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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"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.

"I don't know, I really don't." Standing up, he places his hands on the table to steady him. The alcohol on top of his headache isn't doing him any favors tonight. But part of him wants to end this before it gets too far. For her sake. "I'm not reliable. The man you see now, ain't how I really am. Maybe I should just go. Before we both do something we regret."

She's not going to force him to stay, obviously, not if he needs - or wants - to leave. But there's some tension in her jawline, some regret in her gaze, and she can't help but think she's done something to screw this up all over again.

"If that's what you want to do," she murmurs softly.

"Ain't what I want to do, it's what I should do." He can't look at her, he's too ashamed he'd let things get this far. But he likes her, dammit, and for a minute... He couldn't save his wife, hasn't kept a woman since and that's probably been the best for everyone.

She likes him too, but - more than anything, she doesn't want to force it, doesn't want to do anything that would ruin the mood any more than it's already been soured.

"Should I - " It's not a question; she's moving to her feet, slipping out from her chair to see him to the door if it's that time.

"I don't..." He leans on the table, conflicted as hell. There's something about her he likes, something he wants, something he hasn't wanted in a long, long time. But he knows the odds, knows that it's only a matter of time before he finds the wrong bar, the wrong game, and he's back to where he was before he got hired for the Columbia job.

But maybe it's not just his decision to make. "Tell me, Emma, you ever smelled burning flesh? Heard the screams of men, women and children and know it's because of you? Wake up in a gutter, not remembering the night before except for the bruises on your face and the taste of old whiskey in your mouth? 'Cause I do, and I don't know if that's the kind of man you want to sign on with and I don't want to pretend I'm someone else." He tried that, he tried washing it all away with religion, but blood doesn't wash off, not that easily.

"I'm not the kind of person who's going to hold your past against you," she replies, lifting her eyes to his face. "That would be hypocritical, and just - unfair. I've got things in mine that I'm definitely not proud of, things I've done - " She stops, breaks herself off. She knows that she's not going to convince him unless she just comes right out and says it, and he's laying it all out on the table, so why can't she?

"You want to know where I was when I had Henry? Where I was when I was pregnant with him? I was in prison, Booker."

"For what?" He's curious, because he doesn't read killer off of her and he's usually pretty good at that. But he could be wrong, it's happened before.

He also knows that he shouldn't be pushing like this, not at someone he likes as much as he likes her, but it's habit. Push people away, you can't hurt them, you can't let them down, you can't let them die.

"For - possession of stolen goods," Emma answers, though the story is a lot longer than that and mostly involves her going to jail for someone else while he'd left her behind to take the fall. There's a lot of resentment still there - in her tone, in her face, and she pushes it back with a hard swallow.

"Not that intense, but - people hear jail and they usually get all twitchy, so I make a point to not let it come up too often."

"That all? Darlin', that's nothing." At least to him. He's seen and done a lot worse in his life, that's for damn sure. Maybe it's the time, people here in the city seem to be awfully... protected from things.

"If a little stealing's all that's on your soul, you're an angel. Least to me." He crosses over to her and brushes his fingers lightly along her jaw. She's beautiful, so beautiful, and he wants nothing more than to make her happy. He doesn't know how to do that. "Tell you what, you go to the Library, look up something called the Battle of Wounded knee. I was there, hell, part of me enjoyed it. Still shoot first if I'm given the choice. That's the kind of blood on my hands. You think that's the sort of man you want, maybe we try this again sometime. If not, I'll not hold it against you."

She lifts her chin into the touch of his fingers, the gentle sweep of calloused digits against her skin, meeting his eyes without blinking or flinching away. There's hurt there, hurt and holding on to the past, and maybe he doesn't know what kind of man he is, but she can see it. There isn't any way he'd be able to be this tender with her if he didn't have that part inside him already.

"People know about that part of my past, they tend to run the other way." She manages a smile, shrugging lightly. She's used to being alone. She had been alone for a while - at least before Henry. When she lifts a hand, her fingertips curl around his wrist. "I think I want the sort of man who's going to be honest, who doesn't shy away from telling me the truth - no matter how rough it is."

He's tempted to tell her that truth isn't exactly his strong suit either, and she can ask Elizabeth about that. But the words are drying up in his mouth even as the remainders of his headache ebb. He needs time to think, maybe they both do, right now isn't the time to be making any rash choices.

Taking the hand around his wrist, he brings it to his lips. "Don't know if I'm that kind of man, but I meant what I said. Look me up. But I should probably go before I make a bigger mess. It was lovely for you to invite me, Emma. I hope it's not the last time."

She nods once, quietly. It's not something she'll do right after he leaves, but maybe over the next few days, after her curiosity earns the better of her. Instead she lets her gaze hold in his for the measure of a few beats and then slips her hand from his, leading him to the door.

"Neither do I," she murmurs, shortly before he steps through and out, and once the door's shut behind him she draws a breath, shoves a hand through her hair, and just - stops, for a moment, letting her brain process.

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The Second Date

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