A million and one thanks go out to my awesome beta reader, Raams, who not only helped polish up this chapter, but who also gave me the encouragement and confidence I needed to work on this fic again!

Emma waited anxiously in a cold, hard chair the color of vomit, her emotions ranging between anger and fright. Harsh fluorescent lights cast a sickly yellow haze onto the half a dozen other people that sat in the waiting room with her. No one said anything, no one made eye contact, but Emma had been here enough times already to recognize a few of them. She knew nothing about them or who they were here to see, but she felt a kinship with them nonetheless. They shared an experience, waiting to see loved ones that had been locked away.

There was one woman in particular, with elegantly coiffed blonde hair and an apparent penchant for the color red, that Emma felt like she understood. She, too, seemed to preside in limbo each visit, never leaving her chair, rejected each time by the one she was there to visit. But whereas Emma became frustrated each time Killian rejected her attempts to see and speak with him, this other woman simply wore a perpetual look of sad resignation, as if such rejections had become routine.

The notion that her own rejections from Killian might become routine unnerved Emma, and she considered moving over to speak with the other woman; it was only that there are certain kinds of misery that really don't want company which stopped her. None of it was her affair, and yet she couldn't help but wonder about the woman's story.

The other visitors gradually filtered out as staff came in to either escort them to a private room to see their inmate, or direct them to one of the booths in a row lining a wall of glass. Soon, only she and the other blonde woman remained. Emma sighed and gazed up at the clock on the wall to her left. Time seemed to both crawl and speed by when she was here—she couldn't explain it.

Being on the other side of things confused Emma; she'd been in jail once, herself, and there had been no one to visit. No one had cared, and Emma remembered with painful clarity just how that felt. She couldn't do the same to Killian, no matter how embarrassed Belle said Killian was to have Emma see him this way. She wouldn't give up on him; it just wasn't in her. He needed to know that someone still cared about him, that not everyone had turned against him in the noxious court of public opinion.

"Miss Tremaine?" Emma heard someone say, "He'll see you today."

"I…beg your pardon?" Emma looked up to see the blonde woman gaping at one of the staff members. "I didn't quite hear you right, darling."

"You heard perfectly fine. Mr. Scarlet will see you today."

Watching the blonde woman take her place at one of the booths on the far left end and pick up the phone to speak with the brunette man on the other side of the glass, Emma couldn't help feeling a little envious. She leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes with a sigh. She should be happy for her, she knew. It should give her hope. But instead it just made Emma feel all the sadder that she alone would not be seeing her loved one today.

"Miss Swan?"Opening her eyes, Emma saw a male member of the staff peering down at her. "Mr. Jones is waiting for you." He gestured in the direction of the booths. "You have ten minutes."

Emma's eyes traced a path to Killian, even as she made her way across the room. He was pale, with stains of lavender-grey beneath his eyes, indicating a lack of sleep. Hunching in the chair provided for him, his frame was noticeably thinner. His short, neatly trimmed hair and facial stubble had become longer and peppered with grey. Yet for all of these physical changes, he was undeniably her Killian.

She picked up the phone extension and settled herself into the chair facing him. "Hi," she said, after he picked up his own extension.

"Hello."

There was a beat of awkward silence, while Emma searched for something to say. It seemed kind of stupid to ask how he was, considering the situation, and it was more than clear from the physical changes that had taken place that life on the inside was not treating him well at all.

Finally, Emma ventured, "I didn't think you'd see me today."

"I almost didn't," he admitted, shamefaced and unable to quite meet her gaze.

"What changed your mind? Belle?"

"Partly." His eyes travelled down the row of booths to his right, but he offered no further information, and Emma wasn't about to press him. He looked at her directly, then, his blue eyes radiating a mixture of regret, guilt, and confusion. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to involve you in any of this. I didn't want you to remember me this way-"

"Killian," Emma broke in, feeling worried, "stop talking like that. We're going to get you out of here, and we are going to fight this."

"What's the point?" he said with quiet despair. "They've already taken my good name, my career. They won't stop until they destroy my entire life."

"The point," she said with all the firmness she could muster, "is that Belle's working hard to get you out of here. Robert Gold hasn't broken you yet, Killian Jones. I know you. You didn't give up on me when I pushed you away; you kept chiseling through my walls." With a persistence she'd found as irritating as she did flattering. "Don't give up on yourself. You will come out of all of this, and you will win. I just need you to hang on a little longer. Promise me." He shifted in his seat, restless and unconvinced. "Promise me, Killian."

"I promise," he said with a quiet sigh into the phone receiver as the prison staff signaled a two minute warning for people to wrap up their conversations.

"Good." Emma paused, considering the man who sat on the other side of the glass from her. It wasn't for nothing that she had let him into her life. She'd sensed a kinship of souls from the beginning—a frightening, overwhelming pull to bare herself to him body and soul, which sent her running away; it was why she'd fought tooth and nail to push him back out every time he managed to worm his way into her good graces. But some things, some people, are inevitable…

The smell of charcoal and grease greeted Emma as she stepped onto her patio, a small gardening tote clutched in one hand and a pair of sunglasses in the other. She'd spent hours reading and analyzing materials for all of her law classes, and her brain felt fried. She needed to do something simpler, something basic. Like all the yard work she'd been putting off.

Exciting life you got here, she thought to herself sarcastically, her eyes following the scent of the grilling meat over to her neighbor's yard. He wore a red ball cap and jeans that flattered the curve of his ass. Emma admired it openly, while he faced away from her. His torso was bare, like always, and she watched the slow ripple of his shoulder muscles, mesmerized, while he tended to whatever he was cooking on the hot grill.

Burgers? She wondered, sniffing the air again. Suddenly, ordering in a pizza again didn't seem half as appealing, even if she could get it on the cheap from the owner. She wanted a burger now, damn it. Emma could think of little else, with smoky aroma in the air. Her stomach growled, and she swallowed, not quite able to taste one. Pizza would never do now, the craving was too strong. She needed a burger—wanted to taste it, feel it in her mouth.

And nothing but nothing would satisfy her but Killian Jones.

Her eyes snapped open, shocked by the sudden incongruence of her thoughts. Where the hell did that come from? she wondered.

"You feeling all right over there, love?" Her gaze trailed over to the adjoining fence, where Killian leaned against it, watching her with concern. "You look a little dazed. Not yourself."

Emma waved a hand in acknowledgement, trying to clear the odd pattern of thoughts her mind had created. "I'm fine," she managed, trying very hard not to think about the sheen of sweat glistening across his chest—no doubt earned from the heat of the grill rather than any yard work of his own, for once. "I just…studied too hard today."

Killian tilted his head, as if he sensed her evasion. "No work tonight?" he finally asked.

"No," she replied, feeling self-conscious under his penetrating gaze. And why wouldn't she, given the turn her sex-starved body had taken her mind? Sliding her sunglasses into place, Emma felt a tiny bit better. If he couldn't see her eyes, it would be harder to read her, right? She gathered her hair together and wound an elastic hair band around it three times, binding it into a ponytail. "I try to schedule my heavy study sessions when I'm not slated to work for a day or two."

She reached for one of the trowels in her gardening tote and settled by one of the corner flower beds, farthest away from Killian. She was putting off the inevitable; eventually she'd work her way around close to him again, where, she was certain, he would be afforded a rather nice view of her own ass. A view she wasn't certain she minded giving him at the moment. And that was exactly why she needed to step back and get her hormones under control again.

"I didn't take you for the gardening type," he said after she'd been working for a while, his voice farther away than before. Emma glanced up involuntarily and saw that he was lazing in one of his patio chairs, his eyes closed and his face tilted toward the sun. A bottle of beer sat opened on a table nearby, its cap carelessly discarded, but so far as Emma could see at this distance, he hadn't yet drunk any of it.

"I'm not," she said honestly, pulling out a large weed growing between some of the smaller flower bushes. "The landscaping was already done when I bought the house. Figured it was my duty to maintain it, being a homeowner and all. Like your tree trimming," she pointed out.

"Hmm," was the response. "So you don't enjoy it, then?"

"Not especially. It's sweaty and dirty, and I killed most of the plants the first couple of years I tried."

"I hadn't noticed you had any objections to my being sweaty," he pointed out, his voice oozing with amusement. "And as to dirty, I can't help but think you aren't doing it properly if you don't end up a bit disheveled in the process."

She paused in her work, certain that he wasn't talking about gardening anymore. "I…suppose," she found herself saying as her cheeks flushed from embarrassment rather than the heat. Suddenly, an impish spirit overtook her, and she found herself playing along. "Especially if you're sowing seeds," she said with a false demureness that she certainly did not possess.

There was a heavy silence for the beat of several moments. She heard the soft thunk of a bottle being set down again. He cleared his throat. "Precisely."

Was that a note of surprise or strangled desire she'd heard in his voice?

"And of course, you have to know how to handle the hose properly if you want to get results," he continued, this time with a hint of challenge in his tone.

"And make sure the area around the bush is thoroughly soaked," she retorted, "Really wet and dripping."

"Aye," he agreed, his voice becoming deeper and smoother—practically a purr. "Makes it more satisfying to plunge your fingers in and really work the soil."

Shit, she thought, pulling out a flower instead of a weed. She did not need the thought of Killian Jones doing that to her, right now!

"Just…um…" she struggled, drawing a blank.

"And I can never resist a nip of a delicious plum while I rest between labors."

Emma snorted with laughter. She couldn't help it. The snort turned into a giggle, and pretty soon Killian was chuckling himself. Before they knew it, Emma had removed her sunglasses, and they were both roaring with laughter.

"My apologies," Killian said, gasping for breath as Emma wiped a tear from her eye, "That certainly wasn't one of my best lines."

"No," she laughed again, hiccuping, "it wasn't. But it made me forget all about my studies, so thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, climbing to his feet again. "I thought it might." He smiled over his shoulder at her as he turned to check on the food. "You have a lovely smile, lass."

She couldn't see his expression, and the tone of his voice was cautious, even guarded, but she sensed he was sincere all the same; it made her heart flutter oddly in a way that both frightened and excited her. She muttered an awkward sort of response, feeling foolish, but Killian didn't seem at all bothered by it, and kept talking to her as if he'd said nothing unusual at all.

She had trouble focusing on his words at first, distracted by the conflicting wash of thoughts and feelings their interaction seemed to be drawing out of her, but eventually she worked out that he was inviting her to dinner.

"What?" she blinked at him.

"Have dinner with me," he invited again.

No, Emma, she told herself. No, no, no! It's a bad idea! You can't come back from this! "Okay," she smiled. "Meet me in my house in a few? I just need to clean up a bit."

His eyes sparkled wickedly. "Not too much, I hope."

"I'll leave the back door unlocked for you," she grinned.

Twenty minutes later, Emma walked into her kitchen, fresh from the shower, her hair blown dry, wearing a little pink tank top and a breezy, white skirt that fell to her calves. Her feet were bare, showcasing the chipped red polish of her toes, which made her feel oddly vulnerable, but she wasn't about to let on to him what a big deal this was for her by picking out actual coordinating shoes, for God's sake. She never let anyone into her home. It was as good as letting them into her heart, and it never seemed to end well.

"Hi," she said, when she heard the screen door open a couple of minutes later. "Sorry, I'll just be a minute," she muttered, standing on her tiptoes to reach higher into one of the cabinets.

"Let me," he offered, setting the platter of food on her table. He joined her by the cabinet, smelling of soap instead of charcoal. Apparently she wasn't the only one who'd cleaned up a bit.

He reached up to retrieve the plates and Emma's eyes were drawn to the broad expanse of his chest—still bare, damn it. His eyes caught hers. Electricity sizzled between them, hot and dangerous, and suddenly Killian was standing very close, with a smolder in his eyes that asked the answer to a question they both longed to explore with their lips.

"Please, you couldn't handle it," she found herself saying. It was as much a dare to herself, she realized, as a challenge to him.

"Maybe you're the one who couldn't handle it," he retorted with an overconfident smirk.

Her eyes narrowed instinctively at the good-natured taunt, and before she knew it, she had her fingers in his hair, kissing him, exploring him. All the pent-up curiosity and desire she'd been denying ever since he'd moved in finally found expression. Killian moaned softly as she took the kiss deeper, and then answered back with a soft growl, twining his own tongue against hers as he met the want and need that was so painfully present in her kisses with a passion of his own.

"That was…" He panted for breath after they broke apart, his ears red from arousal, unable to complete the sentence.

"Not over," Emma found herself saying as she struggled to catch her own breath. She pulled him into another kiss, her hands sliding across the planes of the chest she'd lusted over for weeks. Killian shuddered gently beneath her touch, his arms closing around her more tightly as his fingers began an exploration of their own. Dinner was utterly forgotten, their limbs tangling together as Emma instinctively guided them toward the bedroom. A voice in the back of her mind whispered that sleeping with her neighbor was reckless and stupid, but another, much louder part of Emma squelched it quickly. There would be no going back from this…

Blushing to recall the sexual tension leading up to that first time together, Emma knew that now that Killian was part of her life, she wasn't going to let him just retreat from her, or from himself. Not without a fight. "I miss you," she said quietly.

He looked up at her again, blinking. Surprise flared in his eyes for a moment, along with something elusive and indefinable. Whatever it was, Emma sensed that it was good—a spark of hope in the darkness.

"Emma…"

"You'll be home before you know it. You still owe me dinner, remember?"

He offered her a half-hearted smile. "Aye."

"See you soon," she said by way of farewell once the prison staff announced that it was time for the inmates to return to their cells. She refused to say goodbye; it seemed too ill an omen to utter, even if Emma wasn't normally given to superstition. She would take no chances in a situation like this. Not when Killian's own fate and Emma's own heart were so heavily invested in the outcome.

Belle worked her magic and came through sooner than either of them could have imagined.

"I contacted one of his old mates," Belle informed her as they waited for Killian's release a few days later, on a Tuesday morning. Emma should have been in class, but had opted to skip, wanting him to have one friendly face, at least, to greet him besides his lawyer's, after so many weeks behind bars. "According to Killian, he's very well to do, and owes a favor into the bargain."

Belle's words piqued her interest, and Emma wondered if this mysterious friend could act as a character witness during Killian's upcoming trial. She kept silent, however, trusting that Belle had any possible lead for the case well-covered. Belle didn't have her reputation for ruthlessness and shrewdness for nothing. And besides, Emma didn't really know where she stood in terms of her involvement with any of this. She was a law student and Killian's girlfriend, more or less, which complicated everything and made her hesitate to pry for information where she normally would have demanded it.

"Good," she said, more to fill the silence than any real need to say it. She peered up at the clock, checking the time. It was a compulsion this morning, this pull of her eyes to the creeping movement of the clock. What was it Mary-Margaret had always said? "A watched pot never boils?" Emma snorted to herself softly, a tiny smiling threatening at the corners of her mouth. Given her own propensity to wander off or get distracted while cooking (leading to burnt food, and water evaporated from boiling too long), she'd never really understood the aphorism until now.

Still, how could she stop looking at the clock, given all her pent-up, nervous anticipation at seeing Killian again and making sure he was really all right?

Belle seemed to have a similar problem, if the frequent shift of her intent gaze was any indication. In a weird way, Emma was glad because it meant Belle truly cared about her client. Killian wasn't simply some paycheck to cash. There would be no half-hearted, lazy defense of Killian Jones while Belle was in charge of the case.

"Ms. French." Both of the women looked up to see one of the prison guards standing in the doorway. "Follow me."

Emma watched in silence as Belle gathered her briefcase and coat.

"We'll be back as soon as possible," she murmured in reassurance, laying a comforting hand on Emma's shoulder, "but there's a lot of red tape involved. It may take a while."

She nodded, well familiar with the procedure herself, and wondered how on earth she was going to pass the time. She felt like she'd been waiting forever as it was. Watching Belle disappear down a hallway with the guard, Emma sighed and glanced up at the clock again. Too bad she'd never taken Mary-Margaret up on those knitting lessons she'd offered. Emma had always been intimidated by the fast click of her friend's needles and the quick movements of her hands. She had always secretly feared she'd end up with nothing but a frustrating, tangled mess, even if she had been interested in the hobby. But even a tangled mess would have been a welcome distraction in a situation like this. Not, she reflected ruefully, that the prison staff would've let her bring knitting needles or anything remotely resembling a weapon on the premises.

Picking up a decades-out-of-date magazine, Emma leafed through it without really seeing it. She was worried for Killian, afraid that the poisonous reception he was likely to receive from their neighbors as from the rest of the local public might leave him a worse state than even he'd been in during his stay in prison. Emma had had no one, no allies or friends, to return to when she'd been released. That had been hard, but not unexpected—she'd been alone her most of her life. But Killian…he'd lost his brother, then his wife and writing partner. Losing the goodwill of the neighbors, who had accepted him with an ease and readiness that they had never accepted Emma with, might cut him in yet another way that would be difficult to heal from. She knew from her own experience with Neal that the betrayal of someone who'd seemed to accept you wounded far worse than the snide remarks and judgments of total strangers.

Emma worried over this and half a dozen other issues related to the trial and Killian's well-being, occasionally turning a page of the magazine for normalcy's sake. She had no better idea what was in it now than she'd had when Belle left, but though her thoughts might be bogged down in worry, they were better occupied than when she'd been watching the clock.

Footsteps roused her attention, and Emma tossed the magazine aside carelessly. Scrambling to her feet, she turned to watch the doorway anxiously. Killian's familiar form shuffled down the hallway, drawing nearer, with Belle by his side. Their heads were bent together, his eyes shielded from Emma's, as Belle spoke to him in furious whispers. What she said, Emma hardly knew, but she understood the meaning of Killian's white-knuckled grip on his lawyer's arm well enough. He was frightened, clinging to the sound of her words like a lifeline for his sanity.

"Killian." The broken sound of her own voice surprised her.

His head lifted a fraction, his blue eyes snapping to hers. His expression was distracted—his attention still mostly focused on whatever Belle was saying to him, Emma supposed—but his gaze never wavered from her as he travelled the remaining length of the hallway and crossed the small waiting room to her.

Belle hung back politely, turning her attention elsewhere to give them a few moments of privacy before they faced the public at large.

Killian half embraced her, half fell into her arms. Emma staggered on her feet, struggling to retain her balance, and inhaled the foreign, un-Killian like scents that permeated him. Starch and some kind of generic soap, she thought, burying her face in the crook of his neck with relief. Her fingers dug into his clothes and climbed upward, desperate to touch his face. Killian seemed to share the sentiment, stroking her back, her arms, and finally her hair, as if trying to convince himself that she was real.

"You're here," he said, voice cracking, as he cradled her face in his hands. The statement was simple, but pregnant with significance, of possibility for what it meant for them both. There was a look of wonderment in his eyes, and a smile hovered at the corners of his lips, not quite realized, as if held in potential for some later, private time.

"Of course."

He inhaled, pulling her close again. He said nothing, his warmth caressing her flesh. Emma understood his need for reassurance. She felt glad to hold him and give him the comfort he sought before they faced the harshness they were certain to encounter outside.

Emma kissed the underside of his chin and ran her fingers through his hair. It was even shaggier than the last time she'd seen him, and his facial stubble but a distant memory to the full beard growing in its place. Yet he was undeniably, unmistakably, Killian Jones—her annoying neighbor-turned- lover-turned potential future—in the flesh.

"Come on," she said gently, reluctant to leave their brief shelter behind. "Belle's providing lunch."

His fingers interlaced with hers as they joined Belle again, gripping tightly, his fears communicated loudly in this one simple gesture. Emma pressed her lips together tightly, angry and defensive on his behalf. Her spirit screamed for justice, and she was determined to do everything she could to help him secure it.

"Remember, let me do any talking," Belle told them as they approached the doors that led to the parking lot outside. "Even the words "no comment" can be twisted into implying that you have something to hide. Don't acknowledge the press, no matter how much they hound you. Focus on getting to the vehicle. Security will be with you every step of the way, if there's trouble."

It was good advice, but hard to follow once they stepped out into the public again. The press of so many people, the blinding flash of bulbs, and the cacophony of so many voices set Emma's nerves on edge. She was only dimly aware of Belle giving a brief statement to the press as she followed behind them with her own security detail—"My client and I are not taking any questions at this time, thank you!"—for it took all of Emma's concentration and force of will not to snap at people or shove away the strangers invading her personal space with microphones or recording devices, demanding to know about Killian's late wife; the status of his guilt; why he'd hidden his identity under a pseudonym (and the implied accusation of what else he might be hiding)?

If not for the ever-tighter press of Killian's fingers against her own, reminding her how much worse this must all be for him, Emma never would have been able to stay focused on just getting to the vehicle provided for them.

When the doors shut behind the three of them, cutting off the reporters' access again, Emma breathed a sigh of relief. Killian slumped against the back seat of the vehicle, looking out one of the tinted windows with a dazed and distant expression. Uncertain whether to offer comfort or give him space, Emma cast a worried glance at Belle. The lawyer's attention was elsewhere, however, giving quiet instructions to the driver for the best route to take back to her office to avoid any local crowds or protests that might disturb her client further. Truth be told, Emma wasn't exactly certain whether people were madder that a murder suspect lived in their midst, or that a nationally famous author had been hiding under their noses the entire time.

His eyes were closed when she peered at him again, and there was an unmistakable shine of moisture on one of his cheeks.

Emma's heart broke; it was a substantially different hurt than what she'd experienced after Walsh and Neal, but perhaps all the more painful for that. This man was different. He hadn't hurt her or betrayed her. She still wanted him in her life, and he seemed to want her in his. But the nightmare they were in wouldn't simply fade with an impulsive move out of state and a few weeks' passage of time.

She settled close to Killian, wanting to let him know she was there, but not intruding on his personal space when he seemed disinclined to acknowledge anyone's presence. Belle had already cracked open her briefcase and was reviewing an assortment of legal documents, not wasting any time while they rode. Emma admired her drive, and felt thankful, once more, that Killian had been able to hire her as his lawyer for the case. She knew all too well from her own experiences that a dedicated lawyer who believed in you could make all the difference in how your future turned out. Emma hadn't been able to obtain her own counsel after Neal had betrayed her, and the lawyer provided by the court had made it quite obvious that he was simply going through the motions of what he was legally required to do on her behalf. That she hadn't received more time or a harsher sentence could only be attributed to overcrowded prisons and her relative youth at the time.

Have hope, Emma told herself as Killian's uncertain fate loomed before her. That's what Mary-Margaret would tell you if she were here. Just have hope.

But Mary-Margaret had never had the brushes with the law that Emma had. She didn't understand any of the harsh realities involved with any of this; some things you could only ever know from experience. And Mary-Margaret's past was so good, even pure in comparison to Emma's, that Emma had affectionately nicknamed her old roommate "Snow." Mary-Margaret hadn't minded, of course, being so sweet of disposition that she took it for the compliment it was in being compared to an iconic Disney princess.

Hope, Emma told herself again. None of this was going to be easy, not by anyone's standards. But Killian Jones's life, his future, was worth fighting for, whether Emma figured into or not. She wasn't going to give up on him, on any of it, without a damn good fight.

I love you, she thought, gazing over at Killian again. His head was leaned against the window, and his eyes were still shut. He didn't move or speak, but Emma sensed that he was as disturbed of spirit as ever. She wished she could wipe it all away, make all of these troubles as if they had never existed. I love you, Killian Jones, she thought deliberately, studying the contours of a face that she had dearly missed when it had suddenly been cut out of her life, and I will hope in your future hard enough for both of us.