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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"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?"

"Painkillers if you have 'em, another stiff drink if you don't." Heading into the washroom, he runs some water, letting the cool liquid pour over his fingers for a moment before he splashes on his face. It helps, but doesn't completely drive away the pain. What the hell's wrong with him? What did Columbia do to him?

He takes several deep breaths before splashing his face again and drying it off with a towel hanging on the nearby bar. Looking into the mirror, he shakes his head. He's making a great impression isn't he? Coming off like a man falling apart. He's still kicking himself when he exits the washroom and heads back to the table.

She nods quickly and slides away from the table as he heads into the bathroom, already moving for the spare bottle of pills that she keeps for various injuries and migraines. The water in the bathroom spits on and she listens to it run, frowning.

Two of those pills are sitting next to a glass of water at his place at the table when he gets back, and she's resumed her seat, eyeing him with concern as he rejoins her. "Bad migraine?"

"What's a migraine?" He thinks he's heard the word before, but he's never paid attention to most medical terms. Least not the finer ones. Break, amputation, gunshot, stab wound, snapped neck, concussed skulls, those are the terms he's intimately familiar with. The term Emma uses just isn't in his vernacular.

Sitting down, he picks up the pills and swallows them dry, chasing them with the water. Doesn't really matter what they're for if they kill some of the pain. He wishes he knew what's causing these things.

"Like a headache, only worse," Emma explains, her hands clasped in her lap when he sits back down and takes the pills quickly. "I take those sometimes when I've had a pretty rough day, so hopefully they'll knock out whatever's bothering you. They, uh, typically take about an hour to work, though."

She doesn't expect him to stick around if he's feeling off, though she doesn't want to be shoving him out the door either. She just looks at him quietly, waiting for a sign on what she's supposed to do here.

"So long as you don't do any yelling, I think I'll manage until then. I'm not a little lily, I'm not gonna wilt and die." Taking another drink, he manages a sly wink. Despite what she says, he's starting to feel a little better already. Maybe what he needs is just a change of topic, something to distract him.

"So, how you like being a cop? Better than chasing bounties?"

"I promise to maintain this dinner at a perfect conversational level," Emma replies, before grinning at the other comment. "No. Certainly not the delicate flower type. I was never under that impression."

She shrugs, reaching for her fork again. "Pays the bills. The day-to-day isn't as - exciting, but it's what I know how to do."

"You also know how to bounty hunt. I know it's not the steadiest of jobs, but it's a hell of a lot of less... police." He doesn't like police, not really. They break up his poker games, kick him out of bars, try to cheat him out of his bounties. He knows there are some good ones, but he always pulls the bad ones.

He tentatively tries a few bits of food. Has to force it a little, his stomach doesn't like the headaches and it's still touch and go, but the last thing he needs is to lose it on top of everything else.

"You haven't had great experiences with law enforcement, I take it," Emma replies, taking another bite of her food. It's cooled, but it's not inedible, though that may not have been the case if she'd chosen to be the one making the meal. Maybe they'd make their way around to pancakes sometime.

"I wish I wasn't agreeing with you, but I am. They're not always so clean-cut."

"In my time, cops can be just as bad or worse than the gangs I hear about here. Things they do... they don't seem to have the kind of rules in place that you do. Me? I was a Pinkerton, kinda like police, the work we did wasn't so different. You ever hear about 'em?" Not that being a Pinkerton's ever going to be something he's all that proud of. Truth be told, he's kind of glad they sacked him, saved him the trouble of eventually quitting.

"Not what you'd call saints."

"Pinkertons? You mean - as in those Pinkertons?" Her eyes widen slightly as she realizes she doesn't think she's ever completely verified what time period he's from, or what year to be more specific. It's half a surprise, but then again, she'd sort of figured based on their initial meeting that he hadn't been lying when he said his time was about a century ago. She hadn't gotten the vibes of dishonesty from him.

"No, I remember reading about - fond of bribes, weren't they?"

"Yeah, and not always looking to law and order, more like... looking to whoever paid us. I've done a hell of a lot I'm not proud of, Emma." So much so, he's wondering if she'd even like him, knowing what he's done. He's trying to make up for it, take care of Elizabeth, keep her safe, but he doesn't think it will ever be enough.

Some sins can't be washed away.

"Sorry, guess I'm not the most interesting dinner conversation, am I?"

The more he talks, the more she's captivated by it. By him. He might not have done a lot of things he's proud of - but if she's being honest with herself, so has she. And he's being honest about it, because her bullshit sensor isn't going off in the back of her brain, signaling something even as minor as a small fib.

"Quite the contrary," she replies, taking another sip of her drink. "I can't think of anything more interesting right now."

"Well, it's just a laundry list of bad jobs anyway. Hurt a lot of people we maybe should have helped. Doesn't matter in the end, I was sacked." He shifts uncomfortably, not really sure if this is something she wants to hear or not. He's tried really hard not to fall into bad habits, but he's played the occasional game and he drinks more than the average man, he just hides it better for Elizabeth's sake.

"Too much drinkin' and gambling." Too many nights mourning the only good thing he'd ever had in his life, his wife. He presses a finger to his temple again. Maybe tonight was a bad idea.

She doesn't have to be a mind-reader to sense his discomfort, and when that finger guides up to his temple again the look of thoughtfulness is soon replaced by one of concern all over again. She's tempted to reach across the table to him, to give him something to anchor himself to, but she doesn't know if she has that right. If she's earned that right.

"We've both hurt people," she murmurs, because it's true, and because she somehow needs him to know that he isn't alone in this.

He can't possibly believe she's got experience that compares. She's from such a different world than he is, she's never been on a battlefield, never seen a war. She's never been a party to the kinds of murder that happen there. He thought he'd put all that behind him, drank it away, but it's been present in his mind ever since Columbia. Is it from running into Slate? From hearing Comstock claim to be a part of that hell and knowing it's a lie?

Reaching out he grabs for her hand. He doesn't know if he's allowed, but he needs some kind of solid connection. Something he can feel through the thudding in his head. "You're a good woman, Emma. I promise, the next time we try this I'll try and be more entertaining." If she even invites him over again, at this point he's not sure he would.

Her eyes widen in surprise - it's as if he knew what was in her head all along - but she recovers quickly, turning her hand over to gently deepen the strength of the handhold. She doesn't shift her fingers, doesn't do anything more intimate that merely clasp, though her gaze finds his quietly.

"I'm not looking to be entertained," she promises, and that's true. If that's all she wanted she wouldn't have invited him over for dinner, and he probably would be one of those who didn't even spend the night.

"What are you looking for, if you don't mind answering? 'Cause I sure don't know and I confess to being very curious." He wonders why anyone would want a man like him around. Maybe she just hasn't seen all the bad that comes with his barely good yet. Probably she won't stick around. No one ever has.

'Cept Elizabeth and she hardly counts.

It's not like her own dating track record is anything to shake a stick at. Abandoned by the father of her child, and her potential second dying in her arms? She really doesn't have anything normal to compare this to, and maybe she's not aiming for normal anymore.

"You're a gentleman," she replies. "And you have a heart. I can see it in you."

Pulling away his hand, he finds himself shaking his head. "I'm no gentleman, you just haven't seen me on a bad day." What's he doing here, this isn't him. He's just going to make a mess of this, like he always has. And he has no right to drag Emma into it. No right to drag Elizabeth into it either, but then, maybe she's the only reason he hasn't backslid yet.

"Everyone's entitled to their bad days," she answers, and she can't tell exactly what it is that clouds his words as he utters them.

"What, are you saying I pretended to make all this good food for no reason?" She's teasing, of course, trying to retain some lightness in the mood, resisting the urge to glance down at her plate.

The Second Date

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