Thereupon, she stood up I front of her girlfriend's desk and took a deep breath. She hadn't even spoken a word yet and her face was almost the same color as her hair.
Andy thought the British girl would collapse right there. Her shining eyes fixed on the blue ones.
"You look utterly flawless. And whatever anyone else might say falls short of how stunning you are. Words are an insult to your beauty, Andrea." Emily stated, her British accent standing out her speech.
And there she was, finally! Her sharp and resolute girl. Andy's heart melted. That was the cutest words anyone could have ever said to her. She didn't care about Nigel, Serena or even Miranda; what she wanted most was for her girlfriend to speak her mind.
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CSSNS25: "Next Year All Our Troubles Will be Out of Sight" {Part Three}
Wow, hard to believe that it is the first of August! Not the least reason being that it has now taken me 8+ months to finish this Christmas story. However, it is finally done at last, and I hope my @cssecretsanta2020 giftee @cocohook38 will enjoy how this finally wraps up. This final chapter posts now, and the epilogue will be either tomorrow or Monday. I'm not about making her (or anyone else who is still interested) wait any longer. I hope these last two parts of the story where things finally look brighter for our characters will soothe all the angst up to this point.
Summary: Tragedy brings Killian Jones into Emma Swan and her son Henry's lives, but at first she may be too closed off to accept the help he wishes to offer. Much stands in the way, but her son's belief, a stubborn, caring man, and perhaps just a pinch of healing Christmas magic, may help them all muddle through into a brighter New Year.
If you need a refresher, the previous chapters of this story can be found HERE, or HERE on AO3.
Part Three: Until Then, We'll Have to Muddle Through Somehow
Meanwhile, back at her apartment, long after Henry’s return and their meal together, Emma had finally forced herself to have a truly frank conversation with her son; one that delved deep enough to pass him saying he was fine and learn that he had been worried about her and trying to protect her by pretending he was okay with their scaled-back holiday preparations. She’d shed several tears in reassuring her beautiful, wonderful boy that what she needed most was his happiness. Her job was to take care of him, not the other way around. She needed him to know that he could always be open and tell her how he truly felt, regardless of what he thought she might want. They’d even agreed to try making gingerbread that weekend - a new holiday tradition of sorts for the two of them, and the hug he had given her before heading off to bed had felt like forgiveness.
Still, Emma knew she’d see very little sleep that night. She’d been going through the motions, wrapped up so fully in her own dismal shroud of blame and hurt that she hadn’t paid as close attention to her son as she felt she should have. Henry had been putting on a brave face for her while on the inside still grieving the only father he had ever known. While he might not hold her accountable, it was much harder for Emma to let herself off the hook for missing what her kid had been going through. Though she hated to admit it, even just to herself, Killian Jones had been right to challenge her blindness in his own concern for Henry, and she’d berated him for it. Things might have continued as they had been indefinitely longer if he hadn’t spoken up, knowing it wouldn’t be an easy thing to do and that it might well blow up in his face - just as it had done. Her pride was pricked certainly, but she was embarrassed now at how she had overreacted and lashed out at him.
It was, unfortunately, a familiar mistake of hers, Emma thought with a sigh as she settled deeper into the corner of the couch. Her sleepless eyes refused to close while her mind flew back several years in the past - to her first meeting with Graham, another good hearted man who had approached her with the of best intentions and had her nearly bite his head off for the effort.
Henry had been hardly more than a toddler then, but it was the first week of December and the year’s first snow had accumulated overnight. Her little boy had been dazzled by the brilliant whiteness all around and the still-falling flakes that landed on his cheeks and melted on his tongue. He’d begged to go out in it, despite her fear that he might get too cold, until she had finally bundled him up to the point he could hardly move and had driven the beat-up yellow Bug to the nearest public park, where she knew there were benches to watch the ice skating and hockey games, enough room to make a snowman, and hot chocolate for purchase to warm them up before heading back home. She’d been so focused on making sure she had her purse, keys, the bag with anything Henry could possibly need and checking once more to be certain that she was in a legal parking spot and that the car doors were locked, that she’d been startled when someone spoke up right behind her.
Whirling around to find the owner of the playful, accented voice, she’d gotten her first glimpse at Graham Hunter, then brand new to the force in a brown coat adorned by his deputy badge and holding Henry by a mittened hand as he grinned at her sheepishly. “Ah, sorry about that, Lass. Didn’t mean to startle you. It just appeared that this little one might have been about to make a break for it.”
Emma knew red had probably flushed all the way up from her throat to her hairline instantaneously, caught having lost concentration for just a moment or two. She could see quite clearly that Henry’s attention was still arrested by the bigger kids zipping around the frozen pond visible from their parking space and knew he probably had started heading that way. But at that point she was so on guard with everyone; from his birth, it had been just she and Henry against the whole world. She’d already seen more judgement and false commiseration, unsolicited suggestions and hurtful opinions on her fitness as a mother than she could stomach. She’d felt his interference was about to be another occasion of the same, only with a nicer beginning, and she’d snapped at him to mind his own business, she’d known exactly where her son was.
“Of course, my apologies, ma’am,” the deputy immediately released Henry’s hand and stepped back, eyes falling to his toes. “I meant no offense. It’s just… you don’t work in law enforcement very long before you discover how quickly something can grab a little one’s attention, and they dart off in a heartbeat. I only intended to help.”
Emma had thawed pretty quickly upon seeing that there was no shaming or criticism in his eyes, only genuine kindness. Even then, he’d been willing to swallow his own pride and put her needs first, being more thoughtful and understanding than she’d believed possible until they met. As it turned out, he’d just been coming off duty, taking a walk to unwind after his shift. He’d joined them, they’d shared a hot chocolate, and before the month was out, he’d been part of the first Christmas Emma had ever experienced where it felt like she’d had a family. He was alone in the world as well, he had long since admitted to her, and neither of them had ever wanted to feel that way again.
Blinking, Emma found the hazy edges of the fond memory fading as she returned to the present. In all this time, had she really not learned more than that? Here she was once again regretting how quickly she had spoken harshly to someone who’d only wanted to help, seeing an attack when it simply wasn’t there. She had thought she’d finally come to trust in Graham for better, and yet somehow her final words to him had been uttered in hurt and frustration. It was too late to take them back. However, she could try to do better in the present. She resolved that first thing the next morning she would call Killian and apologize, even invite him for dinner and try to make amends before the holiday - after Henry’s next appointment maybe? It was the least she could do.
~~*~~
Two nights later, Killian found himself blowing out a tense breath as he stood just outside Emma and Henry’s front door. He had been pleasantly surprised when Emma had called the morning after their disagreement to apologize, admitting that she had been upset and gotten defensive. After sharing that she had spoken to Henry and learned that Killian’s concerns were well-founded, she’d invited him to eat with them after Henry’s afternoon therapy session earlier in the day.
Killian knew that it could not have been easy for the woman to call and admit she’d overreacted to him, nor to then admit that she hadn’t seen the full extent of her son’s pain. He was impressed all over again by her character and determination - even if it was sometimes found encased behind prickly edges. Thankfully, he’d had a chance to make his own apologies if he had overstepped and explain that he had only wished to help. And he was not going to miss his chance to mend the bridge, take advantage of the opportunity she had offered to make things right. He still wanted to help; both Emma and Henry Swan had gripped him by the heart, and he wanted to see the both of them regain their lives and the joy to be found in the living.
With that, he resolved to put aside his nerves and knock. He wasn’t going to do anyone any good standing outside wondering what he should say or what might happen. Once he did, Killian could hear feet pounding toward him quickly, and he was greeted enthusiastically by a grinning Henry.
“Hey there, Dr. Jones! Come on in!” he chirped, waving his therapist into the front hall before closing the door behind Killian. “The dining room is just through here,” the boy beckoned, leading him forward. “Mom and I have just about everything ready.”
“After you, Lad,” Killian answered with an easy smile, almost immediately feeling some of the anxious tension draining from him at Henry’s welcome. Seeing the precocious young man professionally had allowed Killian to get to know him on a personal level as well. Henry Swan was rather irresistible in truth; he was open, clever, and the more time one spent with him, the more one wanted to. He followed readily, and when they entered the dining room, he found Emma Swan standing at the table covered by a large pan of lasagna, garlic bread, and salad set out ready for them and lighting a few tall candles that served as extra light around a poinsettia centerpiece.
“Good evening, Dr. Jones,” she offered, a smile in her voice that matched a pleasant twinkle in her eye, even though he noticed that she also intertwined her fingers nervously in front of her. Somehow, it was a bit comforting to see that he was not the only one anxious for this to go well. “We’re glad you could make it.”
Killian grinned back. “I wouldn’t have missed it, Swan. It’s not often that I have the chance to dine with such fine company - and this all looks delicious.”
The blonde shrugged, a dismissive huff of air escaping her as she dropped her eyes to the full table. “Well, it’s one of the few full scale meals I’ve got mastered,” she allowed, “but maybe you’d better taste it before you go crazy with the compliments.”
“Here, sit by me!” Henry piped up, tapping the seat next to him. “And don’t let Mom fool you. Her garlic bread is the BEST! Yeah, she’s had to work at cooking, but she’s getting better. Like she always tells me, if you really want to be good at something, you just have to keep pushing through and practicing.”
Taking the seat Henry had indicated, Killian agreed to that statement with a firm nod, then looked up to catch Emma Swan’s eyes intently as well. “She’s absolutely right about that, Lad.”
Emma returned his look, cheeks flushing and lips eventually tipping up at both corners with a grin, while she sat as well.
Killian returned his gaze to the young man beside him as they all began to dish up salad, bread, and pass around the various serving dishes. Only a moment of hurt flickered across his face as he added. “My elder brother Liam used to say, ‘A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets.’ So yes, there is much to be said for continuing to fight, as it were - or to put in the work, you might also say.”
Henry nodded, and Emma smiled too, infinitely warmed by the easy way with her son the man sitting at their table possessed. He encouraged and advised without seeming self-satisfied or as if he were giving a lecture. There was now an empty space in Henry’s life for a male role model of this caliber, the sort that Graham had been, and she was incredibly glad she’d tried to make things right, if for that reason alone. ‘And maybe some therapists actually do know what they’re doing,’ she reflected with a touch of humor.
After that, the three of them lapsed into contented quiet as they began to eat, mostly punctuated by the clink of silverware on plates and satisfied hums at the good food. It had been far too long since Killian had been included in a family meal like this one, welcomed to sit around a table filled with homemade dishes and people who mattered. He’d missed it more than he’d realized or acknowledged. And even with the shaky start they’d had and how he had ruffled her feathers, Killian knew he could find real comfort sharing a table, or any space, with Swan and her boy. He’d long since recognized that a cool, professional distance was more than he wanted to maintain, and would never be enough for his seeking, lonely heart.
As he finished the hearty serving of lasagna she’d dished onto his plate, Killian complimented it with warm sincerity, and then allowed his eyes to explore further around the room and on into the living room over her shoulder. The place was small, and far from fancy, but it had a cozy, lived-in feel that couldn’t be bought at any price. A welcoming glow seemed to radiate from the far side of the room over by the large windows which looked down on the crowded sidewalks below, and when Killian’s eyes registered what caused the soft light, they widened in happy surprise.
He put down his fork and couldn’t help exclaiming, “You got a tree after all, Swan! And a fine specimen it is, at that!”
“It was the tallest one left on the lot,” Henry chipped in with pride, beaming as he pushed his chair back from the table, his plate completely empty. “Would you like to see it closer?”
“Aye, if it’s alright with your mother,” Killian agreed with an assessing glance in her direction. Something more telling and vulnerable than he had yet glimpsed from her, was in Emma Swan’s face as she nodded, already standing to follow them into the adjoining room. “I wouldn’t want to invade your sanctuary or overstay my welcome,” he added, spoken low and directly to her. The intention was heartfelt, even as he found himself reluctant to leave, hoping to be welcomed in further.
“No danger of that,” she murmured, coming to stand beside him at the threshold of the living room. Henry had gone ahead and was gesturing grandly toward their tree, much like a proud ringmaster at a three-ring circus, so their words went unheard by the youth. “I’m woman enough to admit that you were right. Henry needed this… and you deserve to see how happy he is as a result.”
Flabbergasted, Killian turned his head to the side to look at her, but she only returned his gaze with a small, enigmatic smile. Her eyes twinkled, looking as though they had regained a bit of their vigor, their green depths less stripped and washed out by loss and regret than they had been been previously. Henry seemed lighter too - both in his session earlier that afternoon and here at home grinning broadly at Killian as he forced himself to speak normally while singing the praises of their magnificent find. Several emotions at once were squeezing his chest, and he fought to hold them all in check and behave naturally. The signs of healing were beginning to show, and he was happy for them; relieved as he always was for his patients when the first horrible wave of grief began to ebb and they tentatively started to find their way back to life.
After Henry had slipped off into his room sometime later, and Killian had convinced Emma to let him help clear the table and do the dishes, he found himself eagerly soaking up the moments he had left in her presence, in this house that truly felt like a home, and dreading the time he would have to leave. When the last platter had been wiped dry and returned to the cabinet, and the final piece of silverware placed back in its drawer, he had little other excuse to linger. Still, he found himself dawdling as he moved toward the entryway where he’d left his coat, and she followed to see him out. She had seemed more at ease with him tonight than she had before, and Killian wanted to build on that, to see the connection grow, but he wasn’t sure if he should risk putting that to her in words - nor did he want to push or discomfort her and undo any progress they had made.
He did have one more thing to say before he left, however. When he reached his coat, Killian slipped his hand into the pocket before taking it down to put on. Pulling out a small box wrapped in green metallic paper and topped with a wide silver bow - a box containing the delicate swan ornament - Killian offered it to her with a smile and nod. “Thank you for this evening, Swan. It’s been one of the nicest times I can recall spending with anyone in ages. I’m grateful we were able to work out our disagreement, and I’m glad to see you and Henry finding some of your joy in the season once more.”
Her soft lips parted in clear surprise. Her hands came out to take the gift on instinct, but she looked rather dumbfounded as she held it to her chest, as if not sure what to do with it or if it were truly for her. “Killian,” her whisper of his name made his heart pound hard in his chest, “you didn’t have to… A gift wasn’t necess… I don’t have anything for you.”
“Nonsense,” he interrupted gently, halting her broken excuses. “You welcomed me into your home, fed me a delicious meal, and you and your son gave of your time and made me feel a part of your celebration. I couldn’t ask for a nicer gift.”
Again, he pressed her hands holding the gift, urging her to open it. “Go on… Happy Christmas, Emma.”
Her shaking fingers managed to remove the bow and peel back the wrapping paper. Once she opened the box and removed the ornament, letting it dangle from her fingers by its string and catch the lights from its many facets, he heard her audible gasp of surprise. For a moment, she simply stared at the delicate crystal form of her namesake, and Killian almost feared his gift was the wrong choice, too much, when he saw tears beaded on her lashes ready to fall.
He was more than a little relieved when she finally spoke, her voice awed, “It’s beautiful, truly. But you shouldn’t have… you didn’t need to…”
“But I wanted to. You deserve something lovely after what you’ve weathered. A symbol of the beauty and joy you will find again.” Killian drew in a deep breath, steadying his nerve and committing to say the rest, that he felt with all his heart. “Your happiness, Emma - yours and Henry’s - that’s all I want for you to have.”
One of those trembling teardrops did fall silently down her cheek, but the grin on her face spread wider as she gazed back at him and drank in his words. It felt like a bit of restoration at last, a bit of HOPE.
Tagging a few who might enjoy: @cssecretsanta2020 @cocohook38 @kmomof4 @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose
Me (the ever patient teacher, attempting to get a dog to answer my question of “what do you call a structure built at an angle on the shore?”: So close buddy, I was looking for warf.
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Which brings me to the question I haven't been able to stop thinking about.
What is democracy supposed to look like between elections?
We're taught that democracy means voting every five years. But surely it has to mean more than that. It has to mean citizens can ask uncomfortable questions without being dismissed as anti-national. It has to mean peaceful protest is heard before it becomes a medical emergency. It has to mean institutions earn public trust through transparency, not simply ask for it. And it has to mean that disagreement is treated as participation—not betrayal.
That's why this story unsettles me.
Because whether you agree with Sonam Wangchuk or not, the image of a respected educator and environmentalist weakening himself through an indefinite fast should make all of us uncomfortable. A democracy should never become so difficult to reach that a citizen believes an empty stomach is the only way to make themselves heard.
Maybe the government believes its actions were necessary to protect his health. Maybe his supporters believe those actions silenced a peaceful protest. Those are questions that courts, institutions and public debate will continue to examine. But beneath those disagreements lies something much bigger than any one case.
How do we want our democracy to respond when citizens dissent peacefully?
Because if every criticism is treated as hostility, every protest as an inconvenience, and every uncomfortable question as something to manage instead of answer, then we slowly stop participating. Not because we've stopped caring—but because we stop believing our voices matter.
And honestly?
I don't think we're angry enough.
Not angry in the sense of hatred. Not the kind that burns buses, spreads misinformation or abuses strangers online. We've seen enough of that.
I mean the kind of anger that refuses to become numb.
The kind that reads before it reposts.
The kind that asks for evidence instead of rumours.
The kind that demands accountability without abandoning fairness.
The kind that writes, organises, votes, questions, volunteers, reports, studies and refuses to let difficult conversations disappear after one news cycle.
Because somewhere along the way we've mistaken scrolling for participation.
A protest trends.
We repost it.
We add three broken-heart emojis.
We argue with strangers for fifteen minutes.
Then another scandal arrives.
Another reel.
Another controversy.
Another distraction.
And somehow the people whose futures are actually on the line are left exactly where they started.
History has never changed because people refreshed their feed.
It changed because ordinary citizens refused to become spectators.
So where is our outrage when students lose years to uncertainty? Where is our impatience when trust in public institutions begins to crack? Where is the urgency when environmental warnings are treated as tomorrow's problem? Where is the collective insistence that honesty, competence and public service should never be exceptions—they should be the standard?
Because if we're old enough to inherit the consequences of this country, then we're old enough to help shape its future.
History is literally watching.
The only question is whether we'll keep scrolling—or finally start paying attention.
And you keep answering hun. Is your need for attention that great? So desperate that you consider a troll romantic rofl. That is sad.
You certainly don’t seem to consider yourself worthy either if you’re accepting insults for romance. You must not be very loved. I hate that for you.
