A/N: Yes, hello! I have risen from the dead. Actually, I've risen from finishing my second year of law school and working at court and dying all day every day.

Listen, please know how lucky I am to have those of you who left me messages to see how this story was going and how much you miss it. It mean that you've stayed with me.

I'll be honest, the main reason why this chapter took so long was because it was a very draining chapter to write, it was a monumental CS chapter but it was also a necessary evil chapter.

So for those of you who this might harm, I want you to know that there are some slight sexual assault trigger warnings for this chapter. The section is marked off with asterisks so if you're sensitive to that kind of material I'll be okay with you not reading it.

Do what's best for you always please.

Chapter Eleven

Show me my yes, she thinks, and the jade pendulum swings left to right.

Emma sighs, closing her eyes again before whispering, "Show me my no." And much like it did months ago, as she says the words the pendulum changes course, the green stone now swinging up and down. She's been doing this for hours now, attempting to fall asleep while her mind keeps racing a mile a minute, filled with too many thoughts to wade through as she tries to calm herself down, so she takes the pendulum from her bedside table and asks it whether everything that just happened at Ursula's actually did. Emma has debated everything, from the way the flames sparked to life under the cauldron without a match or a lighter, to the conversation with Ursula, and finally to whether or not she should let herself dream again.

If she lets herself dream, that's it. She will open herself up to everything, the migraines and the duty to keep history from repeating itself. If she lets herself dream, she lets herself piece together the memories that her subconscious holds. It's no longer a matter of fate, out of her hands and outside her reach. No, if she lets herself dream it's up to her to stop fate from happening. If she lets herself dream, everything is real.

Could she deal with that? She barely had time to breathe this past semester, what with Graham, rehearsals, and a full eighteen credit load of classes she needed in order to graduate on time. And now she's supposed to juggle everything and on top of that find the way to let her remember a past life so she can save herself and live happily ever after with Killian Jones of all people?

"This is insane," she whispers to herself as she notices the faint glimmer of dawn's early light streaming into her room through the blinds covering the window. "I need to decide between dying or forcing Killian to love me."

Emma stares up at the ceiling, counting the seconds as the fan swirls above her. She blinks rapidly to make blades slow down, her decision seemingly materializing with the beat of their circular motion. A tear rolls down her the side of her face and into her hair as she takes the tinfoil packet from her bedside table, and pops one of her anti-anxiety tablets into her mouth.

Rolling her eyes at her own weakness, she dry swallows the pill and as she slowly drifts into a dreamless sleep she thinks that she'd rather take her chances at life than to force Killian to love her.

-/-

It's borderline freezing in City Park as the chilly December winds swirl with the ever-present New Orleans humidity and seep into her clothes, the chill burrowing its way down to her bones, and the cold enveloping her relentlessly despite the amount of layers she has on. Emma had been walking around aimlessly through the lit gardens for the past hour or so, a soft smile on her face as she took in the wonder that Celebration in the Oaks always brought year after year. The holiday attraction spans a number of acres across the park, including the Botanical Garden, the Carousel Gardens, and Storyland. There are a good number of people in the park, everyone taking in the sights of giant oaks swathed in hundreds of twinkling lights, or taking pictures in front of the towering poinsettia tree inside the conservatory. There's an attraction for everyone here, whether it be for a family outing or a date, or even just college kids enjoying a nice night out with their friends.

Which, incidentally, is what she was doing here. She had lost her friends a while ago, as Mary Margaret trailed behind David who wanted to show Killian the train garden — an area tucked inside the botanical garden that showcased a small replica of New Orleans in the nineteenth century, with model trains and streetcars zooming across and around the perimeter — and Ruby had run off with Victor, most likely to make-out somewhere conspicuous and probably scarring a small child in the process.

It had been a nice night, low-key and quiet but with enough activity to keep Emma's thoughts occupied. She spends most of the night trying to rid herself of thoughts about voodoo queens and villainous shadows, and the anxiety that grows with each passing day that she doesn't break up with Graham—she had called him, hoping to invite him out but she had received radio silence in exchange. The distraction tactic was working well for most of the night, with her friends she didn't have to think about how she still hadn't let herself dream even though her life apparently depended on her doing so, or devoting any time to the thought of Killian being the apparent love of her life, his soul needing to be reawakened just as hers needed to be. The latter was harder to ignore, given that they both came to the event unaccompanied by their significant others and thus were forced to sit next to each other while the group opted to take a ride on the train or hop on the Ferris wheel, but her mind was sufficiently occupied before everyone had gone their own way around the park.

Emma can't avoid the thoughts now. She sits on a cement bench outside Storyland, the cool of the stone threading through the thin fabric of her tights and chilling her thighs in the process. Emma grins as she sees a toddler giggling as she circles around her parents, the tiny pink parka bright against the illuminated trees that surround them. Shrill childish screams fill the area as kids of all ages run through the mouth of the whale, swallowing them up like it did Pinocchio. Laughter echoes as their little arms and feet climb to the top of a dragon whose fire breath forms a long plastic slide. There's a pirate ship and a pumpkin carriage, all swathed in twinkling fairy lights like the rest of the areas. Her mind flits back to years past and she can see herself in the little pink parka, running after her cousins as they played. She remembers how James would lure her into the belly of the whale under the pretense of being an excellent place to take cover while they played hide and seek, but then he would leave her there and the darkness would scare her out of her wits until David, ever her protector, would find her sobbing on the ground. David would always find her, he'd grab her hand and walk her out to the twinkling fairy lights that seemed like fireworks to her young eyes, and he'd climb up the dragon with her, hugging her close to him as they'd slide down together.

They had stopped coming after Katrina, they didn't really have a choice even if they wanted to. The park had flooded and oak trees littered the acreage, her grandparents relocated up north to live in Memphis with her uncle while they tried to salvage and rebuild what was left of their lakefront home. David and James had been shipped off to boarding school in North Carolina, and she followed suit first to New Hampshire and finally in Connecticut. Like she said, she couldn't really come back even if she wanted to.

She sighs audibly, her heart heavy with memories of the past. She hates thinking about Katrina, about the loss of people she knew first hand and drowned in their own living rooms. But mostly she hates thinking about her grandparents' home, how mold crept up the walls and over her First Communion pictures—the ones that littered the top of the piano in the foyer, the piano that had to be replaced. She knows that she's lucky that the house is still standing, that the flooding didn't reach the top floors, and mostly that her grandparents had made it out alive, but the house still carries painful memories — the struggle and strife of having to rebuild some semblance of the life you had in your home before a disaster nearly swept it away. The trees here are a reminder of that, so many of them were replanted in order to rebuild the park and maybe that's why she loves New Orleans so much — because, like her, it's a little broken but still standing nonetheless. Her mind flits back to Killian as she wonders if he feels the same way about this town, if the attraction to living here mirrors hers. With a mother dying when he was a child, an unsupportive father who drank himself into an early grave, and a long lost first love that didn't feel she was important enough to keep on living, he can't possibly deny that he's a little broken too.

He's happy tonight, she's noticed. She's noticed and a thrill runs up her spine whenever he looks at her and grins so wide that his dimples are prominent underneath his stubble and his blue eyes reflect the twinkling lights above him. Emma wonders the reason behind his happiness, hoping selfishly that it has nothing to do with Christine and everything to do with being in Emma's company.

"There you are, Swan!" Killian's lilted voice breaks through her reverie and she turns towards him, an easy smile automatically gracing her lips.

"Hey," she breathes, sliding sideways to make up room for him on the bench.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," he says as he grins widely, showcasing the dimples that have been driving her wild the entire night. "What have you been up to?"

"I've just been walking around," she shrugs and looks away. She had been staring at him, something about him wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses just did something to her. Ever since he whipped them out to read her paper during their first peer review session, she hasn't been able to stop staring at him when he wears them. And he knows, he has to know what those stupid glasses do to her.

"Are you alright, love?" he asks, his voice etched with concern.

"I'm fine, Killian, just tired," she replies, her voice sounding unconvincing to her own ears and by the look Killian gives her, he doesn't believe her either. She gives him a smile, though as she tugs down at her beanie to cover her ears as a chilling gust of wind blows through them. "How was the train?"

"Fascinating," he responds as he pops the collar of his peacoat, visibly shuddering as he does so.

"And the company?"

"Sickeningly sweet as per custom," he says brightly, a mischievous mirth present in his blue eyes. "Couldn't get out of there fast enough, honestly," he confides with a laugh, bumping her shoulder against hers. She looks down at how close their hands are, his pinky only a few centimeters away from hers. She wants to grab his hand, to thread her fingers through his and feel the strong, warm hold of his hand.

"You're uncharacteristically chipper," she says, bringing her hand up to let it rest on her lap instead. Killian arches an eyebrow while he wears a shit-eating grin on his face as he stands up from the bench and walks away from her.

"I'm afraid being standoffish and brooding is your area of expertise, love," he tells her with his hands dug deep in his coat pockets and shrug of his shoulders as he turns towards her. "You're prickly."

"I am not prickly," she replies hotly, earning a wider grin from him before he turns around and keeps walking out of Storyland. Emma practically growls as she stands up and follows him. Honestly, he was so insufferable it's a wonder she would even like him if she wasn't apparently fated to. "I'm not," she repeats a little breathless once she catches up to him. He's so stupid and lanky!

"Agree to disagree," he responds, his voice nonchalant but from the corner of her eye she can can see that he's smirking at her. She huffs again, speeding up her walking towards the Carousel Gardens and he laughs. His long legs help him catch up to her in no time. "Oh, come on, Swan," he laughs, his arm extending to grab her by the wrist and tug her towards him. She wasn't expecting the movement, and Emma's free hand braces itself square on his chest, the wool of his black peacoat scratchy underneath her palm. Suddenly they had found themselves entirely too close to each other and Killian is biting his lip when he says, "You know I'm teasing you."

"Yeah, you do that a lot," Emma responds sourly, pushing herself away from him and rolling her eyes for good measure. Killian laughs as he keeps walking towards Carousel Gardens.

"Perhaps it's because I like you," he tells her, bumping into her upper arm and knocking her slightly off kilter. She pushes him back, and he laughs again—that stupid wheezy laugh that makes warmth settle in the pool of her stomach.

"Oh, like a grade-schooler? Suddenly your maturity level makes a whole lot more sense." Emma counters as they stand in line for the food truck Killian had led them to. In turn, he simply rolls his eyes at her and takes a step forward as the line shortens ahead of them.

"Prickly," he replies.

"Oh, shut up," Emma tells him. They stand in silence as the line progresses slowly, there's a good ten people in front of them all wanting funnel cake or beignets or something equally deep fried and warm.

"But really, tell me. Why are you so happy?" Emma asks him and he once again smirks at her while giving her a sideways glance.

"I believe I was instructed to shut up," is all he says before he steps forward and places an order for beignets and a coke.

"Killian, come on." Emma groans at his response, her voice pleading as she takes a jab at his forearm with her palm. "Since when do you listen to me, anyways?"

"I'm offended, Swan. I always listen to you," he responds with a wink before he slips his thumb into his mouth to suck clean the powdered sugar that had gathered on his fingers when the doe-eyed teen helping out in the food truck gave him the plate of beignets. Smirking at what was definitely Emma's slack jawed look, he turned to grab the coke from the counter and walk back towards the Botanical Gardens.

"Yeah, okay buddy," she replies flustered and entirely too late for it to be a decent comeback.

Emma follows him silently, internally chastising herself for not being able to resist anything when it came to him, as he leads them into her favorite part of the entire attraction. White, twinkling Christmas lights surround the clearing in which they walk into. The giant oak trees in the glade are swathed in white, the strands drooping limply all around them, pulsating and twinkling rhythmically as if raindrops or snowflakes fell around them.

Taking off her beanie, Emma smiles at the sight around her, at the bright lights illuminating her face and the faint holiday music that played around the clearing. She turns to Killian who stares back at her lost for words, as he sits at the base of one of the oak trees. She feels the heat of her blush creep onto her cheeks as she tugs her hair behind her ear and makes to sit down next to him. She doesn't want to say that the look on Killian's face neared the definition of awestruck, but it was pretty damn close to that.

"Here hold this," he tells her, his voice gruff as he holds out the plate of beignets towards her once she sits down in the patchy spot of grass next to him.

"Oh, I'm supposed to wait on you now?" Emma counters archly.

"Hold the bloody beignets, Swan," he responds with a roll of his eyes, shoving the plate sideways towards her.

"Fine," she responds as she takes hold of the plate, licking the powdered sugar off her thumb. Emma feels Killian rummaging through his pockets, and turns to him with an arched eyebrow. "Wait, what are you doing?" she asks when she sees him take out a silver flask out of his coat pocket.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he smirks at her before tipping the contents of the flask into the cup.

"Pouring way too much rum into that Coke." Emma responds flatly as she watches him with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips as he swishes the cup in small circular motions, mixing the rum and the soda together. Killian grins at her, winking conspiratorially as he tucks his flask back to wherever the hell he had pulled it out from and takes a generous gulp of the rum and Coke.

"You know, I don't really make a habit of eating beignets that aren't from Café du Monde," she tells him, eyeing the fried plate of French donuts skeptically.

"Well thank you for enlightening me," Killian chuckles, taking the plate back from her and biting into a beignet. "I'll have you know that I am more than capable to eat all three by myself."

"I'm just saying—"

"That you're an elitist, aye I gathered as such," he interrupts her with a smug smile, but hands her the spiked Coke nonetheless.

"I hate you," Emma tells him as she takes the cup and takes a sip. The drink is too cold and her body protests to the taste of it, but once the effervescence fizzles out and the rum hits her tastebuds, it warms her all the way down to her toes. She hums contentedly as the rum sits welcome in the pit of her stomach and gives him a smile before she continues, "Did you know that?"

"Aye, that I did." Killian responds, a dopey grin on his face as he looks at her. His gaze lingers and she doesn't know if it's the rum or if it is the way he looks at her that makes her stomach feel a little wonky. Emma watches as his cheeks, already tinged pink from the cold, turn a deeper shade of red in embarrassment, his hand shooting up to scratch his ear nervously as he notices that she's caught him staring. "Makes sense, considering you're a prickly elitist," he offers, clearly trying to get back onto the teasing exchange they've been having for the past fifteen minutes.

Emma stares at him slightly dumbfounded. Nervously, she tucks a hair behind her ear before looking away and settling her concentration on downing what's left of the rum and Coke. They're in kind of a weird place right now, she thinks. Some sort of friendship-relationship limbo where words are left unsaid and looks they exchange between themselves hope to convey much more than they're each willing to say. Killian is usually this loose and goofy around her, but very few times has he been so carefree that happiness just exudes from his entire existence. He broods, he teases, he is inappropriate and uses self-deprecating humor as a defense mechanism, but to see him this relaxed, this incandescently happy is rare and if she's being completely honest with herself, it makes her feel a little shitty. Not because she doesn't want him to be happy – a thought that couldn't be farther from the truth, all she wants is to see him happy – but because she wants so selfishly to be the source of that happiness.

God, she likes him so much and he seems to like her too but, is it real and if not, would it have been enough without magic bringing them together?

They're quiet for a while, both of them eating the warm beignets and enjoying each other's company. They people watch in silence, both of them laughing at the sights that unfolded in front of them without having to point it out to the other. At one point yet another cold rush of wind swirls around them and she shivers violently enough that Killian opens up his arm invitingly towards her and she doesn't think twice about scooting up to cuddle against him. Emma tucks her head on his shoulder and as his hand draws lazy circles on her leather-clad arm, she wishes that this is how they could be all the time.

"Tell me why you're so happy," she looks up at him and asks once she's done fighting against the cowardice that held her back and curiosity wins out.

"Because I'm in your company," he tells her, the wicked grin and the waggle of his eyebrows telling her that while he wasn't lying to her, he also wasn't being exactly truthful either.

"Killian, stop stalling." Emma finds herself whining in response, her hand smacking him on the chest in exasperation once again. Killian's eyes widen at her movement, but he doesn't tease her back like he did before. Instead, his hand closes around hers and anchors it against his own, his fingers – calloused pads, warm and rough against her cool skin – tracing lines on her palms. His voice waivers a little as he speaks, the nervousness intertwining with his breath before he lets go of her hand altogether.

"I've been reinstated into the list of New Orleans' most eligible bachelors again," he says quietly and a gaggle of emotions flow within her entire being. The thought of Christine being out of the picture makes her feel incredibly too happy.

"Wait, what?" Is all Emma says, however, the shock of hearing that he's single now washing over her like a bucket of cold water.

"I broke up with Christine," he says again, a little more confidently than before.

"Wait, what?" Emma asks again, the beat of her heart a cacophony against her eardrum.

"Well, actually she broke up with me." Killian clarifies, his voice flat as he once again reaches to scratch the side of his ear.

"Wait, are you serious? What happened? Are you okay?" Emma asks anxiously, sitting up and away from him in order to look at him clearly.

"I'm more than fine, Swan," he says, the way he chuckles dry and almost relieved. He motions for Emma to come back and lay against him again but she shakes her head and he shrugs. "Can't say I didn't expect it, things had been going south for quite a while."

"Why didn't you tell me anything? And how are you being so nonchalant about this?"

"Didn't want to trouble you, I suppose," he responds as his arm reaches over towards her, his fingers tugging her shirt towards him, back to his embrace once she shivers again. "That and because I'm hardly heartbroken about the matter."

This time, Emma acquiesces and she falls silently against his chest, warmth spreading around her body again and jealousy stirring at the pit of her stomach as she thinks about the fact that she's the only one that's left in an unhappy relationship.

"But you're not happy, Emma," he murmurs against her hair, his statement matter-of-fact with no question behind it.

"That is the understatement of the year," she scoffs, hoping against hope that Killian doesn't take them down the road she knows he's about to.

"Why haven't you done anything about it?" he asks.

"I've tried to," Emma answers defensively, her arms wrapping tighter around her torso. "It's just...complicated."

"Only because you're making it complicated," he replies, frustrated.

"Killian," she warns.

"You are, though!" Killian retorts exasperatedly, and this time he's the one that pulls away from her in order to look her straight in the eyes when he talks to her. "Graham is a right ponce and I cannot for the life of me understand why you're still with someone who makes you so unhappy."

"It's not that simple," she deflects. "I don't want to hurt him."

"No, you just don't want to admit that you were wrong about him," he snaps at her in the only way one does when you're trying to convince your friend to see reason and they're being stubborn. Emma makes a disgruntled noise, a mix between an exasperated groan and an angry snarl as she stands up and moves away from him.

This is why they'll never work. They're both stubborn and their fiery temperaments are too much alike. He's an arrogant asshole ninety-nine percent of the time and she's a prickly broken lost girl who'll push anyone away the minute they get too close.

She hates being wrong. She's already beat herself up about being wrong about Graham and the whole reason she's been stalling breakup was because she was too proud to admit that once again, she had fucked up. But it's one thing to accept that you've messed up on your own, it's quite another to have a third party push you to accept it.

Right now, Killian felt like he was pushing her.

"Fine, I was wrong. Is that what you want to hear?" Emma tells him, her voice quivering from either anger or frustration, she wasn't sure. "You wanted me to own up to my mistakes? Then here it goes: I was wrong. I was wrong to believe that Graham would be different. I was wrong to believe that I could be in a functional relationship, that I could be enough for somebody," she says, tears nowhere near her face but her voice wavering as if she were on the verge of sobbing. "There, are you happy?"

"Of course I'm not happy, Emma!" He stands and walks towards her, his arms quickly wrapping themselves around her. She's surprised that she lets him comfort her at all. "That's not what I meant at all!" He murmurs against her temple, still hugging her fiercely against himself. "It isn't your fault, none of this is your fault. He's the prick, he's controlling and abusive."

"I don't know why I thought this time would be different. All the guys I've been with are losers, my parents didn't even want me. Nobody does."

Killian pulls away from her then, just enough to put some distance between them so he can look down at her. His brows are knitted, his jaw clenched, and his blue eyes are steely with determination.

"Don't you dare say that again, Swan," he says quietly. It's not a reprimand, but a pleading. "You are loved. Your friends love you. David and your grandparents, you're everything to them," he continues vehemently as his fingers thread against . "Don't let one controlling arse or lousy parents make you feel like you aren't worthy of love. You are kind, smart, incredibly beautiful inside and out. Screw everyone who doesn't recognize that."

His words make Emma's heart beats erratically against her chest. Nobody had ever said anything remotely similar to what Killian just had. She reasons that he must know what it feels like to need to convince someone of their worth, he must have done it a million times with his ex-girlfriend before she ultimately decided to end her life. Emma's not there, she's not at the end of her rope, she's not suicidal, but she does feel broken, unwanted, unloved. She's felt that way for decades.

"You're my friend, you're supposed to say that," she offers self-deprecatingly, pulling away from him and leaning against the oak tree, ever unable to accept a compliment and especially not from the guy she likes far more than just platonically.

"When have I ever lied to you?" he asks her ruefully. Emma shrugs in lieu of a response, because he hadn't ever lied to her, not really. Killian sighs and brings up his hand to lift his glasses while the other lifts to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Do you want to know why Christine really dumped me?" he asks her plainly but tensely.

Emma nods, unable to form any word of assent, but desperate to know why. Killian sighs again, seemingly trying to find the courage to tell her what he wants to say.

"She said she couldn't be in a relationship with someone who was hopelessly pining for someone else," he offers in a rush, blue eyes blown wide with anxiety – blue eyes fearing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Killian," Emma starts slowly. He can't possibly be saying what she's imagining. He can't possibly be telling her that she was the reason Christine broke up with him. "What are you saying?"

"Bloody hell, woman. Do I have to spell it out for you?" He groans, frustrated as he runs his hands through his hair. He struggles with his words for a moment — a first in the amount of time Emma has known him — before he resolves to suck it up and says, "I like you."

An undeniable swoop flits about Emma's stomach instantly. God knows how long she's waited, wanted to hear those words come out from his lips; weeks of denying the instant attraction she felt towards him, and trying to live with ignoring the undeniable tension they shared.

"You like me?" she can't help but tease him, "Do you want to argue again that you're not a grade-schooler?"

"You're killing me, Emma." Killian groans before he chuckles in disbelief, his hands rubbing against his face trying to wipe out the embarrassment before he speaks again. "It's not easy to pour your heart out to someone as prickly as you," he's teasing her again and she grins, her eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his hand cupping her cheek and his thumb brushing back and forth against her skin. "That being said, yes I like you. You are all I think about, you are all I care about and I can't keep my affections to myself any longer."

"Killian," she starts, eyes still closed as she leans her forehead against his and rubs her cheek onto the palm of his hand. I like you too, I want you too, she wants to say. "We can't," she says instead.

"I know," he smiles ruefully. "You're in History of New Orleans II."

They stay in silence for a moment, with Killian's hand warm on her face and his thumb gracing the chilled skin as he brushes it back and forth on her cheek. She closes her eyes and relishes in the feeling of such blatant affection. Of course he thinks that with Graham aside, the fact that Emma will be his student is their biggest obstacle. When in reality, it's the fact that Emma cannot fathom forcing him into anything with her. She cannot handle the mere notion that whatever he feels for her has a high probability of not being real, and she won't force his heart no matter how starved for affection she is. It's not fair to either of them, she'd be fooling herself and using him in the process.

"That being said, it's a ways till January," Killian says, tauntingly tapping the salacious smirk quickly curving his lips upward with his index finger. "I can think of ways to keep us occupied till then." He moves forward then, one hand braced on the oak tree behind her and the one that was cupping her cheek traveling south to curl around her neck.

"Please, you couldn't handle it," she deflects, rolling her eyes to appease the warning sirens that are going off in her head.

"Perhaps you are the one who couldn't handle it," he pops the 't' at the end of the sentence and pairs it with a raised eyebrow. He's challenging her and it takes about half a second before she makes up her mind and her hands grab him by the lapels, pulling him forward to crash his lips down against hers. He falters for a moment before he moves against her, but when he does—when he slips her upper lip between his, his teeth nipping at the flesh before he slides his tongue into her mouth—she can't help but let out a guttural moan, one that rattles from deep within her chest and makes him push her further back against the tree.

It's all months of pent-up wet heat and they're both giving as good as they're getting with bright white lights shining on her eyelids as they continue to kiss. She knows that it doesn't come from the twinkling lights that hang from the oak trees but she feels it pulsating from her chest, the spot where the orb had seeped through her skin thrumming rapidly alongside the beat of her heart and spreading warmth across her entire body. He deepens the kiss, his hand threading deeper in the waves of golden hair that cascade past her shoulders. She tries to ignore the fact that the brush of his lips against hers feels so familiar, but she can't deny that kissing him almost feels like a breath of life. Memories taper in and out of her mind as the kiss goes on — she's in a patio, her back pressed to a brick wall as a party rages inside a house and Killian's lips were moving against her in the same they move against hers now. She's in a cabin of a ship and the floor sways beneath her feet as the river currents slosh rapidly against the steel vessel, and the feel of Killian's fingernails scratching lightly at the base of her scalp is a sensation identical to the press of his fingers now. It's good, it's amazing, it's fucking fantastic and she doesn't want to stop kissing him but it's getting harder to ignore the warning sirens, the fear that undeniably creeps up the soles of her feet and around her heart as the shadows that want to stop her from remembering try to snuff out the light.

Killian's lips follow hers as she pulls away from him. He gives an incredulous chuckle between the panting that mirrors her own, his warm breath comes out in white puffs between them, and tickles her chin. Emma wants nothing more than to give in again, than to sink into another embrace and drown in another kiss. His grip tightens at the base of her neck, and her skin erupts in goose bumps when his thumb caresses the underside of her chin, tilting it up before continuing the trail and brushing his thumb on her swollen lips. She meets his eyes then, and she is taken aback by not seeing the lust she expected reflected in the blue irises. Instead she sees affection, an overflowing amount of fondness in his gaze that makes her place her hands on his chest and push him away.

None of this was real.

"That was—"

"A one-time thing," she says gruffly as she steps away from him, her voice still riddled with longing.

"Emma," he starts as he reaches towards her, managing to grab hold of her hand and intertwining their fingers together instantly. Emma turns to look at him and he doesn't say anything else, he simply squeezes her hand a little tighter and looks at her pleadingly. And it's that pleading gaze that makes her pull her hand out of his grip and step further away from him.

"Don't follow me," she tells him, her shoulders tense as she averts her eyes from him and walks towards the conservatory.

"Just wait five minutes…please," she pleads when he makes to object.

"As you wish," he replies dejectedly.

God, what was she thinking? Well, she wasn't that was the problem. Every time she's in his presence it's as if her entire mind, body, and soul go on autopilot. Which, if she's taking in the fact that she was ensured to meet him, predisposed to like him, and fated to fall in love with him, the notion that her entire being acts on it's own whenever she's with him makes total sense.

See, this is why she's a loner, because none of the relationships she's had, is currently in, or will maybe embark on have been normal, loving, relationships. Is it too much to ask that she could've just swiped right on Killian's Tinder profile, matched with him, gone on a handful of dates that eventually led them to fall for each other? Was it too much for her to want a normal fucking twenty-first century relationship at the age of twenty-two? Apparently it was, because here she is trapped in a forced, fated relationship because her great-great aunt had the inability to fucking move the fuck on from the guy she fell for at the very mature age of seventeen.

Also, and then what? Was she just supposed to live happily ever after with Killian? She was supposed to not only awake her own soul but she was supposed to awake his. Did Ursula just assume that Killian would be apparently super chill with the idea that he basically had no choice in being with her, that they were destined to be together? Sure, in the abstract it's incredibly romantic but in real life it's a pain in the ass.

At this point, though, Emma is only certain of one thing: she has to break up with Graham.

Tonight.

Emma is tense the whole ride towards Graham's apartment, shivering while she grips the steering wheel of the bug, her knuckles white as the chilly December air seeps through the old car. She's never done this before—she's never been the dumper, always been the dumpee. When she had been with Neal he had simply left her for another girl, and none of the dalliances she had during undergrad had been significant enough to be considered a relationship. She had either been left out in the cold or the hookups had simply fizzled out and never amounted to anything more than that, but she never actually had to drop by someone's apartment and break things off.

It makes her palms sweat with anticipation, and she wishes that she could leave things with Graham in a good place, something complacent with no hard feelings but she knows that that won't be the case at hand. No, as much as she wants this to be a clean break, she fully expects it to be messy. He's in love with her, he's told her repeatedly. And she tried, she had really tried to give him a shot, give them a shot but at the end her attraction had tapered out as soon and as impulsively as she had dived into this mess.

And let's not mention the fact that she had just kissed Killian while she was still technically Graham's girlfriend. She says "technically" because they hadn't been acting like boyfriend and girlfriend in weeks and to be completely honest, if Killian hadn't pulled back and given her a minute moment of clarity, Emma would have kept going through with it, taken a stronger hold on the lapels of his black pea coat and continued on kissing the fuck out of him.

She has to break up with Graham because there's no denying her feelings for Killian. And though she's sure that she doesn't want to jump into anything with Killian any time soon, it's not fair for her to lead Graham on like this. He's fully expecting her to return his love one day, has been patiently waiting for a day that's never going to arrive. And if it were only that she has undeniable feelings for Killian that would be one thing, but it's not just that. Emma isn't going to land the entire fault on herself when Graham is also to blame for her attraction all but dissipating completely from the face of the earth.

He suffocates her. Being with him, something that was once as easy as breathing, has someone turned into a double-edged sword and has left her without any will to breathe. His constant messaging, his uncontrolled jealousy, showing up at places unannounced, and the constant fighting has her struggling for control, struggling for any semblance of her old life—longing for her freedom, and longing for the ability to make her own choices again. She needs someone who will let her thrive within the bounds of her own independence, not fight to regain control of her and tell her what to do. She needs someone who will respect her boundaries and not push her into situations where she's just not comfortable in, she needs someone who is perfectly fine to do his own thing while she does hers, and for there to be mutual support in that.

Graham doesn't give her that and it's driving her up a wall.

She has to break things off, if not for their mutual benefit, then just for her own sanity.

The ride back to Uptown is shorter than she wanted it to be, and she sighs as she parks her car in front of the slate grey house that houses three different apartments. His sits on the top floor, a medium sized one-bedroom that used to be half of the upstairs of the old house. She always loved how his bedroom window looked over a the patio of a Mexican restaurant on Freret called The Sugar Skull, the string lights that hung alongside the courtyard shining into his bedroom late at night. It was great for people watching, and she often found herself perched on the window, dressed in one of his many sweatshirts, looking over at the patrons. Tonight the restaurant is bustling with energy, clear and convincing evidence that the universities had finally let out their semesters for winter break, and weeks ago that would have been a welcoming sensation to her, but tonight it just fills her with dread.

She knows he's home because his car is parked out front and faint flickering TV light fans from underneath the front door. Emma shakes her head as she slips the key into the door—incidentally, the fact that she has a key was the source of a rather nasty fight last month, what with him fully expecting his own key to her apartment in exchange for his and her not willing to give him one—and steps into his apartment, her breath held in tight.

"Graham?" she calls out, her heeled boots clacking loudly against the hardwood floors. He doesn't respond, but she follows the light that falls out of his living room. Usually, she'd leave her purse on the kitchen counter, but tonight she keeps it with her. She doesn't intend to stay here long.

She finds him sitting on the couch, staring intently at the TV, a black and white Hitchcock film playing on the screen and half an empty bottle of Jameson resting against his thigh, his hand clutched tightly around the neck. It shouldn't irk her that this is how he undoubtedly spent the night, preferring to get drunk after his final rather than go to Celebration in the Oaks with her, but it does.

"Hey," she says again, now standing closer to the loveseat that rested perpendicular, about an inch or two away, to the couch. He nods at her, and it bothers her more than he won't even look at her.

"Can we talk?" she hears herself say, waiting on a bated breath for his reaction.

He turns his head towards her at the question, his narrowed eyes unfocused and bloodshot. She assumes that he notices how she shuffles her feet, how her hands are gripped tightly around the leather strap of her purse, how her eyes refuse to meet his, because when he talks his voice is tight.

"Sure," he says, almost as if he knows what's coming next.

Emma takes a big breath before sitting on the loveseat, her legs threatening to give out.

"Are you going to talk or not?" he snaps, taking another swig of Jameson as she opens her mouth but her words fail her. She doesn't even know how to begin, should she soften the blow or just rip this off like a Band-Aid?

"This isn't working out for me," she says, her voice coming out stronger than she thought it would.

Band-Aid it is, then.

He looks at her incredulously before letting out a scoff, rolling his bloodshot eyes and grabbing the neck of the bottle so tight that his knuckles are a stark white.

"And here I thought you were finally about to be honest with me, Emma," he says, his voice coming out eerily calm, clearly holding in the weakly attenuated storm that raged and gained momentum in his emotions. She has been through many a hurricane to know that she was currently in the eye of the storm, winds of anger and destruction swirling around her but not yet touching her, harming her.

"What are you talking about?" she asks him again, gathering her purse closer to her body and standing up, moving away from him.

"You think I'm an eejit don't you?" he snarls, his Irish accent coming out full force at her, before chugging another good bit of the Jameson. "You think I don't know you've been fucking him?" He stands up.

"Fucking who?" She asks him, genuinely confused until she sees him lower his gaze to the necklace Killian had given her for her birthday. "Killian? Graham, we're just friends!"

"Oh, aye! And I'm the bleeding queen of England!" he yells, eyes wild and brandishing the green bottle, alcohol sloshing angrily inside the glass, as he steps closer to her. "You spend every waking moment with him, Emma!"

"We are studying," she retorts, crossing her arms on her chest and inching away from him. "I have finals too you know."

"Why him though?" He asks, his voice breaking not from pain, but from unadulterated anger. "What does he have that I don't?"

"Look, Graham, I came here to end things, okay?" Emma says calmly, trying to keep the edge out of her voice so as to not anger him further. "Not because of Killian, but because I'm not right for you and you're not right for me," she tells him, her palm pressed gently, soothingly, against his chest and her honesty making her feel both raw and as if the entire weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders. Sure she had kissed Killian less than an hour ago, and sure she had more than just liked it but this breakup had been a long time coming whether Killian had kissed her or not.

"You think you're going to find somebody else?" Graham rasps, wrapping his hand around hers and tugging her forward so quick that she loses her balance and falls into his so-called embrace, his grasp on her upper arm rough as she feels thumb and fingers digging painfully into the flesh of her arm. He stares at her, eyes blazing in disdain, and when he speaks his voice drops to a pitying tone.

"Who could want you, Emma?" he asks, and it feels like he's stabbed her in the heart for a moment until anger finally flares up in her being. True, she didn't expect to escape this situation unscathed, but she never thought he'd stoop so low as to play into the insecurities she had confided in him weeks ago.

"Oh, fuck you, Graham!" she curses at him, tugging away from his grasp.

"Poor little rich girl, Emma Swan!" He whines mockingly before shoving her against the wall, pinning his arms around her and blocking her escape. "Who could want someone so broken, so flighty, so incredibly cold?"

"Stop it," Emma pleads softly, terror and pain clawing at her throat. She can feel the shadows swirl around her, the despair they make her feel dwarfing her courage. "Please, just stop."

"Why not me, Emma?" He asks maniacally, leaning into her and dragging her chin to face him when she tries to look away. "Tell me! Tell me why you've chosen him and not me!"

"I haven't chosen either of you!" She protests, her voice hoarse and her vision blurring with unshed tears, fear crippling her. "I just don't want to do this anymore!"

"Do what? This relationship? I've done nothing but worship you, Emma and here you are throwing this all away, for what? Why? Give me one good reason!"

"Because you suffocate me!" she exclaims, her shoulders sagging. This isn't how it's supposed to go, she wanted just to say her piece and leave, close this chapter of her life. End of story.

"Oh, I suffocate you?" he asks incredulously, his tone quickly turning back into accusatory.

"If memory serves me right you rather liked to be choked," he leers against her ear.

"You're disgusting," she tells him angrily, her jaw locking in place and eyes furious.

"Admit that you've been with him and I'll let you go," he tells her, eyes nearly black, glinting madly.

"Let me go?" she echoes, her voice drenched in anger and disbelief. "I'm leaving whether you like it or not. And I don't have to admit anything because there's nothing to admit."

Emma shoves him away from her, walking purposefully towards the entrance and away from him. She had said her piece and as far as she was concerned that would have to suffice. She didn't want to be with him anymore and whether or not he would accept that was up to him, she didn't have to stay back and convince him that they were over. She can feel him hot on her heels, his labored, angered breath tinged with a rancid taste of Irish whiskey and she's almost at the door when she feels his hand coil tightly around her upper arm and yank her forcefully backwards and flush against the wall between the kitchen counter and the living room.

Her first instinct is to kick him in the groin, but he anticipates that and wedges his knee in between her legs, her body recoiling at the movement that once had brought her immense pleasure.

"You are lying," he snarls against her ear, his breath hot and sticky against her skin, the smell of alcohol so pungent it almost makes her gag.

"I am not," she retaliates, her attempts to push herself up and against him futile under the dead weight that his torso places against hers.

"I know you slept with him, Emma," he says again, this time trailing his lips against her cheek, the wet press of his open mouthed kisses against her skin making her recoil even further in disgust. "I read through your messages, I know that you had to share a room at the inn, that you had to share a bed with him."

"You have it all wrong," Emma wheezes, her voice pleading and nearing desperate as she struggles against his touch, shivering as his mouth starts suckling on her neck and his hand roughly tugging on her breast, his touch unrelenting and thoroughly unwelcome.

"Say you want me, Emma," he continues trailing his mouth along her jaw and against her lips, ignoring her resistance, "No one else will ever love you like I do."

"I don't want you," she says roughly after biting down on his lower lip, granting her relief for all but the ten seconds as he regains his composure. She's too focused on the rabid anger behind his eyes to notice his hand raise and swing forward until it smacks her hard against her cheek. Her head lulls sideways, the force of his blow making her body protest in agony immediately.

"I will make you want me," he counters, his forearm pressing horizontally onto her neck, her windpipes protesting. It isn't until he keeps pressing down against her, restricting her windpipes, telling her that he'd actually show her what suffocating really feels like, that the thought that she may not make it out of this apartment alive crosses her mind. She wishes she had let Mary Margaret accompany her like the brunette had pleaded at City Park, not wanting Emma to face Graham alone –

"I'll stay in the car and come get you if it feels like you've been in there too long," she had bargained, her green eyes wide with worry and her hand gripping Emma's pleadingly.

"It'll be fine, Mags," Emma had reassured her.

–"How did he touch you?" Graham's leering, slurred voice breaks into her memories. "How did he make you want him more than me?"

"He didn't," Emma responds, still struggling against him, trying to push him off of her but he just presses back tighter.

Fear starts to paralyze her as she feels his hand travel down her stomach, skimming the short hem of her skirt, underneath it and pressing up against her tights. He teases the length of her thighs, a movement that two months ago would have aroused her but that tonight makes bile make its way up her trachea and threaten to spew out of her mouth. She needs to find something to hit him with, something to get him off of her before the takes it any further.

Graham's fingers tear at the front of her tights, and she hears the familiar sound of nylon ripping at the seams, before she feels his clammy fingers treat her underwear in the same way, tearing away fabric in order to get to where he wants to be and where she has no desire have him. Emma's eyes nearly bug out of their sockets when she feels his digits press into her dry folds, her muscles contracting defensively, denying him entry. Suddenly she sees the glint of the green Jameson bottle on the kitchen counter, and without thinking twice she outstretches her arm, her fingers barely grazing the bottle as he keeps his futile attempt at arousing her, and swings it back towards his head, green glass colliding with wavy brown hair with so much force that the bottle shatters and he topples to the ground unconscious.

Emma's knees give in beneath her and she falls to the floor, shaking. Her hand trembles as she outstretches her arm towards Graham's unconscious form, breathing a twisted sort of relief once she presses her fingers to his throat and finds that his pulse still beats steadily. She doesn't know what to do other than to count her blessings and get the hell out of his apartment. Bounding down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, she makes her way back to the bug completely intending to lock her doors as she waits for the ancient Volkswagen to warm up, but she stops dead in her tracks. There, resting against the hood of her car was no other than Facilier.

The lights in the street flicker out one by one, until the sole streetlamp that hung above where she parked placed a spotlight on the witch doctor. He wore a purple velvet coat, a skull pinned to the white cravat he had wrapped around his neck and tucked into a burgundy dress shirt. Emma could barely see his purple eyes, the brim of his hat casting a shadow on his face.

"Oh, Emmeline," he says, his voice chastising. "Quite resourceful aren't you, chére?"

"What are you doing here?" she spits out, her voice ragged as her windpipes still struggle to inhale and exhale normally.

"I think you know the answer to that question," Facilier responds, the shrug he gives her making her feel a sudden rush of anger.

"This was you, wasn't it?" Emma asks as a formality, she has no doubt that he was behind it. "You're the reason Graham lashed out like that."

"Au contraire chére," he offers sardonically, gasping theatrically as if she's wounded his reputation with such a deplorable assumption. "You speak as if I can make people act against their own free will. I assure you that I cannot." he tells her. "All I can do is offer the proper words of encouragement, and that boy had all those feelings buried deep inside of him, and he would've lashed out sooner or later. I just needed it to be sooner rather than later."

The grin Facilier gives her is wicked and downright impish, giving no indication that assuming that he thoroughly enjoyed what just transpired was a mistake. Emma lunges at him, using up what's left of her adrenaline to try and tackle the asshole to the ground and give him a proper left hook to the chin.

"He was about to kill me!" she snarls as she lunges forward. Though instead of tackling the man, she had gone straight through him almost as if he wasn't even there. A freezing chill ran down her entire body as she did so, and it was a miracle she managed to stop herself just in time by bracing her hands against the hood of her car.

"You're ensuring your own death all by yourself. I just figured he could help speed the process along," Facilier continued as if her failed attack hadn't even happened.

"So what? So you could have my soul faster?" Emma snaps at him.

"Smarter than you look, Miss Swan." Facilier offers condescendingly as his shadows circle her like vultures sizing up their dying prey. "My friends on the other side are hardly patient, but they've been waiting a long time for you. I guess you could say they're getting antsy."

"That's not fair! You're not even giving me a chance to try!"

"Because you've been so adamant in trying to meet the terms of your deal," Facilier responds sarcastically with a roll of his violet eyes. "I told you we were playing by my rules, Emmeline, and I never play fair."

"What do you want from me?" Emma asks, her voice breaking as she feels herself get desperate. All she wants to do is leave this hellhole, leave Graham and Facilier behind.

She just wants this to end. She wants to be a normal college senior, whose only worry is graduating on time and figuring out what the hell she's going to do after school ends.

Is that really too much to ask?

"It's not what I want, it's what they want and they want payment for the deal you struck," Facilier tells her matter-of-factly.

"Payment without letting me even try to meet the terms of the deal?" Emma asks, her voice riddled with disbelief. They're not even going to let her try? How the hell is that even fair?

"Think of it as interest," Facilier shrugs and Emma feels the urge to barrel through him again.

"You're despicable," she spits out.

"I'm a businessman, not a philanthropist, Emmeline," he offers nonchalantly. To him, Emma was just another number, another soul that needed to be recollected.

"But I guess that fair is fair, and from the looks of tonight you may be well on your way to coming up with your end of the bargain," he grins widely, his open mouth showing a row of yellowing teeth, a thin gap separating his two front teeth. "Perhaps someone could love poor little rich girl Emma Swan but can you lie to save your life and live with yourself?" he taunts her.

"Shut up," Emma says scathingly.

"What is it that he said?" Facilier asks her, keeping up with his mocking tone. "Ah yes," he mumbles taking out a small notebook from his breast pocket before he starts reading out from it. "You are kind, smart, incredibly beautiful inside and out. Screw everyone who doesn't recognize that. Precious, really," Facilier laughs at her. "He sounds like a keeper, Emmeline."

"You leave him alone!" Emma practically snarls. "I made the deal, I deal with the consequences but he stays out of it. You don't want him, you want me."

"Oh I do enjoy this fire inside of you, Emmeline." Facilier offers gleefully, almost as if he was gaining some level of sadistic pleasure from torturing her further, but the second that Emma was about to retaliate, he vanishes in a cloud of purple smoke, his laughter echoing in the dark street.

She wastes no time in jumping into her car and turning on the ignition. The faster she gets out of here, the faster she can forget about Facilier and Graham.

The thought of Graham sends a deep ache through her chest. Emma was so eager to blame Facilier for Graham's actions but she can't deny that the flags were there. Her thumb hovers over her phone, debating on whom she should call. She knows that if she calls David, he'll want to press charges, if she calls Killian he'll beat Graham into a pulp and let his anger get the best of him.

"Mags," she her voice trembles at the sound of her friend's voice.

"Emma? What's wrong?" Mary Margaret asks alarmed.

"Where are you?" Emma asks her, mentally willing the car to warm up faster, she needs to get out of her before Graham wakes up and tries to assault her again.

"At Dave's by myself," she hears Mary Margaret reply, her friend's voice trembling with worry. "Emma what happened?" Mary Margaret asks, her voice full of concern and just as she's about to answer her she sees Graham's form bounding down the stairs towards her.

"Emma!" he calls out angrily once he stands outside the bug, his fists pounding on the glass of her windows, the 1965 beetle still warming up. "Open the door, Emma!"

"Mags, I'll see you there okay?" Emma says hastily before hanging up the phone and shifting her gears into reverse and pulling out onto the street, cold engine be damned.

Any thoughts? Comments? Complaints? (hopefully no complaints other than how long it took me to update)

Also, just as a disclaimer I guess...I love Graham as a character, always have and always will. When I started writing this story I didn't know this it where I would end up with him but I saw no other way around it. Don't hate me?