“I’m so so sorry!”

Emma Swan storms into his office without knocking just like she did when he met her four months ago. December has forced her to trade her red leather jacket for a red peacoat and her blonde hair is trapped under a grey beanie instead of flowing freely in soft waves. Her cheeks are a little flushed and, at this point in their unusual acquaintance, he hopes it’s entirely from the cold and not from any unnecessary embarrassment.

“Henry. What did I tell you?”

“But mom—“

“Don’t “but mom” me! Doctor Jones doesn’t run a rescue center here.”

“Truly, Swan, it’s—“

“You cannot just—“

“But she couldn’t get up!”

“She?”

Emma looks around with an expression that Killian has come to understand very well. His face goes through a similar transformation every time he hears Henry’s voice in the hallway – worry and sympathy for whatever creature the boy has taken it upon himself to save this time followed by worry and apprehension over what creature the boy has taken it upon himself to save this time.

He’ll bet the frog incident is still fresh in her mind as well. Well… “fresh” is probably a bad word choice.

“She will be just fine,” he steps aside to show Emma the little bird – one leg and one wing wrapped up and put to rest in the most suitable cage they had on hand. “And Henry continues to prove his uncanny ability to guess an animal’s gender at a mere glance.”

Emma’s lips quirk up despite her irritation. She seemed shocked the first time Killian acknowledged her kid’s “superpower” without any hint of sarcasm but none of them are even remotely surprised anymore – by Henry’s fascinating intuition or by the ease with which they come together to handle these impromptu rescue missions.

Henry puffs out his chest and Emma is quick to temper her smile and give him a look that clearly indicates that he is not out of the doghouse yet.

“We disinfected and patched up the lad as well,” Killian adds calmly but with a chastising look of his own.

The boy’s answering glare is betrayal personified. But Doctor Jones is a man of many allegiances when it comes to the people in his office right now.

“Henry—“

“Mom, she needed help right away!”

“Don’t you have the gloves in your backpack?”

“Well, yes, but—“

“Henry—“

“She—“

“Henry Swan.”

The boy’s mouth snaps shut. Emma’s hands are pressing deep into her hips. The way Killian is leaning back on his desk, arms and ankles crossed, might seem nonchalant but it simply spells more trouble – he is deferring to Emma’s judgement – whatever that might be. Henry finally seems to realize his carelessness will not be forgotten that fast.

“How many times has Killian told you to wear gloves when you do this?”

In a last ditch effort, Henry turns his big eyes on Killian who quickly clears his throat and turns to look at Emma instead.

She might have an immunity to the puppy eyes but he has hardly developed one yet. So he falls back on his training.

“He had all his shots last time, right?”

Emma blinks at him a couple of times. Then she shakes her head. Then she nods.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Killian nods back, looking for something else to say. He will have two Labradors in here in about fifteen minutes but he doesn’t want to see Emma and Henry go just yet.

“We’re gonna continue this discussion at home. There will be sanctions.”

“Mooom—“

Emma cuts her son off with a look and turns back to Killian.

“You can keep her in the clinic’s sanctuary, right?”

It’s Killian’s turn to blink at her dumbly.

Right. The bird. The sanctuary.

“Aye, of course.”

Emma gives him a look.

“Are you sure? We could—“

“No, no, truly. It’s quite alright.”

He tries to keep his smile on. He will consider the new feathered problem on his hands later.

“Have you found anyone to take Spitfire, yet?” Henry’s eyes are so hopeful and excited but Killian can’t bring himself to lie to him.

Anymore than he already is.

“Not yet,” he says gently but with the right note of joviality in his tone he hopes. “But I’m sure I will. Who can resist those floppy ears?”

Henry grins. Emma gives him a look that he tries not to overanalyze. It’s really soft, but rather sad as well.

“Can I see him tomorrow?”

“Henry,” her voice is gentler now as well but there is still the strength and control that a single parent has to maintain underlying it. “You know Spitfire is not here. Killian can’t keep going back forth to—“

“But he said I can see him whenever I want if I just said so before,” he states with the conviction of a child that has been promised something by an adult and intends to keep them to it for the rest of their lives.

“Aye, that I did. But perhaps Friday?” he suggests, turning to Emma again. “If that will suit you?”

“We’re buying a tree on Friday!” Henry exclaims excitedly.

“Fridays is fine, seeing as Henry will be spending tomorrow cleaning his room.”

The lad groans and opens his mouth to protest but then seems to consider the punishment mild enough and just rolls his eyes a bit.

“We can stop by before or after the tree farm – whatever suits you best.”

“Anytime is fine. All the madness has been scheduled for tomorrow.”

Emma gives him a sympathetic look but Henry doesn’t waste his time mulling over Killian’s workload.

“We can come see Spitfire and then we can all go get trees together.”

He sees Emma’s mouth form Henry’s name once again but she stops herself at the last second. A light sputtering sound comes out instead.

Killian tries to at least temper his grin.

“Now that you mention it, I don’t have a tree yet. If I won’t be in the way…”

He would feel bad about the way him and Henry turn their pleading gazes on Emma at the same time but… well, as he said, he has formed many allegiances in this room.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, if you want to. You should know Henry takes forever to pick—“

“I do not!”

“But you are welcome to come. If you want.”

Killian inclines his head to the side and studies the places where her dimples appear before he nods.

“Aye. I’d like that.”

 Spitfire is an almost one-year-old mutt with three legs and really floppy years. He is no longer stinky and he is no longer quiet. Emma is glad for both even if the latter is a mixed blessing sometimes.

Henry plays with his very first rescue for an hour in the semi-deserted clinic. Emma complains about her latest skip and the amount of gas she had to spend on the bastard. Killian, in turn, complains about his ever diminishing number of clothes without rips, scratches or bitemarks on them.

Spitfire wanders over to them at some point, insistently pumping his little head against Killian’s knee. Killian’s hand comes down to pet him and Emma can’t help but grin at the sight – his large hand almost covers the dog’s whole head. She reaches a finger to trace the latest scar on his skin.

Killian jokes that he sacrificed his left limb to the animal world a long time ago and it shows – his entire hand is covered in scratches and bites in different stages of healing.

“Shouldn’t vets know how to avoid these?”

Killian chuckles and looks away. She slips her fingers between his own, just to make sure he knows she means nothing by it.

“Aye, the better ones do.”

She gives him a droll look.

“No, truthfully – most of these I got as a civilian. Being careless. Or overly enthusiastic.”

“And I thought Henry was bad.”

 Careless tendencies aside, Killian Jones is a very good vet. So far, he has saved everything her son has thrust into his arms. Except for that frog but that was… Emma shudders and turns her attention to the back of the man hurrying after her overly excited 8-year-old.

Killian Jones is a very good vet. He is also quite the flirt when Henry’s back is turned. Emma is usually pretty good at rebuffing guys like that. But Killian caught her by surprise. He was so gentle with all living creatures and so infinitely patient with her kid’s heroics that when he first turned those blue eyes on her and said “oh. I see it now. The guardian angel thing runs in the family”, his eyebrow going up and his lips following suit, Emma could do little else put sputter and blush and wonder how the hell Henry managed to find the place with the most attractive vet.

“You can’t pick just like that?”

“Why the he—“ Killian cuts himself off and coughs. “Why on earth not?”

Emma hides her grin. She most certainly doesn’t want to encourage him to swear in front of her son just because she has slipped more than a time or two herself.

“Well, how do you know it’s the best?” Henry whines, perplexed with Killian’s mad way of picking a Christmas tree.

“I don’t know if it’s “the best” but it’s the one I like best.”

“But how do you know? You haven’t seen them all.”

“I don’t need to. I like this one enough.”

“But—“

“Henry—“ she is about to come to his rescue when Killian bends down to gather some snow in his hands.

“Do you need to try all the pancakes in the world to know your mum’s are the best before you eat them?”

Henry seems to seriously ponder the question. Emma is just about to laugh and tug him along when something hits her in the shoulder. Her gasp is pure indignation. Killian’s grin is pure mischief.

“I’ve picked my tree, Swan. You two need to get a move on.”

She glowers at the pink pointy ears peeking out of his cute hat.

“Come on, Henry. Let’s go find the best tree in this lot.”

It takes them more than an hour. She hits Killian with a snowball every time he even tries to hint that they could maybe settle for that one now.

 “Let me help you carry that inside.”

They have already deposited their perfect tree at Emma’s apartment and she doesn’t see why she shouldn’t help Killian carry his inside. He helped her, she drove all the way here anyway – might as well.

The panic in his eyes says otherwise.

“Oh, no, no. No need, Swan, I’ll be perfectly fine on my own.”

She knows the appropriate thing to do is to shrug and let it go. She has no right to demand entrance to his place. But the panic. The hell?

The bailbonds person inside her needs to know. The mother inside her needs to know the guy her son runs to for help every week or so does not have a shotgun collection. The woman inside her needs to know the guy she may have a crush on is not hiding a wife or a girlfriend in his apartment.

She has no right but—

“I insist.”

“No, Emma, really. There’s no need”

He has never called her Emma before. Her eyes turn colder instead of warmer.

“Killian, I insist.”

His eyes snap to hers. He must be able to tell that turning her offer down again will have lasting repercussions. He can tell her off. He can scoff and get out and take his tree off her roof by himself and walk up the stairs and never see her again.

His sigh is one of both defeat and acceptance but his eyes fill with more nervousness than she has ever seen from Killian Jones before.

“Alright then,” he shakes his head and gets out of the car.

She debates whether or not to leave Henry to wait in the car. One look at Killian says he will be no help in deciding. He looks like a man on death row. She almost reconsiders and lets him take his tree up by himself. But… Henry spends hours with this man sometimes, if he has any skeletons in his closet – she is doing an inventory.

In the end Killian more or less carries his own tree up the stairs. Emma trudges after him, lightly supporting the tree’s top and pretending that her help is essential. Henry bounces impatiently after them, telling them they’re killing the tree every time they bump the wall and some needles fall on the stairs.

They reach Killian’s door and lean the tree against the wall. He pulls out his key, unlocks and turns to her – the struggle written all over his face. And Emma… Emma is finally about to let him off the hook.

She trusts Killian Jones. He has humoured and spent time with her son more than any other man in their lives and she—

The bark is loud and clear. Killian closes his eyes and sighs deeply as Henry gasps in delight and literally runs past him inside.

“You never said you had— Spitfire!”

Henry’s feet are pounding around Killian’s apartment. She should tell him to take his shoes off. She is still standing outside. Admittedly, Killian hasn’t invited her in so—

Did he take the dog home? When? They’ve been together ever since—

“Ariel brought him,” he mumbles to her silent question.

“And Cuddles?!” Henry’s excited voice floats from inside.

And they are still outside. Killian either hasn’t opened his eyes for the last minute or he just squeezed them shut again. His shoulders are tense. His Adam apple moves up and down. His eyes finally blink open. They seem weirdly guarded to Emma.

“Would you like to come in, Swan?”

He steps inside without waiting for an answer.

“Killian?” Henry’s voice leads her inside. “Is this the clinic’s sanctuary?”

Emma rounds the corner to find her son with a little kitten in his arms. A very familiar one-eyed, ginger kitten that she would bet a pretty penny he brought to Killian a month ago. Spitfire bumps into her leg and she looks at Killian. He is already pouring water into way too many bowls.

“Aye, lad. Suppose you can say that.”

“Cool.”

That’s that. That’s all the explanation Henry needs apparently. Emma still can’t believe she bought “not to worry, Swan, the vet clinic has its own animal sanctuary”.

Henry bounces over to one of the three bird cages in Killian’s living room to look in on a pigeon whose wing is still mending. Emma looks down at the three-legged puppy at her feet. She looks up at Killian. He is distributing food into way too many bowls now.

“Killian…“

He sighs and sits on the ground at her feet to pet the dog. His dog. Spitfire. Henry’s first save.

“I thought it would be just this guy at first,” he says and she awkwardly bends her knees to crouch down next to him. “I knew he wasn’t getting adopted if we took him to a shelter. And, I mean – what kind of a vet doesn’t have a pet, right?”

She doesn’t laugh. She watches him stroke the dog’s ears.

“And then it was a bird. I thought… it just needs a few weeks to heal and then I’ll let it go. Which I did. But by then…”

“He’d brought two more.”

Killian huffs out a laugh and she still can’t quite wrap her mind around this.

“Honestly, where does he find them?”

She shakes her head. Hell if she knows. She doesn’t know how he found Killian Jones either. But damn, is she glad he did.

“Killian? Bitesize peed in the bathroom.”

Killian sighs and hangs his head. Then he laughs and nods once as if this makes perfect sense.

“Killian,” it’s the tone she uses with Henry when she is about to tell him that there’s a limit to the amount of jelly beans that he can have. “You can’t just…”

His face does something she has never seen it do before. He looks like he is afraid she will tell him that he has to throw all his strays away.

“You can’t keep them all.”

The hard set of his mouth says otherwise.

“We can take a cat here and there. Or a bird. Probably not at the same time.”

His eyes widen a little.

“Just until they get better… you let them go afterwards, right?”

He nods, still staring at her in a bit of shock.

“The birds – aye. One of the cats left on its own when it could hunt again. I think I can take out the lizard in another week.”

“You kept the lizard?!”

She is impressed that this is the first time his cheeks tinge pink.

“Aye. I kept all of them.”

She opens her mouth. She doesn’t know what to say.

Henry runs in. There is a different dog in his arms now – scrawny but definitely less so than the last time she saw it.

“Can we stay for a bit? I wanna try to teach Stick a trick.”

She doesn’t look away from the blue eyes in front of her.

“Did you at least change the ridiculous names?”

He shakes his head. His expression has softened again. His eyes are laughing. She searches his face for a sign that he wants them to leave.

“Sure, Henry.”

The boy whoops for joy.

“I’m buying pizza,” she tells Killian.

He opens his mouth to protest.

“I bet all you have is tons of animal food.”

He snaps his mouth shut.

 She buys pizza. They watch 101 Dalmatians and while Killian is buried under three dogs, a cat and an 8-year-old, she leans over and kisses him.

The next frog is still alive. Killian sweettalks his way into a date while stitching an amphibian leg.

A month later she has two kittens in her apartment. Henry makes her buy more food for the felines than she does for the two of them.

Killian keeps letting the lizard go. It keeps coming back.

The third dog can’t be saved. She drags Killian home with them and, after Henry has gone to bed, she gets him just drunk enough that he has to sleep over.

A year later he is sleeping over every other night. He keeps his apartment though. They need the space.

She also wanted to fling herself from the moving car and flee back to the safety of her apartment, high heels and thin leather jacket be damned. Anything would be better than an entire evening spent in the company of Killian Jones, whose blue eyes and wicked smile had crept unbidden into her thoughts far too often over the past year, and into her dreams in ways that had her jerking awake in the middle of the night, sweating and breathless and aching. She had spent far too much time trying to reconcile the asshole who’d tried to fuck her ten seconds after meeting her —ten seconds after he had been in the actual process of fucking someone else— and the almost… gentlemanly?.. man with a deep sadness behind his eyes who had kissed her hand at the door, and whose body her body was insanely attracted to. 

“Yeah, David actually managed to convince him to take some time off, so he’ll be here until the day after Christmas,” said Mary Margaret, blissfully unaware of the turmoil of her sister’s thoughts. “David is so excited.” 

Emma was not excited. She wasn’t. That little flutter in her belly was revulsion. It wasn’t anticipation. It wasn’t eagerness to see him again. 

Damn it, it wasn’t. 

She was suddenly very glad she’d chosen to wear her new dress. The deep burgundy velvet hugged her curves and set off her pale skin and green eyes beautifully. It had long sleeves and an off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline that framed her cleavage in a highly satisfactory way. Mary Margaret naturally thought it was too sexy for a family Christmas dinner, but Emma was grateful for every ounce of sexy she could manage. She needed Killian to be on his back foot a little bit—if he was fully in control of his faculties she wasn’t certain she’d be able to hold him at bay. 

And if she had to suffer in his company then he was damned well going to suffer in hers. 

As they turned into the long driveway to David’s mother’s house, both sisters breathed a small sigh of wonder. Ruth had gone all out with the Christmas decorations, and although she normally didn’t care for that sort of thing Emma had to admit that the effect was magical. Fairy lights twinkled through the hedges that lined the driveway and around all the edges of the house, and outlined the shapes of the pretty pine trees in front of it, which were also decked out with tinsel and bright red and gold ornaments. Combined with the gently falling snow and the ornate wreath on the door, the small, cosy house resembled  a winter wonderland from a fairy tale. 

Mary Margaret rang the bell and abruptly the sisters were engulfed in a flurry of hugs and fuzzy sweaters and offers of eggnog. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to try it, Emma?” asked Ruth for the third time as she bustled them into the living room. “It’s an old family recipe.” 

“No, thanks,” replied Emma with a forced smile, suppressing a shudder at the very idea of raw eggs mixed with cream. No amount of brandy could make that not disgusting. 

Hot chocolate with rum, on the other hand…

“Well, you must have something to drink,” said Ruth, her eyes lighting up as she caught sight of something just over Emma’s shoulder. “Ah, perfect. How about some hot chocolate, Emma?”

Emma’s smile was genuine this time. “You read my mind,” she said. 

As if by magic, a mug appeared in front of her, piled high with whipped cream and sprinkled liberally with cinnamon. And also— she breathed deeply, taking in the aroma. Was that…

“I put a tot of rum in there as well, lass,” rumbled a low voice in her ear. “I thought you might need it.” 

Emma turned to find the bright blue eyes of Killian Jones way, way too close to hers and twinkling merrily, his smile warm and friendly and without a hint of innuendo. Her heart leapt and then began to gallop, and she blurted out the first words that came into her head in a desperate attempt to conceal her reaction to his sudden presence. 

“How did you know?”

“Know what, love?”

“That I like rum in my hot chocolate. And cinnamon on the top.”

“Dave told me about the cinnamon. The rum I guessed.” His expression shifted slightly. “Perhaps I hoped.”

“H-hoped? Why?” There was that breathlessness again. She wished he would back the fuck off so she could breathe. 

“Because it’s my favourite, though I’ve never tried it in hot chocolate before.” He tilted his head at her mug, raising an eyebrow. “May I?”  She nodded, and he wrapped his hand around hers, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a long sip. Whipped cream clung to his upper lip and a spark of flirtatiousness glinted in his eye (finally) as he licked it off. “It’s good,” he said.  

Emma’s whole body was tingling, and the room had become much too warm. She wished he would stop being so damned attractive when she wasn’t even sure if she didn’t still hate him. 

Steeling herself against her stupid body’s reaction to him, she smiled tightly and raised her mug in a small salute. “Well, thanks,” she said, then turned away. 

“Swan, wait!”

Emma didn’t want to wait. She wanted to get away, to find someone to talk to who wasn’t so confusing. Yet somehow, her feet stopped moving and she turned back. 

“What?” she snapped. 

He seemed unfazed by her curt manner. “You have cinnamon on your nose,” he said. 

“Oh. Thanks.” She rubbed at her nose, and made to leave again. 

“No— you missed it. Here.” He put one hand on her shoulder to steady her, then with the other tilted her chin up so her face was in the light. His fingers cupped her cheek as he rubbed his thumb across the tip of her nose. She drew in a sharp breath, and when she dared to catch his gaze she saw that his expression was slightly dazed, the smile slowly sliding off his face and being replaced by a dark intensity as the moment drew out.  

He looked like he wanted to kiss her, and dammit she wanted that too, to kiss him right here in front of her sister and their friends and the spirit of Christmas itself. She hated how much she wanted him when she knew, from her own experience, what a douche he could be. Would she never learn to stay away from this kind of man? 

To her relief —or was it regret?— the tense moment was shattered by David’s voice calling from the other side of the room. 

“Killian! Come tell Mary Margaret’s dad about that time we lost Will’s keys at the bottom of the Serpentine.” 

Killian blinked rapidly and took a step back, his hands falling away from her body. She shivered, missing their warmth. 

He attempted another smile, though his eyes were still blazing hot and he looked oddly troubled. “There you go, Swan,” he said, in a voice that wasn’t quite steady, “all cinnamon free.” He stared at her for another few seconds, looking like he wished he could say more, then nodded at her and headed for where David was sitting with Mary Margaret and Ruby and her own father. 

She definitely didn’t need to be sitting next to her dad in her current state. 

Emma retreated to the kitchen where she closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a minute before sitting down at the table and drinking her hot chocolate. 

It was perfect, the proportions of rum and cream and cinnamon just right. 

Damn him. 

🎄 🎄  🎄  🎄  🎄  

Killian was glad the story David wanted him to tell was one he’d told so often he could recite it in his sleep, because his blood was still thundering in his ears and he was struggling to think of anything other than Emma in that dress. Over the past year he’d very nearly managed to convince himself that he couldn’t possibly have been as attracted to her as he remembered. He’d been drinking a lot that night, after all, and much of the evening was hazy. 

But one thing persisted, despite his best efforts, in standing out absolutely crystal clear in his mind, and that was Emma and her eyes and her hair and her face and how damned much he had wanted to touch her. Seeing her again through sober eyes he realised that his memories had in fact not been accurate—the attraction was far stronger than he recalled. That she clearly wanted him too, though equally clearly didn’t want to want him, made things somehow both better and worse. The look in her eyes a moment ago when he’d wiped the cinnamon from her nose had nearly broken his resolve. 

No flirting, he reminded himself. No innuendo, no sex. Nothing to put her on the defensive or make her take refuge behind those walls. He’d spent three hundred and sixty five days thinking about how to handle the situation when he saw her again, and he’d be damned if he lost his focus now, so close to the goal. Killian intended to get Emma Swan to like him or die in the attempt. He just had to remember that. 

🎄 🎄  🎄  🎄  🎄  

Dinner turned out to be not nearly as bad as Emma feared. She sat between her dad and Ruby, with Granny across from her and Belle to Granny’s left. Killian was on Belle’s left, putting him far enough from Emma that she could easily avoid looking at him. 

She didn’t avoid it, but she could have. She could stop sneaking glances at him any time she wanted. She could. The problem was that Killian wasn’t just good to look at but actually really interesting. And her dad was interested. 

“Tell me more about what you do, Killian,” said Leopold, as he passed Emma the potatoes. Her eyes flew to her father’s face, wondering if he had somehow sensed how curious she was on this topic and was doing some investigating for her, but he simply looked like his usual kind self, accepting the gravy from Ruth and smiling at Killian. “Marine salvage, you said it was?”

“That’s right,” said Killian. “Basically I have a ship and a crew and we go in search of wrecks with salvageable goods still aboard. We recover the goods and anything else we find, then we claim a reward based on the value of what we recover.” 

Modern piracy, thought Emma. I get it now. 

“And that’s time-sensitive?” she found herself asking.

Killian turned to look at her, clearly surprised she had spoken.“I beg your pardon?”

Emma tried to shrug, to be casual, but she felt uncomfortably like she was laying herself bare with the question. “Last year, you told me that your work was time sensitive…” she  trailed off, blushing. Why the fuck was she blushing. 

Gathering her courage, she looked up to find him watching her, his eyes warm. “Good of you to remember, Swan,” he said. “It’s time sensitive in the sense that winds and tides and weather can have a major impact on how accessible a wreck is, so when the conditions are favourable you have to get on it right away before they change.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that there were enough shipwrecks these days to keep you in business,” remarked Leopold, fortunately not seeming to notice his younger daughter’s confusion. 

“Oh, we don’t just salvage recent wrecks,” replied Killian. “In fact, I vastly prefer going after the historic ones. My crew isn’t always in agreement, especially when it’s been a while since our last haul, so I take as many of the recent ones as I can to keep the income flowing but the truth is that I like the hunt, and the thrill of finding something that’s been lost for centuries. That’s actually what I was doing in London when I met David, I was studying maritime law with an emphasis on historical marine salvage.”

“Yeah, and he used to bore the pants off all of us there by talking about all the old wrecks he’d like to find,” piped up David from the other end of the table. “I now know more about the history of piracy and shipwrecking than anyone needs to.”

“You loved every second of it,” retorted Killian. “When are you going to admit that you have a soft spot for scoundrels?”

“I am a small town sheriff and former police detective,” said David. “Scoundrels are my natural enemies.” 

“You keep telling yourself that, Dave.” 

They grinned at each other, then Leopold asked Killian to tell them about his favourite haul and although Emma tried not to listen, she soon found herself transported by the tale he told of how he had followed a series of obscure clues to the location of a merchant ship that had been sunk by the pirate Blackbeard in 1716, before he and his crew had narrowly escaped an oncoming storm with their haul still intact. His passion for his work was evident in every syllable, and she was so enthralled that she forgot her anger at his steadfast refusal to resemble the smarmy creep she’d met a year before. It was impossible to hate someone when you knew that underneath the scruff and charm beat the heart of a true and earnest nerd. If anything, that made him even more attractive, she thought in despair. She couldn’t hate him, not anymore, but the idea of liking him made her itchy. He was far too dangerous to like. 

As the evening wound down, David and Mary Margaret made plans to go for a walk to look at the Christmas light displays around town. They invited Emma and Killian along but both declined, knowing that David and Mary Margaret would be wrapped up in each other and the invitation was more politeness than actual desire for their company. 

Plus, Emma really wanted to be alone. She needed to think. 

Killian smiled at her as he said goodbye, but didn’t try to kiss her hand again. She was not disappointed by this. Definitely not. 

She had said her goodbyes and was just opening the door to leave when Ruth cried out “Oh, Emma, don’t go without the presents!”  

“What presents?” 

Ruth hurried to the door carrying two large plastic bags full of wrapped gifts. “Just a few things for you and Mary Margaret and Leopold, from me and David,” she said. “I nearly forgot them!”

Emma was touched, which made her uncomfortable. “Uh, thanks, Ruth. You really didn’t need to do that.” 

“Nonsense, dear, you know I think of all of you as family. Now, I’ll see you at your father’s for lunch on New Year’s Day?”

Emma nodded, managing a small smile. “We’ll be there,” she confirmed. 

Ruth handed her the bags, then pulled her into a hug. “Merry Christmas, Emma,” she said. 

For a brief moment Emma held herself stiffly but then she relaxed into the hug, letting herself imagine just for a moment how different things might have been if she’d had a mother like Ruth. “Merry Christmas,” she said, blinking frantically to hold back tears. She turned away quickly before they could fall and headed out to the car where Mary Margaret was waiting. 

Arriving back to her quiet apartment, Emma kicked off her heels and dropped the bags of presents next to the Christmas tree. Turning on the tree lights, she took a moment to admire them before kneeling down to remove the presents from their bags and arrange them with the others under the tree. They were all wrapped in the same cheerful red and gold paper except for one, a largish rectangular one which was wrapped in white with silver snowflakes. Curious, she picked it up and looked at the tag. 

For: Emma

From: Killian

Killian had gotten her a Christmas present. Emma stared dumbly at it for a minute, trying to process such an astounding development. What the hell was she supposed to make of this? 

She should put it under the tree with the others, she knew. They always opened their presents on Christmas Day. Their dad was coming over and bringing breakfast. She should wait. 

But she couldn’t. Somehow, she didn’t want an audience when she opened it; didn’t really want her father and sister to even know she had it. Carefully she removed the wrapping paper, slicing the tape gently with her fingernail and unfolding the paper to reveal a book, bound in rich blue leather. She caught her breath as she read the title. 

The Princess Bride. 

For the second time that evening Emma felt tears spring to her eyes, but this time she couldn’t blink them back. They rolled freely down her cheeks as she stroked her fingertips across the soft leather cover with its gold-embossed lettering and silhouette of Westley and Buttercup. 

How did he know? She thought. Her favourite movie, her favourite book. The tattered paperback copy of it that she had carried with her through half a dozen foster homes until it fell apart. How could he possibly have known? 

Before she could think better of the impulse, she was in her bug and out onto the snowy streets, pulling into a parking space in front of David’s apartment just minutes later. Taking a deep breath, she rang the bell. 

Killian opened the door, the surprise on his face quickly giving way to pleasure. 

“Swan,” he said, “This is unexpected. Would you like to come in?” 

“No, I can’t stay, I just— I wanted to thank you, Killian. For the present. It’s— it’s perfect. I love it.” 

To her fascination a pink flush bloomed across his cheekbones and he reached up to scratch nervously behind his ear. It was adorable. 

Damn him. 

“I’m glad you liked it, love.” 

“How did you know what to get me?”

“I— may have asked David to ask Mary Margaret what you loved best in all the world. She said The Princess Bride and books, so the conclusion was an obvious one.”

“Why would you go to all that trouble?”

“I have spent the last year writhing in shame over my conduct during the first five minutes of our acquaintance, I simply wanted to do something to show you that I can be more than a boorish lout.” 

She smiled at that, looking up at him a bit shyly. 

“I feel bad now that I didn’t get you anything.” 

“It’s no matter, love. If you’ve forgiven me for our first meeting, that’s all the gift I need.” 

She nodded. “It’s forgiven. And forgotten.” 

“Then perhaps… your phone number, if I might be so bold?”

She hesitated. “Aren’t you going back to your ship soon? We won’t— I mean, I won’t— we can’t— see each other…” 

He chuckled. “I’m asking for your number, Swan, not your hand in marriage. I’d like to be able to text you from time to time, perhaps even hear your voice. That’s all.” 

“Really? I mean, you really want to talk to me?”

“Aye.” 

“Why?”

He smiled, his dimples winking at her, and she was proud that she managed not to melt into a puddle of goo on the floor. “Because I like you,” he said simply. 

She opened her mouth to ask why again, but managed to stop herself when he raised an eyebrow, clearly anticipating that very question. Instead she leaned towards him, watching his eyes widen as she reached around him to slide his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans, thrilling at the way his breath caught when her fingertips caressed the tight curve of his ass. She held it out for him to unlock and when she finally tore her gaze from his to program her number into his contacts, she heard him exhale in relief and it made her smile.  

The smile was still on her face when she handed the phone back to him, and when she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. 

“Merry Christmas, Killian Jones,” she whispered in his ear. 

Her hand had barely touched the handle of her car door when her phone beeped with an incoming text.