wipeawaythedebt | The Second Date

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emma swann

The Second Date

The first date, as he's getting used to calling it, went pretty well. They talked, had a few drinks, and he kindly escorted Emma home again. All in all, a good night. So why is he so much jumpier tonight. Wasn't like he didn't know the woman, wasn't like he had anything to prove or hell, even be ashamed of. Taking an evening in the company of a beautiful woman, he should be right as rain. After all, it's been awhile and it wasn't like he'd taken any vows of celibacy.

Still, as he stands at her door with a small bunch of daisies in his hand, clean shirt and jeans and a freshly shaved face, he finds his heart pounding and his head spinning. He's not a good man, he's got no reason to expect anything. No reason to think she should spend time with him, or him with her.

Fuck it, she invited him. He's thinking too much.

He knocks on the door.

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"I don't think you see a lot of things in real life that are on television," Emma promises, with a half-smile, her hand squeezing his one more time before she withdraws. "Hopefully you haven't been getting your hopes up." She's teasing, of course, and the light blush of pink in her cheeks confirms that once her words dawn on her.

"Oh, God, Emma, no, I wouldn't think..." He feels his own face getting red and it probably isn't half as attractive on him as it is on her. It's the last thing he wanted to stumble over, or say badly. "I mean, it's not what I intended, not what I want."

"I'm teasing," she assures him, clearing her throat as she glances down into her lap again.

"Sorry, it was a bad joke to make. Probably a little early for that kind of a conversation."

"Not sure it will ever be time for that conversation, way I'm mucking things up." Taking another drink, he chuckles. This isn't exactly how he saw this evening going. "Maybe we should eat before I saw something else I'm going to regret."

"Or before we both do," Emma amends, slowly uncurling herself from the sofa and rising to her feet, her beer lazily dangling from a few fingers. She leaves it on the counter first before moving to the stove, grabbing a pair of oven mitts to pull it out from where it's been keeping warm inside.

"I can't pretend in good conscience that I made this," she confesses, taking each dish out and uncovering it to make sure it still looks palatable. "But I figured you probably weren't in the mood for pancakes. Even though I make some pretty mean pancakes."

"I'm sure I'll get a chance to try the pancakes some other time." Standing, he crosses to the table, watching her work and wondering if she wants any help. Instead he decides to wait for her to finish and pulls out her chair for her for when she's ready.

"It all smells good if that's a worry."

"Play your cards right," she replies, blonde hair swaying over one shoulder when she glances back at him, flashing a quick grin.

"I'll be sure to pass your compliments along to the chef. Who wasn't me." She's moving to serve them quietly, setting the dishes down in the center of the table so that he can pick and choose what he wants.

He chokes a little at the implication she's making. It isn't what he meant at all, but now that she's said it he can't quite get it out of his head. How do people do this these days, nice women didn't really make those kind of comments back home.

He holds the chair for her looking over the dishes as a distraction, maybe eating a nice meal will give him time enough to figure out what he's supposed to do.

The implication doesn't quite hit her until she's moving to sit, and that's when she blushes, clearing her throat subtly and distracting herself by practically searing twin holes into her plate with the force of her stare. Remembering to actually sit down seems like a pretty tall order at this point.

She manages it without much of a faltering, though she chances a glance up in his direction once he assumes his own seat, her lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile.

"Well, you're not hung up on any grace or anything are you?" He starts spooning some of the food onto his place, half joking. He's not religious, but if she is, he's willing to play along. Not many women he'd do that for, but for her, he's almost happy to. Especially after thinking those things about her he just did.

"No offence, but you've never struck me as the sort."

"Who, me? No, hardly," she answers, serving herself in kind and then digging in quietly, making a mental note about the food - which is, in all honesty, pretty damn good.

"Although maybe after what we were just talking about, we should be asking for some forgiveness."

"Hell, if that's the threshold for sinnin', I'm in a lot of trouble." The drinking, the killing, and things he's done just to get his fellow man to get off his back. "Done a lot of things I'd need to ask forgiveness for if that's where we're starting."

He takes a bite and smiles at her, pausing to wash it down. "Besides, I thought we were more talking around it, than talking about it."

"True. Not that I'm looking to compare laundry lists," she replies, smiling when he does.

"And you're probably right. There's a difference between around, about and actually doing."

"I know there's no way to say this without sounding out of place, but that's maybe the number two thing I can't wrap my head around about this place. The way people talk about..." He's not even sure how to put it in words that wouldn't sound crude. Certainly none of the terms he used back home, some things you just don't say in front of ladies. "Hell, I've seen things on that television that no respectable person would even admit knowing about and it all seems normal to everyone."

"Yeah, I think - people are a little more comfortable talking about that these days," she admits, absently twirling her fork between her fingers. "Not everyone, but - sex sells on television, anyway. Sex brings in ratings. There's really not a lot people won't put on TV, and that's not even counting the channels where you can pay for, uh, more." She clears her throat softly.

"I'm no bible-thumping Puritan or anything, but it's just..." He's got Elizabeth to think about and a nice girl like her shouldn't be seeing those things. "The sorts of people used to do those things back home, weren't the sort that got celebrated and put in the papers. Not for anything good anyway."

Emma nods once, toying with her food without actually eating it.

"It's - well, it takes a lot of adjusting, if it's something you're not used to seeing. There's no doubt that we get bombarded with it, and - I know I have someone I love who I wouldn't want exposed to that kind of thing."

"Mind if I ask who?" He's eating more from habit. It tastes good, don't get him wrong, but he's more focused on Emma, on what she's saying. It's important, obviously it's someone she loves and for the first time he wonders if she's got a family back where she comes from. Maybe a husband. Makes him wonder again how long he's gonna be here.

"It's, uh, my son," Emma says, and the truth leaves her quietly, her own meal abandoned for the time being as she looks across the table at him.

"I have a kid back home. I'd - given him up for adoption, because I couldn't take care of him at the time. Couple months ago he found out who I was and showed up to introduce himself."

His head hurts. Suddenly and painfully and he's hard pressed to hide it. He wants to say something, that he feels for her, that he respects her for knowing when she had to bug out. Some people just shouldn't have kids. Like him.

"Sorry," pinching the bridge of his nose he's praying that it doesn't start bleeding. What the hell is wrong with him. This should have stopped when he left Columbia, right? "You say he found you? Smart kid."

"Yeah. Funny thing, the Internet," Emma starts, immediately frowning when she glances up to witness what's happening. Unconsciously, she lowers her fork to her plate and leans forward.

"Booker? Is everything alright?"

"Just a headache, Emma, I get 'em sometimes." Not that he understands them or why they happen. Back in Columbia it happened whenever he and Elizabeth changed something, went through a tear, but that's not what's happening here. Not unless coming to this place is like going through a big tear.

"They pass." He wipes his hand under his nose and is glad there's no blood. "Tell me more about your kid."

"Uh, well - his name is Henry," Emma starts, that look of concern still on her features even as she tries to continue speaking, tries to move away from the subject of sudden and intense headaches. The fact that they can come on that readily is worrying.

"He's eleven," she adds. "And - he's definitely one of the smartest people I've ever known."

He'd figured out the truth about Storybrooke, hadn't he?

"Have to be if he tracked down a tracker like you. Must take after you more than a little." He manages to chuckle past the pain, trying to imagine a miniature male Emma. It was a cute image and as another wave of pain hit him, he wondered what his kid might have looked like, had his wife survived.

"Can you excuse me a moment, Emma? Where's your washroom?" He stands, eyes closed.

"He must," Emma admits, smiling in spite of herself, and then straightens up, turning in her chair to point the way towards the restroom.

"It's just there, down the hall a little and on your right. Do you need me to get you anything?"

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