#csficexchange

           “Hey Munchkin,” he greets affectionately, standing to his full height again – now even with his stepdad’s – still holding Morgan, her arms wrapped around his neck so tightly that Emma has to wonder if she’s ever going to let go. Turning to include his mom and his surrogate father in his next statement, Henry adds.  “It’s great to see you all.  Things must be quiet in Storybrooke, if you’re still going to stay all weekend.”

           Here he arcs an eyebrow in curious bemusement, a trait Emma realizes all too well that he has picked up from her dashing scoundrel of a husband and probably uses to equally charming effect on all the girls he meets in his freshman courses at Bowdoin College.   It is clear he has settled easily into the small arts school in Brunswick, Maine, just under a two hours’ drive from them, and that the campus atmosphere and freeing anonymity and normalcy he has there must be agreeing with him. Emma wants to snort in disbelieving laughter at his jest, though well aware that he knows better than to ever think his hometown would go completely, boringly normal.  Instead, she shakes her head resignedly, merely giving her grown son a playfully long-suffering sigh.  “You know how it is,” she shrugs, “never a dull moment.  But – if you don’t count the dwarves coming to blows at Granny’s the other morning because Tom Clark accidentally sat in Leroy’s spot at the counter and got his flu germs on Leroy’s plate of bacon and eggs…”

           “Which I do count,” Killian interrupts smoothly, winking at his adopted son.  “I am the one who risked infection from the virus in forestalling their skirmish.”

           Emma rolls her eyes at her deputy husband’s interruption and mutters “drama queen” under her breath, which Henry and Morgan both clearly hear and snicker at before she continues, “Otherwise it’s been as quiet as it ever gets.  No deathly dangerous villains or curses meant to tear us apart and wipe our memories blank.”

           “Yet…” Killian adds on needlessly, an ominous tone in his voice acknowledging the fact that they all know it’s only a matter of time before some new threat is wreaking havoc again.  Their sleepy little town might seem like a place lost in time and space, but it is still a veritable magnet for trouble, and none of them can deny it.

           Killian, however, waggles his brows playfully after his foreboding aside, making Henry shake his own head at his stepfather.  It had seemed a rather grim pronouncement for the reformed pirate – more like his mom, really.

           Morgan grins widely back at her father, nodding in gleeful agreement, her gap-toothed smile showing where she has lost a fair few of her baby teeth recently. “Yeah…yet!” she exclaims, not fully understanding the concern behind the sentiment, but always ready – as is her entire extended family – for action and excitement.

           Emma shakes her head in humored exasperation at her two “children” – wondering, as she often does, how someone who has seen and experienced as much as Killian, who has witnessed some of the worst humanity had to offer and suffered at their hands, who has lived so long and weathered such crushing heartbreak and hate, can still easily find such simple, child-like joy in the littlest things. “Really, guys?” she questions, looking to her college student son for more mature support.  “Can’t we just enjoy things being normal for once?”

           “Aye, of course, my Love,” Killian replies deftly.  “ ‘Twas merely a joke,” he adds, leaning over to brush a quick kiss to her brow that makes Morgan giggle, hide her face in Henry’s shoulder, and cry out, “Eww, they’re kissing again!” in a frank, tickling whisper against her older sibling’s skin.

           “Just a joke is right,” Henry declares, motioning them forward to venture on into the rest of the Bowdoin College Museum and toward the particular exhibit he wants them to see.  The collection was an 1811 bequest from a wealthy benefactor to the school and was one of the earliest college art collections in the country, as Henry had enthusiastically told her over the phone some weeks ago when his project had commenced. His Maritime History class had done a cross-curriculum partnership with the arts department to put together a student exhibit of research and mixed media in the college’s museum, and Henry has been quite secretive about his entry, even if insistent that they needed to see it in person. “Like anyone could be around you lot for long and think you were normal!” he scoffs.

           “Ha ha,” his mother laughs drolly, bumping into his side with her shoulder in playful retribution as they move ahead side-by-side, with Killian, who is now holding a wriggling Morgan once again, following closely behind.  However, once the jostling ceases, Emma grasps her nearly-grown son’s hand in hers for a moment, stunned anew at how much he has changed from the little boy who had found her in Boston all those years ago, and led her into the very life she has now. Squeezing tightly with emotion welling up in her throat, she wishes he could truly understand how much she loves him.

           “Missed you too, Mom,” Henry murmurs softly, pressing her fingers back with his own wrapped around them.  It is more than enough and makes her heart flutter in gladness.  

           Once Henry leads them through a few different rooms and several intriguing displays, he slows when they reach a large, somewhat circular room with a high, arched ceiling, and then turns to them with a mysterious smile on his face and clear anticipation in his big, brown eyes, just as they have always held, even at ten years old.

           At first glance, this particular exhibit, this room in itself, seems empty. Looking around with faces equally full of curiosity and confusion, Killian, Emma, and Morgan end up staring back at Henry expectantly until Killian finally speaks up, “Begging your pardon, Lad, but I’m afraid I am not quite certain what you wish for us to see.”

           Henry gives a nod of acknowledgement, rather knowingly pleased, and making Emma smirk to herself with a mother’s satisfaction at seeing her son so confidently happy and in his element.  ‘He’s definitely got something up his sleeve,’ she thinks affectionately, admittedly finding herself anxious to see what his surprise might be.  She knows that Henry has been loving this course all term – not to mention how thrilled her husband had been at the news – and that the long term practicum research projects are being showcased here throughout the entire month of April.  Emma can only conclude that her son’s hard work has paid off in a way he’s proud of, and he must believe wholeheartedly that they will be too.

           All Henry says is, “I take it you’re ready then?” and at Killian’s nod and Morgan’s “Yes, yes, YES, Henwy!!” exclamation, while she hops up and down exuberantly, he switches off the lights and presses a previously unnoticed button next to the light switch.

           Immediately, the light and airy sound of some sort of flute or piccolo trickles through the quiet air of the room, a gently evocative melody with a lingering, haunted quality to its tone, enhanced by the sound echoing beneath of waves washing gently against the hull of some easily floating ship or back and forth over the shore of some deserted bay.  Even as the sounds which are familiar and comforting to his tiny family audience wrap around them, small pinpricks of light appear just like stars in the night sky out on the ocean, sparking to life on the walls around them and the high ceiling overhead.  It is a constellation spread out just for them in breathtaking majesty.  Then, the Author begins to narrate his newest story…

Listening to Henry’s words, Emma feels her breath catch just a bit in both awe and emotion, glancing quickly over at her husband and daughter, before either of them realizes they are being observed. Morgan’s green eyes are wide and sparkling with interest and excitement, her mouth an open “o” as she looks above her, dazzled at what would appear for all the world to be the stars and constellations in the night sky brought indoors and spread out for their entertainment.  Killian is silent and still, so much so that Emma knows – as few others would – just how valiantly he is battling some strong emotion…how very touched he is.  Emma was never as great a student of the star charts and navigational astronomy as her sailor would have loved to make her, but Henry ate it right up, and she would bet her battered and beloved old VW that Henry has recreated some particular display that holds an extra meaning for he and his stepdad alone.

Shaking herself slightly to bring her focus back to earth and her attention back to the words of Henry’s presentation once more, she hears her son’s voice – soothing, engaging, and reeling her into the adventurous stories behind the scattered specks of light arrayed above them and their meaning and guidance to generations of sailors making their ways on a wide and pathless sea.

“The Cygnus,” Killian mouths silently beside her, appearing genuinely awestruck as he takes his gaze just momentarily from Henry’s representative “sky” to look in the eyes of the young man he has for years now cared for and loved like a son; a sincere gaze of fond understanding passing between them that brings a film of unshed tears to Emma’s vision that she has to rapidly blink away.  In fact, soundless though it may be, she catches Killian’s comment only because she is so focused on her husband and his emotional reaction to this gift Henry has given all of them – but her pirate in particular.  Emma senses that Killian knows it in this moment and holds tightly to his fingers twined with hers while practically beaming at her son, wondering again how she ever got lucky enough that the two most important people in her world would love each other as much as they each love her.

Morgan reaches over from Killian’s arms to pat her mother’s cheeks as Henry concludes his tale and turns the lights back up. “Don’t cry, Mama,” Morgan coos sweetly. “Henwy’s story was happy in the end. The Swan leads the sailor to his home.”

“I did promise them to Henry.  After all the effort he went to in writing those verses for the young Lady Violet, it seemed a shame to deny him the finishing touch he requested.  They were out of stock at the Dark Star, and so I truly had no other recourse.  Though, whilst we are on the subject, why any of us frequent the pharmacy of a dwarf who has had a cold as long as I have known him is beyond me.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Emma snarked back tartly, “we’ve got bigger problems now.”

“Aye, Darling, I can see that,” Killian acceded with a grudging nod, knowing he was the more optimistic member of their duo and clearly therefore hated to acknowledge defeat and the negative until it couldn’t be helped.  Still, things had clearly reached that point, as a jarring crack of thunder chose that moment to rattle the car’s windows in their frames and a jagged streak of lightning blossomed in the sky, highlighting the tension on both their faces.

Licking his lips as if gathering himself for a difficult question before plowing ahead, Killian ventured a still somewhat hopeful glance across the center console to meet hers and asked.  “I don’t supposed your magic could unstick us from this predicament?”  But the words were barely uttered before he trailed off, chagrined at the embarrassed and regretful look on his wife’s face.

Emma shook her head mournfully, blaming herself already for whatever the issue might be. “I thought so too,” she replied softly, offering up her hands, palms turned up and lying open, “but it isn’t working. Whatever command I try to send doesn’t seem to be having any effect.  My magic is as on the fritz as our phones and the radio seem to be.”  Letting her hands drop again dejectedly into her lap, Emma sent Killian an apologetic look and huffed out addition of, “I know, right? What good is having magic anyway, if it can’t get us out of a jam like this?  Some Valentine’s date I turn out to be!”

Killian was quick to shake his head in disagreement, reaching over to pick Emma’s hands up again and pull them toward where he bent his dark head over them to press chaste, worshipful kisses into the center of both palms, lingering as if merely to inhale her scent and be nearer to her. “Emma, none of that now, my Lass,” he finally whispered against her skin, his lips petal-soft and his nose skimming along the life line that curved across her upper palm before the stubble that covered his chin and jawline began to tickle her sensitive skin. Raising his eyes to look at her over their entwined fingers, he barely breathed his next words aloud, and yet Emma felt them reverberating all the way down to her toes.  “You are a bloody brilliant woman, amazing in every way, and the best Valentine any man could hope to have.  I would want a date with no other, and I am lucky to call you my wife. Don’t you ever doubt that,” he swore fervently.

Emma’s smile was a bit tremulous, even as she tried not to get tearfully emotional on top of everything else.  She nodded rapidly at Killian, as he clearly expected her promise not to sell herself short or to beat herself up for things beyond her control. She didn’t really trust her voice to be steady, but the warmth he had sent spreading through her insides was a heartening as bright sunshine on a summer’s day – the opposite of the wet grey pelting against the glass beside them.

Sniffling only slightly, she leaned over the console inconveniently stuck between them to bury her face in his chest, allowing his arms to wrap around and hold her close.  After several calming moments like that, Emma realized that things could honestly be much worse.  The rain – torrential flood strength though it might be – was outside, not leaking in anywhere, and they were still warm and dry.  It was peaceful here in her little old car, and they were blessedly alone; something that rarely happened, emergency or no.  No one was asking for their attention or even about to come looking for them and interrupt their moment together, not in the midst of such a cold, windy mess.  The location might not have been the ideal she’d had in mind, but they were together at least, and undisturbed, two things that might not have happened for them otherwise, even on Valentine’s Day.

Mumbling against Killian’s skin, but unwilling to pull away just then, Emma spoke up with a bit more good humor to ask, “So, on a scale from one to irreconcilable difference on divorce papers, how much do you think Henry would mind if we tore into that bag of candy hearts?”  She looked up at her pirate husband with an impish glimmer in her eyes.  “If we’re going to ride this storm out here instead of making our dinner reservations, I’m going to get hungry, aren’t you?”

Killian smirked back at her, pleased with the turn in mood and more than willing to play along.  “Oh, I don’t know, Swan, he seemed pretty adamant that Violet had to see these.  But…I have grown on the lad.  I don’t believe he would order me cast off at this first minor offense.”

She shook her head at his comeback, chortling at the impressive vocabulary he managed to employ even in jest, and began to rummage through the shopping bags for their plunder.

“However,” Killian said as he withdrew a small gift bag from somewhere inside his jacket, where Emma could only assume he had managed to hide it without her noticing sometime between the checkout and when they got in the car to head home, his voice temptingly low and eyebrow cocked invitingly. “If we do mean to break out our loot, I might have something for you that is a bit more appealing than those neon-colored, word-bedecked sugar cubes.” His tongue swept over his lower lip seductively as he watched her reaction, and Emma found herself reaching out to take the gift almost disjointedly, her movements slowed a bit at the stunned, blind attraction he could kindle in her at a moment’s notice.

When she tipped the bag upside down to free a boxed heart-shaped chocolate as large as her fist and wrapped in metallic foil, Killian continued with his honeyed words.  “I thought you deserved something solid gold, Love.  More reminiscent of your heart.  Even if your real present is back at the house,” here he paused for dramatic effect, his eyebrows dancing merrily with barely restrained mischief, “I couldn’t resist when I saw this.”

“Flatterer,” Emma admonished, her cheeks warming as she used a nail to begin loosening the thick tape holding the box closed and pry it open.  “How much of that poem for Violet did Henry write, and how much of it was your suggestion?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Killian replied archly, as though he would never dream of divulging such sacred information, to Emma’s snort of disbelief.  

She got the packaging open with a bit more finagling, only to find that being pressed against her pirate’s always warm body had made one side of the chocolate heart go a bit softly melted.  Making no comment, Emma tried to hold back the evil smile she felt creeping across her face.  Peeling back the golden wrapper enough to get to the treat, she stuck her fingers in and then pulled back quickly, chocolate all over her fingertips, to smear the gooey delicacy across Killian’s chin and down his neck with a devious squeal of triumph.

“Hey now! What -- ?” but Killian’s squawk of protest is overcome rather rapidly by the desperate growl that echoed through his chest when Emma darted in quickly to suck the chocolate residue from his chin and lick up the remnants marked down his neck.

It didn’t take her Captain long to retaliate, and soon they were both sticky, panting, and the treat meant to tide them over until they got out of their fix was mushed into their hair, over their faces and hands, and across much of both their outfits.  Still, Emma couldn’t find it in herself to mind.  They celebrated Valentine’s Day together amidst a rainstorm, in kisses, giggles, and melted chocolate.  No fancy dinner or dancing marked the occasion, but she did laughingly educate her Old World husband on what else could traditionally be done in a car stopped in the deserted middle of nowhere.  As holiday revelry went, neither one of them would have celebrated it any other way.

All practical sense told Emma that the postcard had simply been thrown out after it had been received, but something in her gut said otherwise. Maybe it was because no one had ever sent her a postcard before, or any personal mail for that matter, that made such an item seem like something that should be kept and cherished. In this age of text, e-mail, video chat, social media, and other technological communication wonders, something as rare as using paper, ink, and stamps in order to send a message of greeting shouldn’t be tossed aside, in Emma’s opinion.

“Why do I get the feeling I am going to regret this?” Emma mumbled to herself as she made her way up to the front of the building that housed Killian Jones. She wasn’t sure when she’d made the decision to return the postcard to him, but no sooner had she exited her car than she found herself bypassing her apartment building for the one next door.

Opening the door that led into the entryway, Emma was startled by the presence of two uniformed military men who had politely stepped aside to let her by. She didn’t know enough to be able to identify which branch of service they represented, but she recognized their somber look well enough to know that whatever mission they’d just completed hadn’t been pleasant.

Emma turned the postcard over in her hands, and self-conscience feelings of doubt crept over her as the elevator doors opened at Killian Jones’ floor. She made her way down the hall with measured steps, her hand raised hesitantly before she finally gave three short raps under the apartment number.

Whoever she might have been expecting Killian Jones to be, it certainly wasn’t the man who answered a moment later. Tall with dark disheveled hair, a pleasing layer of scruff that littered his strong jawline, a frame that was lean and toned, and eyes the most incredible shade of blue she’d ever seen. Startling blue, but slightly dazed as he seemed to almost look through her rather than at her until his brows furrowed and he cocked his head to one side with an expression of confused expectation.

“Um, hi,” Emma began, feeling all the more awkward over her reason for standing on the devastatingly handsome man’s doorstep. “My name is Emma Swan, and I live in the building next door.” Emma held out the postcard toward him as she explained, “I found this in an alleyway a few blocks away, and I thought you might want it.”

Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and wet her lips after the man, Killian Jones, took the postcard from her hand. He still hadn’t said anything, and his silence was making her nerves spike. She watched as he swallowed hard, staring at the image of a sunny beach he held tightly between his fingers. His eyes snapped up to meet her, and Emma was alarmed by the appearance of tears that began streaming down his face before a choked cry escaped him. He took a step back before collapsing to the floor, wracking sobs encompassing his body as anguish poured from him.

Emma stood there in stunned paralyzation. As much as she wanted to escape the emotionally fraught scene before her, she couldn’t very well leave him in such a state. A state she felt somehow responsible for creating. She crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her before lowering herself to the ground next to him. Soothing words fell from her lips as she tentatively rubbed a hand down his back. The force of his embrace nearly knocked her over as he anchored himself to her like a man seeking a safe harbor in which to expend his torments.

An indiscernible amount of time passed before Emma realized he’d given way to the exhaustion that usually accompanied such outpourings. Tears still clung to his cheeks, but his breathing had slowed and soft snores were now passing over his lips. Emma continued to run her fingers through his silken hair while she contemplated what to do. She could never hope to move him without waking him, something she was loathe to do; first, because she did not wish to disrupt the peace he’d finally found, and second, because of the awkward fallout that was sure to follow.

Careful to untangle herself from him without disturbing his rest, Emma grabbed a pillow and throw blanket she’d spotted on his couch and settled him there on the floor as best she could. After silently closing the door behind her, Emma rushed for the elevator and gave a sigh of relief as it began its descent without any further glimpses of Killian Jones. Not because she was desperate to leave, but because she wasn’t.

Killian shuffled his feet just outside her door. Second thoughts and chastisements of being a bloody idiot swirling through his mind even as he tucked the six pack under his arm in order to free up a hand with which to knock. Securing the beers, a peace offering, once more in his grasp he waited with bated breath for the door to open.

She was more stunning than he remembered. Granted he hadn’t been thinking too clearly when she’d appeared on his doorstep the evening prior, but he’d remembered that she was attractive when he awoke stiff necked and emotionally spent on the floor of his apartment. Her golden hair was twisted in some kind of knot at the top of her head, her jade eyes looked on with perplexed amazement, framed behind black rimmed glasses.

Killian cleared his throat and inwardly cursed the inability to scratch that spot behind his ear that always seemed to flare with an itchy tingle when he found himself in awkward situations. As if sensing the impediment, her eyes flickered down to his hands, both occupied with items he’d hoped she might accept as way of an apology for his behavior.

“Hi, I uh… I’m sorry to just drop by like this, but I was hoping you m-”

“How did you know where I lived,” Emma interrupted with an incredulous expression that had Killian’s brows hitching toward his hairline as he stammered his explanation.

“Oh! I, uh. I remembered your name and that y-you said you lived in the building next door, so I checked the boxes downstairs to get your apartment number and I wanted to thank you, for the postcard, and apologize, for the other matter, but mostly thank you, but if this is a bad time I can-”

“Hey,” she cut him off, and her hand reached out to touch his arm which calmed his blathering. “There’s no need to thank me, or to apologize. I should be the one to apologize. I clearly caught you at a bad time.” Killian felt a flush of heat sweep up his neck, over his face, and crest at his ears at the memory of how he’d cried himself to sleep in her arms. “Are you… Is everything… um.”

Killian could see that she was struggling to get the question of his well-being out, probably concerned that doing so would prompt another emotional outburst.

“I was hoping to perhaps explain myself over some chinese take out and few beers if your amenable.” Killian held up the contents within his hands, searching her expression for a hint of agreement. “If you aren’t comfortable with letting me in, and I would completely understand if you weren’t, we could withdraw to your lobby. I noticed a cozy corner there on my way up.”

They stood there for a few moments as she assessed him before finally pulling the door a bit wider and nodding him in. He followed her over to the couch and set the takeout and beers down onto her coffee table after she cleared away the empty boxes and bottles that had already been residing there.

Their meal was a quiet affair, a surprisingly comfortable silence that felt familiar and safe, as if they’d been spending time together for years and needn’t bother with idle chit chat. After the plates were cleared away and the leftovers had made their way to the fridge, Emma sat down next to him, her body slightly turned towards his, where she waited patiently for him to begin his tale.

“The postcard you returned was from my brother, Liam,” he began. “I never got a chance to read it. I slipped on a patch of ice and fell, losing it to the winds just moments after I’d received it.” He swallowed past the lump that had started to form in his throat and turned his gaze downward, not trusting his emotions enough to met her eyes. “Right before you came to my door, two naval officers had just departed. They came to inform me… of my brother’s death.” Killian heard Emma draw in a startled breath, but he pressed on. “He was killed in a training exercise while at sea. That postcard contained the last words my brother ever wrote to me. Will ever write to me, and I…”

Killian felt Emma’s arms wrap around him, once again offering comfort to a complete stranger, something he suspected didn’t come easily or naturally to her.

“Oh, Killian! I’m so sorry!”

Killian returned her embrace. “Thank you for returning my brother’s final words to me,” he murmured into her shoulder. “I’m sorry that I-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Emma admonished softly. “I’m sorry I left you. I should have stayed to make sure you were okay, but I didn’t know if you’d-”

“No, no,” he argued. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciated your comfort, how much I appreciate it now, you didn’t have to-”

Emma pulled back and pressed her fingers against his lips. “No more apologizing.” She dropped her hand from his mouth and placed it on his knee. “I’m so very sorry for your loss Killian. Please don’t give last night another thought. I don’t blame you one bit for the way you responded.”

Killian could only nod, his throat tight with grief. When he glanced her way again she offered him a soft smile that he tried to return. He knew he ought to take his leave, but the idea of going back to his empty apartment with only Liam’s ghost awaiting him was less than appealing.

“You know… there are still a couple of beers left,” Emma stated. “How would you feel about helping me finish them off while we binge something ridiculous and campy on Netflix?”