fictional-redheads replied to your post: That CS spoiler pic is alllllllmost making me want...
(disclaimer: I have not watched s7 and know nothing about it apart from what’s on my dash and I have no problem if you do, go forth and be happy! this was written in like 10 minutes and doubtless will be jossed anyway buuuut. Reasons.)
Emma’s smile up at him is slightly tremulous, as if she thinks he might flinch, or run, or jerk back. As she pauses, gathering herself. I have something to tell you, and What is it, love? and all the other words that hang still-just-spoken between them, as if perhaps he’s guessed already, and yet, hearing it is something else.
They’re standing here in the woods, and Henry is a man, a man, gods, he’s grown up, when it feels like just bloody yesterday that Killian was putting him through his paces on the deck of the Roger, and Emma was confiding her fears about him leaving home, worried that she might never get a second chance. He could hear well enough what she meant by that, and, well. They haven’t been trying, but they haven’t not been trying, both of them too innately superstitious, perhaps, to speak it aloud and curse its chances.
(Curses, after all, dog too closely at their footsteps.)
(Why give this one a better chance?)
And yet, it’s just that, it’s a chance, it’s more than that. This small and perfect glimpse of a future he can still have, that he wants so badly, as Emma Swan Jones’ smile trembles again and she grasps her husband’s hand and brings it to her stomach, never turning from his gaze, as Henry has considerately retreated to give them a moment. (Unorthodox modifications to his family tree are hardly unknown; getting a much-younger half sibling will be about the most ordinary addition it’s had in some time.)
Emma’s voice is a whisper as their foreheads touch.
“You’re going to be a father, Killian.”
(And he is, he already has been, to Bae and to Henry and even young Neal on occasion, he has loved and loved, he has given so much -- and yet he’s never quite taken that word, never quite made it his own. It can’t be real, not like this, not with her, her hair like sunshine on her shoulders and the ghost of a gasp clutched in his chest, and love like he cannot fathom in his heart. And yet it is, it is warm and real and bright, the lost boy and girl brought full circle, and all the world begun anew.)
