Once Upon a Time 1. Preparing the Soil

Hello! This is the result of me being up all night. Enjoy. 3

Title: (He is a flower in her untamed garden.) (She is a tattered canvas he would love to mend)

* * *

There was always something about flowers that Emma Swan loved.

She remembers as a child escaping the confines of her foster homes in search of gardens filled with beautiful flowers, or large trees with branches that beckoned her to climb higher and higher, or the soothing feeling of tall grass cradling her (the way she imagined a mother would.) She remembers the solace that nature gave her; nurturing her like a dotting parent would.

Deprived of love, she turned to the world around her to fill the void. She fell in love with each petal of every rose, fell in love with the way a breeze caressed her cheek gently in the fall, fell in love with the way winter nipped at her nose...

(She remembers buttercups the most vividly. It was her third foster home, she had barely been there for a week when he struck her. A mistake, she had forgotten to say please when asking for food. She had eyed his plate with eager eyes, watched the way he took every bite slowly, deliberately causing her pain. She was starving, she couldn't think straight, deprived of nutrients essential to her growing body, she begged for just a taste.

"Can I have some?" She whispered, eyes never leaving the plate before the man, her temporary father. He rose faster than she could comprehend, and before she could even process what was happening his hand had already slapped her cheek, firmly imprinting the importance of the word please into her mind forever. She ran from him, before he could see the tears that were streaming down her face. She knew from experience that crying was a sign weakness, and they, those people that claimed to care for her, would use that weakness against her. Once out the door, she haphazardly ran into the field parallel to their farm house. Tears now rushing down her face as she stumbled through the grass. Falling to her knees she saw it, saw them for the first time. The beautiful yellow petals welcomed her, they soothed her tears away, and filled the a void in her lonely heart. They were small pieces of sunshine she could hold, they were her light in the darkest of times.)

She never imagined herself being free from the cycle of foster home to orphanage to foster home. Her entire childhood was filled with false hope and false reassurance that she would find a family who would love her unconditionally. The books that littered these places, these makeshift homes, were always fairy tales. Emphasizing the importance of a belief that she never possessed. Delightful tales of fairies and imps, dancing princes wooing his princess, dashing pirates sailing the seas who coincidentally meet the women of their dreams, marriage, happiness and stupid, stupid love. Lies etched on every page, she scorned them, she hated them.

Yet she had managed to liberate herself. Turning eighteen, she fled the first chance she got. And now, ten years later, she is here. Standing in her own business, her own flower shop.

The Enchanted Florist was her personal nirvana.

She had opened the shop a month ago, and although she was barely making ends meet she felt at home here. Sighing to herself, she drifted between each display of carefully constructed flower arrangements, and flopped down at the counter. She went over the orders for the week, making sure she hadn't overlooked something. It was nearly closing time, and the busy streets of Boston were winding down to a dull roar. She hummed along with the radio as she flipped through every order. The bell chimed, signaling that a customer had entered. She checked over the last order before tucking them neatly below the register. Her eyes traveled to the patron, his back was to her but she could see his strong shoulders and disheveled black hair, she watched as his hands awkwardly fumbled with the various bouquet of roses she had at the front of the store.

"Each rose color has a different meaning" She states simply from her spot behind the counter. She watches as his shoulders slump, and a scoff escapes the man's lips as he turns to face her. She feels suddenly out of sorts, staring into his insanely blue eyes. She watches his jaw muscles tense, as his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip.

"Didn't see you there, lass. Though I'm not sure how I managed to miss seeing such a beautiful face." He replies in retort. Of course he would be English. She practically swoons at the delicate nature of his choice of words.

"As I said, each rose color has a different meaning." She repeats, ignoring his lighthearted attempt at flirting with her.

"What does the pink one mean, love." He says, as he approaches her with different bundles of roses.

"Gratitude." She answers firmly, unconsciously crossing her arms over her chest.

"And white?" He continues, smirking down at her as he traces his fingers over the flowers gently.

"Innocence." She watches as one his eyebrows travels upwards, and a devilish grin plants itself on his face.

"Well that one is definitely out." He says with a low chuckle. "And red of course, means love I presume?"

"Yes." She swallows thickly, as she watches him grip the bouquet of red roses firmly.

"I'll go with the red, then." He says, as he places the dozen roses in front of her. She quickly taps at the cash register and finishes the transaction.

"Have a good day." She says as she hands him his change, avoiding his glance.

"Names Killian Jones." He announces, ignoring her effort of ridding him from her store. "We're neighbors." He reveals as he plucks a single rose from the bouquet a slides it over to her. She follows his eyes as they travel to her wrist, where her single buttercup tattoo is placed.

"Emma Swan." She expresses, as she gently pulls at her sleeve, hiding her tiny tattoo.

"It was a pleasure meeting you." He says as he walks towards the door. He exits, and Emma finally manages to exhale.

She knew opening a flower shop next to a tattoo parlor was not a good idea.


	2. Origins

AN: Thank you all for reading! I know this is a very unlikely alternate universe to plop captainswan in, but I really think it's a cool concept and I hope you guys stick with me! I made a little graphic to accompany this piece on my tumblr. I love having visuals with fics.

(He is a Flower in her Untamed Garden)  
(She is a Tattered Canvas he Would love to Mend)

Summary: Killian's job as a tattoo artist is all about handling sharp objects, various types of needles that work in tandem with his hand to create beautiful things on delicate skin. Does his profession provide him with enough experience to be able to handle Emma Swan's thorns?

_Chapter 2: Origins_

* * *

She easily recognized the faceless stranger who has stumbled into her shop almost immediately. She had seen his back almost everyday in the early mornings, as she fumbled with her keys juggling coffee and a newspaper. He would be doing just the same as she, but with far more dedication and nothing to distract him. She could tell he wasn't a morning person. His hair was always in disarray, his shirts wrinkled, and shoes untied. She would smile to herself at his chaotic look, and feel briefly content that she was very much a morning person. She had never seen his face, but she knew this _Killian Jones_ was one of Boston's best tattoo artists.

When she had searched through the list of buildings for sale, she had found this location to be the most affordable. It was smaller than she had hoped, and wasn't exactly a prime location for a flower shop, but she had a good gut instinct about the place. She researched the tattoo parlor, _Neverland Ink_ (she was turned off immensely by the quirky fairy tale-esque name choice) to ensure that she wasn't going to plant herself next to a business that was far from professional. Delving into google and scrolling through Yelp, she discovered a plethora of positive reviews; all of which discussed (in great magnitude) the tremendous talent that Killian Jones was blessed with.

She never expected him to appear in her shop, but after finally seeing his face and witnessing first hand his stunning stature, and fiercely passionate baby blue eyes, she understood why he was there (and wonders why he hadn't come in sooner for that matter). A man like him, with a pumped up ego and looks to match, probably had women all over Boston vying for his attention. And the lucky one, the girl who managed to woo her way into Killian Jones' life, would be receiving the roses he had bought. He is smooth, and alluring, and she knew if _she_ was the one to receive a bundle of roses from a man like _that_, well…she didn't even want to think about that.

She is put off by him though, she knew the type of man he is, and has grown weary of men resembling his characteristics. She knew better than to trust a man whose words were laced with endearing terms that blocked out his true intentions.

Emma Swan is a cautious woman, who has been hurt _too many times _to flirt. She analyzes every word spoken to herby a man, never letting herself slip in the slightest_. _When he said the word _love_ to her, she felt her breath leave her. That word is always around her. It dances around her teasingly, as she hears it and the emotions it transpires from happy mouths to fixated ears along the busy streets of Boston daily. Yet, she never hears the words spoken to _her. _When Killian Jones delivered that small _pet name_ amidst their conversation, she couldn't help but feel _weighted_ by the sound of it.

* * *

Neal was the first and only person to say I love you to her. It was a fleeting moment, an airless confession that possessed no real meaning. She was so taken aback by it the abruptness of it, the she had almost missed the way it rolled off his tongue.  
She had waited so long for that statement to be uttered to her, that it almost felt _cheap _to finally hear it.

Yet it warmed her in a way that she had never felt before. Her chest felt alive under his, swelling with a feeling she never knew existed. She grasped onto the profession, and _clung to those _words like a life raft. (She misunderstood his intentions. She ignored the idea of him speaking before he thought properly. She disregarded the scent of whiskey that clung to his clothes. '_I love you' _was all that mattered, all that she could stand to process in that moment.) _  
_

She never wanted this, she never dreamed herself to be the type of girl to fall in love so quickly. After being deprived of this emotion her whole life, how could she not grow weak at the sound of it? It surrounded her, encapsulated her in a false sense of security. She built a home for herself in his arms, the foundation growing sturdier each day that passed. She calculated every syllable carefully in her mind, and memorized the way it echoed in her ears and filled her completely. She felt truth behind the whisper of it, she couldn't deny that.

She failed to realize that his affirmation easily disguised the lust in his eyes and the too firm grip of his hands on her waist as he hovered above her mouth. Hungry only for her _body_, yearning for her to mewl underneath him, his appetite was never satisfied. He didn't ask her questions, he didn't pry her to speak of her past. He wasn't interested in her favorite color, or favorite movie. He told her how to dress, he told her to _never _wear her hair down. (He favored it up so he could easily bite at her exposed neck.)

She managed to slip small pieces of herself to him over shared meals, long car rides, or walks down dark alleys. Gradually she was handing her heart to him, bit by bit. It was her mistake to give him the small amount of valuable information about of herself, but she had no one else.

She never said _I love you_ back to him. She couldn't fathom repeating such a precious thing without truly meaning it. She wanted to value it for what it was worth, she wanted _him_ to be the one _to love her_. She didn't know how to love and she prayed Neal would show her through time…

That stolen moment was all she had. It was her first and last I love you she ever received. She never heard it from him again. She tried her best to please him; urged him silently to hum the sweet words back to her again. She stole, she begged, she listened to his every word and obliged to his every command. Yet nothing she did allowed those words to return to his lips.

She told him how much she loved buttercups when they found themselves standing in front of a flower shop, somewhere in the boonies of Florida (a mere hours away from Tallahassee, a place he had promised her they would settle.) She smiled at them, tracing her fingers along the glass that separated her from her small, portable pieces of sunshine. She turned her glance to catch Neal's eyes, but he wasn't paying attention. He was _always_ somewhere else, so far away from her even when they stood side by side.

That night, as she waited for him to return with food inside the small VW bug they shared, he reappeared with a single lily. It was the only tangible gift he had ever given her. She smiled at the gesture, and felt the same warmth creep back into her chest at the sight of it.

_Death _was all she could think of, _lilies symbolized death. _But to her, in that precious minute of intimacy, she felt it was an unspoken _I love you_. And that was enough for her to hush the symbolism of that simple flower to the back of her mind. She kept it until it died, she danced her fingers along the wilted petals until they crumbled into nothingness.

She had convinced herself that he had given her other things, things that could not be seen _but felt. _He was someone she could rely on; he provided a place to rest her head at night, and food in her stomach…She mistook his dreams for her own, turned a thief and fled from one crime to the next believing that this was her happy ending. Her own fairytale that wasn't anything like the stories that plagued her childhood. She pretended to be happy, but as the months turned to years she realized that she couldn't play pretend any longer.

She wasn't the wide-eyed teenager she used to be, blindly scampering through the world drunk off freedom and the prospect of finally living_._ She was no longer craving the same things she did when she first met Neal. She desired _structure_ and _peace _and a place where she could _be at home_ without feeling like something was missing.

The foundation began to crumble, his arms no longer comforted her, his eyes were just as empty as her chest felt. She had mistaken Neal's happiness for her own, she prided herself in satisfying his needs that she didn't even know what it meant to be _happy_ anymore, but she knew it wasn't _this. _Being with Neal, bouncing from place to place she realized she had locked herself into _another_ vicious cycle, all too similar to the one she was in for most of her life.

How could she escape, though? She didn't know who she was separate from him. He had defined her, he was her world, and she was _petrified_ at the idea of losing him. Fate had managed to aid Emma in her release from Neal. She wasn't given a choice, she was ripped from him abruptly, not even a goodbye was spoken between them.

She was arrested on a cold September morning, her hands raised in defeat, the watch they had stolen the night before was glimmering on her wrist. She didn't know where Neal was, and she couldn't even recall the last words he spoke to her.  
Stripped of everything she had known, torn away from the man that had held her life together for the past two years, the _only constant she had ever known, _she was once again alone. Forced to piece what was left of herself back together. **  
**

* * *

Still shaking from hearing that damned pet name, she was again astonished when his fingers found themselves wrapped carefully around a single rose stem. She eyed his gentle movements warily and felt her stomach drop as he pushed the rose on the glass counter towards her.

She noticed the ways his eyes had found her small tattoo, slightly exposed due to her long sleeve shirt riding up unintentionally. It was a part of herself she treasured, and a part of herself she did not share with others. She pulled her sleeve roughly over it, hiding it from his prying eyes. A flash of melancholy turned his lips downwards, and his eyes found her's again.

"It was a pleasure meeting you." He said, as a well trained smile once again found it's way onto his face.

Emma Swan knows better than to let the erratic thrumming of her heart rule over the strict dictatorship of her mind. She was well aware of the electricity that filled the room when Killian Jones arrived, but she refused to give it strength. She chooses to build her walls higher, sturdier, there is no way she would let this stranger storm into her life and destroy everything that she has worked so hard to fix. Killian Jones is a flower in her untamed garden that she had no intention of acknowledging.

* * *

Fate had other plans for Emma. Her quiet morning pleasure of eyeing him from behind is ruined the next day. He is waiting for her outside of his shop, leaning casually against the glass with a smug look on his face. She grips her coffee tightly as she reaches for her keys. Silently scorning him for arriving earlier than she had expected. She likes routine now, and structure. Killian Jones is all over the map, and already making her day feel muddled and _strange. _

"Morning, Swan." He says from his perch.

"Morning." She mumbles back, as she slips her keys into the door. She enters her shop without another word and drops her array of things onto the counter. The jingle of her bell sounds, and she rolls her eyes.

"So what's a lass like you doing running a flower shop?" He asks as he strolls through her displays, smelling various flowers and running his fingers along different petals.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She says through gritted teeth, as she attempts to start up her (very old) cash register. She hears him chuckle from behind the daisies.

"You're not exactly the most chipper of women. I didn't expect a lady as tough as you in a place like this. But alas, my mother _did_ teach me never to judge a book by it's cover."

She scoffs, as she hit the register roughly until it hums back to life. "I'm not in the mood to discuss my life, Jones."

"Personally, I am quite in the mood. Perhaps you will be tonight, over dinner?" He replies back smoothly as he approaches her, leaning his elbows on the counter as he props his chin up at her.

"Nice try but no, thanks." She says, turning her back to him as she tucks her purse into a cabinet.

"Well, my shop is always open. I'm wondering what other tattoos you have hidden."  
She turns back to face him and gifts him with an exaggerated eye roll. "I only have one." She says firmly, as she presses her palms into the counters glass. Biting her lip, mentally slapping herself at letting that information slip.

"I can change that." He says, reaching for her wrist. His fingers trace the outline of the rough buttercup. "Do this yourself, love?" He asks, peering at it inquisitively.

"Yes. And stop calling me love." She says bitterly, as she pulls her wrist out of his grip.

"I can give it some color, if you like. Fix it up a bit." He insists, and for the first time since he crashed into her life she feels his words to be genuine.

"Again, no." She replies, crossing her hands over her chest.

"I'm next door if you change your mind." Another big smile, and a quick bow of his head and he is out the door.

* * *

Killian had seen the flower shop slowly develop over the last three months, saw the name _Enchanted Florist_ slowly creep onto the brick above it's door. He smirked at it, and thought how charming it was for such a place to be next to his _Neverland._

He isn't sure if it was a coincidence, or it were merely a name the possessor found to be catchy. Regardless, he laughs at it, deeming it some sort of weird destiny, and enjoys looking at it during his coffee breaks. He had never seen the owner, nor bothered himself to enter the shop.

Flowers were not of importance to Killian. He knows they are a symbol of affection for a woman, a gift often given when a relationship is established. He favors non-commitment, enjoys one night stands and chance affairs with various women. He has never found himself with one woman for an extended period of time, not since Milah.

It wasn't until he caught a glimpse of her, of _Emma Swan_ as she stormed from her shop one rainy afternoon. It was a transient moment, he wasn't lucky enough to catch sight of her face. But he saw her blonde curls bounce and her body shiver. Saw her curves and heard her scowl in defeat. He saw her jam her keys into the lock and watched with fixed eyes as she fled.

He had decided to pay her a visit on a slow day, excusing himself from his coworkers pointless gossip to slip next door. The place was quaint and small. Flowers covered nearly every inch of the store, and there was very little room for walking. He busied himself with the roses, waiting for the blonde woman to appear. He cursed to himself at the blasted things, not amused in the slightest.

(Flowers did nothing but remind him of his brother's death. The funeral home was cluttered with lilies and roses, the poignancy of them firmly imprinted in his memory forever.)

He heard her voice behind him, soft and melodic. She had informed him from a distance that each rose possessed a different meaning. He scoffed at the idea of giving such symbolism to such petty things. A rose was _just_ a rose, nothing more. He braced himself, organized every innuendo he could use to turn her on to him.

He rotated to face the woman slowly, a smirk already forming on his face. He was prepared to make her swoon, but he was not prepared for him to be the one pining for her. A cannon ball hit his stomach when he first laid eyes on her.

The first word that appeared in his mind was _stunning_. Her jade eyes lit the whole room up, her blonde curls fell perfectly around her face, her ample lips pursed slightly in annoyance. He was struck by her beauty, and had to hold his jaw in place to save it from dropping. He had not expected Emma Swan to possess a beauty he only previously imagined goddesses to have. But Emma Swan was beyond that, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was stubborn, and did not fall for his flirty quips or endearing terms. She was tough, and firm and he liked that about her. He was always up for a challenge. He purchased the roses and slipped one to her, watched the ways her eyes clouded with a sadness he had not seen before in another person (it was like looking in a mirror). He wanted to know who made her like this, he wanted to _help_ her and … bloody hell this was so unlike him.

He saw her tattoo last, admired it's choppy lines and how it was raised knew a stick and poke method was used, he knew she most likely did it herself. He felt his first (and most dear) tattoo burn underneath his shirt, done in the same method, and felt himself grow more attached to her. He understands why she doesn't want it fixed. Emma Swan was an open book (that he planned to read thoroughly).

He left and returned back to his shop, ignoring the questions from his pestering coworkers and quickly retreated to his work station. He carefully set the roses on his desk, and returned to work. He was unfocused, his hands were shaking and he could barely tolerate listening to his clients demands.

He cancelled his appointments, deeming today a shit day and went home early, leaving the shop in the hands of his best mate Robin. He couldn't stop thinking about Emma. There was something about her that made his chest tighten, something about her eyes that made him want to feel something other than _lust_. That night, he went home and placed the roses into a plastic cup (a bachelor like him did not have vases lying around).

He admired the thorns, and wondered how a thing of such an exquisite thing could possess such an intimidating defense mechanism. He thought of Emma Swan, thought of how her thorns were protecting her, scaring away suitors, guarding her from heartbreak… He sat down with his notepad and sketched swans and anchors, fields of flowers and Emma's fragile features.

He absent mindedly gave her eyes the same cautious glare he saw earlier, ensuring to capture the emerald color, tinted perfectly with the slightest hues of gold. He sketched his brother, too, from memory. He wanted to ensure his hand never forgot every aspect of his face, every line, every freckle…(he refused to have a photograph to assist him.) He sighed to himself when he realized the hour.

He peered down at his chest as he climbed into bed. His fingers burned as they touched the rough tattoo. _Milah, _boldly etched over his heart. Done by her careful hand late one night when they both couldn't sleep. He thought of her body lying still in the wreckage, thought of the flowers that littered her funeral _(just like Liam's)._

(She loved lotus flowers, and orchids, and hydrangeas most…they were the flowers she wanted at their wedding.)

He went to sleep that night feeling lighter than usual, the promise of seeing Emma Swan again easily lulled him to sleep.

* * *

He didn't see her for the next week. She has managed to evade him in the mornings, and has somehow left her shop everyday before he, (when they share the same hours). He decides it's best not to bother her, and chooses to remain hopeful that another chance encounter with her will occur. He submerges himself in his work, drowning himself to avoid thinking of her. Clients ask for devils and skeletons, rosary beads and butterflies.

Yet he began to favor tattooing things from nature, and realism. Clients flock to him for the details he presents in every bud, every vein of a leaf carefully mastered…Killian Jones is a man who prides himself in his work. He had chosen to become a tattoo artist because he loved the permanency of it. The idea of his art displayed on a body for therest of that person's life made him feel like he was doing something meaningful. Each tattoo he did was carefully executed, carefully designed to perfection.

There were several benefits he favored about his profession; number one being the _women. _Beautiful women exposed to him, _blank canvases_ he could decorate with his work. He used to love the intimacy of tattooing women, but ever since he laid eyes on Emma Swan, he no longer feels the same pull and desire he once did to each women that found themselves in his chair. He was no longer interested in picking a client to go home with.

It wasn't easy for Killian to get to this point in his life. As a child, his parents refused to entertain his dream of him becoming an artist. They forbid him from buying any supplies relating to the subject. They hoped their youngest child would follow in his older brother's footsteps and find a more suitable career path. His repressed desire to draw led him to sneaking around his parents.

He would sketch fantastical places on the backs of his school books during class, etch figures into the trunks of trees as he walked home, and scribbled comics onto the walls behind his local grocery store; his favorite place to think and be alone.

(There was something so serene about it; the constant bustle of the front of the store was such a starch contrast to it's abandoned back. He always found it to be quite refreshing to be surrounded by people and then to suddenly _not_ _be. _He felt invisible, he felt like he didn't have to exist, and this made drawing easier for him.)

_A career in financing will provide you with a secure future! _His parents would shout as he failed to comprehend his math homework.

_A career in business will lead to great fortune! _They asserted, as he silently scoffed to himself at the idea of being a prisoner to a cubicle for the rest of his life.

_He would make a great military man, just like Liam! _They would say, as they patted Liam's shoulder firmly every time he returned home from a mission.

_Tell him, Liam. Tell your brother that being an artist is not wise.  
_

Liam would smile, chuckle a bit and easily calm his parents down. They listened to him, they boasted about him to their friends. He was perfect, and Killian was a mess.  
Liam would always assure them that Killian would make a great artist, and he can be whatever he choses to be so long as he is happy. His parents would always remain silent at Liam's encouraging words, they wouldn't dare speak up about the insanity of his words in front of him.

Killian loved Liam for that. He was his anchor, always a strong believer in his talent. It was the minute that he left that they would continue to badger him, practically begging him to please do anything else.

When Liam died, his parents were heartbroken. They lost interest in pestering him about his future, and when he asked to go to America after he graduated high school, they agreed to it. ( He was positive they were only agreeing so they could finally be free of him and his poor choices.)

They were still mourning Liam's death as he rounded the corner of the airport, seconds from being out of their eyesight, seconds from being _free _from the shackles they had unintentionally bound around him_._ He turned one last time to his parents.

In that moment, he saw a sadness in his mother's eyes he could never replicate in any drawing. (It was a sadness he now realizes that matched what he saw in Emma's eyes upon their first encounter.) He saw a slouch in his father's posture that he could never forget. He turned abruptly, and left them behind without a second thought.

* * *

It's now been two weeks since he has seen Emma Swan, and the dullness in his chest has returned with an undeniable force. He is closing shop, Robin had long since left. Cleaning, sweeping, wiping down the mess he had made from earlier. Craving for his bed and a good ale, he finishes and locks up.

The cold January air bites at his skin, out of habit he turns towards his left, looking at Emma's shop. He notices that the door is slightly ajar, moving slightly every time the wind swept by. He walks over, peering in.

"Emma?" He calls, as he pushes the door further open. It's then that he notices glass on the floor, flowers ripped from their vases now lay limp on the floor, knocked over displays...

He sees her last, in the corner of the shop near the cash register. Sitting with her back leaning against a wall. Lip bleeding, hands cradling pieces of broken buttercups.

"Emma." He says again, barely above a whisper as he jogs over to her, glass crunching beneath him. She looks up, as she wipes the blood from her lip. Her eye is swollen, cheeks rosy, but he is surprised to find that she is not crying.

"Go away." She affirms to him, as she stands. Slightly wincing, he notices she is favoring her left arm for support.

"What happened?"

"Some asshole decided to attempt to rob me." She says, as she hobbles over to the counter.

"He didn't succeed?" He asks with a slight chuckle, images of Emma beating the living hell out of a man flash through his mind.

"No." She says. "He wasn't really a match against my crowbar."  
He smiles at her as she kneels, slowly she begins to carefully pick up the flowers from the floor.

"Emma let me-"

"No." She says without turning towards him. "I don't need your help."

He watches how gentle she is with the flowers, watches as a tenderness flows from her as she carefully assembles them into haphazard bundles. She is attempting to repair the disorder that life has handed her, he watches as she fights back a scowl, watches as her shoulders slightly quiver under his glare.

"Love, please-"

"Do not. Call. Me. That." She says as she stands, slightly wavering. Eyes glowing with ferocity as she tightly grips the broken stems. "Get out."  
His mouth opens, he tries to find the proper words that could calm her. But nothing comes to him. She crumbles into herself, eyes dulling as a choked sob leaves her throat.

"I'm sorry, I..._Please_ leave. I didn't mean to yell, I apologize for not thanking you, I'm not used to-"

He hushes her, forcing her into his arms in a tight embrace as he caresses her hair.

"You don't have to apologize." He says quietly, as she tenses in his arms. She pushes herself off of him, avoiding his glance as she stumbles backwards.

"I can handle this."

"Ok." He says, backing away too to add to the space between them. "But I'm staying, to keep you company." He finds a clean spot and plops himself on the floor.

"Fine." She grumbles as she returns to the tedious task. Progress, he thinks with a smile. Her scent of lilac still clinging to him. Her soft hair still ghosting over his palms. His chest feels warm again, and he can't help but feel at home in her presence.

* * *

The next day, after spending nearly all night quietly sitting in back of the _Enchanted Florist_, he is exhausted, and in desperate need of coffee. Struggling to contain another yawn, he lays down on the couch in the front of his shop. The sounds of Robin and Jefferson bantering, waiting for their next clients slowly aid him in falling into a slumber...

He protests when he feels a rough hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. "Oi, hands off you git." He seethes to Robin, as he wipes his eyes.

"Mate, there is a woman here for you." Robin replies, casting his eyes over his shoulders.

Killian stands, and is shocked to find Emma Swan standing before him. The harsh florescent lights perfectly illuminate her, "Emma." He says breathlessly, still feeling the pull of sleep in his mind. He prays he isn't dreaming. "So, what brings you to _Neverland_?" He asks, collecting his composure to the best of his abilities, trying to ignore Jefferson and Robin's snickering.

"I was thinking about your offer." She replies coyly.

He hums in reply, and observes her as she retreats to his wall of sketches. She of course gravitates to his most recent pieces; flowers and birds, animals and faces. (He has kept her portrait tucked safely back at his apartment). Her shoulders lose their tenseness, he feels the rigidness she first presented leave.

"Will you design something for me?" She whispers, as she keeps her focus on the wall.

"Yes." He answers quicker than he had intended.

She turns and the smallest of smiles graces her pink lips. It was the most brilliant sight he has ever seen.(She is a tattered canvas he would _love_ to mend.)

* * *

(: Till next time loves  
-Alanna


	3. Planting the First Seeds

AN: As always, thank you all for the reviews. I apologize about the large paragraphs in the previous chapter, I am hyper aware now so hopefully this chapter is easier to read! Thank you!

(He is the Flower in her Untamed Garden)  
(She is a Tattered Canvas he Would Love to Mend)

Summary: Killian's job as a tattoo artist is all about handling sharp objects, various types of needles that work in tandem with his hand to create beautiful things on delicate skin. Does his profession provide him with enough experience to handle Emma Swan's thorns?

_Chapter 3: Planting the First Seeds  
_

* * *

(There are certain things about ourselves that cannot be mended.)

There have been times in Emma Swan's life when she believed the opposite, but now she believes her heart to be one of those _certain things. _Men have strolled into her life post-Neal, decked in the finest of armors. Each leaving behind tape on her heart, remnants of their feeble attempts at fixing her. After years of fighting a losing battle, she eventually gave up hope that anyone could repair her.

She realized that all these failed attempts were because she lacked the knowledge of how to make herself better without turning to others. She could not rely on others to make her happy, she could not depend on people who would just leave. Neal and all the men that followed were just lessons; she should not give her heart so freely and expect these people to handle it with care. She needed to count on herself (and _only _herself) to put the pieces back together. Her heart has remained a guarded, sticky, dilapidated mess ever since.

(There are pieces of ourselves that we hide from others.)

Her baby blanket, her secret kettle corn obsession, her undeniable affection for hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon. She never dared to reveal these things in fear that they would end up tarnished. These were things she treasured too much to have someone steal from her; she would not allow bad memories to be associated with these things. Most of all it's the stillness of night that Emma adores. There is a void that doesn't have to be filled, an emptiness that surrounds her and allows her solitude. Her mask falls, her walls lower, she is allowed to process things, she is allowed to reflect.

She hummed to herself as she finished up cleaning, reaching for her purse when she heard the bell chime. She cursed under her breath, she could have sworn she locked the door. She hoped it was just Killian, coming to chide her about keeping her door unlocked at such a late hour. But she knew hope was such a petty thing, and she rarely ever received what she was hoping for. She saw the hooded man stomp towards her, her stomach dropped slightly when she realized it was _not_ Killian.

(There are few things Emma Swan has grown to tolerate.)

Taxes, rude customers, traffic, flat tires. A strange man thinking she is weak enough to surrender her hard earned cash was not one of them. She knew that this man believed that robbing a flower shop should have been an easy task. She saw it in his swagger as he approached her, she heard it in the tone of his voice. When she refused, he swiftly slapped her. The ring he was wearing caught her mouth,and blood began to pool from her lip. If there was one thing this man should have expected, it was that Emma Swan was not afraid to defend what was rightfully hers.

Grabbing her crowbar, she hastily jumped over the counter and landed gruffly on top of him. Displays were knocked down in their fumble for control, flowers ripped from their stems, glass shattering as she forcibly kicked at his groin. He whimpered below her as she continued her assault, holding the crow bar above her head assertively to show him that she was not afraid to use it. He eventually threw his hands up in defeat, and scurried out of there faster then he had entered.

She huffed a sigh, fixed her hair, and dropped the crow bar at her feet. She stood amidst the wreckage, noting what could be salvaged and what could not. She walked carefully over to the buttercups, which she had set up parallel to the register. They were destroyed, every last one of them. It was then that it hit her, what exactly happened just moments before. She lowered herself, admiring her broken pieces of sunshine. A sadness crept inside her, as she fell into a heap next to the mess. It seems that no matter how far she ran from her past, there would always be something to remind her that she doesn't deserve this. Any of this.

(Of all things to have been destroyed, it had to be the buttercups.)

She heard that stupid bell chime again, heard the crunch of glass and her name echo around her. She recognized that accent, but couldn't comprehend the sympathy in his tone. (She should have known her knight in shining armor would show up five minutes too late.) He approached her like a hurricane lifting her up and blowing her away with compassion. Concern washed over his features, his eyebrows knitted together as he reached for her hand.

"Go away." She asserted, shoving the gesture away. She winced slightly at the exertion of her sore muscles. She stood, and moved past him. She didn't need his sympathy. What she needed was to fix her own mess, she didn't need his pity. She started cleaning up the debris the best she could, a distraction she was using to avoid Killian Jones and his stupid ways of making her want to _feel_ and_ breakdown _and_ be held. _She wished he would just leave.

"What happened?" He asked, ignoring her demand.

"Some asshole decided to attempt to rob me."

"He didn't succeed?"

"No, he wasn't really a match against my crowbar." She didn't want to talk, but there was something about Killian that made it easy for things to slip. She didn't want to expose herself to him. She didn't want to seem like some vulnerable damsel in distress that needed saving. She bent down and began throwing the flowers into bundles, keeping her back to him.

"Love, please-"

Love. That triggered something. Love, he tossed that word around like it had no value. He diminished it's meaning to nothing more than a pet name he probably called _all _women who crossed his path. Love was a word meant to be treasured, it was meant to be spoken in moments of intimacy..

"Do. Not. Call. Me. That," she had to control herself from screaming. She jumped up abruptly, barely able to gain proper balance. This was all too much, her solitude had been taken from her (her nirvana nearly destroyed) and she did not need Killian to ruin it any further. "Get out."

She watched him stand there, shocked at her outburst. His mouth hung open as his eyes desperately searched hers for answers, she had never seen someone look at her like that, like she actually meant something...It was then that she realized her rudeness, her behavior was uncalled for, and _oh god_ she forgot to say _please._

And suddenly she was a little lost girl again. She could no longer see Killian; his bright blue eyes that were once so welcoming turned brown and cold. She was standing in front of her foster father. She was petrified that he was going to hit her, beat her until her skin was raw... until the word please was all she could say_. _She was scared he was going to snap back at her with a force ten times the man she just battled because of her lack of manners.

"I'm sorry, I..._Please_ leave. I didn't mean to yell, I apologize for not thanking you. I'm not used to-" She stuttered out, barely remembering who she was _actually _speaking to.

And then he was there, holding her, his soft hand moving through her hair. Her face unexpectedly burrowing into his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, hear his soft calming words as he rocked her. A hug, tender and genuine and god is this what it felt like to be coddled? Was her chest supposed to be squeezing and her stomach fluttering? Was she supposed to like the scent that was emanating from his shirt, was it bad that she wanted to squeeze back (but couldn't)? She felt calmed by his arms, she felt herself come back from the triggered memory. Hugs were another thing people often took for granted. A gesture that symbolized devotion, comfort, need, compassion. She rarely received them, especially when she was upset, so this was very unusual for Emma. (But she liked it, even though she knew she shouldn't )

It was overwhelming, to feel someone so close to her again. Her mind was screaming for her to push him away as her heart urged her to stay put. So she did what she always did, what she knew wouldn't allow her to be hurt again, and she pushed him away.

"I can handle this." She said, more to herself than to him. She backed away, distancing herself from him and all that he was giving her. She _could_ handle this.

"Ok, but I'm staying to keep you company." He asserted, as he plopped down and smiled up at her.

"Fine." She murmured back, rolling her eyes as she resumed cleaning. She heard him humming slightly, as he tapped his fingers along his thigh. She sighed to herself, recognizing the tune. She had to fight the urge to join him. He radiated a peaceful aura that made her feel safe. Hours passed as she continued to assembled the flowers, straighten displays, and sweep up glass. It was around 1 AM when she _finally_ was satisfied.

"Okay." She finally said. After hours of silence her voice had grown hoarse, her face still slightly swollen, lip still stinging.

"Okay." He repeated, smiling at her as he stood.

"Thanks for staying."

"Do you need a ride home?" He asked, biting his lip in anticipation

_Yes, she did_. "No."

"Okay."

"Okay." She exhales. Goodnight."

He walked past her, his hand brushed hers and _jesus_ she could feel sparks. "Don't forget to lock the door, Swan."

"Very funny, Jones." She said, trailing after him.

She locked the door promptly, and turned to face him again. He leaned in and hugged her. She practically melted into it, the heat he was radiating beckoned her to hold him closer. He pulled away before she did anything extreme (thankfully) and she turned and walked away, leaving Killian Jones in her wake. (It is then that Emma Swan realized Killian Jones was incomparable to the men of her past.)

She returned home after the eventful evening, falling onto her bed with a soft moan. She ran her fingers over her buttercup tattoo, thinking of Killian's hands on the small of her back, his breath on her neck, the smell of the sea in his hair...She thought of how maybe, _just maybe_ she could grow to tolerate Killian. And _maybe_ she did need a new tattoo after all.

She imagined his face, imagined how he would react to her sudden desire for new ink to grace her skin. She pictured his hands on her thigh, or her hip, she dreamed of the beautiful art he would create...and _perhaps_ it was more than just a coincidence that brought her to Killian Jones.

She wakes and decides that it would be best to wait for her lunch break to make her way over to Neverland, (she snorts at the thought of how easy it is for her now to reach a land she once desired to escape to as a child.) She enters his shop, and sees his sleeping form sprawled out on a black couch. She half smiles at the other men, who approach her eagerly.

"Can I help you?" The first asks.

"May I help you?" The other asks, slightly shoving his friend aside.

"I was actually here to see Killian." She replies, gripping her purse tightly, trying her best not to flee from this awkward situation.

"Of course you are." They both say in unison.

"I'll wake him for you."

"Thanks," she whispers, as she stands by, unsure of what to do.

She watches him grumble, and hiss something to the man who has awoken him. Sees the sleep still weighing on his eyes, making him movements sluggish. The man says something in reply, and she sees him suddenly stand, the sleep that once encompassed his features abandoned in a split second.

"Emma." He says breathlessly, blue eyes all aglow as he stares at her like she is the moon and stars. "What brings you to Neverland?"

She hears his friends laugh, and she has to bite her lip to suppress her own laughter at his dishevelment.

"I was thinking about your offer." She says, as she approaches the large wall of sketches that hang near the entrance. She breathes in deeply, keeping her focus on the wall. She tells herself to just do it, just ask, don't be afraid for _once_ take a chance..."Will you design something for me?" She manages to let out, a jumbled mess of words that had been hanging over her head all day in anticipation to be spoken.

"Yes." He answers quickly, as she turns to him. Eyes finally meeting, she lets a small smile form on her face.

(Perhaps opening a flower shop next to a tattoo parlor wasn't such a bad idea after all.)

* * *

She leaves just as abruptly as she came; a whirlwind of blonde tresses and red leather, and those beautiful green eyes all mixing together perfectly to create the wonderful storm that is Emma Swan. The moment they shared was barely capable of becoming a memory.

"Looks like Jones found his next lay" Jefferson says, punching him in the arm.

"Lucky him, how come he gets all the gorgeous lasses?" Robin whines, putting his head in his hands.

"It's not like that." Killian says shoving Jefferson aside. "Emma's different."

Silence creeps over the trio, as the two sets of eyes stare at Killian with confusion.

"What do you mean by that, mate?" Robin asks.

"What I mean is that I don't intend to just go to bed with her." Killian asserts.

"You haven't been in a relationship in years..." Jefferson begins.

"I'm aware." He interupts

"You're falling for her, aren't you?"

"I don't know...perhaps." He says with a shrug, as he walks over to his station.

He wanted to remember every detail of their encounter; the tone of her voice, her body language, that small, meaningful smile he had a feeling people rarely saw (and by Gods he was unsure if he would ever see a sight quite as stunning as that ever again)...

But that isn't who Emma Swan is. She isn't the type of woman who wanted to be remembered, she was always moving, avoiding confrontation, dodging eye contact. Doubt and fear had draped a shadow over her, carefully concealing her from people, protecting her beautiful features, guarding her heart with an extreme force.

"Will you design something for me?" She had asked, and by the looks of it she had rehearsed that line over and over again before she had the courage to utter it. He saw it in the way her shoulders remained stiff, the firm grip of her hands on her waist, her eyes remaining on the wall of sketches. Yes, Emma Swan may be a cautious woman, but she sure as hell was easy to read.

He had agreed in a heartbeat, the idea of spending more time with her, getting to know this fierce woman who somehow fell in love with flowers _(quite a contradiction)_ was all he had wanted when he first laid eyes on her two weeks ago.

He hadn't realized how complicated the process would be, though, before he agreed to design something for her. He failed to calculate the difficulty of designing something for a woman who had barely spoken more then three sentences to him. Clients came to him with specific ideas that he can expand on, giving him information about their favorite things and colors. But Emma Swan has given him nothing to go on.

He spent that whole night hunched over paper, working through multiple pencils and cutting himself on their shavings. He sketched buttercups and roses, broken hearts stitched back together with black string. He drew crowbars and swans and thought of her tenacity and strength.

Small pieces of Emma Swan were emerging from the darkness, small things that other people would have overlooked he easily noticed. Perhaps being an artist and possessing the skill of over observing his surroundings was beneficial to getting to know Emma Swan, or perhaps it was the way she accidentally left pieces of herself all around her shop.

(He noticed the trash can by the register, overflowing with old coffee cups that looked like they once housed hot chocolate, or the swan necklace and key chain ring that sat perfectly on her porcelain skin that revealed her last name was more than just a name, or the way her hair smelled of lavender and vanilla, with a slight hint of caramel. How all these pieces fit together, he wasn't sure, but he was determined to finish the puzzle.)

She doesn't return the next day. (He had a feeling she wouldn't). An hour before closing, he tends to his last client and leaves early. It is freezing out, a small layer of snow is beginning to cover the quiet sidewalks. Clutching the messy pile of papers that his sketches were littered on, he walks over to her shop quickly. He smiles at the new lock she had purchased because of the break in. (She is a woman who is always ready to guard what is hers.)

He enters, and peers around. He sees her by the tulips, and can't help but feel his heart stutter in his chest. She notices him finally, most likely because of the noise he is making (between shuffling off the snow from his boots and the papers in his hands shifting slightly as he tries to grip them through his gloves.)

"Hello." He says lightly, moving closer to her.

"Hi." She says back, continuing to tend to the tulips.

"I've been sketching some ideas for you." He continues, walking over to her counter and setting down the papers. Removing his gloves and hat (because suddenly he is _very_ hot and very nervous that she will not like what he has drawn and he should have taken more time to draw more things and-)

"Really?" He hears over his shoulder, breaking him away from his scattered thoughts. She approaches him with a small smile, peering down at the sketches and he feels like he is dreaming because he never imagined he could make Emma Swan smile _twice_ in one week. She moves to stand opposite of him, reaching for her coffee as she takes a generous sip. He sees a small line of white foam grace her upper lip, right over the cut that blasted man gave her. (He smiles, for he knew all along that she had a certain adoration for hot chocolate.)

"Yes." He answers, as he assembles the sketches into a neat pile. Her eyes dance across the pages, her mouth slightly agape as she flips through them all. "I'm quite perceptive, lass."

"I can tell." She whispers, as she finishes scanning his sketches. He notices that she is quite fond of the arrow he had sketched.

"An arrow proves that no matter how difficult life is, no matter how much you stumble backwards, it is all **leading** for you to be launched forward into something great."

She hums at that, tracing her fingers along the drawing. "I like that."

"I had a feeling you would."

They discuss infinity symbols and anchors, boats and mermaids and _Neverland_.

She tells him she hates fairy tales. (Especially _Peter Pan; "_the bastard never came for me" she mutters under her breath. He wonders why she needed Peter Pan to save her. Another jagged piece of Emma Swan puzzle he had yet to uncover.)

He tells her that they help him escape reality.

She smiles again (will he ever not feel compelled to have her replicate such a masterpiece again and again?) "Escaping, I like that too."

"I guess you finally found Neverland. A couple years too late, but discovered nonetheless."

She laughs, a beautiful tune that fills him completely. (It is certainly a sound he could get used to.)

"Come by tomorrow and we'll start it." He continues, her smile never faltering. He grabs the sketches, preparing to leave but wanting so badly to stay a little longer _(but knowing he shouldn't.)_

"Okay." She says, as she ducks her head, pushing a stray curl behind her ear.

It is then that Killian Jones realizes that _perhaps_ he is falling quite hard for Emma Swan. Perhaps it is the way she wears leather perfectly, or the way her eyes light up when she thinks she is alone with her flowers, or the way she fixes her curls out of habit whenever he is around, or it's her toughness, her questionable past that he had yet to uncover, her hatred for fairy tales, her unusual last name...Or perhaps it is the fact that her smile makes him feel like he is the luckiest man on earth to witness such a sight, or that her voice has become his favorite song...

(Perhaps indeed.)

* * *

_Enjoy the fluff now, babes. It's gonna get pretty angsty in the next chapters...(: _


	4. Wilting

AN: I had a lot of trouble writing from Emma's perspective this chapter, so this is a very Killian centric chapter. Thanks for all your reviews! You guys are the best (:

(He is a Flower in her Untamed Garden)  
(She is a Tattered Canvas he Would Love to Mend)

Chapter 4: Erosion / Wilting

* * *

(There have been many points in Emma Swan's life where she has found herself at a crossroad. Two separate paths, each beckoning her to choose a side. She has always been prone to choosing the wrong path, unintentionally none the less, but it seems fate has always made her travel down the bumpiest of roads.)

In the foster system, she chose the safe path. She did not runaway, she did not speak up, she did not fight. She spent every night imagining what her life would have been like if she decided to run, decided to be free and see the world. When she met Neal, she felt she was given an opportunity to roam the dangerous path she avoided as a child. For the first time in her life she believed her wanderlust could be satisfied. Together they traveled from state to state but she rarely saw anything wonderful. They were fleeing from the law and didn't have time to stop and appreciate anything.

_She pretended she was strolling the streets of Rome as she stuffed her jacket with pasta in grocery stores aisles. She imagined herself under the Eiffel Tower eating the finest pastries as she hid in stolen hotel rooms, getting full off complimentary chocolate bars. She pictured herself next to the Pyramids of Giza as she dashed into alleyways, concealing herself in the shadows of the tall Atlanta, Georgia buildings..._

Being in jail subsided these desires to explore the world with no bounds. Instead, she craved for the opposite. She wanted to put down roots and be content in one place. She wanted to be happy and stop running. New York City was where she ended up after her stint in jail. It summoned her; the lights, the noise, the congestion. It was easy for her to blend in, easy for her to find jobs, easy for her to not feel so alone. She lived in her car, tucking it away in abandoned parking lots, or side streets. She felt comfortable in the tight space because she had grown accustomed to being confined.

_(She was used to cramming herself into bed with three other kids at various foster homes, she was used to squeezing herself into the back of her Bug with Neal at the end of long days, she was used to the narrowness of her jail cell and the four bland walls that surrounded her for eleven months.)_

It was hard for her to imagine herself living any other way, and for this reason she was never interested in renting an apartment. An apartment meant that there would be spaces that would need to be filled, decorations to be bought, dishes to be washed, checks to be paid...It meant being home, and being comfortable enough to commit to a place for more than a week. Living in her Bug allowed her the freedom to be able to roam from place to place, it gave her the luxury of being able to run at a moment's notice.

When she finally saved up enough money (from various waitressing and bartending gigs) to make her first payment on a building for her flower shop, she felt it was time to stop running (at least for a little while). She had never pictured herself anywhere but in a city. Boston seemed like a perfect fit for her; slightly less noisy than New York, and far more parking options. They did have one thing in common, though, and that was the expensive cost of living.

"1,800 a month is the cheapest you can find?" She seethed to her realtor, as she flipped through an endless list of one bedroom apartments. "I just bought a business; I don't have that kind of money right now."

"Unless you are willing to live in a closet, Miss Swan, there is nothing I can do." She snapped back, eyebrows raised.

"That sounds perfect." Emma said, looking up from the bundle of papers.

"Excuse me?"

"Closet sized. A studio. That would be perfect."

After several snide comments, and a quick drive, Emma found her new 'home'. She had never been fond of large spaces, and enjoyed how confined this apartment is. It is easier for things to feel full in such tight quarters, it is easier to feel like she is not empty (not a corner is left without a pile of something, and music is always on to fill the silence).

All of these events have led her to yet another crossroad, and she is determined to make the right choice this time around.

*****  
**  
She can't remember the last time she was this nervous. She is laying on her bed, fiddling with the hem of her shirt as she stares at her ceiling. The music she has playing is on low, and it's slightly soothing her anxious state. It wasn't that she was nervous for the pain of getting a tattoo, it was that she was nervous that Killian would see her skin, and touch her, and be close to her. She isn't sure what possessed her to go along with this whole thing, but a part of her has been yearning for something new. She has trapped herself into a mundane routine, a safe routine, that didn't allow her much adventure.

She hums along to the song, ignoring the thoughts in the back of her head screaming at her to avoid Killian at all costs. She eventually drifts off to sleep, still unsure if she should listen to her mind..._ (you have something good here, don't let him ruin it.)_

The next day goes by much faster than she had anticipated. Valentine's Day was only a month away, and customers were already flocking to her with extravagant orders. (She despised this holiday, but loved the cash flow.) The busy day ended, and she knows it is time to face the inevitable. She imagines Killian next door, waiting for her to arrive sporting that charming smile of his.

She stands in front of her glass door, the only barrier between her and the world, and him. Pressing her palms firmly against the cool glass as she rests her forehead upon it. After another long five minutes, she finally pushes through the door and turns to lock it. She stands, looking to her right at Neverland. She looks to her left at the path that would lead her to her apartment, to her sanctuary. It almost seemed like the easy choice, to turn left and run away from this and him and those damn blue eyes of his. But life was never easy for Emma Swan, so she turned right.

She knocks on the glass of the dimly lit parlor, biting her lip as the seconds unfold... _(you still have a chance, run! run! run!)_

But she sees him appear from the darkness. He is disheveled as usual, but his eyes are lacking the brightness she has grown so accustomed to. His smile seems forced, his shoulders seem to be carrying the weight of something...and she realizes that perhaps he isn't so different from her.

He unlocks the door and ushers her in.

"Swan." He says simply, his voice was beginning to sound more and more like her favorite records.

"Jones." She replies, as he rests his hand on the small of her back leading her to his station. She ignores the electricity that runs from his fingers through her spine, she ignores the goosebumps that erupt on her arms, she ignores the blush that is creeping onto her cheeks and damn, how does he have the ability to make her smile with the simplest of gestures?

When they arrive at his station, he removes his hand from her back and she can't help but miss the warmth that was there...and suddenly she is far too aware of what she is about to do.

"I don't think I want to do this." She whispers, retreating slightly away from him. It's too open, it's too spacious, she feels like she can't breathe and she needs to find somewhere small and she wants to run and the silence that emanates between them is deafening and it's all too much...She looks down, her chest heaving with guilt and her mind urging her to not look up, _run! run! run!_

"Emma." He says simply, accompanied with a slow sigh. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

She looks up abruptly, still feeling overwhelmed, still craving the comfort of confinement, but something about his words make her feel like she is full and he is taking up so much space in her life that she has barely any room to move and she likes that. She feels something in the way he looks at her; she feels something in the way that he has given her a choice.

_(A choice is something she feels she has never had in her life. Abandoned by her parents, tossed from family to family. Abandoned by Neal, jumping from state to state just searching for something that has always been missing, never choosing her fate just going along with whatever life throws her into... )_

She is standing at a crossroad and for the first time in her life she feels like she has a real say in which direction her life will go. And it seems like Killian Jones has become her compass, guiding her with his lilted accent, and gentle blue eyes, and his strange ability to make her feel less empty...

"I'll walk you out." He continues, eyes downcast, keeping his distance as he nervously squeezes his hands together.

"No..." She raises her hands, stopping him from leaving her side. "No, I can do this."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. There is tension in the air, and she knows he feels it too.

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure in my life." She asserts, as she plops herself into his chair. "I just needed a minute."

"Okay." He says, eyes surveying her one last time before he too seats himself.

"Thank you."

He smiles again, this time his eyes are bright and it feels good to see him relaxed. The uneasiness of the previous moments they shared no longer weighted his expression.

(He is a flower tangled in the weeds of her untamed garden, and she was ready to clear a path to him.) 

* * *

He is sure his bloody clock is broken, the damn thing hasn't moved in ages.

(He refuses to admit the cause of the stagnancy of time is because he is anxiously awaiting for Swan's arrival. He scoffs at the idea that the world has decided to stand still on this day because fate knew Emma Swan would be strolling into his parlor at closing time.)

At 10:00 he bites his nails as he waits for his client to decide what color to make their blasted butterfly.

At 11:07 he paces in the bathroom and runs his fingers through his hair over and over again.

At 12:34 he roams in circles, taking bites of his sandwich as he stares at the clock.

At 1:48 to 2:56 he tattoos two more clients, (and spends a good portion of that period imagining her walking through the door next.)

At 3:19 he attempts to ignore Robin and Jefferson's prying questions about Emma, (although he does enjoy talking about her a great deal...)

All of this happens and it is still nowhere near the hour he wishes it to be. He growls in frustration, as he continues trying to find something to fill his time. He decides it would be best to clean his station. Even though it is close to pristine, he knows his drawers are cluttered with old sketches and paperwork. He puts on the radio, and begins dumping the contents of each drawer onto the floor.

"Bloody hell." He murmurs to himself, as he kicks the pile with his foot. He kneels down and begins sorting things, throwing stuff away, and organizing important things from things he no longer needs. An hour passes, thank the Gods, when he finally finishes the last drawer. He reaches towards the back of it, where something has stuck itself to the track. He pulls, and finally it is released. It is then that he realizes it is a picture of him and Milah.

His breath hitches as he stares at the candid moment; forever trapped on the film.

They are standing in front of what would be Neverland Ink. A dusty, broken down building that they were urged would not be worth their money with all the renovations they would need to do. It was Milah who gave the final push he needed to buy the place, she saw its potential. She believed it would be a good investment for them.

_("I did it!" He bellowed, as he charged into their home, ignoring the fact that it was well past midnight, holding the lease to their building. Milah came bounding around the corner, eyes aglow as she jumped into his arms._

_"What should we call it, love?" He asked, still holding her close._

_"Isn't it obvious?" She whispered, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek before she leaned into his ear. "Second star to the right..."_

_"And straight on till' morning." He finished._

_"Neverland." She hummed, as she nuzzled into his neck. "The first time I laid eyes on you, you were in that silly costume. Perm and all."_

_"You have to admit, love, I did look dashing as a pirate."_

_"You certainly did make Captain Hook look quite appealing."_

_"I fell in love with you that night."_

_"I know."_

_"I fall more in love with you every day."_

_"As do I, Captain." She replied sleepily, as he carried her to their bedroom. "You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you." She murmured._

_"How many times did you watch that movie while I was out?" He laughed, as he laid her on the bed._

_"Only three." She said, tracing her fingers along his arms._

_"You're lying." He challenged her, as he jumped on top of her, squeezing her sides playfully._

_"Maybe four."_

_He laughs, falling into place next to her as he grabs her hand. "I knew it."_

_"You always do."_

_They fall asleep moments later, a tangle of limbs and sighs and promises of a future brighter than the stars of Neverland.__This was love. This was home. This was his happy ending.)_

He wishes he could tell her how right she was.

She has her left arm raised, signaling to the photographer the success of their purchase. She was radiating and her smile illuminates the whole scene. Her gorgeous blue eyes are staring right at him and he swears for a moment she is actually there with him. He is to the right of her, and has his arms secured around her waist. His head is leaning on hers; he can remember distinctively how soft her curls were. _(He ignores the memory of her hair becoming a matted mess moments after the accident, as he attempted to tangle his fingers through her locks once more, before she was gone forever...)_

He can't remember the last time he saw himself that happy. His eyes are wide and so unknowing of the future that would be bestowed upon him, and his grip on her waist is tight and secure and he wishes he could hold her one last time...He remembers her words, whispered in a rush, moments before her last breath was taken.

_"Follow the stars, my love. I will be with you, always."_

A moment was all it took for his dreams to be diverted. Screeching tires replaced the claps that would have been heard on their wedding night. Glass shattering replaced the clinking of glass that would signal their toasts. Her breath dwindling to nothing more than labored huffs replaced the sigh of contentment he imagined to hear leave her throat just as he whispered I do...

He is suddenly overwhelmed with melancholy, as he places the picture down gently. He leaves his station and without a word to Jefferson or Robin, he exits into the streets of Boston. The openness of the outside world allowed him air to breathe, time to think, and space to move away from these thoughts he had thought he had forgotten.

He no longer thinks of Emma Swan and her sad green eyes and adoration for leather...He thinks of Milah Jones and her love of Christmas and the sea. He thinks of the way she used to dance with her hair tied back as they painted the shop. He thinks of her obsession with skittles-

_(Killian! You know the red ones are my favorite! And your tongue is red, sweetheart. Don't think you can get anything past me." She said with a scowl, as she gripped his jaw knowingly. Her face scrunched slightly, as she attempted to remain angry but failed miserably. He saw the slightest of smiles forming on her lips._

_"Sorry, love, won't happen again." He said, or rather mumbled, for her grip on his jaw was quite strong. He watched her face relax, as her hand fell from his face. He leaned in and kissed her, and she tasted of cherries and grapes...He continued to steal the red ones, because he couldn't help but love the way she looked so frazzled by such a petty thing.)_

He remembers their first kiss, his perfectly planned proposal wrecked by a downpour under their favorite Willow Tree. He thinks of their first apartment, and their king sized bed they jumped on together the first night it was in their home. He remembers her beautiful voice, and he wants nothing more than to just hear her one last time singing off tune in the shower...

It's been two years since her death. Two years amounting to nothing more than a blur of alcohol and one night stands to numb the pain.

He looks to the darkening sky, and realizes that the stars are rarely seen in Boston.

He wants nothing more than to feel her hand rest on his; she would help him find the stars. But she isn't here. And she will never be back in his arms. He has to face the inevitable fact that the love of his life is gone...

Time was something he never had enough of with Milah. He wished he could have treasured each second with her more, he wishes he could take back the hours they spent fighting, the minutes before the accident...With her time moved quickly, almost effortlessly. He always thought they would have more time. More time to have kids, more time to travel, more time to fall deeper into love...

And just like that it's 6:47.

Emma would be showing up soon and God he was a fool for tricking himself into believing he could move on.

He was not falling for Emma Swan. He was falling for the idea of Emma Swan.

In life, it's the unexpected moments_ (a car crash, a forgotten picture, an unexpected meeting with a beautiful woman with sad green eyes) _that affect us the most.

***  
He wants the night to end. He wants to go home and fall into bed and run his hands through her clothes he had discarded into a box and shoved into his (their) attic. He wants to smell her perfume, and sketch her cheekbones, watch Peter Pan a million times just to remember the moment they shared when they first met, and dream of her contagious laugh...

Robin and Jefferson leave when he arrives, he can tell they were slightly put off by his abrupt disappearance for most of the evening. He waits for Emma to arrive at his station, preparing his sketch and the ink. When he hears a gentle tap, he rises and prepares himself for her arrival. Running a hand through his hair one last time, he walks towards the door and sees her there.

There was something about Emma that made it easy for him to smile. The painful thoughts of Milah were interrupted by her sharp green eyes, and long blonde hair. He didn't know if he could bring himself to love again.

He knew that Emma deserved someone who would love her fully...

"Swan." He says, as he opens the door for her. His nose is flooded with the aroma of flowers, and he can feel her anxious energy enter the space between them.

"Jones." Her voice is uneven, her eyes are dark and he can tell there is something bothering her too. He leads her to his station, his hand lamely resting on the small of her back to guide her. He feels out of place, and confused, and overwhelmed with everything. He turns away from her as he readies the sketch, he hears her heavy breathing and he turns towards her. He sees genuine fear in her eyes, wetness has formed at the edges and her bottom lip is trembling slightly.

"I don't think I want to do this."

And for the first time since Killian Jones has met Emma Swan, he feels like he is finally getting to know the woman behind the tough exterior she presents to the world.

And he isn't sure if it's the lighting, or the fact that he is missing Milah terribly, or it's the way her hair has fallen in front of her face to cover what little emotion she is presenting that makes him realize that maybe just maybe two broken people can and should fall in love again.

It's all about timing, placement, and _following_ _the_ _stars_.

Emma is a woman who stumbled into his life amidst roses and buttercups. She is a woman who spoke highly of the symbolism of the colors of petals, and has the strange ability to make men fear her. She is a woman who appears to have always had to fight for what is hers, she is a woman who seems like has never had a say in what life has dealt her. He knows what it feels like to not have a choice. Growing up he was forced by his parents to do as they pleased; meeting Milah ignited a fire in him to follow his dreams, make his own decisions and follow his heart...

And something inside his brain clicks, just like that. And all the pieces of Emma Swan that he has compiled in his brain are suddenly falling into place at a rapid rate.

It wasn't that she was afraid to get the tattoo. It was that she was afraid of him. She is afraid to get close to anyone because she has been hurt more than any person he has ever known. It wasn't obvious; she didn't broadcast her fears or display her scars.

It was all so _subtle_. She had been abused, he was sure of it. He saw it in the way her eyes barely met his the day of their first meeting. Saw the hesitation in her body language, and the way her fingers shook at the sight of him. He saw it in the way she held her own the night of the (attempted) robbery. It was in the way she needed to do it herself, as if it was her fault that she was attacked, without his help. It was the way she broke down because she didn't say thank you. It was in the way the simplest of gestures (a hug or a hand to her back) made her shake. She was careful and cautious and so guarded and he can't even comprehend his revelation because he feels so _daft_ for missing the signs in the first place.

He can only imagine what she is thinking in this moment. He sees that she is close to paralyzed with fear. Looking for an escape way without following through she looks as if she is forced to remain there. So he gives her something she has probably rarely received in her life.

He gives her a choice.

"Emma, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. I'll walk you out"

And there it is, the look of total bewilderment. She stares at him as if he has given her the most valuable of treasures. He sees her eyes search his for lies, she sees the way her breath stops and the way she freezes. A choice, he concludes, is all Emma Swan has ever wanted. He walks slowly towards her, careful to avoid coming too close to her. She puts up her hands in protest, urging him to stop.

"No, no. I can do this." She whispers, (the look of bewilderment never quite leaving her eyes.) He smiles back at her halfheartedly. He feels exhausted from this day's turn of events. Emma was so unlike his former love. Milah was the stars and the sea and the moon. She is the sun, fire, smoke, and heat.

_(And bloody hell he could already feel the invisible burns she is leaving all over his skin. He isn't sure he could handle Emma Swan's burdens when he had so many of his own._)

"Are you sure?" He presses further, assuring her that she _can_ leave.

"I've never been more sure in my life. I just needed a minute."

"Okay." The air around them becoming to be easier to breathe.

She seats herself, exhaling a quick 'thank you' as she rests her head. He smiles at her, at the _real _Emma_. _

"Where do you want to put it, lass?" He asks as he lifts the sketch.

(Unbeknownst to him, his elbow accidentally knocked over the picture of Milah and him.)

"You dropped something." She says, leaning forward. "Is that..?" She begins, but he swiftly cuts her off.

"It _was_ my wife." He snips, quickly snatching the photo from the floor.

"I'm sorry." She expresses, as she returns to a relaxed position. "She was beautiful."

"Thank you. But lass-" He begins with a soft chuckle. "If you want to get this tattoo done, were going to have to stop distracting ourselves."

He watches her eyes dance across his features, glistening with a knowing look of loss and heartbreak. Her lips have formed a somber grin.

_An_ _unspoken understanding of the ache they both feel in the hollowness of their chest buzzes between them_.

"Ribs." She affirms. "Right side."

He lowers the chair until she is horizontal. She hesitantly holds the hem of her shirt, watching him cautiously.

"It's alright." He whispers_._

She slowly lifts up her shirt, and he watches as her ivory skin becomes exposed to him. Scars are scattered across her stomach, an array of different sizes and textures. She watches him discover this part of her, as her hands continue to work her shirt over her head. Displaying more of her old wounds, each with it's own story. He moves his fingers along her ribs, feels her shiver beneath his touch. Her skin is softer than he imagined, such a _delicate_ canvas. He doesn't see her scars are imperfections; he sees them as _art_. He doesn't ask about them, as he runs his hand along a few of the smaller ones.

"It'll look perfect, lov- Emma." He corrects himself quickly.

"I trust you."

And that was the confirmation they both needed to move forward.

He doesn't go home and do what he originally intended. He doesn't fill the empty spaces of _his_ (no longer _their)_ home with her perfume. He doesn't reach for that box in the attic, where her clothes are folded neatly. He doesn't put on Peter Pan, or look for the pack of skittles that he had tucked away on the top shelf of some cabinet. He doesn't sketch her, or unconsciously extend his hand to the the cold side of his bed expecting her to be there. He goes straight to sleep on the couch, dreaming of Emma Swan's imperfect skin that is perfect to him.

_Follow the stars, my love._

Emma Swan has formed a constellation in his starless sky.

Bright and flawed and scattered, but beautiful regardless._  
_  
When he arrives at work the next day, with chill of the morning creeping into his bones, he expects the day to be normal (as compared to yesterday.) He was never a morning person, he is unsure how he even manages to function much before noon. In his bleary state, he almost fails to see a single pink rose taped to the door of his parlor. A jolt of electricity surges through him and he is suddenly very much awake. He smirks as he removes it, and admires it's thorns and elegant blush color.

_"Pink symbolizes gratitude.__" _He hears Emma chide to him in his head.

He knew from that moment forward that with with Emma Swan in his life, he should no longer expect normalcy.

And he was starting to be okay with that.

_(He hopes that maybe one day he will discover a single red rose taped to his door.)_


	5. Blooming

Hello, is anybody still with me? So two months have accidentally passed since I have updated. And perhaps that is quite a long time, but I am kinda happy I didn't let more time slip by. I am so sorry for the delay. I lost my muse and couldn't find her anywhere. And I was insanely into writing one-shots for the past month / the show has been emotionally compromising me. But here I am. I am not sure how many more chapters this story will be, but it _will_ have a proper ending. (I may already have it written) And if you guys want, I could continue to write one-shots set in this universe if you send me prompts. So anyway, thanks for sticking with me. I hope this chapter was worth waiting for.

(He is a Flower in her Untamed Garden) (She is a Tattered Canvas he Would Love to Mend)

Chapter 5: Blooming

* * *

Emma is sure she has lost her mind.

It's half past six in the morning and she is nervously pacing the floor of her shop. She fiddles with the pink rose, as she continues to stare at her wrist watch in annoyance. The minutes are speeding by, time is running out and she needs to decide now if she is to do what she originally set out to do. She had so much momentum this morning, inspired by the tingling of the tattoo that had made a home on her ribs. She rushed through getting dressed (which she slightly groans at now because she is sure her hair is a knotted mess, and she is more than positive her shirt is on inside out) and sped down to her shop before the sun had risen. She has spent a good portion of the morning deciding whether a pink rose would be appropriate, or a buttercup. Or her phone number.

(That idea was disregarded faster than she could say _cinnamon_.)

She is unsure what prompted her to do this in the first place, and is starting to really regret missing sleep for all these insistent thoughts that are jogging through her head like they are competing in a marathon. She manages to summon enough courage to slip out the door, the cold of the morning easily motivating her to do this fast and get the hell out of dodge before seven rolled around. She awkwardly places the rose on the glass of his door, taping it into place sloppily. She bits her lip and stares at it, slightly wishing she possessed enough bravery to scribble a note with it.

(But a part of her knows that this will be enough.)

She turns away from it, heaving a sigh as she scrambles back to her shop leaving the rest to fate.

(Although at this point in Emma's life, she isn't sure she should put such faith in fate.)

(But as fickle as fate has been to her thus far in life, it did finally lead her straight to Neverland. And as stupid as that sounds, it was everything she dreamed it to be. And Killian Jones was an added benefit. Okay maybe he is _slightly_ more than just a benefit...but she is seriously getting ahead of herself. )

This is all very strange to her, for Emma Swan is not a woman who cares much for sentimentality. In the rare moments that she does acknowledge her emotions she is more prone to actions rather than words as a method of expressing herself.

(She hopes he doesn't stop by today. She isn't sure she can face what she has done just yet. But apart of her wishes he will.)

(But he doesn't.)

The memories of yesterday are still fresh in her mind. She spends all day trying to ignore the feelings that are blooming in her chest. She tries to ignore the quick shivers that run through her body when she recalls the way his eyes stormed over in quiet recognition of what she has gone through. (They didn't have to utter a single word to understand each other.) It was easy for her to feel with him, and he made it easy for her to want to feel again. (He is a man readily equipped with the finest tools. He quickly tore through her walls at a moments notice and proved to her that she had built them in order for a man like Killian Jones to knock them down.)

She can't say she ever thought she would so readily lay (almost completely) bare from the waist up in front of a man she barely knew, with the brightness of florescence lights easily capturing every nick and scar her torso is littered with. (She was used to the darkness of night concealing her flaws whenever she laid with a man.) She can't say she imagined a moment of weakness to be so intimate, (the way his fingers traced her tender flesh with such careful precision).  
She can't say she imagined to actual favor the way his breath remained even, the way his eyes glassed over with a certain look of remorse, not pity.

(She was on display for him, a tattered canvas that desperately needed mending.)

She enjoyed the pain of the tattoo. Enjoyed the way the needle captured her skin sending jolts of electricity through her (or was the reason she felt she was on fire because he was so close? The air between them melded together perfectly, as he gently wiped away excess ink.)

She stands at her counter, waiting on customers and actually smiling at them in return. The atmosphere around her has changed, her garden that she has spent so long nourishing is now flourishing.

(Or so she thought.)

She begrudgingly closes shop when seven rolls around, slightly cursing the slow day that went by too fast and was filled with reading books instead of _his_ facial expressions. She peers over at Neverland, and notices that it's already dimly lit and empty. She sighs and knits her brows together as she locks up. Her eyes catch sight of a piece of paper that is taped sloppily to the outside of her door. She carefully opens it, inspecting his handwriting and it's fine curves before a smile manages to creep onto her face.

_"Swan, always knew you were the reading type. Didn't want to disturb. Would love to hear about how your tattoo is doing, call me? -Killian"_

She contemplates the complexity of just texting him for half the night. It appears that Killian Jones is quite insistent on staying in Emma Swan's mind. Craving relief from this anxiety filled day, she gives up and sends him a quick _hello_.

**_"I said call, Swan. Not text!" _**

She smiles, and inwardly groans at his fast response. But she isn't sure she can handle talking to Killian over the phone. What with his lilting accent that would easily lull her into a state of pure submission. No, texting was _safer._ More guarded and far less revealing.

_(She still remembers the phone call from three years ago. Accusations, tequila, his biting tone all mixed together to form the worst three minutes of her life… _

_"You bitch." Was the first thing she heard when she picked up her cell phone. Lying in the shelter of her car as the rain hit the windshield in heavy sheets. "You bitch!" He repeated and she felt the air around her grow thinner. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears accompanied by the sound of the rain that she could barely focus on his heavy breathing and grunts. _

_ "Neal?" Voice broken, hand over heart, memories stormed through her and she felt him there with her in the car. _

_"You were pregnant?" He shouted, and she practically tasted the tequila that was lingering on his breath. For she knew he was drunk, too many times had she been there in front of him as sweat and liquor dribbled down his face as he hovered above her ready to throw another punch. _

_ "I-" and she didn't even know what to say, or how to say it. She didn't care much for the thought of those days locked in the cell, her body carrying her child-their child like a heavy reminder of her past. _

_ "Admit it!" He screamed, and she cringed and felt the tears burn her eyes as her hand unconsciously moved to her stomach. "Yes." And she remembers the sweet child's face, and she remembers signing him away as the weight of handcuffs held her wrists against the table. She remembers the blue pen she used and the looks of all the people watching her. Their thoughts were written all over their faces. She was nothing more to them than a wretched eighteen year old who had a bastard child in jail. And she was starting to believe that. _

_ "You're a bitch! I never loved you. I never loved you!" His words were slurring and she fell into a heap onto the backseat as she clutched the phone. She couldn't hang up. She couldn't let go. "He was my son!" He continued, and she heard glass shattering. "He was my son." He repeated. _

_The line went dead._)

_ "Not really the phone call type, Jones."_

**_ "What a shame, I was going to tell you something but I guess you'll never know now."_**

_ "What?"_

**_ "If you want to know you'll have to call."_**

_"You're being ridiculous." _

**_"I'm not the adult who refuses to make a phone call."_ **

She calls him.

_"Ello' Swan."_ He murmurs from the other end.

"Hey." She whispers as she pushes herself into her bed, burying her head into her pillow.

_"What are you doing tomorrow?"_ He asks, voice heavy with sleep. She should have realized the hour before she texted.

"Working…like you." She says with a light laugh as she rubs her hand over her cheek trying to fight the blush that is heating her face.

_"Mmm…I have other plans actually."_ She can practically hear him smiling through the phone.

"Oh? Is this what you had to tell me? That you're playing hooky? Who's the adult now?" She silently congratulates herself for that response.

_ "You wound me, Swan." _She can hear him shuffle about, breathing lightly through the line as a silence erupts between them. She didn't know what to say, or how to respond, or how to just _function_ when it came to him. But the silence wasn't deafening, it was comforting and reassuring and she didn't want to hang up.

But she should.

"I'm going to bed." She finally says, and she hears him sigh a little and she _swears_ she hears his hand rub over his infamous scruff.

_"Be sure to be around tomorrow."_ She is too tired to wonder why he was being so persistent about tomorrow.

"Where else would I be?" She hums in response, eyes closing as she clicks it off before he can utter a goodbye.

The first phone call she has had in _years_ was perhaps the best she has had in her _life._

* * *

She wakes the next day, finally relived of all things Killian Jones after yesterdays rendezvous. She takes the time to actually brush her hair and properly dress herself before she departs, which in itself is a feat considering what a mess she was yesterday. She hums a gracious tune as she steps into her favorite coffee shop, ordering her regular before heading to her shop. She feels her phone buzz in her pocket and she rolls her eyes because she _knows_ it's him. Once settled in the shop, she carefully stares at the screen and she feels quite confused.

**_ Are you busy tonight?_**

_Does this have to do with you playing hooky?_

**Stop avoiding the topic.**

_No, I'm not busy._

_**I'll pick you up at eight.**_

_What? _

_**Swan.** _

_ Jones?_

** I feel as if formally asking you out on a date is not really your style.**

One. Two Three. Four minutes pass and she is sure she is still not breathing properly. Hands frozen over the screen.

** See?**

_ I'll see you at eight._

_**(-:**_

She exhales sharply. She is digging herself into a hole. And _he_ is providing the shovel.

* * *

So next chapter is the 'date'...and I _kinda_ want to end it next chapter because I have this really brilliant idea. I have most of next chapter written and I am so excited about it. I don't know. What do you guys think? Please review or message me on tumblr!

xo Alanna


	6. Rose Garden Filled With Thorns

Thank you guys for the lovely reviews. You guys are the best and I really appreciate you sticking with me. I really love this story so much, and I want it to be perfect for you guys. This is a monster of a chapter. To make up for all the waiting I have put you guys through. I have to say, Taylor Swift's Blank Space definitely has inspired me to keep this going. And I am usually not a Taylor Swift fan. So thanks Taylor?And thank you all so much too, again.

(He is a Flower in Her Untamed Garden) (She is a Tattered Canvas He Would Love to Mend)

Chapter 6: Rose Garden Filled with Thorns

* * *

Killian Jones has always had _faults_. But perhaps his biggest is that when he falls in love he falls _hard_.

And you could say that Killian has only ever known love based on what he has shared so easily with Milah, but if that fleeting love with her has taught him anything, it is that love is something that should be chased with vigor. It should not be ignored. He never thought he could be capable of loving again, but he knew that the right person just hadn't come along.

And he felt it. He felt it in his bones. A blazing fire was ignited the minute his eyes met Emma's. There is no way this flame could be simmered. He is determined to let the fire burn him, destroy him, kill him even. And god is Emma Swan worth it.

He was tempted to storm her store with flowers and persuasive words and his ego to back him up.

He was prepared to woo her with his dashing good looks and smoulder.

But Emma Swan is not the type of woman who enjoyed cliches, or men at all for that matter.

But he wanted to try. Fueled by the image of her jade green eyes widening in surprise of him bursting through the door.

Prepared with the bundle of flowers he had drawn, because lets face it, Emma's shop was the only flower shop for miles and he wasn't about to buy a woman who sells flowers for a living literal flowers. He straightens his collar and tousles his hair and walks over to her shop. He peers in and sees her, and the air is knocked out of his lungs. The winter wind easily flushes his already blushing face and he can't stop staring. She is slumped over a book, eyebrows lowered in concentration as her eyes fly across the pages. Her fingers tap impatiently at the counters edge, her knees are shaking and her blonde hair is pulled into a loose bun on top of her head. She is lost in the book, absorbed by the words and stolen from this reality. He watches her, watches how beautiful she is and he can't say he has ever seen something like it.

And he is suddenly struck with the notion that he wishes one day that he could be sitting there with her with his own book but…not reading. Just memorizing the lines in her forehead and the freckles on her nose and the way her shoulders hunch in the slightest whenever something good happens within the depths of the pages.

And he knows, he knows now as he breaks away from looking at her through the glass that this was not what Emma would want. She does not need fake flowers and a man with an ego twice the size of Manhattan to storm her walls and beg her for a date.

No, Emma Swan needed gentle nudges. Quiet words and little things that were actually quite big to her.  
So he followed her lead. And decided a well written note was enough.

He turns abruptly and returns to Neverland, ripping off a piece of the bouquet and scribbling his thoughts. He grabs tape and quietly returns next door to place the note. He smiles again as he sees her flip the page as she mutters something to herself, he watches her scoff and watches as she begins to bite her nails. And he thinks, just maybe that this will work.

He closes shop early. Robin invites him over to Regina's for drinks but he declines, he'd much rather spend the evening alone in his apartment waiting for a call that may never come.

He tucks himself into his couch after he sorts through the limited food options he has for dinner. He thinks of tomorrow and how he will manage to pull it all off. He hadn't planned this very well, or at all. And he is more or less leaving it up to fate to assist him in the very big plans he has in his mind become a reality. Minutes turn to hours, one beer turns to six, snow begins to fall, his shows are over and the clock has struck midnight. He sighs to himself, feeling dejected and a little drunk but more than a little tired. He pushes himself off the couch and falls into bed, clutching his phone he stares at it one last time praying that it will ring.

(It doesn't.)

He falls asleep, dreaming of a tempered sea.

He is awoken by a persistent beeping, and vibrating. He grunts and reaches for his phone that has lodged itself between his cheek and his pillow. He lifts it up, the light of the screen blinding him. His eyes focus, and he notes that it is nearly 2 AM. A small _hello_ is on the screen from an unknown number.

(He smiles.)

_"I said call, not text!"_

He wouldn't have minded much but, the idea of hearing her voice was something he very much wanted.

**_"I'm not much of a phone call type."_** He should have seen that coming. But again, Killian was known for being persistent (another fault to add to the growing list) so he nudged her.

_"What a shame, I was going to tell you something but I guess you'll never know now."_

And truthfully, he doesn't have anything to tell her. Other than the fact the she is _beautiful_.

But he knew Emma Swan to be a curious woman, a stubborn woman. And he knew this would work.

_**"What?"**_

_"If you want to know, you'll have to call."_

**_"You're being ridiculous."_** He can practically feel the steam that is probably procuring from her ears at his childishness.

**_"I'm not the adult who refuses to make a phone call."_**

His phone rings two seconds later and he has to let out a snort before he can compose himself enough to answer.

"Ello' Swan."

_"Hey."_ Her voice is quiet, and soft and all traces of the toughness she presented through her texts abandoned. And he can't say he has ever heard her voice like this, with traces of sleep tangling themselves into her tone and he wishes he could be there next to her to wipe away the last tendrils of sleep from her lids.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" And he decides it's now or never that this big idea of his be put into motion.

_"Working…like you."_ She responds with a light laugh. The sound reverberates through him and he feels his breath hitch at the melody it creates.

"Mmm…I have other plans actually." He says with a smile because he knows just what he is going to do and how he is going to do it. And he imagines the way her eyes will look when she sees what he has done.

_"Oh? Is this what you had to tell me? That you're playing hooky? Who's the adult now?"_

He smirks, her fire and confidence finally seeping back into her and he can't say he didn't miss the spitfire Emma he knew of in person.

"You wound me, Swan." He hums, as a silence settled between them. And he hears her breathing lightly, accompanied by a soft shuffle. He hears a sigh, perhaps her head hitting her pillows.

He waits for her to respond, but does not get nervous when she doesn't.

He likes that their silence isn't weighted.

He feels like he has known her his whole life.

And a thousand things could have been said in those few minutes of silence.

A thousand things he wish he could have said.

But sometimes, silence is enough.

_"I'm going to bed."_ She murmurs finally.

"Be around tomorrow." He urges.

_"Where else would I be?"_

The phone beeps signaling she has hung up. He places the phone on his chest and stares at his ceiling.

(He loves her.)

* * *

He wakes the next day earlier than usual, as he makes phone call after phone call to various places around Boston in search of the one thing he needs to make this night work. When he finally manages to get ahold of the right person, he feels relief overcome him. But now it's Emma's turn to pull through, for without her this evening will obviously not work.

_"Are you busy tonight?"_

**_"Does this have to do with you playing hooky?"_** He smirks at her ability to shift the focus off her.

_"Stop avoiding the topic."_

**_"No i'm not busy."_**

_"I'll pick you up at eight."_

**_"What?"_**

_"Swan."_

_**"Jones?"** _And the question mark seems to speak volumes to him. He isn't sure if she knows what he has planned or if she is genuinely confused by his statement. The question mark stands between them and he feels like this is the moment that this needs to be said. No avoiding or dancing around.

_"I feel as if formally asking you out on a date is not really your style."_ And there is a break in their conversing. A heavy, pregnant pause. He waits with bated breath to see what she will say. He waits, and waits but the silence this time is deafening.

_"See?"_

**_"I'll see you at eight."_ **And he isn't sure whether to be astounded by her bluntness, but he knows at this point when it comes to Emma Swan he should expect the unexpected.

_"(-:"_

And truly, he is smiling like the cat who got the canary.

It's 8:00 and she is late. But he presumed she would not be prompt. He is exhausted, and nervous, and realizes quickly that he must look like shit. He groans as he stares at his old jacket, the one he had accidentally set (almost completely) on fire the night Robin had decided it would be a good idea to try _flaming shots_. He chuckles at the memory, but feels that he should have checked the mirror before he left his apartment that morning.

He hears the gentle click of shoes surround him and he peers up. The street is quiet except for her footsteps, and as she approaches further into his vision he feels as if he is seeing every constellation, every star in the way her hair glows perfectly in the dim lighting and her long legs peak dangerously from below the hem of her pea coat.

He said he loved in her leather.

But _god_ is she a vision in a dress.

She smiles delicately at him as she shifts uncomfortably. He senses her nervous energy and takes the time to focus what little composure he has back onto this evening he has planned.

"Swan." He stutters. Killian Jones stuttered. He feels like an idiot. "You look lovely." And the smile that takes over her whole face was enough to keep him standing there (he swore his knees were growing weaker the longer he stood before her.)

"You look nice too." She says as she eyes his outfit with weary eyes as she stares down at her own attire. He groans inwardly…

"I didn't have time to change." He replies, and god does he wish she could see what he does because she is beautiful and deserves to know it.

"So what are we doing?" She asks, as she bites her lip. He has noticed that tick of hers before, and he smiles to himself. Seeing Emma Swan flustered is quite adorable.

He doesn't answer, and chooses to extend his hand instead, yearning for the warmth of her petite hands on his. He sees her hesitation as his fingers interlace with hers, but she doesn't pull away.

_Progress._

He leads her through Boston's side streets. The hum of the town is all around them. It's crowded and narrow and _slippery_ but he only has eyes for her. He watches her carefully trudge through the icy sidewalks, her hand gripping his a little tighter every time her feet manage to slide a bit. He chuckles to himself at her lack of balance, and she slaps him gently with her free hand as a small laugh escapes her lips.

"These shoes were not designed for this weather." She murmurs as she slips again, this time he had to grab her shoulders (his hand slipping from hers in the process) and he gets close enough to smell the vanilla of her hair and feel the soft cotton texture of her red jacket. (It was worth it.)

His hand slides easily back into hers once she has collected herself, and she smiles graciously at him.

_Progress indeed._

Silence settles between them, and he hums to himself a tune.

"So I assume we aren't going out to dinner." She says as her eyes look longingly at the PF Changs they just passed. She likes Chinese food, make a note of that Jones.

"Not tonight…" He begins, as her eyes trail over a couple they pass. "But another night…"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Jones." She states, as she presses her lips into a tight line. He nods and looks down, trying to remember that this is Emma Swan he is dealing with. And it wasn't going to be easy.

"Let's see how tonight goes." He feels the brush of her thumb along his palm and it's enough to make him believe that she can't help when her walls come shooting up….but she is trying.

"Okay." He smiles at the small victory. They are nearly there, and he hopes nobody has decided to ruin his little garden he has 'planted.' He leads her through the Common and he squints a bit and is sure that everything is just as he left it. He notices that her eyes are everywhere but ahead of them.

He stops her just as the approach the little patch he has created and he feels her stiffen next to him. Her hand falls away from his, and she falls to her knees.

It took 300 dollars, four hundred buttercups painstakingly placed in the snow and three hours to make this Buttercup field happen.

But seeing Emma Swan react to a blooming field of buttercups in the barren winter was enough to make him feel that it was more than worth it.

She turns, and grabs his wrist pulling him down into the snow next to her. Her eyes are wide and a shade of green he has never seen before. A forest has grown within her irises and he sees her heart blooming in front of him and he knows for sure now.

"You did this for me?" She asks, voice breaking, as the first of several tears stream down her flushed cheeks. And his heart breaks and falls together all at once. Because he is sure Emma Swan deserves the world but never received it.

And he'll be damned if he doesn't give her everything she deserves.

He watches her lay down as the words leave her, and he joins her despite the frigid temperature of the snow. He nods in response, as he plays with a buttercup before he places it within her hair.

"No one-" She begins, but he cuts her off. He sits up quickly, beckoning her closer. She follows suit, and nestles herself into his side. Her hot breath fanning out across his exposed neck. He rubs her back and he hates nobody had ever bothered to give the broken girl who loved flowers…._flowers._

"I didn't mean to make you cry, Swan." He says as he slumps slightly, her form still pressed into his side.

"I'm not crying." She insists, as she moves away from him to wipe away the few tears that remain on her porcelain skin. He laughs lightly at her avoidance, but revels in the way she has opened up to him. He trains his eyes back towards the ground, absentmindedly playing with the stem of another buttercup. He hears her shift slightly, and he peers at her.

Before he can comprehend what is happening Emma Swan's lips are pressed firmly to his.

And he swears he sees a million shooting stars behind his eyes as the flutter close to relish in the sparks that ignite between them. She pulls away fast, and falls into a heap back into the snow. His mouth drops open as his eyes follow her.

_And there she is-_

_Laying in the snow like it's sand with buttercup petals caught in her golden hair, and stars in her eyes and thorns on her sides._

_There she is, a tattered canvas he helped mend._

_And he loves her. He loves her. God does he love her._

* * *

There is a weathered dress that sits in her closet that she has never worn. It sits awkwardly amidst her leather jackets and plain grey tees. It is different and shouts to her every time she comes into her closet. It has been boxed, thrown, shoved, crammed and moved a lot over the years, but Emma can't bear to part with it. She had hoped that one day, one day, she would have the opportunity to wear it and feel like somebody else, a princess even. But the day never came. Until today. The dress is simple and black and low cut.

She remembers buying it, rather stealing it, when she had hoped Neal would take her out for her birthday.

(The day passed like any other.)

And the dress had become a permanent residence of the bottom of her bags.

She carefully dangles the dress between her fingers, watching the wrinkles urge to be pressed and the slight layer of dust that seems to have embedded itself into every stitch. She decides that maybe it is time for this dress to get some use, and even though she doesn't have fancy heels or delicate flats she is assuming her black boots will look fine with it. (Although she doesn't really have a say in that matter.)

She washes it quickly, watches as the black becomes more vibrant and a new life takes on the dress.

She is nervous and doesn't know what to expect and she knows deep down inside of her that this may not have been a good idea. Despite the fact that Killian had begun to chip at her walls, they were still reluctant to crumble all together.

But then she remembers the ways his eyes dimmed when the photo had slipped between them of his deceased wife. She remembers the electricity that emanated from his fingertips every time his fingers gently touched her jagged skin. She remembers the way his eyes immediately illuminated again when she said that she trusted him, because she does...she trusts him so much.

But she isn't sure she can trust him with her heart.

For she herself has even proved to not be a suitable person to handle such a task.

For she has broken her own heart a thousand times.

And she has watched it be broken a thousand more times.

She slips the dress on and it manages to hug her curves and highlight her…assets. She decides to avoid her leather jackets, vying for something far warmer. Snow is falling outside her window and she is sure that it can't be above thirty out.

( At least she can _finally_ say she wore the dress.)

She puts on tights and zips up her boots, curls her hair slightly to get rid of the frizz. She avoids dousing her face with makeup. She's really not that type of girl. She leaves her apartment at 7:50. Figuring that she'd rather be late than early. She sees him standing there under the glow of the streetlamp, leaning casually against the glass as his breath comes out in even puffs of white. She shoves her hands in her pockets and is suddenly so self conscious about her outfit. Seeing him in his blue jeans and frayed jacket doesn't help the fact that maybe she had over thought this whole thing.

He sees her, and the glow that surrounds him isn't from the street lamp anymore.

When he looks at her he looks like he is staring at something priceless.

And it makes her squirm and feel small and makes her wonder what he sees when he looks at her because she isn't sure why he thinks she is so special.

"Swan." He says, as his eyes dance across her legs and hair and new coat. And he is breathless and mussed and looks like he doesn't know what to say. "You look lovely."

She nervously tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, as moves her weight from one leg to the other.

"Thanks, you…" She begins as she focuses again on his attire. "Look nice too." She finishes lamely

He laughs, as he pulls at the hem of his coat. "I didn't really have time to change." He admits, as he nervously scratches at the back of his ear. A tick she had begun to associate with him when he was nervous or flustered. It was quite enduring.

"It's alright." She assures, as she sighs as bit, staring behind him. "So, what are we doing?"

He clears his throat and moves towards her, shuffling a bit as he extends his right hand. She stares at it and wonders what he expects her to do. But he pushes forward and grabs her hand lightly and squeezes it. She stares at their interlocked fingers and wants to pull away but this is the first time anyone has ever held her hand. So she keeps it within his, and doesn't make too much of a big deal out of it.

But inside she's screaming.

He walks her down a few blocks, chats with her about the weather and urges her to watch out for ice. When she manages to slip a bit he is there with sturdy hands to righten her, and she thinks the blush on her cheeks isn't from the biting cold but rather from his gentlemanly nature.

"I assume we aren't going out to dinner." She says with a chuckle as the pass restaurant after restaurant.

"Not tonight." He says, shooting her a sideways smile. "But another night…"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Jones." She sees a flicker of disappointment shoot across his features, and she can't say that she doesn't feel bad for not promising him a second date. But she was infamous for running. And she didn't want to disappoint him.

"Let's see how tonight goes." She quips, as she moves her thumb along his palm. He smiles at the gestures, and she feels him settle for her response.

"Okay." He says, as he pulls her towards the Commons. She furrows her brows as he treks her through the snowy mounds that have accumulated through the park. She pulls at her coat with her free hand, wishing she had worn a scarf as the wind nips at her exposed collarbone. They fall into an easy silence again, and she finds solace in watching their feet carry them through the fresh snow.

He abruptly stops, and her eyes jump up to focus on the location.

She swears her heart leaps from her chest.

She feels her body goes stiff and her hand falls away from his as she stares ahead.

The wind is pushing her hair from her face and she swears this can't be real.

At least a hundred buttercups have been delicately placed in the snow, peaking from the white with stiff stems as their brilliant yellow colors make the whole field before them glow.

Her little pieces of sunshine are all around her.

And she can't fathom the right words to say.

She moves forward without really thinking and drops to her knees as she gently plucks one from the snow. She finally looks up to meet his gaze. He is smiling sheepishly and she feels her knees growing numb from the snow that is beginning to seep through her tights but she couldn't care less.

She rises slowly and grabs his hand and pulls him down with her. She lays there for a moment, carefully watching him stare at her amidst the buttercups.

"You did this for me?" And her body is shaking from the cold.

He plays with a flower lazily as he nods. He places a buttercup in her mane and she _wants to laugh or scream or kiss him..._She sees him shift to a sitting position and she follows. She exhales, and she feels the first of many tears begin to trail down her frozen cheeks.

"No one has-" She begins, but he cuts her off by pulling her close, holding her against his side with a gentle force. She burrows herself into his neck, and she swears she smells cinnamon on his clothes.

"I didn't mean to make you cry, Swan." He murmurs as he rubs her back.

"I'm not crying." She retorts as she moves away from his to wipe the remnants of the tears that have escaped. He laughs, joyously at her feeble attempt to hide her emotions.

_One heartbeat, two, three.  
He is still here.  
With buttercups in his hands and __she knows..._

She swiftly moves towards him and places a chaste kiss to his lips before she can comprehend another word to say. She pulls away lays back down, as she stares at the sky.

_Her lips are tingling. There are flowers in her hair, and like ink on virgin skin she is burning, vibrating, shaking. She feels him shift next to her, and she has enough courage within herself to steal a glance at him. The sky is dark, and starless, but she sees them in his eyes. She sees the stars and the sun and the moon, the universe in them. And and she feels the tape that has bound her heart together sloppily burst and she feels his calloused fingers assorting the pieces back together with such precision._

_Yes, her body is on fire._

_Yes, she can breathe again._

_Yes, she is okay. This is okay._

_Killian Jones...a flower in her untamed garden._

_(She loves him.)_


	7. Blossoming

_A wild epilogue appears. Special thanks to my CSSV for inspiring me to finally finish this. I love you all._

* * *

He has always _loathed_ mornings. And she has consistently reminded him of that fact. But ever since he had met her, he has grown rather fond of them. He rises with her - he welcomes the day with her. Her smiles shines over their shared coffee, and mumbled words of _wishing for more sleep_. She lights up rooms, before the sun even has a chance to. Her golden hair falling in waves down her shoulders as the sun silently creeps up - _yes_, he has always hated mornings. But ever since Emma Swan became him sun - he has savored every sleep that leads him to waking up with her nestled against his chest.

And he thinks - in those early hours - where the sky yearns for the stars to stay a little longer, and the moon is hesitant to depart - and the sun is aching to rise along the coast - that he loves her _most_.

And he hears those words, those sacred three words - from her just before dawn - just before the alarm buzzes and the birds chirp. Just before he can properly breathe or focus. She grumbles the words._ "I love you,"_ against his heart. And he has known, for a long time - that she _did_ love him.

But hearing those words - from her lips - at this ungodly hour … he feels them in their entirety. And at any other time or at any other place - they wouldn't have impacted him in the way they did now.

For he has always _hated_ mornings.

But Emma Swan has made him realize that perhaps he never _did_ hate mornings.

_ (He just hated waking up without her.)_

And he thinks - as those words echo in his mind. That it is impossible for him to say what he loves most about her, about Emma Swan.

But he likes to think that he_ loves_ the small dent in her chin, that his thumb easily gravitates to when they find themselves nose to nose. Or the freckles that are scattered across her nose that have since deepened in color as summer lazily rolled through. A small display of how the sun has kissed her skin as he has. And he takes his time, kissing them all without haste or worry that as they disappear so will she - because she is_ his_ now - no matter the season, or how barren the world will become as fall and winter approach, she is_ his_.

He fell in for her in leather jackets - and heavy sweatshirts. But he has fallen in love with her in sundresses that cling to her figure - the straps _always_ fall dangerously down her bare arms. He too often fights with himself, feeling the need to pull them down a little further "_we are in public, Jones."_ She would hiss as a blush creeps onto her already flushed cheeks. In public they were, but to him - she was all he saw. The rest of the world never mattered when she was with him - she is _his_ world.

Like the spring, their relationship blossomed into something beautiful. A roaring display of forget-me-nots _("they match your eyes")_ and buttercups, and _her_ eyes - a wild, untamed jungle he now inhabits. He's lost in their jade glow, their lively hue with flecks of gold and amber dancing along the edges - damned things, those eyes of hers are - but he'd gladly lose himself within them for all of eternity if he is lucky enough. _(He is sure he is._)

It's an unyielding force that binds him to her.

(She is his _sun_, his _moon_, the constellations that litter a night sky.)

(She is beautiful and broken and a tattered canvas he didn't need to mend.)

(But sometimes - it's more about enjoying the view, there is no need to change something that is perfect the way it is.) (And Emma Swan is perfect - no matter how broken or tattered she claims she is - to him she is a vision, a strong and beautiful masterpiece that he gets to wake up to everyday and admire.)

He knows what he loves most about her, though. He loves that she is undeniably _herself_. And no matter the marks that the people of her past have left upon her skin, and no matter the scars that lay hidden on her heart, and no matter the love she lacked her whole life - he knows that he can brush his fingers along her ribs and find the small arrow he branded her with - and hover his touch above her heart which lays beneath her skin so fragile and very much his now that he can say he_ loves her_ with all that he has. Because she deserves that. (And so does he.)

_"Follow the stars, my love."_

Indeed he has.

* * *

She used to be able to calculate things, events, people. She used to be able to plan, and keep organized, and remain faithful to a routine. But meeting Killian Jones - she has lost all sense of time, and she has lost all sense of who she was. (She has been replaced with someone she hardly recognizes - and she thanks him for that, for her walls are no longer so indestructible, and her heart is no longer a broken, sticky mess.)

There is an easiness to this relationship that she hadn't expected. It's all loose buns and hands on waists with the TV on low. It's glasses sliding down noses and Sunday morning newspaper comics with him as he sips his coffee and she her hot chocolate.

It's buttercups in vases and sketches of her and him and this - whatever it is that they have (it's good, that's all she knows. It's really good, and she's happy that he can draw what she feels blooming in her heart. And she's happy that her apartment has suddenly become congested with all things him - flannel shirts strewn over the couch, his shampoo perfectly in line with hers, his art tacked to her once bare walls, his favorite candy hidden away in the top of a cabinet.)

She thinks it's the way he looks at her - she knows it's the way he looks at her that made her take the final leap. He likes to say that she is his sun

_("Your hair, Swan - is more vibrant than the first morning rays.") (You're positivity glowing, love. If I didn't know any better, I would think you are that star that hangs so lazily above us and shines on us each day." … "You need to lay off the poetry books, Jones.") _

Truth be told - she fails to realize that she nourishes him as the sun would a flower. She warms him, helps him grow and provides him with a certain lightness that his life once lacked. She'd never tell him - but she thinks of him as her moon. Surrounded by constellations - and always managing to light her way home in the darkness. (Home, she realizes now - is with him. His heartbeat in tune with hers, her longing for what she never had has somehow all shown up before her

_(a whirlwind of orchids and daisies - and aftershave that smelled like the sea and - and words that spilled from lips... a mess of a meeting, really - but the stars were aligned and she knows, she knows now that fate has a funny way of working in her favor in the long run_.)

She thinks - for the briefest of moments- of a love she once had. With a boy with dark eyes and bad intentions… and she thinks now of a love with a man whose eyes are vibrant and louder and so much bluer than the ocean with all the right intentions. She thinks of arrows pointing north and straight on till' morning. She thinks of his fingers on her ribs - tracing idle patterns and lazily reaching for that stubborn curl that always falls from behind her ear - she thinks of burning flesh and being scared and him reaching for her when no one else would. She thinks of crowbars and caramel popcorn on Friday nights - and laughing as he dangles a single white rose over her head as she attempts to work -

_("Innocence, right Swan?" He would say with his charming smirk and raised eyebrows. "Yes." An eye roll, gritted teeth, and her pen clutched in her hand as she tried to finish assessing her work load for the week. "Guess it's out of the question that I buy this for you then." She made the mistake of looking up at him - his eyes filled with fire as his tongue slid delicately over his lower lip. He taps her nose mockingly with the white rose - "Because" __**-tap-**__ "You and I" __**-tap- **__"Both know" __**-tap- **__He leans in close - his mouth hovering above her ear and she feels her chest tighten "You are far from innocent." She smirks - slaps his shoulders and silences him with a look that would send a whole army running.) _

And she thinks of Neverland (and how it is different for everyone) (her's just happened to be a tattoo shop in the middle of Boston.)

They walk to work - his hand in hers (a lazy smile playing at his lips.) She tells him to wait for her just a moment - and he eyes her with a those damn eyes of his.

_"Be patient,"_ she urges, as she slips into her shop. She comes out with a single red rose - her cheeks flushed - and a roll of tape. She stands with her back to him as she tapes the flower to his door. She turns to face him - her eyes avoiding his.

He laughs - as he removes the rose.

(He admires the thorns rather than the petals._The idiot that he is_.)

She laughs when he pricks himself.

"It was worth it." He says with a shrug - as she kisses it better.

"I like to think that too." (She leans in _close_ \- his fingers brushing against her bare arms. The _darkness_ of his shop overlaps _with the warmth _of her own _\- and she loves this - _and _him_ and the feel of her heart beating erratically in the confines of her chest. She has told him a few times that she does in fact _love _him - (perhaps it _was_ between _toast_ and _eggs _on a lazy Sunday morning ...or between tequila shots on Friday evenings - and perhaps she has uttered the words between their exchanging of broken down memories that she _loves_ him -she has said it _aloud_ but... maybe one day when she is stone cold sober - and _not _a sobbing mess and _not _half asleep_\- _she'll say it with more conviction.)

(It's all in the _timing_ \- she knows that now.)

_(But in this moment- she decides that she doesn't need to say those words in order to portray how she truly feels.) _

So she kisses him slowly - with the warmth of summertime heating their skin - with the scent of flowers and ink surrounding them…and in that single breath, exchanged with him she realizes all at once - as the world turned slowly around her while she remained still-

and the stars she once avoided gazing at are suddenly lighting up like a thousand little fireworks dancing around her - and she could cut her hair, and hide away the scars, and sit in her beat up car and think of him and only him - and she could change her clothes, and lock her heart away and want to be someone else without ever doing so.

But - it's not about_ hiding_ and_ running_ and_ burying_ things - it's not about the past defining you or remembering his hands bruising her hips or the sound of people yelling that she is_ incompetent_ and_ worthless_. It's about finding buttercups and_ blue eyes_ and stolen kisses. It's about changing yourself without looking in the mirror. It's about_ wanting_ change as much as you_ need_ it.

It's about letting go of who you were to make room for who you are. It's about letting people in, letting people go - letting people see the damage and accepting that that is who she is.

And Killian Jones - with his tousled hair and scars of his own - (faded photographs and bitterness towards skittles and hydrangeas and the way his hand clenches hers whenever they are driving slowly down the freeway) - saw_ her_ \- really looked at her and saw the Emma Swan she wanted to be and the Emma Swan she is - and was.

He didn't try to fix her - he didn't try to masterfully manipulate the tattered pieces of her heart. He accepts it the way it is - and he loves every broken fragment of it.

(And_ maybe_ she did allow him to brighten up her wrist tattoo - that had always felt weighted on her flesh with it's haphazard lines that coincide with the memories of the night she got it. )

But with him marking her skin - with him mending the pieces she allows to be fixed - tangling himself in the memories and making them_ sweet_ \- she can't help but feel like this is how it is always supposed to be.

And somewhere in-between his world and hers she has found exactly what she was looking for -_ a flower in her untamed garden. _


	8. Weathered Hearts

A precious little babe (**whoknowsheregoes**) approached me with this prompt: _Emma gives Killian a tattoo_  
And I could not resist writing a little oneshot based in the _not_ so distant future. Think of these one shots as missing pieces of the story I may have skipped over. Send me prompts! I'd love to continue writing about our lovebirds in this universe.

(He is a Flower in Her Untamed Garden) (She is a Tattered Canvas he Would Love to Mend)  
Chapter 8: _Weathered Hearts_

* * *

There is something amiss with her.

He can tell by the way her shoulders sag and her feet shuffle - he can tell by the dimming of her eyes and the feel of her touch cold, _cold_ against his skin. She's distancing herself from him - and he is _worried_. But -he knows her better than she knows herself - and he knows she is quite in tune with the weather.

And when it rains- so does she.

The summer that they had grown together through is coming to an end. And the slightest chill could be felt as the night falls. He buys her dinner - Chinese food and ice-cream for dessert. Her sweet tooth is relentless - and he loves that about her. How she undeniably loves all things sugar.

It's the first time, in a long time that he has walked home alone.

(She claimed she needed a day off - perks of owning her own business, she claimed.)

And it's the first time, in a long time - he has felt _lonely_.

But he knows the weather has a funny way of making her feel what it does. And so as the rain gently washes over him, as he jogs down the side streets clinging to the heavy, (now soggy) bag of her favorite things- he knows that he will find her somewhere in their home - mourning over the losses in her life.

(She is a creature of habit - his Swan. And he knows better than to try and fix her. Patience- he determines, is what she needs from him. And he can give her that.)

(It was a _feat_ in itself having her agree to move in with him. She spent more time at his place than hers- her shirts slowly invaded his closet. Her shoes began piling in the hallways, her shampoo and her makeup slowly cluttered every surface of his bathroom. She was _very_ much living with him. But she clung onto her apartment with determination - muttering things about it being _too soon_ and_ too fast_.)

It wasn't until she '_lost_' the key to her place one day that she decided '_maybe it's time to lose it for good_.' )

(The key she claimed to have misplaced was nestled safely in her jacket pocket.)

(He smiled regardless of the lie.)

He approaches her with caution - she is a swarming sea of emotions - and he has fared many storms with her - and his is prepared for this. He is prepared with warm hands and calming words that he knows will make her feel less like she is drowning.

She doesn't even hesitate to say that she is thinking of him - of her son - born years ago. On a night like this - with rain and thunder rumbling the building and shaking her soul - she wonders what he looks like. Where he is, if is happy and if she did the right thing.

And the lightning outside strikes - and illuminates her face- caressing the darkness away from her features - he reaches for her hand and anchors her - she breathes a long breath and clings tightly to him - binding herself to him.

He talks her down - he whispers that she did do the right thing - she did make the right choice. And her little boy - he assures her - is somewhere in the world celebrating his birthday. She need not worry about him - and she smiles - a sad sort of melancholic thing - and he knows that maybe this may not be the last storm they encounter.

(But they are getting easier to get through. She trusts him to bring her back to land.)

"Please come eat, love." He urges, as he lightly squeezes her arm. She shakes her head solemnly, her eyes remain focused on the window.

She _refuses_ to get out of bed. Even though she knows and smells what is down in the living room waiting for her.

(She's terribly stubborn, but he loves that about her.) (Even though it's terribly frustrating to him to see her _wallow_ \- when all he _wants_ is for her to feel better.)

He resorts to carrying her to the couch -she kicks and mumbles a slew of curses- insistent on remaining in bed. She groans miserably at his attempt to lift her spirits, but once he has successfully plopped her onto the couch and she is comfortably nestled under a pile of blankets- she _finally_ manages to adjust herself and accept certain defeat - grumbling something about "_well I guess now that I'm down here…_"

He puts on her favorite film- (_The Princess Bride, of course_). She all but fails to stop the smile from turning her lips upwards even though she keeps her arms crossed over her chest and the tears are still present on her flushed cheeks.

They remain apart - he lets her decide if she needs his arms around her.

He is relieved once she grabs at the food as Westley utters _'As You Wish_' - and the smile on her face is no longer hidden, it is bright and beaming and her laugh echoes through the halls.

(The rain has ceased.)

(And he watches as the last tendrils of sadness leave her, and her hand slides into his easily as the movie plays on.)

She asks if she can watch it _one_ more time - and he, of course, answers with _"as you wish"_ \- which promptly leads her to punching him in the arm.

"Don't be an ass." She says with a laugh.

"As you wish." He answers again, with a small smirk.

(Another punch.)

(He pretends to be really hurt -well, _half_ pretends.)

(Emma Swan is a woman with an insurmountable amount of strength.)

(She kisses him to right her wrong.)

(He pulls her close - and kisses her again. And again. And again.)

(The type of love they have - it's _pushing_, and _pulling_, and _punching_ \- and "_leave me alone_" but all he really hears is "_please don't_" ) (It's about _balancing_ \- and _falling_ all at once.)

(It's about being there for her - and letting the rain fall - knowing that the sun will rise again.)

(It's about _wanting_ and _needing_ \- and _having_.)

(He never thought he would be capable of loving someone again.)

"Let's go to bed." She mumbles - thirty minutes into the second viewing.

"As you wish."

(She sighs.)

"Pirate." She murmurs as he gently gathers her into his arms and carries her back to bed.

He falls asleep easy that night - his stomach _filled_, his heart _filled_, his bed _filled_.

(He has never felt so full in his life.)

He wakes to an empty bed - and his brows furrow.

He sees the note once his eyes have adjusted to the blaring sun - growling slightly at himself for forgetting to close the curtain the night before.

(It is something he is _quite_ sure he did do - but, he ignores it. And returns his focus to the note.)

"_Hey, don't be mad. I opened the curtains. You always say you love waking up next to me. Because - well I can't remember the exact reason - but it was something about me being 'your sun' so - I figured the real sun would have to do in my absence."_

He smiles - running a hand through his hair as he adjusts himself into a seating position. (Even though it was one of the first mornings in almost a year that he had woken up alone - he doesn't feel like he is alone.) (She always manages to surprise him - with tiny things like this that make him realize how lucky he is.)

_"So anyway. I had to go to work early. Since I missed yesterday. Sorry about last night - well, no. Thank you for last night. Is this getting cheesy or it just me. Um, so. I'm not really good at words. Or feelings. You know that, obviously - So. I just wanted to say that … well I'll start off with this._

_My life has been about - giving in but never surrendering. And I've spent most of my life - fighting with the inevitable because - it's not easy for me to give in, or give up. It's not easy for me to accept defeat. It's not easy for me to let go, move on, or move forward._

_But with you - I feel like I've finally surrendered. And it's not something that people often think of as a good thing - surrendering I mean._

_Because surrendering means you're too weak to continue fighting but -_

_I guess - with you. It's more about me surrendering to what I have been defending myself against - invisible demons, ghosts, my past, my broken heart._

_And I'm done battling a war with myself - I am my own worst enemy. And I've spent so long, thinking it was people and things and bad experiences that made me feel the way I do._

_But I've learned, because of you, that it's more about - not letting that stuff define me. Which I have, I have let those things define me._

_So I'm surrendering._

_I'm not surrendering to them - those terrible things._

_I'm surrendering to myself._

_I'm surrendering my heart to you._

_I've spent my whole life - thinking that I just wanted to get through it. Just make it pass the next obstacle, and avoid love at all costs. And because of that. I never stopped to - smell the roses. And that's terribly cliche of me to say - especially considering my chosen profession._

_But - I think it's time for me to surrender to that too._

_I want to live, Killian. And living is about - realizing that happiness is infinite if you surrender to what makes you not happy._

_And I'm letting go of all those things, because - well I guess what I'm trying to say is that._

_Because of all those things - it led me to you. And I'm not going to let what has happened to me - I'm not going to let those things scare me, or make me think I don't deserve to have what I do with you._

_I'm not going to let those things defeat me._

_With you - it feels like infinity is finally an option._

_So. I'm surrendering to infinity._

_And I guess I love you._

_See you at lunch?_

_-Your sun, or whatever. (AKA-Emma, if you didn't already know that.)_

His heart stops. He _swears_ he is dreaming.

(She told him to lay off the poetry books.) (But _bloody hell_ \- so does she.)

He reads over the words _I love you_ over and over again - (of course she would say _I guess_ before them after her eloquently worded proposal of surrendering to her heart to him.)

He _knows_ what he is going to do.

And he _knows_ that she is going to kill him.

But he loves her.

And she loves him.

(He's surrendering to infinity.)

* * *

She doesn't _exactly_ regret leaving the note.

She more so regrets that she is incapable of saying the words to him.

But she _knows_ that he _knows_ that she is trying - and she _knows_ that he _knows_ that she loves him.

But she feels like she should be able to say those words to him by now.

(She promises herself that she will - she _will_ say them to him.)

(Eventually.)

He doesn't come to see her for lunch - which worries her slightly. But she assumes he has a lot of clients - and she brushes it off.

He texts her around closing saying that he won't be able to walk with her -_ busy day today, love. I have a few more clients in need of my skilled hands._

She sighs in relief - but _still cant help the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach -_

**_E - I need those skilled hands to give me a back massage._**

_K- You're going to have to learn to share, love._

**_E- __** I** don't like sharing._**

_K- I know you don't_. _But - I love you. My skilled hands and I will be home soon._

**E-** ** (:**

(She is pathetic.)

She falls asleep before he arrives home - (waking up as early as she did today - she felt exhausted.)

He climbs into bed - waking her in the process.

"Sorry, love." He murmurs, as he wraps his hands around her and buries his head in the crook of her neck.

"Time is it?" She whispers - voice hoarse and eyes heavy with sleep.

"It's 'round 11, I think." He says with a sigh, his breath fanning over her neck as she squeezes her eyes shut again. She contemplates for a moment his words before registering the late hour.

"Why are you home so late." She asks, turning to face him. She runs her hand along his bare arm - traveling down to his stomach - she plays with the hem of his shirt as he smiles at her.

"No reason." There is a glint in his eye, and the smile on his lip _screams_ trouble. She _knows_ he is up to something.

She sneaks her hand up his shirt, moving her fingers along his stomach and up to his chest. He grabs her arm abruptly, ceasing her movements.

"What's up with you?" She is _determined_ to get him to talk. And a small part of her _fears_ that perhaps her note was a little _too_ forward.

"Nothing." He is laughing at her - but she is genuinely concerned that something is amiss with him.

"Listen , if my note-"

He presses his lips to hers, effectively silencing her.

"Your note" he whispers against her lips. "Was perfect."

Her heart and stomach _finally_ settle - and a wave of _want_ rushes over her as his tongue glides along his inner lower lip.

"Clothes. Off. Now." She urges, as she moves to straddle him - she pins him to the bed, diving her head back down to capture his lips. He dodges her - instead choosing to say _"Easy, love."_

She pulls away, peering down at him _\- __really_ confused about him not _wanting_ her - or _this-_

He bites his lip, as he nervously plays with the ends of her hair. She remains seated on his lap, waiting for _some_ sort of explanation.

He - after a few moments of silence- lifts off his shirt. Her eyes immediately drift to his left side - specifically his ribs.

And she sees it.

**_ Surrender to infinity._**

In her atrocious handwriting.

She doesn't _gasp_ or _shout_ or _hit_ him (though the latter seems like the most plausible option.)

Her mind doesn't scream _run_ and she - for the first time, feels the need to _stay_.

"You didn't." Is the first thing she can think of to say - which in _hindsight_ might have been stupid - but he laughs regardless, and she feels her heart jump and her stomach flutter and she laughs too - more so out of _disbelief_.

"I did." He returns his fingers to her hair, watching her with careful eyes - measuring the panic in her own.

"I - it's nice." She says lamely, continuing to stare at it.

"Swan-" He begins -

"I love you." She says quickly, cutting him off. She leans down to kiss him.

He smirks up at her - mouth opening to say something (she is _sure_ he has a line of innuendos ready to be spoken at a moments notice)- but right now - she doesn't _need_ him to say anything.

"Just shut up and kiss me, okay?" She says, as her cheeks burn.

(God she is an idiot.)

"As you wish." He retorts - cocking an eyebrow, as he squeezes her sides.

(She punches him.)

"You are such an ass."

(She gladly surrenders to him once he has her on her back.)

(And she thinks - as her hands work their way through his hair and his hands move _right ther_e - that even if _this_ \- _them_, _this relationship_ doesn't last - the love she has with him will be _infinite_.)

(And she is no longer afraid of falling in love. Because _this_, with _him_ \- is infinitely better than fighting a losing war. )

(The note remains (_embarrassingly enough_) framed on their dresser.)

(He is _terribly_ sentimental.)

(They get married next spring.)

(They are very much going to last.)

(But she is stubborn.)

(And still scared - for she has always feared beginnings more than endings.)

(But Killian Jones is an ending and a beginning.)

_ ("Surrender to infinity with me?" He asks - buttercups in his left hand, the red velvet box in the other. He is on one knee - the idiot that he is, in the middle of her shop. Customers are staring and cooing and it's ridiculously cliche._

_She rolls her eyes, and of course agrees._

_She accepts the beautiful, emerald diamond and takes the buttercups from him, before kissing him slowly._

_"I have to get back to work now, Romeo." She mutters against his lips. _

_"As you wish." )_

_ (She punches him.) _


End file.
