#ntof

It's official. Emma Swan is a moron. An absolute fucking idiot. It takes exactly 2 days, 1 hour and oh, 20 or so minutes after Killian kissed her goodbye and got into his cab to the airport for- 

It’s the middle of February and it's not freezing or anything but the wind is giving a vicious whipping to any and all skin she was foolish enough to leave exposed. And she would like nothing more than to take Killian's hand - his very gloveless, very cold hand - and squeeze them into the cab waiting in front of her apartment (yes, they had dinner at her apartment and she royally screwed it up and what else is new in Emma Swan’s world).

But Henry is waiting for her inside, hopefully (but highly unlikely after an evening spent in Killian's presence) already in bed and she has a honey trap to set tomorrow and her homework to do before that and a drive to the airport and back really doesn't sound that appealing.

So instead she sways a little on her feet and quirks up an eyebrow and says she'll get him a calendar for next time and she lets him pull her in so that she kinda steps on his toes but also ends up with his lips on the corner of her mouth. She lets her hands frame his face and regrets the long coat that she was so grateful for a moment ago because she can barely feel his hand on her waist through the thick wool. She opens her mouth and tastes her Bechamel sauce (which is sadly inferior to her Bolognese). She sighs into him and digs her nose into his cheek when he goes to pull back. She plays with the soft part of his left ear and makes him kiss her again, less tongue, more teeth, more pressure and the very first licks of regret for not taking this further when she had the chance. She lets him let her go and get into the cab. And she waves when he is already almost out of sight.

It takes exactly 2 days, 1 hour and oh, 25 minutes or so now after Killian kissed her goodbye and got in his cab to the airport for those licks of regret to become a full-on raging fire of 'Emma Swan is an absolute fucking idiot for not banging Killian Jones when she had the chance’.

///

 It's official. Killian Jones is an idiot. A complete and utter bonehead. It takes precisely one solid night of sleep and two days without hearing from Emma for him to realize that.

Of course, he heard from Henry but he highly doubts that Emma knows that and that… well…

"How how did you manage to mess that up?"

Killian scrubs his good hand down his face and tries to blink his eyes properly open. Getting in at 'I don't want to look at the clock 'cause my head knows I won't like what I see' o'clock and getting up for a meeting with Regina the next morning (because some people know how to tell days and some other people are too stubborn to admit their stupidity and ask for a re-schedule) is really not conductive to him being ship-shape in the late afternoon.

Which, unfortunately, is when Henry gets home from school and wants to know precisely why Killian showed up at Emma's door two hours after him on the 15th of February.

"I assure you, lad, I keep asking myself the same thing."

"I convinced my teacher to organize a Valentine's Day sleepover just so you guys can have a...." Henry stammers a bit here and if Killian was more awake, he'd be able to tell if it's the light in his room or the boy is actually blushing. "You know... grown-ups sleepover.."

He... does not know what he is supposed to say to that. What would Emma want him to say to that? What would he tell his own son, if he-

"Well, unplanned as it was, I'm glad that my miscalculation-"

Henry snorts at that but Killian chooses to ignore it.

"-meant I got to spent time with both your mother and you."

Yeah, that… that was nice. Talking to Henry always is. Nice and rejuvenating and inspiring and life-reaffirming and many other things that Killian will keep to himself so that he doesn’t completely freak out the poor boy.

His mother however is a whole different ballgame. Obviously. Would be concerning, if she wasn’t…

He is losing his bloody mind. It has been scattered all over ever since he got back but now that he’s had a good night’s rest, it’s even worse. Because now he gets to think about it. His little impromptu surprise. He gets to think and analyze and rationalize and all those things he knows make his characters compelling on page but make his own life bloody miserable on practice.

And the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to get up and go bang his head against the tiles in his bathroom.

What the hell was he thinking?!

Flying over on Valentine’s Day? Showing up a day late with a bloody bouquet of bloody paper flowers. Paper flowers! Lord, could he be more of a walking cliché? At least he left the poem attempts on his desk where they are merrily mocking him right now.

What did Emma do on Valentine’s Day (the actual day, bloody buggering-)? She simply called him.

“Of course she did, she is a bloody normal person, who hasn’t spent the last seven years in minimum contact with humanity.”

He remembers the obvious surprise on her face when he showed up on her doorstep. Even after he had blurted out his plans to her over Skype the night before. Perhaps even after that she didn’t expect him to show up. Perhaps she thought he was a somewhat normal and well-functioning person.

“Well, joke’s on her, ain’t it?”

He remembers her slight discomfort at having him in her apartment – her eyes darting this way and that way, her hand aborting its movement as she reached to brush something off his shoulder.

He remembers Henry’s shock at his arriving just after he had gotten home himself – the way his eyes grew wide – surprise and then glee (bless the lad’s pure heart, not finding anything weird about him just showing up on their doorstep at 11 in the morning).

He remembers the awkwardness at trying to figure out what to do now that they were obviously spending the day together – movies seemed too time-wasting, skating seemed like too much activity, a simple walk seemed aimless and why was this so bloody hard, he had been talking to both of them on the regular for over a month.

He remembers other things too. Still feels them rather. He feels the brush of her fingers as she handed him a cup of coffee while listing places in New York City that had good coffee. He feels the brush of her shoulder against his as they walked down a narrow sidewalk and he struggled to always stay on her right. He feels her breath just below his ear where it tickled him every time she leaned to supply any crucial information that he might need to comprehend the infinite amount of school stories that Henry seemed to be set on regaling him with. He feels the way their couch bounced as the lad dropped next to him, while Emma was getting dinner ready, and broke his words-per-minute record again, this time asking Killian for stories from book signings and the casting for the movie and everything else that he imagines any self-proclaimed ‘fan’ will eventually lose the battle with trying to keep locked inside.

And then he remembers the expression on her face. The utter horror that washed over when she realized that she’d prepared a steak dinner for a one-handed man.

It’s been years. It’s not… well, it’s never not a shock but it’s not a surprise anymore. When he discovers something new, something old that he can’t do anymore. Of course, he came across the fork and knife issue a long time ago – has it mostly figured out by this point.

Funny how he didn’t see this new thing coming – disappointing the girl you like. It probably has something to do with the fact that he hasn’t actually liked a girl in the time he has been operating with one hand. Not like that. Not a girl like that.

And she seems beyond embarrassed or annoyed or worried, she seemed on a whole other plane, holding court with herself over the soundness of her decision. Whether the one to make steak for dinner or to let him into her house (her life) – Killian really isn’t sure he wants to know, even while his brain insists on probing and guessing and analyzing and basically bloody torturing him.

“You should just let mom cut it for you. I always do. Steak is a bitch.”

“Henry! Language.”

“Sorry. Steak is a pain.”

The lad’s expression is so droll, it somehow manages to make him chuckle and draw him out of his plans to just spear the steak on his fork and risk doing his best impersonation of the dining scene from Beauty and the Beast. 

And then he remembers the pinkness of her nose in the cold evening air and the press of her warm tongue so in contrast with that chilly little nose and the way she seemed to shuffle into him every time he considered pulling back and the almost wistful glow in her eyes when he finally did.

He remembers something and reaches for his phone and then he remembers another and drops it like it’s burning his only remaining fingers.

And that’s how 2 days pass. And then another 2. And then a week.

And during the second week he starts reaching for it less and less because it doesn’t really take that much thinking and analyzing to figure out what it means that she hasn’t called him either.

///

 Henry is no fool. He knows that they are being idiots. He knows they probably had one of those ‘possible True Love alert’ moments that all of Killian’s True Love couples have at some point in the books and probably got all freaked out because he can’t remember his mom dating anybody like ever and Killian doesn’t look like he even knows how to use the word ‘date’ correctly.

The problem is that Henry has no one to bet against on who will break first.

The bigger problem is that he has no one to help him figure out when he should stop humouring them and step in.

///

 She is high on life. Yup, Emma Swan is actually feeling pretty damn good about herself for once.

She caught her perp with minimum effort for a maximum paycheck. Henry got an A on the art project she helped him prepare. There is a new pizza place down the street and it is divine. Her kid has great taste and chose her favourite Indiana Jones movie for tonight and then promptly went to bed after it with almost no whining at all.

Oh, and she is having a great hair day.

Realistically it’s probably not much. But dammit, Emma feels good about herself. She feels good enough to pick up her phone and hit Killian Jones’ name. More impressive yet, she feels good enough not to hang up as it starts ringing.

For once she feels good enough to shut up the thought of ‘well, he was obviously just trying to get into your pants and then that didn’t happen so it’s-

“Swan?”

She almost swallows her fucking tongue. Literally. And people actually do that. And Emma thinks she might have a slight phobia of swallowing her tongue. And why is she thinking about that now?

“Emma?”

“Are you afraid of swallowing your tongue?”

“Are- I beg your pardon?”

Pillow in the corner of the couch, meet Emma’s face.

“Emma?”

“Yup. Hey. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry. I mean… Well, no, I just… Umm…”

“Swan, I-“

“Did we break up?”

Pillow, kindly suffocate Emma to death.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stop begging and actually answer one of my questions!”

“Right. Sorry. I am. Sorry. I’m very sorry, love. We did not break up. I mean, if we are- If you thought we were- Not that I didn’t- I mean- Bloody hell!”

“Yeah, I thought we were.”

“Right. Good. That’s… me too. So we still are. We didn’t, we definitely didn’t break up.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Pillow, muffle any whiny sounds Emma might make.

“I just wanted to give you some time… space.”

“We live in different cities.”

“Right. I just wasn’t sure how happy you were about me just showing up in yours.”

“What?!”

“Well, I… well…”

Pillow, try not to die while Emma takes out her frustrations on you, you were kinda expensive.

“Killian, I… OK, I’m sorry, if I wasn’t... I just… No guy has spent time with me and Henry and had dinner with us and all that jazz.”

“Oh. Alright. I guess… I didn’t think you might have… not been seeing anyone for awhile as well.”

“No, I mean… never.”

“Never?”

“I mean, I have- of course, but… No one’s ever spent the day with us like that. Ever.”

“And I made you.”

“What? No. I mean- I- we wanted you to. I would’ve told you not to come, if I didn’t. I… I didn’t think it went that bad. I mean, I-”

“No. No, it didn’t! It was… I had a lovely time, Emma, I just…”

“Right. Well, me too.”

“That’s good. Good, we both enjoyed spending some time together.”

“Sounds like it.”

“That’s…”

Pillow, sorry for being catapulted across the room as Emma finally allows herself to fist-pump the air at Killian's quiet chuckle.

“So what was the other question?”

“Huh?”

“We’ve established that we haven’t broken up. So what was the other question that I was supposed to answer?”

“Oh. Uhhh… Oh, oh! Aren’t you afraid of swallowing your tongue? I don’t mean like getting tongue-tied but like literally swallowing your tongue. Just like-“

///

 He gets finding her on the couch. He gets the dead phone. He gets the empty cup of coffee. He gets the tangled hair and slight smile.

But for the life of him Henry can’t explain the decorative pillow thrown half across the hallway.

///

 Right, ok, this is not exactly how she ended up in front of Killian Jones’ house on Christmas Eve but… we’re getting there.

‘Patience is a virtue’ as Killian would say.

As it stands Henry’s door is thrown wide open, probably thanks to the sneaker that is jammed half under it. A definite sign of the haste with which he threw himself on his bed. And the voice drifting from his laptop explains it all.

“Well, that is quite the fascinating story, lad. So now he is stuck with this little bird?”

“Yes, but he has no idea what to do with it. He says the thing is nocturnal and won’t let him sleep!” Henry’s merriment makes her mouth tick up in seconds.

Killian’s deep laughter doesn’t hurt either.

“And has your teacher actually been to see the poor creature? Or its poor besotted owner?”

“That’s the thing – I don’t knoooow! His “bird-induced insomnia” was the last we heard from David. You know, when he came by the school to drop off some textbooks we had left behind. I’ve never seen anyone look so happy about kids leaving their stuff all over.”

“Hmmm. Well, this just won’t do now, will it? We need more intel before we can proceed with any confidence.”

“Well, I was thinking…”

Uh-oh. She knows that tone. Last time he heard that tone, they spent 3 hours in The Belle of Bookstores and came out carring so much shit Emma didn’t have to workout for a week.

“Mhmmm…”

It seems like Killian has a sixth sense about “the tone” as well.

“Maybe you could convince mom that a pet is a good thing for a kid to have around. You know, a pre-teen thing. She is really into those recently.”

“Right. And me, with all my expertise on pre-teens...”

“You write children’s slash young adults slash anyone who has good taste books!”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, young man!”

“But it might get me a puppy!”

“I’m glad to see you think your mother so easily bought, kid,” she finally joins in, leaning a hip on the doorjam and crossing her arms in her favourite ‘I’m a single mom who takes no bullshit’ pose.

“Oh. Hey, mom,” Henry, on the other hand, has his own favourite ‘I’m your little angel and you’ll forgive me anything’ face.

“Nonsense, Swan, the lad thinks your defenses so insurmountable that he felt the need to contract a professional tale spinner.”

The laptop is angled so that she can’t see Killian’s face but Emma finds herself perfectly capable of envisioning his ‘I’m so charming and suave, how can you resist me’ grin.

Because it’s 5pm and the universe is probably napping and so unable to conspire against her, Henry’s phone rings not 10 minutes later and Emma has no qualms about settling herself on the floor beside his bed and dragging his laptop into her lap.

Hijack #1: Emma Swan taking over for Henry Swan

“Fancy seeing your face, love.”

“Wish I could say the same but that light is really not doing you any favours.”

She teases him because she can. Because they’ve established that “they definitely did not break up” three weeks ago and have talked every day since. She teases him because they are good. If she wasn’t afraid that it might wake up the universe and jinx them all to hell, Emma would say that they are very good.

“Oy! No need to take me down quite so many notches, Swan. I believe this place was designed to flatter Ruby’s pale complexion and no one else’s.”

It is so obvious that he is in a public place, a diner of sorts, with a vibe that’s even familiar-ish. Which is why the slight note of irritation? warning? jealousy? in her tone is absolutely ridiculous and yet-

“Who’s Ruby?”

“Oh. Have I not told you this?”

“Mmm, don’t think so.”

Yup, definitely irritated now.

“Remember where I had my signing in your fair New York?”

“Yeah, I seem to recall that place and event. I believe Henry made me check it on Google maps 4 times. 4 times. A bookshop that we had been to before! I’m surprised he didn’t make me do a test drive before the signing to see how fast we get there.”

“Right,” he probably deserves some credit for swallowing his laughter but she sure isn’t going to give it to him. “And you know Granny? From the diner across the bookstore?”

“I’ve only been addicted to her grilled cheese for like 2 years. ‘Course I know Granny, Killian, would you get to the point already?”

“Bloody hell. Fine. Long story short – and trust me that’s no small sacrifice for a writer – Granny used to run a diner in Storybrooke with her granddaughter Ruby. They were doing real well but then Ruby went off to model in New York so they decided to open a… a branch there. But then, one Christmas-“

“Wait, wait. I’m sorry, hold up and take in some air, I didn’t mean get to the point that fast.”

Killian, bless him, actually does need to suck in some air and she shakes her head in fond exasperation.

“So, let me see, if I’m getting this right. Granny, the same Granny who has been feeding me and Henry almost every weekend for years now, used to live in Storybrooke? You used to know each other?”

“That is correct. Is why I chose the bookstore across her charming establishment. And why she was the one keeping everyone there hydrated and nourished.”

Emma snorts. She’s hard pressed to define Granny’s hot chocolate as hydrating. You can eat the thing with a spoon, it’s so thick and creamy… Some days Emma thinks she’d rather part with a kidney than Granny’s cocoa.

“Alright. Let’s ignore how absolutely bizzare that coincidence is-“

“As I told you, lass, no coincidence at all. I very purposefully chose-“

“Right, right. I got it. But still. You know Granny! Our Granny!”

“Well, to be fair, Swan, she was my Granny first.”

His grin is infuriating. And so is the way his hair falls across his forehead. And the light circling under his eyes. And the long eyelashes that swipe over it whenever he blinks at her. How can someone look so innocent and infuriating at the same time?

She knows Killian Jones is far far from innocent. And maybe it’s because she knows his story that sometimes she just wants to reach through her laptop (or Henry’s as the case may be) and brush his hair and wrap her arms around him and smother him with kisses. And that’s just plain ridiculous so-

“Whatever. Why is she here and her granddaughter is in Storybrooke, if she was the one working in New York?”

The granddaughter is still… a question mark. An ex-model question mark.

“As I was just saying, one Christmas Ruby came back and after one too many holiday run-ins with a certain deputy, she never left. But the place in New York was literally ready to open and, if you know Granny, you know that woman never turns down a challenge, so… Granny is there, making sure you don’t starve on your stakeouts and Ruby is here, bugging me closer and closer to an early grave. One mediocre cup of coffee at a time.”

“I heard that, Jones!”

And Emma heard that.

“Granny’s is a chain… Huh. I guess wonders do never cease…”

“Sorry, love, Regina seems to be calling me on here. I’ll just give her a call instead and be right back.”

And that’s how it happens.

Hijack #2: Ruby Lucas taking over for Killian Jones

“Freaking finally! I thought I’d never get my chance.”

Suddenly Emma’s screen is filled with a whole lot of what she will soon know is Ruby Lucas.

“Hey?”

“Hi! I’m Ruby. And you must be the magical Emma!”

Emma sputters. It’s not graceful and it’s not pretty but at least she’s not drinking anything.

The hell? What kind of things has Killian been saying about her?

“Excuse me?”

“Hmmm?”

“Magical Emma?”

“Oh. Sorry. That’s just what I’ve been calling you in my head. Not like to Killian’s face or anything.”

The Ruby girl gets a thoughtful, borderline fiendish look on her face.

“Maybe I should. Can someone die from blushing?”

“Umm… I don’t think so. Can we go back to how we’ve never met but you have like… a nickname for me?”

Eyes darting away just for a second, probably to check that Killian is still occupied with his manager, and Ruby fixes her with a serious look. It’s like watching all the bubble exit a champagne bottle until all that’s left is concentrated alcohol that can really do a number on your head.

“He’s been back in Storybrooke for a few years now. But he’s only been back for a couple of months.”

…

“Oh.”

…

“I don’t know what kinda magic,” Ruby scrunches up her unnecessary perfect nose and waves her hand in what Emma supposes illustrates magic. “you’ve been doing but just keep doing it, yeah?”

…

“I-“

…

“And that’s how Jones ended with a drawn mustache and a perm!”

“Bloody hell, woman!”

“She needs to be warned.”

“Get off. Off. Stay away from my computer and my- Off.”

“Looovely to finally meet you, Emma!”

Ruby leaves with a wink and a wave and a generous view of her retreating back. Killian reemerges with the most sheepish look on his face and she smiles.

She doesn’t call him her boyfriend either. The word feels so… foreign. She is not sure her mouth would know how to form the syllables.

But other parts of her anatomy are definitely beating out the rhythm.

“Bloody hell, why does Regina insist on skyping me?!”

Hijack #3: Roland Hood stealing the whole show

///

He can tell she is up to something. He knows his mom pretty well – has known her all his life, you might say.

She is great at fooling all her “targets” and depositing their asses in jail before they even realized what the hell is going on. She is not too bad at faking it with his teachers and the other parents at his school either. Expect her smile is always like… extra tight and fake-y around the other moms, especially the ones with such long nails that Henry is always a bit apprehensive about shaking hands with them – except they usually prefer to pat him on the head and squeeze him up with something like “poor sweetheart” which makes his mom look even more like an arrow drawn up and ready to fly off. Honestly, sometimes he doesn’t get adults at all.

But he gets his mom and he knows she is up to something. It’s just that… he is as well so he’ll let it slide this one time.

Henry figured (and Killian reluctantly agreed) that just because they are not getting a pet, doesn’t mean that Killian possibly can’t. There is, of course, the small matter of him being in another state but somehow David doesn’t think to ask after any whereabouts when Henry tells him he is picking a cat for his mom’s boyfriend.

Killian asked for more intel before he agrees to tackle the Teacher-Pet case. He also vehemently protested naming it that but, for the life of him, Henry doesn’t understand why – it is all about getting his teacher together with the pet shelter’s owner. It is perfect and Killian is being silly.

It is fun really. To find out that Killian can be silly as well and get cranky when his coffee is “bollocks” (whatever that is, he isn’t supposed to use it). He never really considered the fact that Killian Jones might be genius and talented and super awesome but also… silly. It’s nice.

And because he has seen Killian in action – his mom told him all about Roland hijacking Regina’s Skype and calling Killian non-stop for a full two hours before he was discovered – he knows that his matchmaking skills are the best money could buy – or, you know, puppy eyes since it’s not like he has any money. He feels like he might be getting a bit old for that trick but it seems to work just as well on Killian as it always does on his mom and desperate times…

///

The idea pops into her head about an hour after “meeting” Ruby for the first time. And once there it’s like that little piece of popcorn that’s stuck to the roof of your mouth and keeps annoying you and you just can’t get it off.

And then she goes to Granny’s a couple of days later and the woman looks at her over her glasses and says she heard her granddaughter made her acquaintance. Says she heard someone else has been making her acquaintance as well. Emma is pretty sure that’s not how you use that phrase but she is also too busy dumping half the cinnamon shaker in her cocoa and fleeing as if Granny had turned into a pack of wolves.

And then Ruby adds her on Facebook. And Emma eyes the request suspicious all Thursday and then she does the one thing Emma from like 4 months ago would probably gag at her doing. She asks Killian what he thinks. And frankly? Emma from like 4 months ago can suck it. Because she has someone whose opinion she values and respects and actually wants and she is OK with telling him that the brunette freaked her out a bit and eventually, after a couple of hours on the phone, she even tells him she was a bit “on the fence about this Ruby chic” when he first mentioned her and if his smirk is anything to go by, he knows exactly what that means but just shakes his head and says “Lucas is a pest. The big, fangy kind, not the kind you can swap away”. And really in the end, Killian just tells her to go with her gut – Ruby is cool in his books, her grandmother probably saved him from being homeless both times he rolled into Storybrooke with nothing but the clothes on his back, an unfinished manuscript and a spectacular hangover. In the end, it’s not about Killian telling her what to do at all, it’s about her having someone to talk it out with and make up her mind. It’s new. It’s kinda wonderful.

And then Henry asks if he can invite Killian to his birthday. His birthday. In August. 5 months away.

And then because being his girlfriend or whatever (she still cannot say the thing with adding “whatever” after, she has tried) doesn’t mean that she is not still a fan or whatever (that one is just a bit embarrassing – being a fan of your boyfriend… or whatever). So, yeah, she checks Killian Jones’ blog, which he updates only every month or so but, yeah, she follows him on Instagram and she follows his blog and whatever, he follows her as well and once said something ridiculous along the lines of him being a fan of her, like every part of her or whatever, so yeah. It’s fine.

But then she opens his blog, while on a ridiculously unproductive stakeout and she sees his last post from a couple of hours ago.

The wonder isn’t that love find us, as strange and magical and mystical and wonderful and unbelievable as that feels.

The wonder is that even when we never find it, even when love waits in the wings of dream for too long, even when it doesn’t knock on the door we’ve been staring as for years, or leave messages in bottles or on answering machines or on Facebook walls or in the bloody sand to be washed away by the waves of time, even when love doesn’t put flowers in our hands or tears of incomparable joy or unimaginable heartbreak in our eyes… even then… so many of us never stop believing in love.

Imagine how lucky we are. To have such hope, such faith. And then, occasionally, when we are so very very lucky… such love.

Of course he did. Killian will probably say it’s okay, if Henry wanted to organize the party in his house. Will probably fly the whole class to Storybrooke, Nowhere, Maine. Giving Henry his skype had been a huge mistake.

“I wonder what Regina would say,” she mutters but turns around and starts the engine anyway.

If Killian wants half the population of NY to have read his book before it even hit the bookstores, that’s his own damn business. The thing would probably be a hit regardless. And she could just imagine him telling her not to get her knickers all twisted up over it.

///

It isn’t lying per say. Miss Blanchard is organizing a fairytale party with lots of Disney binging and a NTOF reading. Was it her idea? Not precisely. Is she doing it? Yes. So Henry thinks he is on the lighter side of that particular grey area.

Plus, he thinks his mom and Killian will hardly take issue with the plan he formed almost as soon as Killian told him he planned on coming to New York for Valentine’s Day.

///

She makes it to 9:36pm when Henry texts her that Miss Blanchard invited him and a couple of other students that live far to stay over. Emma takes it as a sign from the universe. A sign saying ‘fix your hair, pour yourself a glass of red and call him’.

So she does just that. She touches up her make up as well while in front of the mirror. Checks there’s no laundry in the range of her laptop’s camera, logs into Skype and shoots Killian a quick text.

Wanna Skype?

Emma nods to herself. Good, chill, casual (to the point where she knows he might cringe). Perfect for their not-really-a-relationship-cuz-we’ve-only-seen-each-other-once-but-kind-of-a-relationship-because-we-text-every-day-(all-day)-and-skype-every-weekend.

Tomorrow perhaps?

Oh. Emma stares at her phone screen, confusion dominating her senses while reality tries to realign with her expectations.

It’s fine, of course. Perfectly fine. He is probably busy. At 10:10pm. On Valentine’s Day. It’s fine. She is not gonna think about it too hard. It’s fine.

She texts him precisely that (It’s fine.)  and goes to the bathroom to remove the day old make-up that suddenly feels like it’s suffocating her.

///

He honest-to-God bangs his head against the desk. Why is writing for Emma Swan so bloody hard?

Not writing about her. Oh, no, writing about her is Killian’s new favourite pastime. Whether he is writing her dry sense of humour into one of his more cynical characters or writing the colour of her eyes into his (undeniably poor) attempts at verse, writing Emma Swan is both exhilarating and liberating.

Writing for her is a whole different ballgame. He honestly thought that first short story had been so damn hard because he hadn’t had a clue how she’d react to receiving it. Over the last week he’s realized that it had a lot to do with not knowing how she’d react to it.

As fascinated (and absolutely smitten) as he is with Emma, there is still a hell of a lot that he doesn’t know about her. And trying to write her a bloody poem (for bloody Valentine’s Day no less) is slowly but surely giving him a case of proper anxiety.

Would she think it too cheesy? Too frivolous? Too old-fashioned? Ridiculous? Over the top? How is he to write anything, if his head is full of more question marks than words?

His phone pings again and Killian sends a silent prayer to goddamn Cupid, or whoever is on call for poor bastards like him, that it’s not Emma again because he can only exercise so much self-control when faced with the chance to see her face. Even if just on his computer.

Just about 20 hours or so and you’d get to see her in the flesh, mate. Touch her. Perhaps… kiss her.

Bloody hell. Those thoughts are worse than the doubts in his head when it comes to productivity. So whether to torture himself further or to shake himself from his daydream (is it still a day dream, if it’s night but you’re still awake?), he grabs his phone.

It’s not Emma and the mix of relief and disappointment is one of the strangest sensations he has ever experienced. And that’s saying something.

It’s Regina of all people. Texting him a picture of a huge bouquet of all things. His confusion lasts for all of three seconds before her second text comes through.

‘Happy Valentine’s, Jones. I guess gratitude is in order.’

He can just picture Regina’s face, pinched in discomfort, shooting poor Robin fiery looks at he nudges her to keep typing after every word.

And then the confusion is back.

Why the hell are they wishing me a happy holiday a day early?

His eyes fly to the little numbers above the digital clock on his phone with well-calculated dread and his stomach starts plummeting before he has even registered what he is seeing.

Tue Feb 14

14th.

“Bloody buggering fuck!”

He starts opening and logging into Skype so fast he can almost hear his laptop sputtering in indignation.

///

She is already in bed. Old pjs, hair up in a loose bun she can fall asleep in, if she so pleases, her second glass of wine on the nightstand and Donna Tart’s first novel in her hands (if it feels a bit like cheating on Killian, well, maybe she has no issue with that right now).

Speaking of which-

Her Skype suddenly comes to life with a jarring ringing which is that much more annoying and loud thanks to the quiet in her bedroom. After a lifetime of one too many neighbors complaining about the crying baby she couldn’t seem to bounce to sleep, Emma’s body seizes in discomfort from being the source of noise so close to midnight. Then she sees Killian’s face on her screen and her everything seizes for a whole different reason.

Seriously?! seems to be today’s motto.

Emma glances down to make sure there are at least no peanut butter stains on her t-shirt and then hits the green button with a frustrated sigh. However, her put-togetherness (or lack thereof) is quickly pushed to the backburner when an obviously distressed Killian Jones, if the way he is pulling at his hair is anything to go by, appears on her screen.

“Killian?”

His head snaps up so fast she can almost hear his neck pop, expression sliding from mortification into unadulterated relief in a millisecond.

“Swan,” he breathes it out in a way that already has him half way to forgiven for not humouring her earlier.

“What’s u-“

“I’m so so so sorry! Bloody hell, love, I swear I thought it was the 13th. I’ve been struggling with this… thing for the last week and I completely lost track of the whole space-time continuum. Please, forgive me, I can’t believe I ju-“

“Killian, slow down. It’s fine,” she says on a half-laugh and means it for the first time tonight.

Babbling Killian just made the top 5 of her favourite Killians.

“It is most certainly not. I cannot believe I buggered this up. I was going to come down to New York tomorrow. Today. Bloody- I’m so sorry, Swan. I didn’t want to speak to you in case I let myself slip up and-“

“Killian. It’s alright. It’s not a big deal. I just thought…” she shrugs one shoulder. “You know… wouldn’t be too bad to see your face today.”

“It’s marvelous to see your face any day, Emma. I swear I was just afraid I might-“

“Seriously, you need to stop explaining yourself. Though…”

It’s only now that his explanation actually sets in and Emma feels her insides vibrate a little at the thought of seeing him again. For the first time since… whatever it is they started doing.

“Though?” he asks and she can practically feel the anxiety radiating from her computer screen and pulls it a little closer on pure instinct, gives him a little smile, just on this side of coy and that side of reassuring.

“Well… since you had it all planned and everything, and I’m guessing you can afford to take a day off to- I mean, if you can’t, it’s fine but you said-“

“Swan,” he is the one sounding amused now and Emma realizes her gaze has dropped to her keyboard. “Please, don’t misunderstand me. I may have miscalculated but I still very much plan to see you tomorrow. Face to face.”

She swallows and watches his smile dip a little as his eyes soften.

“If you’ll allow me.”

She nods dumbly before realizing he’d probably like a proper answer.

“Ye-yeah. I think that can be arranged.”

“Wonderful!” Killian beams at her and for a minute they seem to just stare at each other, reacquainting themselves with their faces, the way only people who haven’t seen each other much but really really want to can. “I hope I didn’t wake you… If you have to go to bed-“

“No, no,” Emma hurries to reassure him, maybe embarrassingly fast, but she finds that her embarrassment tolerance rises with the hours she’s been awake. “I mean, I’m already in bed so-“

“So I can see, love.”

“Hey! You are the one who called me at-“ she checks the time on her phone only to realize it is barely past 11pm. “Whatever. You don’t get to complain.”

“Believe me, Swan, you will never hear me complain about seeing you in bed.”

She gives him her and Henry’s ‘are you serious?’ look just to bring it all full circle. It doesn’t seem to faze him much and her treacherous mind singsongs that he’ll fit right into their routine.

So when Emma gets the delivery, she is confused at best and a whole lot of suspicious. She tears into the simple brown wrapping with her patent patience. Meaning – none.

Her gasp when she sees the cover of New Tales from the Old Forest VII is so loud she almost ruins what must be a Christmas surprise for Henry. She knows that’s what it is so why is she so bitterly disappointed when the beautiful inscription in Killian Jones’ ridiculously princess-y handwriting is indeed for her son and her son alone?

Henry will be over the moon. So Emma tells herself she is over the moon as well.

And then a thick envelope falls from the back of the heavy leather-bound book, with ‘Emma’ in that same stupid cursive, and she remembers what being over the moon really feels like.

///

Killian hasn’t done the whole ‘balls of paper lying everywhere but in the trashcan’ writer cliché in years. Bloody hell, years. He has been writing for years. He is a successful writer. He is a bloody bestselling author. It still blindsides him on occasion.

He doesn’t pay much attention to social media even if he does his best to post something every month or so. A poem. A quote. Things that speak to him and he hopes, he knows (he is slowly but surely beginning to know) speak to other as well.

But he takes special care with his fan mail. The actual mail. Not many people bother with that these days when their idols or current celeb crushes are just a tweet away. Yet more than Killian thought. He has a rather steady flow of letters, cards and small packages coming his way every month and he likes to think it is the perfect amount to remind him that people do want to read his words but not so much that he loses his head.

He has lost his head before and he has no interest in doing it again. Yet it seems that his heart is the one in danger now, something he never could have predicted, a plot twist so ingenious he has to tip off his non-existent hat to fate. It has certainly bested him.

Much like Emma Swan’s smile has bested him. And the way her eyes flitter away when she is nervous. And the way her hair gets in her way. And the way she cradles books (his books, bloody buggering hell) in her arms. And the way she looks at her son. And her son. He has rarely wanted to see what becomes of someone as much as he wants to see what becomes of Henry. Because he knows it’s going to be grand. And he wants to help it happen, he wants to watch it happen.

He is absolutely screwed. He knows it as he takes his own brand new copy of New Tales from the Old Forest VII off the shelf. He knows it as he lets his pen run with his head and, much more dangerously, with his heart as he dedicates it to the boy whose smile he can still feel tugging up the corners of his own mouth. He knows it as he takes out a stack of papers and his favourite black pen and starts writing to his mother next.

So here he is. Screwed and littering his own house. Because much as he tries, she refuses to squeeze into the tight corset and twirl at the balls under the gazes of dozens of wish-to-be suitors. Because much as he tries, he cannot pen anyone smart enough to outsmart her or bright enough to outshine her.

So with one last clumsy ball (truly, crumbling paper into a ball is not nearly as satisfying with one hand and Killian knows it’s a ridiculous thing to miss when he still has trouble with his shoelaces but he does) he sets all ideas of writing her into a royal world of pomp and glitter aside and pictures the way her green eyes flashed back to him one last time before she led her boy away.

And just like that he leaves the ballrooms and castles far behind and the masts and planks and black sails and vicious storms rise up with a roar. He feels himself nodding along as he adds the Captain before her Swan and biting his lips as he straps the sword to her belt and grinning like the fool he is when he sprays the sea salt on her cheeks.

///

Emma exercises the one virtue she has never possessed and waits. She wraps Henry’s book in the best wrapping paper she has left (and only sneaks a peak of the first page… ok, maybe the first five) and, on a whim, ties her own bulky letter with a bow and puts them both under the tree.

Dinner on Christmas Eve is a quiet but happy affair and as she looks at her son, she knows she will be fine no matter what, long as she has Henry. And yet… she finds it in herself to admit that maybe just because they are good, doesn’t mean they can’t be better. Maybe just because it’s been the two of them for years, doesn’t mean it always has to be.

She bites her lip until it almost bleeds but manages to be the adult, the responsible mother, and hands him one of her own presents to open before bed. No way is he ever falling asleep, if he sees the book. No way is she resisting opening her letter, if she gives him the book.

///

Christmas has never let him down!

Henry knows that his mom is only humouring him when she doesn’t argue with his talk about magic and destiny and True Love but he also knows that there are some things even she doesn’t know. So he humours her in turn and doesn’t try to convince her of the magic that is so obviously everywhere. But on Christmas he doesn’t hold back. And Christmas has always repaid his loyalty but this year. This year it outdid itself.

New Tales from the Old Forest VII

VII! As in the one that wouldn’t be out for another two months. As in the one no one has seen yet. As in the one he is currently holding in his hands.

The one with Killian Jones’s own handwriting inside it, calling him his favourite fan and hopefully future fellow writer and-

Christmas really outdid itself this year!

///

Emma would’ve thought she couldn’t be more grateful for the absolute joy on her son’s face when he tore through the reindeer to get to what she is sure is his new favourite possession. She would’ve thought that but then she discovers that Henry’s absolute fascination with his book also gives her a reprieve from his admirable but sometimes rather challenging perceptiveness.

All she gets is the puppy eyes and a beseeching ‘MOM’ and she waves him off, pardoning him for his desire to spend Christmas Day buried in stories she frankly can’t wait to read herself.

So maybe she has an ulterior motive as well, maybe there are other things she can’t wait to read as well. She thinks she can and has been forgiven.

She scowls at the way her fingers almost tremble as she tears the corner of the letter. She is not fancy enough to have a letter opener (this is the first personal letter she has received since the one that contained nothing but a car key) and obviously not sensible enough to keep it together while just opening a stupid envelope.

The bulk of the thing should’ve given it away, yet she is still surprised, still gasps a little just like she did when she saw the book, when she pulls out the small stack of papers. There are at least twenty pages in her hands and they are all covered from top to bottom in his beautiful script.

Emma doesn’t bother hiding in her bedroom, she is too stunned to think about keeping this from her kid, too wrapped up in trying to keep her thoughts from completely running away from her. She shuffles to the armchair, hand clutching the sheets of paper as if they might decide to slip from her fingers and make a run for it, grabs one of the blankets piled on it and takes the couple of steps to the couch, mouth still slightly agape, and plops down in the vacant corner, glancing up only to see that she could’ve started setting off fireworks and Henry still wouldn’t have looked up from his book on the other end.

She spares a thought to making herself some hot cocoa but cannot convince herself to set down the pages or risk bringing them anywhere close to the damn surface of her kitchen counter. So she just plunges in.

///

She doesn’t call him on New Year’s and she doesn’t text him.

Because it will be cliché and because he is probably celebrating and because she is too busy watching the fireworks playing over Henry’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression.

And yet. It’s only the twelfth minute of 2017 when she thinks about him for the first time this year. And she has a feeling it won’t be the last.

///

She sits down on her worn couch the 18th after having put her kid to bed and having done the dishes. After having already put three dirtbags behind bars this year. After having read New Tales from the Old Forest VII and read and re-read and re-read and re-read his short story, her short story, at least a dozen times.

She sits down and prays to every deity that might not be too hungover post-Christmas and New Year’s to hear her that she hasn’t missed her chance with what she is afraid might be one of the single most amazingly talented and even more amazingly sweet men on earth.

///

So how is your new year going so far? – Emma Swan (Henry’s mom, from the signing in NYC)

His eyes boggle and his grin is almost painful but he prides himself on the fact that the shock and elation and relief (the thought of never hearing her voice again has been slowly driving him insane for oh, about 28 days) don’t incapacitate him completely for more than a couple of minutes.

///

She re-reads her stupid, stupid, text for the 8th time in the last 2 minutes and rolls her eyes at herself for the 8th consecutive time. Maybe she should’ve also added what she was wearing back then and quoted word for word everything he’d said. Pathetic. She is so not good at this.

Suddenly it seems like it might be the best one in a good while. – Killian Jones (the guy that has been staring a hole in his phone for the last month)