#bartender!killian

Emma listens closely for a moment, somehow managing to recognize “Come On Eileen”. Yeah, it’s the kind of thing that groups of drunk old white men would choose instead of Scarlet, but it’s kind of a classic. Sort of. It’s not horrible, at least. “I don’t know about that, it seems catchy. One hit wonder or whatever.”

Killian just glares at her incredulously, a bar towel slung over his shoulder in that way she not-so-secretly thinks is sexy. “Maybe it sounds fun, but have you ever looked at the lyrics, Swan?” he asks. “There’s far too many words for the rhythm provided. Listen:”

He has a point. The singer is practically tripping over his own tongue to get all those words out, and the tempo isn’t even fast enough to make it necessary. “Oh god, that really is bad.” Has she never actually listened to the verses before, only the chorus? The more she hears, the more likely it seems.

“Exactly,” he nods decisively. Know-it-all. “I’m just saying, anyone who chooses this song is unbearably cocky, unbearably stupid, or hasn’t heard the song in years. Or a fearful combination of the three.”

It’s a ridiculous statement, especially since one of Killian’s closest friends is the one currently trying to sing that mess. And failing. No one has ever accused the drummer of having good taste in anything but women, and Emma’s just granting him that because one of her friends is the woman in question. “What’s Scarlet then?” Emma asks teasingly.

“Oh, definitely the horrifying mashup,” Killian grins. “As if you have to ask.”

Obviously.

The more Emma watches, the more it seems like a caricature - Will busting out some terrible dance moves and bopping his hips back and forth, singing into the mic with more enthusiasm than Emma’s seen all night. But the more Emma watches, the more she also notices how all his ridiculousness is aimed right at Belle, like he’s trying to crack her up. It’s working, too; the brunette wears a wide smile across her face and tosses her head back in laughter as her boyfriend executes a particularly absurd butt wiggle.

“Maybe he’s doing it to make Belle smile,” Emma suggests softly, allowing the teasing to seep out of her tone. It’s not a laughing matter, after all; if anything, it’s rather sweet.

Emma can read on Killian’s face that he agrees as well, can see it in the way his own smile softens and the lines around his eyes set into a gentle crinkle. “Maybe that too,” he admits.

Regardless of why Will is making such a spectacle of himself, it’s a lot of fun to watch. Like always, Scarlet throws himself into karaoke like this is the make-or-break moment of his career, something that Emma always gets a kick out of. Killian’s right - it’s really not a good karaoke song at all. She’s a little right too, though, as it’s undeniably catchy. The crowd is loving it, and even Emma finds herself tapping a foot along to the beat on the rung of her bar stool.

Killian obviously notices too, as when the second verse starts, he extends a hand in Emma’s direction. “What do you say, love?” he offers. “Want to dance?”

Emma huffs a laugh in response, looking at him incredulously. “Weren’t you just the one complaining about this song?” It’s tempting, but she’s not even sure how it’d work with this music. Between that and his objections, any attempt at dancing seems a bit doomed from the start.

“Aye, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still a fun tune,” he argues. “C’mon, Swan, just a little turn around the floor.”

And somehow, she finds herself accepting.

Neither one of them is particularly graceful, as it turns out, but they make do with a silly little shuffle and sway back and forth. Mostly, Emma revels in the closeness of their position, with one of his hands low and tight on her back and her arm looped under his to hang on to his shoulder. Their other hands are grasped loosely, alternating between being pressed against Killian’s chest right above his heart in during their more sedate movements and propped out to the side, swinging back and forth, during more energetic ones. Killian doesn’t seem to particularly care what they look like, leading her in crazy circles and spinning her over and over again right in a row until Emma’s forced to brace herself against the dizziness. Probably his plan all along - to get her somehow pressed even closer along his body. The happy grin on his face and that eyebrow wiggle certainly suggests it.

That grin drops soon enough into panicked confusion and the song suddenly slows down. Serves him right. Emma can’t help but laugh as Killian practically trips over his own feet as he hurries to get back on beat. “Shit, I forgot about the tempo change,” he mutters, before pulling an embarrassed face as Emma lets loose another snort. She can’t help it - it’s always been adorable to see him flustered.

“Oh, like we were doing so well before,” she teases back.

“Oh hush, you.”

(And then it’s her turn to be a little flustered, as Killian punctuates the admonition with a little nip at her earlobe. Ridiculous, infuriating, sexy, wonderful idiot of a man.)

All too soon, the music is over and Will hops back down from the small corner stage to let the next singer get ready and to go kiss his girlfriend. Emma can’t blame him. Still, she’s a little sad the song is done. Even if she’d been reluctant at first, she’d really enjoyed twirling around in Killian’s arms. Their dancing was nowhere close to ballroom quality, of course, but there’d been a lot of laughter and a lot of fun. Proper waltzes probably don’t have enough twirls and spins in them anyways. They’ll definitely have to do this again sometime, she thinks.

“Still think it’s the worst song ever?” Emma asks, slinging her arms around Killian’s neck before he can move back behind the bar to help Merida. Not that he seems to mind, reaching for her hips on what must be instinct by now. Merida is handling the bar patrons just fine by herself anyways.

Killian snorts, seeing right through her teasing. He leans in close to nuzzle against her forehead before replying. Such a sap. “For karaoke? Yes. To make you smile? No.”

Even if she’s absolutely, definitely, completely charmed, Emma still rolls her eyes. She’s got to keep up her persona or whatever, after all. “Kiss-up.”

“Your kiss-up,” he whispers, dropping a light kiss to her lips. Not that that’s the end of it; maybe he would have left it there, but Emma’s more interested in dragging him into a proper kiss. Who needs to get back to work, anyways?

(Months and years later, Killian jokingly suggests they use “Come On Eileen” for their first dance at their wedding, recreate their first dance as a couple. They’re both willing to settle for putting it on the playlist and laughing all the while at their own private little joke. Killian never does remember the tempo change, but Emma thinks that might be what marriage is like anyways - working around the unexpected together.

They'd met six months ago when she and her son Henry had moved into the apartment above his, after coming to Storybrooke, Maine, so Henry could be close to his newly discovered father. Before that, they'd lived in Tallahassee, Florida for the entirety of Henry's life.

Growing up in the foster system, Emma had never had anyone to rely on. When she met Neal, Henry's father, she'd fallen hard and fast. On a silly whim, they'd picked Tallahassee as the place they were going to settle down, which made her giddy with joy. She was a bright-eyed, naive seventeen year-old who'd thought she'd finally found her family.

Two days later she learned just how naive she'd truly been, when Neal set her up to take the fall for some jewelry he'd stolen. Because she had a piece of the stolen goods on her person (which he'd said was her engagement ring), she was arrested and charged with grand theft. Her sentence was six months jail time. They charitably released her just one month before Henry was to be born. Neal had disappeared in the wind. Emma had a faint hope that it had all been some big misunderstanding and that Neal was out there, somewhere, waiting for her. So, she scraped together enough money to get to Tallahassee, hoping one day he would find them.

Despite the unfavorable beginning, she'd been happy in Florida. After Henry was born, she met some truly good people who helped her get her life in order. These people became their support system. They helped her get a job, which led her to a career. She began as a secretary at the police department and worked her way up to deputy. She was able to cobble together a good life for herself and her son.

But their nice little bubble had begun to crack two years ago, when Neal made a reappearance in their lives. He was living in Maine, in a small town called Storybrooke where he'd apparently grown up, and found Emma on Facebook.

"How could you never have told me I had a son, Emma?!"

"YOU left me, Neal! You abandoned me to serve time for a crime YOU committed. How was I supposed to find you when I was fresh out of jail with a newborn?!"

Neal was chastened by her words. He backed off, but still insisted on being a part of their lives. He wanted them to move to Storybrooke to be closer, but Emma had refused. Their life was in Tallahassee. She couldn't just pick up and move.

That excuse had worked for about six months, but Neal kept pestering her. Then he convinced her to let Henry spend Christmas with him. Henry immediately fell in love with the town, but seeing snow had been what sealed the deal for him. He came home and talked about nothing other than how badly he wanted to live in Storybrooke.

Emma still insisted they stay put until she could find a job there. She refused to take any handouts from Neal. It took another year before she was able to secure a job as a deputy with the Storybrooke PD. The offer had come in the middle of a heat wave and the idea of moving to a cooler climate was extremely appealing. Emma still had reservations, but she decided to take a chance and accepted the job.

She was able to find an apartment - a large, industrial style open space with a loft area for Henry's bedroom. The place was owned by her new boss, the sheriff, David Nolan and his wife Mary Margaret. They'd lived there for several years before buying a large farm on the outskirts of town to accommodate their growing family. The building was an old warehouse Mary Margaret's family had owned which had been converted into a four-unit apartment building. The only other occupant currently was Emma's downstairs neighbor, Killian.

On they day they were moving in, she'd run into Jones - literally run into him, while she was carrying a box full of kitchen equipment. The bottom obviously hadn't been taped up very well, and the collision had not only knocked them both the ground, but had broken the box, scattering her utensils and tupperware all over the entryway to the building.

"Oh shit!" she yelled, already exhausted from the long drive and just ready to get the move over with.

"Are you alright, love?" he'd asked, his smooth, crisp, accented voice sending chills up her spine. She'd looked up and almost had her breath taken away. He was a gorgeous man, with inky black hair, striking blue eyes, and a chiseled jawline. His facial hair was a few days old, not quite long enough to be a beard, but still an extremely attractive look for him. The light coming through the door caught on his face, highlighting his stubble and revealing more than a few ginger-colored hairs.

"Oh… yes" she'd replied, finally coming back to herself.

"Mom! What happened?" Henry had asked, coming through the door with a box of his own things.

"Nothing dire, I assure you," her new neighbor had replied as he stood and offered her his hand. "Killian Jones, pleased to meet you. I assume you must be moving into the apartment upstairs. Emma and Henry, right?"

"Yes," Emma had responded, suddenly wary. How did he know their names?

"Killian! There you are," Mary Margaret had called out as she stepped through the door. "Whoa," she added as she took in the scene, "what happened here?"

"I bumped into him, I think."

"Okay, well, let's get this stuff picked up." Her new landlord bent over and began collecting the various items that had gone flying. "I see you've met Killian," she added, placing a few utensils into the now overturned box. "I stopped by yesterday and let him know you guys were moving in."

Mary Margaret, after unknowingly calming Emma's anxiety, convinced Killian to help them complete the move-in.

Almost immediately, Emma and Killian struck up a good friendship. He worked at a nearby bar, The Rabbit Hole, which he co-owned with his brother. Emma often found herself visiting Killian there on nights where Henry was sleeping over at his dad's house. That was where she met the other Jones brother, Liam, and his wife, Elsa. Emma took an instant liking to Elsa, and they became fast friends. As a natural result, she ended up spending a lot of time at Liam and Elsa's house, thereby seeing Killian even more frequently.

Over the last six months, she'd become close to Killian and had come to think of him as one of the best friends she'd ever had. There were more than a few romantic thoughts about him, but Emma refused to act on them. She didn't want to mess up their friendship, and she especially didn't want to get involved with a neighbor.

"Emma?" Killian asked, bringing her back to herself. She looked down and saw that she'd finished her rum while lost in thought.

"Can I have another?"

Killian smiled and grabbed the bottle to refill her glass. "Was tonight so bad that you lost yourself in thought while trying to figure out what to tell me?"

She chuckled nervously, afraid to tell him that her thoughts were actually about how she'd rather have been with him than anywhere else. Straightening her shoulders, she met his gaze, determined to be the master of her feelings. "No, nothing like that. It's just… well, I finally agreed to let Walsh take me on a date."

§§§§§§§§§§

Killian felt his heart stop at her words. She'd been on a date? Although the context led him to believe she hadn't had the best time out, he couldn't stop the jealous streak that coursed through his veins. What he wouldn't give to go on a date with Emma Swan, the woman of his dreams.

He'd been stunned by her from the moment they met, when she crashed into him in the entryway of their building. The way the morning sunshine illuminated her golden hair made her appear like an angel, but what truly did him in was the way she looked at him when their gazes met. He was mesmerized by her shining green eyes, creamy skin, and high cheekbones, but her expression was guarded, showing him a strong woman who would broker no bullshit. And few things were more attractive to Killian Jones than a strong woman.

As he got to know Emma and Henry better, he found himself falling hopelessly in love with them both. Henry was a wonderful child: curious, friendly, and smart as a whip. And Emma, once he got past her tough exterior, was one of the kindest and most genuine people he'd ever met. Emma cared deeply for the wellbeing of others, sometimes to the detriment of her own health, and Killian found his life's purpose lately was helping to make her life easier.

Despite the fact that she'd been set up on a few dates, he had sincerely hoped he and Emma could begin explore what he was certain was a mutual attraction. He wasn't oblivious; he saw how she looked at him when she thought no one was watching. But Killian also knew that Emma had to be the one to make the first move. For the last six months he'd been waiting for her to do so, but nothing had happened yet.

And now she was letting that simpering simian Walsh take her out. It was almost too much to bear.

He coughed to clear his throat. "I take it the date didn't go so well?"

"I mean… it wasn't the worst date I've ever been on, but definitely in the top five."

"What made it so terrible?"

"Well, for starters, he took me to Granny's."

"You love Granny's," Killian countered, remembering fondly the meal there he'd shared with her and Henry not even a week ago.

"I do, but not for a date. Granny's is where you go for family dinners. The place doesn't exactly scream romance."

"Don't let the Lady Lucas hear you criticizing her establishment," he admonished, while mentally filed away that little tidbit for future reference. "What else made the date bad?"

"He was just boring," Emma bemoaned. "He spent the majority of the time talking about his store and why he decided to start a furniture business, and how it was booming and how he made so much money on Etsy and blah, blah blah, blah blah. He and I have nothing in common." She drained her glass as if she were trying to wash away the very mention of him.

"Why did you agree to the date?" Killian refilled her glass as he spoke, refusing to make eye contact.

"I don't know… because he kept pestering me. And because he's so different from guys I usually go for. I thought maybe I'd have better luck with someone I normally wouldn't look at twice. And also this town is desperately lacking eligible men."

Killian couldn't help himself. "There's really no one more eligible than Mr. Ozman the furniture maker?" He lifted his eyebrows and threw her a wry smile.

"Well… yeah," she said, looking away as she took another sip. "I mean, there are maybe men in town that are more eligible, but they're not options for me."

"No one?"

"No!" she said, slamming her fist on the counter next to her nearly empty drink. "Pour me another, please."

"You're knocking those back rather fast, Swan. Are you sure you don't want some water?"

"Nope. I'm good with my rum. Fill 'er up barkeep!" She gave him a flirty smile, and, god help him, he couldn't deny her anything. The bar was empty, and entertaining Emma made the time pass by faster. He poured her another measure and set the bottle on the counter behind him.

By the time she finished her fourth glass, she was quite inebriated, as evidenced by her constant talking. Emma Swan was normally very stoic, but get a few drinks in her and she became a chatterbox. Killian surmised that she must have had a few beers at Granny's before she made her way to the bar.

"I mean, what even is this town?" she asked as she waved her hand in the air. "There are less than 3,000 people living here! That's so tiny! You know how many people Tallahassee has? 191,000! That's like six… sixty… you know, it's just a fuck ton more people, that's what it is!"

"Alright Swan," he said, walking around the bar to join her at her side, "I believe you've had enough. Why don't you come sit in my office while I wrap a few things up and then I'll walk you home?"

She stood and didn't protest as he grabbed her things and escorted her toward the back, but she also continued talking. "And the weather… what the hell is up with this weather? I've been here six months, and it's been cold as balls, but there's no fucking snow! That's not right! I haven't seen a good snowfall in more than a decade. If I have to deal with this cold weather, I at least deserve to see some damned snow, right?"

"Couldn't agree with you more, love." He settled her in his office chair and leaned over her slightly to grab the keys from their hook on the wall.

Emma smiled and blushed when he did so, but mercifully her mouth remained closed. He departed the office and went about closing up the few remainings items in the bar before returning.

"Ready love?" he asked as he stepped over the threshold twenty minutes later. He paused as he looked down and saw that she was fast asleep, her head pillowed on her arms as she leaned over his desk. Smiling, he stepped over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Emma? Love? It's time to go home."

She awoke with a groan. "Tired…" she mumbled into her bicep.

"I know darling. But we are only a few steps from home. You will be glad in the morning when you wake up in your bed rather than with a sore neck from sleeping on my desk."

"You're right," she said, sitting up. "Besides," she said with a yawn, "there are other bedroom things I'd like to do on this desk." She seemed to realize what she said a moment too late and looked up at him in shock, her faced flushing a deep red.

Ever the gentleman, Killian chose to ignore her words. He picked up her coat and motioned for her to stand up. She did so reluctantly, but he was able to help her into the garment and get it buttoned up. He looked warily at her shoes. There may not be snow on the ground, but there was still ice and he wasn't sure how he felt about her walking on slippery roads in four-inch heels.

Emma recognized where he was looking and stomped her foot defiantly. "I'll be fine, Jones," she said, reading his mind. "Let's go."

Killian set the alarm and locked up the building. Once everything was secure, he turned to see Emma leaning against the brick wall and staring at him unevenly. He smiled and grabbed her hand, threading it through his arm. They proceeded to walk the two blocks it would take to get to their apartment building.

As they walked along, he looked up at the sky and had to do a double take. Sure enough, flakes were starting to fall. Emma seemed oblivious, so he shook her hand a bit. "Look up."

She turned her head skyward and her face broke out in a grin so radiant it could outshine the moon. "Snow!" she squealed, pulling away from him and spinning in a circle. "I haven't seen snow since I was a kid!" She tilted her head further back and opened her mouth wide to catch a few flakes. Her pure, childlike joy warmed his heart.

"Finally!" she cried out, spinning once more. She stopped suddenly, dropping her chin and giving him a sultry look. Sauntering over, she grabbed onto the lapels of his jacket. "Aren't you happy for the snow?" she whispered, her mouth mere inches from his own.

"I'm happy to see you so happy, love," he replied, beaming down at her.

Emma stared into his eyes a moment longer before she surged forward and captured his lips with her own. The kiss caught him off guard, but he'd wanted it too long to push her away now. He returned the embrace, capturing her upper lip between his own and sucking gently. She moaned and opened her mouth wider, moving her hands to grab the back of his head and deepen the kiss. Time stopped in that moment, the only sound being their short breaths as they desperately tried to keep going.

Finally it became too much and she pulled away, once more holding onto his lapels and resting her forehead against his. They both gulped in deep breaths of air, the cold stinging their lungs.

Killian came back to himself and abruptly reared his head back as he recalled her drunken state. "Emma… I shouldn't have-"

"Don't," she interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't apologize for what was the greatest kiss of my life. I may be drunk, but not drunk enough to kiss you against my will. I fully and totally consented to it, and I'd gladly do it again."

"Truly, you don't know how much of a relief it is to hear that." She smiled and lifted up on her toes to kiss him again, but he dodged her. "I'd still rather we waited for a repeat performance until after you've slept it off."

"Fine," she grunted, releasing him and stomping ahead a few paces. "Killian Jones, the gentleman, everyone!" She swung her arms around to gesture at him Vanna White-style. "Step right up and see it for yourself! A man who doesn't want to take advantage of a drunk woman who is dying to jump his bones! Truly a marvel!"

She was hurt, he could see that clear as day, but he would not relent. He quickened his pace and caught up just as her feet slipped out from underneath and she went tumbling to the ground. "Damnit!" she yelled as she struggled to pick herself up. "I'm such a klutz. No wonder you don't want me."

"Now wait a damn minute!" He raised his voice to stop her drunken spiral. "I never said that." Effortlessly he lifted her back to her feet, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders. "I've wanted you since the moment I met you." His eyes pleaded with her as he spoke. "I just don't want you to have any chance to regret things between us."

Emma looked down with a huff. "You are such a… a…" she lifted her eyes once more and her gaze suddenly softened. "You're a good guy, Killian Jones."

He smirked at her. "Come on, let's go home." He pulled her into his side and continued their trek.

§§§§§§§§§§

The sunlight pouring through the window was blinding and Emma groaned, pulling her pillow over her face. She tried in vain to will her blistering headache to go away, thanking the fates that Henry was staying with Neal one more night, and she could stay at home and nurse her hangover while avoiding the world in the process.

She snuggled deeper into the plush bedding as her awareness slowly returned. Her eyes were still firmly closed, but she began to recognize the smell of the bedding. There was the distinct scent of man surrounding her. She ran a hand along the sheets and could feel they were made of a very tight weave, much nicer than her own. And the comforter was infinitely warmer. She'd have to make note of the brand so she could buy a proper one, rather than the light quilt she'd been using that only worked in Florida winters.

Taking another deep inhale, Emma realized she knew that scent. It was Killian's smell. Making a quick check, she found that, rather wearing her own clothes, she was dressed in a men's t-shirt and boxers. She groaned again and threw her arm over her pillow-covered head. What had they done last night?

"Good morning love," Killian said as he stepped into the room. There was the sound of a thunk, followed by the aroma of coffee, indicating that he'd brought her a mug of the amazing brew he liked to make in his french press. "How do you feel?"

"Lower your voice!" she hissed. His volume was not loud, but in light of her pounding headache, he may as well have been yelling. Taking a deep breath, she slowly peeled the pillow away from her face, keeping her eyes squinted while they adjusted to the light. Once she sat up Killian offered her a bottle of water and two ibuprofen. She smiled at him gratefully and took the painkillers, downing half the water with them.

"I'm sorry I was so drunk you couldn't even get me up the stairs."

"You were nearly asleep by the time we made it to building. I figured it would be easier to have you rest here."

"What happened? What did I do?"

He grimaced. "Do you remember any of it?"

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying hard to clear her mind and recall what happened just a few hours ago. It all came back in a flash. "I kissed you."

"Aye," he responded, reaching over and handing her the coffee mug.

Emma took a fortifying sip, enjoying the taste of the rich brew doctored with cream and sugar just how she liked it. They sat in silence for a moment, Killian watching Emma while she watched her cup of coffee.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, finally breaking the tension.

She took another deep breath before peering up to meet his eyes. "No. I don't."

"Is it something you'd like to do again?"

She looked pensive for a moment longer before cracking a smile. "Yes, I want to kiss you again, Killian." He began to lean forward, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Not yet, though. I'd like to shower and brush my teeth first."

He smirked in response. "I think you'll find, Swan, that I am an infinitely patient man."

Their flirty banter, along with the water, painkillers, and coffee, had Emma feeling ten times better than when she'd woken up only moments ago. She tilted her head and looked at him coquettishly. "I think you'll find, Jones, that I am not a patient woman. Give me thirty minutes to get cleaned up, and then I'm gonna come back down here and rock your world."

"Oh, there will be coming, alright."

Emma broke into a full cackle at his words. "Seriously? I know you have better game than that, Jones."

"Go get cleaned up, darling, and then you can find out."

Emma practically leapt out of the bed, grabbing her clutch and racing upstairs. She showered quickly, but made sure to take a few moments for some body hair removal. The shower helped to shake off the last vestiges of her hangover. Standing in front of her closet, wrapped in only her plush navy blue bathrobe, she contemplated what the wear when there was a knock on the front door. She groaned at the intrusion, mourning the potential loss of time alone with Killian, before tightening her robe and moving to answer the knock.

She opened the door to find Killian standing there, looking sinfully sexy in a pair of low-slung jeans and a loose t-shirt. He stared down at her preditorially. "Swan," he breathed before stepping into her space and capturing her mouth with his own.

Emma stepped back and he followed, slamming the door and locking it behind them. He then spun their bodies, pinning her to the wall as his lips traveled down her jaw. "Not that I'm complaining," she said, pausing to moan wantonly, "but I thought we were going to do this at your place."

"I guess I'm not as patient as I claim to be," he replied, tracing her collarbone with his tongue. "Take this off," he commanded, tugging at her robe, and she hurried to comply. Her hands fumbled with the belt for a moment before it fell open, revealing her naked body. He stepped back and admired her as she squirmed under his scrutiny. "Gorgeous," he breathed before pushing the robe off her shoulders.

The cold air on her heated skin was a shock. Emma silently thanked herself for deciding not to wash her hair this morning. She could only imagine how much colder she'd feel with wet hair dripping down her back.

His hands warmed her body as they roamed over her breasts, across her stomach, and around to her rear before encouraging her to spread her legs and wrap them around his hips. With her core pressed to his own, he ground their bodies together while his mouth dove down to take a hardened pink nipple between his lips. Emma hissed at the sensation of his warm mouth on the stiffened peak, speeding up the motions of her pelvis. She could feel the erection underneath his jeans, and the combination of it and the ridge of his fly gave her just the right amount of pressure on her clit. She'd been so worked up thinking about him in the shower that it only took a few more minutes until she felt the first blush of her orgasm wash over her body.

"Oh my god… Killian… I'm gonna… I'm… ahhh!" she moaned, throwing her head back and crying out in ecstacy.

"You are so bloody beautiful, Swan," he said, gently kissing her as she came down from her high.

"Your turn," she said in a rush, placing her legs back down on the ground. She took a moment to steady herself before putting her hands on his shoulders and making to turn them.

"No, Emma," he said, his voice commanding. "I'm in charge right now, and you will do as I say. Go sit on the bed, on your knees."

Emma shivered, and not from the cold air in the room. "Yes sir," she replied breathily before complying with his order. When she was positioned how he wanted, he walked over and stood at the foot of the bed, removing his shirt and jeans until he stood before her in all his naked glory. She bit her lip as she looked up at him.

"See something you like, darling?" he asked, wrapping his long fingers around his cock and pumping slowly.

"Mmmm… yes sir," she moaned.

He crawled on the bed, placing his knees on either side of her hips. His hand slid down and lightly grazed her outer lips before he slid two fingers inside her. "Bloody fuck you're wet," he groaned. He pumped his fingers two more times before removing them and spreading some of the moisture on his cock. "Where do you keep your condoms, love?"

"I don't have any," she breathed. "The ones I had were expired and I threw them out before the move."

"Then it's a good thing I came prepared," he replied with a chuckle. He stood up and grabbed his jeans, extracting a foil square. Quickly sheathing his length, he slid back onto the bed, this time behind her, and wrapped his hands around her waist. With a squeeze of his hips he encouraged her to lift herself so he could position his aching cock just below her entrance. After a torturously slow few seconds, she sank all the way down.

They both moaned when he bottomed out. The feeling of being full was almost too much. His hands wandered, one landing on her breast and the other slipping down to her clit. He rubbed it in ever tightening circles before pushing her body forward, changing their position to doggy style as he pumped his hips faster. Emma cried out at the quickened pace of his fingers, and she once again felt the tinglings of an orgasm. They continued for a moment longer before, all at once, she was hit with another flood of sensation. She cried out and squeezed him tight, her release triggering his own. The room was filled with their cries as they both took their pleasure.

They collapsed onto the bed, Killian pulling her to him so that her back lined up with his front. They both panted heavily as their heart rates slowed. Once they were each more composed, Emma sighed contentedly.

"I guess I should be grateful for rum and the snow finally giving me the courage I needed to make a move."

"If you aren't, then I will be grateful enough for the both of us."

She smiled and lightly slapped his arm before settling more into his embrace.

"I am curious about one thing," he said a moment later.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"If it took rum and snow for that to happen, what will it take for you to act on the urge to do those 'other bedroom things' in my office you mentioned last night?"

Emma blushed momentarily before smiling to herself. "You'll just need to wait to find out."

Ruth Nolan is something else, however, something Emma can recognize even at 15. Ruth seems to see everything, eyes almost too kind and understanding to be real. It shouldn’t really surprise Emma that her latest foster mother - a woman trying to live up to that title in more than just name - sees her little hobby, if you could call it that, as well.

One day you will go away…

The older woman shows up with a notebook and a hatbox, the latter carrying that particular smell Emma associates with the antique stores Ruth likes so much.

“I thought you might like someplace you could keep all your pieces together,” Ruth says in that tone of voice Emma’s learning means she’s afraid she’s overstepping Emma’s boundaries. “Only if you want, of course. And then a pretty notebook too, for your writing or journaling or just school, if you prefer. What girl doesn’t need a pretty notebook?”

Emma’s wary to accept the gift - gifts are easy to take back when she’s inevitably sent back, so there’s no sense in getting attached - but she thinks Ruth might mean it genuinely. “Thanks,” she says, attempting a smile. “That’s a good idea.” Even if she’s hesitant to accept the gift, Ruth’s too good to hurt her feelings, so Emma makes the effort all the same.

“Oh, it’s nothing, my girl,” Ruth excuses, cheeks pinking as she busily fusses with the pillows on Emma’s bed, almost like she didn’t expect even that small praise. After a few moments, she seems to run out of things to do in that direction, straightening with a sigh to meet Emma’s hesitant smile. “You’ll let me know if you need anything else, sweetie?”

It strikes Emma for the first time that Ruth may be just as nervous about this working out as she is, but is trying so hard all the same to make Emma feel like a part of something. “Yeah, I will,” she reassures, before taking it a brave step further. “I thought maybe I’d come down in a few, if you or David wanted to play a card game or something?”

“I’d love that,” Ruth beams, sending a little shoot of happiness and pride through Emma that she was able to do that. “No rush, sweetheart, you come down whenever you’re ready,” she assures on her way out.

Just one more line, Emma thinks, quickly finishing out her thought before putting her pen aside to join the Nolans downstairs.

It takes months and months, but Emma figures out that Ruth Nolan is a no-backsies kind of woman, both with her gifts and her love. The adoption papers are certainly proof of that sentiment, though Emma has moved all her snippets into the hatbox even before everything’s official. She’s finally found a place of her own in this world - it’s time her words do too.

———

My love’s too big for you my love…

The words are a release, a way to express everything she’s feeling when faced with her first real heartbreak at the hands of her cheating ex-boyfriend. They’re never meant to be seen by anyone - hell, Emma’s not sure that she herself wants to read them a second time, bear witness to that pure expression of pain again. Yes, she’s fucking pissed at Neal, and no, she doesn’t want to rekindle things or remotely regret their breakup after finding him in bed with another woman, but she loved him, in that awful, consuming, first-love kind of way. And that doesn’t go away instantly, even despite her anger, even when given the ample evidence that it should. Writing it all down, Emma’s long since learned, is the first step in processing and moving forward.

Tell me what to do to take away the you…

What she doesn’t plan on, however, is Belle spotting the words where Emma’s left them on her dorm room’s desk when the brunette swings by with an impromptu question about their creative writing assignment. It’s far too late to hide them - the time for that was before Belle knocked, honestly, and any efforts now will just make it look like Emma has something interesting to hide. Even if Belle is a sweet girl, one that Emma doesn’t think would pry if she just snatched the page back, there’s no closing the barn door after the horse has already escaped.

“Is this for class?” Belle asks, understandably confused. It’s fairly obviously not a school assignment, since they haven’t been asked to complete anything in verse.

“No, it’s… a personal project, I guess,” Emma half-heartedly explains. “Just a hobby.”

Belle raises her eyebrows at that. “It’s really good. Is it a song?”

“Could be,” Emma shrugs. “I mean, I kind of wrote it like that, but I’ve never actually sat down and figured out the music that goes with it, so…”

“Still, it’s impressive,” Belle comments. “I’d go see a band who was putting out stuff like this.”

“Thanks,” Emma mumbles, feeling her cheeks start to flush pink.

“Thanks for not snatching it out of my hand immediately,” Belle grins. “Do you have any others you’d be willing to share?”

Looking back, Emma thinks the band was born that night - or at least the idea for one. Either way, before the year is out, they’re practicing with two other acquaintances-turned-bandmates in university practice rooms, trying to put together sounds and words that people will actually want to listen to.

(The hatbox remains sealed, however; certain things are just too private to put in front of the world.)

———

They say that home is where the heart is

I guess I haven’t found my home…

She probably should have figured Killian would find the hatbox when she asked him to help her unpack the boxes in the office - a task she’s been putting off for an almost embarrassingly long time. If there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that Killian Jones is meticulous in everything he does, and helping Emma unpack her belongings and god-awful stacks of files is no exception.

“What’re these, then?” he teases, flashing Emma that grin that he thinks is charming (and Emma sometimes allows herself to find charming as well).

“Oh, you know. Just some stuff I’ve written,” she says, as vaguely as possible. It’s not that she wants to hide this box from him, or that she cares that he’s found all her scraps of songs, but there’s a lot of memories in that box, years of the feelings she hides so well behind her public facade, and they honestly don’t have the time to go through it all. Jury’s still out on whether Emma has the inclination to do so in the first place.

“I don’t recognize these,” he says, frowning in confusion as he scans the messy scrawl dancing across the pages. “Are they from the next album?” His face suddenly lights up with an excitement more characteristic of a young boy, not a grown-ass adult whose best friend will gladly give him a sneak peak of the drafts for the next album if he ever asks.

“No, God no,” she snorts. “Those will never see the light of day.”

“Whyever not?” he asks. The defensive part of Emma reads it as a demand, but her logic and ears at least are able to process his tone as actually pretty polite, though curious. “These are really good.”

Emma shrugs. “Not really our style. Those are meant to be just the piano and maybe an acoustic guitar.” They’re excuses, she realizes, and though Killian seems to be happy enough to take them at face value, Emma feels a twinge of guilt about not giving him more. He’s her best friend, after all; their trust is an implicit thing, strong in the knowledge that they’ll never judge one another. With that in mind, Emma scratches out a small hole in her walls to hand him more. “They’re… personal,” she elaborates, though that was probably already obvious. “I mean, those in the box were my emotional outlet for a while. They’re just too… close, if that makes sense? I don’t really want to share them with everyone.”

Killian drops the slips back into the box quickly, hastening to seal everything back up. “I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to pry,” he apologizes.

He really doesn’t need to. “Killian, it’s fine,” she smiles. “You’re not ‘everyone’. Or whatever. Something less corny.”

“Too late, Swan,” he replies, that smug look trying to creep across his face. “I’ll treasure those words forever.”

Emma rolls her eyes at him, but truthfully, she doesn’t particularly mind. She may have been hesitant to show Killian that little bit of herself, but it ultimately wasn’t nearly as hard or painful as she feared. Then again, things with Killian have always been easy - easy and comfortable.

She can’t help but think that maybe, now that they both live in the same city, they can finally explore that something that’s always been simmering just below the surface of their friendship.

They say you’re really not somebody

Until somebody else loves you

Well I am waiting to make somebody somebody soon…

———

Emma Swan isn’t, historically, a wallower, but it was a fucking stupid fight, and looking back, she’s entirely to blame. Or, at the very least, she can’t blame Killian for being frustrated - “her fault” makes it sound like she was out looking for an argument. But at the very least, she sees and understands why he was upset in the first place.

It’s so stupid in retrospect, the events that led to their fight. They’d run into an acquaintance of Emma’s, one of the sound techs that’s working with them on the next album, and it fell to Emma to make introductions - and she’d fumbled. Badly. To the tune of “This is my… this is Killian.” And yes, they were walking down the street with arms thrown around each other, and the techie totally knew that they were together, but still. Not a good thing that Emma’s still too screwed up to even call Killian her boyfriend.

“Don’t you think that hurts, Emma?” he asks later, begs later after she demands to know why he’s being so quiet. “We’ve been together for three and a half months, and I know you’re committed to this relationship - at least when it’s just us - but it’s like a little knife to the heart when you can’t or won’t let others in on that little secret, like this is something to be ashamed of.” He runs a hand over his face in frustration, before shaking his head and turning towards the door of her apartment. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this tonight. I’ll call you later.” His hand is on the knob when he turns back for the last word. “Think about what you really want from this, Emma, because I won’t drag you into something you’re not 100% on board with.”

And then he leaves Emma to sort out the pain currently coursing through her chest.

I’ll never say that I’ll never love

But I don’t say a lot of things

(and you my love are gone)

Emma knows that she can’t fix herself overnight, can’t suddenly push past all the emotional scarring that’s caused all this blasted hesitance. But what she can do is try harder to show Killian how she feels, even if she can’t say the words yet.

With that in mind, she sits down to write another song, one whose words have just started popping into her head. The Lost Girls are planning to do a short surprise set at the Jolly Roger three weeks from now - maybe this can be added to the set list, this song just for Killian.

———

It’ll take more than just a breeze to make me…

Fall overboard just so you can catch me

“Writing me another love song, Swan?” Killian asks cheekily from where he leans in the doorway.

“You say that like you’ve been deprived,” Emma dryly shoots back. “And I know for a fact that’s not true.”

“Ah, well, a man can dream,” he teases, crossing the room to embrace Emma from behind, chin coming to rest on her head. “In all seriousness, what are you working on there?”

“Something for Ruby.”

Killian snorts at that pronouncement. “Oh, that seems premature. We just introduced her to Graham a few weeks ago, love.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a feeling,” Emma insists. “They really hit it off the other week, and they both seemed smitten.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, Emma? Or is this some kind of body swap with your sister-in-law?” her husband teases, jokingly feeling her forehead for a fever. “Quick, tell me something only Emma would know!”

“Very funny,” Emma deadpans. “Just you wait, I’ll be singing this at their reception one day.”

“Whatever you say, my love,” he placates, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head before tilting his own in curiosity. “I don’t think I’ve seen the hatbox in a good long while,” he observes.

“Haven’t needed it lately,” she shoots right back. “What can I say, I’m becoming more emotionally healthy, or something.” It’s a quip, for certain, but there’s a certain amount of truth to it; Emma hasn’t had to turn to the hatbox and pouring her emotions out into words no one will ever read because she has Killian instead, who’s always there to listen when she’s sad or frustrated. She likes to think she offers him the same in return.

“I don’t think you were ever so bad as you make it sound,” Killian says, trying to temper her words, “but I’m glad to hear that you don’t need to depend on that outlet so much anymore.”

“Only because of you, babe,” Emma replies cheekily, meaning every word despite her teasing tone.

Killian snorts a laugh all the same, before craning around to drop a smacking kiss on her lips. “You’ll have to write me a song to prove it!” he calls over his shoulder as he wanders back out into the living room.

And who knows? Maybe she just might.

“In here, love!” he calls, before turning back to their suddenly-excited toddler, who’s anxiously watching the doorway. “That’s right, lad, Mama’s home,” he says, before whispering conspiratorially, “Why don’t you go make her something?”

The previous week, Killian had ducked into a thrift store with Wiley after seeing a box of records through the window, and the little boy had discovered a plastic kitchen set that he immediately fell in love with. Killian hadn’t ended up leaving with any records - the box had been full of mostly amateur worship songs - but the play kitchen had wound up being purchased and loaded into the back to the car, immediately followed by a stop at the nearest toy store to purchase more plastic foods. Wiley had been enthusiastically “feeding” everyone ever since. No one particularly cares; it’s adorable, and besides, Killian’s read about how good imaginative play is for young minds. Hopefully, if Emma’s in a foul mood, one of Wiley’s pretend concoctions will cheer her up.

The woman herself appears moments later, stockinged toes on display after already removing her boots and face still covered in the thick makeup needed for the dramatic interview photographs. She looks exhausted, with more than just that bone-deep fatigue associated with raising a toddler; there’s an emotional fatigue as well that wasn’t present when she left the house that morning.

“Mama!” Wiley excitedly chirps, rushing her legs and managing to bring a smile to Emma’s face.

“Hey, little man,” she murmurs, bending down to drop a kiss on his chestnut curls. “I missed you.”

Wiley holds on for a moment longer, letting his mother love on him, before breaking his grip to rush back to his play set. “I made you something!”

As their son plates his latest creation - what appears to be the mound of peas, a disproportionate banana, and an egg - Killian catches his wife’s eye. “How’d it go?” he asks, only to receive a shake of the head in response. She may not want to talk about it right now, but Emma ought to know after all this time that he’ll coax it out of her, one way or another. Before he can begin, however, Wiley’s back with the plate for his mother’s inspection and appreciation, effectively allowing her to avoid the conversation.

Emma makes all the prerequisite munching noises as she pretends to eat their son’s hellish plastic concoction, causing the little boy to beam. “Very tasty, kiddo, thank you so much,” she replies, handing all the remains back.

Killian intervenes before Emma can find any more excuses to avoid whatever’s bothering her. “Hey buddy, why don’t you make a feast for all of your stuffed animals? Mama and I will just be in the other room.” Wiley barely hears him, already invested in whatever his brain is dreaming up next, but nods in that absent-minded way Killian could swear he picked up from Emma.

Emma rolls her eyes, but doesn’t resist when he leads them to the adjoining office. Killian isn’t quite sure why they both insist on keeping an office; it’s never used, more of just a place to keep a desk with a printer and some files. Killian strongly suspects that they have an office just because it feels like the thing to do - the kind of thing every picture-perfect family has in their picket-fence house with 1.8 kids and a dog. Emma’s been known to occasionally camp out in there to write, but its main appeal right now is the draw of a private, child-free space and a comfy chair.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks, again, settling into the armchair as Emma remains standing, pacing with leftover energy and irritation. When she doesn’t answer immediately, he resorts to jokes, attempting to cheer her up. “Are we getting divorced again?” he asks, mock-seriously.  Every so often, a tabloid tries to claim that their marriage is disintegrating - a claim which amuses Killian and irritates Emma to no end. Usually, when he makes jokes about the situation and how ridiculous the very idea is, it can draw a reluctant smile out of Emma, but she seems beyond that point today, his attempt at humor only deepening the furrows in her brow.

“Hey, hey, darling, it was a joke. An awful one at that,” he soothes. Her pacing is starting to make him a little dizzy, so he pats his lap in an invitation to come sit. “Tell me, what happened? I know something has, or you wouldn’t be this upset.”

Huffing a sigh, Emma collapses into the chair next to him, leaning into his side and shoulder with her legs thrown perpendicularly across his. “I just want to help, love,” he murmurs into her hair, pressing a kiss into the blonde curls, only slightly put off by the unnatural hairspray scent and dry, plastered texture.

“I know,” she admits. “It’s just…” Sitting up straighter to better look him in the eye, she circles her arms around his neck before continuing. “It was just a bad day. One of those interviews where all the questions are awful, and then Mary Margaret called right afterwards, which didn’t help. I know, I’m probably overreacting, but… it just gets to me.”

“I know, Swan,” he murmurs, rocking her gently in the same way he does with Wiley. “I’m not blaming you. If you want to vent, I’m a willing ear, you know that.”

There’s silence for a long moment, only broken by Wiley chattering away to himself in the next room, before his love finally breaks and opens up. “I was looking forward to this, you know? I thought I’d get some good questions about the songwriting process or how we’ve evolved as a group or things like that. It’s a music magazine, for God’s sake, not some gossip rag. You expect the questions to be a little more in-depth.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“Yeah, well, clearly, it didn’t make sense to her. It just devolved into this whole conversation about being a working mother. You know I’m happy to talk about our kid, but that was the entire conversation. How did I feel now about  having such a demanding career that would take me away from my son? She said it like that too, like she was trying to guilt me. Not to mention, does she understand what I do? Arguably, I’ve got more flexibility in my career than most women! I write from home, I can bring him to the recording studio if I want, everything’s based out of London now so I don’t have to travel halfway around the world just to create a new record… For God’s sake, I can bring him with me on tour!” she explodes, pitch progressively rising, tossing her hands in the air in outrage. “We’ve already planned on it, both you and Wiley coming with me! I don’t have to be separated from my kid any more than millions of other women across the world, and in fact, probably less! But because I’m a ‘public figure’ —” Emma mimes air quotes around the last words, a sure sign of her irritation — “we’ve got to make it a whole big thing. And from a woman, at that! She, of all people, ought to know that I didn’t stop being my own person when we had Wiley! But no, she’s some brash young thing who thinks she’s an Insightful Reporter, all while asking the most cliched and overdone questions she could. What, am I going to have to specifically ask to be interviewed by mothers from here on out in hopes that they’ll know I don’t want to talk about my kid 24/7? That it’s fine - heck, encouraged to ask me other questions? I probably should have expected this, going into major interviews and publicity for the first time since Wiley was born, but trust me, that does not make it any less frustrating,” she finishes, finger stabbing the air in emphasis.

“I know, love,” Killian attempts to soothe, rubbing a hand along her spine. It must work, because he feels her tension lessen, Emma once again slumping against his side with her arms around his neck instead of the wild gesticulating she’d been engaging in earlier.

“She did start asking about the writing eventually, but I think I was too pissed off to really be grateful for that. Not to mention, she was still asking questions that assumed being a mom would automatically change the meaning of all the songs I write going forward. Which sometimes it does, yeah, but… can’t I just write a song because it’s fun? Guys do, all the time. A lot of my stuff isn’t personal in the least. There doesn’t need to be some big ‘deeper meaning’.” The air quotes make a second appearance, but they’re less forceful than previously, which Killian takes as a good sign. Huffing a put-upon sigh, Emma continues. “And then, of course, Mary Margaret calls, and —” she stops abruptly. “You know I love them, right, her and David? And that I’m happy for them?”

“I do know that.” Even if he hadn’t Killian would have said it anyways, recognizing that they’ve entered the part of the conversation where he’s just expected to agree. Thankfully, it’s true - Killian knows very well how much she adores her brother and his wife.

“I love Mary Margaret so much, but she is driving me crazy with this baby talk! If it was just about her own upcoming kid, fine. She’s pregnant, she’s excited, it’s to be expected. But she keeps trying to convince me that we should have another! Even if she is my sister, how is that any of her business?” Emma pauses, looking at Killian expectantly, and he hurries to respond.

“It’s really not.”

“Exactly! It’s none of her business. I mean, Wiley isn’t even three - there’s still people out there who try to count his age in months!”

“People you rather hate,” Killian points out reasonably, only to receive an impatient look from his wife.

“I do, because it’s more of a pain to say 32 months than two and a half, and I shouldn’t have to do math, but that’s not the point. The point is - what’s the rush? Why is everyone pressuring us to have another? Why do they think they have the right to do that? Not to mention, I’m so happy we have Wiley, but honestly? Those last few months before he was born were kind of miserable. Mary Margaret’s still at the point where the bump is cute and everyone talks about how she glows and she doesn’t always need help getting out of chairs. Let her come pester me about having another when she feels like she’s the size of a house and her shoes don’t fit and people keep asking if she’s sure she isn’t having twins, because it’s a lot less fun then.”

Killian remembers that stage, remembers how grouchy Emma was, and he can’t blame her for her reluctance to be subjected to that discomfort again. Mostly, he just wants to tell his sister-in-law to mind her own damn business, but that would probably be frowned upon. Still, he hears Emma’s point loud and clear, and agrees wholeheartedly; they should be the only ones making decisions about their family.

Emma must take his silence as dissent or concern rather than an introspective moment, however, as she moves a hand to his face, gently rubbing his cheek with her thumb. “Hey, I’m not saying I never want another kid. I’m just saying —”

“— not now. I know, love, I agree. Let’s try and get out of the terrible twos before we even start contemplating adding to our little crew.”

Emma smiles softly, her thumb still stroking the apple of his cheek. “Thanks.” They spend a moment just staring into one another’s eyes - just as sappy as they ever were - before Emma leans up to press a gentle kiss on his lips. “I really do love you, Jones.”

“I love you too, Swan,” he replies just as gently, a small smile gracing his face.

After a another moment to themselves, Emma stands and stretches, groaning dramatically. “I suppose we should go make sure the kid we already have hasn’t torn the place apart.”

“If you insist,” he teases, accepting the hand she offers to help haul him up. Upon regaining his footing, Killian dramatically kisses Emma’s hand, resulting in a eye roll from the lady (but one he’s sure is disguising a smile). Before she reaches the door, he pulls her back for one last word, hands still entwined.

“I’m sorry you had such a rough day, love.”

Emma just shrugs in response. “Me too. I feel better after venting to you, though. And hey, we’ll deal with it together, right?”

“Of course, Swan.”

Wiley David Jones is a mere eight days old, but he’s already become Killian’s entire world - a sentence that feels entirely melodramatic, and yet is entirely true. Meeting Emma, falling in love with Emma, had felt like a missing piece being found and slotted into his soul - a feeling of contentment and completeness he wouldn’t trade for the world - but holding his son for the first time is a different thing altogether: feelings of pride and fear mixed together with the sense that his world has suddenly been blown wide open and become larger than he could ever have fathomed. It’s awe-inspiring, really, and especially amazing that those feelings can be caused by something so small.

Killian’s been assured that his son is a perfectly normal size multiple times - 6 pounds, 11 ounces and 20 inches at birth - but that doesn’t keep him from thinking that Wiley is unutterably tiny, all his features miniscule and appearing unimaginably delicate. He’s a handsome lad, though Killian may be biased on that front, with soft wisps of dark hair and the cutest little nose. Killian sees a lot of Emma in their boy, in his chin and the shape of his mouth and the way Wiley is always moving when he’s awake (and often when he’s not) - not unhappy, just determined to be in motion, like he’s trying to find where the action is. Emma, bless her, swears the exact opposite, that their boy is clearly taking after his papa (“Just look at those ears, for God sake”). Regardless of which parent little Wiley currently takes after, Killian finds a certain amount of wonder in knowing that as the years pass, their little one will grow into his own person, a mix of the two of them that he’ll make entirely his own.

Technically, Wiley is supposed to be napping. Technically, they both are - sleep when the baby does and all that - and Emma, at least, is wise enough to actually take that advice. But Killian had caught some of the little newborn gurgles coming through the baby monitor as he finished tidying up the kitchen, and the noise had called to him like its own kind of siren song. Creeping into the nursery he and Emma had so carefully set up and decorated with pictures of cartoon zoo animals, he can see the little lad wide awake in his crib, pedalling his arms and legs like he’s attempting to run a race no one can see. And honestly, as long as they’re both awake, what’s the harm of having a little cuddle?

There’s an art to picking up a baby, he’s learned in the last week, a series of careful maneuvers to ensure that one’s infant is safe and secure and supported in one’s arms. But after eight days, it’s starting to become instinctual, all the intricacies of weaseling a hand under Wiley’s little neck and bum before lifting him fully into the air and into his arms, and Killian is confident is will soon become an unconscious motion.

“Hello there, little one,” he coos, and God, when did he become a man who coos? “Are you not sleepy yet?”

It seems ridiculous to Killian that Wiley isn’t tired, considering the very eventful week he’s had. Being born ought to be stressful enough, suddenly facing a wide, wide world with only the comfort of a few familiar voices to know everything will be alright, but he’s had a steady stream of visitors ever since. Liam and Elsa seem to be over at the little house on some excuse or other every day, though they do bring various casseroles and other meals, so that’s ultimately welcomed (even if Killian would like a day with just his wife and son sometime in the near future, thank you very much). There’s been a steady stream of quasi aunts and uncles parading through as well, only increasing the chaos. Ruby had dropped by the hospital, promising the newborn she’d teach him everything his parents forbade (a declaration neither Emma or Killian is particularly surprised by, but will try to remember as Wiley gets older). Robin and Regina brought over flowers and a lasagna the day after everyone got settled in together at home, fussing over the baby in a way that Killian thinks suggests they may try for their own addition in the near future. Belle and Will had generously donated some of their more gender-neutral hand-me-downs to the cause of clothing the little lad, and stopped by both the hospital and the house a few days later to introduce their own little girl to Wiley.

(“We’re going to have our hands full, won’t we?” laughs Will, gently and confidently bouncing the tiny lad in his arms like the more experienced parent he is. He’s probably thinking of one child leading the other into trouble some day and how much of a pain that will prove to be, but Killian is struck with a silly grin at the thought of two dark heads hiding behind the sofa or giggling as they run up and down the length of the bar on an evening one of their parents’ bands play at the Jolly Roger.

They’ll certainly have their hands full, and Killian can’t wait.)

The parade of loved ones isn’t likely to stop anytime soon; Mulan will be in town to talk business at the end of the month, having been sent plenty of photos in the meantime, and Emma’s family is expected at the end of the week, graciously granting the new parents a chance to settle in before they fly over from the States and stage a well-meaning and affectionate invasion. Killian is grateful for all the support; he really is. It’s been heartwarming to witness the collection of people who already love his son. But he’s just as pleased for these small moments to themselves, just him and Emma and Wiley.

In all seriousness, Killian is exhausted, and had planned to join Emma in bed for that nap. But as long as Wiley is awake, it seems criminal not to take advantage of every single moment. His one concession is to lower himself into the nursery’s cushioned rocker with the lad and at least get off his feet for a few minutes. Even better, the rocking might put both of them to sleep.

Not right now, though. Right now, Wiley is reaching up at Killian with tiny fingers from the cradle of his arms, and really, it’s enough to make any man melt.

“Whatever shall we do, my little one?” he questions softly. “You and I will need to pass the time somehow.”

Wiley just stares back at him, jaw dropped open in a little O, that adorable infant expression probably born of lack of muscle control that always looks like he’s in a state of open-mouthed wonder over his papa’s words. Killian would be perfect happy just to trace that expression with gentle fingers all day, revelling in the idea that his boy loves his voice, when he’s struck with an idea. A terribly silly, totally delightful idea.

“You don’t know this yet, little love, but your mama is a bit of a rock star,” he whispers conspiratorily, hauling himself back out of the comfortable chair to cross the room and turn on the sound system that is definitely way too elaborate for a baby’s room. Scrolling through his phone on his way back to seated comfort, he finds the song he’s looking for easily. “And even though she’s a rock star, she loves me very much. She even wrote me a song. Do you want to hear it, my lad? Want to hear Mama sing?”

When Wiley doesn’t openly shriek in protest, Killian presses play, making sure to set the volume almost as low as it will go to protect little ears and not wake Emma up from her well deserved rest. The quiet strains of his song trickle through the nursery speakers - a recording he has of Emma singing it - and he could swear that his little boy perks up a little, hearing his mother’s voice over the sound system.

“Yeah, that’s Mama,” he coos, lifting Wiley to rest on his chest. God, he’ll never get over that newborn smell - baby powder and something new and fresh and pure. “Just think of all the songs she’s going to write you, my sweet boy.”

“Are you really trying to indoctrinate him this early, Jones? I think he’s a bit young to be a fan.”

Looking up at the interruption, he can see Emma in the door, barefooted and hair still tousled from her nap. With a soft smile on her face and an amused twinkle in her eye at her boys’ tableau, she looks beautiful, though she’d probably wave him off if he tried to tell her that.

“I think Wiley will be a fan of yours regardless, darling,” he smiles back. “After all, you’re his mum.”

It never fails to amaze Killian, that his compliments can still make Emma blush after all this time, but there’s a telltale red stain to her cheeks as she moves to take the baby from him and perch on Killian’s lap so that all three are curled in the rocking chair.

“He’ll be a fan of yours too, you know,” Emma tries to argue back in that adorable, stubborn way of hers that Killian loves.

“Well thank you darling, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re easily the more impressive of the two of us. I mean, bartender vs. famous musician? There’s a clear winner there.”

Emma shakes her head insistently, leaning back with the baby in her arms to more fully make eye contact. “Yeah, but you’re Dad. The other stuff isn’t going to matter.”

That thought alone is awe inspiring, and Killian finds himself tearing for the countless time this week. Because she’s right, isn’t she? Just like always. Their little boy isn’t going to particularly care about such trivial matters as their profession and whether or not they can sing or write him a song, as long as he grows up loved beyond all reason. And Wiley will be, as long as Killian has breath.

“Thank you, my love,” he smiles through teary eyes. He lets the moment sit for a bit longer, trading loving gazes with Emma as their son fights sleep between them, little eyelids fluttering to stay open. There’s a comfort to this, emotionally if not physically, holding the two most precious people in his life safe in the circle of his arms. Finally tightening his arms to draw them closer, the moment may have been effectively ended, but he relishes the chance anyways to hold his little family tighter and feel the weight of Emma’s head as it comes to rest on his shoulder.

“In any case,” he continues in a more light-hearted tone, “I wanted to introduce the little lad to one of my favorite bands. Their songwriter has an amazing voice, I’ve heard.”

Emma offers as much of a shove with her shoulder as she can without disturbing the almost-asleep Wiley in response to Killian’s teasing smirk, but her cheeks pink up again, which feels like its own kind of victory. “Shut up,” she mumbles, nestling closer into his body despite the words.

There’s so many things he could say - teasing comments and grand declarations and everything in between. He’s already lost count of the amount of times in the past week he’s thanked Emma for their son - needlessly, she claims, but Killian knows better. But the crux of the matter is this: when life is more perfect than you ever imagined possible, can words possibly express it? Is it even worth the effort of trying?

Maybe; maybe not. Killian decides that in this moment, it just doesn’t matter, and chooses instead to drop a kiss on the crown of her head. “As you wish, love,” he murmurs into the part of her hair, still happy to follow any command she gives him.

The song may finish, and the house may descend back into back into silence once again, but the little family remains cuddled together in the nursery for a while longer, even after Wiley finally falls asleep. After Emma lays the baby back in his crib and wanders back out to the main living space, Killian takes one final moment just to watch his son sleeping peacefully before joining her. It’s funny, the way one’s entire life can change in the course of a week; change infinitely and enormously and for the better.

The house may be quiet, but his heart sounds with joyful trumpets, ushering in years of roaring happiness to come.

------

Their courtship had been almost shockingly traditional, really. The tabloids are particularly disappointed in this - undoubtedly expecting to be some sort of drama or tension associated with a famous rock star dating a normal bloke who runs a bar in London - and Emma is almost giddy with amusement over their confusion and annoyance and outrage. But they’re really… Killian doesn’t want to say boring, but honestly, they’re not that exciting. The most high-profile thing they do is sometimes go and see other bands, established or up-and-coming, and even that doesn’t make for a particularly good story. At the end of the day, they’re just a pair of people desperately in love who want to be left in peace.

But he’s liked this sedate courtship - they both have. After six months, they move in together, selling Emma’s place and hauling everything across town again. True, her old apartment would definitely have been large enough for both of them, but Killian likes this new start - a place that’s for the both of them to grow in together. So they buy a little house in a cute suburb and fill the house with pictures of their family. There’s a nice kitchen, and space for Emma to have a designated music room, and two extra bedrooms he might have thought about filling with children. One day. In the meantime, it’s everything they need, with space to grow.

He and Emma have been dating for nearly two years when he finally proposes. He does it right, too; they’d flown back to Maine for Christmas that year, and Killian had very nervously asked Ruth for her permission to marry Emma. In retrospect, he’s not sure why he was so nervous - Emma’s mother more than approves of the two of them, especially since she views Killian as one of the few people with the patience to handle living with Emma - but he’s a shaking mess of nerves all the same. Ruth excitedly grants her blessing, of course, and then proceeds to grill him about every detail of a proposal he hasn’t planned yet. It’s the Nolan way. Anything less would be out of character.

He probably should have dropped down on one knee that very evening - he has a ring and everything, it’s not like he’s not prepared - but her whole family is there, and watching, and it doesn’t feel like the right time.

The right moment, as it turns out, is all the way in the beginning of March, when he’s still fretting about perfect dates and whether she’ll want flowers or music or something else he hasn’t thought of yet. They’re in the bar before he opens for the afternoon, which is probably the most predictable setting he could have asked for in taking their relationship to the next level. So many of their milestones have happened at the Jolly Roger - it’s probably only appropriate that this one happen here as well.

He’s checking the liquor stocks, making sure everything is ready for the evening to come, with Emma leaning against the counter and watching him with a funny look in her eye. Killian knows that look; it usually means plans and trouble. Killian also knows damn well she’ll say her piece in her own time, usually for greatest dramatic effect. It’s the Emma Swan way. So he smiles the special smile that’s just for her and continues with his pre-opening routine.

He’s just wiping down the bar top one last time when she finally speaks up. “Are you ever going to ask?” she says, the smile evident in her voice.

“Ask what, darling?” he replies absentmindedly, attention focused on scouring one particularly stubborn sticky spot. Honestly, what the hell are these people spilling?

“Me to marry you,” her voice pipes back in, causing Killian to jerk his head up suddenly. He must look ridiculous, all wide eyed surprise at her question. Even if the words are said in a teasing tone, he knows she means them. They’ve talked about marriage before, like the mature and responsible adults they’re trying to be, and both know it’s a step they’re not adverse to. That doesn’t mean he was expecting the matter to come up this particular afternoon, in this particular setting.

Even if they’ve discussed the matter, he’s not sure how she knows he’s on the verge of taking that step. “How do you know about that?” he somehow manages to stutter out past his own tongue. Christ, this is not how this was supposed to go.

She shrugs. “Mary Margaret can’t keep a secret.”

Ah. Of course. He should have figured on that one. Emma’s sister-in-law probably didn’t mean to, but when she has a piece of information she’s not supposed to share, you can practically see it bursting from every one of her pores. It would have taken Emma nothing at all to weasel the information out of her.

Lost in his thoughts, and probably his embarrassment, he doesn’t notice Emma leaning across the bar until she takes his hand, their fingers entwining automatically after months and years of practice turned instinctual reflex. “I’m gonna say yes, you know,” she says softly, and if Killian was shocked before, you could knock him over with a feather now. He knows, somewhere in his mind, that she’ll say yes if he asks, but it’s one thing to know that, and quite another to hear it. He takes another moment to stare, slightly open-mouthed, before responding.

“I’ll be right back.”

And after that, it’s just a matter of dashing upstairs to the apartment he may not live in anymore but still keeps in case he needs to crash one night. With fumbling hands, he yanks open the drawer to retrieve the little blue velvet box from its hiding place. At the time, the apartment’s junk drawer was the only place he could be certain she wouldn’t stumble across it on accident. That planning has certainly come in handy now, with an impatient fiance-to-be waiting downstairs at the bar.

He practically skids around the corner on his way back down, bursting back into the main bar area a few minutes later.

Killian is sure he must look a sight - practically tripping over his own feet, hands faintly trembling with nerves - but Emma’s light laugh as he attempts to arrange his legs into a kneeling position helps.

He had a speech at one point, or half a speech, ready to go, but that was when he had grand plans of dinners and river cruises and Moments with capital letters, but those scripts never took into consideration that he might be having this moment on his questionably clean bar floor. But Emma’s still smiling at him from her perch, and really, that’s all the encouragement he’ll ever need. Killian takes a final deep breath, soaking in one last moment before his life changes forever.

“Emma Swan, love of my life, would you do me the great honor of marrying me?” There’s no need for grand speeches, really; it’s just the two of them, and they’ve never needed the grand gesture.

Emma’s grinning so widely her cheeks must hurt, before she finally opens her mouth and says the word probably their entire family has been waiting to hear:

“Yes.”

------

The wedding is as small as they can reasonably arrange - which is still larger than either would like, but oh well. The point is, it happens, and they’re married.

It’s a very traditional affair, to the shock of none of their friends and all of the magazines. They find a nice garden and Killian wears a black suit and Emma finds a beautiful white dress - fitted enough to suit her tastes, with a lace top that she wears for the ceremony and formal reception to avoid scandalizing Killian’s handful of elderly aunts and uncles any further. But she looks like a princess, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he tears up at the sight of her brother walking her down the aisle.

Killian feels like he should probably remember the ceremony more, but so much of it is a blur. He says the words; she says the words. Mostly, he’s so focused on Emma and the way there’s a couple of wisps of loose hair around her face and how the veil makes her look like some sort of angel, especially with the way she’s smiling at him, that the rest of it is a blur. He’s told to kiss the bride almost before he knows it, and they’re married.

They have two receptions. It’s not for any classy reason, or a celebrity excuse to spend more money, it’s just that there are people they should allow to be there for the cake cutting and first dance and everything else, and the people they actually want to let loose with later. So, two parties it is. The rest of the Lost Girls, with an assist on guitar from Robin,  sing the song Emma first wrote for him (ignoring the disapproving looks of the older crowd), Liam makes the entire room cry with his best man speech, and the cake is this rich chocolate concoction from a local bakery they discovered near the house right after they moved in. It’s… nice, in that way that it’s nice that people are there to be happy for the two of them, but a little formal.

No, the real party is afterwards, when all the people they’re obligated to invite go home and just their immediate family and friends are left - the members of the Lost Girls and Band of Thieves, Regina, Merida, both their siblings. Ruth had been graciously invited, but turned their offer under the excuse of exhaustion. But the rest of them hightail it over to the Jolly Roger for the afterparty of the century.

(And maybe he and Emma are a little later than expected after they sneak in a quickie in the reception hall’s dressing room under the guise of Killian helping Emma detach her veil, but their friends don’t really need to know that, not for sure.)

There’s laughing, and drinking, and fun. They’d arranged for an extra sheet cake to be delivered to the bar, and Smee agrees to man the kitchen in his dress clothes, so they’re all treated to a steady stream of junk food, which Emma in particular appreciates. Really, this is the kind of party they both wanted - small and casual and theirs.

Inevitably, as the hour grows later and the drinks grow stronger - thank you, Merida - things turn to karaoke. It seems appropriate; weirdly enough, karoake kind of brought Emma and Killian together. It’s only right that it features as a highlight of their reception as well. Some participants are more enthusiastic than others - Mulan’s girlfriend, Dorothy, flatly refuses to sing, and Mulan herself threatens to choose “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” if forced to participate - but most of the attendants take a turn. Ruby is particularly enthusiastic (though the cocktails may be to blame for that), and seems to be on stage every other song, aggressively making eye contact with Killian through the entirety of “Goodbye Earl” and serenading the pianist from Band of Thieves with Bob Seger when he attempts to leave and go home to his daughter. Emma chooses a Killers song - “You all know I’m nothing if not predictable” - and Killian is even coaxed onstage after losing a bet with Robin to croon a few love songs at his new bride. Personally,  Killian’s favorite moment is when Will Scarlet drunkenly selects a song in French on accident and refuses to just let it pass, instead insisting on tripping over every word and dedicating the whole mess to Belle, “the only French I speak.” It’s a thoughtful gesture, if somewhat nonsensical in its wording.

(There’s quite a bit of teasing about the seductive powers of bad French karaoke when Nellie Rose French Scarlet enters the world nine months later from a motley collection of doting aunts and uncles.)

Killian and Emma stay at the reception afterparty probably far longer than is typical for a newly married couple, but they do eventually make their farewells, leaving the key with Smee and Merida to lock up. It’s a surprisingly sedate ride home, but then again, there’s only so much you can get away with in the back of a taxi.

“Are you happy, Mr. Jones?” she asks with a smile, words only slightly slurred.

Killian smiles right back at her - at his wife! - before dropping a light kiss on her upturned lips. “Blissful, Mrs. Jones.”

------

And life goes on. A new album is released, not long after Nellie is born, and the Lost Girls embark on a severely abbreviated tour. It’s hard, he’ll admit; Emma leaving for extended periods of time is like a throwback to the days before she was based in London, but now with the added bonus of not being able to sleep properly at night in an empty bed and expecting her around every corner of their house. Killian misses his wife, dammit, and no amount of calls and video chats can replicate the warm weight of her body curled up next to his.

It’s that desperate missing that’s landed them in this latest adventure, most likely. They weren’t actively trying for kids, by any means, but Emma has never been great about adjusting her pill schedule to the various time changes associated with a tour and really, can a man be blamed for wanting to spend some quality naked time with the love of his life when she’s been gone on this latest leg of the tour for four weeks? Absolutely not.

But those actions have consequences - results, really, consequences makes it sound like some awful punishment - and the results in this case are a positive pregnancy test, followed by a sonogram and a tiny, fluttering heartbeat. A baby.

And all those convoluted paths, traditional and less so, have led to this moment: standing on the red carpet at the Grammys, watching the love of his life be interviewed by a reporter Emma looks like she’d rather snap in two.

The interviewer is some tiny slip of a woman, all auburn hair and sweet simpering attitude that Emma has sworn in the past hides the most backhanded comments. Killian can’t help but agree - asking the prerequisite questions about the album that brought the band here tonight, the interviewer sounds dismissive at best, like she doesn’t expect anything from such a record.

“Well this is such an… interesting look for tonight, very daring!” she’s saying, and Killian thinks the strain in Emma’s polite smile could be spotted from the next state. Possibly across the ocean. He takes a step closer to wrap his arm around her waist, hoping she can draw upon his own patience for just a few minutes longer.

“Well thanks, Aurora, I’m not much for the gauzy fairy looks formal maternity wear usually offers.”

She looks stunning, really, all snippy comments aside. Emma’s dressed in some tight, black concoction of a cocktail dress in a fabric he doesn’t pretend to recognize, with gold studs lining the neckline, short sleeves, and under the bust and her hair pulled back in a kicky ponytail to match her dramatic eye makeup. It’s quite the look, one that had left Killian awestruck when Emma wandered out of the bedroom, but he can see why Aurora might have objections, since the dress does nothing to soften or mask the five-and-a-half month bump. He likes seeing the bump, really, even if the interviewer is weirded out by Emma’s tight fashion choices - it’s a easily visible reminder (not that he needs one) that there’s a child in there, a child they made together and will love beyond all reason.

That pest is trying to grill Emma about the babe now, and honestly, that’s about Killian’s limit. What have he and Emma done in their lives that leads this harpy to think it’s alright to demand to know her due date and the baby’s gender? Nothing.

“We’re letting it be a surprise,” Emma replies in that sickly sweet voice Killian knows means she’s at the end of her patience. Thankfully, it seems to be obvious to the brunette as well, as they’re finally allowed to break away and wander inside the concert hall.

“I hate that vulture,” Emma grumbles. Killian is just trying to focus on how cute she gets when she’s angry in an effort to not think about how much he’d prefer to go throttle that awful Aurora.

“I know love, but it’s over, at least. You were very diplomatic, even if I did know you were about to commit a murder.”

She glowers at him, but it doesn’t hold too much threat when they both know the statement is true. It’s with no small relief that they find and take their seats, even if it is earlier than most of the attendees. Emma sinks into her chair with a groan of relief, and Killian can’t help but worry.

“How are you feeling, love?”

“Like this kid is way too excited. We’re in a different time zone, shouldn’t he think he should be sleeping or something?”

Killian laughs, reach over to softly rub his hand over Emma’s stomach, searching for the little kicks and punches from their son. And ok, maybe they lied. Maybe they both jumped at the chance to find out the sex of the baby. But maybe, also, it’s no one’s business but their own.

“I don’t think Wiley got the memo, darling.” As if on cue, the little guy himself kicks out at Killian’s hand, receiving a collection of shushing noises and gentle rubbing to where he’s been aiming in response. It doesn’t always work to calm the little lad down, but Killian hopes it will this time, because his poor love deserves a break. The swollen feet are quite enough to deal with, especially in strappy heels.

Glancing back up at his Swan’s face, she’s wearing that soft look he’s come to associate with hormones. “I love you so much, you know that?” she asks with a smile and a small trace of wonder. “Thank you for coming tonight even though you hate the attention, and for keeping me from committing a murder, and for calming down our little kickboxer.”

There’s only one answer, really. “You’re very welcome, darling,” he murmurs back. “I love you too, so very much. You and Wiley both.”

And it might be hard to believe this is his life some days. They might have taken a few paths neither expected that first night she walked into his bar and changed his entire world.

But he wouldn’t change a thing.

Songs mentioned are by Gordon Lightfoot and the Dixie Chicks, because why the hell not.

Sure enough, the Jolly Roger is a little off the beaten track, but Emma is immediately sold. It’s not hopping on a Thursday night, but not dead – mostly relaxed businessmen, and a collection of rowdy University students in a corner (thankfully, the type who look like they’re probably more into rap than angry femme rock). There’s a small stage and sound board in a corner, and the bar looks well stocked.

So, needless to say, she’s a little surprised to ask the bartender for a whiskey coke, only to receive a very firm no.

“Excuse me?”

“No. Can’t do it.”

Emma hates to pull the “do you know who I am?” card like, ever, but it’s been a long day, and she needs a drink, dammit. She’s seconds away from pulling all sorts of lines she’s sure she’ll regret later (namely, when they land her in a tabloid), when he jumps back in.

“Don’t get me wrong, lass, I’d love to, but here’s the situation. Those idiots in the corner” – he waves towards the college students – “are apparently celebrating a birthday in grand, drunken style, and just bought the last bottle of the cheap stuff I keep under the counter. I’ve got more in the back, so normally not a problem, but the other bartender just went on break, and won’t be back for ten minutes – probably more like fifteen to twenty, since I saw her duck out the back door with one of them,” he says, hooking a thumb towards the same corner. “Now, I’ve got a bottle of the good top-shelf stuff right here, but I cannot in good conscience let you dilute it with soda. So, you can wait fifteen minutes for your original order, and I’ll toss in a basket of onion rings for your trouble, or you can take the good stuff neat. What’ll it be?”

She takes the whiskey neat. And a basket of onion rings for good measure.

(She’s not too proud to admit that it was a good call.)

------

Emma usually likes to drink alone, unwind from the show, but she finds herself continuing her conversation with this strange, blunt bartender.

(And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s hot as hell. At least not yet.)

His name is Killian Jones, and apparently Robin was somewhat misleading in calling the Jolly Roger “a little place he goes to sometimes”. They play here at least once a month. Jones, as it turns out, was an original member of Band of Thieves before finding himself injured in a car accident, and his brother is still their manager.

(“Awful lot of nerve damage in my left hand. They saved the blasted thing, but makes playing guitar a bit tricky and painful. Ergo, opening a bar. You need considerably less range of motion to pour beer.”)

Apparently the bar is his way of still being involved with music – facilitating instead of playing.

Emma reluctantly leaves at last call, finally relaxed enough to sleep, and feeling like against all odds, she’s made a friend.

------

Killian Jones isn’t stupid – he recognizes Emma Swan the moment she steps into his bar. Even beyond trying to know everything he can about the groups Band of Thieves plays with, big or small, he’s a personal fan of the Lost Girls. But he also knows how to recognize someone who doesn’t want attention, and Swan, in her knitted sweater and beanie – so different from the sheer tanks and leather she wears onstage – has the classic look of someone who’s trying to fly under the radar. Honestly, he can’t blame her – he knows through the guys that there was a show tonight, he’d just want to unwind with a drink as well.

However, the question remains: why is she here.

As it turns out, that answer is quite simple: Robin. Killian only hopes his best friend didn’t suggest that he’s got a crush on her.

(He doesn’t, for the record. He likes the band. He admires her and her writing. It’s not the same thing.)

(Then again, when has that ever stopped Robin ‘The Meddler’ Loxley?)

He nearly has a panic attack when Miss Swan asks for literally the one thing he can’t currently provide – admiration can only take her so far, he’s not willing to compromise one of his few principles as a bartender – but to his relief, she easily acquiesces to his suggestion without accusing him of simply trying to make more money.

(And no, it doesn’t affect his admiration at all that she’s able to recognize good whiskey when it’s placed in front of her. Not at all.)

When she leaves at last call, Killian isn’t quite sure what to think about the night he’s just had. All he knows is that Emma Swan is just as enchanting in person as she is in interviews, sarcastic and witty, and he can only hope he wasn’t so annoying as to scare her off.

------

To his enormous relief, she’s back a little under two months later – apparently in town to sort things out with her manager. This time, she skips straight to ordering his good whiskey, and proceeds to spend the rest of the evening chatting with him between patrons: about music, about pretentious cocktails, about pet peeves, about everything under the sun. That night when she leaves, though earlier than her previous visit, he’s much more confident that he’ll see her again.

------

Emma knows she’s somehow now made a habit of dropping by the Jolly Roger whenever she’s in London. What she’s less clear on is how those visits become closer and closer together.

Sure, the Lost Girls’ manager, Regina, has relocated to the city to settle her mother’s estate. But they’re between albums and tours right now – promotional stuff has dropped off, and though she keeps in daily contact, the need for face-to-face interaction isn’t really there.

And sure, Belle is now in London more often, but that’s because she’s started dating the drummer of Band of Thieves. Emma isn’t quite sure what Belle sees in Will Scarlet – she personally thinks the man is a bit too high energy and goofy, though undeniably smitten with her glamourous band-mate – but that’s not really her business. And, again, it’s not a reason for Emma to be in town.

But she’s back again – her eighth time since her initial visit a little over a year ago – and can’t figure out for the life of her the excuse why.

He’s always happy to see her, always has a new bottle on hand for her to try (“I swear, Swan, if you don’t think this bourbon is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had, I’ll sell the Jolly and give up this bartending lark.”), and always is willing to spend his evening chatting between customers.

She still can’t quite figure out what she’s doing here, but she’s fine not to question it.

(It’s only as she’s sitting at the bar at three in the afternoon, frantically scribbling out lyrics in a burst of inspiration, that she realizes – the bar feels safe, and warm, and comfortable. It feels like home.)

(As for what that says about her, finding a home in a damn bar, well, that’s up for debate.)

------

Nearly two years into their… patronage? Acquaintanceship? Friendship? Whatever – Killian is pleased to notice that Emma has become an established presence at his bar. From a business side, that’s certainly a good thing – nothing like consistent celebrity sightings to encourage business – but from a personal side, it’s even better. He likes Emma Swan. He may even like like Emma Swan, to phrase it like a pre-teen, but mostly, he just enjoys her presence. She’s smart and easy to talk to and has a droll sense of humor that makes him snort more than he ever should in public. She’s sliding onto one of his stools every month or two, and he likes it.

And with Emma comes the rest of the Lost Girls. Belle is there most often, tagging along with Emma or coming to watch Will play. He’s shocked to find a fast friend in the woman. He’s not sure what he expected, but she’s a quick wit with an easy laugh and an inexhaustible knowledge of books and literature. Even Emma, who met Belle through their shared English major, simply sits back and bemusedly watches as the two debate classic literature. (“Listen, there is nothing you can say to me that will sway me from thinking that Nick totally had a thing for Gatsby,” Belle argues one night. “It’s so obvious we might as well call it canon.”). Ruby drops by too, every so often, happy to flirt with everyone in the place – including himself, and sometimes Emma. Mulan is in less often, preferring to spend any breaks back in Kansas with her sound technician girlfriend. One memorable night, all four come in, and end up getting trashed on a dare from Ruby – a night that ends with him escorting three very drunk Lost Girls up to his apartment above the bar. Emma and Ruby take his bed, Mulan takes the pull-out couch, and he manages to find an old air mattress in his hall closet. (Belle, the wisest of them all, gets a ride from Will back to his place and a proper bed. Lucky lass.) The four women are their own little unit, and he’s so pleased to get to see inside that.

He even meets Emma’s family, which is more nerve-wracking than it probably should be.

“It won’t be, like, a crowd of Emmas, you know,” she tries to tell him. “The Nolans adopted me at 15.”

“That’s fine, Swan. They’re still your folks, aren’t they?”

Her brother, David, seems a little mistrustful of any suspiciously consistent male figure in Emma’s life, but her mother, Ruth, and sister-in-law, Mary Margaret, are truly lovely, if somewhat over-enthusiastic and seemingly dead set on embarrassing their darling relative.

“Oh, you must be Emma’s young man!” Ruth chirps at the same time as Mary Margaret exclaims “We’ve heard so much about you!”

The ensuing shade of red on Emma’s face is truly unprecedented, and he can’t help but laugh as she crashes her head down on his counter.

All teasing aside, the Nolans have a great time on their sojourn to London, and he’s honored to have met her loved ones.

Killian’s not sure how, but he’s carved out a small, undefined corner in her life. He’ll take that.

------

A new phase in her presence at his bar begins on karaoke night. It’s one of his regular rotation events – Amateur Night once a month, trivia every Wednesday, Karaoke night twice, and he usually is able to attract a decent crowd. Emma’s never made it to one before, though, and he’s looking forward to the chance to make fun of song choices with her. But, inevitably, someone flakes. Usually, this just means an awkward pause while he wrestles with the machine to skip the pre-programmed, now useless selection. However tonight, Emma hops up on stage instead. Maybe she’s had too much to drink, maybe it’s the atmosphere, maybe she’s just in a good mood and wants to take a turn, but she pops up on stage and sings a not half bad rendition of Billy Joel. “Uptown Girl”. Hey, at least the flaker had good taste.

Inevitably, someone in the bar takes a video, and inevitably, that ends up on the internet, and somehow, she’s an up front and center sensation. It’s not like she’s unknown – she’s a rock star, for fuck’s sake – but she’s always been able to slip under the radar somewhat, willingly ceding attention to Belle and Ruby. But now? She’s viral. And even had fun doing it.

So she comes back next month for karaoke night. And the month after that. Until there’s a permanent jar sitting on his bartop labelled “Swan Songs” for customer song requests.

Her selection is somewhat eclectic. Emma’s selections range from classic Supremes songs and other oldies to 80’s rock, modern pop and rock songs (“Listen, Killian, the reason I’m not in charge of the Lost Girls is I’d turn us into a Killers cover band, if allowed.”) and one particularly memorable night when she breaks out a Dixie Chicks song (“They are a trio of badass women and if you don’t think that is in line with what I do, then I’m not sure we can be friends.”). Killian’s personal favorite is the night she goes for Frank Turner, “I Still Believe”. Even if her American fans don’t quite get it when it’s posted to YouTube, she brings down the house that night at the Jolly Roger. What’s a better choice than a song about rock n’ roll?

It’s a new tradition for them – sitting at the bar or chatting over FaceTime, sorting through the multitude of suggestions and sorting out the more awful. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that her karaoke habit is great publicity for the band, and makes her own star rise a little higher. But he knows it’s more than that for Emma – she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to. So if she’s here, singing the favorites of yesteryear, it’s because she genuinely enjoys it.

(He’s turning into such an old sap, but that makes him all warm inside – knowing that she likes being at the bar, being around him, and hell, he’s in so far over his head, Robin was fucking right, he’s got a massive crush.)

------

As they near the three-year mark, Emma ends up making the move to London. It’s time, really; Belle and Will have moved in together, and Regina permanently relocated after falling in love with Robin’s son (and later, Robin himself). Ruby’s always been more a “citizen of the world” anyways, traveling all over the planet during her time off and renting temporary places, and Mulan had begun to gravitate towards Kansas City and Dorothy on her own time more than towards Boston, technically their home base. It makes sense, really. Boston was alright, but never home; tinged by far too many memories of her time in the system to ever earn that title. The only thing to possibly keep her in the States is her family, and she sees them rarely enough as it is. The tiny hamlet of Storybrooke, Maine is certainly quaint, but easy to access it is not. London is the first place she’s been really excited about in ages, so she follows her gut and her heart and finds herself a decent apartment in a slightly quieter area, still close to the city. Plus, if there’s one bonus to being a so-called “rock-star”, it’s being able to afford plane tickets fairly easily.

Getting her moved into her new place turns into something of a party. Killian comes, of course, and brings his brother and sister-in-law, Belle arrives with Will in tow, and Robin with Regina, but her family is there too – Mary Margaret and David flying over to help her get settled. It’s a little ridiculous, really, because she didn’t ship most of the big stuff – her couch sold off, her piano now living in Mary Margaret’s living room. She only has a mattress because Killian thought to remind her of it the month before. There’s still things to move, but it’s more a matter of boxes instead of heavy furniture. But still, they unload her kitchenware and clothes, move in the small collection of end tables she had shipped over, and watch Will and Robin wrestle with her stereo and recording equipment for far longer than it ever should have taken.

Mostly, they’re just here for a party. Emma purchases a TV from the nearest electronics store, Killian runs down to the bar for booze, and Belle arranges for a disgusting amount of pizza to be delivered. At the end of the night, they’re all far drunker than it’s probably safe to be, and David is already passed out on her floor with a giggling Mary Margaret taking pictures. Still, it means a lot that she has so many people willing to drop everything to help with such a chore.

(And maybe it means even more that a slightly hungover Killian shows up the next morning at eleven to pick her up to go shopping for a couch.)

------

It’s nice, having Emma in town on a permanent basis. He likes to think they were already close, but something about having the option to see her every day adds a new level to their relationship. When she drags him with her to pick out a new piano, he learns in the process about how her old piano, back in the States, was the first item she bought with the money from their signing deal; helping her organize her office means he finds a box full of piano ballads she wrote that she swears will never see the light of day; her increased presence at his bar means he learns about her secret love for fruity drinks in bizarre colors. It’s like there’s these little corners of her that he didn’t know existed, and she’s finally confident enough that he’s here in her life to stay to show him those little facets.

In some ways, his life with her in London is just the same. Emma is still a karaoke fixture at the Jolly Roger; still teases him mercilessly, ganging up with his brother against him; still joins him in trying to talk his waitress, Merida, out of some of her more questionable conquests (or, more often, talking her out of punching every rude dick that wanders through the bar).

Yes, so much is still the same, but he takes comfort in the new constancy. It’s different, in that way, and he likes it.

------

Their first kiss is somewhat on accident.

Killian had always thought that if anything ever happened between him and Emma, it would be because he finally worked up the nerve to ask her out, and take her on a nice date, and everything else you’re supposed to do before you respectful and probably bashfully request the privilege of a kiss.

Instead, it’s a Thursday evening, and Killian’s left the bar in Smee and Mer’s hands in favor of spending the evening on the couch on Emma’s. Nothing particularly romantic even happens – they’re watching a documentary about superheroes, of all things, and she’s laughing at a joke he made about God knows what, and he just leans over and plants one on her.

Of course, the moment they separate, the world comes crashing back down on him. Jesus, what was he thinking? Moving in like that without even asking? And lord knows he’s been at least half in love with her for years, but right now he can’t honestly put enough brain cells together to remember if it seems like she reciprocates and he can feel his face turning red. He turns to her with a hand in his hair, apology on his tongue –

– and Emma grabs the back of his head, pulling him down for another, deeper kiss.

Huh.

When they finally break apart, he’s sure he’s got the stupidest grin on his face, and the only word he can come with is a breathless “Yeah?”

(Was it good? Did she like it? Would she be interested in trying that again?)

As always, she seems to just instinctually hear everything he can’t say. They understand each other, after all. So he gets a crazy grin in return, and her own “Yeah.”

Huh.

------

Dating Killian just feels natural.

Which is weird, because she spent ages telling herself that it wouldn’t, convincing herself to never make a move.

But he takes her to terrible movies so that they can make fun of them together, and finds little up-and-coming bands for them to see, and even takes her to nice dinners they both feel slightly awkward at. And it’s comfortable. Good even.

She’s happy.

Mary Margaret is ecstatic to hear the news, the squeal probably audible from Maine without the aid of the telephone and carrying on about happy endings. Which on the one hand, whoa, hold your horses, but on the other… she’s becoming increasingly open to the idea. On the other side of the pond, Regina just rolls her eyes, but Belle gets excited about the potential for double dating, and Emma’s fairly sure she saw some exchange of money between Will and Robin.

Part of Emma wants to say it’s a little much, run for the hills like she always does, but then she feels Killian’s hand envelop her own, and that little part of her falls quiet.

Like she said, it’s nice. She’s happy.

And dare she say it? She could get used to this.

           ------

It comes as a little bit of a shock when Emma approaches him, and offers for the Lost Girls to play a surprise set at the Jolly Roger, especially since she has that twinkle in her eyes that says she’s up to something. But he’s a man in love – who is he to say no?

It’s great, being able to watch from behind his bar Emma perform her own stuff instead of everyone else’s for once. The patrons are loving it, and all four women seem right at home on the tiny stage. He knows he’s going to lose her for a few months again soon – the band just released their latest album, to widespread acclaim, and touring will be starting shortly  – so he chooses to savor this night, imprint every moment in his mind.

Emma has been off to the side of the stage for most of the night, letting Belle and Ruby pull most of the attention, but now she steps forward with her guitar and a quick grin. “Hey guys, having a good time tonight?’ she calls to the crowd, predictably receiving a chorus of cheers. “Good, good… So, some of you might know that I’m the songwriter around here.”

Another round of cheers. Emma ducks her head, seemingly adjusting her tuning, which he takes as a sure sign that she’s nervous about something. Which is odd. Emma Swan is the queen of a “don’t give a fuck” stage presence.

“…which tends to be why our songs tend a little towards the angry side. I went through a metric shit ton of stuff before we hit it big, little of it good.”

“That’s about two fifths of a regular American shit ton, by the way,” Belle pipes in, to a few polite chuckles.

“Think the math joke fell a bit flat, you nerd. Anyways, I am well aware that my stuff gets a little angry and angsty. Ruby’s original suggestion for our first album’s name was actually “Fuck You I’ve Won the Break-up.” She pauses to let the crowd laugh. “But… I’ve started seeing someone in the past few months.” Emma takes a moment to smile. “And it’s going pretty well. So I thought I ought to try and write a love song.” She laughs to herself – and he has to admit, he’s looking forward to finding out why. “Apparently, this is as close as I get. If this makes the album, we’ll probably put Belle back on vocals – “

“It’s that or tambourine!” Belle calls with a grin.

“ – but the other ladies thought that since I wrote this with a particular person in mind, I should be the one to sing it for the first time. So… yeah.” She turns back to the rest of the band. “Ready?”

With a collection of nods, and without further ado, Emma counts them in.

As she starts in, he can’t help but think it’s a little unusual for a love song, what with the heavy electric guitar line and strong drum beat contrasting with the three harmonizing voices. The lyrics are nice, but he senses that this stanza isn’t what Emma is leading up to. If he knows anything about how that woman writes a song, there’s a handful of crucial lines, and the rest is little more than rhyming filler that makes a bit of sense with the rest. Sure enough, she searches his eye out at the back bar in time to croon a line about not being a fool and holding back her feelings. Then they’re building to the chorus and –

“I, never thought, I could love, anyone but myself…

Now I know, I can’t love, anyone, but you…”

She shoots a grin his way in between notes, and he can’t help but feel like she has something up her sleeve. The words are beautiful, and he’s touched, but he recognizes that twinkle in her eye, and it usually means she’s up to something. And sure enough –

“You make me think that maybe I won’t die alone,

Maybe I won’t die alone.”

And then she winks. As the crowd laughs and cheers, and even aws in a few cases, she has the gall to wink at him. Minx.

But damn if he doesn’t love it.

Because really, isn’t that absolutely Emma? She isn’t rainbows and unicorns, “love at first sight” and “the world lit up when I met you”. She’s walls and sarcasm and wanting to seem tough and not rubbing her feelings in everyone’s faces. Of course an Emma Swan love song is less “You are my forever” and more “Maybe I won’t die alone”. So he chuckles and winks right back with a happy grin on his face next time she looks his way.

After the set is over and their equipment is put away, she makes her way over behind the bar, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. “So…” she starts, “what did you think?” And he can tell, that though his mid-song wink reassured her in the moment, the nerves are back.

“I think…” he pauses, turns around to hold her in his arms more fully. There’s so much he could say, should say, but right now is a matter of picking the perfect words. “I think… that I love you. And I’m touched. It was perfect, love.”

Emma smiles, just one of her million smiles that he’s grown to love. “Yeah?”

Killian smiles right back and nods. “Yeah.”

It may have taken them four years to get here, from a single drink in an unknown bar to two people in love, but they’re here, and they’re happy. Every single second has been more than worth it.