The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 5/5
Chapter 5 - Keeper
Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.
Words: 6181
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four
Read on AO3
Killian sees his chance and seizes it, bursting into a sprint and Robin – ever on his wavelength – spots his run, lifting the ball over the defence. Killian watches the ball’s flight closely as he runs; gets the ball under his control and he’s through on goal – he fancies his chances against the Arsenal keeper.
He lifts his foot, preparing to make contact.
Darkness.
A serene peacefulness overcomes him; a light dream-like sensation as if he’s floating in the clouds. He hovers in tranquil limbo until it’s ripped from him, just as quickly as it had arrived.
He’s flat on his back; the ground beneath him hard and cold, his head slightly more cushioned by something soft beneath it. It’s not grass. He’s not on the pitch any longer, but he should be. He was about to be one-on-one with the keeper, a goal all but certain. How had that been robbed from him? He wants to open his eyes, to figure out where the hell he is, but his eyelids are heavy, and he’s too tired to fight them. His whole body feels weighed down and his heart races, feeling trapped, longing for a hint of that brief serenity to return.
Faint, muffled voices swirl around him, too many at once; lacking clarity and jumbling together. It’s like having five different radio stations blaring different songs at the same time, chucking two more with static interference into the mix for good measure, and then plunging them all underwater. If his arms didn’t feel so heavy, he’d have his hands over his ears, blocking it all out. It’s as if the water level decreases slowly over time, voices becoming sharper, words becoming intelligible.
“I came in and he’d bloody lost it! He were rambling about victory and prices, I could barely make sense of any of it. The man was slurring like he’d just necked ten pints. Then he dropped like a sack of spuds!”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“Is he breathing?”
“What’s actually happened to him?”
“Was it a cardiac arrest?”
“Alright, alright, guys,” Robin’s calming voice is a comforting sound amongst the tense, panicked ones. “Let’s all back up, give him and the doctor some space.”
Doctor?
What the bloody hell was going on?
His eyes fly open, taking in the sight of his encircling teammates – many of whom are shirtless – being ushered back by Robin. They all shuffle backwards, their stares fixed anxiously on him; over twenty sets of eyes bore into him and whilst he’s used to being watched intently on a football pitch, it’s ominous now – whilst lying on the floor, disorientated, mind racing to catch up – to find himself the centre of attention.
He starts to sit up but a hand is placed on his chest, slowing him down.
“Careful, Killian,” Whale’s words draw Killian’s attention to the doctor knelt beside him. “It’s nice to have you back with us but let’s take things slow and steady, okay?”
Killian nods slowly in response. Whale orders the pile of shirts they’d been using to prop his head up to be moved – explaining the shirtless teammates – and enlists Robin’s help in guiding him back into a sitting position against the nearby wall. Killian’s zoned out through most of it, trying to put pieces together. His mind’s foggy, slowing down his thoughts and he eventually realises that he’s back in the changing rooms. He doesn’t remember returning to them. He doesn’t remember leaving the pitch.
He was about to score a goal.
“What… what happened?” Killian questions, looking to Robin, then to Whale in search of anyone who was willing to help jog his memory.
“You collapsed, mate,” Robin tells him simply.
Killian stares at him, his mouth dropping open, and asks, “On the pitch?”
Shit. The game was being broadcast on Sky. His parents were watching. His brother and sister too. He can only imagine their panic. Someone needs to let them know he’s okay. Is he okay? He feels okay, his energy’s high, he could easily go play a full ninety minutes, but he had collapsed.
“No, you were already in here,” Robin answers.
“No…” Killian says slowly, shaking his head. “No. I was on the pitch. There was a goal scoring opportunity. You… you played me in.”
A frown flickers over Robin’s brow and he glances to his left, looking to Whale.
“That’s the last thing you remember?” Whale checks.
“Aye,” Killian confirms because it is but there’s a lack of confidence in his answer and his eyes shift from Whale to Robin as they share a concerned look. “That’s… that’s not good, is it?”
“It’s certainly not fantastic but it does point towards an explanation,” Whale attempts to maintain a positive spin. “Tell me, Killian, have you suffered any head trauma?”
Killian shrugs, “You remember more of the game than I do. Did I have a disagreement with the post? Take a high boot to the head? Clash heads with another player going up for a header?”
“Not during the game. But I was talking about prior to the game,” Whale clarifies. “Do you recall suffering any head trauma before the game?”
“Nothing,” Killian shakes his head then hesitates, “Well… except I did bash my head against the bedside table, but that was first thing this morning and it didn’t bleed or anything.”
Killian gestures towards his right temple and Whale gently runs his hands over the area, the pressure eliciting a shooting pain which causes Killian to wince as he grits his teeth.
“Didn’t bleed externally, that doesn’t mean there isn’t internal bleeding,” Whale corrects him. “We’ll get you to the ambulance, get some tests run at the hospital.”
Internal bleeding. Hospital. Tests. Killian does not like the sound of either of those. He’s known too many players over the years get wheeled off to the hospital with talks of tests only to be forced into early retirement by the findings.
He’s not ready to retire.
“Is that really necessary?” he asks, hoping to dissuade the doctor. “I feel fine.”
“And you felt fine earlier too,” Whale points out, making a good argument. “There’s always a cause for collapse, Killian – reasons with simple solutions like being too hot, standing up too fast, not drinking enough, but it can also be a sign of something bigger at play and with the history of a recent head injury and memory disruption, you need to get checked out.”
“But-”
“Doctor’s orders,” Whale insists. “I can’t clear you as fit to play until I get those test results.”
He’s left with no choice. He has to be able to play.
-
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The incessant, irritating high-pitched noise of the infernal vitals monitoring machine is doing his bloody head in. It’s a constant reminder of how quickly his life has fallen apart around him and all he can do is sit in the bed, stare fixed on the door and will for it to open; for a doctor to return with his test results and magically wave all worries about never playing again away.
Is he kidding himself? He reckons he has more chance of a fairy godmother coming through that door than positive test results.
He considers the way Adam Gold was forced into an early retirement by his leg injury and how he’s still made a career for himself in the professional game. He doesn’t know if he has the great tactical skills to be as successful in such a career move, and he certainly doesn’t think he can stand to stand on the sidelines, watching others do the thing he loves; the thing he can no longer do. He’s seen the longing look in Gold’s eyes during training sessions, the urge to get the ball at his feet and demonstrate what he’s trying to drill into them or simply ping a ball into the upper corner of the goal, just for old time’s sake.
Killian knows it would drive him crazy. The pitch is where he belongs; it’s like a second home. When the ball is at his feet and he’s sprinting, a light breeze blowing in his face, everything feels right. Any worries and stresses melt away; all that matters is giving his all for the badge on the shirt.
He longs for that calming sensation. If he were on the pitch, the anxiety of test results would dissipate. Instead, he stuck in a hospital, a growing sense of dread nestled in the pit of his stomach. He needs a distraction.
“Did we win?” he asks.
“Huh?” Liam responds.
“With collapsing, being brought in and the tests, and Elsa using staff privileges to get you in outside of visiting hours, I never even thought to ask; did Villa win today?”
“Villa didn’t play today.”
Killian glances at the clock, it’s gone noon. He blinks in surprise. It’s a new day. The two days have blended into one continuous nightmare. He wishes it were so simple as waking up to discover the whole thing to be a dream.
“You know what I mean,” Killian sighs at his brother’s pedantic words. “Did Villa win yesterday?”
“Two three, final score,” Liam finally tells him. “Your team pegged it back from two nil down.”
“Wait, two nil down?” Killian repeats. “But I was through on goal at nil nil, I remember that much.”
“Aye, until your poor touch took you to the corner flag,” Liam fills him in. “Trust me, you don’t want to look back on your forty-five mins.”
“That bad?” Killian grimaces.
Liam responds with a short nod, “Doctor Whale was kicking himself when he called me to break the news, he said he should have seen the warning signs.”
Killian groans, throwing his head back against the pillows and rubbing his tired eyes. He hasn’t slept, not for lack of trying. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s haunted by visions of the team playing in Europe whilst he’s stuck on the outside of the stadium, desperately trying to find a way in to no avail, relishing in gaining tiny glimpses of the action through thin slits in the stadium walls only for such holes to be promptly sealed up and he’s left standing outside, alone.
“Are you going to eat that?” Liam questions, pointing to the plate of bacon, sausages, eggs and beans lying untouched on the table over the foot of the bed.
Killian shakes his head and mumbles, “Not hungry.”
Liam rolls his eyes, “Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying,” Killian insists.
“The not eating, not sleeping, shaking leg, finger drumming and constant staring at the door would suggest otherwise,” Liam knowingly returns.
“I just want the bloody results already,” Killian admits.
“Not eating isn’t going to make the results come any sooner,” Liam points out.
“Will you stop bloody nagging me? I’m not a kid. I’ll eat when I want to eat,” Killian snaps at him. “And right now, I don’t want to eat. I want to know… if I’ll still be leading the lads out on the charge for Champions League football or is that it? My playing career done. Then what am I? Without football?”
“Let’s not fall into an existential crisis before we even have the results, Killian,” Liam advises. “There’s every chance it’s just a concussion and then FA protocols rules you out of the England camp and the two international friendlies during international break. Then you’re back to full fitness in time for the next Villa match, back leading the charge for Champions League football and all this will be a distant memory.”
“That’s the best-case scenario,” Killian reminds him. “There’s been talk about bleeds on the brain and they ran echocardiograms. That’s looking at heart conditions, Liam, how many players have we known over the years get forced to retire early due to a heart condition?”
“And if anything comes back from those tests, we can devise an approach from there,” Liam remains calm. “But nothing you do right now – including worrying – is going to change the outcome of the tests. So just stay calm and we’ll proceed as necessary as soon as we have all the information.”
“At this rate, the waiting around is gonna bloody kill me,” Killian grumbles.
-
The door to his hospital room opens and a doctor steps through, slowly and carefully pressing the door to. Killian heart drops and he instantly takes back everything he’d said. He wants to keep on waiting. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t know how he’s going to react to the coming news, to the confirmation that his playing days are over. He’s taken it all for granted, didn’t realise what he had until it was ripped from him.
“Mr Jones, I come baring great news,” the doctor smiles at him. “All your test results have come back clear.”
Killian stares at him, not daring to believe he had heard him right. Or perhaps he has relented to sleep, slipping into a dream of a happy ending.
“Killian,” Liam prompts, poking him gently in the arm. “Did you get that?”
“I…” Killian struggles to put together words; he’d been so sure, talked himself into expecting the conversation to begin a different way. “What?”
“The tests have come back clear,” the doctor repeats for him. “At this point we can safely put the collapse and loss of time down to concussion.”
The weight of the world lifts off Killian’s shoulders at that news and he lets out a laugh of relief, hastily wiping away a tear which escapes his eye.
“I’m happy to discharge you so long as you have someone monitoring you for the next forty-eight hours,” the doctor continues.
“I’ll stick to his side like glue,” Liam willingly volunteers.
“Any changes in behaviour, any sudden headaches, or anything that doesn’t feel right, you come straight back,” the doctor states warningly. “In the meantime, stay hydrated, no alcohol, try to reduce your screen time, and avoid any rigorous activities. Sound good?”
“Perfect,” Killian nods along.
He’s willing to agree with anything if it means getting back on that pitch within two weeks.
The doctor leaves to get the discharge paperwork sorted and Liam jumps on the phone to their parents to fill them in on the latest update. Killian is eager to start collecting the few things he had dotted around the room, a huge smile plastered on his face; his push for Champions League qualification remains alive.
That’s my ultimate goal, right there.
The very words he had spoken to Emma just five days ago echoes in his head. The ultimate goal; the ultimate treasure; there’s a burning desire to land his hands on that trophy. If not the trophy, he at least needs to help get Villa back to competing in the top level of European football, not only for his career but to give back to his parents, for everything they had done for him and Liam. Some parents make sacrifices for their children, he knows that; he’s learned it, he’s seen it, but it doesn’t stop him from desperately wanting to do something big for them in return.
His mind wanders from his own parents to Emma, to the sacrifices she has made as a parent to Henry; the way she had given up two days of her vacation to Aston Villa and a sport she held no interest in, all for the glee that it brought to her son. If it weren’t for parental sacrifices, he would never have made it in professional football, she would never have been at Villa Park for the Manchester United game, and they would never have met.
He would never have known what he was missing out on.
“Emma,” he says suddenly. “Did anyone tell Emma? We… we had plans.”
His outburst cuts Liam off mid-sentence in his phone conversation and he raises an eyebrow as he turns to Killian, “Who’s Emma?”
That’s as good as a no. Shit. He has visions of her standing around, waiting for him after the game, just like they’d planned, patient at first but growing more and more irritated as the time ticked by until eventually assuming that he’d ghosted her, calling him all the names under the sun including egotistical jock as she heads back to her hotel with her family.
He’s opened up to her, let her in, agreed to try and make things work despite the difficulties they face, it’s all happened so fast, all within a week, and he’s not prepared to let it all slip away from him because of a concussion.
He tries to check his pockets for his phone only to realise that he’s still in his football strip – no pockets.
“My phone. Where is it?” he demands.
He doesn’t know her number for who learns people’s numbers anymore? Certainly not him. Not when he can store numbers in a device he always carries with him, except for when he’s on the pitch, when he keeps it in his locker. He has a terrible feeling it’s still in that locker.
“The doc said reduce your screen time,” Liam reminds him.
“Liam. Phone. Where is it?” Killian growls impatiently.
He doesn’t give a damn what the doctor had said, not when it came to Emma.
“Relax, it’s here,” Liam tells him, picking the small but powerful device up from the table at the end of the bed. “You were holding it when you collapsed.”
Liam holds out the phone and Killian grabs it immediately.
“Whoever this Emma is, she must be important,” Liam comments.
He’s fishing for information but Killian doesn’t have time to give it to him, too focused on Emma, too busy hoping that it hasn’t all gone to hell and, if it has, that she’ll be willing to hear him out.
He turns the phone screen on, expecting to find messages or missed calls from her. There are no such notifications. It’s puzzling; he thought she would have tried to get a hold of him. He wonders whether his phone is playing up, not displaying notifications, and so he clicks on his messages and pulls up the ones between him and Emma.
He very nearly drops his phone. His eyes go wide when he reads the latest message in their chain, a message he has no memory of typing, let alone sending.
sorry love cab’t risk distractions oflong distants with europe victoru so close thanbks for the goof night zzz
Killian gapes at the message as he rereads it twice, three times, four times over. Concussions are no play thing; only a man with all the sense knocked out of his head would give up on a woman like Emma Nolan in such a fashion. Whatever he was thinking when sending that message, he most definitely wasn’t thinking straight.
He has to move fast. Emma’s flight to Boston leaves at four in the afternoon. She may already be at the airport as he sits there, staring in disbelief at the message, as if it’s a trick of the light.
“Liam. I’ve made a huge mistake. I need to get to the airport.”
-
She was on vacation; a one-time thing, that was the agreement she and Killian had made outside of Villa Park. They had both gotten a little bit caught up in each other, but it was an agreement they had ultimately stuck to.
Yet it hurts.
Henry has kept his Aston Villa soccer shirt on for the journey home, parading proudly around the airport with his head held high after the amazing comeback of the previous day and, as she follows him around, Killian’s name stands out against the shirt, teasing her, a constant reminder of what has been lost. She wants to forget all about him; she doesn’t want to hear his name again, and she certainly doesn’t want to hear about him winning that damned trophy should he manage to get his hands on it, but she will. Henry’s unaware of the full extent of what went down and he’s never going to stop talking about his favourite team and favourite player. Every accomplishment Killian Jones goes on to have, there’s no doubt she’ll hear about it. She’s cursed to forever be reminded of him, of their one-time thing, and what may have been.
They reach their gate and find four seats in the waiting area, positioned facing the large windows which overlook the vast airfield, putting them in a prime position to watch the departing planes. Henry gets his camera out, busying himself with capturing photos of planes taking off, disappearing into the low clouds. She can’t wait to get onto one such plane herself, eager to leave the country and its stupid national sport behind her. She sighs; less than twelve hours ago she was dreading the thought of leaving, wishing for more time, now their departure time couldn’t come fast enough. She wants her home and her own bed – her cold and lonely bed, seemingly forever destined to remain that way.
Mary Margaret squeezes her hand, “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” Emma insists.
“You forget how well I know you, Emma. When you say you’re fine, you’re usually not,” Mary Margaret doesn’t buy a word of it and gently prompts, “I know you like to be tough but feelings can’t be helped and it’s no good bottling them up, they’ll only explode. Better here than on an eight hour flight. Talk to me.”
Emma glances around, the seats behind them are empty and Henry’s busy showing off the picture he’s taken to David. With confirmation that her mom’s the only one paying attention, she feels able to open up a little.
“You and Dad are the only people in my life who haven’t straight-up left me,” Emma says. “People leave me, that’s just how it works. Any time I find a guy, any time I dare to believe there’s a chance there, they just leave, it’s like I’m cursed to be alone forever.”
“You’re not cursed, Emma, and you can’t give up hope,” Mary Margaret urges optimism. “I once thought like you did, until I met your dad.”
“Except you met him when you were eighteen,” Emma argues. “I’m almost thirty!”
“Life’s unpredictable,” Mary Margaret returns. “Who knows who’s moved into Storybrooke in the two weeks we’ve been gone? That house next to yours might have finally sold. Your dream guy could be waiting for you back home. Or, your dream guy could even be the guy seated next to you on the plane. You’ll find someone, Emma.”
“Just maybe not a sportsman, next time?” David suggests, jumping into the conversation with his eager contribution.
“David!” Mary Margaret chastises.
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs innocently. “They’ve not exactly left a good track record for themselves, have they?”
“Third time could be the charm,” Mary Margaret sticks up for them and pointedly adds, “Like with us, finding Emma. They say three’s the magic number.”
Emma will never truly be able to understand Mary Margaret’s ability to see good and hope in almost everything. Whilst she appreciates the effort, she agrees with David. After Neal, and now Killian, she’s ready to swear off sportsmen for life. She should have listened to her gut the first time Killian had left her hanging; all sportsmen are egotistical jocks. She’s learned her lesson; they can camouflage, they can draw her in, but the façade always cracks and, when push comes to shove, their career gets prioritised over their romantic endeavours.
“Emma! Emma Nolan! Emma!”
Emma freezes as her name is yelled from across the airport. It’s an unmistakable voice, one which possess the talent of speaking her name like she’s the most important person in the world, the husky tones once had her hooked to his every word, now it just fuels the fury coursing through her veins. Killian Jones can fuck off; he’s made his priorities abundantly clear and yet he’s running across an airport, screaming her name like a scene straight out of a rom-com movie.
He skids to a stop in front of her and she raises an eyebrow at his appearance. He’s always looked so well put together, even when sweating after ninety-minutes of a high-tempo game, he retained that well-groomed image, like he’d just stepped off the printed page of the programme she’d first seen him on. The man before her looks nothing like the man she’d first laid eyes on. His hair is dishevelled and, where it’s usually meticulously styled, it has been allowed to drop onto his forehead, there are dark bags developing under his eyes, and he remains in the same soccer strip he’d worn yesterday, the green grass stains up his white shorts from his multiple trips a dead giveaway. He's breathless, panting heavily, as if he’d been running for his life, and she’d never seen him look so worn out before.
“Emma, listen-”
David’s fist connects with his jaw.
“David!” Mary Margaret gasps.
A satisfied smirk flashes across the older man’s face as Killian’s hand flies up to nurse his jaw.
Killian puts his free hand up in a sign of surrender, “Okay, I deserve that but-”
They say not to hit a man when he’s down but Emma’s own fury – at a trophy being worth more than her, at him lacking the balls to tell her face-to-face, at him giving her hope only to tear it away so carelessly – bubbles over and her own punch lands squarely on his jaw.
Henry jumps up from his seat, eyes lighting up like it’s some kind of game and proclaims, “I want a go!”
“Violence is never the answer, Henry,” Mary Margaret tells him, coaxing the boy back to his seat.
Clearly, Emma takes after her father where her temperament is involved.
“Like I said, deserved, not disputing that whatsoever, but,” Killian says as he winces, rubbing his jaw, “I don’t think medical professionals would be too endorsing of punching a guy with a concussion.”
“What?”
He fills her in on collapsing, undergoing multiple scans in the hospital, and the lack of memory but maintains, “It’s no excuse. I may be missing time but I still remain responsible for my actions during that time, and it appears I sent you a text.”
“You did,” Emma confirms.
She thinks of the uncharacteristic spelling errors in the message, wonders whether she should have sensed something was off, whether there was anything she could have done had she realised.
“Emma, the Champions League trophy is career defining, I used to dream of lifting it but never did I expect to get this close to getting my hands on that elusive award,” he tells her.
“You’ve been over this in text,” Emma responds bluntly. “If you wanted to do it the right way, face-to-face, you should have done it that way the first time. I don’t want to listen to it again.”
“Emma, I had a whole speech planned, it was bloody good… I think… but I’ll cut to the chase; only a man who isn’t thinking straight would ever send that text to you. I meant what I said yesterday morning. I want to make this work.”
“And I wanted to make this work,” Emma reminds him. “I really did. But, Killian, that text…”
“I have no clue what drove me to send that text. I can’t even remember doing it.”
“But you did. Something compelled you to send that message. Probably because that is where your priorities lie.”
“Emma-”
“And I get it. Killian, you’ve known me a week. Football is your life. I don’t expect to come above that so soon but I can’t allow myself to be branded a distraction and when I look at you now, all I can think about is the way you so easily tossed me aside. I won’t leave myself vulnerable to abandonment. I can’t.”
“I know, love. I realise I’ve destroyed any trust you may once have held in me, Emma, but I am willing fight to regain every last bit of it and more. If I lose you today and go on to win that trophy next season, all it will be is a reminder of what I lost in order to win it and I don’t think it – I don’t think you are a sacrifice worth making. It’s early days, there’s still so much to learn about each other, but I already know that winning your heart would be the greatest result of my life. But, ultimately, it’s up to you, Emma… is the match over when it’s barely begun?”
“Or is there a chance for a comeback?” Henry jumps in, taking the metaphor and running with it.
Who needs a wingman when you have a wingboy? Killian’s eyebrow raises slightly in surprise and if it wasn’t for the gravity of the situation, Emma is convinced he would have high-fived her son. Instead, his deep, ocean-blue, captivating stare is fixed on her, barely daring to blink, as he awaits her answer.
Emma glances in Henry’s direction to find him nodding encouragingly, entirely enthralled by Killian’s words; what need does Killian have for Robin, the king of assists, when he has her son? It’s comforting to know that Henry’s on board – that’s one potential difficulty ruled out – but she already knew it was the least of their problems. She’d been all but ready to swear off sportsmen but Killian had a way of drawing her in, capturing her with his accented words. She thinks of their time spent on the London Eye, a fine evening with charming company, flavoursome food, and captivating conversation, tied up in a perfect bow with the night’s end. It was the perfect day, a taste of potential greatness to come, only to be tainted by the damning words in that text.
A fierce debate rages in her head, her heart willing her to give him a shot, her brain fighting for rationality, urging caution. Third time’s the charm, Mary Margaret had said, could she risk moving forward with him, only to be forsaken for the third time?
She’s thinks to the future, to the possibility of him achieving his dream, winning the Champions League. She thinks of hearing the news from Henry, memories flooding back with a deep regret for not giving them a chance. She imagines watching the final, urging him on, her heart soaring every time his team went forward with a chance, her heart dropping every time they were put on the back foot and forced to defend until the final whistle goes, marking them victorious. She envisions watching him lift the trophy, celebrating with his teammates before finding her afterwards, marking the triumphant occasion in their own way.
“There’s always a chance of a comeback,” Emma says. “The players just need to show that they want it.”
She doesn’t just want to hear about it. She wants it. She wants to see him fulfill his goals, to support him on his journey but, ultimately, she wants him.
She has him, right in front of her, his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly, her statement vague and subtle, and he doesn’t dare to get his hopes up by reading into it.
The referee’s called time on subtlety.
She throws herself at him, lips crashing against his and it may have only been less than two days since they last met but it feels like a lifetime. She clashes against his teeth in her eagerness to get reacquainted. They break briefly, to exchange a brief, shared chuckle. It’s not initially perfect, but it doesn’t have to be, for their burning desire for one another fuels a perseverance to go again, smothering any distance between them, and they get it right the second time. She’s not yet departed London, she’s over three-thousand miles from Storybrooke, but she feels at home in his arms and whilst her head is still screaming at her that she’s making a mistake, it just feels right.
“My mom’s kissing Killian Jones!” Henry gasps and then the realisation seems to kick in for the more typical reaction follows, “Ewww!”
Emma and Killian share a laugh as they separate and Emma wraps her arms around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” Emma asks.
“Chasing after you, love,” Killian replies smoothly.
“I know that. I mean how’d you get through security?” Emma questions, her mind envisioning a remake of Thomas Brodie-Sangster’s airport run in Love Actually, with a fully grown Killian Jones taking his space and most likely putting the airport on red alert.
“How else, Emma? I bought a ticket,” Killian says as he brandishes said ticket from his pocket.
Her vision of Killian leaping over an unsuspecting airport security officer gets shattered.
“I’m coming to Boston,” he announces, a big grin on his face as he waves the ticket.
“How?” Emma gapes at him, confused. “You have training, and matches.”
“FA’s concussion protocols,” he answers with a wry smile. “No training of any kind for a week. No playing in matches for twelve days.”
She looks at him suspiciously, “Is it safe to fly with a concussion?”
“No one’s entirely sure,” he admits. “I tried googling it and the experts say they don’t have enough evidence. I imagine it’s a matter of ethics, finding willing concussed participants for a research study. For you, Emma, I’m a willing guinea pig.”
She’s gone from being desperate to leave him far behind to soaking up every last second with him and wishing for time to slow down. As tempting as it is to go along with his crazy plan in exchange for a week with him in America, she’s not convinced.
“No way,” she speaks adamantly, pushing him back lightly and pointing a warning finger towards him, like she’s going to tackle him to the ground should he make a move towards the boarding gate when it opens. “As much as I look forward to welcoming you to Storybrooke, you are not taking that risk. The concussion is clearly still having an effect for you to be thinking so recklessly!”
“Buying a plane ticket was my only way of getting to you. I’m through security, Emma, I can’t just go strolling back through! How suspicious will that look?” Killian argues. “Besides, this is our only chance to spend some time together before the end of the season.”
Emma starts working on ways to get him out of the airport without setting the place on red alert because there’s no chance she’s letting him board that plane, as she asks, “When’s the end of the season?”
“The final game is on the nineteenth of May,” he tells her.
Two months and two days. It wasn’t ideal but it was certainly manageable.
“Then, further concussions withstanding, I shall see you in Storybrooke on May twentieth, Captain Jones,” Emma orders.
“If you insist, love,” Killian concedes with a short nod. “In the meantime, we can resign ourselves to screen dates and…” his eyes hover on Henry, “one-on-one activities.”
David looks like he’s ready to punch him, again, concussion be damned.
Emma grabs Killian by the arm, leading him a safe distance from her father who maintains a watchful gaze, even once out of earshot. She marches him up to flight check-in desk where the two airport staff members are preparing to commence boarding. She fills them in on his recent concussion, questions their airline’s policy on the matter and points out that he looks in no fit state to fly, his dishevelled look after a night in hospital playing in her favour. He gets offered a refund and one of the workers radios for a member of security to help guide him back out of the airport without raising any alarms.
Content, Emma pulls him away from the desk for one last moment until they’re forced to part ways for two months.
“You know, your dad was right,” she tells him.
“How do you mean?”
“‘You don’t choose Aston Villa, Aston Villa chooses you’,” she repeats the words he had once shared with her. “I think it’s safe to say my heart is now claret and blue. I’ll be watching every game.”
“Every game?”
“Every game,” she promises.
“You do realise we sometimes have early twelve-thirty kick-offs which, with time zones, will be a seven-thirty viewing for you?” he points out.
“I’ll be watching,” she maintains. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll have converted the whole town into villans by the time you get to us.”
“A lovely sentiment but I don’t need a whole town of villans,” Killian tells her as he wraps an arm round her. “You – and Henry – are all I need.”
Emma’s gaze hovers on a nearing security officer, come much too soon, and she wants to yell at him to do two laps of the airport before returning. Killian pulls her in for a tight embrace, seemingly also noting their time is numbered.
“I’ll see you in two months,” he murmurs in her ear. “There’s not a day that will go that I won’t think of you.”
“I know.”
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