#emmabeauchamp

She doesn’t answer. Not at first, hugging herself more tightly, sighing a little when he holds her closer. He gives her time, knows better than to push her by now. She will either snap at him or retract further back into her mind, and neither of those options are good.

Outside the window, a woman is hanging her laundry on a rope between the building, the white sheets waving in the wind. A man loudly sells fruits and vegetables in a shop around the corner, and a dog barks after a laughing child. Such a sharp difference with the streets of Russia, with people walking fast and minding their own business, head in their shoulders every time a soldier passes by.

“Do you think I made the right choice?” Anya asks at last, her voice so small he wouldn’t hear it but for how close they are.

And, yes, here it is at last. He had been dreading this moment ever since she found him on the Pont Alexandre III, every since she kissed him and took his hand. How could she not regret her choice, when he’s but a lowlife criminal with no job, no future, nothing to offer? How could she agree to run away with him, when she could have chosen the lavishing life of a duchess, the fancy hotels and expensive operas and the time spent with her Grandmama? He’s been fearing this moment for a week now, but still the weight in his stomach, the tight hold around his heart, hurt more than he expected.

“It is not for me to decide,” he replies, his voice stiff, his words careful.

She tenses at his words, or tone, or both. Which, he realises, is exactly the reaction he expected of her. Especially with the way she turns around in his embrace -- now looser -- and stares at him, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. Yes, let her be mad at him for it. It is so much easier that way, more familiar. Let her have her go at him, instead of that soft, broken act she has going on.

“Dima…” she starts, way too gentle for his liking. Her eyes are big, the compassion in them verging on the edge of pity, and that is what gets to him, ultimately. He doesn’t need her pity; he’s not her charity case, never has been, and the bitter taste on his mouth is enough to keep him going.

“That’s fine,” he replies in a voice that makes it obvious it is everything but. “I was waiting for it to happen.”

He lets go of her, ignores the hurt flashing in her eyes, before he turns around. Their room is so big and luxurious it has its own living room space to the side, and he walks toward it, stops a few feet away from the couch. This is all too much, the money and the expensive life and the everything. All too much, and he feels like his body isn’t fitting him anymore, not comfortable in his own skin. Like he’s been playing pretend for too long, and the second shoe finally decided to drop. Painfully.

She will break your heart, Vlad had warned him once, and Dmitry had been too naive to listen. How he wished he had, now.

“What do you mean?” Anya demands, in this ‘I don’t like to be contradicted’ spoiled princess voice of hers. Which, all things considered, might be the worse tone to use in such a situation, because everything in Dmitry screams for him to rebel against this voice. And he does.

“Don’t think me more stupid than I am, Nastya!” The nickname cracking in the air like a whip.

“Do not call me that!” She finally stands up, walking toward him with fury in her steps. No, not toward him, he realises. Toward the coffee table right next to him, so she can step on it and look down at him, hands on her hips. Her eyes are hard, her jaw set.

Dimitry had missed this, in some sick and twisted way. He’d missed how easily he can antagonise her, how fast it is for her to get upset. He’d missed this particular fire in her eyes, like she could strangle him this very minute and yell in frustration while she’s at it. There’s something to be said about looking death in the eye and living to tell the tale.

“Isn’t it your name?” he asks with a sneer. “Or would you like me to call you Your Highness, instead?”

“I would like you to stop being an idiot.”

“Why?” he challenges. Always challenges her, in everything she does, since the very beginning. “So you can let me down more gently? So I can make it easy for you?”

Her chest puffs, her cheeks turning crimson, and for a moment Dmitry wonders if she will slap him. It’s a miracle she doesn’t, maybe. “And why,” she replies, her voice colder than a Russian winter, “would I do that?”

The sarcastic chuckle falls out of his lips before Dmitry can even think of swallowing it down. One hand running through his hair, he turns his back to her, refusing to look in her eyes any longer. Refusing to see a new wave of pity while he lays it all out for her, throws his insecurities and fears at her. “Why wouldn’t you? You could live as a queen in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, have all the gentlemen swooning over you while you’re having tea with your Grandmama and have the perfect life any orphan dreams of. Get a pick of the best dresses, best museums and shows and fine dining. Be with the woman who loves you more than anything in the world. So tell me why, exactly, you’re following a lowlife thief all over Europe, if you regret your parisian life so much.”

“Because I love you, you big oaf!”

He stills.

Hand in his hair and breath in his throat, he stills.

Slowly, painfully, he turns around to face her again. She remains standing on the coffee table, hands on her hips and anger in her eyes as she keeps glaring down at him. Dmitry blinks at her, once, twice, the confusion written all over his face.

She sighs, and throws her arms up in the air. “Oh don’t act so surprise. It’s not like you didn’t know.”

For the first time in his life, Dmitry is speechless. Maybe if the situation were different, he would ponder on how uncomfortable that is but, as of right now, he can focus on little more than the way his heart is thundering against his ribcage. Royal mess, she had called herself once. Now more than ever, Dmitry understand the feeling.

Silence lingers just long enough for Anya to falter. “You didn’t know.”

He takes a hesitant step toward her, then another, until he’s standing right in front of her. She’s barely taller than he is, standing on this coffee table, but just enough for him to tilt his head up if he wants to meet her eyes. Just the perfect height for her to run her hands through his hair and lean into his personal space until their breaths mingle and he can see nothing but the grey of her eyes.

“Say that again,” he asks her, almost ashamed of the vulnerability he can hear in his own voice. She’s always been his weakness, from the moment they met. She will be his downfall too, someday.

“Dima… Of course I love you.”

She presses her forehead against his, and Dmitry closes his eyes. He forces himself to take a deep breath, if only to keep the tears at bay -- they are prickling behind his eyelids, but he refuses to shed them, and it turns into a shuddering sigh. It doesn’t help that he has to swallow around the knot in his throat, too.

“Princesses don’t fall in love with con men,” he says, and doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince.

“But orphans fall in love with each other all the time.”

One breath, one beat, before his lips crash against hers. Her gasp is muffled by his mouth as he grabs her hair, wraps one arm around her waist, and pulls her against him. She is still warm from the blanket she had put around her shoulders, soft and delicate in his arms. A sigh escapes her as she deepens the kiss, and all Dmitry thinks is she loves you, she loves you, she loves you.

He was a gone man long before he knew her real identity. Somewhere between Germany and France, after long hours of travelling that left them all sore and grumpy and starving, he’d looked at her and the initial bitterness was gone. And then there had been the opera, and the dress he had picked for her. Lily wanted something pink and frilly, but he knew Anya. He knew she would like the deep blue of a Russian night, the softness of the fabric around her legs. He knew her, and the realisation that he was losing her was too painful to cope.

But here she is now, loving him back and putting her hands on his shoulders to jump in his embrace. He laughs when her legs come to circle his hips, the sound amused and broken all at once when he remembers she wears nothing but her thin nightgown, the fabric of it bundled at her waist now.

“Take me back to bed,” she asks. Demands.

Although he’s always been one to say no to her -- a little too easily, perhaps -- this is one thing he can’t deny her. Not when her body melts against his, not when she dropping hot, searing kisses against his nose and cheek, not when his heart is so full it could burst. So he walks the short distance separating them to the bed, and unceremoniously drops her on the mattress. She bounces, and laughs, and opens her legs when he comes to lie on top her her.

Her hair is like a golden halo around her face, shining in the late morning sun, and Dmitry finds himself grinning like a fool at the glorious sight. She smiles too, and brushes a thumb against his cheek, where the stupid dimple is. He’s never had set feelings about this feature of his, but Anya seems to love it and so does he now.

He kisses her again, more purpose and determination in the gesture this time. Her cold fingers reach the hem of his undershirt, tugging at it and making him hiss when they brush against his stomach. Still he leans back just long enough for Anya to pull the piece of clothing above his head, then kisses her again. Her hands settle on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin until they leave half-crescent marks. His are feverish, willing to touch and caress every inch of her body. He pulls on her legs until they cage his hips, grabs her waist, brushes against her hair, explores her sides. Always eager to explore, always afraid to let go.

“Dima,” she moans when his lips close on the pulsing point on her neck, her voice begging and broken. It stirs something new in him, has his hips stuttering against her until she gasps loudly.

When he leans back on his forearms, it’s to look at her in the eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips reddened by kisses, but it is the softness in her gaze that gets to him. That and the way she caresses his cheek, so gentle, so caring.

“I never thought you would choose me. Not even in my wildest dreams,” he admits in a whisper, as if afraid saying it louder would make him even more vulnerable than he already feels. “You would stay with her and…”

“Dima,” she says again, and pulls on his hair, makes him hiss with pain. “I really don’t want to talk about Nana right now.”

Her other hand travels down his back, settles even lower, and Dmitry finds that he very much doesn’t want to have that kind of conversation right now, either. So instead he kisses her again, kisses the smile away from her lips until he leaves her breathless and panting. Then his mouth travels down, sucking at her jaw and neck, kissing and nibbling her collarbone. He will never get tired of marking her with bruises, of the rush of adrenaline when his eyes find the purple shade of her skin. Anya isn’t an animal to be tamed, will never belong to anyone, but there is something to be said about claiming her body as his. This part of her nobody, ever, will see but him. This part of her only for him to enjoy.

The nightgown soon becomes a pile of fabric on the floor, the flush on her face blossoming to her neck and chest. She arches her back, as if offering her body to him, and Dmitry isn’t one to deny such a gift. He grabs her hips and kisses her breasts, her stomach, her hip. She wriggles under his touch, curses him in a sigh. It makes him smirk, how impatient she can get.

So he takes his time. Grabs her leg and drops a kiss on her knee, laughs at her huff of frustration. He is slow in his ministrations, kissing and caressing her tight, ignoring her centre to do the same with the second leg. By the time he reaches her hip once more, the foul language is tumbling down her mouth, and she grabs his head once more, pulls him where she needs him the most.

“So demanding,” he comments with a roll of his eyes.

She is about to shoot back something, refusing to give him the last word, but then he’s licking his way up between her folds and her sarcasm turns into a loud moan. So he does it again, and again. He knows what she likes by now -- the three first days of their little escapade spent behind close doors until he knew her body as well as he knows his own, until he could unravel her with only one touch, one kiss. Dmitry doesn’t want to be smug about it, but. Yes, he is.

Her hand tightens its hold in his hair, keeping him in place as much as she guides him, while the other grabs the sheet for support. He adds one finger, then a second, and ignores the tightness in his trousers even as his hips rub against the mattress in rhythm with his tongue and fingers. She is begging and demanding and cursing, legs shaking against his shoulders, body quivering beneath him, until her words stop making sense, until only his name is on her tongue, until she unravels against his mouth.

Her head falls back against the pillow with one last sigh, her eyelids heavy from pleasure. A sight to behold, as he crawls up her body and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He lies on his side next to her, one hand on her waist. Bliss and content surge through his veins at how peaceful her features are, even more so when she opens one eye and offers him a dazzling smile. She may be a brat, and infuriating half of the time, but he wouldn’t trade her temper for anything in the world if it means having her next to him for the rest of his days.

(She’s turned him into a soppy mess, now…)

“I love you,” she sighs as she moves to snuggle against him.

“I shall never tire of hearing you say that,” he replies with his nose against her temple.

She laughs, a small giggle of a sound. “Look at you with your posh talking.”

“Someone’s rubbing on me,” he says with a frown, but the smile is obvious in his voice.

Another laugh escapes her as she moves closer to him still, her leg moving up until her thigh is pressed to his erection. When she kisses him, it’s with a tiny smirk, and only then does he understand the wordless pun. Vixen.

She pushes on his shoulders until he’s lying on his back, sits on his hips, and Dmitry forgets all will to laugh. His tongue darts out to lick his lips are his eyes travel up and down her bare body -- the hair tumbling around her shoulders, the creamy expense of her stomach, her bouncing breasts. He’s so busy admiring her he barely notices how she pulling the trousers down his hips and legs, barely notices anything at all until her hips move against his and a broken groan escapes his lips.

She will break your heart, Vlad had warned. He hadn’t said anything about how she would ruin him for life, too. Nothing can ever top that, not that Dmitry wants anything else. Those Petersburg girls are nothing but a memory long gone, nothing but smoke when Anya lines herself against him and steals a moan from him as she guides him inside her, inch by inch.

He loses track of anything and everything after that, only aware of her body around and above him, of his hands on her hips and her breath against his mouth, of her bruising kisses and wordless moans. Nothing but Anya, Anya, Anya, nothing but her and her body and her love, until he comes inside her with a groan and a silent prayer to the universe.

Dmitry doesn’t know how long it takes for him to start breathing properly against but, when he does, Anya is still lying on top of him. Her legs are caging his hips and her arms are folded on his chest, her chin resting on top of them, and there is no doubt she is the most beautiful woman in the world.

“I love you,” he says with such an ease it would have scared him only a month ago.

She smiles. “It’s the bliss talking.”

“No. I love you. I’ve loved you since I was ten. I’ll always love you.”

Her laugh is church bells to his ears, Kazan Cathedral on a cold afternoon. She moves until she’s flush against his side, one leg above his and one arm around his chest. Dmitry wonders how ridiculous it would be to spend the day naked in bed. Again.

“You’re so mawkish after sex.”

He frowns at her, just a little. “I feel like there is an insult hidden there somewhere in your big word.”

She doesn’t reply, but her smirk and how she kisses his nose speak volume. Ah. She can have this one. Dmitry is too content to care about her insults right now, pulling her closer and kissing the side of her face. She sighs, and he closes his eyes, fingers combing her hair. Silence settles comfortably between them and, were it not for his knowledge of her breathing patterns, he would believe her asleep again. As a matter of fact, he knows her too well, knows how deep in thoughts she is once more.

“Nobody ever asked you to choose,” he comments. Then, before she even has time to open her mouth, “She asked you to choose between life as a Duchess and a commoner. That’s what you chose, but… You didn’t have to choose between her and me. I think -- I would like to think we’re both your family now.”

She puts her chin in her hand, leaning above him, a frown on her brows. “You really are more clever than you look,” she quips, having Dmitry roll his eyes, but she seems to actually be thinking about it. How it hadn’t occurred to Anya before, he will never know, but he is glad that it is a step in the right direction. He couldn’t bear to witness her transformation into a miserable person simply because nobody ever told her that she was allowed to have the best of both worlds. “Would you mind? Going back to Paris?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but a moment of doubt and confusion has him frown. His heart does something strange and new in his chest at the realisation that his opinion actually matters. That someone will take his wishes into consideration. That what he wants is important, for the first time in his life.

Perhaps it should frighten him, how easy the answer comes to him after that. “I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re together. Rome, Berlin, Paris… It’s all the same to me. And if I have to live alongside aristocrats who look down at me all my life, then so be it.”

He wouldn’t mind going back to Vlad, truth be told. The man has been like a second father to him for years now, after all. He could even find a honest job, whatever that means, and save for a nice apartment in the capital. Perhaps even save for a pretty ring and… He’s getting ahead of himself.

“Tell you what,” he goes on, knuckles brushing against her cheek. “Let’s go to Rome, enjoy the sights. Write to her in the meanwhile, and then we’ll go back. How’s that for a plan?”

“It’s barely a plan,” she quips. “More like an idea.”

“How’s that for an idea, infuriating woman?”

She grins, god helps him. “Yes. It does sound lovely.”

“Paris it is, then.”

Paris it’ll always be, or so it seems.

She writes to him often, if only to complain about her would-be lovers and how ridiculous they all are, how tired she is of it all. She writes often, the missive long and witty, never failing to bring a smile to his lips even during the dullest of journeys at sea. So Killian can only notice the shift in her tone when she comes to talk about the one they call the Wizard of Oz – Oz, Killian! He comes from another realm!

It is hardly difficult to see, even through ink on paper, how smitten Emma seems to be with the infamous Wizard. So it doesn’t come as a surprise when, months later while on a diplomatic journey to Agrabah, the invitation card is sent to him by a dove, expensive paper and deep green ink. Killian swallows around the knot in his throat at the words, but accepts his fate.

She is to be married, and she wants him there.

Who is he to refuse her anything?

But, also, the thing about growing up with princess Emma as your closest and dearest friend, is that you learn fairly quickly that things never go as they are supposed to be. Adventures await around the corners, and troubles are even easier to stumble upon. Not that Killian expects Emma’s grand wedding to be adventurous or troublesome in any shape or form (though it is to be expected, what with her dwarf uncles invited to the party), so it does startle him when Roland find him in his chambers and tells him that something is happening and he needs to be there.

Both men hurry their way through endless hallways until they reach the throne room. Where every other corner of the castle is full of life and people, everyone taking care of the last preparations or the guests who have started to arrive, the throne room is eerily empty and quiet.

Emma stands next to her parents, her shoulders sagging in relief when her eyes meet Killian across the room. He can only move to stand next to her, propriety be damn – he suspects the queen has known of his feelings for her daughter for quite some time now anyway – when he grabs her hand and squeezes her fingers in a reassuring manner. She smiles back, weakly.

Only then does Killian acknowledge the woman standing in front of them, still conversing with the Queen and Prince. Her clothes are only made of white fabric, from her cloak to her shoes, and she has that air about her that only wielders of magic seem to carry – Killian would know, for Emma is quite the same.

“…was sent to Oz after her mother abandoned her. We tried our best to welcome her within our community, but her anger and jealousy have always run too deep. She wants revenge on the Evil Queen,” the woman explains, voice soft but serious.

The Queen gasps as she comes to conclusions before Killian can even understand the situation he’s been thrown in. “Regina is her sister.”

“She is,” the other woman confirms. “She sent Walsh to marry the princess, because she is hoping she will have access to your army to use against Regina.”

The queen and her husband shares a look, their silent conversation allowing Killian to put back together the last pieces of a much larger puzzle. Emma’s hand trembles against his, repressed anger making her body shiver – she bites on her lip too, proof that she keeps her feelings in check for now. Everything will bubble out of her soon enough, though, and Killian can only understand – her fiancé played and used her, she has all the reasons in the world to be furious.

The doors open suddenly, all heads turning as Queen Guinevere enters the room with a purpose in her steps and sword in her hand. “We found him,” she says. “Lancelot is helping the guards carry him to the dungeons.”

“Thank you,” the queen replies, before she turns to the woman in white once more. “And thank you, Glinda, for warning us. I don’t know what could have happened if you hadn’t.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Glinda says before she disappears in a cloud of white smoke and silence falls once more on the throne room. David shares a few word with Guinevere before the both of them leave the room too, no doubt to take care of this false Wizard of Oz they now have in a cell.

Killian doesn’t know what to say, sharing a worried glance with Roland as his hold tightens around Emma’s hand. She squeezes back with the same strength and, not for the first time, Killian is impressed by the way she always manages to stand proud and tall even in the face of adversity – she used to be so reckless and wild, when she was younger, but womanhood and wisdom turned her into a force to be reckoned with, a queen in the making who will do wonders for her people.

“What happens now?” she asks, eyes never leaving her mother.

The queen folds her arms on her chest, pout forming on her lips as she ponders her daughter’s question. Outside, the sounds of carriages and horses and guests echoes softly, and Killian can only guess the queen’s reply before the words are actually out of her mouth.

“We can not possibly cancel now, with everyone arrived or arriving. But if word gets out that you are without a husband to marry, there might be a diplomatic incident over the number of young men willing to take the place.”

Killian’s heart drops in his chest as Emma’s eyes widen, her fingers slipping away from his hold so she can put her hands on her hips. The built-up anger is ready to explode now, but Killian doesn’t find it in himself to tell her an argument with her lady mother is not exactly the best way to let off steam.

“You want me to pick a husband now?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“Would you rather see strangers fight each other for your hand?” the Queen shoots back. “It would only end in a bloodbath and you are well aware of it.”

“So what? You’re asking me to just choose one at random and be done with it? After all those years telling me you would never marry me off against my will?”

Even if he’s been away at sea for the better part of the last few years, Killian knows the Queen would never let it happen – she cares too much about her daughter’s happiness for that, and wouldn’t want Emma to be forced into an arranged marriage. Still, the situation is dire, and there is doubt in the Queen’s eyes as she stares at her daughter. Killian presses his lips into a thin lip and ducks his head, unwilling to step in and cross some boundaries. He knows his place, after all, and being the crown princess’s confident never changed the fact that he is but a simple Lieutenant, no name or fortune to make him of importance.

“Emma, darling, you know–”

“I choose Killian.”

“What?” he asks, voice an octave higher with the panic rising in his chest, while her mother says, “what,” in a flat tone, voice dropping two octaves with barely supressed anger. They’re both left staring at Emma, who stands a little taller, her back straight and her head high – the posture of a queen, the posture of someone who knows what she wants. It is as fascinating as it is frightening, at times, and Killian finds it scarier than most when his life seems to be on the line.

“You asked me to choose. I did,” Emma adds flippantly. “If I am to marry someone today, it will be Killian.”

That is perhaps the moment Killian’s brain decides to stop working. Or maybe it is the moment after, when Emma grabs his hand once more and smiles at him – her lips quiver a little, but there is determination in her gaze too. She nods, a silent confirmation as well as a question and, well, Killian has never been one to be able to say no to Emma, so he trips on his words even as he agrees to the unbelievable arrangement.

Which is how, not even an hour later, he finds himself with an army of maid helping him get ready for the ceremony – forcing him into his most formal Navy uniform, the kind he barely ever wears. He lets them do the last fittings, unwilling to move or to complain, lest someone realises something is wrong and decides that the princess lost her mind after all, that the wedding is off.

There is no way her lord father would accept such an arrangement, the idea as dreadful as it is entertaining. If for a moment only, Killian pictures Emma and her father having an argument over the best suitor to marry, both as stubborn as the other in their ideas. He can’t blame the prince for having his daughter’s best interests at heart, even if Killian doesn’t know what to expect of him now – the prince always glared at him when he and Emma were but young friends, he can only imagine what could happen if they, indeed, get married today. Surely Emma will have one or two witty remarks about her father’s protectiveness.

But Killian’s smile soon drops when someone comes for him, and the reality of it all dawns on him as he makes his way to the main hall where the ceremony will take place. Or perhaps it dawns on him when he first sees Emma, dress pooling around her legs like the white of clouds on a summer afternoon, walks toward him as she holds a bouquet of middlemist flowers and smiles around her nervousness.

She glances his way only barely before her gaze lands on Lancelot in front of them – and, oh, the symbolism of her being married by the man who married her parents too. Killian wets his lips before croaking his ‘I do’ and listens as she breathes hers, small but certain. Her lips are dry when he brushes a kiss to her mouth, and she frowns at him – he has always been skilled at reading her thoughts, but they are a mystery to him in that moment, and dread crawls its way back to his skull.

Dread is also the reason why Killian can’t seem to enjoy the day’s festivities and, after opening the ball without being able to meet Emma’s eyes, he finds his way to a corner of the room, leaning against the wall as it will swallow him if he tries hard enough. His eyes never leave Emma, though, as she shares a dance with Lancelot in the middle of the room – she laughs openly at a joke her old master of arms whispers to her ear, her head thrown back in happiness. She is breathtaking, and she is his wife now, and surely this dream of his will end soon, he will wake up in mere minutes.

“I don’t remember reading your name on the invitation.”

Killian turns his head to find Queen Elsa standing next to him, gloved hand wrapped around a cup of champagne. He smiles at her and rolls his eyes, to which she giggles softly – their bond runs deep, from teenage years when they both grew into their unrequited feelings for Emma and felt like no one could understand the heartache of such a situation.

“I am as surprised as you are, Your Highness,” he replies, before his eyes travel to find Emma once more. He can’t really help himself, never could, but now he is allowed to do so, the novelty both thrilling and frightening.

“Do I want to know?”

He thinks of Walsh’s body in a cell, of Emma’s fingers trembling between his. “Probably not,” he replies, and Elsa nods gracefully, not asking for further details. She has never been one to pry, and Emma will most likely share the story with her soon enough anyway.

“For all it’s worth,” she goes on. “I’m glad it is you, and not another.”

And with that she leaves again to join her sister by the other side of the room, leaving Killian speechless and bemused. Nobody comes to talk to him after that, even if he feels the heavy gaze of Emma’s godmother on him all through the evening – Red keeps staring even as she dances with Mulan and talks with the Queen, and Killian would otherwise not mind if it wasn’t for the werewolf thing. He has no doubt she will have a few chosen words for him, and her speech will be more effective that anything the prince could every say.

It is well into the night when Emma comes to him again and, wordlessly, grabs his hand to put him away from the ballroom. Killian follows without a word, as she leads him through the now empty hallways of the castle. He does swallows nervously when they stop in front of the doors of her quarters (their quarters?) but Emma doesn’t leave him the choice as she opens the doors only to close them behind them, bolting the lock carefully.

Killian doesn’t know what to expect when she turns to face him, but it surely isn’t the fierceness in her eyes as she comes to stand in front of him, both hands on his chest to push him toward the bed until he falls on the mattress. He barely has time to rise on his elbows that she’s already straddling him, fingers gripping his hair to tilt his head back as she stares at him – her eyes just as unreadable as before, which only scares him some more.

“Emma…” he starts, not that she leaves him much room to talk when her lips capture his into a bruising kiss – she kisses like she fights, with the determination of someone who want to prove themselves to the world. Killian sighs into the kiss, tilting his head to the side to deepen it for a few moments, until he remembers himself and breaks away.

She frowns at him, obviously upset – why, he doesn’t know. Her lips are swollen and her pupils blown up, and yet she frowns at him like Killian personally offended her. She tugs on his hair one more, sharp enough to draw a hiss from his lips.

“Don’t you want this?” she asks him, and it sounds like a reproach. “Don’t you want the princess?”

“Emma, what –” His eyes widen as understanding settles in, and he sits up – she’s still straddling him but she moves as he does until she sits on his lap, knees still caging his hips. “Is that really what you think? That I could – use you, like he did? Want you for your title like they all do?”

Emma nibbles on her lip, too proud to look away – there is a flash of hurt in her eyes Killian can’t ignore, though, that speaks of insecurities so deeply rooted inside her he curses himself for never noticing before. He should have known best, even when no longer having the luxury of seeing her every day – he is her closest friend, he should have known best.

“Do you want me at all?” she asks back, indulging in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Killian can only smile as he raises a hand to cup her cheek, tilts her head so he can lean his forehead against hers. Her breath catches in her throat before she closes her eyes, her own hand brushing against his neck as she leans into him.

“I’m sorry I forced you, I – I didn’t know what do to. I thought – I thought you could learn to love me as I do you, as more than a friend. Maybe. Some day.”

The disbelieving snort (he is dreaming, he must be dreaming, there is no other way) escapes his nose before he can swallow it back, Emma’s body stiffening against his at the sound of it. But Killian laughs some more, breathless chuckles as he brushes his lips to Emma’s forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her jaw. She softens into his embrace, heaves a breath she seems to have been repressing for quite some time now.

“I love you,” he replies simply. “I’ve loved you since we were but children, Emma.”

She leans away, lips parted in surprise as she stares at him. Killian reads the wordless questions in her gaze – he has a hundred of his own, after all – but he elects to caressing with his thumb the spot on her cheeks where the double dimples usually are, elects to marvel in her beauty, her perfection. They have a hundred questions, but those can wait.

Or maybe not, for Emma pouts at him and goes on with, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me go through the headache of finding a husband if –”

“You were uninterested!”

“I was not, you were!”

Her eyes widen almost comically, before she stifles a giggle. Killian fights back again a grin of his own, but then she laughs out loud and hides her face in his neck, and he can only laugh too, carefree and happy. She grabs the fabric of his jacket at his back and presses a kiss to his collarbone, and his laughs turns into a tender smile because – because she loves him, and he loves her, and he is allowed to show his feelings now more than ever.

“Gods, we are such idiots,” he states.

“You are,” she replies as she sits up once more and smiles at him. Red crawls up her neck and down her cheeks as she adds, “You are my idiot.”

She looks sheepish as she says so, but Killian’s heart is too big for his ribcage all of a sudden, at her words and the possessiveness she pours into them – at the fact that he most definitely is hers, now, and nobody can change that. It scares him – he has no idea how to love her so openly – but it is the good kind of fear, sending shivers down his spine and warming his blood.

And so, when she leans to kiss him again, Killian meets her halfway – her lips warm and insistent against his mouth, her tongue darting to lick and taste, her teeth nibbling. She kisses like she fights, like she has something to prove, and Killian doesn’t mind it in the least.

Henry makes it his own alright, if the sight that welcomes her when she enters the kitchen is anything to go by. It’s as if a bag of flour exploded there, or perhaps a tornado ransacked the pantries – broken eggs on the counter, a hundred bowls everywhere, butter burning in a pan (so that’s the smell). Henry is standing in the middle of the mess, still in his pyjamas, and Emma wishes it was the weirdest thing about it all.

But the weirdest thing is that Henry is also talking to what appears to be a mirror, and the mirror is talking back. Emma isn’t awake enough for the logistics behind the scene unfolding in front of her, especially when Elsa’s voice comes out of the mirror. “No, no, you have to pour the sugar before you add the eggs and butter.”

“What’s going on here?”

Henry startles, before he freezes, and Emma hates that about them – how everything isn’t alright yet, and Henry is still wary of her when she catches him by surprise. They’re getting there, but something is broken between them, and she has no idea how to mend it. That is, until he slowly turns around, wide puppy eyes and innocent pout. It feels like cursed New York all over again, and more like he’s afraid she will ground him, less like he’s afraid of the Dark One. Emma can deal with that.

“Nothing?” he replies, more question than affirmation.

“Is that Emma?” comes Anna voice from the mirror. “Hey, Emma!”

Both sisters are waving at her as Emma approaches her son and the mirror, and it’s hard to keep a serious mom face on when all she wants is to break into a smile at the sight of her friends. She raises an eyebrow Henry’s way, though, for good measure.

“What did we say about author magic?”

“Only in case of emergency,” Henry replies with the monotonous voice of someone who’s piped back the same rule a hundred times.

“And does realm-skyping Elsa and Anna to make…” She looks around her, tries to guess what the mess is supposed to be, food-wise, “pancakes sounds like an emergency to you?”

He grins at her, little brat. “Kinda yeah.”

Emma tries to remain collected, she really does, but then her eyes fall on a yellow post-it, where Henry scribbled ‘Henry casts a spell on the mirror to talk to the Queen of Arendelle’ and it’s all too much – the grin blossoms on her lips, the laugh bubbling out of her even if she wants to swallow it down. She grabs the mirror and smiles to Elsa, who smiles back even as she squints her eyes a little.

“Are you alright?” she asks, even if the tone of her voice makes it clear that a positive answer will not do. Emma knows better than to lie to her, anyway.

“I’m getting there, yeah.”

Elsa’s smile grows softer, and she heaves a little sigh of relief. “Good. Talk to me if needed, alright?”

Emma’s heart hurts a little – she does miss her friend, and how she would be the only one to truly understand what she is going through. Her family is understanding, of course, but not on the same, visceral level Elsa is – she went through the same thing, after all, and learnt from her mistakes. She, more than anyone else, can empathize with Emma’s feelings right now.

“Will do. Once I’ve cleaned the kitchen.”

Henry sends her a smirk above his shoulder as he goes back to that massacre he calls breakfast. The smell of burn butter is still there, but the pancakes are ready to be cooked now, apparently, and he grabs a small ladle to pour the mix into a pan.

“Good luck with that,” Elsa laughs. And then, brightly, “Hello, Killian!”

“Good morrow, your highness,” comes his hoarse voice from behind Emma. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her to his (bare) chest, and it takes all of Emma’s self-control not to do anything embarrassing, like dropping the mirror or heaving a content smile. Not that she fools Elsa in the slightest, if the sly grin the queen is throwing her way is anything to go by.

“Oh, hi Killian!” Anna chimes in, reappearing in the mirror. “Kristoff says hi too – I mean, he doesn’t – I mean, he would if he were here.”

“I’m sure he would,” Emma grins. “Well, I need to go, before Henry burns down the house.”

Henry’s indignant ‘hey’ is drown out by Killian’s chuckle as Emma says goodbye to Elsa and promises to at least realm-skype soon, if not visit altogether – Henry’s powers may come in handy, emergency and all that. She waves one last time before shutting down the mirror and putting it back in its place, then opens the fridge to grabs a bottle of milk.

The pancakes are burnt around the edges, more black than golden, but pouring a little more maple syrup does the trick alright. Especially since Henry looks proud as a peacock and shoves two pancakes into his mouth with a smile – she doesn’t want to ruin this moment, so she smiles around her own mouthful, and kicks his shin with her foot lightly. Which, of course he kicks back, and soon the pancakes are forgotten as they’re wrestling together in the living room, breathless and laughing.