Author's Note: Inspired by the Alabama Shakes song of the same name. It's beautiful and haunting, and it got stuck in my head.

Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT or the song in question!

Trigger warning: Mention of abuse!

She passed the Jolly Roger Tattoo Parlour every day, and it never failed to amaze her. She always thought it odd that a tattoo parlour would exist in the nice part of town. Well, it wasn't the nice part of town so much as it was the hipster part of town. Still, she supposed, it made sense.

It was nice than most tattoo parlours. It had a clean font on its windows, with intricate tattoos on display, showcasing the talent of its artists. Emma found it interesting that a lot of watercolour tattoos were on display. She tried peeking through the window once. It looked more like a salon than a tattoo parlour. Long leather chaise lounges, exposed brick façade, expensive looking coffee tables that were covered in binders. She had caught a glance of a man in a leather jacket carrying around some boxes while a bored brunette with vibrant red streaks in her hair leaned over the counter. She never lingered for too long, but occasionally stopped for longer than was necessary, especially when they changed their displays.

"You should go in."

Mary Margaret had been on her case when she found out about Emma's interest in the studio. Emma would always scoff at the idea.

"A tattoo? Me? Yeah right."

It's not that Emma had never toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo. She thought about it once, when she was eighteen. But that was a long time ago, and a lot had changed since then.

She started to consider it again, after an awful one nightstand with an asshole. The asshole in question, Walsh, saw her scars and recoiled in disgust. She kicked him out five minutes later. He wasn't the only one to be repulsed by it, but he was the most recent, and his rejection of her stung.

It was David who suggested a tattoo for her. They had just finished their annual watch of the Princess Bride when he turned to her.

"How about a buttercup?"

At first, she had no idea what he was talking about, and then it sunk in.

"Mary Margaret told you, huh?"

He had the decency to look sheepish.

"I think it's a good idea though. A couple of buttercups, maybe some vines to make it big enough to-"

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. David was one of the few people who knew about her past, and he also knew she hated talking about it. He shot her an apologetic look

She sighed.

"I'll think about it."

"Maybe it could be a watercolour tattoo! You need more colour in your life."

She laughed out loud.

"Well, we can't all walk around in bright Hawaiian shirts, David."

He flushed with embarrassment.

"That was one time!"

Truth be told, she probably did need brightening up. Her small apartment had three colours: black, white, and beige. It had looked like that when she had moved in, and she felt no need to change it. Over the years, that colour scheme seemed to have seeped into her wardrobe. 80% of the items she owned were black, with the rest being split evenly between brown and gray. She knew it was boring, but couldn't bring herself to change it.

Long after David left, she pulled out a sheet of paper from her desk. A quick doodle of a buttercup and one Google search later, and she had made up her mind.

She paused outside the Jolly Roger, her nerves getting the better of her. Snowflakes drifted down lazily, and Emma was annoyed with herself for not tucking her long hair into her beanie. Winter had come early, but had only manifested itself with cold winds and light flurries every now and then. Today though, the snow was sticking. Emma brushed some snow of her shoulder and pushed the door open.

It was warm inside, almost stiflingly so. It was such a contrast that Emma wondered if she was in the same town any more. She pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her pocket. There was a strong scent of cinnamon and pine, which Emma thought was an odd combination, but was not displeased by the scent. The doorbell had rung as soon as she entered, and a man emerged from a backroom shortly thereafter.

Emma sucked in a breath. He was a good looking man, almost too good looking. He was dressed simply in a black T-shirt that he had thrown a red plaid shirt over, and paired it with a pair of fitted jeans. A tuft of hair peeked out of the top of the low v-neck of his tee. Emma licked her lips involuntary. He strolled out towards her, settled behind the counter, and raised an inquisitive brow.

"Alright, lass? What can I do you for?"

And of course he had an accent. Emma made her way over to the counter to where he stood. He pushed out a lock of his long dark hair away from his eyebrows, but it didn't do any good. His hair was too short to be corralled by a hair tie, but it was too long to be pushed back permanently. He smiled at her and gave her a little nod of encouragement.

"I…err…need to set up an appointment?"

"What for?"

"A tattoo."

"Ah. Is this your first?"

"Is it that obvious?"

He waggled his eyebrows at her cheekily, and his eyes twinkled with mischief.

"You never forget your first."

He placed his hands on the counter and surprised her by jumping over it effortlessly. He was too close to her, she thought, hysterically. He was taller than she anticipated, and much better-looking closer up. As if he sensed her trepidation, he stepped away from her.

"It's customary to have a consult first, love."

He gestured towards the lounge chairs. Emma shuffled over to them slowly.

"May I take your coat?"

"I'd rather keep it on."

"If the lady wishes."

If he found it odd that she wanted to keep her wool jacket on in the heated room, he did not mention it. He sat down next to her and pulled some of the binders towards them. He explained that each binder contained art samples from the artists who worked there.

"I'll give you some time to look through them, eh? Tell me if you like something."

Emma nodded, and pulled the first one towards her. He made a movement as if to get up, but then settled in his seat instead, and chose to roll up the sleeves of his plaid shirt. In doing so, he revealed a series of tattoos on his arms. Emma had imagined that the employees of the Jolly Roger would be tatted up, so she was not surprised.

"Who's Milah?" She asked, pointing at one tattoo on his arm that consisted of a name, a heart, and a dagger.

He did not find her abruptness and curiosity rude, and if he did, he did not chastise her for it. He studied her seriously for a second, his bright blue eyes biting into her. He moved to scratch the scruff around his jaw.

"Someone from my past."

"Ah."

That one sentence had told Emma enough, and it was oddly comforting. Which is why, against her better judgment, she continued the conversation.

"The past has a way of sticking with you, doesn't it?"

As soon as she said it, she regretted it, but the man smiled kindly at her.

"Indeed it does."

She silently went back to perusing through the binders. Finally she settled on one binder. The artwork in it was simple, but gorgeously executed, full of colour, and Emma could feel the love that the artist had for their work. In particular, there was a beautiful calligraphic tattoo of the phrase "A Man Unwilling to Fight Deserves What He Gets" that had been wrapped around a blue-toned anchor that she admired.

"This one."

He smirked at her.

"You have good taste."

He turned it over and tapped at the name at the back of it. Killian Jones. He continued to smirk at her, and she realized that Killian Jones must be him.

"Your artwork is beautiful." She told him.

"Thank you, lass."

He cleared his throat.

"Did you have a design in mind, or-?"

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with her design on it and handed it over. He glanced at it and nodded thoughtfully.

"Where were you thinking of having it?"

She hesitated for a second.

"Upper back. Just below my shoulder blades."

He winced.

"Ooh, that might be painful for a first-timer."

She stared at him defiantly, his words only spurring her on.

"I can handle it."

He smiled flirtatiously at her, and shot her a wink that she rolled her eyes at.

"I have no doubt you can."

He stood up and gestured her to follow him to the front desk. He pulled out a calendar and advised her of his availabilities. They settled on a date, and he pencilled her in.

"Name?"

"Emma Swan."

"Swan." Her name rolled off his lips as he savoured it. "That's an apt name for you."

She avoided his heady gaze and instead chose to fish her gloves out and pull them on. He seemed to get the hint.

"Right then, Miss Swan. See you soon."

He stuck out his hand for her to shake, and she was momentarily flustered. Should she take her gloves off to shake his hand? She decided against it, and shook his hand quickly and briefly. He stared at her and shook his head with a smile. Emma, now embarrassed about her actions, turned on her heel and hurried out of the door.

She turned up early for her appointment, and did not hesitate this time when she entered. She had chosen a later start time, one that she could work into her hectic schedule. In fact, Killian had told her that it would be technically after hours, but he would do it for her (that statement had been followed by a wink). The shop was not dark, but was dimmer than she anticipated. Killian had been sitting on a chaise lounge, but stood up when she walked in.

He greeted her with a smile that she returned. While she was bundled head to toe, Killian just wore a fitted tank top along with an equally fitted pair of jeans. His tattoos were more visible, a medley of vaguely nautical-themed items ran up and down both arms. Very muscular arms at that, she noted, and immediately chided herself.

He took her things and hung them up on the coat rack near the door, and then went to lock it.

"If you'd follow me, Miss Swan."

Without any preamble, he led the way and pushed open the door that led to his studio. He showed her a curtain that she could change behind and told her she could leave her shirt on the stool.

"Once you're ready, please go lie down over there." He said, pointing to something that resembled a massage table that lay next to what looked like a variety of dentistry tools. They're just needles, she told herself.

He left the room, and she walked behind the curtain. She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, her fingers trembling. Now was the moment of truth. She took a deep breath. She walked over to the table and lay face down, thanking the stars that she would not be able to see his expression while he tattooed her.

"I'm ready." She said in a muffled tone.

She heard him enter, and felt him walk over to her. She could hear him get his tools ready, and then there was silence. Suddenly, she felt his fingers on her back, tracing the lines of her scars. They were curious and kind in their exploration, but yet Emma shivered from the unexpected intimacy. Then all of sudden, they moved away, and she heard the snap of plastic gloves.

He was right when he said it would hurt, but Emma gritted her teeth and managed to stop from crying out loud. However, she was unable to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. After today, her past would no longer mar her skin. Finally they were done, and Emma could feel her skin throbbing. He patted it gently down, and she heard him move away from her. Slowly, she lifted herself off the table and placed her feet in the ground. She pulled her bra straps back into place and surveyed the area.

He had not left the room, but instead stood near the door. His face was unreadable, but his eyes held a fire in them. She felt drawn to him and she walked over to him. When she reached him, she let out the breath she was holding in, and searched his eyes for a response. He reached out and touched her cheek gently.

"Who hurt you?" he whispered urgently, stroking her face.

She moved to hold his hand. She was not shocked at how easily he managed to guess. She could tell from his eyes that he was a perceptive man. Moreover, she knew a fellow survivor when she saw one. She felt that she could trust him. After all, he had just covered up her biggest secret.

"Foster father. He was abusive. When I was seven, he beat me with a hot poker. Pressed it into my back until I passed out. Burnt the skin right off. I had numerous skin grafts, but they couldn't really cover it."

What she didn't say was that she thought her scars made her look like Frankenstein's Monster. That she looked like she was patched together. Like she was a freak, underserving of love. She didn't tell him about how every man in her life recoiled when they saw it.

He didn't reply. Instead, he pulled her into his arms. He hugged her fiercely, putting his feelings that he couldn't express into the embrace. It was a move so comforting that she almost choked on a lump of sadness that formed in her throat. He stoked her hair, and Emma couldn't stop the small sobs that escaped. They stood like that for a while, until Emma finished sobbing. She slowly pulled away, and turned away from him, moving back towards the curtain. When she finished buttoning up her shirt and pushed the curtain aside, she found that he had left the room. She strode over to the door, feeling more calm than she had in years, as if she had cried away the tensions and stress that had resided in her body for years.

He was standing by the desk once more, his hands curled into fists that bore down on the desk. Silently Emma gathered her belongings and dressed herself to feel the cold. After putting on her gloves, she walked over to pay. He wordlessly slipped a pamphlet about aftercare towards her.

"Emma." He said, his voice strained.

She looked up into his eyes, and she could see the sadness, the understanding, and just a little bit of love.

"I want you to know that I'm here. If you need to talk. Believe me, if there's anyone who could understand what it's like-" He trailed off and exhaled, running his fingers through his unruly hair. He didn't have to finish his sentence. She understood.

She pulled off her glove and extended her hand. He stared at it for a second, and then his fingers closed over her wrist. Rather than shake it however, he pulled her towards him. His eyes darted to her lips, and then back to her eyes, as if asking for permission. She did not pull away, and that was all he needed. His lips descended onto hers, placing a gentle kiss upon them. He paused and then placed another, a more desperate kiss that she returned wholeheartedly. They broke apart and he slowly moved away.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I-" he said hoarsely, his head ducked down. She reached out and tilted his chin up so that she could look him in the eye.

"Thank you, Killian."

She left that night feeling lighter and more loved than she had in years.

She meant to call him, she did. His number was on his business card, and she looked at it every day. Even after her skin healed, she thought of him. She considered mentioning him to David and Mary Margaret, especially after she showed them her tattoo and they complimented his work, but decided against it. She thought about that kiss and the emotions that he conveyed with it. That she was loved. That she was beautiful. That was enough for her.

Until it wasn't.

It was spring time, and Emma was glad for the change in the weather because that meant she could finally wear the dresses she had let Mary Margaret buy for her. Sundresses with colourful prints, cotton dresses in bright hues. Dresses that displayed her shoulders and upper back to the world. She felt like a brand new woman. She left her apartment in a spaghetti strapped midi dress that was covered in cherries and a look of determination on her face. She made her way over to the Jolly Roger and peered through the window. Killian was there, manning the front desk. He looked as gorgeous as she remembered, his jaw still covered in a stubble that suited him so well, his wardrobe still fitted. She appreciated the white Henley he had chosen to wear that day, hinting at the toned muscles that she knew lay below. He had cut his hair, it was no longer as unruly, but still continued to flop down over his forehead in an attempt to meet his eyebrows. She rapped on the glass with her knuckles.

He looked up surprised, but that surprise gave way to a smile of pure joy. He rushed out to meet her.

"Hi."

"Hi."

There was a brief silence as she worked out what she wanted to say, and Killian looked like he was having a similar struggle. They both spoke at the same time.

"I wanted to call you but-"

"I didn't know if I should call-"

They stopped and laughed at each other. Slowly they looked each other in the eye.

"I was planning on heading to the park. Do you want to join me?"

Emma held up the picnic basket in her hand, hoping to entice him with the thought of food.

His smile could have lit a dark room.

"There's nothing else I'd rather do. Let me get Ruby to cover for me."

Killian wandered down the hall, stifling a yawn. The coffee should be ready by now. He glanced at the pot. Indeed it was. He pulled out a mug, a bright blue one from a sea of black and white ones. He placed it on the counter top and poured some coffee in, inhaling its aromatic scent. He looked back into the cupboard and pulled out a generic looking mug and reminded himself to pick up some more mugs that had more of a personality to them. Once both mugs were full of coffee, he grabbed them and left the kitchen.

He shuffled back, pausing only to catch sight of himself in the hallway mirror. His hair was a mess, but he grinned at the sight of it, remembering fondly the reason why it was so mussed. He looked down. Perhaps he should have put a shirt on before he left the bed, but he had the sense to pull on a pair of red boxer briefs, so that was good enough. His eyes fell to the framed picture on the counter top, the one he had bought her when they went to the zoo together. It had images of mongooses running down the side, and he smiled at the memories it brought up.

He continued on, knowing she'd grumble if he took any longer. As he pushed the door open with his elbow, he found that she had fallen asleep again, she had rolled over and tangled herself up with the sheets. He smiled at the sight. Her golden hair fanned over the pillow, shining brightly whenever sunlight slipped through the crack in the curtains. He tiptoed over to the bed and placed the mugs down lightly. He slowly lowered himself onto the bed, and reached out towards her. The sheet had slipped when she turned to her side, and he inched towards her and placed a kiss on her edge of her tattoo, where scar was barely visible. His fingers joined his lips, tracing the outline of the tattoo. His actions caused her to shift, and she sluggishly turned over to face him.

"Hi." Her voice was slurred from sleep, and it warmed his heart to see her so relaxed.

"Good morning, darling."

He pressed himself and ran his fingers through her hair, and she smiled sleepy at him.

"Have I told you lately that I love you?"

She smirked, her eyes still closed.

"Not since last night."

He clicked his tongue.

"That won't do."

He moved to press a kiss to her forehead.

"I love you, Emma Swan."