What a Year (for a New Year) (CS FF)
Rated: T Words: Too many 13.5k Summary: Killian Jones, Boston Bruins right winger, needs a break from the questions and concerns over his career-threatening injury. He thought Storybrooke would be the perfect place to escape to. What he didn't expect was Emma Swan, her kid and a holiday season he never knew he needed.
Also on: AO3 | FFN
AN: For @clockadile , it’s been an absolute pleasure being your CSSS and getting to know you. Here’s to more canadian convos and chats going forward. And all my thanks goes to @piratesails !! She is the real holiday hero for being a beta for this monster. Thank you!
What a Year (for a New Year)
Emma’s eyes lazily follow the thick snowflakes as they rush from the slate-colored sky, quickly blanketing everything they touch. The layers of snow grow higher by the hour, across the railings and over the small cedar bench (one she should have put away weeks ago). A shiver catches her suddenly, and she absently rubs her hands over her bare arms as she slides her gaze over to her computer screen. She frowns at the blinking black bar. Her eyes narrow, wondering if she can will the words to appear on the screen.
The bar continues to blink.
Apparently not.
She closes the cover delicately -- a deep contrast to the frustration she’s feeling -- and concedes momentary defeat.
Emma knows action. She knows how to find and help people. She knows which doors to knock on and which to knock down, but there’s also so much more she wishes she could do. She wants to reach more people. And Ariel (the Ariel Atwater of the Boston Globe), who had somehow read her small piece in the Storybooke Daily Mirror had contacted her personally, asking her to contribute a more significant feature in the Globe.
“Think of the lost girls and boys, think of how many of them are just like you. Looking for hope, looking for someone to believe in.”
Well, that was a lot to handle in one conversation.
Emma had promptly hung up the phone. Probably not her brightest moment, but when a complete stranger was throwing around words like lost girl, and savior, well, Emma had needed a moment to process. Eventually, after a few days, and Ariel herself showing up at her office in the social services department of city hall, she had been swayed to at least try.
And she had tried and made progress. Emma found herself revealing pieces of her own story that she had never told anyone, but where she was having trouble was finding a way to close it all out. Feeling her tension rise, Emma forces her eyes shut and focuses on what did go well today.
She sees the tentative smiles on Ava and Nicholas’ faces as they are introduced to their father for the first time. The man ringing his hat in his hands before dropping to his knees to hug both children.
She lets her breath out in a long slow stream and feels some of the tension leave her body. After another steady breath, she pushes away from the desk, letting the momentum roll the chair until it stops in the middle of the room. Hands on her stomach she turns the chair this way and that, trying to decide what to do next.
She spies the small black cat peering at her from the arm of the couch.
“What did I say about the couch?” Emma asks aloud. The cat blinks at her once before gracefully jumping to the floor. The feline saunters into the room, tail held high, and pauses at her feet. Emma reaches out a toe and rubs at the cat’s head. “What kind of name for a cat is Graham anyway?”
Emma can almost hear Henry groaning, impatiently explaining for the hundredth time that he got the name from the lead character of the latest comic series he’s been reading, “He’s only the coolest character, mom. Sheriff by day, wolf by night.”
Emma eyes the cat. “You a wolf by night?”
Graham meows once and flops down to his side.
Emma shrugs at the response and spins the chair to face the kitchen. An unopened bottle of her favorite red sits on the counter. She should get to the laundry, and check her case files for tomorrow. She should do a lot of things, but it only takes her a moment to justify the wine; it has been a long week -- work, countless hours of writing, parent-teacher meeting, hockey practice –
She pushes herself up and pads lightly to the kitchen, plucking the bottle of Masi as she passes, and roots around in the messy catch-all drawer for the wine opener. She is just pulling the cork out when she hears something hit the ground. Emma spins to see the cat sitting at her desk, her notebook on the floor.
“Hey!”
Graham blinks in return, unaffected.
After a beat Emma watches as the cat proceeds to go for her computer wire, sharp little teeth bared.
“Dude! Stop, you little pest!”
At this second warning and with Emma’s threatening step into the living room, the cat finally hops down from the desk and follows Emma into the kitchen, stopping at his empty food bowl. Emma shakes her head but fills his bowl and bends to give Graham a scratch behind his ear.
“Alright, my turn now,” Emma mumbles and turns to fill her glass.
**
Emma gets as far as the kitchen counter, elbows against the chilled marble as she nibbles on crackers and cheese, sipping her wine. Through gossamer curtains, Emma catches sight of the snow that continues to fall. She worries a little about the roads, but Ashley had assured her she would get the kids home safely from the theater. She chooses instead to try and focus on the music that filters in from the living room.
Popping the last piece of cheese into her mouth, Emma, wine in hand, dances over to the radio, turning it up. She twirls as the song comes to an end and switches to a mellower beat. As she comes to a stop, she sips her wine a little slower and sighs when she spots Henry’s sweater under the coffee table. She grabs it and makes her way to his room to toss it onto his bed, but it’s as she sets foot in his room that another shiver racks her frame. The cold floor immediately permeates through her thin socks. Her eyes catch the movement of Henry’s curtains, fluttering softly from an outside breeze.
“Really, kid?” she mumbles crossing the room. She is reaching for the curtain when she feels Graham winding his way through her legs. “What do you think you’re,” her words trail off as Graham hops on the bed and suddenly disappears behind the curtain.
Emma doesn’t think anything of it until she pulls the curtains back and finds an opened window and paw prints in the snow.
“HEY!” Emma hisses at the cat. He at least has the decency to stop and look back. Although in the end, he doesn’t seem concerned with Emma’s anxious call because no sooner, he is on the move again, squeezing through the railings and onto the neighbor’s balcony.
Emma rushes out of the bedroom and to the patio doors, wrenching them open, the snow and wind immediately stopping her short, the cold biting every bare inch of her skin.
“Graham, get back here,” she pleads and takes a tentative step towards the cat. Wrong move.
With a flick of his tail, and to Emma’s immediate horror, the cat darts through the partially opened door of her neighbor’s condo. She hesitates in shocked silence.
“Graham! Here kitty…” Emma pushes out through clenched, chattering teeth, but there is no cat and no movement at the door.
She considers it a small victory that there is no scream of horror from the neighbor. She wasn’t even sure anyone lived there until last week when the mail started disappearing. She hasn’t met them yet, but silently hopes that whoever they are, they aren’t at home. She can get the cat out, and no one will be the wiser.
She studies the waist-high railing separating the two balconies and finally comes to a decision. She steps out, grumbling when the snow immediately slips into her shoes. With a huff, she dusts the cedar bench off and drags it closer to the railing. Wine in hand, she lifts herself up onto the edge of the railing and balances precariously on the top. The thought crosses her mind that she should leave her glass inside, but having gotten this far, she takes a sip of liquid courage and throws her legs over. She lands inelegantly, but thanks to the snow, quietly, nary a drop of wine spilled.
She inches towards the open door with tentative steps and offers a soft, “Hello? Anyone home?”
The silence drags on and it only gets colder. She should have grabbed a jacket.
“Just looking for my son’s asshole cat,” Emma mutters, finally stepping into the condo and onto a small mat of an almost mirror image of her unit. The color scheme is bolder than hers; a dark navy accent wall, stiff looking leather couch, rustic wood coffee table – it all feels very masculine. She slips out of her shoes and closes the door behind her. She looks around the dimly lit home and is about to approach a picture on the wall when she shakes her head, reminding herself of why she is here and how she needs to get the hell out of this stranger’s house. The last thing she needs is to call in a favor to David at the police station and explain why she was caught breaking and entering.
“Graham,” she singsongs softly and pauses. “Psss, psss, psss,” she adds a few sounds she thinks a cat would respond to and waits. Suddenly she hears the sound of nails on material and spins, rushing over to the couch.
“Duuuuude!” she cries out, and the sound stops. She rests her wine glass on the coffee table and drops to her knees, peering beneath the couch. Yellow eyes stare back. The cat is on his back, nails hooked in the material of the underside of the couch. “Look, there’s no damage. No one looks under here. Can you do me a solid and come out?”
The cat rolls onto his stomach and shimmies back. Emma drops her forehead to the floor and groans. And of course, this is when she hears the sound of a key in the front door. No time to come up with a plan, she rushes to sit up, rapping her shoulder on the coffee table. Biting her lip against the jarring pain, she just manages to catch her wine glass before it topples over.
Fuuuuuuck.
And this is how her new neighbor finds her: kneeling beside his couch, glass of wine clutched in a death grip, messy blond hair falling over her face. She blows a stray lock away and furtively glances towards the doorway, eyes downcast. Emma spots the snow-covered boots of a man hovering at the threshold. Her eyes trail up jean-clad legs, to a gray wool peacoat, snow melting across the front.
Well Emma, chin up. You’ve been in worse situations.
She feels the adrenaline kicking in, and before she can succumb to the nerves, she forces her eyes up and sucks in a breath. He just had to be beautiful – although her thoughts hesitate as she takes in the cool blue eyes that are fast on hers – beautiful but a little rough. Her eyes bounce from the cut across his cheek to the dark scruff lining his jaw that looks just a bit unkempt. She watches that jaw clench, and it causes a clenching of another kind, deep in her belly. She inwardly curses her body’s reaction. It’s clearly been too long. She swallows hard, trying to calm her frantically beating heart.
Unsure of what to say she absently brings her wine glass to her lips. His eyebrow pops up, and this small response transforms his features into something a little more approachable and, Emma thinks, a little more familiar. She shrugs, taking a sip of her wine and gets to her feet.
The stranger finally closes the door behind him and tosses his keys in a bowl but doesn’t come any closer.
“You certainly are the boldest puck bunny I’ve encountered,” he finally addresses her in a cold tone. The English accent catches her off-guard, as do his eyes that give her a quick once-over. Emma is suddenly aware of her threadbare t-shirt and leggings. She glances back to him when the words he’s just used rattles around in her brain.
“Puck bunny?” she asks, wondering if it’s an English turn of phrase she isn’t aware of.
He either doesn’t hear her or chooses to ignore the question seeing as he is faced with the more pressing matter of a stranger in his living room.
“Now lass, as beautiful as you are, nothing will be happening here. I need you to kindly explain how you broke into my home before I decide if I’m calling the police,” her neighbor says, pulling his phone from his pocket.
Emma scrunches her nose at his first statement.
Who is this guy and what does he think she’s here for?
However, her thoughts are quickly dismissed as the word police catches up with her. She holds up her hands, before pointing at him with her wine glass.
“Hey, whoa. What are you going on about? No need for the police, I’m just here about my cat,” she protests, and before she can explain further, she is brought up short by his half laugh.
“Cat? Are you telling me you are here about your puss--”
“EXCUSE ME.” She cuts him off, her eyes wide in horror.
He finally cracks a smile and takes a few steps into the room, looking a little more relaxed.
“I’m your neighbor,” she begins but he returns the favor, cutting her off.
“Ruby is my neighbor, you are not Ruby,” he says tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes trailing over her, smirk in place.
Emma closes her eyes and counts to five.
“You asked me to explain, do you want to hear it or not?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and it’s then she sees his left hand is wrapped in gauze, three fingers set in a cast. Sensing her eyes on his injury, he drops his hand to his side and gives her a tight nod.
“My name is Emma. Ruby is a good friend of mine; she sublet the condo to me months ago. She told me nothing of this,” Emma waves in his general direction and ignores his popped eyebrow, choosing to continue. “My cat ran in through your open back door – maybe you should close it if you don’t want unwanted guests,” Emma adds pointedly. “You trying to heat up all of Storybrooke?”
“Airing out the place. It’s been closed up a while,” he mumbles and then adds, “I didn’t expect any guests, and so far, I only see the two-legged variety.”
Emma sighs.
“Graham is under the couch. Trust me, I came for the cat, not to throw myself at the likes of you,” Emma explains and partially wishes she’d left the last part out, but she has to admit she likes the way his eyes widen, a little put out.
“With your glass of cabernet?” he adds.
“It’s a red blend,” she mutters, and his eyebrow pops up again. She tilts her head, studying him; there was something familiar about the look. Her eyes flit around the room and land on a framed photograph: elated faces, bodies dressed in thick equipment, hoisting a trophy. “Killian Jones!” she says suddenly, wine glass gesturing to him. “You play for the Bruins.”
She thought he would be pleased that she figured it out. Instead, he frowns and then suddenly the pieces connect.
“Shit. You play for the Bruins. You own my place. Look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kick us out before Christmas. Or at all really. It’s just a misunderstanding.”
Killian looks decidedly confused.
“Kick you out? What? Who?”
Emma points to herself, “Emma Swan.”
“Emma Swan,” he repeats, taking a few steps further into the room, only the coffee table separating them now. He taps the table leg in thought before looking up at her from under dark lashes. Emma holds her breath.
“At least I know what name to give the police.”
Emma’s eyes widen, grip tensing on the now empty wine glass.
“You... I told you… The police. The cat.”
He is clearly better than her at keeping his expression neutral and lets her prattle on.
“Again, a cat which I have yet to see,” he reminds her. She frowns, first at the couch where Graham is hiding and then at her empty glass. He gestures towards her glass with his chin.
“Shall I fetch you more wine? I’m sure I have a red blend on hand” He makes sure to stress her earlier correction, a teasing tone infiltrating his accented words.
She narrows her eyes at him. He might be better at hiding his thoughts, but his eyes are dancing. She won’t bite.
“No thank you, I already have a bottle open next door,” Emma responds lightly. “Now if you’ll just give me a moment.” Emma jerks her head towards the couch, from where Graham has yet to emerge.
“By all means,” Killian nods his consent and settles in a chair across from her, ankle over knee. Emma allows herself one last glance at the rousing sight he poses and forces herself back on her hands and knees, empty glass on the table, trying not to feel utterly humiliated.
Graham is exactly where she left him, eyes barely open, paws curled underneath him. If she wasn’t so mad, she might even call him cute.
“Psst, Graham! Come here!” Emma tries again, trying to keep her voice low but the deep chuckle from across the room suggests she was anything but.
“Perhaps if you were politer, love.”
Emma does not reward his comment with a glance, but after biting off a silent oath, she closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. When she opens them again, she finds Graham staring back.
“Hey Graham, please come out,” she says softly and scratches the floor lightly with her nails. To her immense surprise, the cat slinks out into the open space. She pops up to her knees with a shout of success. The cat rubs up against her this way and that, before taking a seat beside her. She can’t help but grin widely at Killian.
“See!” She points to the cat and turns to scratch under his chin, the purring rolling out of him immediately. She looks up to find Killian crossing the room, a smile on his face mirroring her own. Her stomach flips, and she only hesitates a moment at his outstretched hand.
He helps her up and doesn’t makes a move to let go. She watches his Adam’s apple bob and gains some confidence at his sudden nerves.
“Can you call off the police now?” she asks, squeezing his hand before bending down to grab the cat.
“I suppose I shan’t be pressing charges today. As peculiar as this situation is, I do believe you are telling the truth.” His blue eyes flit across her face.
He’s even more beautiful up close but also, tired. There might be a cut across his cheek from a hockey injury, but the bruising under his eyes comes from sleepless nights and bone-weary exhaustion. She tries to remember what happened to him but can’t recall.
“Thank you,” she whispers, taking a few steps back but pauses, “But, you know, if your door had been closed,” she trails off.
“Wait, this is my fault? Doesn’t your door have to be open too? Shouldn’t we equally shoulder the blame?”
“I have a kid.”
“You have a kid?” confusion coloring his question.
“Yeah, you have a problem with that? He’s a good kid.”
“I didn’t mean-- it’s not,” he trails off, apparently unsure what they are arguing about now. He shakes his head and seems to find his footing again as a smile spreads across his face.
It throws her off.
“I’m sure if he’s anything like his mother, he’s a great kid.”
Emma’s eyes narrow and he holds up his hand in a placating manner but an incredulous laugh bubbles out of him anyway.
Emma feels her smile tugging at her lips. “A good kid who leaves his window open in December. Sorry,” Emma finally mumbles.
“You know, it’s quite alright, love. It’s actually brought some much-needed levity to my day, to be honest.”
Before Emma can ask what he means, they both hear Henry call out for her.
“Mom! Where are you?”
Graham struggles from her arms, and she lets him go. He darts outside, quickly slipping through the rails, and without a glance back, dashes into his actual home.
“I have to go,” she nods towards the door. Killian nods but follows her into the cold.
Emma eyes the railing and jumps when she feels him close behind, his voice a whisper in her ear. She freezes.
“Would you like a boost?”
She turns and has to look up, their breath clouds and mingles as Emma hesitates.
“Are you sure, with your hand?”
His smile drops and Emma immediately regrets her question, albeit a valid one.
“I have a useless hand, but I’m not a complete invalid.”
“I didn’t mean --”
Killian drops his head and takes a deep breath.
“I know you didn’t, I’m sorry, I’m,” he pauses, and Emma shivers as she waits. “I’m sorry, you’re freezing. Let me help; I assure you it’s fine.”
And before she knows what’s happening, his right hand and left palm are on her waist, and he’s helped her up onto the railing.
“Sorry again, and for the, um, breaking and entering. It won’t happen again,” she manages to say and makes to turn but the fingers on his right-hand squeeze, holding her in place.
“And again, after perhaps a rocky start, this was, nice. No need for apologies,” he admits and finally takes a step away.
Emma manages to turn herself and finds her footing on the bench.
“Good night, Killian,” she whispers, giving him a last look before stepping into her place.
She slides the door closed and leans back against it, suddenly warm all over.
“You look weird, why do you look weird?”
Emma jumps at her kid’s voice, suddenly right in front of her. He has Graham purring in his arms. Henry is staring at her like she’s crazy. Maybe she is. She can still feel the pressure of his hand on her hip.
“Maybe it’s because I had to brave the cold, because someone left their bedroom window open. In December I might add, and that someone’s cat escaped.”
Henry looks sheepish.
“Sorry.”
“Mmm.”
Henry wraps her in a tight hug, Graham stuck in the middle and a little less than thrilled about the situation.
“I’ll make you a hot cocoa?” Henry offers.
How is she supposed to be mad now?
She concedes. “That would be great, kid.”
**
“If you get your work done before supper, you can find something for us to watch on Netflix tonight,” Emma says around the grocery bag, toeing off her boots and nudging the front door closed with her hip. She looks around the bag to see Henry kicking his boots into the closet.
“Can I put the lights we got up in my room first?”
Emma hesitates.
“Please, it’s already December second and we don’t have anything decorated yet.”
“Not December second!” Emma teases and she can almost feel Henry roll his eyes.
“Mom.”
“Sure, you can put the lights up, just help me with these groceries first.”
They are on their way to the kitchen when a voice startles them both.
“Greetings, Swan and smaller Swan.”
Henry handles it well, socked feet sliding to a stop across the wood floor, eyes wide. Emma on the other hand handles it with less grace.
She chokes on her scream, only managing to catch it half way when she recognizes the voice. Although, there is no catching her grocery bag as it topples out of her grasp, spilling half its contents over the hardwood. Thankfully the plastic bags stay hooked over her fingers. She closes her eyes and breathes in through her nose but her voice still raises in pitch.
“Really? You broke into my house? Was that necessary?” she asks, grateful the shakes wracking her body don’t sound in her voice. She glances over at Henry to make sure he’s okay, but his look of surprise has already morphed into one of glee at whatever is happening.
What was happening? Since when did Emma have professional hockey players breaking into her home?
“Shh, you’ll wake the beast,” a whispered response filters across the room.
Emma slowly turns towards the living room and spies Killian Jones, stretched out on her couch, one arm behind his head, a sleeping Graham sprawled across his chest. In all the ways she had pictured their second encounter -- and okay, over the last few days maybe she had pictures a few, two, four tops — this had not been one of them.
“Besides, I no more broke into here than you did into mine,” he states, a sleepy lopsided grin on his face. Killian deposits the cat on the floor and lifts up from the couch. The hair at the back of his head is in complete disarray, static pulling it straight out, and she wonders how long he’s actually been there. She can’t help but note he looks a little less tired.
“Mom! You broke into someone’s house? So cool!” Henry exclaims, eyes bouncing between the two before landing back on Killian. “Whoa, wait. You’re Killian Jones.” Henry’s voice is tinted with awe.
And this is what makes Killian look bashful. Not being caught breaking in or this whole odd situation, but her eleven year old kid looking at him like he is some kind of star, which, really, he should be used to. He scratches behind his ear, the tip of which pinks at the statement. Emma tilts her head to study him.
“Pleased to meet you,” he trails off looking from Henry and to Emma. She somehow gets the impression he is asking for permission. Something she appreciates.
Henry looks like he hasn’t heard the question, still clearly enthralled by being in the presence of one of his idols.
“This is Henry, and Henry, it’s actually not cool to break into someone’s house. I was grabbing your cat? Remember? The one you let escape.” Emma gives her son a pointed look before heading towards the kitchen, stepping over the fallen groceries. “You’re picking that up,” she adds over her shoulder, eyes on Killian.
“I’m an injured man,” Killian replies but with no real heat as he is already heading towards the box of cereal and other assortment of canned goods strewn across the floor.
Henry dumps his own bags in the kitchen before hurrying over to help Killian.
“She totally doesn’t care. I had a broken arm once and I still had to take out the garbage,” Henry explains, eager to have something in common, piling his arms with canned tomatoes and sauce.
“I don’t remember your legs also being broken, were they?” Emma asks, slowly pulling items out of the bags, watching the odd scene before her. Killian straightens first and gives her a warm look that has color rising to her cheeks. She quickly looks away.
“Well, it is good form to help your mum whenever you can Henry, so I’m sure it was very much appreciated. Just like I appreciate the help you are lending me now.”
She is not sure if it’s the casual comment or the way her kid’s chest puffs out at the praise, but it causes her breath to hitch and she has to rest her hands on the counter to keep them from trembling. This isn’t how she operates with men, especially not around Henry. And what is she even thinking is going on anyway? She is being ridiculous, tired –
“Love?” his voice is closer, and she jumps when a warm hand closes over hers. She pulls her hand away and busies herself with the rest of the groceries. She can feel him watching her, just like she can feel her son rooting around the bags on the counter.
“I’m going to put these up now, okay?” Henry says more than asks, finding the Christmas lights, already heading towards his room, leaving Emma and Killian alone. She longs for Henry’s stress-free attitude, not the goosebumps that are spreading across her skin or the silence that is stretching out in the kitchen.
Maybe she should put some music on. Maybe she should ask him a question. What is he doing in Storybrooke? What happened to his hand? Why did he look so tired the other day? She turns with determination.
“So, are you going to tell me why you broke into my place or do you do that with all the girls?”
Oh God, where did that come from?
Her own words and the way his eyes shoot to hers, cause her to take a few steps back but he reaches out to stop her from hitting the counter. His hand lingers on her elbow, his thumb running back and forth. She squeezes the bag of marshmallows tightly in her fist as she tilts her head up.
She watches him watch her. His eyes blue and curious. She hopes he doesn’t feel the shiver as his fingers leave her elbow and trail down her arm.
“Careful love, wouldn’t want to ruin these marshmallows,” he whispers, taking the bag from her grasp and tossing it onto the counter behind her. He also takes a deep breath, preparing himself for an explanation.
“No, this is definitely a first for me and I didn’t quite break in, your patio door was unlocked,” he explains, but it’s the how, not the why. The question must still be on her face because his mouth ticks up in a flirty smirk. “You forgot your empty glass of red blend. I was simply taking it upon myself to return it to you, lest you felt the need to imbibe further.” He nods towards her desk, where a new bottle of wine sits along with her glass but it appears he isn’t done. His teasing smile falls away, replaced with something gentler. “Or perhaps I just wanted to see you again.”
“You could probably just use the front door next time,” Emma whispers before she can think of the implications.
“Next time?” he questions and she’s confused all over again. How is she supposed to think with her fried nerves and the blues eyes, and his chest brushing hers every time she tries to take a breath, not to mention her kid just down the hall, and what does she expect from a professional hockey player anyway? She turns away, needing to get some space. She grabs the marshmallows, shoving them in the pantry, and grabs a few other items, all but jamming them into the fridge.
“Yeah, sure. Next time or not or, whatever,” she trips over her words, shrugging, grateful for the cold air of the fridge against her warming cheeks. She counts to three and closes the door, turning back.
Killian has given her some space, moving back to lean against the opposite counter, legs crossed at the ankles.
“I’d like that.”
Oh.
“Oh, okay. Great.”
She’s making additional plans with a man she’s just met. A professional hockey player. An injured one that doesn’t seem to be with his team at the moment. Is that normal? Why Storybrooke? What the hell is she doing? Emma falls back against the fridge, unsure of what to say next, in case she blurts all the things out.
“I think you put your cereal in the fridge, love,” Killian offers, a new teasing smile stretching across his face, oblivious to all the questions she is holding back.
Emma scoffs, but doesn’t open the fridge, realizing she has no idea what she put in there.
“I did not,” she responds instead. He pushes off the counter and saunters towards her.
“Why don’t we have a look then,” he asks, sliding in close, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to--
“I’M STARVING. When are we eating?”
The sudden exclamation from Henry has them jumping apart, Killian back to his spot against the counter, and Emma plastered against the fridge. She looks around the kitchen and grabs the towel from the counter and wrings it tightly between her hands.
Henry stops between.
“You look weird again,” he states, watching her.
“What? I do not.”
He nudges her out of the way and opens the fridge.
“Yeah you do, you look exactly like the other day when you rescued Graham. All pink and weird.”
Killian does his best to cover his laugh with a cough, eyes dancing as he watches her.
Emma opens and closes her mouth, unable to find her words.
“Doesn’t she, Killian?” Henry asks without looking back, as if this is a normal thing, throwing a question to Killian.
“I think she looks lovely.”
Emma can’t look at either of them.
“Oookay. Hey Mom, why did you put the cereal in the fridge?”
This time Killian can’t hide his laughter but thankfully he leaves the kitchen, wandering over to where he left the bottle of wine. Emma takes a few deep breaths and finally steels herself.
“I read about it on Facebook this morning, something about keeping it fresher.”
She’s proud of that one and absolutely refuses to acknowledge the chuckles coming from the living room.
“Whatever you say,” Henry mumbles closing the fridge again. “Hey Killian, are staying for supper? Mom’s making her famous tortilla soup.”
Emma looks to the ceiling. She loves her kid, but sometimes his heart moves faster than she can keep up with. Speaking of Henry’s heart and his eagerness to take in strays, Graham winds his way around her legs and sits beside her.
He gives a small meow as if to say, Well?
She looks up to find Killian watching her.
“You don’t--”
What the hell.
“Well it is famous, at least between these four walls. Would you like to stay?” she finally asks and knows she’s made the right choice when she sees his shoulders relax and a true smile spread across his face.
“It would be an honor,” he answers and picks up the wine, holding it up in question. Emma gives him a small nod.
“Cool,” Henry seems to reply for the both of them, disappearing once again down the hall.
Cool, indeed.
**
She does get some answers to her questions, but not at first. Oh, he talks. He regales Henry with stories about the Bruins, about other star players in the league and cities he’s visited. Not much about himself but Henry doesn’t seem to mind, thoroughly distracted with all the other information. And Killian listens with rapt attention when Henry describes his first goal, waving away any comments about how long it took him to get it or how he isn’t as good as the other boys on the team.
“Do you like playing? Do you practice hard? Are you having fun?”
Henry had nodded with wide eyes.
“Everything else will come. I was never the best or the fastest or picked first but I loved the game and I worked hard every day. It’s about what’s in here,” Killian paused and tapped his heart.
“For real?” Henry had asked, voice full of hope.
“Absolutely, lad.”
So, she hadn’t gotten answers right away but she’d seen her kid leave the table with a dopey grin on his face and that’s more than she could have asked for.
“Thanks for that,” she says after the dishes are dropped in the sink and the lights are dimmed. Henry had excused himself to work on Christmas cards and they were left alone.
She’d topped off his glass of wine and feeling a little warm and relaxed herself, nudged him with her hip before making her way to the living room. It’s quiet and comfortable on her couch, and she pulls her legs up while she waits to see what Killian decides to do.
He takes a sip of his wine before walking to the living room. He stops to look at the pictures lining the wall.
“Nonsense, Swan. It was my pleasure,” he says quietly, eyes still on the pictures. “Is there a,” he starts and stops, turning around. She waits, pretty confident she knows where he’s going.
He leaves the pictures behind and surprises her by settling in the middle of the couch, thigh brushing her knees. He kicks his legs onto the table and finally looks over.
“Is there a Mr. Swan?” but then just as quickly follows with, “Nevermind, that’s none of my business.”
His eyes are on his wine, swirling it around the glass.
“No, it’s always just been Henry and I. His father was never quite ready for any kind of responsibility,” Emma answers quietly. “I do my best.”
“You’re a marvel, Swan,” he declares quite passionately. Emma snorts.
“Just a few days ago you were going to call the police on me. I’m a work in progress.”
He shakes his head but it’s a with a sad smile.
“If you are a work in progress, I must be an utter disaster.”
He takes a deep sip from his glass, clearly preparing to say more, so instead of protesting his comments or asking what he means, she waits. Later, she would guess it’s the wine that loosens his tongue or perhaps just the need to actually talk to someone that has him opening up.
“Did you see how this happened?” he asks, holding up his injured hand. For the first time, she takes a long look at it. She sees the stitches lining the three fingers that are braced together, the skin still pink and slightly swollen. He seems to stare at it in disgust.
“There’s so much metal in my hand now, I’m not sure a hook wouldn’t be better,” he mutters before finally looking up.
Emma gives him a patient smile.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see what happened. I don’t really follow much of the sports news.”
He uses his hands to frame a makeshift headline, “Killian Jones, Boston Bruins right wing has sustained a gruesome injury to his hand for the second time in less than twelve months.”
“But it will heal? You’ll play again?” Emma asks when Killian pauses. He shrugs, leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes.
“They say eight to twelve weeks but I’m not even supposed to go near a gym right now, I need to let my body recover from the trauma of surgery and all that. I was already struggling this season, trying too hard to get back to my past form. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. It’s one of the reasons I had to get out of Boston. Away from the fans, the sports talk radio, the well-meaning family and friends. I tried to tune it out but it’s near impossible. I heard the whispers, that the team would be better off without my salary on the books. I wasn’t the player I used to be after the first injury, now with this second one, it’s a lost cause.”
She hesitates but finally reaches out to squeeze his arm and waits for his eyes to be on hers.
“You don’t believe that,” she states firmly. He looks at his hand. “No, look at me. You don’t believe that or you wouldn’t be so frustrated. Right?” she asks and she taps over his heart, right where he’d showed Henry. His good hand closes over hers and he finally offers her a small smile.
“Perhaps not.”
“Good.”
As her fingers flex over the soft material of his sweater, she wonders if he knows her heart is pounding just as hard as his is below her fingers.
**
“Don’t rush it, Emma. I love what you have so far. I think we could easily do a few follow up pieces as well. Especially if you are right about the adoption house that accepted bribes to lose the paperwork. We’ll make a journalist out of you yet,” Ariel, voice full enthusiasm, calms Emma’s somewhat frazzled nerves.
She had hit send on her almost completed piece a few hours earlier and had been pacing the living room, between bouts of decorating, ever since. She lets her fingers trail over Henry’s stocking as she takes in Ariel’s words.
“Ok, that’s, that’s great Ariel. Thank you.”
The front door opens and Henry tumbles in, all excitement and awkward limbs. His backpack smashes into the wall in his haste to get it off and Emma cringes at the sound.
“Mom, mom. MOM! Oh, you’re there,” Henry grins as he pushes his hat out of his eyes. Emma points to the phone at her ear but apparently that’s not enough to stop him. “Mom, can we go to Killian’s for dinner? Like now? Can we?”
She can hear Ariel laugh on the other end of the line.
“Henry, breathe. We can’t just show up,” Emma states calmly.
“But Killian said,” Henry starts and the man in question is suddenly behind him, whispering something in her kid’s ear, eyes bright on Emma’s. Her heart stutters in her chest.
“Are you seeing someone Emma? Is he handsome?” Ariel teases across the line. “Killian, you know that’s the name of our missing star Bruin. You aren’t dating a hockey player are you Emma?”
Emma’s heart nearly stops.
“What? No, no. Not at all.”
Ariel laughs again.
“I know. I’m just teasing. I’ll let you be with your family. Let’s chat next week. Bye, Emma.”
The line is dead before Emma can catch up. She drops her arm to her side and finally focuses on the two men in front of her.
“Everything alright, love?” Killian asks, dropping his injured hand on Henry’s shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah. Just my editor.”
Killian’s eyebrows shoot up. They hadn’t gotten that far in their conversation the other night.
“My mom’s going to be famous,” Henry states proudly.
“Hardly, Henry,” Emma tucks her phone away and walks towards them. “I’m just writing a small piece on adoption and some of the difficulties people, kids, myself, go through,” she finishes quietly.
“For the Globe?” he asks and there’s something he’s hiding behind the simple question. Emma has a strong feeling it has to do with journalists and getting away from them.
“Yeah, I’m still in shock, I’ve never done anything like this before.”
He seems to process the information before shaking it off and the smile from before returns. Before he can respond, Henry speaks up.
“So, can we mom?”
Emma is lost, Killian thankfully clears things up.
“I saw your boy in the hall, I hope you don’t mind that I mentioned it to him first. I wanted to thank you for the lovely dinner the other night by having you over. I’m not much of a cook, so I picked up Granny’s. I was assured I have your favorites.”
He pulls up his other hand revealing a large brown take out bag.
Emma waits but it’s mostly to bug Henry who is almost vibrating with excitement.
“Put your bag in your room and feed your cat, then we can go over.”
Henry lets out a whoop and nearly stumbles out of his boots in his haste. She waits until he’s down the hall before speaking.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“I wanted to, love.”
She studies him, trying to remember the last time someone wanted to treat her and Henry, someone that wasn’t her brother and sister-in-law.
“Did you get onion rings? Mom loves onion rings. She’ll love you forever,” Henry yells from the kitchen.
“Of course, lad,” he calls back and then softer, “forever?”
Emma hiccups a laugh, better to laugh than to freak out.
“Let’s start with tonight.”
“I can do that.”
**
“Sorry my place isn’t as comfortable as yours. I didn’t really do the decorating, never really expected to spend much time here.”
“This is very comfortable,” Emma assures him. He gives her a skeptical look. They are spread out on the floor after originally trying out the couch and finding it stiff and uncomfortable. Killian had disappeared into what she assumes is his bedroom and come back, arms piled with blankets. She’s wrapped in one now. And she is trying very hard not to think about how it very much feels like he’s wrapped around her; the blanket must be from his bed.
She’s a little overwhelmed.
But she’s also very much charmed.
She leans back against the couch, and glances at Henry, spread out on his stomach, not minding the development in the least, finishing the last of his fries. She takes a deep breath.
Killian stretches out his legs and nudges Henry’s foot with his.
“Want to find us something to watch?”
“Sure.”
He takes the remote from Killian’s outstretched hand, and proceeds to flick through the channels.
“Oh!” Emma’s surprised exclamation receives a groan from Henry but he stops his channel surfing.
“What am I missing?” Killian asks glancing between the two.
“Mom loves these Christmas movies. It’s always about two dumb people who don’t know they are in looooove,” Henry gags on the last word but tosses the remote aside, settling in to watch.
“Kid, we don’t have to watch this.”
“It’s okay. You saw Star Wars with me,” Henry reasons simply and then snickers at a character falling in the snow. Emma stares at her son with a swell of emotion.
“He’s a good kid,” Killian whispers, sliding closer to her on the floor. She turns her head and is brought up short by his proximity. She can’t help but let her eyes drift across his features; the cut on his cheek only a thin pink line now, the shadows under his eyes almost gone, the quirk to his lips. She looks up and finds him watching her just as patiently as ever. That is until his own eyes dip and stall for a moment on her lips. She presses her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from doing anything ridiculous like dropping her eyes to his lips. Except it might be worse, because she has a front row to his dark lashes that almost brush the tops of his cheeks, as she presses her teeth harder, he makes a small sound from the back of his throat that has her heart working overtime.
He seems to surprise himself with it, and looks up. He leans over and Emma holds her breath. He tugs the blanket a little tighter around her shoulders, and just ghosts his thumb over her lips, freeing it from her teeth.
“Thank you,” he whispers, his hand finding hers on the floor, warming her chilled fingers.
“I think I should be the one thanking you.”
But he shakes his head, squeezing her hand, turning towards the TV. The two main characters are decorating a perfectly manicured tree.
“Hey, Killian?”
He doesn’t let go of her hand and she doesn’t move.
“Yes, master Swan?”
Henry snickers.
“Are you going to put up a tree?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so. I don’t really have any decorations here.”
There’s a pause as they watch the woman on the screen slip from a stepladder and into a man’s arms.
“That’s okay. You can share ours. We are going to get our tree tomorrow, right, mom?”
“Right.”
Killian’s hand tightens on hers.
“See, it’s for me to thank you, love.”
**
He shares their tree. He shows up with antlers on his head and ornaments for each of them. It makes it easier for Emma to pull out the small Captain Hook ornament she found for him. Thankfully he gets the joke, and hangs it with a smile. But it also makes it harder not to reach out and touch him like she wants to.
A few days later he suggests they come over to bake cookies and when Emma leaves the room for five minutes she comes back to not the twelve perfectly round balls they had rolled but one nearly life sized gingerbread man.
“Really, guys?”
The twin grins she receives dissolves any of her exasperation.
He helps Henry with his math homework. They watch terrible Christmas movies.
He somehow, in a few short weeks, slips into their everyday lives.
They don’t talk about what’s happening. Not to each other, not to others. Emma doesn’t tell Mary Margaret when she calls to confirm New Year’s plans and even Henry seems to want to keep it between the three of them. Their own special thing.
And since that first supper at her place, they don’t talk about hockey. That is, until Henry brings it up.
“When are you going to play again?”
Killian turns from the patio doors where he’d been watching the snow fall. He doesn’t look like he knows how to answer, doesn’t look like he knows the answer himself.
“I’m not exactly sure, Henry.”
He looks down at his hand and Emma’s heart aches for him.
“But don’t you miss skating?”
“Henry, give him a break,” Emma steps in, ruffling Henry’s hair.
“No, it’s alright. Of course, I miss skating.”
“We should go,” Henry suggests like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Henry.”
“Sorry.”
Emma huffs and walks over to Killian, touching his arm as he looks outside.
“Sorry. He doesn’t quite understand,” she whispers but hears his tut of disagreement.
He puts his arm around her and pulls her in close. She lets herself melt into him a little.
“It’s quite alright. The lad isn’t wrong. I do miss it, I just don’t know,” his whispered words trail off and she can imagine all the different ways to end that sentence.
He doesn’t know if he’s ready.
He doesn’t know when he will be.
Doesn’t know if he needs to go back to Boston to make that happen. He probably needs to go back to Boston.
Emma’s chest tightens at that thought, suddenly the idea of not having him nearby every day difficult to imagine. She holds onto him a little tighter. But as she takes in his profile, feels his strength beneath the cotton of his Henley, she knows she’s being selfish and so she wonders if there is anything she can do to help. Wonders if Henry actually has the right idea.
So, what does she do? She kidnaps him.
**
“Get in the car.”
“Come again, Swan?”
“I need you to get in my car.”
“And what pray tell are we doing?”
“Killian.”
“Emma”
“Killian, come on!” They both hear Henry call out.
“And put this on.” Emma shoves a hat into his chest. He looks at it, then at her.
“I’m still not sure what exactly we are doing or why you aren’t telling me.”
So maybe she plays dirty. She rises up to the tips of her toes and brings her lips to his ear.
“Please.”
As she pulls back, her lips press a feather light kiss to his cheek. His eyes look at her, unfocused, curious, and finally hungry.
She doesn’t give him a chance to say anything else, instead she opens the car door and all but shoves him in. The quicker she gets him in the car, the less time she has to back out of what very well may be a terrible plan.
**
“What are we doing here, Swan?”
Henry, unable to keep it in anymore, finally bursts from the backseat.
“We’re going skating!” He’s unbuckled and out the door before Killian can clearly fully process what is going on. They both watch Henry, backpack in hand hurry down the snowy path to a bench near a clearing.
Emma can’t stand the silence and she can’t actually get her head to turn to look at him so she fills the silence with as many words and explanations as she can.
“So, I don’t know if this is a terrible idea or not. It may be the worst. I may be the worst.”
“You are most definitely not the worst.”
She chooses to ignore him and forges on.
“But, I thought if you missed skating and I don’t know maybe you weren’t ready to head back to Boston, I mean I’m not ready for you to head to Boston either. But yeah, maybe this would be okay. I know for a fact we’ll be alone. This is a friend’s property, they make this for Henry every year, so no spectators, nothing to worry about. We can stay for five minutes or five hours, whatever you want really. I hope you aren’t too upset. It was my idea, so if you are mad, get mad at me. Henry was just excited to be involved in a covert mission. He called it Operation Icing.”
She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath. She thinks she might get sick.
“Look at me, Swan.”
She pops one eye open and slowly turns.
He might be smiling.
“Now the other one, love.”
She opens both eyes and feels a small weight lift from her chest. He’s smiling, a real genuine Killian Jones smile. A smile she’s come to really, really enjoy.
“Are you mad?”
“Not mad.”
“Okay, that’s um, good. Great really.”
They look back outside. Henry already has his skates on and is taking his first turn on the ice.
“Are you getting on the ice too?” Killian asks, slowly pulling off his seatbelt.
“Oh, I’ll get on. Whether or not I stay on my feet is another question altogether.”
“I won’t let you fall.”
She turns to him with wide eyes.
“And Emma, you were right, I’m not ready to head back to Boston either but it has nothing to do with the Bruins or my hand or anything like that.”
Before she can respond, he’s out of the car, jogging down the path, hollering something to Henry about shifting his weight to his front leg.
She gathers herself, gathers the bag with the skates, and joins him by the outdoor rink.
**
He doesn’t let her fall.
**
The first day they met, the circles under his eyes were dark and his whole spirit looked defeated; He’d steadily looked better every day since then. Rested, easier smiles, less irritated looks towards his injured hand.
Which is why when her phone rings and all she hears is her name rasped out in pain, everything in her seizes up. She quickly looks to Henry who is thoroughly invested in his video game before slipping into the kitchen.
“Killian, what’s happened? Are you okay?”
She can hear his ragged breathing, she can almost feel his panic.
“Killian? Where are you?”
“I’m at home. I’m, could you come over? Is Henry alright alone for a moment?”
“Of course, of course. I’ll be right over.”
The phone goes dead and she very deliberately tucks it in her front pocket. She does everything cautiously because if she doesn’t, she might panic as well, having no idea what is going on.
“Hey kid, you okay if I pop over to Killian’s for a second? He just needs my help with something and I’ll be right back?”
He barely takes his eyes off the screen, “Yup.”
She lets herself into Killian’s and finds it dark. She follows the stream of light down the hall and sees it coming from the bathroom.
“Killian?” she asks hesitantly, rapping on the door. It opens of its own accord, revealing Killian pressed against the wall, head back, breath coming in quick pants, a pallor to his skin.
She takes a step in and finally sees his injured hand wrapped in towel, a few spots of blood blooming across the white fabric.
“What happened?”
When he doesn’t answer she touches his chest, places her hand over his heart. She feels it racing. At her touch, he finally speaks, eyes still clenched shut.
“I’m not sure. I was trying to do something in the kitchen and I moved too quickly. I hit my hand, there was blood. I, I don’t know. It’s not the blood. I,” his words come between quick gulps of air. “Emma, if I screwed up my hand again. If I have to have another surgery, if I never plays again--”
His breath comes quicker and she can see what’s happening. She can see him working himself up and she hasn’t looked at his hand yet but if she had to guess, it’s probably fine. What is happening, is a panic attack.
“Killian. Killian, look at me.”
Her hands cup his face, thumbs running gently over his cheeks. He’s clammy and cool.
“Killian,” she urges again and his eyes finally flutter open. She gives him a gentle smile.
“Try taking a deep breath.” She waits until he does, and then nods as he takes a few more. “That’s it.”
He’s still shaking, so she drops the lid on the toilet and urges him to sit, never really letting go. Once he’s settled, she takes his good hand and places it on her hip.
“Squeeze. Feel something real and solid and concentrate on that. Keep breathing.”
He squeezes her once, twice, three times before dropping his head to her stomach. The pressure doesn’t let up on her hip but as she runs her fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck, his breathing finally begins to calm.
“You’re okay,” she whispers any time his breath shudders out and once even that stops, she finally decides to look at his hand.
“I mean, I’m no doctor but I’ll let you know if it’s still there.”
She feels even better when his low laugh vibrates against her stomach.
She pulls the cloth away. She can see where he must have knocked his hand hard enough to draw blood but the small wound is already clotting, no swelling, nothing looks out of place. She turns on the hot water and dabs the area with the cloth, cleaning it up.
“I think we can put a Band-Aid on it and I mean, you should probably call your doctor eventually but I think you’re going to be okay.”
She presses a kiss to the back of his hand, away from the injury and finds his eyes watching her as she pulls away. With the crisis over, she feels her own adrenaline kick in and has to will her body not to shake with the force of it.
“How does it feel now?”
He doesn’t seem to hear her question, choosing instead to look at her in wonder. It does nothing to help the shaking she is trying to keep under control.
She runs the back of her hand across his forehead, happy he doesn’t feel so cold.
“Killian?”
That seems to shake him out of his reverie. He squeezes her hip again.
“Better. Much better. I think I just, panicked,” he finally admits.
“Good. I’m glad.”
She runs her hand through his hair, over his ear, something about touching him, seeing his eyes flutter closed, grounds her.
Until a thought crosses her mind.
“This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have forced you out skating yesterday.”
“You didn’t force me, Swan.”
“I told you to get in the car and didn’t tell you where we were going.”
“You asked me politely to get in the car,” he clarifies.
“Demanded.”
“Strongly suggested.”
Emma huffs. He isn’t making it easy to assume the responsibility, but as she looks at him again, she is happy to see the color returning to his cheeks, his blue eyes clear and sure.
“I also broke into your apartment and found your skates.”
He looks thoughtful for a moment.
“Is it really breaking and entering if I leave the door unlocked for you?”
“I even my brought my kid along to temper your reaction. I mean, who can get mad at Henry?”
Yup, she is shaking now, well aren’t they a pair.
“It’s not your fault, love. I was trying to do too much at once, I wasn’t aware of my surroundings.”
“I just would hate,” Emma’s words catch in her throat as Killian stands, hand still on her hip as he crowds into her space.
Her back hits the wall and she hiccups a small sound of surprise. He rests his forehead against hers and she finds herself holding onto his waist just as tight as he is holding onto hers.
“I would hate to think of not having you here to help me. I can’t imagine. So, thank you.” His voice is a whisper as his lips find her forehead.
“You’d be fi-ine,” she stutters out as he moves to her cheek and presses another kiss there, and then again to the opposite side, all the while whispering his thanks.
She’s not sure how she’s still standing.
He pulls back just enough to look into her eyes, just enough so she can see those eyes drop to her lips, his intentions clear.
She’s not sure if he dips or she rises up on her toes but they meet somewhere in the middle. She hears that sound again from him, something caught between a hum and groan, and it’s something she feels across every inch of her and rolling against her tongue as she opens up for him.
He can’t seem to get close enough, his fingers tightening on her hip, urging her against him. Her hips rising to meet him.
“Oh.” Her sigh of want is lost between them, swallowed by lips that continue to taste, to insist on more.
When he finally moves away from her mouth, when his face is buried against her neck, sucking against her pulse point and his groan causes goosebumps to appear across her skin, she finally finds her voice. Barely.
“I should get back, Henry and—”
Oh, she tries, she really does but when looks up and his eyes are dark and his nose keeps brushing hers, she allows herself one more taste.
“I have to get back,” she finally whispers and she feels him nod against her neck, where his lips trail one last time before pulling away. Her whole body is coiled tight.
“I know, love. I could,”
“Come over,” she blurts out.
The most beautiful smile stretches across his face.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, we can have supper and finish Window Wonderland.”
This time she feels his laugh against her lips, and can still feel it when she heads back to her apartment, knowing he is soon to follow.
**
He’s in her living room, staring out the window, when she gets home from work. Nothing usual or startling about that anymore, she almost comes to expect it. What she doesn’t expect is the hard set to his shoulders, the tension she can almost feel from across the room.
She should have known. She watches enough Christmas movies to know something always goes wrong. She’s lived enough of her own heartbreak to know what she’d found was too good to be true. Her lips must be cursed.
“Everything okay?”
She knows the answer is no. She can feel it in her bones but maybe she can be wrong this time. Please be wrong this time.
He doesn’t turn but he speaks, his tone harsh.
“Did you tell Sidney Glass where to find me? Did you tell the Globe?”
Emma doesn’t like the clear accusatory tone of his voice, it doesn’t sound like he’s asking questions. He should know better, he should know her better by now. But she can see he’s worked himself up again and she knows what an asshole Sidney Glass is, so maybe she can let this slide.
“Did you sell me out to get better placement for your article?”
No. Not that though.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. How else did he find me? How else does he know that I haven’t been back to Boston for the PT I should be doing?”
Emma approaches him slowly, trying to stay calm but he takes a step back.
“You know what, it doesn’t matter. I wanted to look up something on your computer and I saw all the tabs, the research into the Bruins staff.”
Emma’s reeling, she has no idea what’s going, she can’t keep up with the accusations. She shakes her head.
“So, you believe him? Over me? Over what we,” she trips over that last thought. “That’s what you think of me?”
“What am I supposed to think?” he asks, voice rising.
Before Emma can say that he’s supposed to trust her, they are interrupted by Henry’s trembling voice.
“That was me.”
They both look over at the same time. Her kid looks ready to cry and now she’s mad. She hears Killian’s quiet curse.
“I was looking stuff up. Not mom. It was for Operation Stanley. For you. I don’t know who that Glass guy is. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at mom.”
She sees the first tear fall down Henry’s cheek and she wants to hit something, preferably Killian.
Henry disappears down the hall and they both jump when his door slams.
“I think you should leave.”
“Emma,” he quickly pleads, all the fight gone, looking like he only now realizes how much of an idiot he is.
“I don’t know what kind of holiday miracle I was thinking this was. Things like this don’t happen in real life. Besides, you’ll be back in Boston soon enough and leave us anyway. So, it’s probably just best if you go now. I really need to check on Henry.”
“Emma,” he tries again, sounding broken. Well, she guesses they are all a little broken right now, her own dam all but ready to burst.
“You can let yourself out.”
She leaves him standing there.
** Henry’s pain is easier to soothe than her own but she doesn’t much care for her own feelings right now. Or maybe it’s just easier to bury them. She’s good at that.
She assures Henry that Killian isn’t mad at him. That it was a misunderstanding and he had to visit his own family for Christmas. It could be true. She’s not sure. She hasn’t seen him. Not that she’s looked, much. Maybe she knocked once, but the home next to hers remains dark and still.
She appreciates Henry’s easy acceptance. Even if he might not completely believe her, even if he’s believing for her.
She has a really great kid.
They open their presents on Christmas morning, just the two of them. They stay in their pajamas all day and have breakfast for dinner. They FaceTime Mary Margaret and David and promise they can’t wait to see them for New Year.
It’s fine and nice, just like every Christmas, but even though neither say it, they both know someone is missing.
She holds Henry a little tighter that night as they watch The Goonies.
**
“How long do you think it would take for someone to find us if we hit a snowbank?”
Emma eases the car to a careful stop at the blinking red traffic light, and she counts it as a victory that her heart only stutters once when her back tires drift to the right.
“Not helping, kid.”
She loosens her hands on the steering wheel and turns to stare down her son. She feels more confident keeping her eyes on him than looking back outside.
Henry grins.
“Sorry. You’re doing great, ma. Just think of the story we’ll have to tell David and Mary Margaret,” Henry tries instead, and Emma sniffs a small laugh. “Maybe try the high beams?”
She switches her headlights to high, and they both look outside.
“Well, now I feel like we’re in that Stephen King movie,” Emma mumbles.
The high beams only exacerbate the problem, magnifying the amount of snow racing towards the car against the black night.
“That movie was hilarious,” Henry snorts out a laugh when Emma glares at him. He wiggles his gloved fingers at her. “Give me what I want, and I’ll go away,” he quotes from the movie before falling back into his seat, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“I should have never let you watch that.”
“You mean I shouldn’t have let you watch it,” Henry corrects her.
Emma shakes her head but finally cracks a smile before turning back to the challenge at hand. She checks both ways, although it’s not like there’s anyone else dumb enough to be on the roads, and eases forward. The snow cushions the sound of the tires, and they quietly roll further up the winding street.
“How about a driving song?” she asks, needing the distraction. Henry immediately fiddles with his iPod.
Emma startles at the quick drum beat and then has to laugh; he’s chosen, It’s the end of the world.
“And I feel fine,” the both sing together.
***
They pull up to a rustic but charming two-story cabin. It has wrap around decks and Christmas lights that twinkle from beneath the newly fallen snow. The windows glow warmly, and smoke rises in thick plumes from the stone chimney. It looks like the perfect way to spend New Year’s and judging by the amount of snow that is still falling, the next few days as well.
Emma is grateful for the escape from reality and the promise of a friendly shoulder to lean on.
When she and Henry had finally found the Low River Road turn-off, they’d given a small cheer and held their breath as her bug inched up the final steep hill. (With a small note to let David and Mary Margaret know, maybe they could rent a place a little less out of the way.) But now that the handbrake is pulled and the motor off, it’s not so bad.
“Grab your suitcase and the green grocery bag.”
It doesn’t take them long to load up with their bags and push through the snow to reach the front door. After a knock that is met with silence, they figure Mary Margaret and David are busy with dinner preparations and let themselves in.
“Whoa, this is awesome,” Henry whispers in awe as they step inside. They find themselves in a large living room, a fire crackling at one end, large picture windows lining the front wall. Emma has to grab him by the hood before he tracks snow all over the floor.
“Boots, coat, and grab a bag, then you can go find Mary Margaret and David and explore.”
Emma drops her bags and turns to hang her coat when she feels Henry tugging on her arm.
“Uh, mom,” he mumbles.
“One sec, I have hat hair,” she responds tipping her head over to shake out her blonde curls.
“Mom. Now.”
She stands up, words about patience on the tip of her tongue but they get stuck in her throat.
Two people she’s never seen before stand across from them, peeking out from what she assumes is the kitchen, matching confused expressions.
She blinks and reaches for Henry, tugging him closer.
“You said the address was 223,” she mutters.
“It is,” he whispers back peevishly, clearly offended at her assumption that he got something wrong.
And so, Emma takes a deep breath and smiles.
“You wouldn’t happen to have David and Mary Margaret Nolan hiding in the kitchen?” she asks, stuffing her hands in her back pockets.
The couple approaches, not looking much older than her, smiles tentative. She’s clearly interrupted them making dinner, as the man has a Kiss the Cook apron on and the woman is drying her hands on a towel, but they don’t look put out, just a little puzzled.
Before anyone can say anything else another voice calls out from the kitchen.
“Did you want the Pinot Noir or the Cabernet?”
Emma’s heart might stop completely.
Un-fucking-believable. This isn’t real life. This doesn’t happen.
A dark, messy head of hair looks through the doorway, first, at the couple he clearly knows and then to Emma and Henry. He nearly falls into the living room.
“Emma? Henry?”
She hiccups out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“Killian,” she mumbles and feels all eyes on her.
***
It doesn’t take long to figure out the misunderstanding. Mary Margaret and David are in fact on 223 Low River Road but somehow in the storm, Emma and Henry had turned on High River Road and let themselves into a cottage that belonged to complete strangers.
Well. Sort of.
The cottage is owned by Liam and Elsa Jones, an extremely welcoming and understanding couple, who also happen to be Killian’s brother and sister-in-law. And while Emma and Killian had stared in silent shock at each other, Elsa had taken charge. She insisted Emma and Henry come inside and warm up by the fire while they figured everything out. Emma had tried to beg off but no sooner were the words out of her mouth, Elsa was at her side, arm around her shoulders.
“Nonsense.”
She just manages to grab onto Henry’s hand, all the while carefully avoiding any direct eye contact with the wide blue eyes that seem to want to say a hundred different things. She isn’t sure she is ready for any of them.
**
“I mean if we made it here, we could probably make it over there,” Emma states without much conviction as she stares out the front window, arms tight around herself. If she squints, she can just make out the glowing lights of David and Mary Margaret’s cottage across the lake.
“You can’t possibly head back out in this, don’t be an idiot,” Killian finally blurts out from the kitchen threshold.
Emma slowly turns to him, as does everyone else.
“That’s the first thing you have to say to me?” she asks. “Pretty sure there’s one idiot in this room and it’s not me.”
Killian sputters, Liam hides his laugh behind a cough, Henry looks shocked and Elsa hurries across the room to wrap an arm around Killian’s waist.
“I think what my brother-in-law is trying to say is, no one should be out in this weather. They won’t clear the roads until morning, and he would much rather have you here safe. We all would. I’m sure your brother told you the same thing.”
Emma opens and closes her mouth and eyes the window, watching the snow continue to fall, thicker and harder than before. Elsa isn’t wrong, David actually threatened to leave her in the cold if she dared to leave.
“We have plenty of food and beds for you,” Elsa adds, smile wide, but Emma notices the pinch she gives to Killian’s side, silencing him. “And plenty of Champagne.”
Emma looks to Henry who shrugs, but she sees the beginnings of a smile overtaking his face, although he hesitates, looking to Killian.
“You really don’t mind?”
A small crack in her armor appears at the sight of Killian’s frustrated demeanor crumbling at Henry’s question.
“Oh, Henry” he starts, pained, and takes a step forward but stops, looking to Emma. She gives him a tight nod.
She has to look away when Killian drops to his knee in front of Henry.
“Lad, of course I don’t mind. I’m quite glad you’re here, that the fates deemed me lucky enough to ring in the New Year with you and your mum. I’m truly sorry what I did made you think otherwise. As ever, your mother is right, I am indeed an idiot and I hope you can forgive me.”
Henry surprises Killian with a hug, nearly knocking him off balance.
She won’t cry.
She roughly rubs a stray tear away with the back of her hand.
She won’t cry more than a tear.
Emma pulls in a deep breath through her nose, trying to get her eyes to focus on something, anything, outside.
“Think I could go apologize to your mum now?”
Henry’s answer is whispered but she assumes it must be in the affirmative because the next thing she hears is Elsa asking him if he wants to help pick out some dessert and Liam’s deep chuckle at whatever Henry’s response is.
She can’t bring herself to move from her spot by the window, especially not when she feels him behind her, close and warm and he has to know.
“I didn’t talk to Sidney Glass.”
“I know,” comes his quiet reply.
“I would never have done that to you.”
“I know.”
“But,”
She feels his hand at her elbow and allows him to turn her. His hand moves to brush against her cheek, knuckles wiping away the wet trails. She clearly isn’t very good at the one tear thing.
“How do you know? How do you know now and not then? Who did you speak to? What,” her voice catches. “What do you want?”
“You,” he says simply.
She shakes her head.
“I don’t…”
“I know you. I knew then it wasn’t you but I let him in my head, I’m so terribly sorry. I saw the research, I had a voicemail from my trainer and I panicked. I’m having a harder time handling this injury than I thought and I took it out on the wrong people.”
His hand finds her hip and squeezes and it’s like something clicks in place. She really looks at him for the first time since arriving. She sees the sincerity in his eyes, sees the man that reached for her in his moment of panic and she lets herself lean into him, hand over his heart. He seems to sag in relief.
“I went to Boston,” he reveals and her hand tightens in his shirt but he shakes his head at her worry. “Wait,” he whispers and takes a deep breath.
“I went to Boston to see my doctor. You were right, I didn’t do anything but superficial damage to my hand that night. In fact, it’s healing quite well and she thinks that I can start some rehabilitation as soon as this week. But I’m going to do it here, in Storybrooke.”
Her eyes widen in surprise and Killian actually smiles. It’s small and a little nervous, but also, hopeful.
“You’re going to stay here?”
“Well, I’ll have to go back to Boston from time to time and eventually I hope I can hold a stick again and play but,”
“You’re totally going to play again,” Emma interrupts his explanation but then apologizes, “Sorry, sorry, but?”
Her heart races while she waits but his full smile now lets her know she has nothing to be anxious about.
“But right now, we have time, here. That is, if you’ll have me? And then we can figure out the rest, together.”
She nods, not trusting her voice. He pulls her closer, forehead falling to hers.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she finally answers, nose nudging against his, lips so close she can almost taste him.
“You guys almost done? Dinner’s getting cold.”
She nearly jumps out of her skin at Liam’s booming voice but she doesn’t go far, instead nearly collapses into Killian. She just catches Henry’s grin across the room before burying her face into Killian’s shoulder, delighting at the feel of his exasperated laugh and his whispered words.
“I got you.”
**
They eat, they drink, they ignore the blustery weather outside and they finally make it to the final ten seconds before the New Year.
And when the clock strikes twelve, Emma finds Henry first, peppering him with kisses that he pretends to hate but laughs the whole way through. She lets herself be pulled into a hug from Liam and to a kiss on the cheek from Elsa but from across the room her eyes find Killian’s and she knows what she wants.
They meet in the middle and she shivers as his lips find her ear.
“Happy New Year, love.”
She glances around and when she finds Henry happily occupied with Elsa and Liam, she tightens her grip on Killian’s hand and tugs him around the corner into the hall.
His breath whooshes out of him when his back hits the wall but he seems more than happy to be in that position. Emma presses up against every delicious inch of him, arms winding around his neck.
“Okay?” she whispers her question against his lips before swallowing his humming agreement, easily getting lost in the warm, wet slide of his tongue. And she knows they should stop, should rejoin the group but he tugs her closer, and she wants to taste the champagne on his lips a little longer so she gives herself a few more moments of being selfish.
When they finally pull away, and she works to calm her breathing, she finds his eyes, blue and full of an emotion neither might be ready to name but she’s certainly close to feeling.
“Happy New Year, Killian,” she finally says, heart absolutely full.
And maybe she lets him kiss her one last time for good measure.
