#csss20

“I just don’ unnerstand why you and Killian aren’t a couple!” slurs Mary Margaret, assistant principal and friend, at her yearly end-of-summer bash. “You’re ovviously in loooooooooove.”

“Sure we are, Mary Margaret,” Emma placates. 

“But why haven’t you yet?” she demands. “You made me lose the pool!”

That draws Emma up short. “I’m sorry, what?”

The little pixie-haired brunette frowns. “Don’t you know? We’ve had a betting pool going for ages about when you’d get together this year. I thought for sure it’d be the Fourth of July.”

It’s a good guess, actually - Ruby throws a famously boozy bash every year at her grandmother’s diner, conveniently situated right below the inn. It’d make sense for them to get drunk and take things upstairs - except for the fact that none of this is rooted in sense in any way, shape, or form.

“That obviously didn’t happen,” Mary Margaret frowns sorrowfully, staring down into her plastic cup full of god-knows-what. It doesn’t last long, though, as she perks right back up. “But they let me make a new guess! I’ve got my money on the Friday after your birthday.”

“How much money are we talking here?” Emma can’t help but ask. It’s like a compulsion, one she doesn’t like or understand. 

“Five hundred and fifty dollars.” At least that’s what she thinks Mary Margaret says; the slurring gets particularly bad on the f-sounds. It’s an astounding sum. Truly stupid.

Kind of tempting.

“And everyone bet that it would happen this year?” she makes sure to clarify.

“Yup!” Mary Margaret pops the p-sound and then giggles to herself about the noise. 

“Then I’m putting fifty dollars on it not happening this year. That Killian and I won’t get together.”

———

She means it at the time, too. Because yeah, there’s sometimes that niggling little what if?, but they’ve known each other for eight years. Emma and Killian. Killian and Emma. It’s not going to happen - honestly she’s not even sure she would want it to.

Until. 

It’s not the Friday after her birthday, when they’re all going to hit the bar, but it’s the night before her birthday - a Tuesday. Killian comes over to grade vocab quizzes and eat greasy pizza, and stays to drink beer and watch stupid baking shows with her on the couch. Honestly, in so many ways, it’s a night like any other: two friends, just enjoying each other’s company.

Until.

Maybe it’s the beers. Maybe something’s been building for longer than she ever thought. Maybe it’s just that they’re both feeling good and, well, it is her birthday. But Killian kisses her - or she kisses Killian - they kiss each other and it’s like something slots into place. Like of course this was going to happen - they were just waiting for the perfect moment. It makes sense, in a way that Emma hasn’t let herself think about; he’s the person she trusts most, the best man she knows, probably the most important person in her life. Her best friend - and, probably, something more.

“That was…” he gasps, some indeterminable amount of time later. Somehow, he’s wound up on top of her on the couch - not that she’s complaining.

“Only the beginning,” Emma completes, smirking in a way she definitely picked up from him. 

Now that this has started, she has no intention of stopping. 

———

“Ok, don’t kill me - or, like, run away immediately - but I need a favor. A huge one,” Emma says much later, both of them naked and sated beneath her sheets.

Killian laughs beside her, peering up from the pillows with a smile. “After that, darling, I’m predisposed to give you just about anything you want.”

“And I’ll give it to you again,” she quips back, mostly to make him keep laughing. It works. “But seriously. Did you know that everyone’s got a bet going on us?”

That pops his head up. “I’m sorry, a bet? I… What? Who?”

“Seems like pretty much everyone. Ruby, Mary Margaret, David, Robin, Belle… I could go on and on. A six hundred dollar pool on when we get together.”

“Typical,” Killian mutters - though Emma catches a fond note in his tone. “Who’s the lucky winner, then?”

“Ok, this is where the favor comes in.” Hopefully this isn’t a breaking point for him; Emma would hate to have this taste of them, only to have it ripped away from her. “See, Mary Margaret told me about this when she got trashed at the back to school party, and I’d had a few too and was all hopped up on righteous fury or whatever, and I kind of… put fifty dollars in the pot that we wouldn’t get together this year at all.”

Killian stares at her for a moment, and Emma’s frankly scared that he’s going to get out of bed and go - but instead, he bursts into a near-hysterical cackle. “So you want to keep this a secret until the new year, so you can win the pot?”

Emma grins, knowing she must look like the cat that ate the canary (or however that weird-ass saying goes - again, English is Killian’s thing). “Exactly. We could spend it on a weekend getaway or something.”

“I’m in, then. Under the radar.”

“It’s just two months and change,” Emma says. “It’ll speed by. How hard can it be?”

———

Turns out - their friends are determined to make it as hard as possible. Even if they don’t know it.

Things are fine, at first. In fact, nothing really changes: Emma and Killian still show up at each others’ doors most nights, and Killian comes to hang out and grade papers in her office during his free periods most days. It’s just that their evenings are now filled with kisses and touches, and those afternoons in her office with all kinds of promises of things to come. It’s thrilling, in a way, to put on the front of normality for everyone else while only they know the truth. It’s nice, too, to be able to get their feet underneath them in this relationship without so many prying eyes watching them figure it all out. 

Just because they don’t know, though, doesn’t mean their friends stop trying. There’s a bet on the line, after all, and their friends have never exactly been ones to step back and let things naturally run their course. Not for those busybodies; not with six hundred dollars and Emma and Killian’s supposed happiness on the line.

(The fact that they’re right - that the two of them really are happiest together - is irrelevant.)

David, of all people, is the first to start meddling.

“Do you guys want to get dinner?” he asks out of the blue one day - calls Emma up on her phone and everything. “You and Killian and me and Mary Margaret, I mean.”

Emma’s antenna raises immediately. “What, like a double date? C’mon, David —”

“No! No,” he says hastily - a little too hastily, Emma thinks. “No, a cousin of mine - Kris, you’ve met him - he’s opening up his own restaurant. Some place with Scandinavian food, I guess?”

“That’s actually a thing?” 

“I guess. I don’t know, he studied abroad in Norway in college. Anyways, he could use a little business, support or whatever, so Mary Margaret and I figured we’d bring some extra people along. You know, help him out. And maybe Scandinavian food is good after all.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The line sits silent for a moment, before David breaks. “So… you in?”

And as much as Emma suspects this is all some elaborate set-up - well, it’s supposed to be to help someone else. David’s cousin, who she has in fact met and is really a good guy. And so she reluctantly agrees. “Yeah, I’m in. One of us will have to check with Killian if he’s available —”

“What, he’s not right there with you?”

(He is, his lips kiss-swollen and pulled into a delicious smirk, but that’s not the point and none of David’s business.)

“ — but yeah, I’m down.”

In the week between the call and the dinner, Emma actually finds herself starting to look forward to it. Yeah, it won’t be a real date - not with David and Mary Margaret there - but it’s still a chance to wear a pretty dress that’ll make Killian’s eyes bug a little. She’ll have to pick something he’ll have fun taking off of her later, once they’ve pretended to go back to their own homes. 

Emma’s just pulling into the parking lot, however, when her phone rings, David’s name popping up on the screen. 

“We’re not going to make it tonight,” he says without preamble, followed by the most fake-ass cough Emma’s ever heard in her life. “We’re sick.”

“Yeah, sick off your own lies,” Emma mutters. “Alright, well, I guess we’ll go another time —”

“Oh no, I insist you guys still have dinner. You and Killian deserve to have a night off!”

“David, c’mon, don’t play dumb —”

He ignores her. “Besides, you’ll be doing me - and Kris - a huge favor. I already told him to charge whatever you guys get to me. Splurge a little, have dessert and a bottle of wine. It’s all on me.”

Killian climbs out of his own car as David pleads his case, cocking his head in confusion at the no doubt frustrated look on Emma’s face. He looks like he wants to kiss it better; Emma wishes he could actually do so.

“Fine,” she caves. “If you’re sure. But I’m running up the bill.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise.”

Emma takes particular glee in ending the call. She should have seen this coming. “Looks like David has come down with a possibly fatal cough, so he and Mary Margaret aren’t coming tonight,” she tells Killian, rolling her eyes. No need to resist that particular urge.

He snorts. “Ah, liar-itis. I thought he might be coming down with a case.”

“Complicated by meddler’s cough. Don’t forget that.”

“Of course not.” He dips down to capture her lips in a gentle, lingering kiss - another urge they don’t have to resist with none of their friends around to see it. “You look lovely tonight, Swan.”

She smirks back. “I know.”

“Of course you do,” he laughs. “I’m sure you wore that just to torment me through dinner. Now, shall we?”

“We shall.” Emma slips her hand through his offered arm. “Dinner’s on David, by the way.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

———

“So, how was dinner?” David asks the next day, his cough mysteriously cleared up. 

“Good,” Emma replies, knowing exactly what he’s digging for. “Your cousin’s got a good lingonberry cheesecake. Don’t worry, Killian and I totally ran up the bill. Kris has been well supported. You’re welcome.”

“And?” he demands.

Emma makes sure to play up her confusion. “And… what? It was a great dinner, might even go back if I ever have a date, and then I went home. Honestly, what did you expect to happen, David?”

Even through the phone, she can almost hear him audibly deflate. Something like a sigh, or perhaps the sound of his entire plan collapsing in on itself. Personally, Emma thinks it’s hilarious.

(It’s especially funny when she vividly remembers the way Killian had stripped her out of that dress, can still feel the scratch of his beard on her inner thighs.)

(But again - those are things that David doesn’t need to know.)

———

The set-ups multiply like rabbits, and Emma starts to notice her and Killian being forced into more and more situations together, just the two of them. Fuck only knows why they think these clumsy attempts will work; after all, Emma and Killian held out for 8 years of each other’s company before finally getting together (without anyone’s help, she might add). Still, 

Trivia night is a weekly tradition for them all, down at the Rabbit Hole. Some weeks, the turnout is good; sometimes, not so much. They usually meet up at someone’s house and carpool from there because there’s not a ton of parking spots outside the bar, and it’s always worked well - two, maybe three cars instead of a half dozen or more. It’s a good time, and Emma always finds herself looking forward to Thursdays. 

Tonight, they’ve met at Robin’s, Killian’s former roommate. It’s a good crowd tonight, too - Robin and his fiance Marian, Mary Margaret with David, Belle the librarian, Ruby and Mulan, even Graham and Lance and Tink. The gang’s all here, probably trying to let loose a bit before holiday obligations set in, and they’re raring to go - all twelve of them.

Emma hopes that it’s not planned - that there just happen to be two cars and then some worth of people here - but it’s more likely planned. Robin probably twisted their arms to come, just for this.

“Emma, would you mind checking the door one more time?” he calls as they congregate in the driveway. “I’m sure I locked it, but I’ve just got that niggling little feeling…”

“Sure, no problem.” And it isn’t - it’s checking the damn door. Except it’s actually winding down his stupidly picturesque front garden path to the front door, and then having to maneuver around the always-unlocked outer glass door to make sure that the real door is locked, and then maneuvering and winding and everything back… and by the time Emma makes it back, everyone’s already piled into Mary Margaret’s station wagon and Robin’s little SUV, even the middle seats everyone usually hates, leaving just the conniving man himself and Killian standing on the asphalt. 

“Sorry, looks like the two of you will be riding together,” Robin says, not seeming remotely sorry. “This is convenient anyways! I know how much time you two spend together, if you decide that it’s easier to crash together afterwards… it wouldn’t be a problem for the extra car to stay here overnight.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t be,” Emma grumbles. “I don’t suppose you have any underlying motive here, do you Robin? Say, to the tune of six hundred dollars?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he responds cheerily. “I just really, really want you to know that you can keep your options open. And, you know, other euphemistic things if the urge moves you.”

Asshole.

(Emma does not leave her car at Robin’s overnight - but that doesn’t stop Killian from meeting her at her place afterwards.

“This euphemistic enough for you, love?” he teases as Emma pulls at his shirt, trying to tug the cotton tee over his head.

“How’s this for a euphemism: fuck me.”

“That’s not exactly how that word works, Swan.”

“I could not possibly give fewer shits about semantics than I do right now, Killian, unless it somehow relates to you getting your pants off.”

Somehow, even in the midst of their frantic stripping, he manages to laugh. “As you wish.”

She’s always preferred straight talking anyways.)

———

“Thank god I found you both!” Mary Margaret declares, bursting into Emma’s office a little too dramatically for her tastes. Until now, she and Killian had been having a wonderful lunch together, but that’s obviously a thing of the past now. 

“That seems a little extreme for a Friday,” Killian comments mildly as he sets his cafeteria burger back down on the styrofoam tray. Personally, Emma thinks the cafeteria food is disgusting, but Killian’s got a real fondness for the cheeseburgers, and especially the french fries. No one’s perfect, she guesses. “What terrible impending tragedy can Emma or I save you from, Mary Margaret?”

“Kathryn’s father is in the hospital, so she and Fred can’t work their assigned booth at the Winter Carnival tomorrow.” Storybrooke County School District’s charity carnival is a tradition every winter - one Mary Margaret takes very seriously. Something that’s clearly about to come back and bite them all in the ass. “Would you two be able to cover tomorrow? You’d be doing me such a huge favor…”

Killian raises a single eyebrow as he turns to meet Emma’s eye - that eyebrow that always seems like a dare. “My schedule’s clear this weekend. Count me in. What do you say, Swan, think you can find room in your schedule to save Mary Margaret from the tragedy of all tragedies?”

Emma rolls her eyes at the way he’s putting it on thick, but truth be told, her only plans had been spending the day with Killian. Might as well. “Sure, what the hell,” she says, reaching for another bite of her microwave pizza. “I don’t have anything else going on.”

In retrospect, Emma realizes that Mary Margaret could have done something terrible with this - assigned them to the kissing booth or something. God, she hopes that there’s not a kissing booth at a middle school carnival, but it feels like just the kind of thing she’d pull. Thankfully, they’re set up at the ring toss game. It’s not strenuous in the least; they don’t even have to take money, just paper tickets. Really, the only questionable thing is that they’re crammed right together in the box formed between the booth walls and the counter and the table of bottles behind them. Maybe that’s something that would have bothered her a few weeks ago, back when they were Emma and Killian but not Emma and Killian. Now, it’s just an excuse to get right up in his space and enjoy all those little touches, right under everyone’s nose.

(Maybe, every time they have to duck under the counter to retrieve poorly-thrown rings, Killian takes the opportunity to steal a quick kiss while no one else can see. And maybe - just maybe - Emma uses those same opportunities to steal her own kisses right back.)

“Soooooo, how’s it going?” Mary Margaret chirps when she pops up out of nowhere mid-afternoon. It’s like she thinks she’ll find them making out in the middle of the carnival or something. Which… fair. The urge is there. But they’re professionals - and Emma wants that money, dammit. She’s not caving here.

“Just fine, Mare,” Emma replies. “Nothing worth reporting.”

“There’s not? You two are looking awfully cozy in there… nothing to report?”

“Well, you’re the one who set up the booths, so…”

“Aye, just making the best of it,” Killian helpfully adds.

Emma almost feels guilty about the way that Mary Margaret visibly deflates.

“You know this was another ridiculous set-up, right, love?” Killian asks once their friend has walked away. “She probably never even needed our help. It was all a ploy.”

“I see it now,” Emma sighs. “I had just weirdly hoped she’d be above all that bullshit.”

Killian quirks that eyebrow yet again. “Mary Margaret? Infamous meddler? Of course not. It’s cute that you thought that though, darling.”

“Oh, shut up.”

(“Mary Margaret told me to take the weekend off, that they’d over-scheduled,” Kathryn tells Emma later when she tries to ask how the other woman’s father is doing. “Was that not the case?”)

(Fucking figures.)

———

Ruby, frankly, is not a surprise. In fact, if there was one person Emma would figure would be pulling this bullshit, it’s Ruby. The girl’s too competitive for her own damn good - not to mention that mile-wide chaotic streak running through her soul.

“Pucker up!” she crows, thrusting what Emma assumes is a sprig of mistletoe over her and Killian’s heads. They’re at Ruby and Mulan’s place for… some party; it’s probably, maybe holiday themed, but Ruby’s never needed an excuse to throw a party. Anything to get them all drunk and laughing and forgetting about the stresses of the week.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Emma demands. “Ruby, don’t be stupid. This isn’t college anymore.”

“Oh, like we ever did this in college,” Ruby scoffs with that devious twinkle in her eye. “Besides, college shenanigans are a state of mind. And I’m not giving that up. Now c’mon, no weaseling out of this.”

“It is the rules,” Mulan points out, appearing to slip her arm around Ruby’s waist and drop an affectionate - if slightly tipsy - kiss on her shoulder.

“Yeah, you hear that? Smart half says it’s the rules. So go ahead and pucker up and kiss him. And then go make out for a while and maybe bone each other so I can win the pool.”

Killian blushes a little bit at the phrasing - something that’s surprisingly cute on him, knowing how often he usually tosses around the innuendoes and exactly how dirty a mouth he has when they’re alone. Before Emma knows what he’s doing, he leans in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek, and then another, smacking one for good measure. “Who are we to deny the great, determined Ruby Lucas?” he proclaims grandly. “One kiss: delivered.”

Ruby’s face gets a bit mutinous; it’s the only word for that particular storm cloud, really. “No it isn’t! That’s cheating!”

“Eh. Technically, it was a kiss.” God bless Mulan for being the only one willing to go against Ruby when she’s got a plan; perks of being the girlfriend, Emma supposes. 

“And more importantly, Rubes, that’s all you’re going to get from us.” And that’s Emma’s last word on the subject.

(“Happy Christmas, darling,” Killian whispers into her neck later once they’re back at her place, dangling his own sprig of mistletoe over their heads. “How about it? C’mon, give us a kiss.”

Emma is more than happy to comply.)

———

Emma wouldn’t say it’s common for her to get calls from the school librarian, Belle, but it’s not unusual either. So when Belle calls her up in mid-December, shortly before Christmas break, Emma doesn’t think twice about it.

“The new Scholastic catalogs are here,” Belle informs her. “I haven’t started sending them to classrooms yet, but if you want to take a look now…”

“I’ll be right there.” Yes, the catalogs are full of books for middle school students, but Emma still loves those things. They’re chock-full of nostalgia.

“I haven’t even taken them out of the box yet,” Belle explains when Emma meets her at the check-out desk. “They’re all still in the back room. Here, I’ll let you in.”

That should have been Emma’s clue here. Why would a box of new catalogs, just arrived in the mail, already be shoved into the storage closet? But Emma’s too excited about the prospect of those newsprint magazines to think about it. By the time Emma realizes there’s nothing in this little closet but printer paper and old yearbooks… Belle’s already closed and locked the door, trapping Emma inside. 

So it’s yet another set up, most likely. It’s a good thing she’s not claustrophobic, at least.

Sure enough, not five minutes later, Emma can hear Killian’s voice outside the door. 

“How many boxes did you say it was, Belle? I’m happy to help haul, but I’m just wondering if we should get a hand cart to assist.”

“Oh no, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Belle’s voice responds. “Just a few trips for each of us. Right in here…”

And suddenly, Killian’s in the cramped little closet too, and the door is shut and latched behind them. Gee, what a surprise.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Emma comments dryly. Somehow, probably on some kind of ridiculous romantic instinct, Killian’s hands have already found their way to her hips. It’s nice, really, ignoring the circumstances.

His face is adorably confused, looking around the room and back to the door and then to Emma’s own face and all over again. “Did she just lock us in here?”

“Yeah, keep up, Jones,” Emma teases. “I assume another stupid set-up effort.”

That makes the confusion disperse alright, a smirk full of promise creeping across his face instead. “If that’s the case… we’ll just have to make the most of it.”

“Oh no you don’t,” she warns. “There’s a camera in here.”

“So? It’s not like she’s watching the monitors.”

“So, Belle recently started dating Will Scarlet in IT. You want to take the chance she locked us in here, and forgot to have her boyfriend monitor us?”

“Fuck,” Killian swears, dropping his head back in dramatic emphasis. “They’re really going overboard, aren’t they?”

“I’ll make it up to you later. I promise.”

Thirty minutes later, when Emma and Killian have done nothing but talk and try to find some little extra space in the crowded closet, Belle finally lets them out, just in time for the end of Killian’s free period.

“I’m sure you have no idea how that happened,” he comments, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“It’s just the weirdest thing,” Belle agrees.

Well, that’s one way of putting it.

(Emma makes it up to him, several times over, at her place that night, with a take-out pizza to boot.)

———

After what feels like an eternity, it’s finally here: New Year’s Eve. As long as they make it to midnight and the new year proper without anyone finding out, this whole ridiculous farce is over, and they can be the couple they’ve technically already been since October. Emma and Killian, Killian and Emma - but more than they had been before. 

They’d spent Christmas together - not that that was anything unusual. With everyone else going to visit family, the two of them often spend the day together, eating take-out Chinese and watching holiday movies. Killian’s got a brother back in England that he makes sure to call, and some years Liam will fly over, but Killian usually saves his visits for summer vacation, when he can stay in whatever little English hamlet his brother calls home for weeks at a time. There’s always something nice about spending the holidays together, just the two of them, but it was extra special this year. Who knew Emma was the kind of girl who wanted to trade kisses under the Christmas tree between swapping gifts?

(Killian, apparently - but then again, he’s always claimed to know her better than she knows herself.)

“Just a few more hours,” he murmurs against her neck, twining his arms about her waist from behind as Emma carefully brushes on mascara. “Few more hours, and then it’s all in the open.”

“Thank god for that, too. After all the PDA we’ve gotten from certain people all these years, I’m looking forward to rubbing it in their faces a bit.”

They carpool to Mary Margaret and David’s, just like they do every year. It’s routine, really; Emma always crashes at Killian’s after the annual New Year’s Eve party so that someone is there to help her with the hangover in the morning. Killian makes better hashbrowns than anyone she knows - even Granny - and they always manage to pull her out of the worst of her misery. He’s good about taking care of her, too, with water and Advil and making sure to shut all the shades as tightly as possible. They even share a bed a lot of years; it’s just that tonight, Emma knows there will be a lot fewer clothes involved.

They drink. They eat. They mingle. Sometimes, they’re together, carefully not touching, and sometimes they drift apart. That’s how this party usually works, after all - and Emma is nothing if not committed to seeing this entire thing through, pretending nothing is different this year, that she and Killian definitely aren’t together. Nothing to see here, folks.

God, she’s so fucking lucky he didn’t cut and run once it became obvious just how much of a competitive lunatic Emma is.

Finally, though, it’s the moment - less than a minute left. Killian is already waiting for her by the patio doors, just like he promised. Emma is only too happy to wind her way over there, grinning when she finally finds herself in front of her boyfriend - about to be secret no longer. Behind them, the assembled drunken crowd loudly counts down the last seconds of the year. They keep their hands determinedly to themselves - just as agreed, so no one can try and claim anything happened before the strike of the new year - but Killian still looks at her with that twinkle in his eyes and wiggling eyebrows. It’s anticipation, and excitement, and a good bit of joy - knowing that soon, this will all be out in the open. No more keeping their hands to themselves. 

“You ready for this, love?” he says just loud enough for her to hear as the clock hits ten seconds. 

“Hell yeah,” she grins back - because she is. She so is. This has been a long time coming - years in the making, really - and you know what? The whole secrecy may have helped her wrap her head around the whole thing, as well as win her the pot, but she’s ready to take it public. Maybe rub it in everyone’s faces just how happy she is and how she did this on her own schedule. Why the hell not?

Cheers erupt all around them, and Emma’s grin stretches to something that almost hurts her face. Killian looks much the same. “Happy New Year, love,” he says, finally pulling her towards him by the hips. “I think it’ll be our best one yet.”

Fireworks are going on outside, lighting up the snow on the ground, but Emma can’t be bothered to pay attention - not when Killian attacks her lips with purpose, grinning happily into the kiss before she insistently deepens it, slipping her tongue into his mouth to play. It’s just another in a series of kisses, they know - but it’s more than that. It’s a display, in the best way, declaring them them.

Emma and Killian. Killian and Emma. A pair, a unit, a couple. 

“HA!” shrieks someone across the room as their make-out finally gains attention. Emma thinks it might be Ruby - though, at this point, it might be Mary Margaret. Maybe both. It’s definitely Ruby who materializes just as Emma and Killian finally break apart with a laugh. “It’s about fucking time!”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees - something that seems to short-circuit Ruby’s brain for a moment, if that look on her face is anything to go by. “It really was. And you know what else?”

Ruby shakes her head mutely, that twist of her eyebrows demonstrating that she’s still trying to get her bearings about what the fuck is happening here.

“It’s the new year. That pot is mine.”

“That’s my girl,” Killian whispers in her ear.

Best. New Year’s. Ever.

———

On January 1st of the new year, Emma and Killian - Killian and Emma - they, them, a pair, a unit, a couple take their six hundred dollars in winnings and treat themselves to a goddamn massive lunch at Granny’s. Together. In public. Because they deserve it. 

“Killian seemed sad today, Mom.” Henry offers up to her that night as she’s tucking him into bed. And it’s no wonder her ten-year-old had noticed too. Killian, according to Henry, was the coolest person he’d ever known (besides her, of course). He never failed to show the boy all the attention Emma knew he deserved, and then some. Even with his quiet retreat behind his own apartment door after walking with them downstairs, Killian had given Henry a gentle hair ruffle and a half-hearted smile. 

She placates her son, telling him Killian is probably just missing his family on such a big holiday. And for all she knows, it could be true. In the ten months since Killian had moved in just down the hall, he hadn’t mentioned much family. Or any family, for that matter. She’s thought to ask more than a few times, but having grown up in the foster system herself, Emma knows how awkward and uncomfortable a subject it could be. 

Henry takes the reasoning easily enough. She leaves him drifting off to sleep in his bed, closing his door part of the way before she moves towards her own room. She pauses briefly in the hallway, looking behind her towards her front door. For a moment, she considers turning on her heels and heading right out that door and down the hall. 

But the standoffish look she recalls reflecting out of Killian’s eyes just before he made his leave of them stops her. 

He clearly wasn’t open for talking about whatever was wrong and Emma didn’t want to be invasive. She didn’t want to give Killian any reason to stay away. At least for Henry’s sake, or so she tells herself.

-----

A couple weeks later, Emma seriously starts to question that decision as it seems to not matter in the slightest. Killian is practically non-existent in their lives, a vast change from how it had been for months, and it’s clearly taking its toll on Henry (and maybe her too, just a little - but mostly Henry, for sure).

She’s not having it. 

So she waits until Henry is off at school before she marches her way down the hall and slams her fist against Killian’s door. It takes a few long minutes before there’s any sign of life on the other side, and Emma doesn’t even wait for him to barely have it open before she’s barging her way inside.

“Look, Jones. I don’t know what the hell I did to piss you off so much, but taking it out on Henry by avoiding him too is not even close to fair.”

The words are out of her mouth before she even has a moment to spin around and face him. It’s not until she does that the rest of her defensive mother rant dies on her lips. Not because Killian is standing there shirtless, with sweatpants hanging low on his lips, looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed to answer the door. No. It’s because he’s standing there, shirtless and looking like he’d just woken up, and it seems he’s carrying the weight of several planets on his shoulders. 

If she had thought he seemed far from his usual self-assured self back on Thanksgiving, there’s no doubt about it now.

“Killian, I-”

He smiles sadly and gestures towards his kitchen. “Would you like some coffee, Swan?”

Emma blinks at the invitation, her mouth gaping slightly. “I...uhh…” When Killian’s shoulders slump almost imperceptibly, as if he’s prepared for her hasty retreat, she hurries on. “Yeah, coffee sounds good.”

The smile on his face brightens a fraction and he gestures with his blunted left wrist towards the kitchen once again, letting her lead the way. She takes a seat on one of the stools at the bar that separates said kitchen from the small dining area, and watches him shuffle into the room across from her. 

She sits up a little straighter as she watches him freeze at the little pantry next to the fridge, just after he’s grabbed the canister of coffee from inside it. 

“Is…” He sounds hesitant, keeping his back to her. “Would tea be alright instead?” 

“Sure?” She replies in confusion. She keeps her attention focused on him as he nods erratically and snatches another canister out of the pantry. Without looking up at her, he makes his way to the counter she’s sitting at and hastily drops what she now sees is the empty coffee container there before frantically busying himself with making tea. 

While he’s got his back to her again as he sets the teapot on the stove, she takes a moment to really look around. The gloom she hadn’t picked up on when she barged in now seems impossible to ignore. The curtains are drawn tight, the only light in the whole apartment coming from the kitchen. She notes the blanket hanging haphazardly off the couch and the trash can almost full to the brim with empty beer bottles tucked away under one of the end tables. 

“You haven’t done anything.”

It comes so quietly from Killian that Emma almost doesn’t hear it. But she does and manages to turn her attention back to him in time for him to turn and face her himself. His brow is furrowed and his blue eyes look even sadder than they had when she burst through the door. 

“I.. I don’t think there’s anything in this world…” Killian starts, stops, looks away and lets out a frustrated breath, before returning his gaze to her. “I’m not the best person to be around this time of year…” Emma opens her mouth to respond, but Killian continues on quickly. “But you are right. It’s not fair to Henry. Neither he, nor you , have done anything to deserve the way I’ve treated you.” 

He licks at his lips and blinks, and then nods. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

If she hadn’t already seen how much of a struggle it was for him to get the words out to begin with, it’s the use of her name that seals it for her. “Apology accepted…” He lets out a relieved sigh and deflates some, and Emma feels a little bad to continue on… almost. She did come here for a reason, after all. “If you promise to come by tomorrow and help us decorate the ridiculous live Christmas tree David got Henry.”

Killian’s eyes widen and she notices the way his fingers twitch at his side for a moment. But some form of determination sets into his gaze and she feels a sense of victory as a ghost of his usual cocky smirk quirks his lips upward at the corner. 

“Aye, I think I can do that.”

-----

The victorious feeling stays with her as Killian holds to his promise and shows up the next night for the tree decorating. And the next night after that. And the next.

There’s still a sad cloud hanging about his head, and at times she can see him struggling to hold things together. But he’s back and he certainly does his damnedest to put a smile on for her son’s benefit. She knows a thing or two about putting on a brave face for her kid, and appreciates that Killian is willing to do the same to make the boy happy. 

The winning feeling sticks around until just two days before Christmas. She’s in her bathroom, brushing her teeth, when she hears shouting through the wall Killian and her share between their apartments. Spitting toothpaste into the sink, Emma frowns as she sets her toothbrush down and looks at the wall as if she’ll be able to see through it. 

There are two voices. One is very distinctly Killian’s, though she’s never heard him sound quite so angry before. The other is quieter, though certainly not quiet enough to not hear him at all, and she can hear the accent in his words even through the wall. Words like ‘family’ and ‘honor’, which makes Killian shout back words like ‘abandoned’ and ‘wanker’. 

Emma shuts off the sink and makes her way out of the bathroom. There’s no question in her mind this time if she should keep her distance. Something about Killian’s tone kicks warning bells off inside her, and she feels a concern almost akin to the kind reserved only for Henry set in. She slips into her comfy shoes and throws open the door, grateful that Henry is spending the evening with his friends before the holiday. 

She opens the door to step out into the hallway in time to see a man, slightly older with greying dark hair, step out into the hallway himself through Killian’s door. She freezes as she watches the man plead with who she figures is Killian through the doorway. Her assumption is confirmed when Killian’s sharp ‘Leave now, Brennan, before I make you.’ follows the pleading, before the door is slammed in the man’s face. 

Emma waits until the man sadly slinks away before exiting her apartment and making her way over to Killian’s. She stops in front of his door and raises her hand to knock, but pauses for a moment. Slamming from the other side of the door spurs her to finally tap her knuckles on the wood and she has to jump back as the door furiously swings open.

“Listen, you bloody worthless shitstain-”

Killian pulls up sharply as he takes her in, the vitriol flying from his tongue dying instantly. 

“Emma…” He practically squeaks out. 

“Hey,” She waves a little awkwardly. “I was just coming to see if everything was okay? There was…” She turns to look down the hallway in the direction the man had gone. “A lot of shouting?” She questions as she looks back to Killian in concern. 

The red on his face has only deepened, from anger to obvious embarrassment this time as he scratches at the back of his ear nervously. “Aye… that was…” Killian frowns and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, love, for the shouting. I didn’t wake you or the boy, did I?”

Emma shakes her head, frowning herself. “Henry’s not even home right now. Killian, if something is wrong-”

“It’s fine, Swan.” He offers her a grin that sets off even more warning bells inside her for how fake it clearly is. “I apologize again for the noise and I appreciate your concern, but I.. it’s…” The fake grin grows bigger. “Everything’s okay.”

Raising her eyebrows slightly in disbelief. “I heard a crash in there just now…”

“Ah, yeah…” Killian looks over his shoulder briefly to his apartment beyond and gives a dismissive shrug. “Just had a bit of a clumsy moment is all. I assure you…” He looks back at her again, that grin still firmly in place. “I’m tip-top, darling.”

His whole demeanor is throwing her off. It’s some form of his usual cocky self, only increased by a thousand. Like he’s putting on a front for her. She wishes he wouldn’t, but she’s not sure how to move past the clear impasse they are in. So instead she just stares at him for a second, eyes squinted in heavy suspicion. “If you’re sure?”

“Aye, positive.” Killian starts to ease the door closed. “I hope you have a lovely evening, Swan.”

Emma reaches out and stops him from closing it completely. “You’re still planning to come over for Christmas, right?” 

The question clearly throws him as he jolts after she’s asked it. Like the idea of doing such a thing was definitely not anywhere in the vicinity of his thoughts at that moment. “Ah… aye, of course.” 

“Killian…”

“I’ll be there.” He bites sharply and Emma can tell that anymore conversation is done for the night. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a mess to clean up.” With that, he does close the door pretty much in her face almost exactly as he had the man who had been standing there just a few minutes earlier. 

She wants to be mad at the blatant dismissal, especially when the distinct sound of the lock being turned into place fills the now quiet hallway, but all she can feel is an uneasy nausea building up in her gut. Despite his reassurances, Emma knows for a fact something is extremely wrong. And she fears that there will be far more of a mess made, both literally and figuratively, by Killian before all is said and done. 

Not for the first time in recent weeks, Emma wishes she had been more open with herself to Killian. Maybe if she’d been more honest and direct with how she was feeling about everything, past and present, he wouldn’t feel the need to hide whatever he’s clearly going through from her. 

She makes a decision, still standing in front of his shut apartment door. Tomorrow she’ll get him to talk, even if it means she’ll have to talk a little more about herself than she has before.

-----

Only Killian doesn’t really give her much of a chance to do any sort of talking the next day. She barely has much of a chance to really figure out what she’s gonna say to him anyway when she finds him standing outside her apartment door after she’d gone to get the mail.

Emma looks at him, and his bedraggled state, before shifting her attention to the hastily wrapped gifts in his hands. “Hey…”

He startles, as if shaken from a trance, and turns his head to look at her with wide, sad eyes. “Oh… I heard you leave, and I thought…” Killian trails off as Emma continues to look from his eyes to the presents and back. He swallows thickly and shakes his head, closing the distance between them quickly.

She suddenly finds the gifts thrust into her hands and she struggles to take a hold of them while also keeping a hold of the mail as well. “Killian, what…?”

“I’m sorry, Emma.” He whispers dejectedly. “I… I can’t.” He moves to scurry past her before pausing. “Wish the lad a Happy Christmas for me, will you?” 

“Killian?” Emma asks worriedly, but he doesn’t waste anymore time in making his retreat from her. She spins on her heels as he stalks down the hall towards the stairs, trying to keep the boxes and envelopes from tumbling all over the place. “Killian, wait!”

He doesn’t. And by the time Emma gets inside, drops the stuff in her arms in the entryway, and manages to try and follow after him, Killian is nowhere to be found. She’s not exactly dressed for the snowy, icy conditions outside to be able to go looking off down either side of the street, and Henry is gonna be getting home any minute. She feels like she’s failed somehow, and stands with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, shivering as more snow begins to fall and tries to keep her tears from falling along with it.

The cold drives her back a couple minutes later, and Henry is soon to follow after that. He immediately questions the gifts left by Killian, questions if everything is okay and if Killian is still coming tomorrow. Emma hates how the lie tastes coming out of her mouth when she assures her son that Killian will be there. She hates how the anger she’d barged into his apartment with those couple weeks ago can’t be mustered anymore, even in the impending wake of her son’s disappointment. 

She so desperately wants to cry, because of and for Killian. For Henry. For everything that has gone wrong lately that she can’t seem to fix. 

Instead, she holds herself together for her son on Christmas Eve, as they go through their usual traditions. The ones that were just for her and him. Henry senses her warring emotions, but doesn’t ask any further questions. Instead, he tries to make her smile as much as he can and Emma almost loses her will not to cry at just how selfless her boy is. The energy both are putting into acting like nothing is wrong clearly takes its toll on them both, and Henry is fast asleep in his bed barely past eight. 

Emma, for her part, finds herself curled up on the couch with a glass of wine in hand as she tries to make sense of the day. She really wishes she had some idea of how to get in contact with someone who knows Killian outside of their apartment complex. She briefly contemplated calling up David, but knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it from his wife, and then everyone who was anyone would know there was something wrong with Killian. 

And for as much as Emma feels like she may have done something to set Killian off, she knows gossiping about a situation she’s only sorta vaguely aware of will definitely make it worse. It’s bad enough every call she’s tried to make to him throughout the day has gone to voicemail, save one odd moment where someone picked up and all she could hear was loud background noise before the line went dead. Same with every text.

She’s just about to decide who she could get to come and watch Henry, so she can traipse out into the frigid night to see if maybe she could possibly find Killian, at one of the nearby bars or cafes when there’s a commotion out in the hallway. She’s setting her wine glass down on the coffee table and rising from the couch, as there’s a knock at her own front door. 

She makes her way towards it, frowning as an unfamiliar voice from the other side says ‘would ya stop bloody whinin’!’. Emma pulls it open to find a man she’s never met in her life with a closely cropped head of hair and an expression hovering somewhere between amused and aggravated. 

“Evenin’.” The man’s thick British accent greets her as she stares at him. “You’re Emma, right?”

“I am.” Emma replies matter of factly. 

“Bloody hell, I told you not to bother her!” 

The loud, heavily slurred voice of Killian carries through the open doorway and Emma’s out in the hallway beside the mystery man before she can hardly think about it. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the state of the man she’s just spent hours worrying about. If she thought he looked bedraggled before, it’s nothing compared to the Killian propping up the hallway wall before her. Or more like the wall was propping him up. Even from the distance between their two apartment doors, it’s evident just how completely wasted he is.

“Oh.” Is all she can say in response to the revelation.

“Aye,” The man standing next to her sighs a bit dramatically. “Right state that bastard is in, isn’t it? Told him he should’ve stopped a couple hours ago, but does the bloody git listen? And then he goes and loses his damn keys somewhere along the way…” He looks at her imploringly. “He mumbled something about his gorgeous neighbor Emma having a spare?”

Emma goes to reply, but is cut off before she can.

“Will!” Killian whines angrily from his spot against the wall and attempts to push himself off it. All he manages to do is stumble a few steps before collapsing sideways against his apartment door. 

“Bloody hell…” The man Emma assumes is Will grumbles before moving over to the struggling man and helping him stay upright. 

Emma doesn’t stay in the hallway to hear or see what happens next as she turns and darts into her apartment to grab the key Will had mentioned. She’s trying to keep herself focused on the task at hand, which is now clearly getting Killian inside his own place and sitting down, and not on the fact that he’d apparently told somebody she was ‘gorgeous.’ 

She doesn’t allow herself to think about it as she returns to the hall to help Killian inside, despite his drunken protests at her involvement. Not when she and Will are helping him to his couch, or when they are trying to figure out something to give him to sober him up a little before getting him to go to sleep. Not when Killian is suddenly stumbling to his feet and hastily ambling his way down the hall to the bathroom. Not when he’s collapsed in front of the toilet, expelling the clearly excessive amounts of alcohol he’s consumed. 

It’s only when he’s collapsed onto the tile floor, rambling drunkenly, that Emma really allows it to sink in. Really allows the past several months, ever since he first charmed his way past her defenses, to really settle into the very heart of her.

“I didn’t want this,” Killian is crying softly into the towel Will had placed under his head. “I didn’t want her to see what a mess of a person I am, Will.” It seems he had forgotten she was also with them in the room. Or maybe it didn’t really matter at that point, the booze and the sickness taking its full toll on him. “She’s so amazing and her son is just… brilliant and I’m… Not. I’m just not.”

“Mate,” Will sighs sadly. He reaches out to give Killian’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Killian brushes it off angrily and struggles into a sitting position, flopping back against the bathroom wall. “No! It’s true! I’m just a fuckup like him. I run away when something gets too bloody good. And then come back like the damn useless mess that I am just to screw it all up! Just like Brennan! Just like... my father.” 

The last part comes out as a full sob and Killian pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his arms as he starts to cry in earnest. And even before she can take in the pleading look Will starts to give her, Emma is moving him out of the way so she can take up the spot right next to Killian. She slides down onto the floor and pulls the shattered man sideways until his head is resting in her lap. 

He continues to cry from his new position resting against her, and Emma lets him. She sits and runs her hand through his hair, as he works through whatever heartbreak has been building up inside him. She doesn’t try to argue with what he said, all of which is untrue even if she doesn’t know the full circumstances of what brought Killian to such a state. Not yet, at least. She waits until he is ready to tell her everything. 

Which comes early the next morning, after Will has helped get Killian over to Emma’s apartment before taking his leave, and Killian’s gotten a couple hours of sleep in an actual bed. He’s still a bit on the worse side of drunk, but there is definitely a clarity to his words as he tells her about his life before she came into it. About the loss of his mother and the father who had left him and his older brother to fend for themselves afterwards. About Liam stepping up and taking care of Killian for most of his life, before a tragic Naval accident had taken him and Killian’s left hand in one fell swoop just two days before Christmas some years past. 

“I was in… a terrible place.” Killian mumbles from where he is laying on his side in her bed facing him. He chuckles a little drunkenly and shakes his head. “Still clearly am. But a friend of Liam’s got a hold of me last year and decided I needed to make a change for myself.”

“David?” Emma asks quietly. 

Killian chuckles again and nods this time. “Aye, dear Dave. Told me there was a new spare apartment and that they were looking for a new harbormaster here in town. I… I didn’t want to take him on the offer, but honestly, I was drowning back in England and needed a change. I didn’t think…” He pauses and searches her eyes, a look of admiration shining there for. “I’m so sorry, Emma. I never intended for this all to come out… like it has.”

“What, that you have feelings for me and think I’m gorgeous?” She kept her voice void of any sort of emotion on how the question and whatever his answer might make her feel.

“Aye.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “All of that. I didn’t…” His eyes open again and it seems he’s settled on something in his mind quietly. “I apologize for any discomfort my rum-fueled words have caused and when I’m soberer,” He winces and makes a face. “I’ll take my leave of you and keep my distance so you don’t-”

Emma stops him by leaning in and planting a kiss on his lips. He tastes like toothpaste-laced rum and makes a noise of surprise, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches out and draws her closer with a gentle hand to the back of her head. She hates to ruin the moment by pulling away, but Emma does a few moments later.

“I haven’t been worried nearly sick about you for weeks just for you to disappear right when I’ve decided I have feelings for you too.” She tells him seriously, her gaze intently focused on his still shocked one.

He blinks at her owlishly, mouth still slightly agape from the kiss and from wonder. “I… Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Emma reaches up and brushes the bangs back from his head. “Now we can lay here and you can keep talking if you want. Or we can get a little more sleep before Henry decides to get up and start Christmas, and we can have a good day, and get back to the personal shit later. Because trust me, Jones, if you think you have baggage…”

Killian takes her hand and gives it a light squeeze. “It’d be an honor to take on yours as well.” At Emma’s raised eyebrow, he frowns. “That came out.... I’m still rather... I think more sleep is probably wise.” He finishes with a sage nod.

Emma nods along after him. “Yeah, me too.”

Licking his lips, Killian nods again and as he shifts to settle into a more comfortable position for sleep, Emma moves herself into his space. His blunted left wrist comes to rest over her hip and he lets out a sigh that smells like rum just over her head. 

She waits a few moments as his breathing evens out. “Hey Killian?”

“Aye?” He mumbles sleepily. 

“I think you’re pretty gorgeous too.”

He presses a kiss into her hair and the smile she feels from him as he settles back in is the first real one Emma has gotten out of him since Thanksgiving. 

  Because the Land without Magic isn’t really all that puzzling.  Or at least this portion of it isn’t.  

The currency is entirely self explanatory and makes perfect sense.  It’s in sensible parts of ten, all of which fit into each other.  Anyone who’s ever been forced to accommodate doubloons and cringlets and half-rafters (which aren’t actually half of anything ) could be nothing but pleased at this perfect decimal fractioning.   

The food is not so different or unusual and none of it seems to require knowledge of poisons or side effects.  

There are shops for everything, labels for everything, warnings for everything.

And there are instruction manuals for everything.  A fact which not enough people take advantage of, as far as Killian is concerned.  When he reset the oven clock in Snow’s kitchen a few weeks ago, because it was an entire hour ahead and he simply could not bear this gross inaccuracy a moment longer, Emma had looked at him with eyes as big as saucers when she noticed and said, in an incredibly earnest voice, “How did you do that?  Nobody sets oven clocks.”  She’d shaken her head for good measure.  “I’m serious.  Nobody.”

So, all in all, in its customs and habits and workings, this land is not nearly as intricate or complicated as many other realms he has been to.  Like the Sylvexh Empire, where looking directly at any of the citizens could cost you your head, or Lirsom’bhar, where talking during theater performances carried the death penalty and wearing black clothing was a stoning offense.  He’d hated the latter.  Pirate captains are not nearly intimidating enough in powder blue.

  So the questions he has aren’t with this realm, and certainly not about Christmas.

No, what he has a hard time gauging is where he stands with Emma’s family.  Specifically the woman currently sitting in front of him, wiping maple syrup from the corners of her mouth.  And her husband.

Also known as Emma’s parents, who may or may not have very firm opinions on whether or not Killian is allowed to join in the various festivities.

That is his problem.

Because if it were up to Killian he would like to spend pretty much every waking moment with Emma.  Including those moments she spends at the loft with Snow and David and Henry doing family things.  Like baking cookies.

Emma has mentioned the baking plans.  But that’s the thing, she only mentioned them.  He doesn’t know if he’s invited.  

He doesn’t know if he’s welcome.

  “Killian?”  His face must be mirroring some of his thoughts.  Snow looks a little worried.  “Are you all right?  Do you not like cookies?”

Yes he does.  He loves cookies.  This land’s prowess in all things chocolate is unparalleled.

He tries to reassure Snow with a grin.  

“I do,” he says.  “I just didn’t---”  The way she looks at him.  Open.  Inviting.  It’s almost painful.  “---know what time you wanted to commence the revelry,” he finishes lamely.

“Around five,” Snow says.  “Henry’s at Regina’s tonight, so the ‘revelry’ will be all grown up.  Just come on down, you don’t need to bring anything.”

  Yes, well.

He knows enough about the customs in every realm he’s ever traveled to that when you’re invited to somebody’s house, you bring a present.  Even when they tell you not to.

He spends most of the day down by the harbor, just breathing the salty air, listening to the seagulls, and then shows up at the loft at 5 PM on the dot,  holding a bottle.

When Emma opens the door he goes to hug her, long and tight, because he hasn’t seen her all day. 

“Hey,” she says in that soft voice she only uses with him, and hugs him back just as tightly.  “I missed you today.”

So has he.

Missed her terribly.

She kisses him slowly until David behind them clears his throat very loudly, and Emma rolls her eyes and grins.  

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and he’s so relieved to hear her say that.  For tonight at least, he is welcome.  

He nods at David who watches him with narrowed eyes and then hands the bottle to Snow, who can roll her eyes better than even her daughter can.

“Killian, I said not to bring any---”  Snow’s voice cuts out all at once and her jaw drops.  “David,” she whispers.  “David, look at this.”

Emma looks at Killian in question, but he just smiles at her and points his chin at Snow.  At Snow who is now staring at Killian while holding the bottle out to David.

“Killian,” she says.  “How?”

“Had a few bottles left on the Jolly ,” he says.  He can feel Emma next to him tense up, just like she always does when he mentions his ship.  He wants to tell her not to worry, that he doesn’t regret trading his vessel, not for a moment.  He smiles at her instead and says, “I took them to my room at Granny’s  back when I---”  

He stops himself.  There were dark nights full of rum and despair back then, more of them than he cares to admit or remember, and they do not belong in this brightly-lit living room.

“Anyway, I never could bring myself to drink them,” he says instead.  Couldn’t bring myself to sever the last line to a life I thought I wanted , he doesn’t say.  “And I thought you might like one.”

“Is this what I think it is?”  David says, his voice unsteady, and Snow nods.

“It’s our wine,” she says, and--- are there tears in her eyes?  She looks at Emma.  “It’s our coronation wine.  I never---  I----”

A sob cuts her off and David wraps his arms around her and looks at Killian and for this one, brief moment, Killian knows David approves.  He’ll take it.

*

Snow looks over David’s shoulder at Killian.  Sees how his posture relaxes a bit after David nods at him, sees how it relaxes even more as Emma leans into him and he pulls her close, buries his nose in her hair.  Emma smiles, a soft, lovely, contented smile and in that moment Snow can actually see how much they belong together.  

See how perfectly they fit.

How genuinely happy he makes her.

With Emma, Killian is not just a pirate and with Killian, Emma is more than the Savior.  Even when he still looks so unsure—and he does look unsure.  He looks like he’s afraid to breathe wrong.

Snow is going to have to have a very stern word with her husband about making pirates feel welcome in their lives.

  Then she wipes her eyes and shakes her head.  

“That’s quite enough of that,” she says, as if she weren’t the one crying, and extricates herself from David.  Who grins at her and then winks, because he knows her.  Damn him.

“Cookies,” Snow says firmly, and then looks at Killian, still holding on to Emma.  

“Why don’t you take your jacket off?”  She says gently.  “Make yourself at home?”

If only she could make him realize how much she means that.  

“OK,” she goes on, facing three pairs of expectant eyes across the counter.  “Let’s see what we got.  It’s not like we really know about Christmas---” she nods at Emma and Killian--- “you guys know much more about it.  But we did have Saturnalia back in the Enchanted Forest, and you know---”

Her voice trails off as she watches David’s grin grow wicked.

“What your mother is trying to say,” David says, rolling his eyes, “is that in the last two years she has discovered that in this land, throughout the month of December, there are a lot of movies on television which she’s rather fond of.”

Emma’s jaw drops.  “Oh god, Mom.”  She actually shudders.  “Don’t tell me you’ve discovered Hallmark.”

Snow can feel herself starting to blush.  She doesn’t quite know what’s gotten into her either.  It’s as if these stories thrum a primal chord deep inside her.  

Well, some of them do.

Emma leans forward, her eyes narrow.  “You’re a bandit .”  Oh, the accusation with which her daughter can front-load a word.  For a very brief moment Snow feels exceptionally sorry for Killian for when he makes his first real mistake.  

“I am a bandit who can appreciate pretty decorations and a message of hope and good cheer,” she says, and it comes out sounding rather defensive.

Killian smiles and once again pulls Emma close.  

“I think your mother deserves to like whatever she chooses,” he whispers into her ear. 

Emma shakes her head, but then she grins and Snow raises a stern eyebrow.  

“I also like a good reason to eat sweets,” she says.  “And this holiday seems to be built on treats.  It’s like the official month of sugar and spice.” 

She puts her hand on her hips and everyone bursts out laughing.

So far so good.

*

“I don’t really have any traditions,” Emma says with an air of nonchalance so perfect it has to be practised.  “Christmas is not exactly a big deal.”

  Killian’s heart constricts.

He doesn’t really know that much about this holiday, despite what Snow says, but he remembers the children Pan snatched in December, remembers how they cried more and longer and harder at the thought of what they had lost.  

Without fail the December children turned into Pan’s most ruthless minions after they got over their pain and anguish, every last one of them callous and brutal and crueler than the rest of them.

As if their emotional connection to humanity had been severed more completely than any of the others’, as if their heartache had been too great to bear and instead turned on them, burned away every last shred of empathy and compassion and kindness.

Christmas had clearly meant something to them once.

Judging by Emma’s tone, Christmas has never meant anything to her at all, and somehow that seems worse.  Not the holiday itself, he couldn’t care less about that.  The fact that Emma has never let herself put down enough roots to have traditions.

To make something last.

He remembers his mother making mulled boysenberry wine and sugar buns for the winter solstice, remembers their cabin smelling sweet and wonderful, remembers their father smiling often, at her and at Liam and even at him.  

  “That’s a shame,” he says softly, trying not to put too much pressure on this point.  “It’s nice to have some things you love, that you can remember fondly and share with your own.”

David scoffs.  “And what would you know about it?  Aren’t your traditions basically just pillage and plunder? ”

It stings.

A lot.

From out of the corner of his eye he can see Snow slap David’s arm, hard.  Can see David wince.

“Ignore him,” she says, and smiles warmly at Killian.  “We used to have a feast for winter solstice at the palace.  My father used to send envoys out every fall, to gather the most exotic, extravagant ingredients.  I remember the first time I had oranges.”  Her voice grows wistful.  “The whole town celebrated - there were tables out in the open everywhere.  People used to come from far away, gather in the streets, celebrate together. We had fires going and blankets and mulled wine.  It lasted two days.”

“I remember,” David said.  “I went once or twice when I was a boy.  I loved it.  Ate until I dropped.”

“That’s kind of why I like this Christmas thing,” Snow says.  “I like the notion of lots of food and the smell of fresh sap and candles and cider.  It reminds me of home.”

“That sounds really nice,” Emma says, but it’s perfunctory.  Killian looks at her, smiling but not moved, and he walks over and wraps his arms around her.

“Maybe you and I can go look at the stars later,” he says.  “Take some hot chocolate and a blanket down to the docks.”

It’s a shot in the dark, but Emma’s arms tighten around his waist and he knows he’s said the right thing.  Or at the very least not a wrong thing.

  David looks at him sharply.  “As long as you don’t spike it with rum and have your wicked---”

“DAVID.”  Snow’s voice is pure flint and he actually flinches.

“ Seriously. ”  Emma adds and then kisses Killian in full view of her parents.  Thoroughly.  

He closes his eyes, feels her hand fist into his hair, feels her back arch against him and blocks out everything but the taste of her.

The warmth of her body, the softness of her skin.

He does not want to let go of her, not ever.

When she pulls back he is breathless and she puts her forehead against his, smiles and gently rubs his neck and he no longer cares who’s watching.  There’s no one else on the planet at this moment.  There are just the two of them.

  Killian sighs when Emma finally straightens up, sighs and turns and blushes, walks over to the counter and blindly grabs for his bowl and whisk, just to have something to do.  Something useful to do which will avoid David’s steely gaze for the moment.

  Emma turns to Snow to ask what temperature the oven should be, and David keeps staring at him, daring him to look up, which he absolutely will not, thankyouverymuch, and then the bowl he’s been holding, barely, with the tip of his hook while he whisks with his right, shoots out from under his grasp and catapults along the counter before slowly somersaulting in a flying leap to the floor.  Splattering egg whites and creamed butter and milk everywhere .  Most of it on his pants.  His black pants.

Fuck.

But then Emma laughs out loud and he’d gladly drop a hundred bowls of batter on himself if that is the reaction.

“That was a solid 10,” she says when she can breathe again, and takes the whisk from him.  “It stuck the landing.  Literally.”  She points at the sticky puddle at their feet.  “I got the bowl.  Go get cleaned up.”

She takes his hook and starts to push him towards the bathroom and he can see it, can see the moment it happens, the moment her face falls, her smile vanishes, and she looks down at his hook, the hook which couldn’t hold the bowl, and then back up at his face, her eyes large and worried.

“Don’t,” he says before she can open her mouth.  “It had nothing to do with this.”  He points his chin at his hook.  “Trust me when I tell you I’ve done more complicated things than hold dishes in place.”

She takes a deep breath and then exhales and bites her lip.

“Sorry,” she says.  

“There is nothing you should be sorry for, love,” he says, and she nods again, and this time he knows she believes him.

“We can take some cookies with us later,” she whispers.  “When we go look at the stars.”  And then she grins.  “Unless you plan on wearing them all.”

*

An hour later the place smells delicious, everyone is covered in flour, and it has started to snow.

“I think you should shovel the walkway,” Snow says to David, and he turns to her, full of righteous indignation at being sent outside, and then he sees her face.

“Am I in trouble?”  

Snow looks at Emma and Killian on the couch, Emma curled into his side, and Killian stiff as a board except for the arm around her daughter’s shoulders.

Then she looks back at her husband.

“I think we’ve had enough of the overprotective father for one night,” she says.  “Your daughter is an adult.  An adult we sent through a wardrobe into an unknown land by herself when she was a baby, so I don’t think we’re entitled to put the thumb screws to anyone.”

She can see her words hit home when David starts to duck his head, but she remains firm.

“So I think it’s your turn to cool off outside and a bit of exercise is just the thing to do it.”  She glares at her husband for good measure.  “I strongly suggest you use the time to think.”

David nods, chagrined, and simply goes to grab his jacket, and Snow puts on coffee.

  “Hey,” she hears Emma say.  “Please relax.  He likes you.  He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

Killian shrugs and Snow walks over to them, sits down in her favorite overstuffed chair and pats Killian’s arm.

“David’s making up for lost time,” she says.  “He never got to put the fear of the Evil Queen into teenage boys, and he’s taking it out on you.”

“That’s not Killian’s fault,” Emma says, claws showing a bit, and Snow smiles.  Her daughter likes the pirate a lot more than she’s trying to let on.

“Give him time,” she says.  “He’s trying.  And not everyone can be as naturally cool as I am.”

Emma and Killian look at her for a long beat before they both burst out laughing.

“True,” Emma says, wiping her eyes.  “You definitely are the cool parent.  Even if you have horrible taste in movies.”

  The oven timer dings and Snow gets up.  She takes the baking sheet out of the oven and watches Killian once again relax, sink into Emma the same way she melts against him, watches her put her head against his chest and his arm tighten around her.  Their body language is in beautiful sync, two pieces working in perfect harmony, and it makes her happy.

She knows the signs of True Love.

  “Here,” she says and walks over to them to hand them a small basket.  

“What is this?”  Emma hardly looks up, sighing into Killian’s chest.

Killian smiles at Snow and then bends down to kiss Emma’s temple.  

“It’s our stargazing picnic,” he says softly.  “Cookies and--- is that hot chocolate?”

“It is.”  Snow nods.  “Hot chocolate with cinnamon, to be exact.  And rum.”  She winks at them.  “And a warm blanket.”

Emma sits up and grins.  

“Yeah,” she says.  “You’re definitely the cool parent.”

*

Two people sit at the end of a wooden pier, wrapped up in each other and a warm blanket, listening to the water and looking at the stars.

The man hands the woman a thermos cup and then drops small kisses to her jaw as she drinks and then snuggles into his chest, smiling and warm and so, so content.

“We should do this every year,” she says, and the man nods, his eyes soft and fond and full of love.

“It’ll be our tradition,” he says, and then he kisses her again.

.

He watches as her eyes widen and scrutinize him before a slow, timid smile curls up her lips. 

Behind her back, the waves crash tenderly against the harbour, claiming it as home. 

It’s always a sight for sore eyes, Emma Swan smiling at him, and Hook counts his blessings. 

“Oh, by the way, tell me something, Swan,” and as he speaks he leans into her space even more, bending forward as if Henry might hear them. 

Emma’s eyes grow wider, but she does not back away. 

It isn’t necessary, of course, and it isn’t like Henry is paying any attention to two of them anyway but neither Hook nor Emma seem willing to take that into account. 

“Yeah?” 

Her breathy tone and bright eyes cause Hook’s heart to leap inside his chest. As he squeezes his belt between his fingers to gain some composure, Hook gathers enough courage to incline his body towards hers even more, lips dangerously close to Emma’s face. 

“The lad mentioned a Christmas celebration, and I’m afraid I haven’t been updated on this subject.” 

Hook catches a whiff of Emma’s fragrance as he backs away to gaze into her eyes, cinnamon and vanilla invading his lungs, and he has the pleasure of seeing her face crease into a wider smile. 

“Christmas, uh? Don’t worry, I’ll make you flashcards.” 

“I don't know what that is but sure.” 

By the time he finishes his sentence, Emma’s grin is dazzling and Hook begins considering freezing this moment forever in time and possibly angling his face just right so that he might meet her lips, perhaps, just perhaps -- 

“It’s a holiday from our world. It’s supposed to be religious, but for most people it’s mostly an occasion to exchange gifts and kiss under the mistletoe--”

“-- kiss under the what?” 

And Hook sees the bubble burst, just like that. A veil falls over her gaze and her smile dies away in a frown.

“Nothing. It’s stupid.” Even as she talks, her legs take a step backward, and Hook can only watch as this invisible tether between them seems to stretch and stretch. 

He wonders if she feels it too, this suffocating feeling as she pulls away. The answer is cruel: surely not, or she wouldn’t be pulling that way. 

“I see. Well, goodnight, Swan.” 

Although she’s just begun walking away, Hook knows Emma is long gone when she whispers back: “‘Night, Hook.”

.

Since Emma doesn’t seem willing to share anything with him these days, Hook settles his mind on learning more about this world’s tradition on his own -- which ends up being quite easy, as he fumbles through Storybrooke’s library. 

The Wicked Witch hasn’t shown up in two weeks now — since Neal died — which allows Hook to take some liberties with his time schedule. 

“Do you need any help?” 

Hook startles and turns around to face two, big blue eyes. 

“Belle,” he says, but it sounds a lot like a reproach. Belle’s clearly understood it because she is frowning now. 

“I saw you all alone with your books in the Christmas section and I figured you might need help to understand this world’s traditions,” she explains but any warmth has definitely escaped her tone. 

Guilt immediately circles Hook’s throat, and he is gentler when he says: “No, I’m fine lass but... thank you for offering.” 

Belle simply nods as a faint smile flickers across her face. And Hook thinks guilt is quite a vile thing because it pushes him to give up on the book in his hand Christmas Traditions to Brighten your Holidays-- silly, silly title -- and press his palm across the brunette’s shoulder. 

“Actually, you might be able to enlighten me on something…” 

A wink, and the right corner of Belle’s lip raises slightly.

“Sure, what do you want to know?” 

“Swan mentioned a kissing tradition that involved toes of some sort?” 

She’s frowning now, and it cannot possibly be good. 

“What?” Her hands meet her hips as she furrows her brows harder. “Oh you mean mistletoe!”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said.” 

Hook watches as Belle’s grin becomes impish. “I’m not sure Emma would like me telling you this,” she begins, coy. 

“Which is exactly why I want you to tell me.” 

Belle shrugs, glances down for a bit. “Well, I guess there’s no harm…” 

.

“So you mean to tell me if this plant hangs over two people, they have to kiss?” 

Hook’s startled blue eyes are quite a comic sight, Belle must confess. Surprised glimmers glisten amidst tender blue; he looks younger. 

“Yes, that's what I mean.” 

But Belle knows Hook’s cheerful smile is merely a facade. A few minutes ago, he seemed so...lonely, when she entered the library, nose buried in his book, and Belle figures it isn’t quite fair that he ends up having to learn it all -- on his own.

No one deserves to be left alone. Especially not during the holidays. 

“And what does it look like?” 

Belle gives a little chuckle. “Why? You want to use it?” 

Hook’s answer comes out as a matter of fact. “Aye.” 

And he looks so boyish, with this Christmas book in his hand and this hope hovering his eyes that Belle cannot help but smile frankly. 

“I’m not sure Emma will fall for that.” 

“Never try never know, lass.” 

Belle sighs, scanning the shelves of books. Her eyes settle on one that she flips through rapidly. 

“There,” she points with her finger, “this plant with the green leaves and red berries? It’s mistletoe.” 

Hook peers above her shoulder. “Thank you, lady Belle.”

In a wink, the pirate has disappeared out of the library and Belle scoffs— amused, in spite of herself. He won’t be stopped, will he?  

.

Hook and Henry are playing dice at Granny’s when he figures he might as well just ask the boy for more information. 

“I’ve got a question, mate,” he begins, uncertain as to how to address the subject without sounding suspicious to those teenage ears. 

Thankfully, Henry’s little concerned about Hook as he shoves French fries into his mouth. 

“Yeah?” 

Hook tries not to look horrified as one French fry tries to escape and Henry tucks it in expertly with one greasy finger. 

“Where do you think I could find mistletoe in this town?” 

That does make Henry stop for one tiny second, eyes open wide and eyebrows raised. 

“Mistletoe? Why?” 

Hook clears his throat, looks down at his fingers stretched on the table and lies: “Mary Margaret sent me.” 

From the look on Henry’s face, he isn’t convinced. Smart boy. 

“I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve been living in this town very long. You should ask my mom about it.” 

Hook frowns. “Nah, let’s not bother her with this when she’s already busy with her...how does she say it…?” 

Henry’s eyebrows reach unprecedented height. “...Case?” 

“Aye. That.” Why would Swan bother with cases, that Hook doesn’t bloody know -- but it’s part of the things he doesn’t question. 

.

If there’s one thing Hook’s learnt over the years, it is that if one wants something badly enough, it always ends up in one’s lap. However, the tricky thing is it rarely lands softly or in an expected way. 

As Emma and he investigate the west side of the forest looking for the Wicked Witch, he quite literally stumbles onto mistletoe. 

As things turn out, it is quite a painful venture and it involves gazing for a bit too long at Emma who is a little far behind and not long enough at the vicious root right under his feet -- not that Hook truly thinks he is to blame -- and plummeting to the floor, head first, leading up to Emma falling on top of him in a colorful “HOOK”.  

Hook groans at the impact but he isn’t about to complain -- Emma falling on top of him might be the only way she’ll fall for him these days. 

Emma, on the other hand, isn’t so pleased. 

“What the hell? Can’t you look where you’re going?” she hisses as fiery green eyes pierce through his soul from under golden strands of hair. 

“I didn’t bloody mean to do that!”

Hook wishes he didn’t sound like a ten-year-old boy, but that’s what it’s come to these days with Emma. 

Emma grunts some more before rolling onto her side and kneeling to spring to her feet. 

“You’re impossible”, she mumbles, and it sounds a lot like she might just kill him as she taps snow off her knees. “Tripping in the snow as if the Wicked Witch couldn’t kill us both on sight…” 

Hook keeps his lips resolutely closed. When Swan starts rambling about him, he knows better than to interfere and possibly worsen the situation. 

She’s still dusting snow off her jeans when suddenly, she stops. And stares at him. 

Hook’s toes curl in his boots. “What?” 

Emma scowls and he thinks she’s hesitating. “You’ve got...” she starts and then seems to catch herself up and stops. 

Hook is about to ask what he’s got, but then Emma’s walking towards him, her hand raised up, and before he knows it her fingers have landed into his hair.

“Don’t move…” she whispers. Hook stands very still, feeling a blush creep up his skin, eyes lowering slowly not to stare. 

From his height, he is able to see the slight freckles dusted over her small nose, and her pink lips and, -- perhaps he ought to look at the ground. 

Emma’s face remains blank as she rummages through his hair, gentle fingers sieving through it, but a hint of red does stain her cheeks. When she retreats, the glimmer of a smile lingers on her lips. 

“You had mistletoe in your hair,” she finally explains, with that quiet, abashed tone that’s only too rare. 

Hook swallows down, heart drumming. “Thank you for the assistance, Swan.” 

But then she’s quick to avert her gaze and Hook knows the spell has been broken as the small sprig of mistletoe lands onto the snow-coated ground in a faint whisper, 

“Come on, let’s go. We’ve already wasted enough time.” 

Hook lets her stride forward, making sure she isn’t looking at him before stooping down and picking up the small plant to slide it into his coat. He promises himself to come back for more. We’re not about to waist treasures, now, are we...

. 

Hook is a subtle man, but he is aware that he cannot rightly expect Granny to be okay with him sticking mistletoe onto the window above Emma’s booth without asking first. 

So he does.  

“Why isn’t there mistletoe here? Isn’t it a Christmas tradition?” He begins, the picture of innocence, as he twirls a spoon into his cup of tea. 

Granny sees right through him. “Very cute of you to be concerned about our traditions, Hook,” she mumbles, piling up plates onto a drying rack.  

He nods, smiles even. “Fortunate are we that I’ve already stocked up on it.” 

Granny’s eyes pierce through his soul. “How fortunate indeed.” 

She lets him, of course. Not that Hook had any doubt. 

.

When Emma strolls down the B&B’s stairs to go claim her daily hot cocoa and bear claw, Henry still caught up in a teenage coma, she does think Hook looks especially weird -- staring at her with a glint in his eyes that she can only coin as mischief. 

“What are you up to?” she mumbles on sliding into her booth. 

Hook says nothing but leaves his spot next to Granny at the bar to come and sit down in front of her. Emma doesn’t have it in herself to complain -- it’s too early for that and it’s not like it would make him go away anyway. 

“Nothing, Swan. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asks, pointing towards the window pane. 

Emma tilts her face to gaze through the window. She distinguishes a sky heavy with grey clouds of snow and looks back at him with a puzzled frown in her eyes. He is being suspicious. She squints. 

“Is that grey sky the reason you’re so cheery?” she asks, and then dives into the hot cocoa Granny just dropped in front of her. 

At least, hot cocoa is still sweet and perfect and doesn’t disappoint her. 

“Can you blame me for being happy to see you?” 

Emma nearly chokes on her beverage but she catches herself soon enough. Instead, she furrows her brows and proceeds to ignore as well as she can the stubborn leap of her heart. 

“You’re never that happy to see me,” she retorts, smothering a smile, and then drinks up another mouthful of hot cocoa. 

Why is she encouraging him? 

“Allow me to disagree, Swan. Plus, look up: there is a wonderful opportunity to make me happier.” 

“Why would I want to make you hap-?” she begins, but then she discovers what he’s pointed at with his hook and the end of her sentence vanishes from her mind. 

It takes a lot of willpower not to burst into laughter or stab him in the face with her little spoon -- which one she hasn’t made up her mind on just yet -- and instead plaster the blankest expression she can conjure on her face....

...which is in that case a silly, silly smile. 

“You’re really desperate if you think mistletoe is what it’s going to take for me to kiss you,” she retorts, and she really hopes the heat she feels blooming on her face isn’t showing up. 

From the look on Hook’s face, however, it is definitely showing. Emma wants to rip that stupid, smug smirk off his face. 

“Can you blame me for trying?” 

This time she cannot hold back the chuckle that’s bubbling inside her throat as she shakes her head. Idiot. Her cheeks hurt. 

“No, of course not, if you don’t expect to succeed.” 

And he smiles that smile, that “that’s when the fun begins” smile and stands up. 

“We’ll see to that, Swan.” 

And when Granny asks her “So, mistletoe, uh?” Emma figures the grin spreading across her face isn’t her best poker face and she pretends to be exceptionally thirsty for hot cocoa -- mostly to distract Granny’s from the flush on her cheeks. 

.

Hook is meticulous in his endeavours, and has the sense of details, Emma will give him that. 

She slowly finds out that the whole town suddenly is brimming with mistletoe. Mistletoe in the B&B’s corridor, mistletoe in the laundromat room, mistletoe in the library, mistletoe everywhere. 

Mistletoe even in the leather satchel Hook carries around everywhere with him. “You never know when the occasion might be right, Swan. You have to be prepared.” 

Although she hates him for it, she does not hate him nearly as much as she hates herself for not hating it completely. 

After all, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

For instance, when Mary Margaret and David notice it above their head at Granny’s, they smile and meet halfway in a kiss. The other day, Granny’s lips also found Ruby’s forehead and left a sonorous smack there -- a rare display of affection between the two women -- and Ruby then proceeded to stain Emma’s left cheek with a lovely burgundy color. 

No one knows Hook is the one hanging them there -- except for Granny -- and Emma wishes she would find it more ridiculous. (Even a little bit, that’ll do to make her feel better about herself.) 

. 

They are only a few days from Christmas Eve when, after another endless afternoon spent patrolling, Mary Margaret starts musing over the Christmas spirit in the sheriff station. 

“I just love Christmas and I am so glad we are spending it together, this year -- Wicked Witch or not.” 

Mary Margaret’s right hand brushes over her round belly while the other rests above David’s shoulder. 

Emma sits in a corner; exhaustion is weighing down her limbs, coloring her world blue. The snow seems to have sunk into her skin, crystalizing over her muscles. 

She can hardly share their enthusiasm. With the Wicked Witch on the run, she’s had little time to think about the holidays -- if not for mistletoe because of a certain someone -- and what it means to spend Christmas with her parents and her son. Henry still hasn’t recovered his memories and all she can think about is avenging Neal’s death and the life she gave up on, back in New York.

“Should we invite Regina?” Emma asks in a breath. This all starting to sound a lot like a complicated masquerade. 

She stares at the bright, yellow neon lights above her head. She’s stared at them so many, lonely times, but now their sight is almost comforting... and then, slowly, slowly, flutters her eyes shut… 

It would all be so simple, if they went back to New York. No more villains, no more happy endings to bring, no more sacrifices to make -- just Emma, a mother, and her son in a normal, quiet life. It was enough. She would be enough.

Silence. Emma cannot see her parents’ faces but she thinks she guesses quite well their expression anyway. 

And then her mother’s voice, a bit blurry, as if erupting from another reality: “I mean, yes, we probably should or she’ll be alone for Christmas Eve. We’ll just have to tell Henry this family is really close to the mayor.” 

“I still don’t know why you guys celebrate Christmas. It’s not even from your world,” Emma mumbles and yawns. 

She is tired, so very tired. And celebrating Christmas always did feel like staring at an open wound that will not heal. 

“Then we should also invite Belle…”

Emma hears her mother sigh. “In that case, maybe we should just all gather at Granny’s.” 

Emma opens her eyes. The bright neon lights above her head are no longer soothing; they glare and burn. There will be no happy ending for the Savior. 

“That makes sense,” she whispers and stands up before she can sink into another lethargy 

Emma rubs her eyes and stretches her sore muscles. 

“I gotta pick up Henry. Hook and he went sailing this afternoon,” she says as she slips one arm back into her jacket and another yawn quivers out of her.  

“You should tell Hook, Emma,” adds her mother while Emma sieves impatient fingers through her hair. 

Emma stops in her steps, arches one eyebrow. There is still so much exhaustion clinging to her bones and clouding her mind. “Why should I be the one telling him?” 

Emma’s mother isn’t impressed by her petulant tone. “Because you’ll see him tonight, Emma.” 

Emma winces. “Right.”

Christmas always sucked for Emma. She doesn’t know why this year should be any different.

. 

Emma nearly hates Hook on sight when she sees him reach the B&B alongside Henry, his arm swang around his shoulder and this stupid gust of wind playing with his thick, black hair. She rubs her hands together to warm them up. At least the cold breeze is enough to sharpen her senses and wake her up. 

It does warm her heart, to see Henry and he get along just fine, not that she’d admit it under torture or something. 

Henry greets her with a hug and Hook with a tilt of his face and an intolerable smile. As they enter the B&B together in silence, warmth curls around their bodies, hugging them tightly, and Emma unzips her jacket on the way up the stairs. 

“Go take a shower, Henry. I’ll be here in a sec,” she tells her son, palms on his shoulders to guide him inside their room. 

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Hook peer at her but she ignores him. “‘kay, Mom.” 

The door bangs close behind her back and Emma shifts to face Hook staring at her with his insufferable blue eyes and a quiet smile and that silly, silly mistletoe hanging between them -- teasing her, it seems. 

Smells of food and the faint rustle of conversations surround them as they stand in the corridor -- as if isolated in a liminal space. 

Emma blinks, breathes in, inhaling some courage, and exhales: “We’re going to celebrate Christmas all together at Granny’s.”

She can tell he isn’t following because he looks taken aback for a moment and she hates seeing him like this -- when the mask cracks and light spills in and illuminates this earnest look on his face. It’s really hard then to convince herself that she does not care -- not at all, not one bit. 

“Are you inviting me, Swan?” he asks, and Emma knows he means to sound impish but something else is rearing its head behind the sly smile and Emma feels a weird pang, down in her stomach. 

“I’m not inviting you,” she retorts but she doesn’t have it in herself to keep her armor on tonight and she feels herself smile a sluggish smile. “Everyone is invited.” 

He’s tilting his head then, in that manner that has a terrible effect on Emma’s heartbeat, and slowly bends down towards her -- his fragrance filling her lungs. 

Emma thinks then that her eyelids are definitely far too heavy, that she should sleep, and she watches herself lean into him. 

“So,” she begins again, voice hoarse and it isn’t quite because of the cold, “are you coming or not?” 

But then, somehow, something seems to shatter between them and Hook takes a step back. Emma’s stomach gives another lurch and she has to fight the instinctive spring of her hand towards his arm. 

“I’m sorry, Swan, but I don’t think I’ll be able to attend.” 

“Why?” The word comes out of her mouth before she can think about it. 

From the colored windows, Emma can make out the sun setting behind Hook’s back -- purple and pink clouds softly floating away -- and that sadness everywhere -- on his face, in her open palms with nothing to hold, in that distance between them. 

Emma clenches her jaw as she watches him, as she watches him pulling away from her. 

“I don’t think it is my place to be,” he simply answers.

Emma’s stomach twists. 

This same urge to touch him burns her fingertips, owls that she should take a step forward. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand why he won’t, why she feels that -- 

Instead she remains very firm on her legs and smiles a faint smile and says: “I understand. Just know that if you want to drop by, you’re welcome to.” 

A grin flickers across his face, but the glimmer dies before it reaches its eyes. “I appreciate that, Swan.” 

And then she says: “Goodnight, Hook.” 

And feels something bitter tug, tug, inside of her when he bows his head and disappears without a word. 

. 

As Emma expected, this Christmas Eve dinner in Storybrooke is...something. 

Granny’s diner is bursting with people and clatters of heels and a silly, silly jingle bell rattles the walls. For the occasion, everyone brought a dish of their own while Granny arranged the bar to turn it into some kind of buffet where the guests get to pick and choose what they want to eat. 

Emma stands on the side, an empty glass of champagne clasped between her fingers, as she watches her son queue near the buffet. 

Emma isn’t hungry. In fact, it feels like her stomach is full to the brim with heavy bricks and she cannot swallow anything else down. 

As her gaze wanders and lingers on the Christmas tree, near the stairs, Emma isn’t so sure she wants to be here at all. 

She wants to blame the Wicked Witch for her lack of enthusiasm, but the truth is this scene of profusion and happiness is quite painful to watch. 

There are so many people, and so much noise, and Emma feels like the light garlands are mere colorful spots dancing before her eyes, twirling and twirling, and they will not stop and she wishes they would. 

Hook isn’t there. In fact, since their last conversation in the corridor, he has seemed quite inclined on avoiding her -- which is fair, considering it’s exactly what she’s been doing since she got back from New York. 

Emma sighs, lowering her gaze to watch the Champagne bubbles fizzing inside her glass. Perhaps if he were here, it would be a bit more bearable. Emma frowns, fingers clutching around her glass. Nonsense. 

A warm hand closes over Emma’s shoulder. 

Emma startles, but when she looks up, she only meets Mary Margaret’s gentle green eyes.

“Emma, your plate is still empty. Are you sure you don’t want anything?” 

Emma brushes off the attention. “I’m okay for now, thank you. I’ll go get something later.” 

Dammit. She doesn’t mean to sound this cold, doesn’t mean to push her away like this, but thankfully for her Mary Margaret knows best. 

The next thing she knows her mother is sitting down on a chair next to her. 

“Is everything alright, Emma?” 

Emma hates the concern she hears in her voice, or rather she hates that it is somehow enough to tighten her throat and burn her eyes, and that there is a part of her that is desperate to feed on it. Maybe, just maybe, her mother can help her lift the bricks down in her stomach.

“I’m okay, I’m just --” 

But then Emma glances down again, and she stares at mother’s hand, brushing over this round, loved belly and Emma’s breath catches in her throat. 

Run. 

“Emma, you are…?” 

Something clatters down to the floor, and suddenly everything is too much. Emma’s eyes widen and before she knows it she’s moved up from her chair, heart pounding. 

“I need to get some air,” she says very quickly, putting her coat on with trembling fingers. 

The siren keeps blaring in her mind. Run. Run. Run. 

“Please, will you make sure Henry eats something? I won’t be long.” 

Emma does not wait for her mother’s answer to flee from the dinner, bursting through the front door. 

The icy winter air leaps onto her skin just like she expected it to and Emma sighs in relief, closing her eyes. Her legs are still trembling beneath her weight, and her blood is still pulsating at her temples, but at least she is outside now. Her lungs quickly fill in with December smells — burnt wood, misty dead leaves and something almost magical that crackles as she breathes. 

Outside, beyond the quiet chirping of insects, there is no noise. And it is incredibly peaceful. 

Emma breathes in, and out, envisioning her anxiety slowly flowing out of her body like trails of electricity. 

“Swan, are you alright?” 

Her eyes shoot open as her heart skips a beat. There he is. Hook is sitting alone, his flask of rum in hand and his legs crossed under the table. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice still stammering. 

Shit. She didn’t mean it to sound like that. Too late, Hook’s smile has already faded into a mirthless expression. Emma curses herself inward. 

“It is always a pleasure to see you too, Swan.” 

Oh she hates the tone of his voice, this distant, cold tone that sounds so sad, so sad. She cannot bear it. 

“I’m sorry,” she exhales rapidly and she sees his eyebrow raise up under the surprise as she heaves short breathes. “I didn’t mean it like that.” A pause to stretch her hands, to feel the cold seize them gently. And then she tries again: “What I meant is.... why are you not inside?” 

He’s quick to strike back but his tone is tender: “Why aren’t you?” 

Although her heart still beats uncomfortably fast, he makes her smile. 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

She wonders if he can tell, if he can tell that she is still shaking, if he can tell that it is helping to simply be there and talk about something else. 

Unfortunately for her, her legs are still frozen and she stands on the stairs leading up to Granny’s as he ponders his words. 

Of course he can tell. Open book. 

“I’m not sure people really want me there,” he says. 

Emma’s stomach lurches forward just as her legs begin moving against her will. “That’s not true,” she begins, still walking towards him. 

She does not understand the wave of relief that washes over her as she strides his way, and suddenly the Champagnes bubbles are fizzing gently inside her empty belly. 

“Is that so?” He asks, his tone polite and distant. 

“Yes,” she asserts. She fists her cold palms. “People want you around. Look at Henry, he really likes you. And I --” she begins and then stops in her tracks. 

She’s standing before him now, and he’s staring at her with his bold blue eyes, his expression blank. 

He isn’t making this easier for her, but when did she make things easy for him? 

“And you…?” He’s challenging her, taunting her to jump the one step she will not take with him. 

She breathes in the cold air. 

“And I could use you around, in case something bad happens--” 

His mask finally drops, his eyebrow raising. “-- in case something bad happens?” he repeats, frankly grinning now. 

Emma’s lips quiver with a smile. “In case something bad happens,” she confirms, nodding. 

All anxiety has now departed from her body and Emma feels light for the first time in...in a very long time.   

And then Hook’s standing up in front of her, and Emma’s surprised to see how close they’ve gotten. 

There is this terrible moment during which they both stare at each other, and Emma glances down at his lips and fancies herself leaning in and -- 

“It’s a shame you’re not carrying that stupid leather satchel, tonight,” she says. 

She does not leave him time to ponder over her words before she crosses Granny’s door again. 

As things turn out, Hook fills the chair next to hers quite nicely. And by his side, the dinner isn’t that noisy and overwhelming anymore -- not that Emma would tell him. 

“Killian showed up! That’s great!” Henry looks up from his game when the pirate has gone to get one more serving of turkey. 

Emma smiles down at him. “Yeah. I’m glad, too.” Hook definitely seems at ease, twirling among the rest of the guests, one eyebrow raised as he examines the food on display. 

Clearly, he was wrong. He fits in just fine. And Emma starts thinking perhaps she was wrong, too. 

“It’s good for him, you know,” her son continues and Emma blinks to see Henry, head down, focused on his game as he speaks, “I don’t think he has that many friends here, but he definitely likes you.” 

Emma is glad Henry isn’t looking at her then, because it saves her the embarrassment of having to justify the blush on her cheeks. 

When Henry’s climbed back up to the B&B to get some sleep, and everyone’s helped to clean the dinner, and Hook proposes one last drink outside, Emma may or may not ask him to go ahead in order to retrieve a bush of mistletoe from the window above her booth. 

She may or may not slide it into her pocket and join the pirate outside. 

She lets him tell his ravishing tales of pirating and freedom, as they exchange his flask of rum. The starry sky is their only quiet companion as they sit outside until eventually the tingle of her lips cannot be ignored anymore, and Emma gets the small sprig out of her coat. 

The bewildered look on Hook’s face is a sight for the ages. 

“Pirate,” he says then, and he probably means to say more, but Emma is holding the mistletoe above their heads resolutely. 

“Tradition is tradition” she says, even as her free hand already closes over the lapel of his coat. 

“As you wish…”

Later, much later, Emma will blame the mix of rum and champagne for the way their lips met in an icy, starry kiss and Emma lingered above his lips, just a little bit, unable to get enough of him, until they were both panting outside of Granny’s -- forehead against forehead, twirls of white smoke escaping their mouths. 

               And yet… tomorrow was Christmas day, her traitorous mind whispered as she plunked her heavy tray of dishes on the counter where the Widow Lucas - the proprietor of their inn, and 'Granny' to all of them - was serving up orders and Ashley was doing dishes as fast as she could to serve warm bread and hearty stew on them once more. Again, her approach was none too gentle, as she huffed out a breath of air and pushed her hair from her face impatiently.

               "Careful there, my girl. Any dishes you break will be comin' from your pay," the widow threatened idly. Granny put on a tough front - one had to in a rough and tumble harbor town - and she meant business if she had to bring out her crossbow from where she kept it close to hand beneath the counter, but she was a soft heart beneath the necessary bluster and hard shell. She loved all "her girls" and most of her patrons dearly, wanting them to know they were welcome and cared for in her inn - and while many like she and her granddaughter had little in the way of blood-related family, she aimed to give them a feeling of home in her place.

               Emma smiled slightly, acknowledging Granny's words without comment, despite knowing the older woman would do no such thing. She unloaded the dirtied tankards and bowls more carefully into the soapy water for Ashley and forced herself to draw a couple of deep breaths as Granny loaded her up with the next order.

               Just as Emma moved to lift the tray and move off again, Granny placed her own hand over Emma's kindly, keeping her there until Emma met her eyes. "Don't let Ruby irk you. She means no harm," was the quietly offered advice, to which Emma nodded sagely, already knowing as much. It was only when Granny winked and added, "Of course, if you're awaiting some handsome sailor, I wager he'll be here soon," that Emma let out an exasperated huff and spun away to the sound of her boss and pseudo-grandmother's laughter at her back. Shaking her head, she seethed, 'Everyone thinks I'm waiting for Jones…. Well, I'm not!'

               The night went on without much further interruption; the snow fell in continued flakes, swirled and eddied by the window and pilling up on the windowsills. Inside their crowded tavern, however, the cozy warmth continued to rise right along with the songs and laughter of those gathered within. Soon Emma found her face flushed, cheeks pinked from the heat and close quarters. Even as the gathered crowd began to dwindle, slowly trickling out the door and homeward in twos and threes, as she, Ruby, Tink, and Ashley began to wipe down empty tables and see to storing up leftover food and seeing drinks stoppered and sealed for the night. Granny had gone upstairs nearly an hour before as the midnight hour had come and gone, claiming her old bones needed the rest, and Mulan, who did not appear the musical type, but who had once confessed when more than a bit tipsy on dwarf mead that her parents had seen that she was learn all sorts of marriageable skills in the hopes of seeing her matched with a smart, dashing husband before she had left hoe to make her own way - had switched from plunking out bawdy sea shanties and reels for the gathered revelers and lighting begun pecking out chords to a few softer and slower Yuletide carols as a background accompaniment to the cleaning and the quieter murmurs of those who still lingered in conversation over their last drinks.

               Not long after, Ruby silently slipped out the kitchen exit in back with the solemn huntsman who came every night to break bread and drink not at all other than to drink in her presence and bask in her company had stood and followed her like a silent shade as she beckoned from the doorway. Ashley had headed upstairs herself for some rest in her own apartments, as had Tink, saying the last town gazette's gossip section was calling her name. Mulan had paused at the door before heading to her own house a couple streets over, telling Emma she would make rounds of the block first, to see that all stragglers had gone home, and no trouble was lingering about them before she left.

               Emma thanked the beautiful warrior sincerely, knowing that it was no more or less than the other woman did every night, determined that these friends who took her and all others at face value, welcoming all lost and weary travelers without trying to change them were safe and secure. She would see no harm come to the Widow Lucas and her adopted "sisters" on her watch; Emma knew Mulan took that charge upon herself as a sworn duty. The rest of them would never have put such weight on her shoulders, but each one of them also slept easier knowing Mulan was nearby. The slim build, shining curtain of silky black hair and delicate features could have long ago earned Mulan the hand of any prince, pirate, or nobleman who laid eyes on her, but those physical attributes all deceptively hid her strength, speed, and core of deadly steel if anyone threatened harm to those she loved.

               "We'll be alright," Emma assured again, as Mulan bid her goodnight. "Everyone was in good spirits this evening. No fights, no trouble. Please rest easy once you get home. I can't imagine anything should happen until we see you again tomorrow."

               "As you say," the raven-haired woman replied simply, and with a slight dip of her head in a bow, she turned and slipped into the night with such soundless agility and grace that she seemed to melt into the darkness - unseen in mere seconds.

               Closing the door at last, Emma latched it securely, making certain the tavern and rooms above were locked properly for the night. She then began to move about the large, open main room, blowing out the candles still left aglow on scattered tabletops and snuffing out the wall sconces as well as she made a final pass around the main space. At last her final chores were complete, one last lit candle in her hand as she stood before the front window, looking down the moonlit street toward the docks for a moment longer. Captain Jones and his crew had yet to be seen in town, and while she could tell the others she didn't care - could even tell herself that in the light of day - here alone in the silent frosty night, Emma couldn't help wondering where he might be, and if he were well.

               "Jones, if you're out there," she murmured, hoping only the snow and ice and the Christmas star would hear her, "Take care or yourself… and be safe 'til we meet again."

               She had crossed the darkened room, placed her hand on the stair rail and was on the first step up to the second floor, when she heard the lightest rapping at the side door into the alley. Pausing there, Emma held her breath, listening uncertainly for the knock again, hardly daring to hope. She only had her candle in hand, the shadows long around her. Were Ruby and her huntsman still outside keeping each other warm despite the winter's chill? Could there be a prowler who had lain in wait until their self-appointed guardian had left for the night, or might it be the visitor she had been promised? The face she had looked for in anticipation every time the inn's door had opened to welcome a new patron that night? She would deny it to anyone, but those dark brows arched up into his windswept hair in challenge or jest, over eyes as blue as his beloved ocean, had been sorely missed; she had hoped to see him home again for Christmas more than she wanted to allow herself.

               She drew nearer to the side entrance, not wishing to give any her presence if the person on the other side bore ill intent, but straining to hear all the same; seeking some sign she was right and to confirm the feeling she had about who awaited on the other side. Gathering her courage, Emma reached for the fireplace poker beside the large stone hearth. Its embers were now dead for the night, but only a short while ago it had been blazing hotly, heating the entire space. She was not some frightened child at any rate; she'd hold her own against any intruder if the opened door led to a nasty surprise.

               Sure enough, the rapping came again, more firmly and with the added hushed entreaty, "Swan? Are you still about, Lass? Emma Swan! It's Captain Jones if you're still about and wish to see your sailor!"

               Her concerns brushed aside at the tones of that voice she could not mistake, Emma let the metal of her makeshift weapon clatter against the stone as it dropped from her fingers. With an exuberant little cry, she was at the door and lifting the latch in a second. The candle in her hand flickered and nearly went out with the stunned breath that left her upon glimpsing his handsome form once again after so long away.

               To his credit, Jones didn't tease; instead looking rather stunned himself as his gaze appeared busy drinking her in as well. Soon, he slipped inside out of the blustery chill and, seeing that her hand holding lighted taper was shaking considerably, he took it from her with care and reached to light the nearest sconce, casting their immediate surroundings with enough warm glow by which to see.

               Finally, she regained enough of her faculties to speak, and Emma stuttered, "It seemed you were not coming, Captain. Ruby mocked me all day for my foul temper and Tink joined in of course to say it was due to my missing and certain pirate and his crew. The busybodies!" she scoffed. But then she reached across the space between hem to catch his hand. "I did worry you might have been arrested, or hurt, or wrecked…or lost…any number of things. Or perhaps I gave you no clear assurance, and instead you had moved on, not to return."

               Killian shook his head just barely, looking troubled that she could even think he would abandon or fail her so easily. "Hardly Lass," he stated fervently, a sort of fiery glow in his eyes she had not seen before. I did say I would return by Yuletide, did I not? A pirate I might be, but I still have my honor.  It would take more than the increased vigilance of the Evil Queen and her forces to keep me away."

               Emma sucked in a worried breath at the cause of his delay. They all hoped to keep far under the notice of the usurper monarch - as cold and cruel as she was darkly attractive, she would end a life as easily as snapping her fingers, and at the slightest provocation, real or imagined. Life had been all the harder and more fraught with danger since Regina had wrested the crown from her kind and gentle stepdaughter Snow White, the rightful heir to the crown. If Killian were wanted by Queen Regina and had snuck back into her borders only to keep his promise, Emma could not bear to consider what would happen if he were discovered.

               Now was the moment of truth, before anymore needless time slipped past. It was time she told him what she had realized while no teasing friends or rowdy onlookers were listening in. "I missed you," she finally managed to croak out around the lump in her throat. "Thank you… Killian…for keeping your word."

               He dipped his head to look into her eyes where she had dropped her gaze to her feet. A strong, calloused hand, warm and gentle in its intent, tipped her chin back up to stare into his searching gaze. "Of course, Swan - Emma. All I could have wished for this holiday was…" he paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously and a hand coming up to worry the spot behind his ear - gesture she had long ago noticed signified nervousness. But he plunged on determinedly, "was to see you again, to see you and give you this."

               Pulling a small pouch from some inner pocket of his long leather jacket, he held it out to her with sparkling eyes, appearing almost boyish for a moment in his eagerness to see her open his gift, and whispering "Happy Christmas, Emma," as he placed it in her upturned palm.

               Emma's mouth formed a surprised "O", having not expected or hoped for anything more than his safe return. Opening the ties, she tilted the soft material until the item within spilled out in her hand. Holding up a long, golden chain with an exquisite stone of lovely pale green, near to jade in color, swinging from it, she was enchanted by the pendant he had brought her. "Oh, it's gorgeous," she breathed, rather stunned at how nice the piece of jewelry was.  She wore (or even owned, to be honest) little of such finery.

               "It's sea glass," Killian explained, taking the piece back in nimble fingers when she offered it, then turned, lifting her long hair so he could place the chain around her neck and fasten it for her. "Though sailors believe sea glass is good luck, that it keeps the wearer safe, and I would always wish you to be so, I knew it had to be yours because of the color. It reminded me vividly of your eyes…" Though the necklace was secured, his fingers still grazed featherlight along her skin, causing prickles of awareness to course throughout her body, and his own voice had turned decidedly husky.

               At last, Emma turned to face him once more, breaking the trance between them, but needing to thank him, and for him to see how touched she was by his gift, even if her voice was breathless and her words trembled with emotion. "I don't know what to say. You shouldn't have, but I adore it all the same. I'll treasure it, Killian. Truly." And without further hesitation or pausing to think and second guess, Emma threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly to her. "Thank you," she whispered against his chest, breathing in the salty, spicy essence of him and nuzzling against his chest. She realized with a force that almost knocked her off her feet that she never wanted to let go.

               She felt Killian Jones' fingers thread through her hair, stroking gently, reverently as they stood there wrapped up in each other, swaying slightly in the candle glow and the howl of the wind outside. Emma felt they might indeed stay that way forever, and that neither of them would mind at all, until more rapid knocking interrupted their silent moment. The door handle rattled urgently, and she heard a nervous voice she recognized as Killian's first mate's speaking in hurried words. "Cap'n, you told me to summon you when an hour had gone. I've already seen one patrol of black guard go by. If they notice the Jolly in the harbor…"

               "Aye, Smee," he gritted out, stopping the anxious flow of words. "Head back and make ready to sail. I'll follow in a moment."

               He sighed as he turned back to Emma, tracing his thumb over the apple of her cheek and pausing to caress the dimple in her chin as he cradled her face in his hand.

               "You have to go," she acknowledged reluctantly; hating it, but understanding and wanting to see him safe, just as he did her. Her words were wistful, wishing he could stay there with her - or that she could run away with him - but it was too much, too quickly, no matter how she dreaded being parted again so soon.

               "I must, for now," he affirmed, the regret lacing every syllable of his words. "But I hope that now you know I will return."

               She nodded mutely, her mind trying to memorize every detail of his face, his voice, his touch, until she could see him again. "And I will be here waiting for you," she promised with equal intent.

               Bending slightly, Killian brushed his lips against her cheek, his stubble tickling her skin and again making her shiver at the sensation. It was the lightest and most gallant of kisses, and yet it only served to make her burn for more - for him to take her in his arms, for those firm lips to kiss her everywhere, for him to take her to her own apartments, or back to his cabin. It would keep her burning for however long they might be kept apart.

Killian, a life-long believer in good form, simply wouldn’t stand for it. Since the apartment was in Emma’s name only, Walsh had no claim to it. And surprisingly to all (or unsurprisingly) that as soon as Regina mentioned her sister was single, Walsh had no problem moving out of Emma’s apartment, allowing Killian to move in.

So here he was, 9 months later, trudging up to the apartment that he and Emma shared.

His cheeks flushed even though no one was around.

The first time he’d mentioned that he was moving in with Emma, his brother had squawked and protested that he should’ve known Killian was seeing someone. And every time Killian spoke to Liam, Liam always asked if he and Emma started dating yet. Which…they were not a couple, they were just friends. Though Killian would’ve absolutely dated Emma in a heartbeat, if given the opportunity. She was beautiful, strong, and incredibly intelligent in a way that surprised people who were just meeting her. He absolutely adored her and cherished every moment he spent with her. But with the strength of their bond also came with the vulnerabilities Emma allowed him to see. She had been betrayed, hurt, and let very few people know what was truly going on in her mind. He was honored that after such a short time, she had let him into the circle that only included a handful of people. So he didn’t push her for anything romantic, for fear that if his intentions were misperceived that she would draw her walls up again. Not that he blamed her. She’d been disappointed by so many people in her life, and it would kill him if he ever joined those numbers.

Besides, what sort of a man would force his intentions by someone with whom he cohabitated a space with? Well, Walsh would, he could hear Emma’s derisive remark in her head. Still, he began marching up the steps in their apartment complex, hoping that Emma could hear. Tonight was the night that they were exchanging gifts before he went off to his brother’s house and she went off to her brother’s house. It was a tradition that Emma valued most highly, having missed her fair share of Christmases in her youth. Emma had been passed around the foster system almost her whole life until she’d met Ruth Nolan at age 16. Well, correction: she’d met Ruth’s son David (her now brother), who had brought her home to his mother on her first day of school, and Ruth had done everything humanly possible to keep Emma with them.

Killian, having been taken in by his older brother when his brother had emancipated from their father, could sympathize with wanting spend time with family. Though he was sure that, knowing Emma, she’d been caught up in something and waited until the last possible moment to wrap his gift despite her imminent departure. He knew this because he’d walked in on her wrapping his gift on his birthday. She’d scowled when he laughed, and her cheeks had turned red with embarrassment. But it had been the perfect gift and she still had surprised him with a wonderful chocolate cake.

His heart warmed affectionately upon how she’d gone out of her way to get it from his favorite bakery, one that marked the halfway point between where he lived and his brother’s. He recalled the shy smile that tugged at the edge of her lips when she told him that she hoped he liked his cake. It was the memory of his birthday that had inspired him to go out of his way to get a particularly excellent birthday for her in October, and now an excellent Christmas present. For her birthday, he’d gotten her a pair of high heeled boots that the saleswoman assured him were comfortable, and now were Emma’s go-to piece of footwear for chasing skips. 

For Christmas, he’d gotten her baby blanket repaired. She’d been left at a hospital with nothing but a knitted blanket with her name on it. It was all she had given toward any clue toward her parents. But a drunk Will had accidentally unraveled it at Halloween, and although she’d tried to hide it from their friends, Emma was absolutely distraught about the destruction of her blanket.

He was picturing the look on her face, hoping her eyes would light up with joy and he could watch her fingers reverently trace the knitwork when he arrived at the front door and was overcome with the notion that something was very wrong. The door was slightly ajar, which was unusual for their apartment. Immediately shifting into high alert, he opened the door gently. The apartment was beyond a disaster.

Things were thrown about everywhere, the window was thrust right open and one of the flowerpots was shattered on the ground. Killian began to catalog all of the damage, wondering whether or not there had been a robbery, when he heard the tiniest of sniffles. His blood ran cold, his shoulders became stiff and tight and his heart began to pick up in his chest. “Emma?” he called, trying to keep his worry at bay. As he moved through the apartment, there was a path of destruction no matter where he went. His mind kept picturing horrible scenario after horrible scenario, particularly as Emma’s sobs became louder and louder as he approached her bedroom.

“Emma?” he tried again, not hearing a response. Unable to stand it any longer, he thrust the door open. Her room had seemingly taken the worst hit; even though it was normally in a state of disarray, the destruction in her room could only be described as catastrophic. And there was Emma, in the middle of it, sobbing like the world was ending. He immediately scooped her up and placed her on the bed, frantically assessing her for injury. His Emma was a tough lass, and so for her to be crying like this meant the absolute worst of the worst.

When she seemed to realize it was him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against him. He wrapped himself around her protectively, stroking the back of her hair. “You’re all right, love,” he whispered softly. “You’re safe. I’m here…it’s all right, Emma.”

“’s not!” Emma choked out, curling up against him, her entire body heaving and shaking with the force of her cries. “It’s not all right!”

“What happened?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. Though he was not entirely unsure that she was unharmed, there still was the state of the apartment to contend with. He was desperate to clean it, but if there needed to be a police investigation, he couldn’t touch the damn thing.

Her shaking damn near broke his heart and he held her closer, shushing her gently. “It’s okay, love, it’s okay,” he promised her again.

“It’s not!” she hiccupped. “I lost it! I can’t find it!”

His heart picked up again, wondering if she’d gone looking for her baby blanket for comfort and was unable to find it. Suddenly, he felt like the world’s biggest asshole, taking her blanket without permission. It was something she treasured and was comforted by and he had no right to take it without her permission.

He looked down at her, preparing to make a million and one apologies to her and to assure her that her baby blanket was safe and she could have it right then and there, when she added miserably, “I lost your Christmas present!”

“What?” he asked, dumbfounded. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all but seeing how devastated Emma was kept his tongue in check. He knew that she wouldn’t have appreciated his chuckling.

She pulled away her head hung low as she continued to cry. “You must hate me!” she declared, still not looking at him. “I know it’s Christmas and I’m so sorry…I should’ve taken better care of it…”

It was only then that he realized that she’d mistaken his shock for anger, and he gently reached for her hand. “Emma, love,” he tried to soothe softly, running his thumb across her knuckles. “It’s okay. I’m not angry…”

“You will be when you find out what it is,” she muttered, her head still hung low.

“Emma, trust me, whatever my gift was supposed to be, it cannot be worse than the scenario I’d concocted in my head when I discovered the door ajar and the apartment destroyed,” he replied, reaching for her again. Maybe there was a part of him that still needed to reassure himself that she was safe. She finally looked up at him, her head cocked to the side curiously. “I…when I saw everything in disarray and heard your cries, I…I thought we’d been robbed and you’d been hurt,” he admitted shyly, taking his gaze away from hers now.

Her emerald eyes were wide with shock and her mouth hung open a little bit, still needing to reconcile every so soften that people cared about her. Emma’s jaw slid open as she stared at him, her tears stopping almost immediately at the revelation. “You were worried about me?” she squeaked.

“Aye, of course I was,” Killian breathed, holding her close to him. “Everything had gone to pieces and the apartment was not how I left it this morning.”

Emma sighed, scrubbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I wanted to clean it up before you got home but then I couldn’t find your present and—" Her breathing picked up again and tears began pooling in her eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Killian murmured, cupping her cheek in his hand. His thumb gently dragged across her cheek.

“And now I’m gonna leave you with all of this cuz I’m supposed to go to David’s!” she babbled. Her body seemed to tremble viciously in his hold. It was clear she’d been on edge and frantic for a while now, only just coming down. Her hand trembled visibly in his hand, and he’d never seen Emma so emotional or terrified. She’d come home battered and bruised, he’d stayed with her overnight in the hospital, but he’d never seen her like this.

His heart seemed to stop. He knew that she held great stock in her trusty bug, but he was unable and unwilling to place her life at risk on it. She was in no position to drive.

“Love, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go to be driving in the condition you’re in,” Killian said softly. “You know David won’t hold it against you if you delay your trip another day. You’re in no state to be driving right now. It’s dark, and you need to be at your best when you get on the road.”

Emma’s lips came together in a thin tight line. “Trust me,” she said sadly. “You’re not gonna want to spend the rest of the night with me and I should go.”

Closing her eyes, she hung her head. “Liam called a few weeks ago, and said he found some of your mother’s hand sewn ornaments in the attic...he wanted to know if...if you wanted them for your birthday. I told him no, that they’d make a lovely Christmas present.”  Her voice got smaller and smaller as she spoke, and a pit of dread formed in Killian’s stomach.

“I got the box and I don’t know where I put it and I’ve looked everywhere...so I’ll just...I’ll clean up and then I’ll go. You can return my Christmas present if you want to,” she finished quietly, not even daring to look at him. “And...and if you want to move out or if you want me to move out, I understand. I’ll need a few days to find a place, but...but I promise I can clear out.”

Killian took in a shaky breath. The loss hit him harder than he was willing to admit. His mother died when he was quite young, but he remembered her sitting in her rocking chair and sewing any ornament Killian or Liam asked of her. “Did...did Liam send me all of them?” he asked, unable to help the question. There was so much about Emma’s speech that he needed to address and respond to, but he couldn’t cling to the desperate hope that some of the ornaments survived.

“No,” Emma rasped, and she watched him with some trepidation. “I had to beg him to take some of them.”

Killian sighed with some relief, knowing that all wasn’t lost forever. Closing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths. She’d made the decision to save some for Liam. She’d tried to do this nice thing for him. She was always trying to do nice things for him and she deserved the benefit of the doubt.

And if he was honest, she wasn’t particularly the best searcher. Most things she looked at with a half-hearted glance before declaring she couldn’t find them.

So he wasn’t going to let himself believe that his present was gone, until he’d helped her search every last inch of the apartment.

“Let’s clean everything up,” Killian said kindly. “And we won’t discuss anyone moving out until we know for sure it’s lost to the ages and not in a hidden, obscure spot because you were sure you’d remember it later.” He was going to tease her about how many times she’d misplaced her keys, but she’d all but tackled him to the ground before he could take another breath.

He squeezed her tightly as she tucked herself into him. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“Aye, love,” he promised. “I won’t send you away.” Her whole body seemed to melt at the reassurance. He knew the need for her to hear those words stemmed from her days as a foster child, and he was more than happy to give them.

Seeing how she had clearly and thoroughly mentally lashed herself made it very hard to be angry with her. And if it had turned out that they were gone, he would mourn them like he mourned his mother. He hadn’t known her ornaments had survived after his father seemingly removed every sign of his mother from the house.

And to only know that they existed only when they seemed gone was upsetting, he wouldn’t lie.

But it certainly wasn’t a friendship ending event in his eyes. He would need some space to mourn, but he wouldn’t banish her from her home.

And she needed some tender care at the moment too. It was more than clear that she had done everything in her power to try and relocate them.

He scooped her up in his arms and gently carried her to the couch, which had mercifully been spared. “What—?” she started, pushing herself back up.

His heart seemingly broke again, looking back at her. The circles under her eyes seemed so dark. Her eyes were red and red-rimmed. What kind of awful, imaginary scenarios had she conjured for herself while he’d been thinking the worst?

They were so similar, both scarred by their pasts in different ways.

“I wasn’t joking about you recuperating, Emma,” he said softly. “So I’m gonna make you some cocoa. And when your nerves have settled, you can join me in the cleaning of the apartment.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Emma complained, throwing herself dramatically against the couch. “I lost priceless family heirlooms and destroyed the entire apartment…”

“I think you’ve already beat yourself up enough for it, love,” Killian murmured, trying to imbue every ounce of sincerity into his words. He knelt beside her, hoping he was being reassuring. “And while I won’t lie to you: I’ll be devastated if it well and truly is lost, you shouldn’t feel like you have to continue to beat yourself up.”

Emma frowned as she looked at him. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but then closed it. She seemed to slump into the couch, all the fight drained out of her body.

He went into the kitchen to give her some space. In addition to her cocoa, he decided to get some Christmas cookies from his hidden cookie stash. Killian tried not to listen as she declared to her brother and she was the worst person alive and she had no idea how Killian was going to forgive her or how she could even think about enjoying Christmas if she lost his gift.

Emma treasured sentimental things. He knew this about her. But he hoped that he would not forsake her favorite holiday for his sake.

He’d survive without the ornaments. Truly.

But he hoped to god that they found them. As each moment passed, he was becoming more painfully aware that his friendship with Emma may not survive this event. But not from his side.

She would probably keep herself at a distance and put her walls up out of sheer guilt.

He couldn’t stand to be behind those walls again.

He couldn’t stand her not knowing just how important she was to him.

Knowing how sentimental she was, he figured he had one last move in trying to prove her importance in his life. Breathing deeply, he rushed to his room. His bedroom was still immaculate, and so he was able to quickly duck under his bed.

The gift was still neatly wrapped, the bow skillfully placed on top. He smiled softly at the box before heading back out into the living room.

She’d wrapped a blanket around herself and she was curled up on her side.

She’d never looked more beautiful to him.

Killian gently walked toward her, and she tilted her head up at him questioningly. She blinked owlishly at him for a moment, blurting out, “That’s not my hot cocoa.”

He couldn’t help but burst out laughing in spite of himself. “No, it’s not,” he chuckled, putting the box on the table in front of her.

“But why?” Emma protested, her shoulders coming up around her ears. A guarded and caged look entered her eyes.

“Because I need you to know just how important you are to me, Emma. More important than any ornament ever could be.”

“But they were your mother’s,” Emma protested softly. Her voice caught as she added, “I’d kill to have something of my mom’s. All I have is a torn baby blanket.”

“Open your present, love,” Killian insisted softly.

Delicately, she undid his careful wrapping and made sure to save the bow. “It’s a box,” she said, looking up at him, not making a move to open it any further.

“Your gift is inside the box,” he teased.

Her hands stayed firmly folded in her lap. “Killian, I can’t accept this. Especially after what I did. I ruined your Christmas.”

“Love, don’t you know that you’re all I need for Christmas?” The words well and truly flew out of Killian’s mouth before he could stop them. Her head jerked up abruptly and her eyes were wide with shock. He was almost positive that his jaw was hanging open too. But he continued, “Don’t you know, Emma? It’s you. You here and happy is all I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted.” Killian scratched nervously behind his ear. “Perhaps some day as more than friends. But even if you never felt that way about me, it would still be all I’ve ever wanted.”

He could see the desperate flicker of hope enter her eyes, and he could practically see the thoughts chasing themselves across her face. He could say all those kind things to her, even when she had done what she considered to be an irredeemable act.

Because he truly cared for her.

And so he said the one thing he knew he could to confirm Emma’s hope.

“I love you, Emma.”

Before he could blink, his arms were full of her yet again and her mouth cautiously slid against his. He tightened his arm around her before returning her kiss, all but melting with relief that she not only believed in the strength of his feelings but seemed to return them as well.

When they broke apart, she rested his forehead against his. Very quietly, she asked against his lips, “You love me even though I didn’t get you a Christmas present?”

“I’d say you just did, love,” he hummed, chasing her lips again. She pulled away, levelling him with a look that told him that she genuinely did need the reassurance even though the corners of her mouth were twitching as if to fight back a smile. “Aye, love,” he promised. “They’re just ornaments.”

“I’ll make you new ones,” she promised, resting her hand on his chest. “They’ll be ugly and misshapen, but I’ll—” He silenced her again with a soft and gentle kiss, and Killian let out a sigh of relief when Emma seemed to melt against him. When they broke apart again, Emma’s head rest against his shoulder and he swayed with her gently in the kitchen.

“How long have you been hiding my present from me?” she asked, still staring at the box on the coffee table. “And where? I go into your room like all the time, I can’t believe I didn’t find it!”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Why, I put it in the one place I know you don’t look: under the bed.”

Emma gasped and jerked her head up so quickly that he would’ve had a broken nose if not for his quick reflexes. “I know where the box with the ornaments is!” she cried joyously, tearing herself from his arms. He followed her back to her room, where she was more than halfway under her bed, pushing things out. “I hid it behind a ton of other stuff in case you ever went looking under my bed!” she exclaimed, her voice muffled.

“Why would I go looking underneath your bed, love?” Killian asked, unable to hold back his laughter this time.

“Because hiding anything from you is a full-time job,” Emma retorted happily, wiggling out from under the bed. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes covered in dust, but her eyes gleamed with unadulterated exuberance as she held a small white box on her hand. Liam’s handwriting on the shipping label only confirmed that these were indeed the box of ornaments.

She all but sprung up and thrust the box into his hand. “Open it!” she demanded excitedly. The grin on her face was infectious, and she was every bit of the “kid on Christmas morning” picture, even though she was a fully grown adult.

Looking at Liam’s handwriting and knowing that he was only some clear tape away from being connected with a piece of his mother made his eyes water. Emma’s hand was quick to brush away any tears before they fell, and he dipped his cheek to kiss her palm. “Thank you,” he rasped, his voice too choked with emotion to be any louder. “Really, Emma. This is…”

“Don’t you know that I love you too?” she asked as if it was all the explanation he could’ve ever needed.

“Aye, I do,” he replied, and gingerly opened the box. There were some familiar ornaments that he’d seen in pictures: a kite from her grandmother that dated back to 1895, a pig, a basket, and angel, each one with a hand-embroidered date on it. But the one that caught was one he was not familiar with. The date on the back said 1990, which would’ve been his first Christmas. Gingerly flipping it over, a beautiful swan stared up back at him and he found his eyes watering again.

“Did you know?” was all he could spit out.

“No,” she replied, her voice equally choked up. She gingerly rested her head against his shoulder as she looked into the box of ornaments with him. “But it seems your mom did.”

“Aye…” he chuckled wetly. “So she did.”

 “Can we put them on the tree?” Emma asked hopefully, looking up at him. Unable to help himself, he leaned down to kiss her again, pouring his love and thanks into the gentle kiss.

“We should,” he agreed against her lips. “And we will. But only after you open your present.”

Emma rolled her eyes playfully and all but dragged him back to the living room with her. He watched as she opened the box and then immediately shut it again. “Is that…?” she asked.

“Aye, love,” he promised. “It is.” With the most care and reverence he’d ever seen her take with anything, she gently took her repaired baby blanket out of the box. Her fingers gently trailed over the stitching, the letters of her name, all of it, as if to try to prove to herself it was real.

He would never forget the loving and content look on her face for as long as he lived.

It was probably what motivated to get her another box one year later.

Only that one had a ring in it.

And two years later?