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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As first dates go, theirs had been - very nice. She'd gone into it not knowing what to expect, but she'd left him at the end of the night fully believing the old adage of chivalry alive and well. It had seemed only natural to bring up the subject of a second date, and she finds that she's actually excited when he agrees to the idea. This time, though, she wants to bring the conversation inside, give the two of them a chance to pursue topics beyond the superficial and the getting-to-know-you.

She's hardly a cook, but she can spring for some pretty impressive dinner to be delivered from one of the nicer restaurants in the city, and she's leaving it to warm in the oven while she waits. The sound of a knock at the door briefly jars her from her thoughts, and she remembers to check over her appearance in the hallway mirror before she moves to greet him, combing fingers through her hair and smoothing her dress briefly.

When the door opens, she smiles at the sight of him standing on the other side, flowers in hand, and she steps in close to greet him. "Hi."

"Ma'am." He tips his hand to a hat he's not wearing. "You look lovely. Would you permit me a token?" Part of him remembers how to do this, how to be charming and polite, and the more time he spends with Emma, the easier it gets. Not something he tries to think about too much.

Breaking off one of the blossoms in his hand, he moves slightly forward, meaning to tuck it in her hair if she lets him. He almost remembers doing this for someone else, someone whose memory always caused him to wince in pain, something he tries to hide from her.

She can't help but smile - the movement is so fluid, so practiced and unconscious that she can almost picture the hat he's not wearing right now. While a frown of curiosity springs to her features when he leans in, she somehow knows what to do, tilting her head slightly as she feels his fingers curve around her ear.

"Thank you," she murmurs, smile broadening when the flower gets tucked in neatly. "They're beautiful." She likes the simplicity of the bouquet, the lack of frills. It reminds her that she can't remember the last time she received anything like this, if at all.

"Glad you enjoy them. I didn't know if you liked flowers, but even where I'm from, it's a pretty safe bet." Handing over the bouquet, his smile gets a little mischievous.

"This is the point where you ask me in, isn't it?"

"Oh! Yes. Right." Momentarily flustered by the gesture, she's now proceeded to let all manners go flying out the window, and takes a few steps back inside the apartment, one hand bracing against the doorknob.

"Please come in?"

"Why thank you, Emma, I do believe I will." Smiling, he heads inside, stopping after a few steps so she can join him. He's not sure what she's got planned, but he's happy to let her reveal it to him in her own time.

"I thought we could eat whenever the mood strikes us - dinner's just keeping warm in the oven," she explains, moving into the kitchen to put the bouquet in a vase of water.

"Did you want to have a drink first, sit for a little while? I've got wine, beer - there's definitely a bottle or two of something harder lying around here for a rainy day," she adds, pursing her lips to hide a full grin.

"Emma, I never say no to a pretty woman offering me a drink. I'll take whatever you have, though I think the wine's gonna be wasted on me. Not really that fancy of a man. Beer or whatever will be good." Finding himself a place to sit on the sofa, he relaxes a little, just watching her move. She's got a way about her he doesn't quite get. Part of him wants to, the rest of him might be a little scared to.

"'Kay."

She finishes with the bouquet and leaves it in the center of the kitchen island where it can be seen, and then ducks into the fridge to secure two beers, popping them both open before she walks over to join him on the couch. She sits closer than might be appropriate between two acquaintances, but they're not really acquaintances anymore, are they? When she passes him the beer, their fingers touch.

"Haul in anyone exciting today?"

"Took the day off. Walked the dog. Made myself pretty for tonight, man's gotta make an impression." Holding the beer up in a short salute, he took a pull. It was good, cold, just what he'd been needing. He was settling in well here in Darrow, as well as could be expected in a place that was almost stranger than Columbia.

"How about you? How many did you haul in today, Officer?"

"Mmm. Nope," she answers, around a sip of her own beer, gently cradling it in one hand. She's leaning against the couch sideways, facing him, one knee bent slightly with the beer nestled lowly in her lap.

"Nothing exciting on the beat, so I got to spend the rest of my day catching up on paperwork and all the exciting things that come with it. And then I had to head home early, because it turns out I was having company." She's grinning as she speaks. "You do look nice, by the way."

"Then I guess it was a day well spent. I may not know much about what I'm doing, but I figured looking nice was my only safe bet." It's one of the most honest admissions he's made. He really doesn't know what he's doing.

"I have a hard time believing that," she replies, lifting an eyebrow. She's still chuckling as she takes another pull from her beer. In truth, though, she doesn't really know what she's doing either. She can affect a confidence that doesn't betray her too deeply, but the truth of the matter is that she has absolutely no clue.

"No, I really don't know what I'm doing. When I was a young man, courting went very differently and even then, I... I only did it once." He could feel his voice catch a little and he covered by taking another drink. Those are thoughts he tries not to have and he doesn't know why he's saying them out loud now.

"Long, long time ago."

She frowns, visibly, a small line appearing between her brows as she realizes she probably, albeit unintentionally, just dredged something painful up for him. She doesn't have to turn on her intuition to recognize that. Her gaze descends to the bottle in her hands, and she absently picks at the label with a fingernail.

"That what this is?" she murmurs. "Courting?"

"Don't know what else to call it, but I think it's a little more than just having a drink and a meal with a friend. Unless I'm reading the situation wrong and if that's the case, you have my most sincere apology." He hopes not. The embarrassment alone will be enough for him to walk out the door right there, but he's pretty sure he's not wrong. He feel something, not sure what it is, but he feels it all the same.

Her hand slips across the small space between them to cover his, fingers slightly chilled from gripping onto the bottle as they curve around, giving his a brief squeeze.

"You're not misreading anything," she softly promises.

"You know, I think this was easier when I was younger. Go walking with a young woman, ask for her hand, and all the really complicated things came later. Now, just the things I see on the television... hell, I didn't even see some of that in brothels back home." Squeezing her hand back he manages a smile. "Not that I spent too much time there. Needed money for that and all my money went to games."

"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.

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The Second Date

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