#angsty feels

In my head it's like a normal night for them. Steve is always intense and at this point they are living together, Bucky having moved in months ago. It would be an event, a marathon, would start with Bucky's last meals, a whole day of eating everything he'll surely miss in this new life. Steve would spend the entire day pressing his lips to Bucky's cheeks, to his neck, to his wrist. They'd mourn together almost, would say goodbye to this part of Bucky's life while also welcoming the new portion. It's a loss and a gain for the both of them.

Steve would also surely take Bucky away, some remote cabin where they can remain unbothered after their day out. He would bathe Bucky, would revel in the warmth of his body for one last time, the pulse under his lips, the flush of his skin. He'd bring Bucky right to the edge with his hand a few good times there in the bath, would swallow down Bucky's protests, would kiss his flushed cheeks as he wiggles in Steve's arms.

And once it's time, Steve would carry Bucky to the bed, a fire already lit in the large fireplace, the only source of light in the room. And it almost feels like every other time together: Steve's patience, refusal to rush, Bucky's pants and pleas, Steve's fingers opening him up, his mouth on Bucky's pussy. Bucky is damn near boneless by the time Steve whispers, "Are you ready, darling?"

And you're right— it would be right in the throes of wildly passionate sex. Steve would draw it out, would make Bucky wait for his bite, would give him two orgasms and leave him almost forgetting what it is they were here to do tonight. But Bucky knows it's time when Steve brings his own wrist to his mouth.

"I love you. I've never loved anyone the way I love you. I'll always love you, Buck," Steve murmurs, and Bucky's chest heaves as he pants underneath his Daddy and those relentless hips, watches on as Steve's teeth pierce his own skin.

"Forever," Bucky whispers in response and Steve cradles the back of Bucky's head when he responds in kind, "Forever," before tilting his chin and reaching for Bucky's neck with his mouth.

Steve would be there to guide Bucky through it all. There was only one moment where Bucky had asked Steve what it felt like, what turning would be like, and Steve had been honest with him, had told him everything.

"It's the most pain I've ever felt in my life, sweetheart. Like fire all throughout my body that made me wish for death. It was short yet felt like an eternity. I was alone, had never felt more alone in my life, but you won't be alone. You'll never be alone..."

It helps that Bucky reaches his climax the moment Steve bites him, holds him there longer than he normally does before pulling back and bringing his wrist up to Bucky's mouth. It is but a moment to Steve but it feels like hours to Bucky, agonizing hours. Steve senses something shift in his own body, feels moments of pain that Bucky feels, and it only solidifies in Steve's being that Bucky is his beloved, is his mate.

"I love you, I love you..." Steve continues to whisper directly into Bucky's ear as he works his hips, fights to keep Bucky steady, to keep him with his Daddy and feeling as much pleasure as he can. Steve tries his hardest to not become emotional when he watches, hears, feels Bucky take his last breath.

"Daddy..."

They don't leave the bed for days, Bucky learning his new body, his new form, curtains drawn tight and fire raging in the fireplace. They are always touching one another, a traipse of fingers, purposeful squeezes. They make love the moment they feel like, move with what feels right in the moment. Steve teaches Bucky how he feeds, how they eat now. Bucky is more fragile, more quiet than he tends to be, but Steve keeps his promise— he never feels alone...

Emma doesn’t reply and he looks over to find her watching him with a small smile of her own, just teasing the corners of her mouth. 

“What?” he asks her. “Have I got something on my nose?” 

“No.” She laughs. “I was just looking at you.” An enchanting rose-coloured flush creeps across her cheekbones. “I guess you’re used to that.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Aye. I often feel quite invisible in this city. Why does that surprise you?”

“Well, because you’re— I mean, you’re so— you know.” She waves her hand in a vague gesture. The look on her face suggests she’s on to his game, but he is genuinely baffled. 

“On the contrary love, I’ve no idea what you mean,” he says. “I’m so what?” 

She gives a small and surprisingly elegant snort. “Come on, you must know how good looking you are.” She throws the statement down like a challenge, daring him to deny it. 

He feels a hot flush bloom on his own face. “Maybe once, perhaps, before I started to go grey.” He gestures at his temples. “But now…” 

“Now you’d just be called a silver fox,” she retorts. “And your face is still, you know, fine.” 

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that falls oddly on his ears, unexpected but but far from unwelcome. “I’m not too proud to admit that there was once a time when I used that face to my advantage,” he says. “But that was long ago.” He pauses, struggles against the familiar bile rising in his chest. “I look at myself now and all I see are the ravages of guilt and the wear of the life I’ve lived,” he says, staring into the black depths of the coffee. Bitterness drips from these words, this confession, and he hates it. It has no business being here, with Emma, on this day. His darkness has no right to touch her. 

Firmly he forces it down and drags back the smile, as near as he can feign it. “I’ve been through rather a lot these past few years,” he murmurs, risking a glance at her, dreading what he might see on her face. Her expression is soft, eyes brimming with empathy and not a drop of judgement, and he suddenly fears he might cry. 

A crash sounds from the living room and they both turn to see Henry, collapsed in a fit of giggles, his new train capsized from what was apparently a collision with the sofa leg. 

“Henry, please wait at least twenty-four hours before you destroy that thing,” says Emma, attempting and wholly failing to sound stern. 

Killian clears his throat. “What have you got there, lad?” he asks. 

“It’s a train!” cries Henry, holding up the toy for Killian to see. Killian downs the rest of his coffee in one burning, bracing gulp and goes to sit next to Henry on the living room floor. 

“Aye, and a splendid one it is too,” he says, taking it and subjecting it to solemn examination. “A steam train?” 

“Yeah! How did you know?” 

“When I was about your age, my father took me to see a real steam train,” says Killian. “It came through our village on a special run and I got to sit in the engineer’s seat and wear his striped cap.” 

“That’s what I’m gonna do!” Henry is all but vibrating with excitement. “For my other present! Mom says we can go to the museum and there’s a train there I can sit in!” 

Killian smiles at his enthusiasm. “It’s an experience you won’t forget,” he says. He puts the train on the floor and pushes it back towards Henry, then gets to his feet.  

“Well, lass,” he says, turning to Emma. “I’m grateful for the coffee but I should really—” 

“What are you doing later?” 

“Er—later?” 

“For Christmas dinner,” she clarifies. “Any plans?” 

“No.” Unless sitting at home with a bottle of rum counts as a plan, he thinks. 

“Would you like to have dinner with us?” she asks. “Me and Henry?”

“I—” Killian hesitates. He knows he should refuse. Already he’s overstayed his welcome to a shameful degree, but the prospect of spending more time in Emma and Henry’s company is painfully tempting. 

“Oh please, Killian!” says Henry. “We’re having ham and pie for dessert!” 

“Who can resist ham and pie?” teases Emma. 

Killian looks at their faces, both wearing the same hopeful, expectant look, and gives in to the yearning in his chest. “I’d love to,” he says. “Thank you.” 

A glorious smile spreads across Emma’s face. “Come back around two,” she says. 

—

Returning to his apartment Killian finds it far colder and darker than he recalls. Or perhaps he’s simply never noticed. He looks around with a small frown, thinking how very barren the place seems. There’s nothing of him in this space, no personal touches at all. He feels both glad and deeply saddened by this. He wants nothing of himself in this miserable hole, but also he wonders if enough of him remains to leave a mark on it. On anywhere. 

He takes a brief shower under the weak, lukewarm spray then quickly towels himself dry, in which process he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and pauses to examine it. He’d been rather vain about his appearance, once, taking the time each morning to style his hair into calculated dishevelment and keeping his body lean and firm. Now his stomach is soft and his arms undefined, the skin hanging loosely from his bones. The lines fanning out from his eyes have deepened, joined by new ones across his forehead and around his mouth. His hair has grey not just at the temples but scattered throughout, with a streak of silver rising up from his forehead that he supposes might be considered rather dashing. His complexion, always pale, has gone sallow, and there are dark smudges beneath his eyes. 

He cannot fathom how a woman like Emma could look at him and see an attractive man. He cannot fathom how it never occurred to him that she might find him attractive. It’s not so many years since he would have taken her interest very much for granted. How many years? Three? Four? 

He wonders how old Emma is. She can’t be much more than twenty-two or three. He’s more than ten years her senior. Far too old to be thinking of her as anything other than a lovely young woman who’s chosen to offer him kindness. 

With a start he realises he’s standing naked in his icy bathroom, goose pimples prickling his skin. He gives himself a final rubdown with the towel then hurries to dress, digging out a clean and ironed shirt from the back of his closet and a pair of jeans without holes. On a whim he pulls his suitcase down from the shelf and takes out one of his old waistcoats. It still fits, barely, and he feels a warm glow of pleasure as he runs his hands down the fine brocade. 

He scrubs a washcloth over his face and does his best to style his hair with his fingers and then he is, he supposes, as ready as he’ll ever be. 

It’s too early to go back to Emma’s but there’s nothing to do in his flat except drink so he decides to take a walk. The morning is bright and crisp, cold but in a cleaner way than the foggy damp of night before. It’s the cold of brittle icicles and sharp-edged snowflakes that collect into fluffy piles just right for forming into balls, the kind that nips at your nose and ears but leaves you warm within your coat. It’s bracing cold, and Killian finds himself walking at a brisk pace, enjoying the crunch of the frozen slush beneath his feet and the blinding blue of the sky. 

Another burst of whimsy—and if you can’t be whimsical on Christmas Day, when can you? he thinks, with a wry grin—has him turning a corner into a street he can’t recall ever noticing before. It’s a small street, narrow and lined with shops, each boasting brightly painted signs and engaging displays in their wide and frosty windows. The air seems different here, he thinks, and the light, and then his attention is caught by a magnificent train set in the window of one of the shops. 

He wishes he had something to bring today, some small token of his gratitude. A toy for Henry perhaps, and a trinket for Emma. Something to brighten up their little flat a bit more, something Henry can play with that will also help him learn. He’s such a bright lad, and Emma clearly has a taste for beautiful things. But it’s Christmas Day and all the lovely little stores are closed. 

All but one. One solitary pale blue door with a red-lettered sign hung upon it that reads “Come in we’re OPEN.” 

Tentatively he pushes open the door and slips through it. It’s a florist and gift shop, and he’s astonished by the variety of colours and scents that surround him. There must be every sort of flower here, plus shelf upon shelf of toys and knickknacks. It seems impossible that so much could fit into such a small space. 

“Hello?” he calls. 

A man appears from a door at the back of the shop. A tall man, lean but strong with broad shoulders and a friendly grin. He doesn’t strike Killian at all as the sort of man who would run a shop like this. 

“Can I help you?” says the man. 

“Erm, yes. I’m uh, looking for a gift. It’s rather last minute, but—” 

“Last minute is the reason we’re open on Christmas Day, mate,” says the man jovially. His blue eyes twinkle merrily as he regards Killian with a peculiar sort of fondness. “No need to explain. Who is it you’re buying for?” 

“Ah. It’s, well, not precisely a friend. A young woman and her son, the lad about four I imagine. I’m having dinner with them this afternoon and I feel rather a prat not bringing anything. Do you think… do you think she’d like some flowers?”

“Women always like flowers,” laughs the man. “You can’t go wrong.” He begins to move around the shop, selecting blossoms and buds and leaves and assembling them into a bouquet. “Tell me about this woman,” he says as he works.  

“Well, she’s… she’s rather remarkable. Warm and clever and tough and far too kind. I think perhaps she pities me a little.” Killian isn’t sure what’s loosened his tongue but the urge to unburden himself to this odd florist is one he finds he can’t resist. 

“What makes you say that? She’s invited you for dinner, hasn’t she?” 

“Out of pity.” 

“Surely not. Perhaps she simply likes you.” 

“She hardly knows me.” 

“Yet you like her.” 

“Aye. I suppose I do.” 

The florist shifts his flowers into the crook of one elbow and claps Killian on the shoulder in a way that makes his heart clench with the almost-memory of something, a feeling so achingly familiar and yet he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. “Mate, I will put together a bouquet for this remarkable woman that will dazzle her, and for her son perhaps he might enjoy a sailing ship?”

“A ship?” Killian blinks in surprise. A ship is in fact precisely what he had in mind for Henry, the perfect gift for a curious boy who loves both steam trains and sailor stories.

The florist reaches up to a high shelf and takes down a toy ship, handing it to Killian with a triumphant grin. It’s made of wood, in the full-rigged style of the old classic sailing vessels, minutely detailed and exquisitely rendered. “Can he… play with this?” asks Killian doubtfully.

“Of course! Fully functional in the bathtub, and more resilient than she looks. Now about that bouquet.” 

As the florist arranges his selections into an artful bouquet and secures them with tissue paper and ribbon, Killian wanders around the shop, browsing the flowers and gifts. There are soft toys and porcelain figurines, cards and puzzles and magnets, and in the corner a display of jolly little Christmas wreaths exactly like the one he saw on the door of Emma’s bar last night, with a small sign proclaiming them handmade with love. He smiles to himself. That wreath was what drew him to the bar, what led to his meeting Emma. And now the same person who made it was making a bouquet for him to give her. How peculiar life could be. 

He makes his way around to the back of the shop just as the florist is putting the finishing touches on the bouquet. It’s huge, and stunningly gorgeous, and as he hands it to Killian his cheery smile turns bittersweet. 

“You strike me as a man who’s seen some difficult times,” he says. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so. I hope you won’t allow the past to blind you to the possibilities of the present, or the future.” 

Killian feels as though he ought to object to this presumption and prying into his personal life. But the man’s smile is warm despite the ache behind it and so strangely caring, and there’s that familiarity that tickles again just at the corner of Killian’s consciousness and prompts him to return the smile along with thanks and a sincere promise that he’ll try. 

“Good,” says the florist, smiling even harder. “Good.” He swallows audibly and blinks misty eyes, and when he shakes Killian’s hand he grips it almost painfully, clasping it between both of his own. “Goodbye, br—mate,” he says. “Happy Christmas.” 

“Happy Christmas,” Killian replies, then blinks in astonishment at finding himself quite suddenly back on the familiar city streets, not far from the bar. Emma’s house is easily visible from where he’s standing. He has no recollection of leaving the shop or even of paying for the bouquet and the ship, both now gorgeously wrapped and in his arms. But he must have done. Mustn’t he? 

He pulls out his phone to see what time it is. Three minutes to two, though he could have sworn that it was no later than ten thirty when he left his own place. How much time did he spend in the shop? And who was it that florist reminded him of? He shakes his head as he slips his phone back into his pocket. More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, he thinks, and starts walking towards Emma’s house, where the pleasure of seeing her again, and her blushing delight at the flowers, and Henry’s shrieks of joy at the ship, all contrive to wipe the odd little street and the odder florist wholly from his mind.  

It’s quite a long time before he remembers them again.  

—

There’s no tub in Emma’s bathroom but she produces a large, wide plastic container big enough for the toy ship to sail in, and Killian spends and enjoyable and quite splashy hour playing with Henry while she finishes preparing the meal. 

She calls them when it’s nearly ready and Henry runs to set the table, something Killian gathers is his regular mealtime chore. They have only the two chairs so Emma drags in the one from the bedroom for Henry, reminding him to be careful and not to rock in it, and soon they are seated and waiting as Emma takes the ham from the oven. 

It’s not a large ham, but the way Henry’s eyes widen when she sets it on the table anyone would think it was the whole pig. 

“Wow,” he says, clapping his hands. “How much are we saving for leftovers?” 

“None,” says Emma. 

“None?” 

“Nope. It’s Christmas. Today we eat as much as we like.” 

“Ohhh,” Henry breathes, his eyes like saucers as Emma piles his plate with ham and mashed potatoes and roasted carrots and some garlicky greens Killian doesn’t recognise. 

She places a similarly laden plate in front of him and he finds to his surprise that his stomach rumbles in anticipation. He can’t recall the last time he had a full meal, or indeed the desire to eat one. 

Henry waits, quivering with impatience, until Emma has served Killian and herself and then she sits and gives him a nod and he dives in. 

“Mmmm,” he says through a mouthful of ham and potato, “so good, Mom.” 

“Chew it first before you speak,” says Emma, in a tone that suggests this is something she’s said before. 

Henry chews and swallows hugely. “It’s good,” he repeats. 

“It is good,” Killian agrees, and Emma flushes with pleasure. 

“I’m not much of a cook,” she says with a shrug. “But I got the recipe off the internet and I guess it turned out okay.” 

“More than okay.” Killian has to force himself not to talk with his mouth full. “It’s delicious, Emma.” 

Emma bites her lip and ducks her head, focuses on her own plate. “Thank you,” she whispers.  

Henry and Killian each have seconds of ham and potatoes, though Killian observes, with an amused exchange of glances with Emma, that the boy has a valiant struggle to finish off his last few mouthfuls. When both their plates are clean and neither could manage another bite they retreat to the living room to play a game of Candy Land, at which Henry sails to a triumphant victory, Killian never having played the game before, while Emma clears the table and gets the pie ready. 

“Are you sure I can’t help you, love?” Killian calls, as Henry hops his little plastic gingerbread man along the rainbow path. 

“Nope, it’s all under control,” she replies. “You’re actually most helpful keeping Henry occupied so I can get everything done.” 

The pie is pumpkin, an American innovation at which Killian has always looked rather askance, and has only tried once during his years in this country. It’s not an experience he would have chosen to repeat but he’s determined to choke down the whole slice and a second one besides if it will make Emma smile. 

To his surprise the pie is not just palatable but actually good, creamy and delicately spiced, nothing like the limp and watery concoction he tried before. The first piece goes down easily accompanied by another cup of her excellent coffee, and when she offers him a second he accepts gladly despite the protests of his stomach. 

“You know, you say you’re not much of a cook, but this is delightful,” he tells her. “Everything has been.” 

“I guess I can follow a recipe,” she says in a dismissive tone. Killian frowns. This shrugging off of praise seems so ingrained she’s not even aware she does it. 

“Mom’s a great cook,” says Henry, confirming his suspicions. “She just thinks she’s not.” 

Emma opens her mouth to argue but Killian beats her to it. “From the mouths of babes, love,” he says.

“I guess,” replies Emma, avoiding his eyes. She seems so embarrassed he lets the subject drop, polishing off his pie and coffee in silence. Emma moves to take his plate but he snatches it away and insists on clearing the table and washing the plates and cups while Emma and Henry play another round of Candy Land—a far more hotly contested one—and then it’s time for Henry to get ready for bed. He washes his face and hands and brushes his teeth and puts on his pyjamas, then returns to the living room to fling his arms around Killian and squeeze him tightly. 

“I’m glad you came today,” he says. “Thank you for the ship, I love it so much.”

“You’re welcome, Henry.” The lump is back in Killian’s throat and he has to force the words around it. “I had a wonderful time.”  

—

When Emma returns from putting Henry to bed Killian is standing in the living room with his hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. He turns when he hears her approach, with a smile that almost feels natural now, when she inspires it. 

“Do you want some more coffee?” she asks with a smile of her own and a nervous quaver in her voice. 

He doesn’t really, but he does want to sit with her for a while before he has to go back out into the cold of his flat and his life and so he accepts. They sit on the sofa with their knees inches apart and sip in silence for a moment. 

“You must be wondering what kind of horrible mother leaves her kid with a total stranger she found in a bar,” says Emma, startling him.  

“Of course not,” he replies.   

She gives him a skeptical look. 

“Well, speaking as the total stranger in question, I was just glad I could help,” he says. “I figured you must have had your reasons for needing me.” 

She nods. “I’ve had so many problems with childcare lately. They just never seem to end, no matter what I do. August is just about fed up with it, and I need this job, for a while longer at least. I—”

“Emma, you don’t have to explain. It’s plain to see what a happy and healthy lad Henry is, and how much he loves you. You’re a wonderful mother, and I’m sure you only do what’s best for him.” 

“I try,” she says. “I try so hard but it never seems like enough, and I can’t help worrying about him. He has has these nightmares...” 

“Surely all children do?” 

“His seem so bad though. I just—I want him out of this place,” she bursts out, suddenly angry. “If he has to grow up here I just don’t know what it’ll do to him. The schools in this district are terrible, there’s drugs everywhere and the kids are so rough. And when I think of sending him out into that, my sweet little boy...” She trails off, brushing tears angrily from her cheeks as Killian grips his coffee in a white-knuckled fist and feels thoroughly useless. Emma takes a deep breath and he swears he can see her pulling herself together. “Henry can’t stay here,” she continues, a hard edge of determination now in her voice. “But the only way I can get him out is to finish college and the only way I can do that is by keeping this job. If I have to find another one farther away it will just make things harder, and—”

“Love, you really don’t need to explain,” says Killian gently. “You’re doing the best you can and that’s all that can be asked of anyone.”

It occurs to him that he’s being kinder to Emma than he’s ever been to himself. She deserves it, though, whereas he has fully earned his tribulations. Emma has done nothing but fight to give her son the best life she can manage, holding down a job and apparently studying as well, raising Henry to be sweet and respectful and curious and happy. She doesn’t deserve to be trapped in this place, neither of them do. They don’t deserve to have their futures stolen from them by their circumstances or the harsh cruelties of the economic and societal structures they are forced to live in. They deserve far, far more than what they’ve got and it strikes Killian like the proverbial thunderbolt that it is within his power to change their lives greatly for the better. 

He sets his coffee cup down on the floor with a hand that has begun to tremble and looks at Emma.    

“Can I tell you a story, love?” he asks. 

“A sailor story?” she asks with small smile. 

“In a manner of speaking.” Something in his tone seems to catch her attention and she sets her own cup down and turns to look at him with solemn attention. 

He takes a deep breath. “Not long ago, though it seems a lifetime now, I was an officer in the British Royal Navy,” he begins. 

“Wow.” 

“Aye.” He can’t help smiling at her expression. “I was the commander of a destroyer, effectively the first mate under my brother Liam, who was the captain. We worked well together, he was an outstanding leader and I would have followed him anywhere. We were on that ship for about three years, side by side through quite a few adventures, and then—” he swallows hard, squeezes his eyes shut, “one night there was a storm… not an unusual thing on the sea, of course, and though this was a bad one it wasn’t so bad we couldn’t have managed to weather it.”

He pauses as the memories surge up and over him just as the waves did on that horrible night and he’s drowning in them again, fighting for air as the water flings him across the deck and fills his lungs and crushes him mercilessly beneath its weight, and he feels again the stark terror and helplessness in the face of forces he cannot hope to control. The terror presses down on him and all he can think of is getting out, getting away—and then Emma takes his hand. 

“Hey,” she says softly, lacing their fingers together. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Killian grips her hand, far too tightly he’s sure, but she feels like a lifeline. He focuses on breathing, in and out, slowly, letting the air fill his lungs and then expelling it until his heart rate slows and the panic ebbs away. 

He doesn’t release her hand, and she makes no attempt to extract it. 

Instead they sit, fingers entwined, as he haltingly tells her of the glitch in the steering controls he noticed and reported through the proper channels when their ship was in dock for routine maintenance. How investigation into his report revealed a serious fault that would be time consuming and expensive to repair, and how the Naval Command, wanting the ship back in service as soon as possible, dismissed it and instructed Liam to take her out again regardless. How Liam knew corners had been cut but believed his commanders when they claimed everything that was necessary to keep the ship and crew safe had been done. 

“He didn’t tell me,” Killian chokes. “Not until it was too late. When we were caught in the storm and the ship wouldn’t steer and we were at the mercy of the waves… Liam was killed. I couldn’t stop it, I tried but I couldn’t… the wave came… and I nearly went overboard… the ship was wrecked with only a handful of survivors… and then… the navy put the blame on Liam.” His lip curls as the old, bitter fury rises up in him. “They said he was negligent, putting the ship back in service without carrying out the proper maintenance. And they knew that was a lie, and what’s more they knew that I knew it. I wanted to take it to a court martial to clear Liam’s name but every attempt I made was blocked by some higher-up. I was informed that if I continued to press the issue I could face a court martial of my own for insubordination, and then they offered me a deal. An honourable discharge and a financial settlement. For my silence.” He spits the word. “And I took it.” 

“Oh, Killian.” 

“I thought, if I can’t exonerate Liam I can at least gouge the bloody navy for an obscene amount of money, enough to make them feel it. I thought it might be cathartic.” He snorts. “It wasn’t. That damned money has been a weight around my neck ever since. I haven’t touched a penny of it and I never will. I can’t bear to. It’s blood money, my brother’s blood, and as far as I’m concerned it can rot in the bank forever.” He pauses, draws a steadying breath. “As far as I was concerned.” 

He looks up at her, holding her gaze as his thumb moves gently across her knuckles. “I want to give it to you, Emma. You and Henry.” 

She gasps. “Oh, I couldn’t—” 

“Yes you could. I’m serious when I say I’ll never spend it. There’s nothing I could buy that would bring my brother back, and nothing I could use it for that wouldn’t remind me of him. Except this.” 

“But I—”

“I know it’s a huge thing to ask of you, but please, love. Please take it. I don’t deserve to have it and you don’t deserve the life you’re living. Let me make this right. Let me do something good, just one good thing in Liam’s memory.”

He has a thought, and smiles at his own whimsy. “Think of it as a Christmas miracle.”  

Emma shakes her head, looking shell-shocked. “It certainly is a Christmas something,” she replies. “I—I don’t really know what to think.” 

“That’s more than understandable.” 

“Killian when I—when I told you about myself and our situation I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—” 

“Of course you didn’t. How could you possibly have known that the strange man you invited to Christmas dinner was sitting on a pile of cash?” He attempts to tease her to lighten the mood and is gratified when she laughs, albeit with an edge of hysteria. 

“True,” she says. She looks down at their hands, palms pressed together and fingers tangled, and slowly brings her other one up to curl around the back of his. Her hands are soft and he tries not to notice the way their touch makes his skin tingle. 

“Please let me do this, Emma,” he pleads, adding his other hand to the pile to stop himself reaching up to caress her cheek. “For Henry, and for yourself. And for me. You’d be doing me a great favour.” She looks up, into his eyes and beyond them, into the very depths of him. He holds his breath for what feels like eternity and then she nods. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

—

They meet at the bank the following morning. The procedure is quick and surprisingly painless—papers signed and wire transfers made, business cards exchanged and financial management advice offered—and it’s not yet eleven o’clock when they find themselves back out on the snowy street staring awkwardly at each other. 

Killian almost offers her his number, almost begs her to stay in touch. But she’s a wealthy woman now, with a degree to finish and a child to care for. She has a whole new life before her, one with no place in it for a broken-down sailor with a drinking problem.  

The money is hers, completely. No strings are attached to it and he doesn’t want her feeling in any way obligated to him, or like she has to make any justifications for the way she spends it. He doesn’t want her wasting thoughts on him when she’ll have far better and happier things to think about. And despite the painful knot that tightens in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again he feels lighter than he has in years. He feels free, and he wants that same freedom for her. 

He doesn’t need to see her, he tells himself. Not so long as he knows she’s taken care of. That she’s happy.

“Well.” He clears his throat. “That’s that then.” 

“Yeah I guess it is. Killian, I—” 

“Please.” He cuts her off. “Please don’t say anything.” He lets his eyes caress her face, fixes it for forever in his memory. “Goodbye, Emma,” he says. “Have a wonderful life.” 

He turns and walks away, losing himself in the shifting crowd of people, never once looking back.