#csss 2017

“Emma--”

“Look, I know utilities are my responsibility--”

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says, louder this time. “Okay. Did you pay the bill?”

“Yes.”

“Even the overdue fees?”

“Yes.”

“And they’ll switch it on again on Tuesday?”

“Barring any weather emergencies, yes.”

Mary Margaret is quiet for a long moment, then scuffs her shoes on the welcome mat briefly before heading for her room. “Okay.”

Emma twists in the chair to watch her fling back the curtain dividing her sleeping area from the living space of the loft. “Okay? That’s it?”

Mary Margaret glances at her before ducking to retrieve a bag from under the bed. “You screwed up, you admitted to it, you took care of it. Being mad isn’t going to help.”

“You’re never mad, you’re--”

“I’m disappointed, but it happens, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, opening her wardrobe.

Emma squints at her best friend, watching as she removes a few items of clothing and puts them in the bag. “You’re being really reasonable about...” She cuts herself off with a gasp when a drawer is opened. “Mary Margaret Blanchard, you scheming little--you’re going to David’s!”

“What?” Mary Margaret slams her underwear drawer closed, her cheeks pink. “No!”

Emma grins. She knows for a fact that, despite having gone on more than three dates, Mary Margaret and her new boyfriend have yet to spend the night together. (They haven’t used the words yet, but really, the way that David looks at Mary Margaret makes Emma surprised that he didn’t pop the question on date two.) Someone had mentioned something about throwing off the weight of expectations and letting it happen naturally.

Well, naturally, Emma had forgotten to pay all of their utilities on time, so the time for letting it happen is apparently now.

“That’s your good underwear drawer,” she says, getting up and trying not to look too smug about the whole thing. “Because you’re an anal retentive freak who of course has a good underwear drawer and a period-panty drawer, and I say that with all the love in my heart--ow!” Emma laughs as Mary Margaret smacks her on the arm, the pink on her cheeks spreading up towards her ears. “So what was the plan going to be, appear on his doorstep with a bag and big sad puppy eyes and a story about how I’m the worst roommate in the world?”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes and yanks open the drawer again -- the good underwear drawer, thank you very much -- digging out some lacy things that toe the line between racy and tasteful. “Well, first of all you aren’t the worst roommate in the world. You haven’t flooded the place or burned it down.”

“Your roommate freshman year does not get to set the standards for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, she does,” she says, irritation clearly written on her face at the memory. She shakes her head. “Forgetting to pay bills happens, and it’s not like we aren’t used to things getting cut off.”

Emma has to admit the truth in that. She and Mary Margaret have spent more than one night with candles and flashlights as their only light sources, or splitting a box of mac and cheese for dinner… every night in a week. Only in the last year has Mary Margaret upgraded from substituting to teaching full-time, and while bail-jumpers still aren’t as common as Emma would like, she’s still on the payroll down at Booth Bonds and August makes sure she’s taken care of (even if he is kind of an ass about health insurance) in between the bonuses she gets from catching a dirtbag. So maybe she’s gotten used to having things consistent, like actual vegetables to go with their mac and cheese diets, or the power only going out during a nor’easter, and forgotten how it wasn’t that long ago when this was an every-other-month kind of thing.

“And if it gives you an excuse to get laid…” Emma grins as Mary Margaret reaches to smack her again, skipping out of the way. “Look, more blankets for me and I get to hog the space heater. It’s fine, go use your boyfriend. In every sense of the word.”

Her friend looks aghast. “You’re staying here?”

“Where else am I supposed to go? I am definitely not sleeping on David’s couch while you two figure out how to dance the horizontal mambo.” At Mary Margaret’s look, Emma balks. “No. I know that look on your face--”

“He’ll be more than willing--”

“Which is exactly why I’m saying no--”

“Just call him!”

“Mary Margaret!”

“Emma!”

A knock on the door breaks up their bickering. “It’s open!” Mary Margaret calls, flashing Emma a smile. “It’s Friday -- you have a standing date,” she whispers.

“It’s not a date,” Emma hisses, just as the door opens.

“Bloody hell, it’s cold in here.”

Emma turns just as Killian Jones -- man of artfully disheveled hair, buttoned shirts that somehow never button up to the top, scoundrel and rogue, voted Preferred Drinking Buddy three years running, and one of the best friends she’s ever had -- looks around the apartment with concern. “Seriously, are you trying to save on energy costs? Your pipes are going to freeze.”

Emma and Mary Margaret share a panicked glance before Mary Margaret says, “Slow drip, quick.”

As they split up to turn on all the faucets enough to keep water running, though slowly, Killian watches with increasing confusion. “No really, what--”

“I forgot to pay the bill and the gas company can eat my ass,” Emma calls from the bathroom.

She hears Killian snort. “Lovely as your arse is, Swan, I doubt they took the suggestion very well.”

Her mouth twists and she feels her cheeks warm. “I didn’t say it to them.”

“No, you just thought it. Loudly.”

Coming out of the bathroom, she grabs one of her beanies and shoves it on over her hair, hoping to retain some of her body heat. “Did not,” she says, mulishly.

The look he levels at her makes her feel warm all over. “I know you, love, don’t forget. The moment you can tell someone to piss off, or one of your other charming turns of phrase, you do. There’s no hesitation.”

“He’s right,” Mary Margaret says, placing a few more items into her bag and then zipping it shut. “There’s a reason I made you call the cable company.” She picks up her bag with a small grunt, walking awkwardly towards the door with it. “Okay, so I’m going then. Emma, you do what you need to but please do not freeze to death in our apartment over Christmas. You’ll hang around as some sort of Christmas ghost and judge me for whoever I choose as my next roommate.”

Emma snorts. “Please. I would not Marley you, you’re way more Fuzziwig than Scrooge.”

Mary Margaret laughs and waves as she heads out the door. Killian looks at Emma, still bemused to the whole situation. “So, there’s no heat.”

“No.”

“And Mary Margaret is going… where, exactly?”

Emma smiles, wrapping herself in a blanket from the back of the couch and plopping down on the cushions. Killian sits next to her, looking at her with one eyebrow raised expectantly. “She’s going to go make a man out of Sheriff Nolan,” Emma says, a note of pride in her voice. “Making the best out of a stupid situation. I’m sorry movie night is going to be kind of cold.”

Killian shakes his head. “No, it’s not.” At her inquisitive eyebrow, he continues, “It’s not going to be cold because we’re going to my place. And you’re bringing a bag and you aren’t coming back until they’ve turned your heat back on. I much prefer your company while you’re not half-frozen, Swan.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Killian, I can’t possibly impose like that.”

“It’s not an imposition if I offer first, love.”

“Still--it’s Christmas, and--”

“All the more reason. Tis the season and all, yeah?”

Emma huffs and Killian smiles. “Look, Swan, it’s not as if either you or I have any big grand plans for the holiday. In fact, if I recall correctly, our plan was to have takeout together and watch ridiculous movies. This just ensures you won’t be late.”

She scoffs, smacking him on the arm, and his smile widens into a grin. Her heart, slowly making its way down from her throat, skips a beat.

This would be why staying at Killian’s would be a terrible idea. She’s had a ridiculous crush on him since--well, since she shot him down that one time he asked her out and then actually backed off respectfully. It wasn’t an immediate thing, more a slow realization that he actually meant it when he said he’d back off if his advances made her uncomfortable. And then it turned out that they worked ridiculously well together -- as friends, as partners in pinochle, as Tom Servo and Crow when it came to bad movies.

And then Emma didn’t want to ruin that by saying “Hey remember when you asked me to dinner and I told you to get lost? Yeah, taking that back now, let’s go out. And then make out on your ridiculously comfortable couch.”

It’s going to be a lot harder to resist making out with him on his couch when she’s going to be sleeping on said couch.

Though, maybe, it might be harder when he’s sleeping on said couch.

“I’m not staying here if you’re making me take your damn bed, Jones,” Emma says an hour or so later, braced for a fight in his blessedly warm living room.

“And my mother will rise from the dead and shame me from now until hell freezes over if I allow a woman to sleep on my couch when I’m not bedridden or otherwise incapacitated.”

Mary Margaret’s always warning her that if she keeps rolling them, her eyes are going to roll right out of her head and across the floor, but everyone just keeps saying ridiculous things and Emma can’t help it. “Well, I’m pretty sure that I’m a big girl who can make her own decisions on where to sleep. And it’s on the couch. You have an extremely comfortable couch.”

To prove her point, she goes to root around in his linen closet, intent on making up the couch herself. Yes, they were planning on a movie night still, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have everything ready; she smiles to herself, thinking about how he’s going to grumble when she inevitably kicks him out to sleep in his own bed, but then her hands still as she wonders what might happen if she just… didn’t.

If she just asked him to stay. Or… didn’t ask, but didn’t… make him leave.

She feels warmth behind her and Killian’s hands cover hers, taking the sheets from her. “Stubborn lass,” he murmurs, right near her ear.

Emma watches him go, fingering the hems of her sleeves while she watches him make up the couch. Quietly, she goes to change into her pajamas--no use taking extra steps later, be comfortable now--and by the time she comes back out of the bathroom he’s already finished with the sheets and the blankets; now he’s perched on the end of the couch, a 6-pack of Christmas ales sitting unopened on the coffee table, with a fresh bag of chips and some salsa sitting out for their eating pleasure. “Well isn’t this festive?” Emma asks, sitting down and opening the bag. “What’s on the docket for tonight?”

They argue for a bit about what to watch--Christmas movies are for Christmas Eve, Die Hard is so a Christmas movie and thus off the table, they don’t want anything too sappy or action-y tonight--and while Emma then scrolls through the movie list, Killian goes to put on his own pajamas. She’s distracted when he comes back, eyes following the line of his well-fitted shirt (seriously, who wears a fitted shirt to bed? Killian Jones, apparently) down to where his pajama pants sit low on his hips.

Her mouth feels very dry and there’s no bottle opener for the Christmas ales.

Fuck, staying here is a terrible idea, no matter how warm his apartment actually is.

He barely sits when he says, “Damn, the bottle opener,” and gets up to go to the kitchen and fuck her life if his pants aren’t like, expertly sculpted to his ass. Did Yves Saint Laurent make pajamas now? Distracted as she is, she doesn’t really pay attention to what movie she picks; her fingers just seem to take over from her brain’s complete lack of comprehensive abilities and all Emma hears is the ‘yay thank you for choosing a movie!’ noise coming from the TV. She just hopes she didn’t choose something too sappy or silly or childish. Or all three.

“What are we watching?” Killian asks, the bottle opener in his prosthetic and picking up a beer with the other. He pops the lid off and hands it to her, reaching for his own.

“I left it to the whims of fate,” she says, hoping she sounds very casual about it and not at all like she wants to say ‘fuck this’ to the movie and crawl on top of him and rip him out of his absurdly well-fitted pajamas. “Like throwing a dart, but less holes left in your wall.”

He chuckles, setting the bottle opener down. “Well I, and my landlord, thank you for the consideration, love.”

They tap the bottlenecks together and take a swig; Emma practically dives into the chips and salsa while whatever it is her fingers picked to watch starts playing.

It’s some animated movie. It might be about feelings or growing up or both. She’s not too sure, but it’s bright and colorful and she absolutely starts to feel tired about half an

hour into it. She steals the blanket across the back of the couch and bundles herself in it, snuggling into the cushions and just… closing her eyes for a moment.

Just a moment. Just…

*~*

There’s a pillow under her head. There definitely hadn’t been any pillows like this on the couch, a plush and soft one with an actual pillowcase, and while Killian’s couch is comfortable, it’s not pillow-top comfortable.

She vaguely remembers being picked up at some point, but nothing after that. And if she’d been picked up, it meant Killian had put her in his bed, after she’d specifically insisted--

“Dammit, Killian,” she mumbles, stretching a little and rolling onto her belly.

“What on earth have I done now?”

She freezes, mid-pillow plumping, and realizes that the weight around her middle is not, actually, the blankets bunched up on her. Turning her head, she cracks open an eye and sees him lying next to her, one arm around her middle, and seeming just as half-asleep and bemused as she. His hair’s a riot on top of his head and his beard is scruffy from lack of trimming, and Emma has never felt more like she might be in love with him than she has in this moment. “I told you to let me stay on the couch,” she whispers finally.

“And you did fight me on that, even in sleep. I did attempt to move you, and yet you clung to me even in sleep and refused to let me leave, so in that case it seemed to me that the best compromise was to stay.”

Emma’s glad for the darkness in the room still because she’s pretty sure there’s not much that she could use as an excuse for why her cheeks were so red. “Well, I won’t apologize since it wasn’t what I wanted in the first place,” she grumbles, snuggling deeper into the pillow.

Killian chuckles and she feels his thumb tracing a pattern on her hip. “Stubborn lass.”

She hums in agreement, wriggling into his touch and feeling sleepy again. Killian mumbles something under his breath and moves closer, pulling her snug against his chest. “Killian,” Emma whispers, sucking in a breath and feeling much more awake.

But he’s fast asleep, or good at pretending, and doesn’t reply. Emma lays still for a few moments to make sure he’s asleep once more, then pulls away. He was half-asleep, she thinks as she gets out from under the blankets and to her feet; the carpet is cool under her skin and her heart races as she tiptoes to the kitchen to get breakfast going. It didn’t mean anything, he was half-asleep.

Killian’s kitchen is well stocked, but even so she’s not that much of a cook. She gets the coffee going, which is honestly the most important part, and then just decides to make pancakes. Beating the eggs and whipping the powder mix together helps her get her emotions under control, though she possibly squishes the pancakes down a little harder than necessary in the pan.

She’s pathetic, in love with her best friend and too chicken to say anything about it, too overcome by a simple thing as him holding her to stay in bed and enjoy it. He’d been warm and she’d really just wanted to roll over and press her back to his front and enjoy the feeling of being held, but no. He was half-asleep and it didn’t count and he’s just her best friend and why does it hurt so much?

God, she hopes Mary Margaret is having a better Christmas weekend than she is. Not that this is bad, per say, but she’d rather go without having more fuel to add to the fire that is her stupid, unrequited crush.

There’s a shuffling down the hall and she busies herself with the pancake mix. “Hmm, something smells delicious,” Killian rumbles.

She glances over her shoulder, watching briefly as he scrubs his hand over his face. “It’s just from a box,” she says, feeling a little dejected.

“I wasn’t talking about the pancakes,” he says and she hears the grin in his voice. “The coffee, love, it’s a godsend.”

She cracks half a smile as she hears him rattle around with the coffee mugs. “It’s why I did that first. And before you say anything, I am, in fact, aware that I don’t have to cook for you just because you let me stay. Even if you did drag me to bed against my will.”

He makes a sort of choking noise into his coffee mug. “Pardon?”

“Oh you told me all about it, buddy.”

“I did?”

Her heart sank a little further. “Yeah. You must have been talking in your sleep, but I cussed you out about it and you just went back to sleep.”

He’s quiet for a few moments and she finishes the last pancake, sliding it onto the stack and turning off the burner. She goes to drop the pan and the mixing bowl in the sink and as soon as they leave her hands, his own catches her wrist. “Emma, are you cross with me?”

No, never with you. Except when you cheat at Scrabble, but that’s fair game, she thinks. “No.”

He pulls a little and makes her look at him. That’s cheating, giving her those big eyes, so full of trust and sincerity, letting her know that it’s completely fine to tell him anything. “I’m not,” she says. “I’m just… well, you’re just as touchy-feely when you’re mostly-asleep as you are when you’re drunk, that’s all.”

“Emma, if I’ve at all behaved inappropriately towards you--”

“No! God, Killian, no. You were just missing your teddy bear or whatever,” she says, yanking her hand free and going to get plates.

He doesn’t respond and they eat in the most uncomfortable silence Emma’s ever sat through. She doesn’t look at him and though she’s fairly hungry, her cinnamon-laced pancakes go down like lead. She shouldn’t have said anything. Now he feels awkward and it didn’t bother her--not the way he probably thinks--and she’s made the whole of Christmas weekend terrible.

“I’m going to shower,” she says quietly after she’s put her dishes in the sink.

She’s quick and efficient, drying her hair in much the same way. She packs up her bag when she’s done dressing, figuring the fastest way out of this awkwardness is to just leave him to it alone. She can suffer with a space heater and a mountain of blankets. “Swan, what are you doing?”

Killian’s in the doorway, watching her with a worried look on his face. “Going back to my apartment,” she mumbles, zipping the bag up with more force than strictly necessary.

“Emma, please talk to me. Have I done something?”

Frustration bubbles up in her chest. “No,” she snaps. “It’s not--look, I liked it, okay? You held me this morning, and I liked it, and I don’t--I just need to go, okay?”

“Emma.” He’s like a brick wall in her way, giving her a pleading look as she tries and fails to get past him. “Lass, I may--I may not have been entirely truthful. Or, rather, chose not to mention… It wasn’t an accident.”

“What wasn’t an accident?”

She feels nervous all of a sudden, adrenaline making her fingers tingle and her heart pounds in her chest. He looks just as nervous, but his lips quirk up in a brief smile. “The teddy bear thing,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “It may--it may not have been--well, it wasn’t an accident. I wanted to… It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me and I apologize about that, but I just wanted to see… for once… what it might feel like to hold you.”

That last part is barely audible, but she’s close enough that she hears it all the same. “You--”

“Aye.”

Her nerves increase but it’s powered by hope rather than fear, and she’s not sure which of them moves first but they do meet somewhere in the middle for a tangle of lips and tongues and sighs. Her hands find his hair, still a complete mess and about to get even messier if she has anything to say about it, and his arms wrap around her waist to pull her in snug against him. She still has some questions about how it might--will--feel to have his front pressed to his back, but she’s fairly certain that having their fronts pressed together is the most wonderful thing she’s felt in ages.

Though there might be too many clothes between them, if the way his body is reacting to hers has anything to say about it.

It’s a tangle of limbs and laughter as they stumble back to the bed, knocking her bag off of it in the process as they lay back down, but there’s no move to remove their clothes, simply reveling in the learning curve of kissing and light touches. He finds where she’s ticklish and makes her giggle against his lips and his smile is bright enough to rival the Christmas tree out in the living room and she’s happy. The fastest switch from glum to glee she can ever remember feeling and the cause of both is the man in front of her, his fingers tracing her chin and looking at her like he’s never seen anything so wonderful in his entire life. “I can’t--I’ve been in love with you for what feels like forever,” she confesses quietly.

He smiles, it’s soft and she loves the lines that crinkle around his eyes. “Yeah?” he asks.

“You’re going to kill me for it, but probably around the time I told you to fuck off after asking me out.”

He looks at her differently now, maybe like she’s grown another head, but then he starts to laugh. He rolls onto his back, tears streaming from his eyes as he laughs so hard he can hardly breathe, and Emma eventually starts to giggle too, burying her face in the crook of his arm. “You bloody would,” Killian says finally, wiping the heel of his hand across his face to clear the tear tracks.

“Shut up,” she mumbles, still giggling, and pinches him for good measure.

He yelps and wriggles away, leaving her to prop her head up on her arm to look at him better. He turns his head, his cheeks pink from laughter, and her heart melts a little at his smile. “I’ve loved you a bit longer than that, I think, but I never expected you’d return how I feel.”

“Yeah, well… I came around to the idea eventually. And was a big chicken about it. It was easier to stay quiet.”

“While I wish you hadn’t, I understand why. And I wouldn’t trade our years of friendship for anything, love. We got there in the end didn’t we?”

She smiles and leans forward, touching their foreheads together. “Yeah. Eventually.”

*~*

On Christmas morning, Emma’s cell phone wakes them both from the bedside table. She rolls over and reaches for it, swearing up a storm at the noise and at Killian’s laughter next to her. “Good morning and David had better have turned out to be the guy who floods the apartment and burns it down,” Emma says.

Mary Margaret just laughs. “Merry Christmas to you, too. Have you survived the weekend?”

Emma smiles as Killian’s lips brush over her bare shoulder. They’d talked yesterday about letting their friends know about this little development, but decided just to keep this between themselves for a little while longer. Their own little Christmas secret. She leans into it and smiles wider as his hand brushes down her back and teases the backs of her thighs. “We’ve survived. There was a lot of beer and movies. I should be asking you that--how’s the state of your vagina?”

Killian makes a noise that’s halfway between a choke and a laugh and Mary Margaret is a little more vocally scandalized by the question. “Emma Swan, you--it’s fine, thank you very much, but what was that noise?”

“Killian’s coming down with a cough. He was up before me making coffee, making noise and trying to wake me up,” Emma lies easily.

Her best friend hums, not quite believing her, but perhaps in the spirit of Christmas she doesn’t question it further. “Well, things here have been good. Better than good. You didn’t hear anything more from the gas company?”

“No,” Emma says, arching her back a little into Killian’s touch. “But I expected as much. Might not be able to go home until Wednesday.”

“Shame,” Mary Margaret replies, a little wistful and not at all regretful about maybe having to stay at her boyfriend’s house another day.

“You might not have noticed,” Killian tries again politely, “but I was here first.”

The woman snorts. “So? You might have been here, but you didn't buy, you were blabbing. I'm buying.” She puts down the tree and fumbles inside the pockets of her padded anorak.

“Look,” Killian begins, his voice already sounding slightly exhausted, but the blonde cuts him off right away.

“I don't have time for this nonsense,” she says firmly and turns to Robin, ignoring Killian's indignant expression. “How much?”

“And I don't have time for this nonsense, either,” Killian growls and turns to his friend as well. “Tell the lass that...”

Robin is smart enough not to get in the line of fire. He raises both hands in a defensive gesture, pure self-defense, actually. “You duke that out by yourselves,” he tells them in a no-nonsense voice. “I'll be right over there.” He moves away from them.

Killian sighs – even though he understands his friend – and turns back to the blonde. “Listen, love,” he tries again, but that's just as far as he'll get.

“I'm not your love,” she interrupts, taking a step closer and glaring menacingly at him. “And now – cut the crap and get the fuck out of my way, I really don't have time for this shit.” She tries to stare him down and delights in his exasperated expression and the way his jaw clenches is anger.

“Who are you, the Grinch?!” he finally blurts out. “Ruining other people's Christmas with your rudeness, just because you're bloody miserable?!”

Her whole posture stiffens. She's bundled up against the icy wind, but even in the dim light of the street lamps he can see the anger flashing in her eyes, and something more lying beneath that anger. He isn't sure, it could be hurt, defeat, and the moment the words are out of his mouth he already regrets them – it's not in Killian Jones' code to go over the line like that.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but before he can say anything, the woman shoves the poor, malformed little tree into his hand and snorts.

“Congratulations, you can ruin your own Christmas with this ugly ass hobbit tree,” she snaps. “I'll have something better to look at.”

And with that, she turns around and stomps away, leaving puffs of her angry breath as white clouds in the air. Killian's eyes follow her, and he shakes his head, more at himself.

“What was that, mate?” Robin's voice startles him, and he whirls around. “Not very gentlemanly of you, I must say.”

“I know, I know,” Killian huffs. “I'll make it up to her.” He looks the short ugly tree up and down and sighs.

“Oh? And how are you gonna do that?” his friend asks.

“I know her,” he explains to Robin's surprise, “she lives in my building.”

“Really? You must have made barely any impression,” Robin comments in an amused voice, “She didn't seem to recognize you.”

“She most probably didn't,” Killian agrees, “she's the grumpy type. You know, doesn't talk to people, never looks at anyone.”

Robin chuckles. “Well then, good luck with that. So, are you buying the tree, after you've driven away my last customer?”

“That's highway robbery,” Killian growls and points his finger at his friend, “and she was right, you know? This is a hobbit tree.”

***

Emma Swan is annoyed. Like, super annoyed. With that ugly tree and the stupid tree seller. Oh, and that asshole calling her the fucking Grinch?! For the record – she is not miserable. Definitely not. Angry, yes. Mostly at herself. She should have taken Mary Margaret's offer, should have flown out to Portland yesterday, before the airport was closed, and she would have long been in Storybrooke by now, sitting in front of her sister's fireplace, sipping a hot cocoa with cinnamon and lots of whipped cream. Damn her own stubbornness, insisting that she was fine by herself, and that Christmas wasn't really a big thing. When she changed her mind and decided she wanted to go to Storybrooke over the holidays – for her nagging sister's sake, not for her own, mind you – it was too late: due to the raging snow storms, the airport had been closed, and there she was, stuck in Boston, home alone. For Christmas.

But she is not miserable.

She can take care of herself just fine, just like she had to for a long time, before she reunited with her long-lost almost-adoptive sister. When the Blanchards took her in at age fifteen, she'd already given up hope of ever finding a family – there had just been one foster family too many where it hadn't worked out for her. And then, with the Blanchards, when it did... it just seemed too good to be true. And absurd as it might have been, when it started to feel like she'd really found a home where she was loved, like she really belonged to someone... for Emma there was only one logical consequence to avoid the inevitable heartbreak: to end it before it became so vital to her that it would have broken her for good. And so, she ran away, heartbroken, leaving an equally heartbroken Blanchard family behind. Later she learned that they never gave up on her, that they kept searching for her... and when her foster sister Mary Margaret finally found her years later, she had to learn that she never could make it up to the only people who ever had wanted to be her parents: the Blanchards were both gone, died in a horrible car crash. But she and Mary Margaret had each other, and it was like a miracle.

There's not a day going by she isn't grateful for her sister – yes, Emma thinks of Mary Margaret as her sister – but still, there's always that little lost girl inside her that never mattered and sometimes still can't believe she does matter now. So, she needs to keep her distance, her emotional independence.

Which is why she hesitated to accept Mary Margaret's offer – until it was too late. But then, it's not the first Christmas Emma will spend alone, and she knows how to make it right. She'll have her eggnogg and her tree, and it's going to be fine. Except, she hates eggnogg, and she doesn't even have that leftover, poor excuse for a tree she tried to buy earlier. It was the last tree, and it was ugly and crooked, and apparently nobody had wanted it. A tree that seemed like it was made for her.

But then that stupid bastard had to come and fight her about it, I was here first, she can't even count how many times she heard that from foster siblings who wanted her out the moment she set foot into a new home. You don't belong here.

Well, fuck him and his stupid hobbit tree, he can have it. She has something better. She has a place where she belongs, and that's where she'll go. The airport might be closed, but she has her wits and her means, and she has a car and her determination. Some call it stubbornness.

Hastily, she throws together a few things, stoically (and stubbornly) ignoring the fact that roaring snow storms will make it impossible to even leave Boston, let alone to travel the highway along the coast of Massachusetts and Maine to Storybrooke in an old Volkswagen bug. She'd be frozen to death before she even leaves the state, but right now, her determination – stubbornness – outweighs her common sense, and so she leaves her apartment in a nervously cheerful mood.

When she's locked her door and whirls around to leave the building before common sense can win and she changes her mind, she almost bumps into someone and freezes mid move.

The person makes a huffing noise as if she's knocked the breath out of his lungs, and Emma is shocked when she is looking into the annoyingly blue eyes of Mr. asshole tree hijacker from twenty minutes ago. He catches her elbow when she stumbles, and she wriggles free furiously.

“You!” she spits, takes a step back and narrows her eyes. “Were you following me?!”

“Yes,” he replies and tilts his head before he corrects himself, “no. I live here.”

Emma frowns.”What?” Completely confused, she asks herself if that's possible – wouldn't she have noticed him if he really lived here? On the other hand, she doesn't really know anyone living in this building. She notices that he's still carrying the tree with him, and she wonders why that is.

With his free hand, he points vaguely to the ceiling and adds, “Seventh floor.”

“Next time I'll check the neighborhood before I move into a new place,” she deadpans, and to her surprise he chuckles. “What do you want?” she asks curtly.

“I'm here to apologize for my rudeness,” he replies promptly. “and to bring you this.” He points at the tree.

Emma is taken aback, and for a second she looks longingly at the ugly, crooked thing, before she tears her gaze away from it and firmly looks at him again. “Why?” she wants to know.

He tilts his head again. “Because I feel like I have to make it up to you somehow,” he explains.

She huffs. “So now you're going to be a gentleman?” she snarls.

“I'm always a gentleman,” he says, “at least I'm trying. And I think,” he looks at the tree for a moment, “you need this more than I do.”

A wave of anger washes over her. Who does he thinks he is, and how dare he insinuating to know anything about her? She raises her chin, straightening her spine. “Well, you're wrong,” she tells him with a strange sense of satisfaction, “I surely don't need that... thing.” Secretly, she feels a little guilty for the tone of disdain she deliberately puts in her words. “I'm going to see my family for Christmas.”

He raises his eyebrows in question, and his look strays to the duffle bag in her hands. “You're going out of town?” he asks.

Emma starts to walk towards the elevator. “Not that it's any of your business,” she throws over her shoulder and hits the elevator button, “but yes. Out of state, actually.”

“But there are no flights!”

“I have a car.” She smiles at him when the elevator doors open, steps inside and pushes the ground floor button. “Happy holidays.”

***

Emma's determination wanes when it takes her full five minutes to open the driver's door of her old yellow bug – it's frozen shut. But she gets inside, even if it's not very tempting. She drives half a block, and the engine dies three times, plus she can barely see a thing. That's when she gives up. If it's like that already here, Maine must be a frozen hell. She turns around and makes it back just in time before it gets really bad.

She's chilled to the bone when she closes her apartment door behind her, not even a fucking leftover crooked ugly ass hobbit tree to make her living room look at least a bit like Christmas, and she wonders why she ever thought it was a good idea to spend the holidays alone. For the last five years, since she reunited with Mary Margaret, she's never spent a Christmas alone, and she's surprised how much she misses it. It's so alarmingly easy to get used to that cozy feeling that being with Mary Margaret always incites in her, that she nearly starts to panic. She knows that her sister would never abandon her in any way, but now that she's married and will eventually start her own little family... Emma can't help the nagging little voice in her head whispering that maybe having a real family would replace the sisterly bond. Because if Emma Swan has learned one thing in her life, then it's that she is never good enough, at least not for long. So, she has to prove to herself that she still can be on her own without problems – she's relying on herself every day, and she's doing just fine. Christmas shouldn't be an exception.

The next day is Christmas Eve, and in the quietude of her un-christmas-y living room, nibbling on her ordered Chinese food, she admits it to herself: she is miserable. Zapping through the tv program, she finds what she's always regarded as the classic Christmas movie: Die Hard. At least something. She sinks deeper into her couch and wraps herself tighter in her blanket when she's suddenly startled by a knock at the door. She ignores it. They knock again.

“Really?!” she huffs and gets up. People have nerve. She shuffles to the door and opens it – to find herself looking into a now familiar pair of blue eyes. Mr. asshole tree hijacker. “You?” she blurts out.

“Aye.” He grins a little sheepishly, and she notices for the first time that he's quite handsome, in a scruffy, down-to-earth way. The smile crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes, and that annoys her somehow. A pleasantly spicy smell wavers into her nose, and she notices he's holding a steaming mug in his hand. He tilts his head, and she's surprised that she remembers the gesture from the day before. “I brought you something,” he finally says and extends his hand, offering her the mug.

Emma crosses her arms. “What's that?”

“Mulled wine,” he replies, looking down at the mug, and she notices more details about him, for example his ridiculously long, dark eyelashes. She feels personally attacked by them.

She shakes her head resolutely. “I don't do that disgusting artificial stuff.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “It's not artificial,” he points out, “I made it. With real Merlot and real spices, like cinnamon, orange peel, a dash of vanilla and cloves, of course.”

She's starting to feel confused. “Why are you even here?” she demands sternly. “I told you I was going to leave town!”

He cocks his head to the side again, and it seems to be meant as a shrug this time. “Well, love, you might be stubborn, but you're surely not suicidal,” he tells her dryly, “So I assumed you wouldn't go. And – here you are.” His grin is somewhat disarming even though he had the nerve to call her stubborn, and that alarms her.

“Still doesn't answer my question – why are you here?” she insists and finds that – in spite of making it look like a rhetorical question – she really wants to know why he's seeking her out for the second time already.

“Because I feel like I owe you something for partially ruining your Christmas,” he admits, and it sounds really genuine. Always a gentleman, shoots through her mind. “I have the hobbit tree,” he goes on, “and I have the mulled wine. And I think no one should be alone on Christmas Eve.”

That hits her right into the pit of her stomach, way too close to home, and she draws a deep breath and raises her chin. “Maybe I like being alone.”

He averts his eyes for a moment and licks his lips in a nervous gesture. “Maybe I wasn't talking about you,” he says quietly.

It startles her, and he sounds lost and lonely, just like she feels, if she's honest with herself. She studies his face for a moment, and it frightens her how much she sees her own battered soul mirrored in the eyes of this complete stranger. No, she thinks, not happening. I'm not standing here and listening to my own misery.

He returns her gaze with something like hope in his own, and she shakes her head. “Sorry, not interested,” she replies hastily and closes the door.

***

He doesn't even know what pushed him to knock at her door with that stupid mug of his homemade mulled wine. Or does he?

Yes, he'd immediately recognized her as his grumpy neighbor the other day, at Robin's tree selling lot. They'd been living in the same building for maybe six months and never exchanged more that two words. Actually, on second thought that didn't even count as an exchange – he had said hello, and she'd mumbled something incomprehensible in return or just huffed. He'd tried a few times, but then he'd given up, writing her off as what he'd told Robin: the grumpy type, misanthropic, whatever. He had his own package to carry, he didn't need more negativity in his life, and sometimes people who seemed mean didn't have a soft core underneath a rough shell begging to be discovered... sometimes they were just that: mean.

But then there had been a moment, barely visible and fleeting, and had he blinked in that second, he could have missed it. The moment when she'd shoved the sad little tree into his gloved hand after he'd thrown at her that she was miserable... right before she'd angrily snapped at him that she didn't need that ugly tree... he could clearly see it, that he had hit the nail on the head. She was miserable, and now he had forced her to admit it to herself, and that was the most devastating thing, he knew that all too well. There had been a rawness in her eyes, like an open wound, and suddenly he'd seen himself in her eyes, himself in the loneliest, lowest moments of his life that luckily were long behind him now.

It pushed him to bring her the tree that had obviously been important to her, and it startled him a bit to find her with packed bags, heading out to God knew where. She mentioned family, which meant she wasn't completely alone in the world, but he knew, again from his own experience, that not being alone didn't mean you aren't lonely, and a family held at arm's length was almost as good as no family at all.

So, he watched her strut away with her duffle bag, worried only for one minute, because surely she wasn't really going to go on a drive out of town in this snow hell. No, she was surely going to be home alone on Christmas Eve, not even having a gnarly little tree, because of him. He supposed the least he could do was bring her something to make her evening at least the tiniest bit christmas-y, and he poured her a mug of the mulled wine he'd made to feel at least a bit of connection with his family back in England. He didn't plan at all to more or less offer her to spend Christmas Eve together, and he still doesn't know why he insinuated such a thing. It had slipped out of his mouth spontaneously, and when she raised her chin defiantly and told him that maybe she liked to be alone, it was again such a strong déjà-vû of his own past, closed-off self... and he knew she was lying.

But what could he do when she closed the door in his face with a determined click than to put down the mug and hope for another occasion.

***

Emma stands there for a full minute, until she's starting to feel stupid. She's still trying to process what just happened, and it's confusing. That guy whose name she doesn't even know showing up at her door out of the blue, practically offering, asking to spend Christmas Eve with her? That by itself is already absurd enough, heightened by the sudden vulnerable sincerity in his expression. But what ultimately startles her is her own instinctive reaction – for a second she allowed herself to feel a connection to this complete stranger, and what could be more absurd than that?

She shakes her head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs that seem to have woven themselves around her mind. And then, following a strange, spontaneous impulse, she opens the door again and peeks into the dimly lit hallway; it's empty, of course. She shakes her head again – this time at her own stupidity – and when she's about to close the door again, she spots the mug with the mulled wine right in front of her apartment door.

Emma lets out a little surprised huff and bends forward to pick it up. The ruby colored liquid in it isn't steaming anymore, but it's still hot, and the spicy smell wafts pleasantly into her nose. She takes a closer look at the mug and notices that what she thought to be some greenish-reddish Christmas pattern is a picture of a very grumpy-looking Grinch wearing a bright red Christmas hat. Against her will, she smiles.

***

Killian sighs when he ends the phone call with his brother, but he has also a smile on his face. It's midnight in England, and normally he would sit with Liam in front of his fireplace and share the traditional Jones family mulled wine and a few bittersweet memories of their parents. This time, he has only the mulled wine and is by himself, but the little chat with Liam made it better. Killian promised that he will take the next flight he can get as soon as the airport is open again.

He sighs again and takes another sip, as always thinking of his mother – it's her recipe, after all, which is why the tradition is so important to him and Liam.

A knock at the door startles him, and he almost spills his wine. He decides to ignore it, but after a few moments it's repeated – quietly, but insistently. With an annoyed huff, he gets up from his comfortable armchair. He opens the door reluctantly and doesn't believe his eyes when he finds himself face to face with his grumpy neighbor.

Much to his amazement, she smiles a little hesitantly. “I have your mug,” she says sheepishly. Killian just tilts his head, much too surprised to give an answer, and so she continues, “You're aware that it's not a very smart move to give me mulled wine in a Grinch mug if you want to show you're a gentleman?” She lifts the mug.

Finally he has scraped his wits together and smiles. “Who says that was my intention?” he replies in a soft, teasing tone, and she frowns. “Perhaps I just... wanted to make you smile.” More surprises when she blushes a little – and it's adorable. Not as hard boiled as she seems, he thinks. He tilts his head in question. “Did I succeed?”

She presses her lips into a reluctant, very small smile. “Maybe.”

Killian gestures towards the mug. “So, did you drink it or pour it down the sink?”

“I considered the latter,” she admits, “but didn't do it. I drank it.”

He takes that s a good sign. “I'm honored.”

“Yeah.” She averts her eyes for a moment, and there's an awkward little pause when Killian is feverishly trying to come up with something to say. But then she stiffens a little, as if she's bracing herself to say something that's not easy for her to express. “You know, actually...”, she hesitates again, but then she says it, quietly but firmly, “I don't like it.”

Killian raises his eyebrows in confusion. “That's alright, love,” he replies without thinking, “mulled wine is not for everybody.”

But she shakes her head. “Being alone, I meant,” she explains, and his ears prick up. He scrutinizes her closely, and there's that rawness in her eyes again. He realizes that this must be unspeakably tough for her to admit when she draws a deep breath. “It sucks,” she continues in an insecure voice and finally shrugs in a sort of helpless, defeated way. “But I... I don't know... how not to be.”

He swallows and nods once, carefully. “I see.” He cocks his head to the side in an encouraging move. “Well, you could start by coming in?”

She licks her lips nervously and sways her head from side to side as if she isn't sure if she should shake it no or just go with this crazy flow. “I... I don't think that's a good idea,” she finally says and takes a step back, at the same time stretching out her hand that still holds the mug. Killian notices though that she hesitates, as if she's waiting for something.

He doesn't take the mug from her, smiles instead, a subtle, barely perceptible thing she only notices in the way the fine skin around his eyes crinkles at the corners. “Got a better one?” he asks.

Emma looks at him in a mesmerized way, studies his expression, searches for something suspicious, anything to justify backing off, running away. Because this sure as hell can't be a good idea. Got a better one?

Emma had left the police station, one hand on her bruised cheek as she walked through downtown Boston and observed its lovesick residents. Every bar, restaurant, ice cream parlor, and even hair salon was offering some kind of holiday-themed deal: Come in for a haircut and get a second half-off for your Valentine! Anyone with common sense would have to find it cringe-worthy.

It felt like a breath of fresh air when she stumbled upon a bar where the only hint that it was Valentine’s Day came from the couple making out in a secluded corner booth. Emma ignored them as she walked in and took a seat at the bar. The place was mostly empty to her relief, aside from the couple engaging in tonsil-hockey, a few guys playing pool on the other side of the room, and the bartender, who’d come out from the back when she’d taken her seat.

She didn’t look up at him until he approached her. “What’ll it be, love?”

It was far from the first time she’d heard an English accent in Boston, but it still managed to catch her off guard. His looks were only an added bonus: dark hair, blue eyes, a smile she could have easily fallen for if she wasn’t so careful. “Whatever you’ve got,” she muttered.

“One of those nights, eh?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered.

He made her a rum and Coke, something she rarely chose herself, but she gave no objections when he slid it across the table toward her. “There you are.”

“Thanks.”

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but a small group walked in and sat down at the other end of the bar, subsequently holding most of his attention for the time being. Even before this, she was grateful he hadn’t tried to flirt, or get something out of her she wasn’t willing to give. (Sleazy bartenders were just as bad as sleazy fellow-drinkers.) All he’d done was smile sympathetically and refill her drink when she’d asked.

And when she left the bar later that night and glanced back at him over her shoulder, it occurred to her she might not object to ending up at this particular spot again.

-/-

Saint Patrick’s Day was something she’d never been able to comprehend. Of course, it made sense to celebrate if you were Irish and wanted to celebrate your heritage. But most of the people she knew were Americans who used the occasion as an excuse to get drunk without judgment.

Emma couldn’t really talk badly about them considering she was on her second drink of the night. (But for all she knew, she could easily be from some kind of Irish descent via her birth-parents.) She’d chosen the same bar she’d come to on Valentine’s Day, which, again, was void of any kind of tribute to the supposed holiday. The place was crowded in comparison to her last visit, but still retained a laid-back atmosphere she knew would be difficult to find anywhere else in the city tonight.

As she sipped at her drink, she nonchalantly observed the others around her. There was another group of guys playing pool again tonight, something she assumed was a regular occurrence here. A few couples sat together at various tables around the room; she’d had fun for awhile trying to determine the status of their relationship from body language alone.

Two men sat both within speaking range with her at the bar, but thankfully, neither made any attempt at conversation. She’d spoken to no one but the bartender, a tall, curly-haired man whose accent resembled the guy who’d been working the first time she came by. He was nice enough, but she couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed to not see a somewhat familiar face.

After finishing her drink, she’d decided it was probably time to leave- she had work the next morning and knew she’d regret it if she stayed out late- when a familiar voice spoke up. “Fancy seeing you here, lass. Are you leaving?”

The bartender she’d just been thinking of now stood on the other side of the bar, arms crossed atop the wooden surface.

“Oh, um, hi,” she stammered, surprised at his sudden appearance. “Yeah, I’m working tomorrow morning. Can’t successfully catch the guy if I’m hungover.”

This piqued his interest. “Are you a cop?”

“No, bailbonds. I still try to weed out the bad guys, though.”

“What’s this about bad guys?” the other bartender walked over and interrupted them. “Is my little brother bothering you?” he asked Emma.

“Younger.” The other man- apparently his brother- rolled his eyes. “I’m Killian Jones,” he told her, “and this is Liam. We own this place, hence the name.” She glanced to her right and for the first time, noticed the sign that read “The Rusty Knot.” It was odd that she’d failed to noticed before now, but the bar did indeed have a subtle nautical theme: a decent sized model ship hung on the main wall, rope lined the edges of the tables, and the light fixture above them was even made to look like an anchor.

“Yes, we do own the bar,” the oldest one, Liam, continued. “Which is why I wanted to ensure our customers aren’t being bothered.” He glared at Killian, who just rolled his eyes. Emma couldn’t help but laugh at their interaction; they acted like kids rather than two grown men.

“No, he wasn’t bothering me,” she intervened on Killian’s behalf. “I was actually just about to leave.” She dug out enough cash for her bill and pushed it across the bar to them. “It was nice meeting both of you though.”

Both men smiled and told her goodbye, but the way Killian’s eyes caught hers as she walked out the door stuck with her for longer than was comfortable on the way home.

-/-

“I’ve gotta admit, this was not how I planned to spend my Saturday afternoon.”

Emma stood in David and Mary Margaret’s back yard, carrying a basket of eggs that she’d been instructed to hide for their son and his friend’s Easter egg hunt.

“C’mon, Em.” David took an egg from his own basket and placed it in the sandbox under one of Leo’s toys. “Besides, we get to have fun, too.” The main incentive her friends had used in order to persuade her to come early and help was they’d be having burgers and beers after the kids’ egg hunt. She liked David’s grilling too much to say no. That, and he had a cute kid.

“Am I gonna be the only one here sans child?” she asked. “Because, no offense, but that’s always awkward.” Since they’d had Leo two years ago, she’d lost count of how many times she’d come to events at David and Mary Margaret’s and been the only adult who didn’t have any input on cloth diapers or organic milk.

“No, actually. Mary Margaret’s invited some of her co-workers, and I asked some guys I met a few weeks ago at the charity soccer match to come.”

Emma let out a sigh of relief, then paused and narrowed her eyes at him. “I hope your wife knows better than to try to set me up; you never invite single guys to these things unless there’s an ulterior motive.”

“Hey, I never said they were single.”

“They aren’t?”

“Okay, they are,” David admitted. “But no worries. I’d like for you to meet them since I know all the kid stuff can be overwhelming, but I’ve made Mary Margaret promise to stop meddling in your love life.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

Half an hour later, parents arrived with their kids who immediately began tearing the yard apart to find Easter eggs. Emma stood back and watched the chaos unfold with Elsa, one of Mary Margaret’s co-workers she’d been introduced to earlier. The woman was more than friendly, and clearly understood Emma’s relief at being the only one to show up without a child or partner. They couldn’t help but laugh when little Leo had filled his basket to capacity and dumped a pile of Easter eggs in his mother’s lap so he could collect more.

The egg hunt was wrapping up when David tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Emma, these are the guys I was telling you about earlier. This is-”

“Killian?” She cut him off, recognizing the man behind him.

“Hello, love. Quite a small world, isn’t it?”

David was obviously confused. “Wait, you know each other?” “I’ve been to their bar a few times,” she answered. “I met him and Liam the last time I was there.” She hadn’t paid a visit to The Rusty Knot since St. Patrick’s Day, but Killian left an impression that was hard to forget.

The oldest of the two brothers was with Killian, but had stopped paying attention to them just then as he noticed Elsa standing beside her. The part of Emma that had been influenced by Mary Margaret over the years already had an idea as to where this may be going based on the look Elsa gave him in return. She couldn’t bring herself to feel disappointed.

“So,” she turned to Killian after David had left to tend to his son, “you two are friends?”

He nodded. “Aye, you could say that. I’m guessing he and his wife are friends of yours as well?”

“More like family,” she admitted. “What’s this I hear about a soccer team?” She was eager to change the subject once she realized what she’d potentially opened the door to discussing.

“Football. But yes, we have a local team that plays every other weekend.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, but laughed instead. “Is calling it soccer that much of an offense?”

“It just doesn’t make sense when you think about it: you do kick the ball with your foot, after all.”

“Touché.” There wasn’t much of an argument she could make against that. They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing American sports (which she didn’t even like but still enjoyed the conversation all the same) and making bets on his brother’s relationship with Elsa.

“They’ll be engaged by Valentine’s Day,” she predicted.

“Are you kidding? I give him until Christmas.”

-/-

Thanks to her liking for The Rusty Knot and David and Mary Margaret’s liking to the Jones brothers, Emma quickly became used to seeing them on a somewhat regular basis. The three of them were all at the Nolan’s Memorial Day barbeque a few weeks later- Liam and Elsa attached at the hip, to no one’s surprise- and Emma ended up at the bar after another violent ordeal with a skip on the Fourth of July.

(It was getting difficult to associate Killian Jones with something besides holidays and special occasions.)

Their friendship grew quickly after they’d exchanged numbers while planning David’s surprise birthday party with Mary Margaret. (Both of them were surprised she’d managed to keep the secret from her husband.) At first, it was just casual conversation filled with his corny dad jokes and her stories about whatever scumbag she’d been tracking. But over time, it shifted to more serious topics, like abandonment, past heartbreak, and trust issues. Emma would never be able to thank him enough for the night he and Liam waived her tab at the bar- and it was a significant one- after she’d dealt with a skip who’d abandoned his family and felt little remorse. She (faintly) remembered Killian all but carrying her out of the bar and hailing a cab, refusing to leave her alone until he saw she was home safely. She couldn’t help but feel indebted to him for that one.

Emma cursed under her breath as the zipper on her costume became tangled in her hair. Tonight was Halloween; she was going with David and Mary Margaret to take Leo trick or treating before going to The Rusty Knot for the costume party she and Elsa had talked the boys into throwing. It was the first time they’d done anything remotely festive at the bar, and were both hopeful the event would draw in more business before the holidays. She’d opted for Princess Leia circa Empire Strikes Back, wearing a white shirt, vest, and pants, grey boots, her hair in a crown braid she’d finally accomplished after watching two hours worth of YouTube tutorials. Her costume idea had sparked a bit of a trend- Liam and Elsa were going as Poe and Rey, and Killian had relented to Han Solo after a bit (a lot) of convincing on her part.

Leo was adorable in his Luigi costume, resulting in dozens of oohs and ahhs from his neighbors as they went from door to door collecting candy. His parents were dressed similarly as Mario and Princess Peach, although David spent the better part of the night complaining about the fake mustache Mary Margaret forbid him to take off. (Emma had a feeling he would insist on choosing the family costume next year.)

The bar was crowded when she walked in just after nine. People were dressed as everything from Disney princesses to Freddy Krueger, who was engaged in conversation with Gandalf when she squeezed by them to find Killian. She eventually spotted him working behind the bar.

His costume suited him so well it was almost uncanny. He wore a tan shirt with a dark vest and matching pants, a leather belt and holster hanging loose around his waist. His hair was messier than usual- and- “Are you wearing eyeliner?” she asked when she finally found an empty seat at the bar.

She thought she saw him blush as he laughed and started on a drink for the person beside her. “It was Elsa’s idea,” he explained. “She says Solo is a ‘space pirate,’ and pirates wear eyeliner, so it was only fitting.”

Emma smiled. “It suits you.” She wasn’t lying. His eyes somehow looked even more blue than usual.

She ordered a beer and sat with Elsa, casually observing the costumes of others in the bar while the boys worked for the next few hours.

“What do you think the chances are they’ll do something like this again?” the blonde asked her later as the crowd began to think out.

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t, especially if it helps with business. People who had fun tonight seem likely to come again.”

“That’s true. Although I hope they won’t be upset at the lack of eyeliner on the bartender.”

It was just after midnight when she decided to leave; the way she’d felt after the last time staying at the bar until the wee hours of the morning had been enough to keep her from wanting to do it again. She said goodbye to Elsa and Liam, and walked to the other end of the bar to find Killian- only to find him engaged in conversation with Harley Quinn. The girl, who didn’t look old enough to have the drink she held, laughed shrilly at something Killian had said and leaned forward across the bar to emphasize the ample amount of cleavage visible thanks to the low neckline of her shirt.

An unexpected wave of anger hit Emma in a way she wasn’t expecting. Her hands fisted at her sides as she watched the girl run a hand down Killian’s shoulder and whisper something to him she couldn’t make out.

He looked over and noticed Emma just as she turned to leave. “Swan?” He ran out the door after her and grabbed her wrist before she could bolt. “Emma, is something wrong?”

“No,” she lied. “I’m just...not feeling well.”

Killian looked unconvinced. “Are you sure? Is there something I can do?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine; just wanna go home and get some rest. I’ll see you later.” She broke away from him and took off before he could respond.

Emma spent the rest of the night mentally kicking herself for her reaction to the whole thing. First of all, she hadn’t wanted Killian to see her upset. And second of all, she had no reason to be upset in the first place. He was her friend. And you weren’t supposed to feel jealous after seeing someone flirt with said friend.

Because she had been jealous.

If she were honest, she’d been attracted to Killian since they first met. It was hard not to be with his eyes, hair, smile, and the accent that made her stomach flip every time he called her “love.” But attraction and becoming furious after seeing him interact with another woman were two entirely different things.

It was all confusing, but Emma was sure of at least one thing: she was in trouble.

She ignored his texts and calls for the next two days, not knowing what to say to him that wouldn’t make things awkward. It would’ve gone on longer if Elsa hadn’t sent her a text instead. I’m not sure what’s going on with you and Killian, but you need to talk to him. He thinks he’s done something to upset you.

Elsa was right; she couldn’t avoid him forever, and it’s not as if she actually wanted to. She picked up her phone with intentions of calling him, then opted for a text at the last minute. Sorry for being MIA the past few days. I haven’t been feeling great. It wasn’t a complete lie.

He responded within seconds. I hope you’re alright. Anything I can do?

(Of course he would try to be helpful.)

“Sure, just make yourself mean and ugly so I’m not attracted to you anymore,” she muttered. No, I’m fine. See you at Leo’s birthday party next weekend?

Aye. I’ll be there.

Now to figure out how to function around him without making a mess of things.

-/-

Leo’s party went off without a hitch. Thankfully, she was too busy helping Mary Margaret decorate and supervise to spend much time with Killian. He tried to speak to her a few different times, but she kept finding things that needed to be done in order to avoid him.

To be fair, she didn’t actually want to avoid him, but there didn’t seem to be much of a choice in order to keep her newfound feelings for him at bay. The more time she spent with him, the more she’d be tempted to act on said feelings. And the last thing Emma wanted was to screw up the friendship that had quickly come to mean so much to her.

A Thanksgiving ordeal was easily avoided, as he and Liam were invited to eat with Elsa’s family. David and Mary Margaret had asked her to join them at her parents’ in Maine, but she opted to work instead, feeling as if she’d be infringing on a family that wasn’t actually hers.

Twice, she’d gone to The Rusty Knot out of a sense of obligation, but managed to pick nights when business was booming and Killian had stayed occupied at the bar. She knew he was fully aware of the distance growing between them; she’d been giving one word replies to most of his texts, even when he sent her no less than a dozen lame jokes in hopes of getting some kind of positive response out of her. Emma had laughed at loud as she sat in her living room and read them all, but only replied, funny.

She quickly found herself dreading Christmas. David and Mary Margaret were staying in town and hosting dinner at their house, meaning she would have no choice but to be in close quarters with Killian. All she could do was hope there would be enough commotion to keep him from finally confronting her for being so distant since Halloween.

He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her behavior, either. Liam, Elsa, David, and Mary Margaret had all mentioned it to her at least once over the past few weeks. All seemed to be displeased with her excuse of being busy with work, but she stuck to the argument criminals didn’t even take the holidays off. If she told them the truth, she’d never hear the end of it. (And Killian would likely hear all of it.)

Emma spent the majority of Christmas Day trying to come up with an excuse to get out of dinner before she admitted it was no use. If she told David and Mary Margaret she was sick, they’d show up at her apartment and insist on taking care of her. They wouldn’t believe that she had to work since she’d already told them weeks ago she’d taken the entire last week of the month off. She was still thinking of possible excuses even as she dressed in her favorite red dress and heels and left for her friends’ home.

Mary Margaret had told her to come at half past six, but she could tell she’d somehow still arrived late at six-fifteen. No less than a dozen cars were parked around the Nolan house; Emma regretted her decision to wear uncomfortable shoes as soon as she realized how far away she would have to park.

The front door swung open before she had the chance to knock. “Emma!” She all but fought for air as David hugged her tightly.

“I’m glad to see you too, but maybe let me breathe so it’s not the last time we see each other?”

He quickly released her. “Oh, sorry. Come on in; everyone is almost here now.”

David wasn’t kidding. She spent most of her time eating an unhealthy amount of Mary Margaret’s snickerdoodles while somewhat socializing with the other partygoers. (Emphasis on “somewhat.”) She had caught a glimpse of Killian when he and Liam arrived shortly after her, but kept towards the back of the crowd and hoped he wouldn’t spot her. This lasted almost an hour before she began to accept just how exhausting avoiding him for the last several weeks had actually been.

As if she’d read her mind, Elsa seemed to appear out of nowhere and cornered her in the Nolan’s den. “Elsa, what are you-”

“Cut the crap, Emma.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what’s been going on between you and Killian, but enough is enough. The poor guy is acting like he’s lost his best friend- which, I guess he has.” Elsa frowned. “At least do him the justice of explaining why you’ve chosen to avoid him like the plague.”

This proved just how much Elsa had come to care about both of the Jones brothers; Emma would have expected this confrontation from Liam rather than her. “You’re right, I’ve been horrible to him,” she admitted. “I’ll go talk to him now if it helps.” Leaving the party altogether seemed preferable to spilling her guts to him. In fact, Emma could easily think of quite a few things she’d rather do. But none of it seemed worth damaging her friendship with Killian any more than she already had.

At least Elsa seemed pleased with this turn of events. “Good. He was outside when I last saw him.” Probably moping about you she didn’t add.

Emma found him alone out on the Nolan’s back porch. He leaned against the railing, hands in his pockets, looking just as Elsa had said. The sad expression on his face was enough to make her heart sink. “Hey.” She smiled at him for what felt like the first time in months.

The smile he gave in return didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, Swan.”

“Can we talk?”

“Aye.” He raised his eyebrows, surprised at her request. “What’s on your mind, love?”

She walked over and leaned on the porch railing beside him. “A lot of things. I think I owe you an apology.”

“Why is that?”

“You know why. I’ve been avoiding you for weeks for no good reason other than my own pride.”

He didn’t respond, indicating for her to continue.

“You remember Halloween, right? The costume thing you guys had at the bar?” she asked before she lost her nerve. She told Killian about the girl she’d seen flirting with him and what it made her realize afterwards. It all came out in a stream of words that she hoped he’d be able to comprehend since there was little chance she’d be capable of repeating it all again. “I’m sorry if this makes things weird now. I’m sure I can just get over it, but I thought you deserved to know the truth.”

Emma watched him nervously out of the corner of her eye. She could see conflicting emotion on his face as he processed all she’d told him. Had she just ruined their friendship? Did Killian think she was ridiculous?

What he said was the last thing she expected to hear. “Swan, can I kiss you?”

“Wait, what?”

“Sorry for being presumptuous, but I just figured as you have feelings for me, and I have feelings for you-”

Emma just laughed as she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him forward to fuse his lips with hers. The rest could wait.

-/-

“What a year, huh?”

The Rusty Knot was packed, everyone crowded around the newly installed flat screen to watch the live broadcast from Times Square. They were all together: Emma, Killian, Liam, Elsa (who wore the ring Liam had proposed with on Christmas night, Killian continued to gloat about predicting that one.) Even David and Mary Margaret, who always worried about leaving Leo with a babysitter, had made arrangements to be there.

She smiled at Killian as he sat on the bar stool beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They still had yet to actually discuss just what was starting between them, but she wasn’t scared of it anymore. Whether or not he knew it, he’d shown her over the span of the year that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I’m kind of sad to see it end, though.”

“As am I. But,” he smiled, “I’ve a feeling this next one might be the best year yet.”

They looked over as everyone in the bar began to count down with the timer on the TV screen. “Ten, nine, eight.”

“You know something, Killian?”

“Seven, six, five.”

“What’s that, love?”

“Four, three two.”

“I think you’re right.”