#actor!killian

The ostentatious applause and blinding lights are things that Emma Nolan has grown accustomed to over the years. The show has been on for four seasons, having just been picked up for a fifth, and it’s grown in popularity during that time.

“It must be interesting playing a character with your same name.”

“Definitely. No one ever has an excuse to get my name wrong on set,” she laughs lightly, drawing similar sounds from the audience.

“Right! And I’m sure it much be interesting, working with your brother?”

“Oh, yeah. David’s a great actor, and he’s also my best friend. It’s a blast.”

“Now, at the end of last season, we found out that Baelfire was actually alive!” The audience cheers. “How’s that for a turn of events?”

“Oh, I know. Crazy right? We’ll have to see how it will impact everyone’s relationship with Henry.”

“Not to mention Emma’s relationship with Hook, right?”

The audience whoops and hollers, and Emma smiles. “I guess we’ll have to see!”

“Now, Emma, everyone is dying to know. The chemistry between you and Killian… there’s got to be something there, right?”

Emma loves to act— and she’s damn good at it. She loves the show she’s been a part of for almost five years now. She even doesn’t mind doing interviews, usually. What she does mind, however, is how everyone and their mother assumes she’s sleeping with her costars.

Emma fakes a laugh— she’s a good actor, remember? — and lets her eyes light up and a grin split her face, saying jokingly, “I’m a really good actor.”

The audience laughs, as does the interviewer, reaching between their chairs and touching Emma’s knee lightly. “You're too much! But come one—you and Killian? You and Neal?”

Okay, she hates interviews.

Emma shakes her head, trying her hardest to maintain an air of light and playfulness rather than rolling her eyes like she so badly wanted to. “Just keeping it professional, you know?”

“Well, Emma Swan has had some steamy moments with both Baelfire and Hook, so I think the audience would agree when I say we want to know who the better kisser is! Both of them are so delicious!” The audience doesn’t cheer; screams violently is more like it. Emma tries to laugh it off, but seriously? How is this question even allowed to be asked?

“Uh,” she starts awkwardly before she snaps herself back into interview mode and smiles again. “No comment,” she says with a smirk and a flirt in her tone.

“Oh, come on!”

She hates interviews.

“We’re all good friends. We’re just trying to keep it professional so that we can continue to work together.”

“Well, your brother David and Mary Margaret got married last year and they seem to work together well.”

Emma’s left eye starts to twitch, and she’s glad that it isn’t the side of her facing the audience. Let it go, lady, she thinks. “I’m so happy for them—they're great together, aren’t they?” The audience cheers again. “I’m really glad they were able to work things out between them. They’ve always had a thing for each other, and their relationship is so strong both on and off screen that it just worked out.”

“Are you saying you don’t have a strong relationship with Killian or Neal?”

“No, no, it isn’t that. I guess I’d just rather put my professional relationship with them over any of my own wishes.”

The interviewer smirks, and shit. “So, you do wish to be with one of them?” Oh my god, she thinks. Yes, but leave me the hell alone about it.

She starts to panic, thinking about what Killian would say in response, how he would tease her for anything that comes out of her mouth. Then she starts thinking about his mouth, then his eyes and his cute nose and his weird, charming ears, and her heart starts racing and her palms start sweating, and she has to get herself under control, dammit!

“All I want is for people to continue to love the show, and if my on-screen chemistry with my costars assists in that, then I’m happy.” Phew, take that, Kelly. Emma is a professional actor, thank you very much.

“Alright, alright, we can’t get anything out of her today, guys, sorry. Emma Nolan is the star on the hit series Neverland, which portrays Peter Pan in a very new light; catch up online or before the new episodes air every Sunday at 8 pm!”

The audience shouts again, and they're finally given the cue that the cameras are off as the lights dim, and Emma stands from the chair she was perched on and starts to unhook her mic from her top.

“Thank you for coming in today, Emma! It was so lovely having you.”

“It was great being here, Kelly, thank you.”

Emma practically runs from the stage once she’s cleared to do so, making her way down dark, winding hallways until she reaches the dressing room with her name printed on it. She shuts the door firmly behind her and presses her back to it, taking a deep breath and sliding down to the floor with her face in her hands. She tries deep breathing, but she finds it nearly impossible to get any air in.

Her phone chimes, alerting her to the message she’s received, and she attempts to pull herself together so that she can stand and grab it.

Nice one, Swan

She rolls her eyes at the moniker Killian has given her, but she can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. Knowing that he must’ve been watching her interview from his own dressing room across the building makes her heart rate pick up. Knowing that he must know how nervous she is, because she hates interviews, makes her cheeks go rosy.

i hate interviews.

I know. You did great, love. Very professional.

yeah, well. don’t let kelly bully you next week like she did me. go get em, tiger.

No matter her mood, she can’t stop herself from flirting with him, and it’s seriously a problem. They can’t be doing this, and she knows it.

~~~~

“Hey Nolan,” she hears with a knock on her trailer door as it swings open.

“Hi Neal, what’s up?”

He smiles at her sweetly and gestures into her trailer. “Can I come in for a second?”

Emma nods, nodding her head towards the small couch. “Sure. What’s going on?”

“Just wanted to say, I saw your interview with Kelly. You did really well.”

She smiles at him sweetly as she takes a seat on a chair across the small trailer from him. “Thanks. She was persistent, huh?” Did she mention that she really hates interviews?

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

“Okay…” She’s hesitant to speak now, not wanting to push him in either direction, but honestly nervous for what’s about to come out of his mouth.

“I was just thinking… well, I like you, Emma. Not just as a costar or friend. I think you're cool and funny and pretty, and I was just thinking… well, everyone already thinks— I mean, I know you said you want to keep everything professional, but we can date and still be professional, right?”

“Neal…”

“Go to dinner with me. Just once. I really think we could have something great here.”

She shakes her head, her heart racing again as anxiety sets in. “I can’t. I’m sorry Neal, I just… I can’t.”

He nods, smiling at her again, and thank god he isn’t as much of an asshole in real life as she thinks his character is. “I get it, it’s alright.”

“I just want to keep everything professional. We work together…”

“Right, I know. So, it isn’t because of Jones?”

“What about Killian?” She screws her face as much as she can manage, but panics as she fears that he knows.

“You guys just have chemistry, too, that’s all. I wasn’t sure if you were together or something.”

He doesn’t know, she reminds herself, breathing in deeply in an attempt to relax. “I want to keep everything—”

“Professional, I know. No worries, Em.” He smiles once more, standing up and squeezing her shoulder before he heads out the door.

~~~~

“So, what’s it like working with your ex?” The audience reacts excitedly as Kelly presses, perhaps making it her mission to ask the most uncomfortable questions she possibly can.

“Oh, it’s alright. Milah and I are in a good place. We were together so long ago, and we’re both adults, so we’re able to keep things professional.” Emma nods at her screen, biting her thumb nervously as Killian gets grilled once again.

“That’s so amazing, isn’t it, guys?” The audience cheers. “Now last week’s episode was just… so heartbreaking. I’d love to get into that a bit with you.”

“Yeah,” he nods, and the audience aws collectively. “It was a really tough one to shoot. I don’t want to give much away, but the last scene with Hook and Emma was very emotional.”

“For the characters, or for you and Emma?”

“Both, I’d say.”

Kelly nods somberly as the audience aws again. “It looked it. I heard a rumor that the kiss Hook planted on Emma’s forehead when the rowboat was leaving the island was unscripted. Is that true?”

The audience gets excited, and Emma loses her thumb nail to her front teeth. “Yeah, actually. That scene in particular was really, really emotional. Can I drop spoilers?”

“Anyone who hasn’t seen the season finale yet is out of their mind. Drop away!”

He laughs blithely, the light in his eyes shining brightly through her iPad screen. “Well, Pan had put Emma in an impossible situation. She had to choose between getting Henry out of Neverland without a sleeping curse, or risk never waking him up and leaving Hook behind. I think it’s clear by the season finale that Emma has feelings for Hook, so that decision was really difficult for her. That final scene between the two of them… well, it was emotional for Hook too, because his feelings for Emma are obvious.” The audience cheers again.

“Super obvious. I mean, the chemistry between the two of you…”

“Right,” he quickly brushes her comment off. “So, we shot that scene at, like, 3 in the morning. It was freezing, it was raining, we were tired, and we don’t really know what the writers have in store for the next season. So, I guess my emotions got the better of me, and Hook and Emma— Swan, that is— finally had that moment when feelings were admitted—”

More screaming, as Killian refers to the steamy make out scene that aired last week. “Oh, we remember!” Kelly shouts over the audience.

He laughs again, a blush rising over the tips of his adorably pointy ears as he continues. “So, yeah, shooting the final scene between the two of them, where Emma needs to leave Hook on the island to ensure Henry’s safety, it was really difficult because there was finally a chance for them, and that chance got ripped away and we don’t know what’s going to happen to Hook. And like I said, it was cold and late, and I guess that just got the better of me, so I went with it.”

“Well, I think I can say with confidence that the viewers are glad that you went with it. I mean, how sweet was that, Hook kissing Emma’s forehead so softly? It was adorable!” Even more screaming, and Emma thinks she can see Killian cringing just the slightest bit.

“Yeah,” he says softly, still blushing. Emma wants nothing more than to reach through the screen and grab him to plant a big fat kiss on his cheeks.

“It only works so well because of the chemistry between you and your costar, Emma Nolan.”

He nods, blush permanent on his features. “We’re close.”

“Any chance we could see the two of you as more than friends off screen?” Kelly’s smirking, and she audience goes absolutely insane and threatens to blow out Emma’s headphones.

“Not sure that you’ll ever see that. We’re just keeping things professional, Kelly. She and I are costars, first and foremost.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll back off,” she laughs, as does the audience. Killian’s is discernibly fake.

By the time the interview ends, Emma’s face is as red as she imagines Killian’s to be. She puts her iPad away and lies on the couch, covering her eyes with her arm and trying hard to relax before she has to go out on set. The season finale aired, and they’ve already started shooting for season five, which requires even more chemistry between Emma Swan and Captain Hook.

The polls don’t lie; the viewers were absolutely obsessed with Emma and Hook’s relationship. Captain Swan started trending internationally after the finale, when the writers made it clear that the relationship between Emma and Hook was beyond just physical. Of course, what helped that along was Killian’s accidental smooch to Emma’s face during shooting.

What was an accident born from emotional exhaustion ended up being edited into the scene, driving the nation crazy once it aired and absolutely blowing up both Emma and Killian’s social media accounts. Not only were fans of the show obsessing over Captain Swan, but they were now also suspecting that Emma and Killian were an item. Emillian was trending as well, and Emma couldn’t help but cringe each time she was tagged in a Tweet or an Instagram fan edit.

The thumps on her trailer door finally drag her out of her own head, and she shouts for the knocker to enter.

“Hi, love,” he says, making her heart race before she even saw his face.

“Hey.” She sits up from her position on the couch as he takes a seat on the chair across the trailer.

“Did you see it?” She nods. She wasn’t able to watch him shoot the interview live as he was when she was on the show, so she had to watch it when it aired along with the rest of the country.

“You always handle those questions well.”

“It’s getting a bit insane, though.” She nods in return, agreeing that the questions they're asked about their relationshipare becoming intrusive. “Milah talked to me just now.”

“Did she?”

“Aye, she congratulated me on the interview and the finale. Said my costume looked great.”

“I would hope so; she designed in.”

He chuckles, standing from the chair and taking a seat on the couch next to her. “She asked me to dinner.”

“Oh,” Emma responds, her heart falling into her stomach. “What, uh, what did you say?”

“I said my girlfriend probably wouldn’t like that.”

She stares at him, eyes wide, and is tempted to whack him across the chest. “No, you didn’t!”

He laughs, jumping playfully away from her as she does swat at him. “No, I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

“Killian,” she sighs, flopping her body down on the couch and covering her face with her arm again. “We can’t. What if something goes wrong and it messes with our on-screen relationship? Are you willing to risk your job over this?”

“Yes,” he deadpans at her, and when she moves her arm and looks at his face, she knows he’s serious.

“Killian—”

“I am. I’m in love with you. I'm tired of hiding it.”

Her face falls, her heart beating frantically and her chest burning. “I love you, too, but…”

“What are you so afraid of? That we won’t work out? Love, we’ve been together for almost two years. This is very Emma Swan behavior that you're displaying.” She laughs at his reference to her character’s emotional constipation and leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I know, I’m sorry. I just… I’ve never done this before.”

He kisses the top of her head gently before speaking. “It’s alright. I’m sorry I’m pushing you. We can wait. Just know that I love you and I’m all in. I know you're nervous that we might not work out, or that it would impact our jobs, but… I believe in us. I know we’re stronger than that. And I’ll wait as long as you wish for me to until you believe that, too.”

Dammit, she thinks. How could she not have fallen for him immediately after meeting him? She sighs against him and hoists herself up off the couch before planting herself on his lap, her legs straddling his and her face finding its usual spot in his neck. “I love you,” she says softly into his skin.

“I love you, Emma.” His arms run up and down her back, soothing and warming her simultaneously. “I’ve loved you since the moment I met you when I joined the show. I’ll never stop loving you.”

“Do you think we can still keep it professional if everyone knows we’re dating?”

“Aye,” he nods, and she can feel his chin scraping against the top of her head. “But I also think that a lot of people already suspect that we’re together, ever since my royal screw up on set.”

“That wasn’t so bad. I liked it.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and in her ear. “Not very professional, though.”

“Is it professional to seduce your costar in your trailer an hour before shooting?” she asks boldly, pressing her nose into his neck below his ear and tracing his pulse point with her tongue.

He’s growling, and the sound goes straight to her core as his firm hands find her backside and squeeze. “No, it’s not. But that hasn’t stopped you before.”

“It’s not going to stop me now, either.”

~~~~

“We should come clean,” she whispers into the air between them once she catches her breath. The couch wasn’t quite big enough for cuddling, but they do their best, with Emma’s back pressed into the back of the couch and Killian’s bare, fuzzy butt dangerously facing the door.

“You think? Are you ready for that?”

She shrugs. “Just… you're right. I want this with you. I'm in it for the long haul. I don’t know what I’m so afraid of.”

“It makes sense to be afraid, love. We don’t know how going public might impact our relationship.”

“Yeah, but… we are stronger than that. We’re stronger than whatever the fans or critics can throw at us. I love you, and I want to be with you.”

He’s grinning as he brushes his nose against hers before pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “You're sure?”

She nods. “I’m sure.”

~~~~

They wait until season five is about to air before posting an Instagram photo of Killian kissing Emma’s temple with the captain #Emillian. It trends for weeks. Views and ratings for the show skyrocket. Emma and Killian started attending interviews together, and she finds them to be pretty tolerable.  

~~~~

~~~~

i’m just tagging people who have been nice to me: 

@courtorderedcake @shireness-says @kmomof4 @gingerpolyglot @klynn-stormz @tohellwiththepancakes13 @emelizabeth88 @captain-emmajones @onceratheart18 @stahlop @itsfabianadocarmo @superchocovian @gingerchangeling @ilovemesomekillianjones

—

Emma plays a dozen gigs in Manchester and word begins to get out. On the band’s last night in town an A&R rep is in the audience, and when she wakes up the next morning she has a record deal. She should be happy, she knows; she is happy, thrilled in fact, but she can’t get those blue eyes out of her head, or the wistful note in his voice when he said her name. 

She goes back to London, back to the pub where they met. She goes with no hope or expectation, and when she sees Killian there at the bar her heart leaps and when she sits beside him and he grins in delight she feels like she’s come home.  

—

“I have a record deal,” she tells him, after. 

His whole face lights up. “That’s brilliant!” he says. “You’re brilliant.” 

She flushes at the praise and he takes her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “Emma,” he says, looking around the bland room they’re in. “Nothing against your taste in hotels, love, but I wonder if you would care to see my flat. It’s not much but it’s better than here.” 

It is. He lives in the attic of an old house, fitted with a tiny kitchen and tinier bathroom, and a bed that folds out from the faded sofa. 

“A garret!” She laughs. “Perfect for a starving actor.” 

“That’s exactly the aesthetic I was going for,” he says, laughing with her. He wraps an arm around her shoulders. “It suits an emerging musician as well.” 

She snuggles into his side. It does. 

—

They get married in a simple ceremony at the Southwark registry office; far too soon, his brother says with frowning disapproval and her parents Skype them from Maine to say the same, but they don’t care and they don’t listen. They are sure of each other, and deeply in love. 

The first few years are hard. Emma has to tour to promote her album and Killian takes every acting job he can, always hoping the next one will be his big break. The album is a huge success and the tour is extended; she is exhausted and burnt out and misses her husband, but she loves her music and the thrill of performing for the huge crowds, and they call each other every day, no matter what. His unwavering support keeps her going.  

—

Her fame grows and she begins to do interviews, answering probing questions about her music and her life. The interviewers don’t ask her if she’s married and she doesn’t volunteer the information. She doesn’t wear her wedding ring onstage —she doesn’t like anything on her fingers when she plays— and she allows people to keep the conclusions they draw. The interviews appear online and on television, and soon Killian starts to hear people talking about her. He beams with pride whenever someone says they like her music, and when the remarks touch on the personal he simply shrugs them off. People can be assholes, but he knows his wife. 

When her tour finally finishes they take a vacation— a month in the Seychelles, just the two of them in a beach hut with crystal blue water stretching out to the horizon. It is pure bliss; she unwinds for the first time in more than a year, and by the time they’re back in London the two of them are expecting a third. She tells her manager she’s taking a break to write some new songs and spends the next year in their tiny attic flat, playing her guitar and growing her baby, and watching her husband perform in his first lead role on the West End. People keep to themselves in the neighbourhood where they live, and if anyone recognises ‘the cultural heir of Nancy Wilson crossed with Jack White’ or ‘British theatre’s fastest-rising star’ the tabloids are not informed. 

They have never been happier. 

—

They’ve been married nearly five years when Killian’s big break finally comes. He lands a role in an American TV show and brings his family with him when he moves to Boston for filming. Emma’s on tour again but she Skypes him and the kids —they have two of them now— in their new place and tells them she can’t wait to be there. She tells him in private that his eyes look great on camera, as she always knew they would.

His new costars know he’s married, of course, he talks about his wife a lot but refers to her only as ‘Emma,’ a common enough name that no one thinks anything of it. The show is a breakaway hit and he finds himself suddenly famous, suddenly the focus of more female attention than even his handsome self is accustomed to, and fielding interview questions more probing than any he’s encountered before. He doesn’t hide his wedding ring but he also doesn’t mention who his wife is. His marriage is private, and there’s enough scrutiny on his personal life as it is. 

—

“You know who I’d really like for this role?” the lead showrunner says to Killian one day, discussing a new character being introduced in the show’s third season. “Emma Swan. Do you think she’d be interested in getting into acting?” 

He chokes on his coffee. “How would I know?” he asks cautiously. 

The showrunner shrugs. “I know you’re a fan of hers,” he says. “I’ve seen your Spotify. Anyway, it’s pure speculation. I think she has the perfect look for the character, but I’ve got no idea if she can act.” 

“Well, I’d love to work with Emma Swan,” says Neal Cassidy, the show’s secondary male lead. “Whether she can act or not, she’s a hell of a piece of ass. Nothing hotter than a chick who plays guitar.” 

Killian concentrates hard on not punching the man in his leering face. He’s had to listen to a lot of people talk about how hot his wife is over the years and most of the time it doesn’t bother him, even when the remarks veer into the lewd. But he’s never really clicked with Cassidy, and the idea of the smug arsehole trying it on with Emma makes his blood boil. 

“If she does join the show, I’m sure one way she’ll act is professionally,” he says stiffly. “And I’d hope the rest of us would too.” 

“Oooh hooo,” says Neal in a taunting singsong. “Someone’s got a little crush.” 

Killian gets up from the table and tosses his coffee cup in the trash with deliberate control. “If anyone needs me I’ll be in my trailer,” he says. 

—

“I had an interesting call from my manager today,” says Emma over dinner that night. “Apparently I’ve had an offer to read for a part on your show.” 

“Yeah,” Killian replies. “Bob was telling me he thinks you’d be perfect for the role. What do you think?” 

She shrugs. “Acting’s really your thing. I wouldn’t want to step on your toes.” He’s sure she means this, but there’s a wistfulness in her voice and he knows she’s getting tired of all the touring and would love something more stable that didn’t take her away from their kids. 

He reaches across the table to take her hand. “You wouldn’t be, love, you know that,” he says, smiling at her. “If this is something you really want to try, you should try it.” 

She smiles back, warm and soft. Her smile will be great on camera. “I think I will then,” she says. 

“Good.” 

She squeezes his hand. “I love you, Killian Jones.” 

“And I you, Emma Swan.” 

—

“Hey, hey, did you see her?” Neal elbows him in the ribs and once again Killian has to suppress the desire to respond with his fist. 

“Who?” he asks, though he knows the answer. 

“Emma Swan, bruh. She’s meeting with Bob right now. She walked right by me on the way to his office and lemme tell you, she’s even hotter in person, if you can believe it.” 

He thinks of his wife as he saw her that morning, all messy hair and tired eyes, cradling their youngest in her arms and singing softly to her as she nursed. “I can believe it,” he says. 

“Hair like that, man, you just wanna wrap it around your fist and pull—” Killian turns his back and stalks away before he can hear what Neal wants to pull, reminding himself firmly that beating up a costar is frowned upon in the industry, and he would like to work again once this show ends. 

He goes to his trailer and waits for Emma to finish her audition. Ten minutes later she slips through the door, flushed and glowing, and walks straight into his arms.  

“How did it go?” he asks, as if he can’t read the answer on her face. 

“They want me to start filming next week,” she replies, and her smile is radiant.  

“That’s brilliant!” He hugs her close, grinning into her hair. “You’re brilliant.” 

She leans back, studies his face. “And you’re sure you don’t mind, babe? I can still say no—” 

“Absolutely not, you’ve earned this and Bob’s right, the character is perfect for you. Though it does mean we’ll probably have to tell people we’re married.” 

She laughs. “Well, it’s been eight years now, I guess it’s about time we came clean. Plus it’s not like it’s a secret as such, it’s just something we’ve never told anyone before.” 

He joins in her laughter and then he kisses her, a sweet, soft kiss that soon turns hot. She’s never visited him on set before, of course, and he finds himself overwhelmed by the desire to make love to her here, in this place where he has spent long days of filming sitting alone and missing her.  

He lifts her onto the back of his armchair, pushing her skirt up her thighs so he can stand between them. She wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and grinds against him. They are lost in each other —this is how it’s always been between them— and neither of them hears the door to the trailer open or senses Neal’s slack-jawed presence until he manages to close his mouth and find his voice. 

“Son of a bitch!” he yells. 

Emma and Killian break apart and turn to glare at the intruder. 

“What the fuck, man?” shouts Neal. “Aren’t you married?”

“Aye, mate.” Killian is fuming, his jaw clenched and his eyes like shards of ice. “Allow me to introduce you to my wife. This is Emma.” 

Neal chokes and his eyes go wide as he clearly tries to remember just how disgustingly offensive he’s been about Emma Swan. 

“Look, man,” he stutters. “I’m sorry—” 

“No you’re not,” says Killian coldly. “But you are unwelcome. Kindly fuck yourself off now so my beautiful wife can fuck me.” He turns back to Emma, who pulls him in and resumes their kiss. 

Neal stumbles and nearly falls as he backs out of the trailer, still stuttering apologies, but they are too busy tearing off each other’s clothes to notice. 

—

They weren’t famous when they met, or when they married. But they are when they announce their relationship to a press and a public that goes mad over it. They’re at the top of every gossip site and trending on every social media network. Offers of joint interviews come pouring in, all of which they decline, which —people and the internet being what they are and what it is— only adds to their mystique. They are the story of the decade— for nearly an entire week, until Neal gets caught soliciting a prostitute who turns out to be an undercover cop, and everyone forgets about Emma Swan and Killian Jones. 

The host shows a picture from his Tony speech. “You won a Tony for playing Mr. Darcy.”

“So they tell me. My brother kidnapped the statue.”

(That’s only halfway true. Yes, Liam had taken the statue for a while, setting up a popular Instagram account to display all the places he took the golden figure. One of those places had been Henry’s 6th grade English class, turning her son into a middle school celebrity for a couple of months. Though bringing Liam and Killian along with the award probably had something to do with that, too.)

Emma can just spot the Tony now from where she sits, bookending a cluster of novels on the top shelf of the bookshelf in her and Killian’s apartment. It had been a little bittersweet, leaving her old apartment where she and Henry had both grown and flourished, but she and Killian had both agreed that they would need more space. It’s worth it, anyways, to wake up next to Killian every day in a place that’s theirs. Emma misses living next door to Elsa some days, but now that Henry’s fifteen her supervision isn’t quite so needed anymore anyways. It would have come to an end regardless when Elsa had moved in with Liam in his fancy apartment. Emma instead contents herself with the knowledge that Elsa’s job at the Met - her dream job, really - means she and Liam will be based in New York for the foreseeable future, even if the latter occasionally does have to leave for filming in other locations. Killian likes to joke about his brother and Elsa “living in sin”, like they hadn’t done the same thing, but it does mean they still get to see Liam and Elsa fairly often.

Her real Killian walks back into the living room at that point. “Oh Christ, not this drivel. Emma, I’m embarrassed enough as it is, let’s find something else to watch.” He may gripe and groan, but he still collapses onto the couch beside her, letting out an appreciative and exhausted sigh.

“Oh, I’m watching this, babe,” she replies, smiling over at Killian before burrowing her head into his side. She knows by this point that he’s all bark; he’s a pushover, really, especially where his family is concerned.

She must have missed the introduction of his latest movie project – an interesting project portraying Pan as the villain of Neverland with Killian playing Captain Hook as a misunderstood rogue – because there’s publicity stills up on the screen when she redirects her attention back that way.

“My stepson’s a little upset, really, because he had the idea first,” the Killian on the screen explains. “Which, trust me, was not the reaction I was hoping for.”

“Hey, that was almost funny,” Emma comments, nudging him in the side as the audience laughs.

“It’s embarrassing, is what it is,” Killian grouses. It must be that thing where actors don’t like seeing their own work - Emma’s read about that before. It’s not going to stop her from affectionately picking at him, though, and it’s not going to keep her from watching the whole thing.

“And on a personal note, does everyone remember this moment from last time?” Archie asks, cutting to the clip of Killian talking about a certain prickly and dedicated stage manager. When the camera cuts back, she knows what’s coming, and smiles when she feels Killian press a kiss to her head as the host pulls out a copy of their wedding photo. “Well good news to all those shipping that on the internet, because you two tied the knot!” The audience cheers, and as Emma watches televised Killian grin widely, she thinks that’s the most comfortable she’s ever seen him in an interview. “Now, how long have you two been married now?”

“Coming up on two years, three months from now.”

He’d proposed one evening when Emma had least expected it. They’d talked about marriage before - considering that they were living together and in a committed relationship, having that conversation seemed like the responsible thing to do - but it had been a lovely surprise all the same. Killian had been waiting with the ring when she got home from work on a Wednesday, on bended knee and everything in their little foyer with Henry filming just around the corner. Killian had explained later, after the yes and the ring and an awful lot of kissing, that it had seemed important to make his proposal a family affair and include Henry. He loves her son, just as much as he loves her (albeit in a different way); Emma knows that, but it still means a lot that he’d included her son in their major life moment in that way. Henry had been a part of their love story, after all.

(Emma suspects that there may have been a conversation between Killian and Henry before the proposal as well where Killian had asked her son for her hand, but neither of them has ever fessed up to it, and she’s okay with leaving that as a man-to-man moment if they prefer it.)

The wedding had been a low-key affair, much to Mary Margaret’s dismay - just a little courthouse ceremony. Emma had never been the big white wedding type, though, had never had those dreams as a child. Now that she’s faced with the opportunity for all that, she finds that she doesn’t really want or need it. At the end of the day, they just want to be married; they love each other, almost to distraction, and waiting any longer than absolutely necessary feels like too great a burden.

Still, they’d done it up as much as the quick circumstances allowed. Emma had bought a clearance wedding dress that swished around her calves, and Killian had taken Henry to get a nice suit - his first, the sleeves and legs given extra length to be let out as the growth spurt from hell inevitably continued so they could get more than one use out of the damn thing. They had even arranged for a bouquet and boutonnières, even if Emma doesn’t know anything about flowers. As soon as Liam had arrived back in the city from filming in Atlanta, they had gathered all their friends and family on a dark Monday and made it official.

Henry stood as Best Man. Mary Margaret cried. Ruby wolf-whistled. And Emma had never been happier as Killian dipped her into a dramatic kiss.

“Are you happy, my love?” he’d whispered into her ear later at Granny’s. The older woman had gladly donated her diner for the reception, closing for the occasion so they could all eat cake and dance to jukebox hits.

“What do you think?” she’d quipped right back, before laughing and drawing him down into a kiss. It feels like they’ve come full circle; it feels like home.

(She may still be Emma Swan professionally, but there’s a certain thrill to hearing Mrs. Jones.)

“And one more thing…” Archie continues on the TV, drawing Emma’s attention back to the screen. If possible, televised Killian grins even wider: if what she thinks is about to happen is actually about to happen, she doesn’t blame him in the least. “… You two had a little girl.” The photo on the screen is a sweet one of her little fingers curled around Killian’s thumb. Emma knows it well; it hangs in the nursery, right next to the rocker where Emma’s lately been spending what feels like half her nights.

“We did. She just turned five months old last week.”

“And her name? If you guys are ok to announce it.”

“Hazel Elizabeth Jones.” The audience aws, which the tiny baby propped in her Papa’s arms here in their living room seems to find objectionable as she starts squirming and snuffling. “Emma and I thought it would be appropriate to pay homage to the show where we met.”

They’d had it in mind from the start, ever since they’d found out they were having a girl. There’d been a good bit of debate and waffling back and forth about the first name, but they’d always agreed on Elizabeth for the middle. Hazel hadn’t actually been on the shortlist, just something that’d they’d discussed and put aside, but then she’d arrived - six pounds four ounces, dark hair, loud cry, perfect, and it had just… fit. If there’s one thing Emma’s learned since Killian, it’s not to question a good thing.

Parenting now, 15 years after her first child, is both easier and harder. There’s an exhaustion that comes with age that’s only compounded by caring for an infant. It helps though, more than she can ever describe, to have a partner in this, not to mention a secure housing and financial situation. Killian’s a great dad - to both her children, really - and it’s a particular joy to watch him with their baby.

“You’re okay, lass, you’re okay,” he murmurs now, bouncing their daughter against his chest to attempt to calm her down. It works, thank God; Henry’s been great about all the changes in their lives and is lucky enough to sleep through almost everything, but Emma still doesn’t like taking that chance on a school night.

“Little drama queen,” Emma murmurs affectionately, tweaking a little sock-clad foot. She’d forgotten just how tiny everything about babies is somewhere in the decade and a half between Henry and Hazel, but has loved rediscovering it.

“Maybe she’ll be an actor like Papa one day,” Killian suggests, quirking a teasing eyebrow in Emma’s direction.

She snorts. “Not if Mom has any say in it.”

“What, you don’t think we need more actors in this family?” His tone conveys mock-insult, but Emma can see that twinkle in his eye that means he’s joking.

“Nah, she’s gonna be a techie. I can feel it.”

Emma can faintly hear Archie offerings his congratulations and asking about Killian’s upcoming turn as Harold Hill in a televised performance of The Music Man, but she’s not really paying attention anymore, too preoccupied with this moment with her little family. Maybe that was Killian’s devious plan all along - distract her from his talk show appearance with their very cute baby. She can’t really complain about that.

“Ah, well, I suppose I can’t argue that,” he concedes. “Not when her mother’s so brilliant at it.”

Even after all this time, a compliment from Killian can still make her blush. He knows it, too, which only makes him do it more. She loves that about him, though. Suddenly, it seems very important that she express that very fact.

“I love you, Killian.” She’s said it hundreds, thousands of times before, but it still strikes her with wonder every time, just how much she loves the man sitting next to her.

“I love you too, my Swan,” he replies, placing a careful kiss on her lips while trying not to jostle the baby.

Though Emma knew accepting that stage managing job almost five years ago now would change her life, she never imagined in a million years that she’d end up here, with a husband and baby and her son sleeping just down the hall in a life better than she ever could have fathomed.

Who could really blame her, though? Day after day, she spent time on his handsome features, getting up close and personal and taking pride in making him the face of the popular television show. Everyday, she got to gaze into his baby blue eyes while applying his eye makeup, she got to admire his pretty lips and imagine what it would be like to feel them against her own instead of her makeup brush. She would lick her lips without even realizing it. She may have even drooled once or twice. In fact, she was surprised he's never slipped and fell when he sat up from his chair. She had maintained self-control somehow throughout their sessions. It was very difficult though. In fact, it was one of the most difficult things she's ever done… or tried to do.

Then, without even flinching, she threw months of self-containment out the window when he confessed his own desires for her. Killian Jones could literally have any woman he wanted and he chose her! Okay, she was not flailing her hands like one of his googly-eyed fans… at least not on the outside. But it felt unreal and she acted in the moment, not allowing herself to overthink anything and pass up the opportunity to kiss the adored and loveable ‘Captain Hook’. And it didn't help that it had been three whole years since she'd been with a man. Her last breakup was scarring and messy and she had sworn off the entire species altogether. Especially those whom she worked with.

It was never a good idea getting involved with an actor. Too much drama and jealousy and gossip. Neither were things that she cared for nor needed in her already hectic and busy life. If Emma had any doubts, she could just ask Milah, Killian's ex-girlfriend who broke up with him because she was too worried about him developing romantic feelings for his castmates, especially Rose Green, who played Tinkerbell and had an on-screen romance with Killian's character.

The thing that had ultimately ended the relationship was a tweet made by Rose about ‘Captain Fairy’ that was taken completely out of context and reached various articles, pouring gasoline into the fire that was already burning and falsely announcing the two as a real-life couple. Killian denied any feelings for Rose but Milah would rather believe the tabloids and gossip over her own boyfriend.

Oh well; it was her loss. Emma felt a little devilish for being able to reap the benefits. Although a scorching kiss and a coffee date could hardly be considered as ‘reaping the benefits’. Not when Emma was craving something more fulfilling with the gorgeous actor.

It was Sunday morning when Killian came by her trailer to take her out for coffee. Emma's stomach was in knots. She was glad that she had a day to rest before her date with the actor. After their long week of shooting and the usual really, really late Friday night, she was happy to be able to have a day to refresh before being seen in public, especially with Killian.

“You look absolutely stunning, Swan.” Killian's smile made her heart melt and his words made her cheeks turn red as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. Although she was sure she didn't look stunning. She was wearing blue jeans and a white tank top under her red, leather jacket.

“Thanks.” She grinned back shyly as they started to leave. She would tell him he looked good himself in his tight jeans and black leather jacket, his hair disheveled careselessy but oh so perfectly, but she was sure he already knew that.

They went to a quaint cafe and ordered their coffees, settling into one of the tables. Some of the girls were gushing as they walked in and seen Killian. The gentleman that Killian was smiled and waved at them, but for the most part he kept his attention focused on Emma.

“My apologies, love. Perhaps I should have taken to you to dinner, somewhere more quiet.”

“It's okay,” she smiled. “I knew what I signed up for when I agreed to this.”

“Aye, but still, you deserve much better than this. I just figured we'd take baby steps.” Killian scratched behind his ear, flashing her a shy smile. “I've been wanting to ask you out for a very long time, I've just been too nervous.”

Emma's smile grew into a teasing smirk and leaned in, resting her elbows on that table as she folded her arms. “You mean the Killian Jones gets nervous around the lasses? I don't believe it.”

He leaned in, gazing into her eyes. “No… not all of the lasses… just you,” he whispered softly as their lips were drawn in like magnets and became only centimeters apart.

“Killian Jones! Oh my god!”

Emma and Killian both turned their attention to a group of teenage girls who looked like there were between thirteen and fifteen years old and were about to combust as they approached the table, trying to keep themselves in check.

“Can we have your autograph?” One of the girls asked shyly, her cheeks beet red with blush. Killian smiled coyly and looked across at Emma who was rolling her eyes inwardly but encouraging him with a nod and a smile.

“Alright loves.” Killian got up and took the black sharpy that was offered to him.

“Oh my god, he called us love!” One of the girls squealed, fanning herself with her hand and looked as though she might faint.

Killian signed the items that were offered. A few of them had DVDs of his series and carried them around, waiting for such an opportunity like this. The other girls had him sign a hat or a napkin or even their hand. Killian made small talk with them and seemed to enjoy the attention as Emma tried to keep from laughing. Then, as soon as all of them each had something signed by Killian, another group of girls approached, wanting autographs and Emma soon got annoyed. This is what she got for dating a celebrity.

Finally, she sighed heavily and stood up, tapping Killian's shoulder. “Could I get an autograph too?”

He turned around and gave her an apologetic look, but before he could say anything, she looked down and pulled down the top of her tank top, exposing a small amount of her breast. “Hmm… I think right here will do.”

She lifted her head, trying to hide the smirk from her lips as his mouth fell agape but still managed to step closer to her. “Of course, love.”

The girls pouted and sulked off as Killian lifted the marker to her breast and rested his other hand on her waist as he started to sign his name. Emma lost a breath as he focused on his task, or her breast rather, seeming to take his sweet time. Not that she was complaining. He wetted his lips in deep concentration as he drew the loops and scribbles of his name on her skin and she couldn't stop herself from imagining other enjoyable activities he could be engaging in that involved his tongue, hands and her breasts.

“How's that, love?” He removed his hand and the felt tip from her skin and she exhaled the breath she wasn't even aware she had been holding, instantly feeling cold from the loss as she looked down at his signature.

“Perfect.”

He raised a flirty eyebrow, his lips growing into a smirk as he stared at ‘his handy work’. “I'd certainly say so.”

Emma couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips and blushed, covering up her breast again as he put cap on the marker. “If you think this makes up for interrupting our date, you've got another thing coming,” she teased.

“Ah, so this is a date now?” he asked playfully.

Emma pursed her lips, pondering his words as she grabbed her hot cocoa from the table. “On second thought, a date requires the other person's full and undivided attention.” She took a sip of the hot liquid, tasting the whipped cream, cinnamon and chocolate before licking her lips and walking away as he grabbed his coffee and followed behind her.

“You're absolutely right, Swan. I guess I will have to make it up to you by taking you out to dinner next Saturday,” he said as he caught up to her and eyed her with a wink.

Still, it’s a good thing she’s got a good grip on Killian, because she needs that grounding when Pride & Prejudice is announced as the winner. She hears the words, knows what they mean, but that doesn’t help her brain process the declaration at all. The applause is so loud and this means - well this means everything to Emma: professionally, emotionally, possibly spiritually if the actualizing of all of Mary Margaret’s hope speeches can be counted as Emma’s religion. It’s hard in the moment for her mind to wrap itself around the fact that they’ve won, that she’s part of the team responsible for a Tony Award winning show.

Emma’s on autopilot when she stands up to let Mary Margaret and David through to reach the stage, but Killian tugs her out into the aisle instead.

“Aren’t you coming, Swan?” he grins, his intent obvious.

“Oh, I don’t know —” Emma demurs, but Killian is already tugging her up the aisle.

“It’s your baby too,” he whispers as they reach the stairs up to the stage, carefully handing her onto the first steps so she doesn’t trip. He has a point. After his lovely speech, too, it seems stupid not to just get up there and bask in the applause for a few moments.

Merlin gives the acceptance speech, but honestly, Emma doesn’t hear most of it. The lights are so bright and the ambient noise of the crowd so much louder than she anticipated that it’s overwhelming. Emma’s never been more glad that her job is in the shadows and the corners of the theater most people will never see, if only to avoid the hundreds of intense stares in her direction. It feels that way, at least, even if Emma consciously knows they’re just looking at the stage in general, and most likely at Merlin at the microphone. Still, it’s mildly terrifying, and Emma’s grateful for the gentle pressure of Killian’s hand on her back.

The real benefit of winning the last award of the night - besides the obvious perk of, you know, winning - is that all those gathered on stage for the acceptance speech get ushered off into the wings and towards the press, avoiding the masses all trying to file out down Radio City’s aisles. Merlin’s speech may have been one of the shortest of the night or one of the longest - Emma doesn’t really know for sure, far too preoccupied with trying to process the significance of the moment - but the crowd roars its applause again as the play-off music swells and Killian starts to gently steer her offstage. Emma doesn’t mind, she’s fine to go; there’s so much going on that it’s kind of nice to have someone else to direct her.

They’re barely clear of exiting cast, crew and producers before Killian’s excitement bubbles over and he sweeps Emma off her feet, whooping and twirling around in a circle. It must look very dramatic, well suited to the venue. His Best Actor trophy digs a little into her back, and Emma knows he’d be deeply apologetic if she complained, but truthfully, she’s too caught up in the joy of the moment to care overly much.

“Can you believe it, Swan?” he asks with a smile stretching from ear to ear, before continuing without waiting for an answer. “God, this is all just… Gods.”

“I know!” Emma laughs. Maybe to anyone else his sentence wouldn’t have made sense, but she hears enough of the surprise and pride and pure elation to know that she shares the sentiment, even if neither one of them can quite put it into words.

“We couldn’t have done it without you, you know,” he says, purposefully making eye contact to drive home his point, though he still smiles like a happy maniac. “I wasn’t kidding, this is your baby too. No one deserved to be on that stage more than you.”

Emma’s stomach suddenly flips. She’s wanted to talk to Killian since his touching speech, but now she’s struck with nerves. This is the moment though, even if there are still people milling about. Looking at his joy, however, restores some of her calm. It’s miraculous how much his smile can achieve.

“Speaking of,” she starts, “I just wanted to say — ”

Before she can get any further, her phone starts buzzing insistently in her handbag. It’s undoubtedly Henry; God, she loves her kid, but his timing really needs work. Groaning, she retrieves the device from her purse, noting that it is indeed her son. “Sorry, I’ve just got — ” she starts to explain.

“Not to worry, love,” Killian replies genially, his face settling into a fond expression. Emma’s not sure whether it’s affection for herself or for Henry or for both, but she loves that expression regardless, and all that it signifies.

She’s barely connected the call before Henry begins shrieking on the other end, so loud that she has to keep the phone pulled back from her ear and Killian laughs. “You won! You won, you won, you won!” Henry cheers. Emma can practically picture him in her mind’s eye, bouncing around Elsa’s living room in his excitement.

“Yeah, we did, kid,” Emma laughs right back once she can finally get the phone safely near her ear. “How do you feel about that? I can’t tell,” she teases. Killian’s being directed towards where the press awaits by an insistent theater employee as she talks, the moment she thought she’d grasped slipping even further away. I’ll be back, he mouths, quickly tossing up a hand in a little wave.

Meanwhile, Henry continues on the other end of the phone call. “This is so cool!” he gushes. “Did you touch the statue? Can you bring it home so I can show all my friends? Is there, like, a certificate too or something?”

“Slow down, kid,” Emma says, but it’s probably a lost cause. Emma doesn’t blame him; this is a big moment, and she’d probably be doing the same thing in his shoes. “Killian let me hold his earlier, but I haven’t touched the show award yet. I don’t know what will happen with the show statue, but I bet it will be at the theater for your friends to come see. Otherwise maybe Robin or Killian will let us borrow theirs. I don’t actually know if there’s a certificate, but I can probably find out.”

“Is Killian there? Can I talk to him? Liam wants to talk to him too.” Emma can’t help but smile fondly as she remembers Henry’s starstruck reaction to Liam Jones only a few months ago; now, you’d never know. That’s her son, though, ready and determined to make friends with everyone that crosses his path.

“Killian is actually doing press stuff right now, but I’ll make sure he calls his brother later. Now in the meantime… don’t you have your last Monday of school tomorrow? I think it’s time for bed.”

“Mom,” Henry whines, but Emma won’t be swayed. It is approaching 11:30 pm after all; he’s only been allowed to stay up this long because it’s a special occasion.

“Nope, none of that,” she chides back. “Go get ready for bed, we’ll do the full recap tomorrow. I bet you’ll realize how tired you are when you crawl under the covers.”

“Fine,” he huffs. “But you’d better tell me everything.”

“I promise. Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Mom. I’m happy you won.”

“Thanks, Henry. I am too.”

———

Killian’s probably less chatty in his interviews than the red carpet reporters would prefer - not to mention the show’s publicity department - but he’s too anxious to find Emma again to bother with more. She’d had a look on her face right before Henry called, one that said she was about to say something significant, and he’s itching to know what it was. He’d bet money it was about his speech, but he’s got less of a guess about what she’d have to say on the subject. He hopes it would be a thank you - not because he did it for the gratitude, but because that would mean she has accepted that her own role deserves thanking and attention and recognition, accepted that she plays an integral role not just anyone could fill. If her initial reluctance to join everyone onstage to accept the award for Best New Musical is any indication, though, he’s afraid that might not be the case.

By the time he makes it through press, she’s already waiting for the cars with the rest of their group except Belle, who must still be making her way through the crowds herself. It seems slightly ridiculous to Killian that they’re driving the few blocks instead of just walking ten minutes to the Plaza for the official afterparty, but then again, he’s not the one wearing high heels. They would have looked a little absurd walking down the messy streets of New York in their formal wear anyways.

“Hey, you survived the masses,” Emma teases. He wants to know what she was going to say, demand she continue right now, but Killian knows it’s not the right moment; not here, in front of all their friends.

“I did,” he replies instead, smiling at Emma. With those lovely heels she’s got on, it’s less of a downwards motion tonight; they’re almost level in height, though he’s still got an inch or two on her. “Not to jinx myself, but I think I may actually be getting the hang of this public speaking thing.”

Emma snorts at that. “Yeah, that’s what the statue says,” she replies dryly, though the smile creases around her eyes and mouth say that she knew he meant the interviews, not the acting. “You should call your brother, by the way.”

“I will once we get into the car,” he promises. “Less noise that way.”

As if summoned by magic, the first of the SUVs appears just then, pulling up to the curb. The idea of getting out of this mass of people - or at least getting to the next mass of people who will inevitably be waiting in front of the Plaza for pictures before they enter the afterparty - is appealing, but Killian also doesn’t want to leave the rest of their party behind. Belle’s still working her way through the press line, the bright flowers of her yellow dress only just visible when Killian turns back to look, and God only knows how long it will take for her to break free. It feels rude to abandon Will, Mary Margaret, and David, just because his own ride is here and waiting.

He should have counted on Mary Margaret having other ideas though. “Go,” she smiles, “I can tell you’re ready to get out of here.”

“We’re fine waiting, it’s really not a big deal,” Killian tries to protest - albeit weakly - but Mary Margaret just waves him off in a little shooing motion.

“We’ll be fine, I promise,” she assures him.

“It’s really best not to argue with her,” Emma sighs, though there’s obvious affection in her voice. “Mary Margaret may look sweet, but she gets her way in the end.”

And really, who is he to argue with that? Especially if it would be pointless anyways.

Killian gladly hands Emma up into the interior of the SUV, clambering up after her and trying not to step on her dress as they squeeze into the very back row, Regina and Robin climbing in right after. Emma slips out of those lovely heels as soon as she’s seated, letting out a borderline inappropriate groan of relief as her toes and arches are freed from the contortions they’ve been forced into. Killian doesn’t blame her for that - even if they’ll be in the car for less than ten minutes, he’s sure every one of them feels heavenly.

(It’s a little hard to concentrate when she makes those noises, though.)

“God, that feels good,” she sighs. It doesn’t help matters in the least. His face must make quite the picture, as Emma huffs a little laugh in the back of her throat when she looks in his direction, her mouth quirking up at the corners in a poorly-suppressed smile. “Are you going to call Liam?”

It takes an embarrassing moment for the words to process, and Killian has to actually shake his head to settle his thoughts back into order. Well done, Killian. “Yes, yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll do that now.”

Liam picks up on the first ring, which makes Killian think he was just waiting for the call. “Congratulations, brother!”

“Thanks, Liam,” he replies bashfully. It’ll take some getting used to, hearing all the congratulations for his work, but it’s something Killian thinks that he could get used to. Not that there’s much of a choice there - as long as he’s got this statue, there will now be people applauding his having received it. “Were you able to see everything on TV?” It’s admittedly a stupid question, but it will hopefully turn the conversation back away from him. In the adjacent seat, Emma rolls her eyes like she knows exactly what he’s doing. She probably does, frankly.

So does Liam, unfortunately. “Yes we were, but this isn’t about me, Killy,” his older brother reminds him. “Now tell me, how does it feel to have won?”

“It feels pretty damn fantastic,” Killian admits. It’s the first time he’s said that and really meant it; with the press, it was just convenient words to say, and the ones they wanted to hear anyways. No one wants to hear a celebrity try to work through their muddled feelings on the red carpet when anyone else would be immediately thrilled.

“It’s well deserved, Brother, I promise. How’d Emma react to that speech?”

Killian has to force himself not to look in Emma’s direction at the question, needlessly paranoid it would give something away. “Don’t know.”

“She’s sitting right there, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Well get back to her, get back to her!” Liam urges. “If that speech didn’t impress her, she’s crazy, and Emma Swan doesn’t strike me as crazy.”

“Oh my God, shut up, Liam,” Killian hisses into the phone. Emma’s quietly chuckling next to him; at least someone is enjoying this. “Go back to your date or whatever, I’ll talk to you later.”

“It is not a date — ” his brother starts to protest, but Killian disconnects the call before Liam can take the excuse any further.

“Liam pulling your pigtails?” Emma asks.

“He’s a piece of work,” Killian grumbles right back, much to Emma’s amusement as she lets out another peal of laughter. That gets him to smile at least; she’s always been able to do it, like a special superpower.

“He loves you,” she points out, and well, that’s true too.

“Yeah. I know he does.”

As if on cue, Killian’s phone buzzes inside his jacket’s breast pocket.

I’m proud of you, Kil. Have a great time with your girl.

Any lingering annoyance with Liam melts away immediately. That’s all he’s ever wanted, after all, ever since he was a little kid: to make his brother proud. Liam’s always been his hero, so that’s the highest compliment that can be paid to him.

Killian tucks his phone away with a new sense of peace and happiness about him, conveniently just as the car pulls up to the hotel.

“You ready for more?” Emma asks, bending nearly in half to secure her stilettos once again.

He’d rather have that conversation with Emma, but it’s still not the moment for that, not with a crowd of people waiting for him to make an appearance. For now, they’re just here for a celebration. As such, there’s really only one answer to her question.

“Lead on, Swan.”

———

She probably should have figured that the afterparty would be boring. After all, the executives aren’t exactly known for being a rolicking good time. That’s the actors.

It’s not awful, it’s just kind of… bland. The music is perfectly acceptable, but no one wants to dance. The food is fine, but not exceptional. It honestly seems like most of the money has been spent on decorations, and whatever trendy vibe they were going for manages to clash spectacularly with the staid, old money aesthetic that exemplifies the Plaza Hotel.

There are highlights too, of course - namely the way Killian sticks by her side like glue all night, one hand always tangled in her fingers or wrapped around her waist. Whenever their eyes meet, Killian seems on guard, like he’s waiting for her to tell him to stop, but Emma never does. She never wants to. So instead, she just smiles, and turns back to the party.

The people make up for it, somewhat. Her own little crew keeps her smiling and laughing, and at a party like this, there’s plenty of famous faces around who all seem to want to congratulate Killian. It starts feeling like a bizarre fever dream, meeting all these celebrities she usually only sees in magazines. Everyone is perfectly nice, of course - Emma’s particularly happy to discover that Lin-Manuel Miranda really is the friendliest man alive, and tries not to geek out too much when Matthew Broderick comes up to graciously congratulate the man who beat him and ends up shaking her hand like it’s a totally normal thing to do and not one of the highlights of Emma’s life.

Killian’s off getting them drinks when Merlin sidles up beside Emma. “Hey, congratulations!” she says as soon as she notices him; in addition to accepting the award for Best Musical on their behalf, he’d also been recognized for his directing.

“And you as well!” he wishes her in return with a wide smile on his face. This just might be the happiest Emma has ever seen him. It’s a little odd to see her director in such a celebratory mood - though Merlin is certainly enthusiastic and generally happy, this is something else altogether.

Still, Emma’s not sure she deserves his congratulations. “I don’t know about that,” she hedges with a smile on her face, not outright rejecting the sentiment but not fully embracing it either.

That visibly perturbs Merlin, a little serious frown etching itself onto his mouth. “I’m not sure you’re aware of exactly how indispensable a role you’ve played, Emma. It takes a certain kind of person to not just do your job, but do it well. And with the way you anticipate problems, you’re possibly the best I’ve worked with,” he states confidently, heedless of the blush spreading across her cheeks. “Anyhow, what’s the saying? It takes a village? I think that could be applied to a show as well. And you’ve done a lot to keep the villagers from running around in circles like madmen,” Merlin confides, chuckling a little at his own joke.

Emma’s never been good at accepting praise, probably due to lack of opportunity in her youth, but it still means something to hear that from her director, her boss. “Thanks. That, uh… that means a lot,” she finally settles on.

“I speak only the truth,” Merlin replies. “Now, I know this is a ways out - several years, most likely - but a friend of mine is working on a new musical, a madcap murder caper. I don’t suppose you’d be interested? Availability permitting, of course, and we’d discuss it further once things became definite, but I think we’ve made a good team.”

Emma remembers Robin’s words from all those months ago, about how directors like to work with an established team. Now that it seems like that may actually be developing, she’ll have to thank him for his wisdom and encouragement. “I’d love that. Keep me in the loop.”

“Excellent. I’ll let you get back to your date,” he excuses as Killian returns with a pair of champagne flutes, “but really, congratulations. It’s been such a pleasure working together.”

Emma flushes an even deeper pink as Merlin walks away, but there’s a grin there too.

“Good news?” Killian asks as he hands her a drink.

Emma laughs a little, mostly to herself, before quipping, “I think I might have made it, kid.”

“I never had a doubt.”

———

They somehow end up in Granny’s diner at the end of the night. It’d probably been inevitable, really; it seems like so many of his and Emma’s milestones along the way to where they are now - wherever they are - have happened in that restaurant. It doesn’t hurt either that the food at the official afterparty is boring buffet fare, and Granny’s is open 24 hours. The lady herself has long since gone to bed - it is one in the morning - but the kitchen is more than happy to send out a variety of burgers and fries and grilled cheeses with onion rings. Emma has seemed slightly on edge all night, though happy; Killian is eternally grateful that she was able to accompany him and witness their win herself, but he knows the awards weren’t quite her scene. Here, in Granny’s corner booth with a dollop of whipped cream on her nose from her oreo shake, she’s more in her element, laughing with their friends and sticking her tongue out at him when he swipes the whipped cream off.

(God, he loves her.)

His heart does a happy little jig when Emma rests her head on his shoulder as hot drinks and slices of pie are distributed, though he does his best to play it cool. Still, Killian can’t resist the urge to wrap his arm around her waist, both to support her and to tug her just a little bit closer. If the little sigh Emma exhales onto his shoulder is any indication, she’s not opposed either.

She wasn’t supposed to fall asleep, though; that was never something Killian had anticipated happening. Part of him doesn’t want to wake her back up. Emma looks so peaceful in sleep, her features fully relaxed and serene, and it seems like such a shame to disturb that. They’re closing in on three in the morning, however, and as much joy as Killian takes from having Emma Swan nestled against him, her own bed must be so much more comfortable than this booth and his bony shoulder.

“Swan,” he whispers at first. That’s not particularly successful; Emma hums a little half-asleep sound, but makes no attempt to make her way back to wakefulness. Indeed, she tries to burrow her face further into his flesh. It’s endearing, certainly, and cute beyond words, but not particularly helpful. “Swan,” he repeats, “you’ve got to wake up.” A little nudgey shrug is more successful, causing Emma to finally lift her head with bleary eyes and her brows furrowed in confusion.

“What time is it?” she slurs, stretching in a way that does not accentuate her bust in the least.

“Nearly 3 am. Can I walk you home?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she yawns.

“I think it’s about time we were all heading home,” Mary Margaret cuts in, sliding out of the vinyl booth seat. Will and Belle already departed almost an hour ago, off to their own celebrations that Killian would rather not know more about, and Robin had left immediate after they were done eating to pick Roland up, but Ruby, Regina, Mary Margaret, and David had all stuck it out - though David looks like he’s about to fall asleep on the tabletop as well. There’s hugs all around as everyone piles into various cabs, but finally, it’s just Killian and Emma - just the way he’s wanted all night. They’ve both got things to say, Emma especially, and Killian’s ready to listen to all of it.

———

The night is peaceful, just the two of them - at least as far as that’s possible in a busy city of millions. The more Emma thinks about it, the more she thinks that the peace she feels is less due to the time or location, and more due to some inner serenity. It sounds ridiculous to think of it like that, but that seems to make the most sense. She’s happy; that’s what matters.

Her apartment is only a few blocks away, so without any verbal agreement or further discussion, Killian and Emma both set out walking in that direction instead of hailing a cab. She doesn’t need escorting home, not really, but she’d happily accepted all the same for the chance to spend a little more time in Killian’s company. It will give them a chance to talk uninterruptedly, anyways, if Emma can bring herself to upset their current harmony. She’s not nervous about it anymore, far from it; still, in the midst of such a perfect moment, it’s hard to bring herself to interrupt it with something so silly as talking.

Emma’s just preparing to break the silence herself when Killian jumps in first. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” he asks softly, a gentle smile playing across his lips as he looks towards the skyline.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Emma’s not talking about the weather. She thinks Killian might not be either. Quickly, she plows ahead with her intended speech before they both get lost in another moment again. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you, Killian. For tonight, and the speech - God, especially that speech - and… everything. Thank you.”

“Oh, Swan, that’s nothing you need to thank me for,” he replies, blushing red and letting his hand steal away to that nervous spot on his neck again.

“Yeah, there is,” she insists right back. “You didn’t have to do that.”

That catches Killian’s attention, his body suddenly snapping back upright from the bashful position it had curled into. “Of course I did,” he says. There’s a fire in his gaze that wasn’t there before, that Emma usually only sees at the theater when he’s passionate about what he’s doing. “I know you don’t do this for the thanks, but I see all the work you put in every day. Hell, some days you hold this entire thing together through sheer force of will. All without any thanks.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “I didn’t do it for your thanks. I did it because you deserve to be thanked. I think we all know I’m not exactly an unbiased source,” he chuckles wryly, “but what you do, day in and day out, is amazing. You’re amazing, and brilliant, and… I just wanted everyone to know that. Yourself included.”

It amazes Emma, most days, the fierceness of what Killian feels for her. To hear him speak, you’d think she was an angel sent to earth, a powerful goddess walking amongst mortals, the most amazing thing he’s ever encountered. It’s even more awe-inspiring to realize that that’s exactly how he sees her.

The thing is, the way Emma sees Killian isn’t much different. Maybe she wouldn’t get so melodramatic in her descriptions the way he might - she’s never been one to use the word “angel” anyways - but she’d readily call him one of the kindest, most thoughtful men she knows, and more than deserving of all the good things that have come his way.

“Now, I don’t mean - please don’t take what I’m about to say as a demand for thanks, because it’s not, I didn’t say all those things for the thanks,” he continues, fully babbling now, “but I was just wondering - well, you see, I like you, Emma, really like you, rather halfway in love if I’m placing all my cards on the table - and I know I’ve asked before, but so much has changed, and… well, to borrow the quote, my affections and wishes are unchanged,” he grins a little at his joke, albeit somewhat nervously. The silly man. “I suppose what I’m getting at, what I’m wondering — ”

Emma doesn’t wait to find out what he’s wondering, however, even if she’s pretty sure she knows what’s coming. Too impatient to wait any longer for him to collect his thoughts - can that boy ever ramble - she surges up suddenly to pull his face down to hers and mash their lips together, one hand sliding into his hair to tug and caress the strands the way she’s wanted to for longer than she’s willing to admit. Weeks, for sure; probably months. Whatever the case, the moment is now, and she’s going to revel in every bit of it.

Though Killian is initially caught off guard, emitting a little shocked grunt (Emma would kill for photographic evidence of it, imagining cartoonish popped eyes and pinwheeling arms), he relaxes into the kiss almost immediately. Maybe if Killian was initiating, their kiss would be a gentle, deliberate thing; that’s the way she’s always imagined it, at least. Emma’s the one in charge though, so this kiss is fierce, hungry, almost desperate. She wants to learn all of it, all at once - the way he sounds when she nips at his lip or sucks at his tongue, whether he likes it when she pulls on the hair at the nape of his neck (and oh, if those groans and moans are indication, he does, he absolutely does), all of it. Killian seems much of the same mind as his hands settle possessively at her hips, thumbs tracing along the sheer panel at her midriff as his head tilts and readjusts in a quest for the perfect angle at which to explore her mouth. It’s the realization of months and months of longing and repressed feelings and they slam together, pressed tight against each other’s fronts as their mouths practically meld into one, and it’s perfect.

They finally break apart when more than the quickest gulps of air become necessary, but Emma’s hand slips down to grip Killian’s lapel - for stability or comfort or whatever else she doesn’t know, but it somehow feels necessary for her continued existence. “That was…”

“Yeah, it was,” he replies, before letting out a laugh - a joyful, winded sound. “God, what was that? You didn’t even let me get out the question,” he teases gently.

Even his ribbing can’t wipe the smile off her face, though. “You were taking too long,” she shrugs, mindlessly nosing at his neck. It’s a new frontier, one she looks forward to kissing and nibbling once she gets a second wind.

“Ah, well, forgive me. This seems a little redundant now, but I don’t suppose you’d want to get a cup of coffee sometime?” He’s obviously aware of the sense of deja vu from his first attempt at this, grinning madly with a twinkle in his eye.

“What do you think?” Emma whispers in reply, drawing him back down for another round of kissing.

“Killian is my colleague and my friend and a complete professional,” Emma lists patiently. Her tone is probably veering more towards long-suffering than patient, if she’s being honest, but it’s warranted in her opinion. “Which is, you know, why he said that in the interview.”

“Sure,” Henry replies, clearly unimpressed. Emma’s going to need to have words with Ruby, because Henry definitely did not get that side-eye from her. “Whatever you say, Mom.”

(The sass, though - he definitely got that from her.)

Know-it-all children aside, Emma’s having a good week - good weather, good mood, great shows… it seems that things are flying along, never better, practically unsinkable. Until Thursday, that is.

Thursday is the day everything goes to hell.

Ashley, the young woman who plays Kitty in their production, calls out sick, requiring an early call time for everyone to run through the show with the understudy and make sure she’s comfortable with the choreography and her handful of lines, or at least comfortable enough with them to make it through a performance. Not the way Emma wants to start her day, but it doesn’t necessarily spell disaster. They can work with that.

What’s worse, though, is getting to the theater to discover that a power surge the evening before has tripped several breakers and screwed with their lights, necessitating changing bulbs and a full check of the theater’s electrical systems. The headset system they’ve got to work with is better than most Emma’s dealt with in her time, but it’s still prone to more interference than Emma would prefer, and a short in their system won’t do Emma and Kristoff any favors. The whole thing is going to be a major stressor in the crew’s afternoon, but there’s no way around it.

Dealing with both of those situations is enough - more than enough, really, if Emma’s being honest.

However, apparently some higher power has it out for Emma, because the joy doesn’t stop there. Instead, that same Thursday, three days after the show’s Sign-Off appearance, Neal shows up in town - at Emma’s theater, no less! - because of mother-fucking course he does.

Honestly, she has no idea how Neal got into the theater in the first place - you’d think someone would have kicked him out between the stage door and the stage. Then again, her ex has always had a way of bluffing his way into places - fake it ‘til you make it and all that. He acts like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and for whatever reason, people believe him.

Emma doesn’t even notice him sauntering around the stage at first, too busy discussing what replacements they’ll need to order with Robin in the booth to pay attention to what’s going on below and leaving Kristoff to be the unfortunate messenger. The unwitting harbinger of doom, if you will.

“There’s some guy asking for you?” her usually even-keeled sound tech cuts in when a break in the conversation allows, voice betraying an uncharacteristic irritation. “Made it sound like you’d know him. I don’t know, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.” If Emma didn’t know better, she’d almost say there was a hint of disdain in Kristoff’s tone, but that’s silly. Kristoff gets along with everyone, mostly by barely talking to anyone. He’s got that Nordic, Midwestern implacability too where Emma can never tell what he’s thinking, and especially can never tell when he’s flustered.

It’s all explained, though, when she looks through the window to see her ex impatiently checking his phone. He’s not tapping his foot yet but Emma can sense the urge from this distance. Typical - Neal always seems to believe that his time is more valuable than everyone else’s.

“Fuck,” she curses loudly. “It’s my ex. Henry’s dad,” she elaborates when Robin lifts a curious eyebrow at her outburst. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” Blood pressure no doubt shooting through the roof, she turns on her heel and storms out of the booth to confront Neal and find out why the hell he’s here.

By the time she makes it down to the orchestra level, Neal’s officially progressed to foot-tapping stage, glancing around impatiently. Like he’s the one being inconvenienced here.

“What do you want, Neal?” she demands as soon as she gets close enough. There’s a small amount of pleasure to be taken in watching Neal jerk his head up in response and then down again rapidly to meet Emma’s eyes where she stands in the audience, knowing that it will likely result in a nasty knot in his neck from all the drastic movements. Only a small amount, though.

“Well hello to you too, Ems,” he replies easily, like all of this is some light-hearted social call instead of him barging into her place of employment.

“I’m not kidding around, Neal. What the hell are you doing here?” She doesn’t have time for this, but if she has to deal with it, she’s cutting straight to the point and skipping past the useless pleasantries.

“Well I was in town for a meeting and thought I’d drop by,” he replies.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Neal reacts, playing up his faux offense. It’s all an act, Emma knows; she doesn’t even need a superpower to see that.

“Bullshit. You have never once in your life just ‘dropped by’, and you think theatre is a frivolous waste of time.”

“Can’t a man come see his son, maybe take him to dinner?” he tries instead, changing tactics.

“You certainly can, but it’s 3pm, Neal. Henry won’t be by after school for another hour. And, again, you have never ‘dropped by’ for a surprise visit just because you were in town for some meeting. In fact, you usually have to cancel on dinner with Henry when your meetings run over.”

“Oh c’mon Ems, that’s not fair,” Neal complains, but who the fuck cares what he has to say on the subject? Emma is about to tell him as such when Scarlet interrupts with better timing than she would have credited him with, though his tone is too annoyed to actually write off the interruption as being for her benefit.

“Oi, not that this isn’t fascinating, but would you clear the bleedin’ stage? I’ve been trying to bring this light bar in for the past five minutes but some people,” he glares pointedly at Neal, “won’t get out of the way.”

The nuisance himself looks like he’s about to bite back, but Emma cuts in before he gets the chance. “You gotta move, Neal, I don’t care where. Go hang out backstage or in the house or something. I’ve gotta take care of some stuff, I can’t keep an eye on you.” If she’s secretly hoping he gets whacked in the head with the light bar, well, that’s her business, and entirely understandable to boot.

“We need to talk, Emma,” he insists, apparently finally cutting to his point.

“Yeah, well, I need to do my job. You showed up at a bad time, and I’ve got people waiting on me. We’ll talk later.” She hopes her voice is firm enough - ideally, the one she uses to keep everyone in line when everything is going to shit - but ultimately, it doesn’t much matter as she whirls around and stalks back to the booth.

She’s got a terrible feeling she knows exactly what this is about. It seems like an awfully big coincidence that Neal just happens to unexpectedly show up at her theater, a place he’s never showed interest in, only a couple days after a male coworker said nice things about her on national television. Whatever the case, she so doesn’t have time to deal with it now.

Neal is just going to have to wait.

———

Word travels fast throughout the ranks, and the shocking news that their beloved stage manager’s ex-boyfriend and father to Henry has unexpectedly showed up on their stage is no exception. Killian hears it from Belle, who was told by Scarlet, who relates as much of the situation as he knows with plenty of added commentary about how the man’s a nuisance and possibly an imbecile and honestly, who the bloody hell doesn’t hear a man hollering about a heavy bleedin’ light bar about to be flown in? Fuckin’ idiots, that’s who, if you ask a very irritated Will Scarlet. And then somewhere along the line David Nolan catches wind of it and tells Mary Margaret, and when you tell Mary Margaret anything, suddenly the entire cast knows. It’s just a fact of their little cohort.

Now, Killian considers himself to be an open minded man, a tolerant man, a man who does not make decisions about people before he knows them. Liam raised him to be kind and polite and to listen to people and not make premature judgements, and usually, Killian does his best to live up to that example.

But, God help him, he Does Not Like Emma’s ex.

(Well, part of that might have been related to the holiday party incident and not their encounter today, but his point still stands)

He’s prepared to swear that even were Neal not the former lover of the woman he’s slowly becoming devoted to, he still wouldn’t like the man. There’s something about the other’s man attitude – that he can do what he pleases, and everyone else’s opinion be damned. Killian hates it.

Currently, “whatever he pleases” is wandering around backstage semi-aimlessly, sticking his nose into corners and getting underfoot and generally driving everyone slowly mad.

“Can I help you, mate?” Killian asks in a perfectly civil tone - or at least what he thinks is a perfectly civil tone - when he runs down to grab a prop only to find the other man peeking into thankfully empty dressing rooms.

“Nope, just looking around,” the ex had replied about as absently as humanly possible, not bothering to even make more than glancing eye contact.

Alright then.

The only marginally redeeming factor of that man is how purely delighted Henry is to see him when the lad comes by after school. Killian may be many things - a very judgemental and petty man at the moment, for one - but he’s not a monster, and he’s willing to put up with a lot if it makes that wonderful boy happy. Still. Doesn’t mean he has to become best friends with the man, or even be happy about his presence. In fact, Killian thinks he’ll keep an eye out from a short distance, just to make sure the lad stays happy; he doesn’t quite trust the other man’s motives here, even if he is Henry’s father.

“Dad!” Henry exclaims as soon as he spots the man in question, a wide and brilliant smile stretching his cheeks as his eyes visibly light up. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” Just as quickly though, his features shift to confusion. “I didn’t miss a call, did I?”

“Oh no, of course not, buddy,” Neal reassures. “I just thought I’d surprise you.”

Though this appearance could certainly be described as a surprise very easily, Killian still thinks that’s not the whole story. Henry is less fazed though, or at least willing to take the excuse at face value in his excitement over his dad’s presence.

“You’ve got to come meet everyone!” Henry exclaims, practically bouncing on his feet as he tugs Neal over towards Killian.

Lord help me, Killian can’t help but think, this will be fun. If the other man’s face is anything to go by, he seems to be thinking the same thing.

“Killian!” Henry calls, managing to pull an almost genuine smile out of him. “You’ll never guess who’s here! This is my dad!”

“Aye, we met briefly earlier,” Killian replies, thinking of their dressing room encounter (if it can even really be called that). In the name of civility, he sticks a hand out to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?” Technically, he already knows the other man’s name, but it feels rude to admit that the whole production knows who he is through the gossip train.

“Cassidy. Neal Cassidy,” he supplies with a smile that looks strained at best, pointedly not shaking the offered hand. “So, you’re the actor or whatever?”

“Aye, that’s me,” Killian agrees, trying hard not to be put out. “I play the male lead in this show, Mr. Darcy.”

“So you and Ems… work together a lot, then?”

So that’s what this is about. Killian almost feels stupid for not putting it together earlier, but it’s hard to miss the strategic emphasis in that sentence that suggests Neal is certain something more is happening. Self-important arse.

“Swan works closely with the entire cast, crew, and production team,” he replies carefully. “She’s perhaps the best stage manager I’ve ever seen, and very dedicated to the job at hand. We’re incredibly lucky to have her steering our little ship.”

“Sure.” Neal is obviously skeptical, if his posture and crossed arms are anything to go by. It takes everything Killian has not to roll his eyes at the bastard’s ridiculous posturing. Even Henry is picking up on the tension, looking back and forth between the two men with that same furrowed brow Emma gets when faced with a problem she’s trying to dissect.

“And I bet that’s all it is. Just a professional relationship,” Neal intones, continuing his interrogation. Killian truly questions the man’s judgement; to him, at least, this seems like an inappropriate avenue to be walking down with Henry right there, but then again, he may be biased as the target of the questioning.

“I believe that’s what I already said,” Killian replies. He’s tried to keep civil this whole time, but he can’t help the irritation from creeping into his tone. “We’re colleagues who interact on friendly but professional terms.” Is there a problem with that? the argumentative side of Killian is itching to demand, but he refrains for Henry’s sake

“Maybe we should go meet other people,” Henry blessedly cuts in before anything comes to blows or Killian says something he regrets (strangely enough, Neal doesn’t seem to have the same qualms that he does). “I’ll see you later, Killian!” he calls back over his shoulder as he practically drags his father away by the arm.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Killian hears Henry chastise from around the corner; he somehow doubts that the lad intended his voice to carry so far. Serves the man right, to be scolded by his own son, though Killian would be shocked if Neal suddenly came to regret his actions. A man that comes into town specifically to get on his ex for mostly platonic words said on a television program doesn’t seem the type to suddenly see how ridiculous his actions are.

He knows that Emma is the last person to want any pity, but she has Killian’s all the same. The man seems to be an insufferable prick, or is at least intent on acting like one; as bad as Killian’s interaction with Neal was, he’d be willing to bet that Emma’s in for something even more infuriating. He sure hopes that this dickery is a recent development, because at the moment, he has no idea what Emma ever saw in that man.

It’s none of Killian’s business, not really, but he can’t help but feel angry on Emma’s behalf that she’ll have to deal with whatever bullshit that bastard chooses to spew at her. Whatever interrogation he just had to suffer, she’ll undoubtedly have to deal with even worse. The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated he gets, until there’s nothing else to do about the matter - he calls Liam. It was either that or go hunt down Neal to ask a bunch of uncalled-for questions in a petty form of revenge.

“Make it quick, brother,” Liam immediately says when he answers, “the filming break is ending in seven minutes.”

“Emma’s ex is the most insufferable man alive,” Killian declares, launching right in.

“Good to know. And how exactly do you know this?” Liam asks in return.

“The arse showed up at the theater today - which was not expected, let me tell you, Henry was shocked to see his father. He obviously has never set foot in a theater, looking around everywhere and getting underfoot. And from everything I hear from Henry, he doesn’t exactly see his dad often, no other spontaneous visits like he was trying to claim this is. And this only a few days after that blasted interview aired! What a wild coincidence!” Killian says sarcastically. “So here he is, showing up to ask me a bunch of questions about whether Emma and I are really just colleagues. Funny, that.”

“Sounds frustrating,” Liam replies, making all the right noises even if he’s a little lost as to what’s going on.

“God, he’s such a pretentious arse. Waltzing right on in here like he gets a say in Swan’s work life. Or her personal life. Hell, the man’s barely around enough to earn the right to an opinion in Henry’s life. Try telling him that, though.”

“Speaking of which, do you plan on telling Emma all this?” Liam poses a good question, but Killian’s a bit conflicted on how to answer.

“I don’t know. She’ll be dealing with enough from him, you know? Not to mention everything else that’s going on around here - it’s a rough tech day to boot, as if she needs more on her plate. I don’t want to add any more stress. But at the same time… it feels deceptive, not telling her? Like I’m not supplying her with all the pieces of a problem.”

Liam hums. “So what are you going to do then?”

“I don’t know,” Killian whines back. “I’m just frustrated.”

“And that’s completely understandable,” Liam soothes. “Someone’s showed up to make trouble for a friend - someone you care for. It makes sense that you’d be angry on her behalf.”

“But what do I do, Liam?” he demands.

“Well, how about this for a compromise: if you see her before he leaves, you keep mum so as not to create more stress or be the cause of any conflict, but if you next see her afterwards, you do mention it. I’m quite firmly on the side of letting her know eventually, just so she can take whatever steps need taking to keep this kind of thing from happening again,” Liam suggests.

“I think I can manage that.” Venting to Liam hasn’t truly solved any problems, but he still feels better, like a dark cloud has been lifted from over his head. “Thanks, Liam. I know you’re busy, but I needed that. I’ll let you go, but really, thank you for being a listening ear.”

“Aye, I’ve got to be getting back,” Liam agrees. “Anytime though, Kil, I’m always here to listen. Hang in there - you and your lady both. Love you, little brother.” And before Killian can respond, even with a correction, the call disconnects.

Huffing a sigh, Killian attempts to release some of the remaining tension, before finally returning his attention to… whatever he came down here for in the first place. Thanks to certain unpleasant visitors, he’s having trouble remembering.

Really, damn the man and all the chaos he’s causing in his wake.

———

There’d been half a hope in the back of Emma’s mind that maybe she’d wrap up everything that needed immediately taking care of before Neal got bored and wandered back again, if only to avoid her ex pulling that “how dare you inconvenience me, my time is more valuable than yours” act again, charming though it is. Sadly, the universe is not on her side in that wish, and Neal and Henry are already waiting at the front, the former already reprising his impatient scanning from earlier as Henry happily chatters away about God knows what.

“Does she always leave you waiting like this?” Emma hears Neal ask, his voice carrying despite the distance.

Henry shrugs nonchalantly in response. “I go talk to everyone. Sometimes Mom lets me help out around here too.”

“Oh, so she’s putting you to work?” Neal’s voice is scandalized - that’s the only word for it. Now that she’s almost to where the two stand, she can see the shock on his face too.

Emma will stand for a lot of things from Neal, but that’s an implication too far. “Yes, I make him lug fifty pound fly weights all over the place. Builds character,” she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Neal rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Em, you know I wasn’t suggesting that —” he tries to protest, but Emma cuts him off.

“Yeah, you kinda were. Henry, go get your stuff so you and your dad can get something to eat.” Henry scampers off at her suggestion, seemingly all too glad to escape the tension boiling between his parents, a tension that’s about to burst into something worse.

“C’mon, what was that about, Emma?” Neal whines, but Emma’s having none of it.

“Cut the crap, Neal. You wanted to talk, so talk. Starting with the real reason you’re here.”

“Well,” he states, “I saw the Sign-Off interview Monday night.”

Emma groans. She should have seen this coming, but that doesn’t make it any less stupid. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m serious! I’m laying in bed watching some… stuck-up actor talk about how dedicated you are to the show —”

“And what, you took that as code for ‘child neglect’? Because someone I work with said I’m good at my job?”

Neal’s silence is telling.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you really thought that, didn’t you?” Emma manages to spit out. “Jesus Christ, Neal.”

“Look, I just know what I saw, ok?” he tries to defend as Emma rolls her eyes. “Don’t I have the right to come make sure you’re not neglecting my son, actually taking care of him instead of spending all your time at work or with some… some pretty boy?”

“That is fucking rich coming from you, Neal. Always so busy with your fancy job and your fancy house and your pretty little wife that you can’t even remember to call your son half the time. Fucking rich. I am doing everything I can to give that kid the best life,” she hisses, stabbing a finger into his chest, “and that’s a hell of a lot more than you’ve done. I’m the one that helps him with his homework, and takes care of him when he’s sick, and listens to all his worries. I’m the one who knows the names of all his friends and which takeout places are his favorite and how to best comfort him when he’s sad. Meanwhile, you couldn’t even be bothered to admit he was yours for five fucking years!” She’s practically shouting by the end, and only hopes Henry is too far away to hear. Neal just stands there glowering as Emma picks up steam. At least he seems to have picked up on the fact that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

“And for the record?” she finishes, trying to lower the volume of her voice and probably failing. “I’m not dating Jones, or anyone else. But even if I was, that would be none of your goddamn business. Just like your marriage is none of mine.” Neal finally opens up his mouth to speak, but Emma throws up a hand to stop him before he even starts. “No. We’re done here. You and Henry can leave out the stage door. Have him home by 8, it’s a school night and he has homework.” Emma’s shaking with rage by the end of her tirade, but stands her ground, and with a final huff, her ex stalks off to find their son. Good riddance.

As Neal makes his disgraced departure, still shooting dirty looks over his shoulder, Emma finally relaxes, practically collapsing in on herself. Yes, there are still problems to come in her day, but those are normal problems, the kind that she knows to account for when going to work in the morning. Neal’s presence was a different kind of stressor, one she can’t prepare for, and when shoved at her on top of her work-related stress, it sets a tension into her shoulders that’s unmatched by anything else. Honestly, based off the bullshit Neal was tossing her way, you would have thought Killian has said she was making Henry work sixty hour weeks, not that she was good at her job. For fuck’s sake.

Dropping her head back, Emma takes a moment just to re-center herself before straightening again to return to the booth, only to turn around to spot Robin with a less than pleased look on his face. In fact, she’d go far as to say that she’s never seen him look so furious. Abruptly, Emma’s stomach plummets. God, he must have seen or heard the confrontation with Neal; in the heat of it all, they probably weren’t as quiet as quiet as they should have been. It wasn’t fair of Emma to bring that kind of drama into their workplace, and Robin has every right to be angry about it, but still, it feels like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach to see that look directed at her.

Quickly, she hurries to meet her colleague at the back of the aisle where he stands, stumbling over apologies the whole while. “Robin, I’m so sorry, you should never have heard - it won’t happen again -” she tries to tell him, but Robin throws up a hand to halt her words in their tracks.

“Stop,” he tells Emma. “Just… stop.” Oh god, he must be really mad. All Emma wants to do is apologize profusely and try to make this right, but she can’t do that if he’s not receptive to hearing it. The stone grows heavier and heavier in her stomach.

Robin exhales a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself down, and Emma braces herself for whatever he’s about to say. He must see or sense that somehow - probably a benefit of spending hours together every day in a space that always seems too small and crowded - because some of the anger recedes from his face, a small amount of tension easing from his frame as he reaches to grasp Emma by the shoulders.

“I’m not mad at you,” he tells her in a voice that’s somehow simultaneously both firm and gentle. Emma imagines it’s the same voice he uses with Roland from time to time. If not, he should - it’s effective.

“You’re not?” she replies in a voice that’s smaller than she’d prefer. Oh well; Robin won’t judge her for that.

“Gods above, no. I’m mad, yes, but not at you,” he explains solemnly, “Emma, darling, please believe me when I tell you this: no one could watch the display that absolute bastard was making of himself and be mad at you. None of this is on you. All of my anger is on your behalf, that he had the very nerve to stand there and say such things.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Emma mumbles. Still, her cheeks flush at the gesture and the care behind those words.

Robin just shrugs. “Maybe I don’t have to, but I’m going to anyways. You’re my friend, Emma,” he explains, “and I see what you do every day. I know exactly how much you give this job, and I know you give Henry even more, as much as a human being can. It’s… preposterous, to even suggest the two are mutually exclusive. Look, I know our situations aren’t exactly the same,” he prefaces, “but I know how easy it is to lose a lot of yourself in being a parent, just by virtue of trying to ensure that your kid has everything. You may not be dating Jones, or anyone else, but so what if you were? You’re allowed to try and find that kind of happiness for yourself, on top of the happiness you get from Henry. The fact that Neal - ” he spits out the name with unexpected derision - “thinks that he gets a say in that, just because he’s Henry’s father, is laughable. Absurd. Especially since he’s one step above an absentee parent.”

Emma can’t help but feel a rush of platonic affection at his words, though she’s mortified to feel those feelings welling into tears of relief and gratitude. It’s true that Mary Margaret and Ruby and Elsa have been agreeing with her about how much of an ass Neal is for years, but they’re practically family; there’s always kind of been that feeling that they have to say that because of their long and close connection to Emma. There’s something meaningful and vindicating about hearing Robin, a coworker of significantly less acquaintance, say the same thing - that her ex is a jerk who has no right to have any opinions about her personal life.

Robin doesn’t know that they’re good tears, however, and his leftover fury quickly morph into a confused concern. “Are you crying?” he asks, not waiting for an explanation. “Oh, please, Emma, don’t cry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that, I didn’t mean to upset you — ”

“It’s alright, Robin,” Emma cuts in with a teary chuckle. “It just means a lot to hear you say that. Thank you.”

“Ah, well, we’ve got to stick together, don’t we?” Robin smiles. “Single parents banding together and all that. Though, for the record, every one of us in here is rooting for you, not just me. Kristoff is as mad as I’ve ever seen him, and I thought Scarlet was about to bash his nose in.”

“Yeah, well, Scarlet just wanted the stage cleared so he could get his work done. Any opportunity to brain Neal with the light bar was just an added bonus,” Emma replies, snorting less than gracefully, happy to see a path out of the emotional bog she’d inadvertently waded into.

“You’re not wrong there,” Robin admits, breaking into his own bout of laughter. At the end of it, the mood is lighter for both of them, and while Emma is still irritated with her stupid-ass ex - a permanent thing, really, even if it’s a bit more than usual at the moment - the blind panic their argument had spawned about what everyone else is going to think of her has abated, thank god.

“Hang in there, darling,” Robin concludes with a collegial pat to her back. “We’re all here for you if you need to vent or plot a murder. Though, I should tell you,” he continues more seriously, “rumor has it that Neal was giving Killian the third degree earlier.”

“Of course he was,” Emma groans, dropping her head back melodramatically before setting her shoulders once again. “Sounds about par for the course today.”

Robin chuckles. “Nothing you can’t handle, o fearsome leader,” he teases. “Now go be a badass, prove him wrong.”

And you know what? Emma’s going to do just that. After one last stop, that is.

———

Killian doesn’t expect Emma to show up in the doorway of his dressing room as he runs through his pre-show prep - in fact, for one irritated moment, he’s convinced it’s Cassidy come back to grill him some more.

“You scared me there,” he comments, tossing a grin towards where Emma leans against the door frame. “I thought you were our charming visitor.”

Emma winces at the words. “Yeah, about that…”

“Oh god, he’s not coming back, is he?” Killian groans. It would be just his luck if the man was standing right behind Swan, but at this point, they’re already on poor enough terms that he’s willing to risk it. It’s not like things can disintegrate any further.

Thankfully, Swan emphatically shakes her head to that. “No, no, he and Henry are off getting dinner somewhere. But I did hear that you guys had the pleasure of meeting.”

Belatedly, Killian realizes that as awful as he thinks Emma’s ex is, she maybe doesn’t want to hear that from others. She’s the one who has to deal with him for the foreseeable future; his conversation with Liam aside, it seems bad form to complain about the man to Emma’s face and potentially make her feel worse, both about the prospect of dealing with Neal and about the fact that he’s here in the first place. The latter is most certainly not her fault.

“Yes, he’s, uh… it was interesting, meeting the man,” Killian finally says, as diplomatically as he can manage.

Swan, thank God, is having none of that however. “Oh please. He’s an ass. A real piece of work. No use beating around the bush, it’s not going to hurt my feelings or anything. I’ve got thicker skin than he does.”

“Ah, well, as long as you said it first,” he laughs. Suddenly, he remembers an earlier part of their conversation - the bit about how she heard Neal and he had talked - and something clicks. “Wait, you’re not here to apologize for his utter lack of manners, are you Swan?”

Her face contorts into a sheepish smile. “Maybe?”

“Well save your breath, love,” Killian insists. “There’s no need. His actions and his words are in no way your fault. You know that, right?” It feels crucial that she knows that.

“Yeah, Robin told me pretty much the same thing,” she replies. “Still. I feel bad that you had to deal with him at all.”

“Put it out of you mind, love, I beg you. I’ll admit that he wasn’t a particularly pleasant part of my day, but I’ll put him out of my mind soon enough. He’ll be a footnote, at best. Don’t worry yourself about it, please.”

“I mean, if you’re sure…” she trails off uncertainly, that guilty look still darkening her face.

“I insist,” he says with finality. He can still see Emma’s doubts lingering though, so he quickly shifts to teasing. “I do have to ask, though,” he says, noting the trace of caution that appears in the crease between her brows, “what did you ever see in him?”

At his teasing smile, Emma releases the tension she’s holding again, going so far as to roll her eyes at the question, and they’re able to resume their banter again, continuing on as if Neal and his nonsense never happened.

(His line that evening about Collins being a pompous, prattling fool seems a little more pointed than it ever has before, but the audience doesn’t need to know that. Killian is confident that Emma hears it all the same.)

“I thought I heard you!” she chirps, pulling an apologetic face when Emma winces at the pitch. Honestly, fuck this hangover. “Sorry,” she says in a much mellower tone of voice. “Here, have some coffee.”

“Oh thank god,” Emma responds, hastily reaching for the offered cup. “You’re a living saint, Mary Margaret.”

“There’s bagels in the kitchen, too, if you feel up to getting out of bed. Oh! And,” she chirps, sending another stab of pain through Emma’s skull as she starts fishing through her pockets, finally coming up with a small plastic tube, “I found Advil. Just my little travel size, but it’ll work, right?”

Emma nods as best she can when attempting to inhale her coffee, motioning with her free hand to hand over one of the capsules. “Thanks,” she rasps when Mary Margaret hands the little salmon-colored tablets over to her. A thought strikes her suddenly, a drunken half-memory creeping through, and Emma groans again. “Don’t tell me you slept on the couch last night.”

“I didn’t sleep on the couch last night,” Mary Margaret reassures, before pausing. Somehow, there’s a sense of a ‘but’ coming, though there really shouldn’t be. Sure enough, though, Mary Margaret continues. “I slept in Henry’s room.”

“Oh, M’s…” Emma groans. “You didn’t have to do that!”

“Oh, I think I did,” she argues right back. “You were very insistent last night that you didn’t want to be left alone.”

“Of fucking course I was,” Emma mutters to herself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mary Margaret offers kindly, ever the mother.

Easy answer, that. “Nope,” Emma answers curtly. Fueled by embarrassment and a desire to get as far away as possible from this conversation, she manages to swing her legs out from under the covers and haul herself out of bed to make her way to the bathroom, though she regrets it all the while. Cold air and nausea-inducing movement are much less pleasant than the cozy warmth of the many layers of blankets on her bed.

Brushing her teeth and taking a moment to look marginally less gross helps, but Emma’s still not quite ready to dissect the whole thing with Mary Margaret. Unfortunately, her friend isn’t quite on the same page. Emma had anticipated as such, and is already braced and ready when she walks back in to find some clothes.

Sure enough, Mary Margaret tries to jump in as soon as she walks back into the room. “If you want to talk about last night, Emma — ”

“Don’t you have that appointment this morning?” Emma quickly interrupts, the words already waiting on her tongue. “Miss Blue really won’t be pleased if you’re late, and it’s already almost nine. You’ve got to get going if you want to stop at your place before the theater.” There may or may not have been an incident Tuesday evening where a seam in one of Mary Margaret’s gowns was ripped while she and David were playing tonsil hockey (or whatever the kids say these days). Ruby had quickly tacked it for Wednesday’s matinee, but the production’s petite yet intimidating costume designer had wanted to supervise the permanent repair, supposedly to ensure the fit was correct. Personally, Emma suspects that Mary Margaret is in for a talking-to. If her friend’s blanched face upon initially receiving word of her appointment was any indication, Mary Margaret thinks the same. It’s a low, dirty move of a distraction, but Emma knows M’s won’t risk being late to a professional obligation - both for her own sake and for Emma’s, knowing that these kind of snafus directly increase the amount of stress Emma has to deal with.

The look Mary Margaret gives her is unimpressed - the look of a woman who knows exactly what Emma’s attempting and is not fooled in the least. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” she warns. “I’m just about to leave because you just happen to be correct about the time, not because I’m letting you drop this subject. We will pick this up later, and you’ll feel better for it afterwards. Promise?”

Emma hums noncommittally. She’d much prefer to drop the whole thing and pretend it never happened until the end of time. That doesn’t fly with her friend however, as Mary Margaret’s unimpressed look only sharpens.

“I’m serious, Emma. Promise me we’ll talk about it later?”

“Yes, fine, Mom, I promise,” Emma sighs in exasperation, rolling her eyes. The latter was probably a bad idea; it doesn’t help the headache in the least. “Now for the love of God, get out of here before you’re late.”

“Alright,”  Mary Margaret agrees, somewhat hesitantly. “But call me if you need anything, ok? And make sure you eat that bagel, the bread and the protein in the cream cheese will do you good.”

“I will, ok?” Emma all but snaps. Subconsciously, she knows that she’s only reacting in this way due to embarrassment, but for the moment she just wants Mary Margaret out of her apartment, good intentions aside, so that she can wallow in her mortification in peace.

A flash of guilt streaks through Emma as her friend fixes her with a disapproving stare, but Mary Margaret still gathers her coat and heads for the door. “I’m just trying to help, Emma,” she says quietly, disappointment coloring her voice and turning the flash of guilt into a deeply stabbing knife.

Emma sighs, deflating. “I know. I’m sorry,” she says. “Blame it on the hangover. I’ll be better once I get some food into my system. I’ll see you tonight, alright?”

“Alright,” Mary Margaret agrees, before stepping forward to envelop Emma in a tight hug. “Feel better,” she whispers. With a last squeeze she departs, leaving Emma to the silence of her empty apartment.

(Somehow, even though it’s exactly what she wanted mere minutes ago, she hates every silent second of it.)

———

She’s an absolute child, is the thing, between the clinginess last night and her outburst this morning. Might as well go for the hat trick of immaturity and react to her embarrassment by avoiding all witnesses to the event that’s warranted it. Mary Margaret she’s avoiding for obvious reasons - Emma has no intention to discuss the matter, but knows her traitor mouth might betray her anyways when faced with her friend’s gentle insistence. Killian though… she knows he isn’t judging her for her behavior, can see it in the gentle smiles he offers her, and doubts he’d make her discuss the matter, but Emma avoids him all the same out of shame. Merely being in his presence makes her burn with embarrassment at the memory of that evening, and she seeks to evade any reminders of that whenever possible. He doesn’t deserve this treatment, which makes Emma feel slightly guilty - Killian’s a genuinely good guy, kind and charming and (dare she say it?) handsome, someone who she’d want to know more intimately under different circumstances - but she’s compelled to act on a self-preservational instinct.

New Year’s passes with Emma ducking around corners and passing secondhand messages. Henry eventually returns from his vacation with his dad, less enchanted with skiing than before he left - “It’s hard, Mom, and who wants to be out in the cold all day?” - Emma’s good mood returning with him, but another Wednesday comes and goes with her avoidance tactics still in full force. Seeing Emma cheery again, Mary Margaret seems inclined to let go of her determined attempts to dissect the incident now that a week has passed, and Emma can almost put the whole thing behind her. Still, though, the memory persists, and with it, Emma’s avoidance of Killian.

It won’t last forever - at least, she doesn’t think so - but for now, a mere week and some change later, the tactic is here to stay.

———

Emma is avoiding him. Again.

It feels a bit like two months ago again, except this time, Killian can’t figure out what he did wrong. All he knows is that Emma is avoiding him at all costs, ducking around corners when she sees him coming and relaying messages through intermediaries when necessary. And it hurts.

Thinking back, the closest he can figure is that all this started right after the Christmas party, when he watched over Emma in her intoxicated state. Though he meant well, he must have overstepped her boundaries that evening. With growing sadness, Killian realizes he likely blew any chance he might have had of even remaining friends with Emma with what must have been a blatant disregard of her understandable restrictions and concerns. Even if he just meant to make sure she was alright, he must have come off as a real arse. Eventually, he’ll be kicking himself over the whole thing, but for the moment he just feels sad.

He misses her, is the thing, even though he feels like he doesn’t deserve to, not since this is all his fault. He’d thought they were making such good progress too; a simple conversation with Emma can brighten his whole day, and without that to look forward to, everything seems dimmer. He misses her sarcasm, and her dry sense of humor, the way she doesn’t mince her words and snorts when she laughs, the way her smiles may not be easy to earn (except for where her boy is concerned), but so worth it when they make an appearance. He’s fully aware that he’s a pathetic bastard, but ultimately, he can’t help it.

Though Killian is sure everyone has noticed by now how desperate Emma is to avoid him, and how morose he is in turn, it’s Robin of all people who broaches the subject and stops tiptoeing around the matter.

“How are you doing, Killian?” he asks, voice filled with more concern that Killian really deserves. He’d come up to the booth for a meeting they should never have needed to have about finding his spot, Killian frustratingly distracted by his emotional turmoil and nearly missing his marks two days in a row. Ostensibly, they’d met to review where Killian needed to stand each time and whether Robin needed to adjust anything, but it seems more like an excuse for Robin to prod him about the source of the distraction rather than the side effects it creates.

Killian initially just shrugs, humming noncommittally at the other man’s inquiry. It feels a bit weird getting into this with Robin - though they get along well enough, he doesn’t actually know Robin that well, and the lighting designer is definitely more Emma’s friend than Killian’s. There’s a bad joke about losing friends in the platonic divorce bubbling at the back of his throat, but his persistent melancholy keeps it from finding a voice. Ironic, this - he and Emma have switched places emotionally from the circumstances that started all this.

“Really, now,” the other man persists, “I know something’s the matter. Emma’s been acting odd all week, and you’ve seemed down ever since. Now, I may not be some rocket scientist or statistics whiz,” he jokes, “but I’m sensing a correlation. So: how are you doing, Killian?”

Faced with that gentle opposition, Killian cracks. Perhaps it’s a sign that he’s wanted to talk about this all along with someone who knows all the players. “I don’t even know what’s the matter, not really,” he confides. “I just know that for some reason, Emma is avoiding me.” Privately, he suspects it’s a direct result of the events of the other night, but he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing the details without Emma’s knowledge or permission. It hurts, knowing that despite his best efforts to assist Emma as best he can while still respecting her boundaries - her reasonable boundaries, which he agrees with - she still feels avoidance to be necessary. “I think we all know how I feel about Emma,” he chuckles, the words eliciting a snort from Robin in return, “but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should just… let it go. Find a way to move past my feelings. Not because I want to,” he hastens to add, “but because she seems to want me to. I’m willing to be persistent, but after a certain point… it all seems like a hint to go away. And maybe it’s about time I took that hint.”

Robin just stares back, more skeptical than Killian expected. Granted, he hadn’t expected skepticism at all, so any amount is rather unexpected. “Seriously?”

“... Yes?”

Robin lets out a snort. “Oh lord. Killian, my good man, let me tell you a secret.” He leans in conspiratorially, Killian meeting him halfway out of some bizarre sense of courtesy. Robin, the absolute bastard, lets the moment dramatically sit a moment longer before whispering melodramatically, “Emma’s got a thing for you too.”

Killian rears back, face suddenly twisting into an expression of annoyed disbelief as Robin raises his eyebrows knowingly. “Really?” he deadpans. “Now that’s just mean. Childish, even, taunting a man like that.”

“I’m serious!” Robin protests. “She absolutely, one-hundred-percent has a thing for you. If you want to get truly childish, really embrace this middle-school mentality you’re accusing me of,” he smirks, “then I’d say she likes you. Likes likes you. Please, trust the man shut into a woefully small space with her every day on this one.”

Still, Killian scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen absolutely no proof of that.”

“Yes, well, you’re not the one witnessing the banter and the little blushing smiles and the way she stares at your arse in that costume. Seriously, mate, it’s almost nauseating. Not quite as bad as Nolan and Blanchard, but…” he trails off, his point clear.

“She never said anything!” Killian weakly protests. Like that’s a thing people actually do - walk up and tell the object of their affections how they feel.

“Yes, well, that would require Emma actually being willing to admit to herself that she fancies you, and that’s proven to be a stretch too far,” Robin parries, voice dry but sage, before softening. “Look, if you want my advice, don’t give up on her yet. I know from experience - the best ones will lead you on a merry chase,” he tells Killian somewhat wistfully. Killian almost cracks a jab about the other man’s own enamorment of Regina Mills, but restrains himself upon seeing the melancholy-tinged reminiscence gracing Robin’s face, instead waiting for the man to reveal his train of thought in his own time.

Shortly, Robin seems to remember Killian’s presence, smiling sheepishly. “My wife - Marian, her name was - was an opera singer, part of the chorus at the Met, back when I was just some young upstart, full of confidence and no real chance to prove it yet. It was love at first sight on my part, as cliche as that sounds, and she had approximately no time or patience for me, some young puppy following at her heels,” he laughs, eyes crinkling in a way that Killian knows is caused by warm memories. “But whether out of hope or determination or pure obliviousness, I held out hope, and look what it got me. Five of the happiest years of my life and a wonderful son.” He smiles, face flooded with the look of a truly content man. “Look, you have to do whatever is best for you, I understand and support that one hundred percent. I just want to encourage you not to throw in the towel just yet - not while I still think there’s hope.”

The words are comforting, and even if Killian was feeling somewhat despondent just minutes before, he’s suddenly reinvigorated with a new sense of just what Robin urged him to have - hope. “Thank you,” he replies softly, a small smile starting to form on his face. “That’s, uh…” he pauses, not sure how to continue, how to express the bolstering impact Robin’s had with his words, and settles for simple gratitude instead. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Robin smiles back, offering a comforting and companionable pat on the shoulder before turning back to the task at hand. “Now, let me show you again exactly where the spot is gonna hit, even if you really ought to know this by now, and I’ll have you go mark it, okay?”

———

She should have known she wouldn’t be able to avoid all interactions forever, or at least not those with Mary Margaret. Emma could swear the petite brunette has magic, what with the way she always seems to appear just when Emma is hoping to avoid her. Who knows, maybe the name of that pixie cut denotes more than just a style, and is instead a hint that Mary Margaret is actually a devious fairy. Stranger things have happened, surely.

Regardless of whether or not Mary Margaret possesses magical teleportation powers, that doesn’t change the fact that she eventually catches up to Emma, her face displaying that awful combination of half hurt and half disappointment usually only displayed by parents (or so Emma’s heard).

“Are we ever going to talk about the Christmas party?” she asks in a tone that suggests she thinks it’s been more than long enough of a wait.

“Not if I can help it,” Emma mumbles back under her breath, but Mary Margaret’s keen ears catch the words all the same.

“Emma, you can’t run from this conversation forever,” she scolds. “I know you don’t want to rehash it, but I really think you’ll feel better once you do. It’ll let you stop lingering on it.”

“I’m not lingering on anything,” Emma argues. “Henry’s home again, so everything’s fine. And, not to gloat or anything, but he didn’t have nearly as much fun as he expected. I’m still my kid’s favorite, all’s right with the world, no need to talk through whatever last Wednesday was. I’m good, really.”

Mary Margaret stares back skeptically, that disapproving frown still dominating her face. “Really, you’re good?” she demands. “You sure you’re not lingering? Because avoiding — ” she interrupts herself to peer around, seemingly checking that no one is listening — “avoiding Killian doesn’t seem like something a person who’s completely past the matter would do.”

“I’m not avoiding Killian,” Emma insists stubbornly. “I can’t help if we haven’t run into each other this week. It happens.”

“Oh, please,” Mary Margaret shoots back. “I’m optimistic, not stupid. You’ve practically run in the other direction whenever you see him coming. It’s a damn good thing there haven’t been any major issues you were both involved in the past few days, or God only knows how that would have been resolved.”

Well, she’s got Emma there. “So what if I am? Seems like that’s my business. What does it matter to you?”

“I just want you to be happy, Emma,” Mary Margaret wheedles in that way of hers. The pure cloying sentiment of her words and intent nearly make Emma gag. “And this hasn’t been a happy week for you. I can only imagine this self-imposed separation from Killian - usually one of your greatest supporters - is part of that. What happened?” She gasps suddenly. “Oh god, he didn’t do anything before I picked you up, did he?”

“No, no, God no,” Emma rushes to reassure.

“What then? I can’t understand it.”

“Look, I’m embarrassed, ok?” Emma snaps. “I was not at my best that night, and I don’t really want to face what Jones - one of my coworkers - thinks of me after that display, pity or disgust or whatever else. I don’t want to deal with it, so I haven’t.”

There’s an unexpected snort from behind the women, and Emma whirls to see Regina, standing there looking deeply amused. “You’re aware that Jones thinks the sun shines out of your ass, right?”

Mary Margaret gasps next to Emma, though it’s more likely that she’s less shocked over Regina’s presence than about her use of language. Figures.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Regina clarifies somewhat haughtily, “it’s just that neither of you are particularly good at watching your volume. But I say again: you do know that Jones thinks you personally are responsible for the sun coming up each morning? Thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread? That you hung the stars? Etcetera, etcetera, must I continue?”

“She’s got a point, Emma,” Mary Margaret contributes, her tone vaguely apologetic.

Regina smiles smugly at that, before continuing. “Look, I’m just saying, I don’t think there’s much that would change his mind, and that probably includes whatever you did the other night that you’re so embarrassed about. Did you hit him?”

“No,” Emma replies, rolling her eyes.

“Insult his mother?”

“No.”

“Run down the street buck-ass naked declaring your allegiance to some space alien dictatorship?”

“Christ Almighty, no!” God, where did Regina even come up with that?

“Ok, then I’m sure he doesn’t blame you for anything. And anyone with two eyes can see that you don’t need or want pity, which is pretty effective at keeping it away. So what are you worrying about?” Her tone softens somewhat at the stubborn set of Emma’s jaw (a stubborn expression that hides her insecurity about the whole matter, but Regina doesn’t need to know that). “Look, you can do whatever you want, Miss Swan. Lord knows we certainly can’t stop you,” she declares with a knowing look to Mary Margaret, “but what I can tell you - and I’m sure Miss Blanchard can as well - Jones has seemed sad and confused and even hurt ever since you began your little avoidance game. The way I see it, you’re protecting yourself from something that isn’t going to happen anyways, and we’re all witnessing the fallout. If you don’t want anything to do with Jones, that’s fine, that’s your prerogative, but you can’t keep up this ridiculous ducking around corners and speaking through the ASMs. Let it go on long enough, and it’s going to undermine your power - which I’m sure is the last thing you want.”

Emma hadn’t thought of it like that, far too caught up in her immediate mortification to truly think through its consequences. Hell, the entire reason she gave for turning Killian down in the first place was fear of a relationship affecting things at work; according to Regina, Emma’s brought exactly what she feared to come to pass, without even the benefit of a relationship as an excuse. Fan-fucking-tastic. She groans in realization.

“Yes, I think that about sums it up,” Regina comments drily. Emma shoots her a glare in response - entirely warranted, in her opinion, especially since Regina’s opinion is so unasked for.

“We don’t want to guilt you, Emma,” Mary Margaret puts in more gently, shooting her own look in Regina’s direction as the latter sounds a dissenting hum. “Like I said: we just want you to be happy, and this? This isn’t making you - or Killian, for that matter - happy.”

(Emma think that statement is effectively the same thing as guilting her, but she doesn’t have the energy right now to argue that.)

“Look, I’ll think about everything you both said. Happy?” Even if Mary Margaret and Regina are correct, Emma’s not really in the mood to admit it right now.

Mary Margaret nods, though the movement seems reluctant. It’s the best she’s going to get right now, though, so she’ll have to be happy with it. “But about the thing with Neal and Henry - ”

“Honestly, I haven’t even thought about that since Henry returned. Funny how that solved the issue. Really, Mary Margaret, can we just drop it? I’ll admit to ‘lingering’ or whatever, but honestly, the Henry and Neal thing that started it all has been the furthest thing from my mind. Which means no need to to talk about it or… whatever.”

“If you’re sure…” Mary Margaret finally agrees hesitantly.

“God, yes, I’m sure. It’s my one real dream to drop this. Please. Immediately. Like, yesterday.” That, at least, draws a laugh out of even Regina, Mary Margaret shaking her head with affection. “Now, I think we all have things to do or places we’d rather be, so can we, you know, get to it instead of standing around doing whatever this is?”

By some miracle, both women comply, even if Mary Margaret is hesitant. Eventually, Emma will probably appreciate the conversation they’ve all just suffered through, but for now, she just wants to be alone.

After all, she’s got an awful lot to think about.

———

In the end, things go back to normal out of Emma’s own volition - no more pestering friends and, unlike last time, no need for Killian to come convince her. The insecure part of Emma whispers that the fact that he wasn’t fighting for her and their… whatever dynamic this time is a sign that his affections have changed, that he’s no longer interested in her in any way, romantic or otherwise, but his near-palpable relief when Emma breaks her silence to ask him if he’s seen Belle dispels that notion.

“Missed you, Swan!” he calls with a wink (well, his facsimile of a wink) as she wanders off in the indicated direction.