ever lived in Boston. I grew up here, went to college here, work here. The furthest I’ve been away from here is Seattle, and I only went for a two-day work conference. I was in conference rooms the entire time.”

“We’ll just have to remedy that someday. I can suggest a lot of places if you and your little one ever want to holiday somewhere.” “Oh,” she gasps, her entire face lighting up. Ever since her morning sickness has waned, he swears that she’s been glowing in all of the stereotypical ways that sometimes pregnant women glow. It could just be her makeup, but he thinks she glows a bit. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’s simply become delusional. Her breasts are rounding out, though. He has noticed that no matter how much he tries to keep his eyes trained on hers. “I have a bump finally. Like, one that other people besides me and my jeans notice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, hold on.” She gets up from her stool and comes to stand in front of him, pressing her sweater against her stomach to reveal the smallest of round curves. He knows that she’s pregnant, has known for awhile, and even with all of the other signs and symptoms, it’s lovely to get to see this. It’s even lovelier that she feels comfortable sharing it with him. “See? I have a bump. I never thought I’d be one of those women who gets excited about stuff like this, but I’m excited, you know?”

“Not from experience, but yeah, I know.”

“Hush,” she laughs, letting her sweater go loose. “Maybe if you were less healthy and sat on your ass all of the time, you could have a little bump too.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The salmon is fantastic if he does say so himself, and even though he knew that he would enjoy it, he’s glad that Emma does, especially since it’s apparently her birthday. He’s never been one to celebrate much, but he at least celebrates a little. She seemed mostly averse to the idea, but he’s hoping that she’s having a good night.

He really does.

She deserves to have good days.

God, he’s a goner. It’s ridiculous.

They spend the evening eating and continuing to work their way through the American version of The Office. He’d never seen it, so Emma insisted. Like, really insisted. She’s seen it before, but she sits there and laughs the entire time like it’s the first time she’s watching it. It took some adjusting to get used to Michael, but now that he has, he really enjoys the show.

And the cheesecake is damn good.

“I mean, obviously Jim isn’t going to stay with Karen,” he tells Emma when they’re each two pieces of cheesecake in and it’s one in the morning.

“You don’t know that.” “It’s a TV show, and he’s been in love with Pam for years. They’re going to give them the happy ending. What’s the point of television if not to give people something to root for? To give them a happy ending because life doesn’t always work that way?”

Emma sighs next to him before she scoots closer to him, their thighs touching, and rests her head on his shoulder. He feels the shiver the runs down his spine, the gooseflesh that’s rising on his skin under his shirt, and it’s the most pleasant feeling he’s had in a long time.

“I like happy endings. I used to…my life has been hard,” she admits quietly, the words almost lost in the material of his shirt, “and I thought maybe that I could never have anything happy, never have anything good in my life without having it taken away from me, but then I got pregnant, you know. And while I don’t believe anyone should have a child in some desperate attempt to be happy, I know that this kid makes me happy. It’s something that’s mine, and even though it’s hard, I love having a family again. I love getting to love someone else again.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, how to respond to her quiet admission of all of the heartbreak she’s been through, so he wraps his arm around her shoulder and tugs her closer, pressing a quick kiss against her temple. “You’ll get your happy ending, Swan.”

-/-

Emma: I can’t make dinner tonight.

Killian: Why not?

Emma: I have a doctor’s appointment in an hour, and since it’s making me miss work, I have to stay late.

Killian: Are you okay?

Emma: It’s just my 16-week check up. Nothing to concern yourself with.

Emma: Don’t eat anything good without me.

Killian: I won’t.

“Killian?”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you just go all starry-eyed and then look disappointed?”

“I did not,” he scoffs, stuffing his phone in his desk drawer and looking back to his computer where Liam’s got a smug look on his face. Haughty. He looks haughty. “I was just replying to some texts.”

“With your girlfriend?”

“Bloody hell. You know I don’t have a girlfriend, you wanker.”

“What about that woman who you spend your nights with? She seems like a girlfriend.”

“So how’s work?” he asks, rolling his eyes and changing the subject. “You get to captain any new ships lately?” “You know as well as I do that I sit in an office all day filling out paperwork and when they’re feeling the need to put on a show, I have to get all dressed up and wander out to inspect the ships.” He watches Liam slide on his glasses before licking his thumb to turn the page of whatever it is he’s reading. When did his brother become such a middle-aged man? Even more so than Killian and his blanket preferences. “I also know that you’re changing the subject.”

“How’s Loren?”

“Bloody brilliant as always. She’s at her mum’s tonight, but I’m sure she sends her love. So you seriously don’t want to talk about this woman? Emma, right? I think you let it slip once that that’s her name.”

He sighs, running his hand through his hair before tapping his finger against the stubble on his chin. “Aye, Emma. Her name is Emma.”

“And you say you’re not dating?”

“Correct.” “And yet you’ve had dinner with her every night for what? Two months now? Loren and I are married, and we don’t even eat dinner together that often.”

“We like to eat,” Killian laughs, reclining himself in his office chair since he knows that there’s no getting out of this one. “And it’s nice to have company that’s not Robin or Roland, as great as they are.”

“So what’s the problem then? You obviously like her, and don’t protest. Your cheeks are blushing, and every time you talk about her you scratch behind that damned ear. I’m assuming she likes you or else she wouldn’t spend all of this time together. Are you really just so stubborn so that you won’t date again?”

“I’m sorry I had my bloody heart ripped out of my chest, Li. That’s not something I can just get over like it didn’t happen. I was convinced I’d found the woman who I was going to spend the rest of my life with, and she didn’t feel the same way. I still don’t understand it. It hurt, it still hurts, and if I have scars from that, I can’t even begin to imagine the scars Emma must have from her boyfriend leaving her after she told him she was pregnant.”

He knows he’s messed up, that he’s shared too much, the moment the words leave his lips. He doesn’t even know if it’s true, doesn’t want to invade on the parts of Emma’s life that she doesn’t want to share, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have shared her private life with his brother.

“The woman you like is pregnant?”

“Yep,” he answers nonchalantly, looking away from the screen so that he doesn’t have to see the way Liam’s looking at him with slanted eyes and parted lips. “She’s sixteen weeks pregnant, and I think she’s going to find out if she’s having a girl or boy today, if my googling is any indication.”

“Killian,” Liam sighs, the disappointment in his voice obvious, “I love you and support you, but this isn’t one of your best decisions. Her life is obviously complicated, and you need something simple. Because I know you. You’ll fall hard and fast and get attached to both her and the baby only for the father to come back into the picture and you to get left in the dust.”

Liam’s words ring true, but he’s not about to let his brother terrify him away from one of the best friends he’s had in years. And he’s not about to leave Emma to be alone, pregnancy or no pregnancy. They are friends, and him wanting them to be more than that won’t change anything. If he has to, he’ll stay her friend and nothing more for the rest of his life. He simply likes to spend time with her and for her to be happy.

He likes when she’s happy.

She makes him happy.

“I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to be. We’re simply friends, and her being pregnant doesn’t change who she is as a person.”

“Just think about what I’ve said.”

“I will.”

He won’t.

When he gets home several hours later, he takes the opportunity of having the night to himself to clean his apartment. He doesn’t need to deep clean it, but he definitely needs to straighten up and dust off the bookshelves. He probably needs to wash the sheets in the guest room too. It’s been awhile since they were touched, and everything in that room is beginning to feel a bit stale. But he really won’t go down to the basement to do laundry until Thursday when he’s also got some clothes he needs to wash.

So he focuses on the living room, taking all of the books off the bookshelf and dusting underneath them all the while candles burn to make everything smell less sterile. Or like lemons. Sterile and lemons. It’s like a hospital in here.

He’s sitting on the ground in his living room organizing some of his old binders from when he was getting his doctorate that he saves for God knows what reason when his front door swings open and Emma comes into view, her favorite oversized plaid blanket wrapped around her shoulders and dragging along the ground. He doesn’t look up, just sees her mismatched socks, and continues to restack the shelves.

“Killian?”

The sound of her voice, the way that it’s strained and watery, gets his attention, and he’s immediately up off the floor, not caring how much it hurts his knees after being on the ground for so long. He’s by her in an instant, and even though she’s looking at the ground, he can see the tear tracks on her cheeks and the way her eyes are read and puffy, all of her makeup removed. And he doubts she removed it with the wipes she uses.

“Emma?” he questions, placing his thumb on her chin and guiding her gaze up to his. “Love, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

She nods her head up and down before leaning forward and wrapping her arms around his middle. He can feel her bump in between them, and he wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her even closer, letting her bury her head in his shirt as he rubs his hand up and down her back. He’s got no clue what’s happening, not a one, and the only thing that comforts him is knowing that the baby is okay. He just hopes Emma is okay too.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” she sniffles, the words murmured into his t-shirt. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to c-cry, but I…I had a bad day.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want to ignore it?” “Talk about it, but I want ice cream first.” “I don’t have any ice cream.” “Yes, you do. I put it in your freezer last week.”

He chuckles into her hair before pulling back, swiping his thumbs underneath her eyes to wipe away her tears. They’re still watery and puffy, but he hopes that changes soon. He also cannot believe she snuck ice cream in here.

“Go get your secret ice cream, love, and I will put my listening ears on.”

“You’re such a dork.”

He settles down on his couch while Emma gets her ice cream, coming back with the small container and handing him a spoon. It’s banana split flavored, and while he doesn’t love that, if Emma wants him to eat some ice cream right now, he’ll eat some ice cream. Mostly though he just wants her to know everything is okay.

After she’s eaten half the carton, she finally puts the spoon down and the ice cream on the table. It’s going to melt, but he really shouldn’t be worrying about that right now.

“I’m having a girl,” she finally says, the corners of her lips ticking up into a small smile. “I saw her on the monitor today, and God, Killian, it was like…it was like magic.” “Yeah?” he asks, and he can feel the own smile on his face. That little girl is going to be so loved.

“Yeah.” She pulls her knees up to her stomach and wraps her blanket around her knees again. “I’m really excited, which I’m sure doesn’t make sense with the breakdown I just had.”

“It makes perfect sense, Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, wiping at her eyes again. “Okay, okay, so I’m going to tell you some stuff, and I really hope you’re not going to judge me for it.” “Never.” “That’s what you say now.”

“I promise I won’t judge, love. This, like whatever that blasted gym is called down the street, is a judgment free zone.”

She laughs a little bit, and he already feels a bit better that she feels better. He’s still absolutely terrified of what she has to say.

“My parents are dead,” she blurts out, bringing her bottom lip between her teeth, the surefire sign that she’s nervous. “My mom, I didn’t…I never even knew her. There are pictures I have, pictures from when I’m a few months old, and that’s really all I have. I actually, she didn’t die, not that I know. She left me and dad, and since I don’t like to think about that, I like to think that she’s just…dead.”

“I do the same thing with my dad,” he admits, and Emma’s head shoots up so fast that she must get whiplash. He’s guessing she wasn’t expecting that. “It hurts so much to feel unwanted that you rationalize and try to convince yourself that something else happened.”

“I’m sorry, Killian.”

“I’m sorry for you too. Bet you didn’t expect our parental history to be so similar.” “Not at all. I just…is your mom dead too? Because I’m sure you saw the news of when my dad was killed, and I – I’d hate for you to have been through what I went through.” “Cancer,” he shrugs, pushing down all of his emotions. He’s come to peace with his parents’ deaths...or abandonment, really. They still sting on occasion, but he’s come to peace with them. “She died of cancer. I think we make quite the pair, Swan. So is that why you’re upset? Your parents?”

“In a way,” she admits, curling into an even smaller ball, “but not really. I mean, I miss my dad every day, but that’s not why I told you not to make fun of me. I told you not to make fun of me because well, I…I got pregnant through a sperm donor.”

Well, there goes every single theory he’s had. Like, every single one. He was not expecting that at all, not in the slightest, and he’s not sure what to say. He’s not even sure if he’s supposed to say anything. It’s really not a big deal, but she obviously feels like it is. She wouldn’t be announcing it in this way if she didn’t think so.

“I just…I have been alone for a lot of my life when I really just wanted a family, but I seem to have crappy luck in that department. And the same with guys. God, one day I’ll have to tell you about all of my shitty boyfriends. But I don’t know, I didn’t want to have to wait for a guy to have my own family. I wanted to take it into my own hands, so I did.” “That’s brave of you, love.” “Then why does it make me feel weak? What am I doing to this little girl? She’s not going to have a dad, grandparents. She’s just going to have me, which is what I wanted, but what if she resents me for that one day? What if I screw her up because she doesn’t have anyone but me because I’m alone? That’s why I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out that I’ve been selfish and have already messed my daughter up.”

“You’re not going to, not beyond what’s normal. You’re already a great mum. I promise. And you’re not alone.” “But I am.”

“I know this might be forward, Emma, but I will always, always be by your side if you let me. You don’t have to be alone.” “You say that now, but what happens when I have the baby, when I’m tired and cranky and have this loud little girl that’s going to take up all of my time. You’re young, you’re kind, and I really don’t understand why you spend so much time with a sad pregnant lady.”

He shrugs. “I like you. I like being around you. And if you let me, I’ll like being around your little girl even when you’re both having meltdowns. You mean a lot to me, love. These past few months just cooking with you and getting to know you and arguing over the merits of British television versus American television – ”

“American is better.” “So you say. But these weeks have been incredible, and I really do consider you one of my closest friends.”

Emma opens her mouth to say something, but then her lips close and she’s leaning forward and wrapping her arms around his middle while she settles herself on his lap. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t respond, just kisses the crown of her head and holds onto her in the way she’s holding onto him.

-/-

Months begin to pass at a quicker rate than they have for his entire life. He’s not entirely convinced that hasn’t entered some kind of time warp because before he knows it, he’s finished with his semester at school and on Christmas break for two weeks. He spends his time between preparing for next semester, hanging out with Robin and Roland as they take Roland around to city to look at decorations, and working in Emma’s spare bedroom to set up the nursery for her daughter. It doesn’t take him long to finish painting and building the crib, but considering that’s all Emma’s bought besides a few outfits, there’s really nothing else to do.

Naturally this means that he drags her out shopping, finding every Christmas sale that he can as he goes down the list of things every newborn needs. He’s put far more research into this than he should have, and as prepared as Emma is with her job, she’s not so much that way in other parts of her life. She kind of just figures that things will work out, that she’ll make them work out, and with what he’s learned about her, she’s not wrong. It doesn’t make him feel better about everything, though, so he helps her go shopping and after weeks of prodding, he convinces her to allow her coworkers to throw her a shower.

It was like pulling teeth, but even Emma will open up to accepting free stuff.

She has off Christmas Eve, and while she apparently had a few offers from some of her friends from work, she’s spending it with him, going to Robin’s house so they can have dinner with he and Roland. It’s not the most festive of celebrations, but for people who don’t have a large friend group or family, having a seven-year-old running around on a sugar high talking about how Santa coming is about as good as you can get for Christmas Eve.

He’s watching Emma talk to Roland about the latest episode of Paw Patrol, showing as much enthusiasm as she does when they’re in a fierce debate over their own shows, and he can feel his smile stretching across his entire face.

“You’ve got it bad, mate.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, not even bothering to look at Robin while Emma quickly glances at him with a soft smile on her face and an elf headband perched on her hair, “I do.”

She falls asleep at his apartment that night, snuggling into his bed underneath all of his covers, and while he’s sure that Emma wouldn’t mind, would probably insist that it’s fine for him to stay in his own bed, he turns on his fan and kisses her forehead, whispering Happy Christmas before he settles down into his guest room, making sure to text Liam before he falls asleep.

January passes in a literal flurry of snow, the new semester starting with everyone having to brush their coats and hats off when they step inside. It’s beautiful yet annoying, and he won’t mind when it finally starts to get a bit warmer.

He decides that he loves Emma like the pathetic fool that he is one night when she comes knocking at his door around two in the morning and asks if he’ll go to the store and buy her bride’s cake ice cream. It’s not at the first store or any of the damn stores he goes to that night, and as frustrated as he is coming home with banana split ice cream since he knows that’s her favorite, he realizes that there’s not a single other person in the world who he’d spend over an hour in the middle of the night looking for ice cream for.

She really likes ice cream.

When he gets back to his apartment, she’s asleep on the couch with the comforter from his bedroom wrapped around her, and he doesn’t even care.

He doesn’t. He just wants her to be happy. They’ll eat the ice cream tomorrow.

“Killian,” she gasps one day when they’re sitting in her living room, the both of them on their laptops doing work.

“Yeah, love? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she promises, looking over at him with her entire face aglow. “You’ve got to feel what she’s doing in here though.” She moves her laptop and grabs his hand, placing it over her stomach where he can feel a definite pressure from where her baby must be doing high kicks. “Do you feel that?”

“How could I not?” he whispers, his voice leaving him with the disbelief that he can feel Emma’s daughter moving inside of her. Emma’s been feeling her for months, but he never has. “That’s incredible, darling.” “It’s insane. It’s like she’s practicing karate or something in there.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” he laughs, moving his hand around her stomach and feeling the movements follow. “Hello, little love. Are you practicing inside mummy? I’m sure that can’t be too comfortable for her, yeah?” He looks up at Emma with a smile that immediately fades when he sees the water that’s forming around her irises. “Swan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she insists, even as she wipes her tears off of her cheeks. “Nothing is wrong. Hormones, you know?”

He doesn’t believe her, but he lets it slide, knowing not to push her right now. “Yeah, little love, I think you really are driving your mum crazy.”

At the end of February she gives him the invitation to her baby shower at work, insisting that he doesn’t have to come, especially since they’re giving it in the middle of the day. But he’s the one who insisted that she accept their invitation to host one, and he wants to always be there for her. So he cancels his classes for the day, citing a family emergency, and heads to her law office with a bag full of small things that no one bought off of the registry but that he knows that she needs.

Seriously, he knows far too much about pregnancy and the first year of a baby’s life.

“How can I help you, hon?” a receptionist named Anna asks him when he walks in.

“I’m just dropping by for Emma’s baby shower.”

Anna’s face lights up, and she immediately gets out of her chair. And comes to stand next to him. “Oh, you must be the daddy. It’s so nice to meet you. We love our Emma, but she is so reserved sometimes. I’m surprised she’s even letting us do this.” “Ah, yeah,” he awkwardly mumbles, reaching up to scratch behind his ear while he’s led to the breakroom. “I’m not – ”

“Killian?” Emma questions, interrupting him from correcting Anna. “What are you doing here?” “You didn’t think I was going to miss this, did you?” He nods to Anna before walking over to Emma and pressing a kiss against her cheek while her perfume invades his senses. She looks absolutely beautiful today, glowing in all of the clichéd ways. “I cancelled my classes for the day. Figured I’d mooch off some of the cake and help you take your gifts home.”

He sees the blush rise on her cheeks, and she just shakes her head back and forth, looking down at her shoes…which are slippers. She must have not bothered changing back into her heels. He doesn’t blame her. Not that he has worn heels. He just can’t see how they could possibly be comfortable.

“You’re ridiculous, but thank you. Ruby’s grandmother made the cake, so you’re in for a treat.”

Emma’s definitely the quietest of all of the people in the breakroom, but it’s nice to see her laughing and spending time with other people besides him and his friends. She may claim to not be the most social of people, but he can tell how comfortable she is laughing and joking around with her coworkers, opening up all kinds of outfits that make jokes about Emma being a lawyer as well as several things that he knows he’ll be unpacking in the nursery.

Emma wasn’t joking when she said he was in for a treat because as Emma wraps her arm around his waist while he carries her last round of presents, he realizes that this has been a surprisingly fun day.

Well, surprising isn’t the right word. He loves any time they get together.

As spring begins, all of the snow fading away and green grass and bright flowers blooming again, he thinks that time really is zooming forward at an alarming rate. At least for him. For Emma, she’s miserable in her last month of pregnancy. He can tell from the look on her face every day when she gets home from work and the way she doesn’t want to do anything, usually snapping at him when he suggests something. He’s completely and totally aware of how odd their friendship is, how he’s basically in a committed relationship without being in a relationship at all, and he really doesn’t care.

Liam thinks he’s crazy, Robin might too, and while he might be, again, he absolutely doesn’t care.

Two weeks before her due date he starts sleeping at Emma’s apartment. She can only get comfortable when he’s wrapping his body around hers, supporting her stomach with his arms while she tucks her freezing feet in between his calves. He’s not even really sure how they figured this out. Like most things with his relationship with Emma, it all just happened naturally.

Emma losing her key and having to vomit in his bathroom may very well be the best thing that ever happened to him.

At three in the morning on April sixth, Emma wakes him up and, through the grit of her teeth, tells him to grab the damn hospital bag because she’s having the baby. He’s never been more terrified of anything than he is hearing those words, and he’s not even the one giving birth. There’s more screaming, crying, cursing, and crushed hands than he expected, but fifteen hours after checking into the hospital, Emma has the tiniest, most precious baby girl in her arms.

Sawyer Reese Swan.

“Hi, my name is Sawyer, and my mummy is a lawyer.” “I am going to hurt Killian,” Emma whispers to Sawyer, running her finger over her face like she’s been doing for the past two hours. “He’s making fun of the name of my sweet baby, and if I wasn’t extremely hormonal and hurting like hell, he would get a nice slap across his face. Yeah, he would, baby.”

He leans down and presses his lips to the crown of Emma’s head, wiping her hair back. “You’re teaching your daughter to be violent from the very beginning.” “Yes, yes I am.” Her eyes move away from Sawyer to look up at him, the green bright even though they’re still red rimmed. “Thank you for being here today, and all of the time. You don’t…you don’t have to be here at all. You don’t have to be so good to me, to us, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you.” “Hey,” he soothes, settling down onto her mattress and placing his hand over her forearm while the other tugs at Sawyer’s hat, “there is never any need to repay me. Since the day you knocked on my door and threw up in my toilet, I have been absolutely thrilled to be your friend and to be by your side. I wouldn’t change any of this.” “Yeah?” “Absolutely.” He wants to tell her he loves her, but he can’t. Not like this. He’s wanted to for months. He is absolutely in love with her, but now is not the time. He’s not sure there will ever be the time, but now is definitely not it. But he’s absolutely besotted with she and Sawyer. “You are my absolute best friend. I would say that you’re my favorite person, but that’s this little girl.” He looks down at Sawyer’s small face, the way her lips twitch, before looking up at Emma, who has a tear falling from her eye that he has to wipe away. “You’re my best friend too. And she is pretty great, isn’t she?” “She’s perfect.”

-/-

“Wow, your daughter looks just like her daddy,” the nurse tells Emma when she’s coming in to check how Emma’s healing, and the more he looks at Sawyer, the more he agrees, which is impossible. He’s very much in love with Emma and would love to be a father figure for Sawyer if that’s what Emma allows him to be, but it’s physically impossible for him to be Sawyer’s dad. Emma went to a sperm bank, was artificially inseminated, and besides that, they’ve never even slept together. There’s no physical way for him to be her dad. Emma probably just has a type, dark hair and blue eyes, and that’s all.

But it nags at him for the next few hours as Emma sleeps and he cuddles with Sawyer, walking her back and forth in the room, admiring the petite features and relaxed face that she’s miraculously keeping, the crying at a minimum so far except when she struggled latching the first few times. It couldn’t…there’s no way. He’d donated sperm a few years ago, just the one time, and it had been a desperate attempt to pay for his rent when he was in between jobs right after getting his Masters. It’s not something he was proud of, not wanting to have a child out in the world he didn’t know about, not wanting to be like his father in any way, but Sawyer…she looks like him. He can see a bit of Emma, but he mostly sees himself.

Which is all crazy. Newborns all look the same.

Is he crazy? Is this just some kind of desperate attempt to be the father of his best friend’s baby? Because that sounds like something a lunatic would do.

He is not a lunatic.

Maybe he is a lunatic.

“Hey, little love,” he coos when Sawyer stirs in his arms, her small blue eyes opening up to him, “are you sleeping well? Like mummy? Yeah? You’re already doing so well. An overachiever, I tell you.” Her small arms reach up to him as much as she can, which isn’t saying much, and he gives her his finger, letting her tiny fingers grasp around his larger one.

“I want a picture of you two.”

Emma’s voice shocks him, making him turn to look at her in the bed. She looks exhausted, beautiful but exhausted. She did a lot today…or yesterday. It’s probably five the next morning now, but he’s honestly not sure. He hasn’t checked his phone or watch in awhile.

“Why, love?”

“Because moments like this need to be documented. Come here.”

He steps closer to her, sitting down on the side of her bed while she gets her phone of off the side table and begins taking pictures, just a few before she asks for him to hand Sawyer back to her.

“Emma, love,” he begins, reaching up and scratching behind his ear, “can I ask you something?”

“As long as I don’t have to get up out of this bed, you can ask me anything you want.”

“Where did you go…to have her?”

“Huh?” “What sperm bank did you go to?”

“Weird question but okay,” she hums, looking down at her daughter while she talks. “Um, I went to the New England Center.”

Is this…there’s no way. He’s crazy. He has to be crazy. Babies all look the same. How could anyone even tell who Sawyer looks like? He’s just tired and overwhelmed. That’s all. There’s no way that she would have chosen him. There was an entire book full of donors when he was there.

“Do you remember anything about your donor?”

“Yeah,” she cautiously sighs, eyeing him while helping Sawyer latch on to her breast, this time going easier than the first few times, “of course I do. I spent forever picking one out.”

“Describe him to me.”

“Killian, what’s this about?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” “Then tell me.”

“Um, okay,” she sighs, running her finger over Sawyer’s dark shock of hair peeking out beneath her hat, “he had black hair, blue eyes, and I think he was 6’1. I’m not sure though. The details are a little fuzzy right now. He went to college at Oxford, which I thought was super cool. He never had braces, his family didn’t have any hereditary diseases. His mom did have cancer, but it was because she was a smoker, not something he could have passed down. It didn’t say where he grew up or anything, but I figured that didn’t matter. I’m sure there was other stuff, but I felt like those were the highlights. Good genes, smart, healthy.”

His heart is practically beating out of his chest, threatening to break the skin, and he has to take several deep, calming breaths in an attempt to get himself back to normal. He’s not sure he’s ever going to feel normal ever again, especially as his stomach continues to drop only to rise again.

“Did you know his age?”

“I think he was twenty-five-ish when he donated.”

Holy shit.

He thinks that he’s Sawyer’s father.

#cs fic #cs ff #direct deposit #cs march madness #captain swan

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