#imma keep it

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You find Frankie sprawled out face-down across the bed, the clean and crisp bed sheets beneath him barely rumpled. It’s as if he simply lay down and fell straight asleep. He hasn’t even bothered to get dressed again properly after his shower, the black boxer shorts the only item of clothing on him, contrasting beautifully with his tanned skin and the white sheets. You find yourself feeling thankful there isn’t a clear view into your bedroom, because that would mean closing the curtains and you don’t want to - the late summer light is cast over Frankie in a hazed block, highlighting the broadness of his back. He faces away from it - face to the door - on his side of the bed, splayed limbs and his face squished against the pillow, your own pulled close enough he can no doubt smell it. (And that’s likely why).

As you lean against the doorframe watching you think that at least for now all you want to do is watch and bask in the peaceful ambience of the room. The dust motes in the evening light, the gentle hum of life somewhere outside. To let this moment be and take comfort in knowing that right now Frankie is here and he’s safe and he’s resting. You don’t want to disturb his rest - god knows he needs it - but seeing him like this, all loose-limbed and completed relaxed, you do want to be closer. You want to admire him, already mentally tracing lines down the softly defined muscles of his back, remembering the places where the few freckles from his afternoons in the sun are scattered across his shoulders. You want to gather him up in your arms, to kiss your way across the bared skin, shower him in affection and maybe - just maybe - that’d be a kind of rest too, to be wrapped up in your love.

In the end your own selfish desires win, drawing you over to the bed where you settle down next to him, at just the right distance that you think he might not have noticed the dip in the mattress. He does. Sensing you even when he’s mostly asleep Frankie makes a soft noise in the back of his throat before the hand nearest starts to search for you. Blindly patting and feeling his way across the bed, when Frankie finds your thigh his fingers slip up and over, gripping lightly into your soft skin so it dimples beneath his touch. He looks so peaceful you hardly dare to move in case it disturbs him again. But when he makes another noise and a gentle tug on your leg you go willingly. You settle yourself right alongside him then gently take his larger hand in your own, allowing him to sleepily shift and interlace his fingers alongside yours until he’s happy. Raising the paired hands to your lips you press soft kisses across his knuckles. He hums in content at the feeling, turning his face upward towards you though his eyes remain closed.

“Frankie?” He makes a quiet acknowledging noise. “You there?”

“Mmmmhm.” Comes the sound again, this time paired with a quick squeeze of your hand.

“You doing ok?”

He hums in response before, “tired.” Comes the reply.

“Yeah. You did a lot today didn’t you? You must have worked hard, I know it. Baby I’m proud of you.” At your words Frankie makes a small pained noise before pulling himself over, hiding his face fully against your leg, his arm over your lap and clinging to your other hip. “That kind of day?” He nods slowly against you, his nose dragging against your thigh with the movement. “Ok. I’m here.”

This you can do.

With one hand you cup the back of his skull, fingers threading through his still-damp curls and drawing mindless circles and patterns. It’s a gesture he’s done to you so many times that you know first hand the kind of comfort it brings, hoping it’ll do the same for him. Your other hand you allow to slide down onto his back, fingers spread to just feel him for a moment and feel his warmth. You study the contrasts of the two of you, how broad his back is under your hand, and how he appears even bigger when he sighs at the contact, pushing up into you ever so slightly before he finds himself too heavy and drops back down.

You lose yourself to it - the touch and how it soothes you both - and time drifts to feel molasses slow in the fading golden sunlight. Frankie’s breathing is a steady cadence, puffs of warm air against your leg, his back rising and falling under your hand as he breathes in and lets it out, becoming a comforting weight across you. You slowly admire him beneath you, allowing your fingers to trace up and down his muscles like you’d thought about, rubbing his back in a hope to soothe him before walking your fingers step by step from one freckle to the next. Frankie shivers at the tickle, grumbling slightly as he holds you tighter.

“Alright, alright,” You murmur. “didn’t mean you tickle you, softie.” He gives a huff of amusement at the endearment, and a small nuzzle against you in thanks for stopping as you run firm strokes over his back to ease the sensation.

Then your hands begin to wander on their own accord; finding what you know are his usual tight spots along his broad shoulders and at the base of his neck, digging your thumbs in and working to ease the tension. Frankie hums then lifts himself to shuffle even closer to you again. He gives a passing kiss to your stomach before resting his head on your other thigh and letting himself become heavy over you.

Once he’s settled you return to your work. You follow familiar tracks down his back, walking your thumbs down either side of his spine before repeating with long strokes and pressing down around and to his stomach. Over and over you go, firmly pressing into him until he stops shifting with the over-sensitivity of it. It’s hard to do some of it right with the angle, so you settle for the best you can and center in on what you know is usually tight. The worst is generally up his neck, the tension from holding his shoulders wrong causing permanent tightness there. You dig in, using your fingers to roll the muscles until they yield, mindful every time Frankie breathes hard against you. Until one time it catches and you stop, instead rubbing over the area to relieve the ache. You’re working up to finishing the short massage when Frankie notices and speaks up.

“Don’t stop.” It’s said so quietly you barely catch it, muffled as it is against your skin.

“What was that?” Maybe a lesser man would have changed his words, postured and put on a front. But Frankie - your kind and ever-open Frankie - only rolls his head to the side, cracks his eyes open to hold your gaze and repeats it.

“Please don’t stop querida.”

At his reassurance you shake your head gently in reply, then, “I won’t baby. ‘m right here, I got you.” His lips quirk up at the corners at your easy pet-name, enough to round his cheeks and soften his eyes as they drift back shut, the smile lingering a fraction longer before he pulls into you again.

When you return to it you work in earnest now but in broader pressures - pressing the heels of your hands into his back, pushing long strokes downwards and working the knots out. Frankie huffs at the ache and breathes out in measured breaths whenever you find something particularly tight that sends bright flashes of pain through his body. You’re mindful but know he needs it, evident in how the more you work the heavier he gets against you. Each passing of your hands makes the coil of his tension loosen more and more until he’s finally lying completely boneless against you.

“Alright,” You murmur, folding yourself down over him enough to press a kiss to his forehead. “Come on then love.” An eye cracks open at your words, a small groan of protest breaking the silence.

“Don’t stop…sleep.” Is all he mumbles in reply.

“I know Frankie. Sleep for both of us. That’s what I meant.”

It’s a bit of work to rearrange the pair of you, Frankie nothing but a mumbling weight, quietly protesting the whole shift. But as soon as you are both laying down facing each other he slots his leg between yours immediately, fitting his body alongside you like a paired puzzle piece. Nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck Frankie settles against you with a sigh. He’s all heavy limbs - an arm thrown over your waist and crooked up to reach for your shoulder, or maybe your head, but there’s no grip to his fingers, his leg trying to pull you even closer. It puts him back in reach for soft kisses, which you gently press against his forehead over and over, loving the reaction it gets from him - a soft huff as he pushes his face down each time, his beard rubbing at your skin but it’s worth it (like always). Your fingers thread again through his curls, dry enough now they’ve gone a bit wispy at the ends. You play with the individual strands, rolling them between your fingers until he shivers at the feeling against his scalp.

“Sleep.” And this time he truly sounds on the edge of it.

“Sleep.” You agree, snuggling in to enjoy his presence and the last of the day’s sun.

Settling into the seat, Killian folds up the map as best he can and takes to staring out the window. He watches other cars, trees and guardrails, the occasional billboard pass by. His transformation is coming soon - he can feel an inkling of it in his bones - and they’ve got to find somewhere he can run free without hurting anyone, especially his brother.

He briefly falls asleep and wakes up as Liam pulls into a gas station. The sun is setting over the treetops. When he looks around, Killian notices there’s not much else around. A stoplight a little further down the road, some quaint little houses and shops.

“Where are we?” he asks, voice groggy.

“Storybrooke, Maine,” Liam answers. “Welcome to our new home.”

They’ve found something of a gem in Storybrooke. A small town, for sure, but large enough to spawn something of a suburb and boast two completely different grocery stores. But that’s not the charm that solidifies Storybrooke as their new homebase.

Since both of them have worked with, in, and around water and the sea, it’s a bit of an unspoken agreement between brothers that they have to move somewhere with a harbor. It’s a remnant of their childhoods, what’s left of the memory of their father that left them and their mother in the lurch. Every Sunday, their mother would take them down to the docks and walk along them along the water. Killian couldn’t be sure, but he liked to think that she found a connection with her former husband in the horizon on the other side of the water. It’s a feeling that runs stronger in Killian’s veins than Liam’s, probably due to the fact that Killian was younger and more naive, unknowing of the pain and uncomfortableness that their father left behind as Liam did. Still, there’s a certain solace the sea provides the brothers Jones, tainted memories included. How would one know what happiness is were it not for the sadness that came before it?

Killian finds a new job as the harbormaster, in charge of all the comings and goings of ships and boats. It brings him a certain sense of peace, something he could never really find even when he sailed the ferry across the Hudson River.

Much to Killian’s pleasure, Liam seems to settle in better than he does, if possible. Of all the odd jobs he’s worked in his life, the ad in the newspaper for a sheriff’s deputy - no experience required, training paid for - is the perfect fit. He’s already bossy, a leader, and a natural rule upholder.

“Finally,” Killian exhales, his forehead all but slamming on the kitchen table in front of him. “Now others will see the tribulations of living under your dictatorship.”

Rolling his head from side to side, the closest movement to shaking his head in this position, a thought crosses his mind and causes him to groan. He sits up. “You’re going to be an even more pompous arse with that blasted uniform on, aren’t you?”

They live in what either of them can only describe as a hovel, but it’s a hovel of their own, in their names alone. There’s enough grass around them that they could consider it a yard, especially the first spring they live there, when a surprise crop of buttercups pop up from the earth. Out toward the outskirts of town, it’s got enough rooms to be considered spacious and for each of them to have their own personal space.

Privacy is a very important quality to have when two brothers live together, especially as Liam settles further into his place in town. The inclusion of Elsa in their lives is messy at first. She’s a lovely lass - a bit on the quiet side, but Liam looks at her like she hangs the sun, moon, and stars all at once. And she, in turn, provides his brother a confidante other than Killian himself. Elsa brings out a softer side of Liam, one that Killian hasn’t seen since they were children. Probably not since their mother died and his brother added “guardian” to his resume.

They meet after a rather unfortunate incident: Liam’s covering the night shift while Killian, still a little unsettled from his last transformation, pays a visit to the local bar. He takes notices of the gaggle of ladies in the corner of the bar, sitting around the table and gabbing. As the night rolls on, they get a little too rowdy. When one of them ends up dancing on the table, Killian sees the bartender shake his head and reach for the phone.

A few minutes later, Liam struts in. He nods at Killian when their eyes meet and Killian can’t help but chuckle at the slight relief he spots in his brother’s expression when he realizes his younger brother isn’t the reason he’s been called. Still, he goes up to the man behind the bar and, after a brief discussion, Liam heads over to the table of women. The woman who stands up to deal with his sheriff brother has platinum hair, plaited down over her shoulder. Her hands come up, her motions soft and calming as she separates her friends from Liam.

He can’t hear what the conversation is, but the women settle down and Liam can’t seem to stop smiling. The woman says something to her friends before walking to the bar with his brother. Liam calls over the bartender and a moment later, his brother and Elsa are indulging in their first drink.

The rest, they say, is history.

Killian’s never really a desire for another older sibling, let alone a sister, but Elsa makes him rethink the idea. She adds a domesticity there’s never really been in the Jones residence, but she’s got a quick tongue that surprises everyone, including her adversaries in the courtroom.

Elsa introduces both of them to Storybrooke society, mostly by introducing them to her social butterfly of a sister, Anna. She somehow calms them both down in heated situations, especially between each other, and she does it all without ever raising her voice.

She’s the best thing to happen in their lives - or at least the best for them since Killian aged out of the system.

Unfortunately, they still have to keep Killian’s secret from her. For own safety, Liam insists.

“Liam, she’s practically family now,” Killian argues in whispers. It’s a Thursday evening and Elsa’s come over for dinner. She’s in the bathroom at the moment and Killian’s worried. “She has the right to know, especially when the new moon strikes within a week.”

“She doesn’t need to know, little brother,” Liam fights vehemently. “I’ll stay over at her place, that way we’ll both be out of your way.”

The conversation is cut short due to Elsa’s return, but Killian can’t help rolling his eyes.

“Oh no,” she says quietly, placing her napkin in her lap. “What did I interrupt? I can go in the kitchen and find look at your alcohol collection until you guys sort this out.”

Taking her hand, Liam shushes her with a smile. “No, honey, that’s alright. My little brother just doesn’t understand why I want to spend some time at your place.”

Killian, really having no other choice, plays along. “I don’t understand why because you always come back complaining that Anna wakes you up at ungodly hours.” Looking down at his mostly empty plate, Killian grumbles, “Trust me, I enjoy the reprieve from nightly activity noises.”

Liam scolds him for his inappropriate comment while Elsa hides her giggles behind her napkin.

(She’s truly the best thing to happen to them in a long while.)

0000

With each passing lunar cycle, the pain lessens. It still burns as it takes over his body, but just as with any sort of exercise, the body grows more tolerant. Liam remains the only person to know of his affliction, a fact that Killian fights the closer Liam and Elsa get. His brother finds more and more unusual ways to keep his lady love and himself away from the Jones house during full moons.

When the weather is nice enough, Killian often excuses himself by saying he’s going camping. Elsa doesn’t blink an eye, and if anyone finds him in the woods in any state of dress, he can say he just had a hard night in the forest.

(The ripping of clothes is still a problem when he transforms. A couple months into this experience, one would believe he’d be better at it.)

Killian’s wolf self loves those weekends. No one has run into him in any form, and the variety of creatures running about in the woods pleases him to no end. While he loved every day of living in New York with his brother, Storybrooke has a magical quality about it. Perhaps it’s the forests or the appearance of Elsa in their lives. It could be the accomplishment of adulthood or the freedom this little town gives them. Any number of things might be the reason. Killian fears that pinpointing the exact reason would ruin the magic.

It’s funny how just one small moment can change one’s perception of magical places. Wolf or not, it hits Killian right between the eyes one day.

“Liam!” Killian shouts, the front door to the station slamming shut behind him. Things are quiet down at the docks, fog failing to dissipate as morning turned to afternoon and making sailing conditions too undesirable. He’s got his pile of paperwork down to a manageable level and with the weather as poor as it is, Killian figures that most people are too fatigued by the grey day to commit any sort of crime. So, as he’s prone to do on occasion, he comes to offer Liam an outing for lunch.

When no one responds immediately, Killian walks further into the precinct. He expects to see Ruby or Leroy, the receptionist and other deputy respectively, but both their desks are alarmingly empty. Walking past them, he heads to Liam’s desk, and once he finds it unattended as well, Killian makes his way to the head sheriff’s office. It’s boxed off with half glass walls from the rest of the station, giving the semblance of privacy where there is usually none. Graham, however, installed blinds shortly after his appointment many years ago, and pulls them when he convenes a department meeting, as they are now.

Since his brother’s appointment to deputy, Killian’s skillfully infiltrated Storybrooke’s sheriff department, befriending Graham over a pint and Ruby with a drunk karaoke night or four. He’s walked in on many a department meeting and sat in the back, offering witticisms and snarky remarks when called for. Or even when they’re not.

(Leroy, as loud as he is, has still managed to vex him. The man is always grumpy.)

So he knocks on the glass door of the small room, giving them warning of his entrance, and waltzes in.

“Good morning, esteemed law enforcement of Storybrooke.” His greeting is too loud in the room, a boom of thunder during an otherwise silent night. Observing his surroundings, Killian becomes confused. Liam’s not standing beside the door. Leroy’s not sitting in the trouble seat with Ruby perched on the arm, checking out her nails. And, the most surprising thing he notices, is that Graham isn’t standing behind his desk, hands resting on the top of the wood and shoulders hunched over the week’s docket.

Instead, all four of them are sitting in front of the desk, chairs dragged in from other places in the building. The looks on their faces express concern and something like guilt, though Killian can’t explain why.

And then he looks to where Graham should be standing to discover his place is taken by a blonde woman, with leather-clad arms crossed over her chest.

She’s a marvel: that’s the first real thought that crosses his mind about her. Her stance radiates power, demands respect, and serves as one of the most powerful turn-ons Killian’s ever had the pleasure of being exposed to.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her voice gruff and unimpressed.

At the sound, his eyes shoot up, catching a flick of green as her eyes roll back in her head. Thrown for a moment, Killian shakes his head.

He soon recovers and turns on his swaggery pirate persona, “Well, that depends,” he replies. He gestures to Graham, and then back to her. “How come you’re in Graham’s place?”

There’s a moan from beside him, one Killian recognises as his brother’s. He turns briefly to catch Liam rest his forehead on his hand in disgrace. Killian shrugs. “What? I believe it to be a fair question.”

The blonde shakes her head. “This is a private meeting of sheriff department personnel,” she says. The satisfying clunk of her boots are slow and measured as she comes around the desk, stopping right in front of him. “If you’d please wait outside, someone will be out to help you in a moment.”

She grimaces at him, her poor attempt at a polite smile, then she takes the door frame from his lacking hold. “Thank you.”

Dumbstruck by the turn of events, Killian has no choice but to glance at his brother as he slowly backs out into the bullpen. Liam raises an eyebrow, nonverbally asking him to follow orders, just this once, and they’ll discuss the rest of the matters later.

Conceding defeated, Killian nods his head. "My mistake," he says, much more humbled.

"I apologize for interrupting."

The woman nods as if to say, "Yeah, sure, fine" before shutting the door behind him. Still a little gobsmacked by the unusual turn of events, Killian makes his way back to Liam's desk and takes a seat. He stares aimlessly at the framed photograph on his brother's desk, an identical match to the one that sits on his own desk down in the harbor. It's from when they were younger, one of the first weekends after Liam officially became his guardian. For some reason, he had saved up a ton of money - picking up extra shifts when he could, sleeping minimally for days at a time, and living off of Ramen and boxed macaroni - all so they could go out on a cheap little rented sailboat on a nice Saturday.

The man who owned the boat offered to take a picture of the two of them once they returned from the water. Sunburnt, a bit dehydrated, and smiling wider than either of them could contemplate possible, that was one of the happiest days of Killian's life. Everything finally seemed to be turning up in their favor.

While life or fate had sent he and his brother through the wringer, this turn of events was certainly not one he had seen coming. A new sheriff? It's not as though Graham has done poorly in his position, nor had he suddenly fallen in the line of duty.

But this new arrival is certainly an interesting development.

Staff meetings, or at least the ones he used to be privy to, lasted anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes. A brief greeting, perhaps a jab at Grumpy's expense, then a run down of the assignments for the day, followed by questions, comments, concerns. In and out before your coffee got cold. And while Killian figured, with the change in command and explanation of local quirks, it would go half an hour, maximum. This sheriff seemed to get straight to business, as if she was more excited about filing paperwork than about tackling the town's problems. Killian could sit and play around for a half an hour, no problem. Maybe he'd even take a nap.

But when a half hour passed, and then an hour, and then an hour and a half, Killian finally had enough. There were only so many times he could Facebook stalk his brother's account, or send himself emails from Liam's work account. Only so many Vine compilations and cat videos to be watched. His stomach growling was the last straw. He stood up, completely intending to march right back into Graham's office and call this meeting cruel and unusual punishment when the door he'd been coerced from earlier opened up.

Grumpy appears first, his facial expression much more sour than usual, followed by Graham, who looks like he needed a nap himself. Ruby comes after, her fingers already quickly flickering across her phone in response to texts or tweets or whatever the meeting had caused her to miss. Liam brings up the rear, slogging out with an apologetic look behind him. He’s barely out of the doorway before the glass door slams shut behind him and the shade shimmies down over the window.

"What's got her so uptight?" Killian asks, spinning around in his brother's chair and watching Liam settle in to work.

Liam merely shakes his head. "Get up," he grumbles, "I've got to get to work."

"I thought today was your day to patrol," Killian counters, rising anyways. "I was going to hop in the back and ask for a ride down to my office because I am not walking through that weather again today. Once was more than enough."

Sighing, Liam takes his seat and scoots in, simultaneously logging out of his Facebook and opening up a case file. "I'm not," he replies curtly.

Leaning in, Killian asks, "It's because of her, isn't it?"

"Sheriff Swan's in charge now, so I'm just following her orders."

"So that's the she-devil's name?" Killian ponders aloud, looking at the closed door behind which he knows she's probably so diligently working. Probably cackling over the change in order, cackling over huge piles of paperwork she either can’t wait to do or assign to one of the others. "Swan." To his knowledge, she fits the name: beautiful, mysterious, more than willing to bite at you should you get too close. He sits back against the edge of Liam's desk. "Huh."

"Don't be rude, little brother," Liam chastises. "She's new to town and the only thing she really knows is what she's meant to do as an occupation." He halts his typing long enough to glare at Killian and say, "Exhibit good form, brother. Don't be an arse."

"Don't be an arse," Killian parrots back with a scoff. "Did you tell her that? She scared the shit out of all of you. I've never seen Ruby turn her phone on vibrate and she did for this woman."

"Killian." He turns around to see Ruby, phone in hand, staring at him. "Liam's right. She's just trying to get a feel for what we're all like. You remember how it was when you guys first moved here."

Conceding to that matter, Killian nods slowly. "But neither of us were that rude, were we now, love?"

Ruby sighs. "No," she admits, and in the same breath goes to defend the woman. "But consider it from her shoes: she's replacing the male sheriff in a town in the middle of nowhere. She needs to exert her authority much more than if it were Graham's first day."

"That doesn't give her the right to..." Killian trails off. She is the sheriff, so technically, it does give her the right to kick him out of what should have always been private, sheriff department only conversations. And yet, Killian's riled up now, and he isn't quite ready to admit to being wrong. "What if there was a real emergency?" he asks instead, changing tactics. "She should have at least asked why I was there."

Just as he finishes his question, the woman herself, Swan, pokes her head out from between the door and its jamb. "What’s with the yapping? Is there a problem out here?" she asks before her eyes catch on Killian's. She puts on the same painful fake polite smile on, for his sake he can only assume, and ventures out of her office toward him. "Ah, yes sir, sorry to keep you waiting. How can the sheriff's department help you today?"

“Well, love, I had the hopes of saying hello to my brother and friends here at the station, but I can see that that way of life is no longer approved.” He sticks his hand out for a shake. “Killian Jones, at your service.”

“Jones?”

“Yes ma’am.” He nods toward Liam’s desk. “Younger brother to Deputy Liam Jones and occasional department volunteer.”

“Ah,” she hums, and Killian has to hide the slight smile of satisfaction he gets from seeing her face fall. Carefully, she places her hand in his. “Well, I’m sorry for being curt.”

Hoping to rock her world even further, Killian pulls her hand to his lips and press them against her knuckles. He catches a hint of red on her cheeks and hears her small, sharp intake of breath.

Mission accomplished. Even if it earns him a groan from Graham, a cackle from Ruby, and a scolding from his brother.

Swan pulls her hand away from him, brushing it against her thigh. “Mr. Jones, as the sheriff here in Storybrooke now, I’ll have to insist you act professional when you visit the department,” she orders. “Now, I’ve got a lot to catch up on, as do the rest of my coworkers, so I’m asking you politely to leave before things get ugly.”

“That, love, sounds like a promise.” This time, everyone groans at his gall, including Leroy. Holding up his hands, Killian slowly backs away. “I know when I’ve been bested. I’ll see myself out.”

With a solemn nod, Swan heads back into her office. Killian salutes Liam, waves at Graham and Leroy, and winks at Ruby on his way. It’s still soaking with no signs of letting up. He sighs.

“I don’t like her attitude,” Killian mumbles before heading out into the rain. “I don’t like it one bit.”

It turns out to be an absolute lie.

Killian has already prided himself on finding the toughest woman in the bar or the pub, at the party or the event, and wooing her into his bed. Or hers, he really isn't picky. A challenge, he used to say to his friends in New York. He liked a woman who proved to be a challenge.

(It was a rare find. One look and listen to him and almost any woman who had a slight inclination toward him was putty in his hands.)

This time, however, the toughest woman has managed to find him.

Swan proves to be the most difficult nut to crack yet. And, somehow, they fall in to an unlikely friendship nearly immediately. There's something in her that Killian responds to on a subconscious level himself. She snaps at the slightest insult, almost as though she's been fighting for her own way in life as long as he has. The first occasion Granny sends lunch for the whole department via the K. Jones Express, he spots the wild look in her eyes as she nearly pounces on the brown bags. They're all labeled with names, made special for each member of the sheriff's office, but Emma quickly opens and searches each one with the ferocity of a hungry teenager.

When she finally finds hers, she grabs it and takes it back into her office, the door all but slamming shut behind her. Curious, Killian brushes off the thanks Ruby and Graham give him in order to follow Swan cautiously to her home turf.

Gently pushing the door open, Killian peeks in. Swan's sitting at her desk inhaling her food, barely taking enough of a break to swallow and sip at her drink.

"So," he casually says, stepping into the room. She looks like a deer in the headlights, sandwich half-eaten, her mouth stuck open for another bite. "What did our dear Granny send for you today?"

Slowly, Emma places her sandwich back on the foil it was wrapped in and brushes her hands of crumbs. "Grilled cheese and onion rings," she answers.

"What a peculiar combination," Killian muses. He takes a seat in the trouble seat, right across from her. He notices her eyes narrow fractionally as he settles comfortably into the chair.

"Onion rings are better than fries." She says it as though it's a fact.

Killian shrugs. "I wasn't saying anything otherwise, love," he says. "It's just not a combination one sees very often."

Picking up her sandwich and taking another healthy bite, Emma chews in order to stall their conversation. Killian just waits, stares at her. He's never been one to find himself uncomfortable with silence, but this is certainly one of the least uncomfortable situations he's found himself in in recent memory. As he sits there, he notices the way Swan's hair curls slightly and falls from behind her ear, or the freckles that sprinkle her nose and cheeks. They haven't known each other for too long, but Killian finds it a little bit funny that he just now notices them.

Swallowing, Swan sends him a grimace, one he takes willingly. It's not as pained as it was when they first made acquaintance and with each passing meeting, it seems to get a little more genuine. Or at least it's heading in that direction.

"Not that I have to explain anything to you," she says, an attempt at being menacing, "but it's my favorite. It's comforting."

Killian nods in understanding. He claps his hands together, making her jump and causing a small grin to cross his lips. "Well, I'm glad the cold, hard sheriff does have a warm spot in her heart," he teases.

Emma sneers at him and rolls her eyes. "Har har," she says. Shooing him away, she adds, "Get out. I have work to do."

"I'm sure you do. That must be the reason you are swallowing Granny's delicious food whole and not because you're used to fighting for food." Killian winks at her. "You're obviously very devoted to your position and want to get back to your responsibilities as swiftly as possible, aye?"

He watches as she gulps a little bit harder at his words, and he knows with satisfaction that he's hit the nail on the head. Her head slowly nods up and down. Killian sends her a wink.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs. With a tilt of his head, he bows out of the room.