#masterflorist!killian

Biting back a sigh, Emma stood, her feet already aching in her shoes and she’d not even started dancing yet! Her heart fluttered at the thought that there would be someone she wouldn’t tell no if he asked her for a dance. Unfortunately, that someone would never do that.

Perhaps… perhaps she could take matters into her own hands. Emma blushed at the thought, the only thing stopping her from actually doing it apart from her introvert nature was the fear of being rejected.

As far as she knew, in fact, he could have someone he was courting. Perhaps he fancied someone and she had no hope of catching his attention.

Suddenly remembering her mother was still there, Emma squared her shoulder and walked out of the room, skin flushed from the tip of her ears to her cleavage. Snow clearly disapproved, the frown on her face a clear sign.

The ball was boring. Obviously. Rarely those events weren’t, especially when they were held in honour of some guest. Sure, her mother always tried to give each important guest an unforgettable and personal welcome when they came to Misthaven. Emma didn’t understand Snow’s love for such big events. In all honesty, Emma didn’t care about being a princess at all.

«Duckling,» her father greeted her, placing a light kiss on her cheek, «you look radiant.»

Emma blushed gracefully: the only one who ever was true in his compliments was the King. Although he might have been a bit biased, David was honest.

«Thank you.» She adjusted her gown, the almost-blinding white of the fabric shimmering under the candlelight. It was rather beautiful, the hem of the skirt decorated by shiny silver embroidery shaped like flowers that climbed up to her waist and then up to her bodice, the sleeves slightly falling from her shoulders and continuing down her arms like bells. She looked like a bride, which wasn’t as appealing as her mother thought.

As she’d thought, the ball was boring; not even an hour into the celebration, the muscles of her face hurting from all the smiles she was forced to plaster on her face and her feet aching. They wouldn’t if some kind of prince from Oz – a very strange thing considering that Oz was no monarchy and there were no rulers – didn’t step on her feet every other moment. At one point, Emma had to bite her tongue so hard she thought she would cut it off.

Thankfully for her, her father swept in and saved her feet from further damage. Right now, in fact, Emma was trying to hide away from any possible suitor. It wasn’t an easy task, her presence required by many and sought by even more people. It was exhausting.

In the distance, dimly lit ships floated on dark waters, making her wish she could just sail away. In about a week, she would, but alas not forever, nor for long. It wouldn’t be a pleasant journey either: although she loved Alexandra dearly, Emma didn’t want to attend her birthday ball.

Salty breeze moved strands of hair, now almost silver under the starlight. It would’ve been fascinating hadn’t she been such in a bad mood.

«A red rose can’t go unnoticed in a field of snow.»

The male voice behind her startled her, making her heart beat wildly in her chest. Turning around, Emma brought a hand to her heaving bosom, air escaping her lungs as she realized it was Master Jones who’d spoken.

It was quite strange to see him outside his beloved and holy sanctuaries, the greenhouse and the garden. For example, the flower decorations inside, those beautiful bouquets she wanted to steal and put in her chambers, Killian had prepared them in the greenhouse, only for the servants to be the ones to bring them in the ballroom.

«Apologise, your Highness,» he said, bowing his head, «I didn’t mean to startle you.»

A smile blossomed on her face, all she wanted to do was put her fingers under his chin and force him to look her in the eye. Perhaps, Emma only wanted a pretext to touch him. «You needn’t worry, Master Jones, your presence is one I welcome gladly.» If possible, his complexion reddened even more. It made her grin grow wider. «Oh! I wanted to thank you for the flower crown. I love it.»

He’d brought his blue eyes back on hers, breath catching in her throat. What her heart did when he smiled, however, could not be described. «I’m glad. You’re beautiful.»

Lips parted, Emma felt as if the balcony had crumbled beneath her but she was still able to stay afloat. Was it the frantic beating of her heart? She shook her head slightly. «I-I… Thank you,» she stammered, absentmindedly licking her lips, «you’re not bad yourself either.»

Killian let out a soft, quiet gasp, a noise that would have Emma laughing softly at if she wasn’t so intent on studying his clothes. She’d rarely seen him in such an elegant attire, the times she visited the greenhouse and saw him working there, or the even fewer times in which he stepped foot inside the castle in places that weren’t his quarters, Killian Jones was always impeccably dressed, white and light shades of green or blue wrapping around his toned body, his nimble fingers with dirt under the nails if he was planting seeds or meticulously clean in every other case. Emma knew his habits were more a residue of his life in the Navy, one he couldn’t serve in anymore after his brother’s death.

Tonight, however, Killian Jones was more elegant than usual, with leather pants – which Emma tried not to stare at for too long, mostly for her own sake and the one of her heart’s – a white shirt topped by a red velvet vest, such a bold colour for his standards. What shocked her the most, was the leather coat that completed his look.

«Pirate.»

The word escaped her lips before she could restrain herself. She paled, eyes wide in fear: the last thing she wanted was offend him.

But Killian Jones managed to surprise her once more. He chuckled. Admittedly, the blush tinging his cheeks had not disappeared, but it was now accompanied by a grin. A shy one, but a grin nonetheless. «Not exactly what I was aiming for, I must admit, but I didn’t want to outshine those… gentlemen.» He cleared his throat before pronouncing the last word, restraining himself before saying something not fit for a lady’s ears. Emma bit her tongue to keep herself from asking him to speak freely. She felt as if she could be bold and free with him.

She tilted her head, a smile pulling at her lips. «Believe me, Master Jones, despite your efforts, you failed in your intent.»

One of his black eyebrows rose high on his forehead, a reaction that had Emma bite on her cheek to keep herself from smiling even more. «That so?» he muttered, but Emma was sure he didn’t mean to say it out loud if the deeper shade of red colouring his ears was any indication.

Ducking her head, Emma nodded slowly, glancing away from him. She wasn’t sure why she’d been so bold, but what confused her the most was that she’d liked their little exchange more than she thought she should have.

«I’ll take my leave, then, your Highness. I must’ve not followed you out here when you clearly wanted to escape everyone’s attentions.» He was about to turn around and leave when her voice stopped him.

«Please, don’t!» Emma begged him, breaking all the rules in the book. Realizing what she said, Emma opened and closed her mouth as she tried to come up with a reason why he should stay, a reason that wouldn’t involve her own selfishness. «I know this is unorthodox, but… can I have this dance?»

If Master Jones was astonished before, now he was utterly shocked. «It would be an honour, Princess,» he replied, bowing slightly and offered her his arm to go back inside. Emma’s fingers wrapped around the buttery leather, sensing through the layers the strong muscles beneath.

Albeit having talked to him several times, the only physical contact they ever had was a casual one, just once, when he handed her a middlemist. This was too much and too little at the same time.

The moment they stepped back into the ballroom together, everyone seemed to stop talking, surprised gasps echoing against the high walls. Emma flushed a deep red but held her chin high. Thankfully, the music had not stopped and, as soon as she and Killian had bowed to each other, the other couples began dancing again, still giving them quick, curious glances.

Emma’s breath caught in her throat as soon as she wrapped her fingers against Killian’s, stiffening a bit when he felt his other hand on her waist.

«What is it, your Highness?» Killian inquired, searching her eyes from beneath his dark lashes.

Glancing away from him, Emma tightened her grip on his hand. «I’m just afraid,» she admitted, shyly looking up at him, «I’ve never had a good dance partner aside from my father. Tonight was no better.»

A warm, kind smile spread over his face, dimples forming on his cheeks. «There’s only one rule, Princess,» he told her, securing her hand over his shoulder, «pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.»

And then he started to move, guiding her through the dancefloor with such gracefulness she found herself impressed by his coordination and knowledge of the steps. Mostly, though, Princess Emma was impressed by the man himself: he was nothing like her suitors, always stumbling over one another to earn her affections while Killian, simply with his presence and quick glances, made her heart beat faster than ever other man ever could.

Against protocol, they danced together through three dances consecutively, evoking shock and disdain in the other guests. Or rather, in those who not so secretly aimed to be the ones spinning her around the room and put the bright smile she had now on her face. Not that most of them cared about her happiness whatsoever.

When the third song came to an end, Emma felt dizzy, drunk, almost, drunk on that happy feeling she’d never experienced before that night. How, people would wonder, how could she feel so happy only now, only with him, when she’d been pampered all her life. It wasn’t about comforts, it was about being complete. And with someone only after her title and money, how could she be?

Perhaps… perhaps with someone like Killian she could be.

Emma covered her eyes with her forearm, moaning in pain at the light flooding her room. That was probably her mother’s doing. Why couldn’t she just leave her alone? Emma sighed, burying her head beneath her pillow to escape the light.

She’d been home for three days already, three days spent in bed, throwing up livers, lungs, heart and even her soul.

Of course she’d feel awful after her trip, as if she’d not been visited by the green-eyed monster at all the balls held for Alexandra’s birthday. It’d been overwhelming and tiring, so much Emma slept for almost an entire day when she embarked for the journey home.

Curling up on herself to find a bit of warmth, Emma tried to imagine what Master Jones was doing, wondering which flower he’d planted and grown in her absence. Had he ever thought about her at all or what she felt that night at the ball was only her foolish imagination?

The week before her departure they’d exchanged only pleasantries, formal nods in each other’s direction and shy smiles. More than once she’d wondered if the man she’d danced with was the same one she admired from afar. If only she knew how Killian looked at her whenever she glanced away, torn and longing.

A knock, too loud, echoed in her ears. Whining, Emma covered her head with the quilt, knowing she would come up for air in a few minutes, sweating even more.

The door opened as her prayers went unheard. Of course, it was her mother, bringing her more ginger tea. As if Emma wanted more ginger tea. She would feel sick – again – if she smelled more ginger.

«Oh, honey,» her mother murmured, concern lacing her tone. The Queen didn’t try to move the cover from above her head, nor Emma felt the mattress dip. When Snow spoke once more, it was to give her the cure she needed. Or rather, the cure her soul and heart needed. «I’ve brought you some peppermint tea. Master Jones was very firm in his opinion that you should try this other method.»

Emma almost leapt out of her bed at her words, heart palpitating in her chest at the mention of the man who filled her thoughts. Many times Alexandra or Melody caught her staring at nothing in particular, questioning her about her dreamy sighs and heart eyes.

The moment she heard the clicking sound of the door closing behind her mother’s back, Emma threw the blankets aside, cold assaulting her skin and seeping through the soaked shift. She didn’t care, all she cared about was the fact that he’d sent her a cup of tea. It didn’t matter if he’d been the one brewing it, it was the thought tha- Oh.

On the tray, next to the teacup – one belonging to her favourite set, with light blue decorations that recalled the sea – was a middlemist. A soft sigh escaped her lips, hand reaching out to take the flower, rolling the stem between her fingers, gently, admiring the different shades of pink in the petals’ creases.

Only when she noticed the parchment tied to the flower she came out of her reverie. A smile pulled at her lips. Carefully, Emma freed it from the white ribbon, one she knew Killian – gods, Killian – used for the flower crowns he created for her.

Your Highness, the short letter rad, please forgive my bold gesture. If you do not wish to read further, I beg of you, burn or rip this parchment and forget it ever existed. If you don’t, however, please consider my advice. I have heard you’ve been unwell lately, and while I wish I had a better remedy for your illness, I do hope peppermint tea will be the cure you need. While ginger tea is a good method to cure nausea, it doesn’t mean too much of it won’t make you feel even worse. Hoping I didn’t offend you and that you will get better soon, perhaps even grace the garden with your presence if I’m not too presumptuous, I now leave you be, Princess. Sincerely, Killian Jones.

Emma’s cheeks hurt, her smile so wide she could almost feel her lower lip split in the middle. A pang of sadness shot through her heart like a poisoned arrow: he’d not mentioned the night of the ball, though she’d not expected him to. The tone of the letter, shy and tentative, along with the clear invitation to join him in the garden as soon as she felt better and was ready to leave her chamber, was telling enough.

Another of her dreamy sighs, the one her friends teased her about, left her mouth as she fell back on the bed, clutching the rose and the letter to her chest, as if wanting to imprint it into her heart so she would never forget those gifts, far more precious than any she’d ever received.

Suffice to say, the lukewarm peppermint tea was the best one she ever tasted.

It took her two more days to heal completely.

Her mother kept fussing and her father brought her more peppermint tea but no more middlemists. It saddened her, but Emma rather enjoyed the quick glares her Papa shot to the still blooming flower in the crystal vase on her vanity.

Finally, when her legs didn’t shake so much to move her skirts and what solid food she did eat managed to stay down, Emma decided she’d had enough and that it was about time she took a breath of fresh air.

Her complexion was slightly paler than usual, the freckles on her face starting to stand out more and more as she kept her head titled back, sun kissing her skin. Her hair was loosely tied in a braid, a look her mother would frown upon if Emma hadn’t been firm in her decision to dress as she wanted.

For a moment, she contemplated dressing down to her undergarments and really enjoying the sun. Part of her liked to think about the reaction she would trigger, but she didn’t want to send either of her parents to an early grave. Perhaps, one day, she would enjoy the sun’s caresses on her bare skin.

Heat crept up her neck and face when a tiny voice in her head suggested she would go on such adventures with a certain Master Gardener.

Gasping in surprise at her own thoughts, Emma stood from the stone bench, driven by a sudden spark of flaring fire in the pit of her stomach. She licked her lips, eyes wide and greener than ever as she exhaled and strode into the greenhouse.

High glass walls rose towards the sky, closing above her head in a vault ceiling. Whoever conceived the building and built it must’ve been a genius. White-painted steel kept the glass upright, a staircase spiralling up to a balustrade that ran almost completely all around the greenhouse and hosted various other plants. The greenhouse’s architectural style contrasted with the castle’s, too modern to seem to fit. And yet, it did. More than, it looked the perfect place to escape from routine, even if, or perhaps because, the only inhabitants were flowers and plants from all over the realms. It didn’t hurt that its guardian was such a gentleman and helped her quiet her mind even just with his presence on the other side of the greenhouse.

There he was, at very end of it, bent over an orchid, her mother’s favourite flower. He was carefully tying the stems to flower spikes so they wouldn’t bend and break, but grow strong and beautiful. She was in awe of him, and she thanked the gods her sight was still good enough to clearly see him even from afar.

Her mouth suddenly ran dry. Not for the first time Emma deemed him as a celestial being, but now, enveloped in the morning light which wrapped around his figure like a halo, testifying his otherworldly nature, enhanced by the white linen shirt he was wearing, sleeves rolled up past his elbows showing off strong forearms. It was unbelievable that she’d touched them just several weeks ago, albeit from over layers of clothes.

More than once, when Emma only caught just a glimpse of him, so fast she’d believe it’d only been her imagination if she didn’t know he existed and spent all his waking hours in the greenhouse, she found herself in awe of his seraphic appearance. The adjective had vehemently swirled in her mind for so long she’d sometimes sketched wings springing from between his shoulder blades.

Her fingers twitched, desiring to hold a charcoal and take time to sketch him like this, beatific as he focused on his task. One thing she wouldn’t be able to give justice to would be his mouth: so perfect, with plump lips enhanced by his short scruff and always moving. It was barely noticeable, at first considered a mere tic, until she caught him softly talking to a bouquet of wildflowers. He’d been talking nonsense, sweet nothings, but Emma never doubted he’d told his flowers his deepest secrets and revealed them his thoughts. Oh, how she egoistically wished she was a flower so she could hear them, too. Perhaps, one day, he would confide in her.

Some undefined feeling enveloped her heart as her green eyes roamed over his ethereal figure. A deep breath and she was – still elegantly – striding towards him, only to slow down to better admire him a bit more. Half his face was hidden by shadows, but she was enraptured by the strands of hair falling over his forehead and eyes, not irritating or hindering him in the slightest as he carried on with his task. Another wonder were his fingers, so delicate when touching the flowers – and Emma – yet still rough at the touch, hands which had known hard labour and the bite of steel as the scars on their palms and backs testified.

Of course he didn’t need to raise his head to understand she’d arrived. It felt very much as if, by entering the greenhouse, or the garden, really, she’d crossed some magical boundary which informed him of any visitor.

«Good morning, your Highness. I confide you feel quite better?» he greeted her, casting a glance out of the corner of his eye. Would the peculiar shade of blue of his eyes be found in nature? It looked like the blue of forget-me-nots, yet not the same.

«Much better!» Emma exclaimed, blushing at her own excitement. How little self-control she had in his presence. «I wanted to thank you. You’ve been my savior. Weren’t it for the peppermint tea, I’d still be bedridden.»

At last, he straightened his back, turning to her and if wings appeared behind him she wouldn’t be surprised. It was the smile he was giving her that didn’t make her feel silly.

«I’m glad to hear that.» After the last word left his mouth and stopped echoing against the glass walls, he turned towards a pot, watering the plant there, one she didn’t recognize.

Albeit gentle, his words sounded very much like a dismissal. Was he perhaps toying with her? Was his invitation – not quite an invitation, she needed to admit – only a ruse?

If there was one thing Emma was, though, was a fighter. Despite her demeanor and gentle manners, she’d been raised by a former bandit and a shepherd-turned-king. She could take time to gather her courage to act or voice her thoughts, the fact that she was a Princess not discouraging her from being herself.

Licking her lips, Emma headed closer, putting the wooden work bench between them. Since her visit to Alexandra, a thought kept nagging at her. The Princess wasn’t a vain person but, much like other women, there were times in which she loved to look – or rather, feel – beautiful. Void compliments still ran common through the nobility, and her innate ability to detect lies only saddened her when she received one. It hurt, but like many things, Emma buried her sorrow deep down, trying to forget it.

«Master Jones,» she began, eyes darting to him and finding his attention still on the plants, «have you ever heard of flower used to adorn gowns?»

There it was.

His hands stilled for a brief second, and had Emma diverted her eyes, she wouldn’t have met his. The confusion she read in them almost made her smile. Though she fought it, she couldn’t impede the corners of her lips to twitch.

«Aye,» Killian carefully replied, his voice a tad deeper than usual, «but I rather the flowers grow in vases or bushes instead of adorning already magnificent gowns.»

Decidedly, Emma couldn’t fault him. «What about flower crowns, then?»

Her question seemed to surprise him, and it was quite shocking to see him fumble at her question. Pride shot through her at the red blush painting his cheeks and reaching the tips of his ears in such an endearing way.

Killian cleared his throat. «There’s a difference, lo- your Highness.»

Oh, how her heart ached when he cut himself off. «Is there?»

A low exhale and he met her eyes. It felt more like being pierced through the soul rather than being looked at. Could it be? «To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, to throw a perfume on the violet, to smooth the ice, or add another hue unto the rainbow, or with taper-light to seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, is wasteful and ridiculous excess.»

The quote was one she recognized, one she agreed with. While it did communicate his idea, it still didn’t explain why he would consider flower crowns acceptable when the thought of covering a ballgown with fresh flowers was so abhorring.

«What I mean, Em- I’m sorr-»

«You can call me Emma!» she rushed to say, her hand suspended mid-air as if wanting to reach out to touch him before curling her fingers into a fist, bringing it back to her side. «I-if you want, of course.»

They were breaking protocol. Emma didn’t care.

«V-very well, then,» he conceded, glancing away from her. «What I mean, Emma,» – why did she allow him to use her name, again? – «is that you don’t need a flower-covered dress to be beautiful, to gain everyone’s attention, you already do that on yourself.» A pause, a small smile – no, a grin, stretching his lips. «Even if you avoid any kind of attention and hide, you still eclipse every other woman in the room. All their efforts are vain when it comes to compete with you.»

His earnest compliment managed to melt her heart even if she knew it wasn’t possible, because if her heart didn’t liquify, then Emma didn’t know what it did. Her lips parted in a quiet gasp. She wanted nothing more to round the table and kiss the lips from whence those words had fallen.

Protocol and customs be damned, the princess did exactly that.

Being her first kiss ever, the way she pounced on his lips felt awkward at first, her hands balled into fists around his shirt. She almost fell over as she raised herself onto her tiptoes, feet leaving her flat shoes. How could she care about any of that when his lips felt so soft against her own, the coarse hairs of his stubble scratching deliciously over her skin?

It took Killian the fragment of a second to reciprocate the kiss, eyelids fluttering closed and lips moving against Emma’s. Gently, he guided her through the kiss, daring at one point to sweep his tongue against her lower lip.

She sighed into his mouth, trembling in his grasp as their tongues touched, discovering each other’s mouth. It was paradise, it must’ve been, there was no other way to describe how she felt, as if she was experiencing the greatest beatitude.

One of Killian’s arms tightened against her waist, bringing her closer her higher, her tiptoes barely touching the floor His other arm, instead, brushed up her back, sending ripples of heat straight to her belly, a warm sensation she was new to but wanted to explore, to be consumed by. When his fingers slipped through her hair, Emma was grateful for the loose braid she’d chosen. She wondered how those same fingers would feel actually running through her golden curls. The thought made her shiver.

They broke the kiss, breaths mingling and foreheads touching before Emma surged forwards again, making him stumble back a little. She left her shoes behind, the cold floor of the greenhouse a sharp contrast with the warmth she felt inside, blood boiling and flesh aflame.

Killian pulled away slightly, pulling the hand away from the back of her head to hold her chin between thumb and forefinger, smiling at her.

No, the princess didn’t need flowers sewn onto her clothes, nor any other embellishment, not when Killian was looking at her like that, as if she was the lily and all the other things he’d spoken of mere minutes – or an eternity – earlier.

It didn’t run smoothly for them, some of the council members and the too many suitors claiming a mere gardener wasn’t good enough, not even if he’d served in the Navy. What Emma was grateful of, was her parents’ past and how they’d been firm in their decision to let their daughter follow her heart, whether it’d found a home in a nobleman or in a gardener.

Flower crowns, bouquets and single middlemists never failed to appear out of thin air, lovely gestures or a way to apologize – from her part, Emma brought him seashells or starfishes, her own way to say she was sorry – and while Killian kept his job, his acuity and past were useful, if not indispensable, when it came to alliances and strategy. Emma felt her skin tingle and heat pool in her belly whenever Killian spoke to the council, sure of himself and his ideas; the power he held over the council the same of a captain running his ship.

He was also a good physician, having long chats with Doc about herbs’ healing properties and how plants could be used in medicine.

Suffice to say, ginger tea was never served to Emma again, peppermint substituting the root in the rare occasions she ate something that upset her stomach.

That is, of course, until, several years later, she had to switch to red raspberry leaf tea after midway through her pregnancy.