When he was a boy, he craved physical contact – always climbing into bed with Liam in the early hours of the morning, tucking his small body under Liam's outstretched arm until he could bury his nose in the soft material of his t-shirt . Liam had always smelled of the sea - salt and brine and fresh air - no matter how early or late he returned from work.

When he found Milah, they were joined at the hip – fingers tangled together as they walked, his hand threading through her dark curls when they kissed, his arm slung over her shoulder, folding her body neatly into his as they wandered down their narrow street to the baseball green just around the corner. The press of her skin against his calmed the buzzing in his head and made him feel wanted – alive and needed and connected to another human being. Liam and Milah were always good about it - a pat on the shoulder as Liam passed him in the kitchen, a brush of Milah's nose against his cheek when they crowded together in the backseat of Liam's beat up wrangler. It was a - it was a need for him, to have that.

And then it was just - it was gone. Frantic yelling, grappling hands trying to get control of the car, the terrible sound of metal screeching against metal and then - god - blood. So much blood.

A clap of thunder yanks him from the reaches of sleep and he startles awake, fingers clamping down on warm skin in reflex. It takes him a moment to realize there's a body pressed up against him, another to realize it's Emma. Emma and her tangled blonde hair in his face, her skin smelling like honey and her - bloody hell - her hips shifting and tucking back neatly into his. He swallows hard when she whines low in her throat, settling back down into her pillow with a heavy sigh.

His fingers brush over the bare skin of her hip where her shirt has ridden up absentmindedly, eyes blinking rapidly in the soft light of the television as he tries to get his bearings. He can't remember the last time he's fallen asleep with someone sober and fully clothed. It's - it's nice. Lovely in the way their legs are tangled together beneath the blankets, her breathing soft and even in the stillness of the hotel room.

But she is not his, and he is not the kind of man she deserves. He has a tendency to destroy the things he cares about, and he's quite terrified by the notion he's starting to care about Emma Swan. It had been one thing to enjoy tracing the gentle curve of her hips beneath those delightful dresses she wears. Quite another matter entirely to find his throat growing thick at the idea of a young Emma shifted from foster home to foster home, never quite finding her place.

It's always easiest to recognize a pain in others, when you've experienced that same pain yourself.

He pulls back gently and she rolls over into the warmth he just vacated, crease folding between her brows. His fingers itch with the need to smooth it, and he knows without a doubt now is the time for him to go. He has no business staying here in this bed, wondering what she might be dreaming of as her eyes flicker behind closed lids. He shifts as carefully out of the bed as possible, dragging the blankets up over her shoulders as she settles. She mutters something under her breath and he smiles, giving in and letting his fingertips brush against her cheek. Her skin is impossible soft, and he is impossibly stupid for thinking that coming here last night was a good idea.

He flicks off the television and slides the window shut, muting the sounds of the storm that still rage outside. He doesn't let himself glance back at the bed as he shuffles out of the room, the glaring brightness of the hallway making him wince. Housekeeping has not yet begun their rounds and he finds himself grateful as he wanders his way back to his room. He had not intended to stay the night, and the very last thing he wants is any whispers starting about Emma.

When he finally falls into his own bed, he find himself quite unable to sleep. It's been quite some time since he's craved the easy affection of another. He stares at the ceiling and traces the muted light patterns with a disinterested gaze, scratching his fingers through his hair. He smells a bit of honey, and it's not nearly as unappealing as it should be.

"Oh, bloody hell."

-/-

He sees her in the morning as the team gathers for breakfast, her hair spilling over her shoulder and brushing at the curve of her waist, a yawn tucked in to the crease of her elbow. He finds himself wondering if she woke up when he left, or not until later. If perhaps she even realizes how they fell asleep together, tangled beneath the sheets.

(His fingers brushing the soft skin of her waist, her soft hum under her breath when he pulled her closer. Her socked toes nudging his, her hair haphazardly strewn across his chest.)

" - pitch before the game. Killian, you alright?"

He startles as Robin suddenly appears at his shoulder, dropping his coffee and cursing under his breath when it splatters across his shoes. He mutters some excuse, agreeing to something that will no doubt come to haunt him later. When he looks up, Robin's gaze is faintly accusing, and not a little bit suspicious.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Aye, fit as a fiddle."

If possible, Robin looks more concerned.

"I've not heard you use that phrase in the entire duration of our relationship."

He sighs and pours himself another coffee, ignoring his wet shoes and the anxiety clawing at his throat.

-/-

His mood sours throughout the entire pregame process.

He somehow manages to put his cleats on the opposite feet and walk around for an entire half hour without noticing. Will mocks him endlessly, and Whale pulls him aside to ask if he's been drinking again.

No, he thinks, not without a bit of hysteria. I just find myself thinking on sleep warm skin and the bloody furrow between her brows.

It's not until he's sitting on the thin bench in the locker room, glaring at his glove, that Robin decides an intervention is necessary.

"What's the glove done now?"

He directs his glare to the catcher, watching as he adjusts the straps to his gear and rolls his shoulders. He doesn't dignify the question with a response, and Robin snorts out a laugh, holding his palms up in supplication.

"Alright, alright. Anyone ever tell you that you're a moody ponce?"

His teacher for third year when he refused to do his maths exam due to an unsuitable pencil. His brother, when he refused to eat kale. And David - at least six times a sodding day. He smirks and shoots his favorite rude gesture towards his teammate, chuckling lightly when Robin's hearty laughter fills the space between them. Robin shifts seats and slides into the space next to him, bumping him with his shoulder.

"You alright?"

He scratches at his neck. He isn't sure what he is. Falling asleep with Swan had been a mistake, that much he knows, but he still feels bothered by it. She's getting under his skin in the worst of ways and while he had been intrigued by it at first (her fire, her drive – the way her eyes flash bright and powerful when he says something inappropriate), now he just wants it to go away.

"You like her, don't you?" Robin asks quietly. When he merely gives him a blank look in response, Robin rolls his eyes. "Emma."

He tries to keep his face neutral. "This isn't grade school, mate. I'm not a child with a crush. Next you'll be asking me if I'd like to ask her to the dance and if I'm buying her a corsage."

"You like someone?" David chooses that moment to swing into their section of the locker room and the way Robin's face twists up would be comical if his were not doing the exact same thing. The very last thing he needs is for David to break his body in half because he thinks he has a wish to bed his pseudo-sister.

Which he definitely doesn't.

Not at all.

Nope.

Robin hums lowly and shoots Killian a sly look. "He does indeed."

"Well that's new." David gives him an appraising look as he leans against the lockers in front of him.

It's not exactly a secret that relationships are not something he dabbles in. Nor, frankly, is it common practice to involve feelings of any sort with his dalliances. When they had first met, David and Mary Margaret made it their mission to find him a partner. Three disastrous dates later, and his very first drunken appearance on TMZ with a leggy redhead hanging off his arm, and they had stopped trying.

"I don't like anyone." He grumbles and he feels a bit like a petulant teenager, being interviewed by his parents about his first crush. His only wish is for this conversation to be over - and to perhaps be first at bat so he can take out some aggression on the mound.

"It's alright to have feelings for someone," David states, quiet and honest and it - it's just - his heart jumps a bit in his chest because it reminds him of Liam. Of summer evenings spent on the little dinghy out by the water, warm beer and quiet conversation. He frowns and looks down at his cleats. He's been thinking of Liam far too much as of late. He swore he'd never forget, but he also -

It's too much, sometimes. To remember all the good things he's had taken from him. All the things he's ruined.

David claps him on the shoulder. "You deserve to be happy, Killian."

He squeezes his hand into a fist and lets his eyes linger on the faint scars the curl around his wrist.

He doesn't deserve a bloody thing.

-/-

He avoids her for the rest of the trip, sticking to the back of the plane when they board for their return trip home. He sinks down low in his seat and when his eyes catch a flash of blonde, he turns fully to watch her converse with her assistant, head thrown back in laughter, pink lips spread wide in a rare but genuine grin.

Shit.

He definitely likes her.

-/-

He sends her a dehumidifier because he is a moron and apparently left his common sense in the hotel room in St. Louis.

He sends her a dehumidifier because he's been avoiding her for a week, and it's late, and he's lonely and tired and three glasses of rum in. He's spent too much time wondering if her skin is always that warm, or if it's just when she's asleep. It's been a long time since he - since he's liked anyone - and -

He sends her a dehumidifier.

Like a moron.

-/-

The annual family picnic put on by the organization is something he typically tries to demur from, but Mary Margaret had left him no less than seven stern voicemails on his phone about attending this year's festivities and he has no desire to anger a heavily pregnant woman. He pushes the dehumidifier incident to the very back of his mind as he slips into a flannel, and promises himself to not bring it up should he run into Emma. She's not mentioned it during any of their interactions, stilted as they were, and he's determined to follow her lead in an attempt to maintain normalcy.

(Never mind the way she blushes every time he catches her eye, or the way he can't quite keep his gaze from lingering on the tilt of her bottom lip.)

Little Roland accosts him as soon as he sets foot on the field, a little blur of black and yellow in a tiny Hood jersey.

"Uncle Killy," Breathless, Roland pulls on his hand as he leads him towards a towering fortress of air and plastic, screaming children throwing their little bodies around inside. It's an unusual sight to behold in the outfield of the stadium, but it's nice to see the place decked out for the get-together. "Can we bounce?"

"No, Roland! No bouncing after ice cream!" Robin's voice bellows across the field and Roland turns sly eyes up to Killian, jutting out his bottom lip as he tilts his little head to the side. Smart little lad . Killian grins and picks him up under his arms, throwing him high in the air before deftly catching him, striding over to the entrance of the bounce castle.

"Let us bounce, shall we?"

He can practically hear Robin's sigh of disapproval but it's quickly drowned out by the happy squeals of Roland as they bounce together in the miniature house. He is careful not to stomp on any toes and be wary of the other children yet he somehow manages to get tackled in a flurry of little hands and feet – the tiny monsters rising up against him in a mutiny.

He rolls out of the inflatable house with an exaggerated stagger, clutching his chest as the children shout out to him from behind the gated strings of the entrance. Roland comes tumbling out after, hair askew and breathless with laughter as Killian swings him up over his shoulder.

"Back to your father, you rotten scoundrel."

He spies Emma on his way to drop Roland off, tucked away off to the side near the impromptu batting cages Regina rented for the occasion. It's more of a pitching machine squared off with emergency tape, really, but it hasn't stopped Emma from standing at the ready, twirling a bat between her hands. He makes sure Roland is safe and sound with Robin before heading in her direction, laughing under his breath as she falls into an absolutely ridiculous hitting stance, her swing missing by a good foot, the thud of the ball hitting the mat as he leans up against the post.

"Bloody hell, Swan. You're trying to hit the ball not chop down a tree." He grins when she turns and bestows him with an eye roll before turning and focusing on the machine once more.

"Did the dehumidifier alter your center of balance?"

So much for not bringing it up.

"Go away."

She swings again and huffs, straightening her back and firming her shoulders as the ball sadly rolls around by her feet. He rolls his eyes and pushes off his post, meeting her at the plate.

"You're doing it wrong," he mutters, reaching for her elbow. "Lift this up."

He presses himself against her back without thinking and the both of them inhale sharply, his nose grazing the tip of her ear. She smells of sunscreen and barbecue smoke, that same honey smell in her hair. It would be so easy for him to press further into her. Drop his chin to her shoulder and shift his hand up until he could cup her chin with his fingers. Tilt her face back and press his lips to hers.

He breathes out slowly.

"What else?" She asks, hands tightening on the bat.

He swallows hard and lets his fingers drift over the exposed skin of her arm, pushing her hand up slightly. After a week of not seeing her - avoiding her and telling himself he doesn't feel at a loss when she smiles. Being this close, it's - it's intoxicating.

"You've got to grip it tighter, darling." He leans forward so that he's completely wrapped around her from behind, adjusting her grip.

She snickers under her breath and he grins. "Naturally."

"Use your hips," he touches her lightly above her waist and angles her body slightly. "To power your movements."

His hand drifts down further and he pats the bare skin of her thigh exposed by her shorts. "Spread your legs a bit, love." He swallows hard when she listens to his quiet request, and he bites the inside of his cheek hard against the heat the blossoms low in his belly. "It'll help you maintain balance," he adds rather uselessly, reaching for something to say. His fingertips graze her skin again and he breathes out slowly through his nose, lingering in her space for another moment before stepping back.

There's a dull thunk as he loads the ball back into the machine, and he tries not to stare at the way she sways her hips from side to side. The pitch is launched, and she -

She misses. Terribly.

She throws the bat to the ground as he snickers. "You're an awful teacher."

"You better hope I'm on your team, Swan. Perhaps I can help you score."

She rolls her eyes as he wiggles his eyebrows and slides his tongue along his lip, reaching out and punching his shoulder. It's a delightful return to normalcy between them, and he finds the anxiety that had been settling between his shoulders slipping away. It doesn't have to be different. He doesn't have to - feel anything for her besides a healthy appreciation for the way she looks in denim cut off shorts.

Regina chooses that moment to start the annual match, dividing the players and front office evenly between teams. Regina is very vocal about players not being allowed to play their professional positions, and Coach makes sure they all know not to get too competitive and end up pulling a ligament. Whale looks appropriately concerned in the dugout, idly looking as if he's considering having an ambulance on standby. Killian ends up catcher, squatting in the dust behind the frisbee that signifies home plate.

Two innings in, and he has no idea how Robin does this for a full game. His knees are aching, he's dreadfully bored, and the face mask smells as if it's been buried at the bottom of a foot locker for most of its life. His tune abruptly changes, however, when Swan comes up to bat. Down low like this, he has the perfect view to -

"Stop staring at my ass," she mutters with her back to him, tapping the bat on the edge of the frisbee. She glances over her shoulder at him with a knowing look and he just shrugs his shoulders, adjusting his backwards cap and rocking back on his heels - crouched down as he is.

"Just appreciating the view, love."

She rolls her eyes and shifts her attention to Robin on the pitcher's mound, falling effortlessly into a graceful and flawless hitters stance. He blinks at her once - twice - because that stance is far too natural to be a farce, and he knows very well he's not that good of a teacher. She most certainly did not need his assistance earlier. The realization curls up until he's grinning like a mad man behind the catcher's mask, a disbelieving chuckle slipping through his lips when Robin launches the pitch and Emma hits it head on - the ball shooting high over left field with a resounding crack. He slips off the mask as he watches her round the bases, ponytail swinging as she heads for home.

She hops on to it with a satisfied grin, both feet landing at the same time. There's a light sheen of sweat on her neck, and he finds himself wondering if that tastes like honey, too.

"Looks like I can score just fine by myself."

She swipes her tongue along her bottom lip and his brain immediately conjures an image of Emma Swan gloriously spread out on her back - bare to his hungry eyes, chest thrust up as her hand disappears between her thighs.

His breath hitches and his fingers clench at his sides. Her smirk grows into something smug and knowing as she watches his face change and when David swoops behind her, whooping in victory and launching her over his shoulder, he breathes out slowly through his nose.

Bloody hell .

-/-

He finds himself lingering on the field long after the vendors and families and temporary batting cages are gone. It's pleasantly quiet, out here like this, the high walls of the stadium blocking out the outside world, just the quiet hum of traffic and bustling city muted in the background. He closes his eyes and stretches out his arms as he lays in left outfield, letting the sinking summer sun warm his skin.

He's always been able to find peace in the baseball green.

"Are you alive?"

He blinks open his eyes to see Emma hovering above him, confused and radiant in the melting summer day - red and oranges and yellows dancing along her skin.

"Aye," he says with a grin. "Just enjoying the magic."

She shifts back and forth above him, seemingly weighing a decision. She chooses to sit, after a moment, and when she lays back in the grass next to him, her hair brushes the bare skin of his forearm.

"Magic?"

He hums his agreement, gesturing lightly to the empty stadium around them. "There's something magical about being in a place like this by yourself. When it's quiet and empty and you can hear the sound of your breathing. You can feel the history - all the people who have come before and the people that will come after. Magic."

He smiles, digging his fingers into the grass. "This is the part where Liam would say, if you build it, they will come ."

She laughs next to him. "David loves that movie."

He remembers late night movie marathons, where David would insist upon watching the bloody thing three times in a row - how he always got teary eyed during the part where father and son play catch. "Aye, that he does."

They lapse into silence and he considers bringing up the dehumidifier, apologizing for being an idiot. But this is a nice moment - a perfect one, if he is being honest - and he's had so very few of those. Right now it's just him, her, and the lightning bugs beginning to dance in the sky above them. There's no anxiety of what they could be, how he feels, how she feels. Just - just the setting sun and the tattered banners whipping in the breeze. Fresh mowed grass and her knee half an inch from his.

Magic, just as he said.

"Who is Liam?"

He breathes in deep through his nose. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it used to. A bit like pressing on a faded bruise - an ache instead of a sharp pain. "He was my brother," he says quietly.

Fingers caress the tattoo on his arm and when he looks over at her, she's leaning up on an elbow, frowning with something that looks like understanding. Her face pinches, and she meets his gaze, green eyes soft. He usually hates the way people look at him after he says it. But with Emma, it's -

It's nice to have her here. Next to him.

"The accident?"

He nods and pulls his arm back. It's a bit too much, having her fingertips tracing the lines of ink on his arm in memory of his brother as he says his name. She lays back down beside him, tilting her heads towards the sky.

"I was married," she offers, and he turns his head abruptly to watch the frown tilt her lips down. "In Kansas City, I was fired and then a week later my husband left me."

She shrugs, and turns to him with a brittle smile, a painful shadow of the real thing. "You showed me yours," she whispers. "I show you mine."

The same little crease appears between her eyebrows and this time he doesn't resist the urge, reaching out and gently smoothing it with his thumb.

"Well the man sounds like a right wanker."

She scoffs, the puff of air hot against his wrist. Touching her is like that first sip of rum - smooth and completely intoxicating. He is helpless to stop as he lets his fingers trace the curve of her cheek, down below her ear, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she watches him. She has a gentle divot in the jut of her chin that he wants to press his thumb to. Guide her mouth open beneath his.

"You don't even know him," she replies, the barest hint of a waver audible in her quiet whisper.

"I know what he gave up," he replies. "That's enough."

How could anyone let her go? How could anyone have her and see the way she smiles - see the way she looks when she tilts her head back and laughs - and then let her go? It's inconceivable to him. He was right. The man is a wanker - a bloody fool in the worst of ways.

To willingly give up a woman as captivating as Emma Swan.

"Killian," she breathes out his name and curls her fingers around his wrist, green eyes impossibly wide, blonde hair splayed across the grass of the outfield. It's a different sort of magic, this moment, but magic all the same. His eyes dart to her mouth, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip. She's so close he can see the freckles on her nose - feel her exhale when she shifts on her side.

"Emma," he replies and he nudges his nose against hers, watching as her eyes flutter shut, free hand creeping forward to press lightly against his chest. His heart thumps out a heavy staccato against his ribcage and he's never felt a pull this strong - the need to kiss her so consuming it's making him dizzy.

She tilts her face up towards his and he lets his fingers slide to the back of her head, carding through her hair and anchoring there.

He can't remember the last time he's wanted to kiss someone so badly.

"Hey!" She pulls back from him with a gasp, twisting over onto her back and wrenching herself from his grasp. He turns to find Leroy, one of the stadium's maintenance men, hovering at the edge of the field. "You aren't supposed to be here!"

Without waiting for an answer, Leroy turns and pushes against the large power switch, plunging the stadium into cooling darkness. The bright bulbs around the stadium dim with a heaving sigh, the glowing embers fading slowly. He disappears as quickly as he arrived, and Killian glances quickly over at Emma, fearing the worst.

"I should go." She pushes herself up from the grass and he sits up with a frown, watching as she forces a shaking hand through her hair. The dimming lights of the stadium cast shadows over her porcelain skin.

"Emma, wait -"

"No, I'm sorry. I'm just-" Her eyes meet his for the briefest of seconds and he can see the moment she turns away from him, her gaze hardening into something resolute and unflinching. She rocks up on her feet and tugs her shorts into place, gesturing to the dugout with an aborted nod of her head. "I'm just - I'm going to go."

She strides away from him before he has a chance to say another word and he watches her go, shoulders tight and chin tucked to her chest. He sighs and falls back into the grass, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes until he sees spots. All he sees is her damned eyelashes against the swell of her cheeks - her lips pink and inviting. She had wanted to kiss him, he knows it. And he had wanted to kiss her, too.

He drops his hands to his sides and stares up at the dark sky, the voice in his head reminding him he doesn't get to have the things he wants. It's for the best, it would seem, that they were interrupted.

He repeats it to himself in hopes of believing it.

-/-

He tries to lose himself in the game to get his mind off of it. Baseball has always been an escape for him, but today it's - it's difficult and he knows it's because she refused to look at him during pregame, sending Ruby to ask for interview assignments and gather quotes. It's infuriating and frustrating and he finds himself thoroughly unable to concentrate as the game drifts into the sixth.

David knocks their heads together as they head out to the field, gripping his shoulder tight. It's usually something that settles him, but tonight it only fuels his frustration. He is not a child that needs to be coddled.

"You alright?"

He shoves him away, wishing desperately for a bottle of something alcoholic. He's never been unable to clear his mind like this before, and it's sending him into a tailspin.

"Why does everyone keep asking that?"

It doesn't help that they're playing the Dodgers and his long standing feud with Walsh has been dominating the media. He swears to all the gods above and below if he's asked one more time about the bloody altercation in Los Angeles six seasons ago, he'll start swinging at the reporters instead.

Emma is sure to love that.

The chanting crowd grows louder in his ears and he can't seem to block it out, the sweat beading on his neck and sliding down, his skin itchy and hot underneath the sun. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet and stretches down, willing his back to stop with it's angry protests because he needs to focus , just needs to block everything out.

Sad eyes and pretty pink lips drift unbidden through his mind and his irritation only grows because he can't have and he doesn't deserve and he wants.

Walsh approaches the plate and he slams his fist into his glove. He's sure the cameras are focused on him and he channels all of his energy into remaining still. Like the arrogant son of a bitch he is, Walsh tips his head in his direction with a little smirk as he brings his bat up and it's enough for the anger to prick at the corners of his eyes. He growls under his breath, not missing the look David shoots him from a couple feet away.

Walsh never did know when to leave well enough alone.

He braces down low as David winds back, eyes darting to Robin as he makes the call. Walsh's eyes narrow in concentration and bloody hell, how he wants to just smack the smug look right off -

There's the crack of the bat, a bitten off curse, the rush of the crowd, and then there's nothing at all.