#also i feel like i should link to that thread in the au where killian's telling milah about him drawing and about his bravery bc lbr

[queen-mabs-revenge]

“He got it from his mother.”

[scabopolis]

emma x killian au: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic

Holy moly! This (really needs to be edited one more time, but we’ll save that for AO3, shall we?) monstrosity is my gift to @hollyethecurious​ for the @cssecretsanta2k19​ (thank you for your tireless work on this!), and is my first attempt at Emma x Killian fic (eek!). 

Hollye, what a joy to chat with you over the past month. I present to you a wordy as all getout friends to lovers fic that takes place over six holidays (five holidays with a bit of disaster, and one with a bit of magic), a soupçon of Captain Cobra, and brief appearances by older brother Liam, as well as (one hopes!) romance and a whole host of other good things. Hope it brings some joy to your season. And I’m thrilled to be able to start following you on Tumblr now and send messages without fear!

And I swear -- post-road trip, a more edited version will also appear on AO3. Happy holidays!

---------- title: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic fandom: once upon a time pairing: emma x killian word count: 12,400 | AO3 link: here ----------

summary: When Killian and Emma first meet on Thanksgiving she has some rather unsavory words for him. But then they somehow manage to navigate a series of holiday disasters together. In so doing they also stumble upon a bit of holiday magic.

Thanksgiving Or, the holiday where Emma calls Killian a pervert

As far as holidays go, Killian finds this Thanksgiving to be relatively textbook. Liam and Kate both made far too much food, took utter delight in teasing him for his lack of love life, and then he went home laden with abundant leftovers. 

Only for things to rapidly become significantly less than textbook. It all started when he poured himself a glass of wine at home. 

Home: the place wherein he poured himself the aforementioned glass of wine as he began to wind down for the evening, and then somehow proceeded to spill all but a single gulp on his bedding.  Bedding: the freshly laundered, high thread-count duvet and sheets, put on the bed this morning, now soaked with Malbec. 

With one set of sheets in the hamper and the second set wine soaked, Killian tossed back the remaining gulp of wine and resigned himself to an evening of doing laundry. On Thanksgiving. 

In retrospect, Killian knows he should have just taken his brother and sister-in-law up on their kind offer to stay the night, but he’d found himself emotionally overwhelmed by the end of the night. Over dessert and coffee Liam and Kate informed him they were likely going to start trying for their first kiddo in the new year. And as excited as Killian is at the prospect of having a little nephew or niece to dote on next Christmas, it also served as a reminder of how close he’d gotten to having it all once. And how it doesn’t seem at all likely he’ll ever get that close again.

These kinds of maudlin thoughts are exactly why Killian poured himself that glass of wine. Wine that, as Killian holds the clean sheets up to the light in the laundry room, quite remarkably seems to have not stained. He does the complicated hand twisting and folding technique his mum once showed him and sets aside the fitted sheet, reaching for the flat sheet. 

Killian hears the door to the shared laundry room open behind him as one of his neighbors enters. He slides his stacks of laundry together to make room on the folding table and is about to greet whoever walked in, commiserate over their fate of doing laundry on a —

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving, you sick pervert?”

Okay. Maybe not. 

He turns around slowly to meet the steely gaze of one of his neighbors whom he’s seen from time to time in the mail room and hallways (and once in a rather lurid dream he still feels guilty about). “Do I normally do laundry on Thanksgiving? I wouldn’t consider it a tradition as such, but —”

“No. I mean steal women’s underwear.”

“Pardon?” 

She steps closer only to swipe a pair of his briefs off the table. The pair of underwear is, admittedly, a little absurd, but nothing quite warranting such a vitriolic reaction. They’re the rare white elephant gift he actually opted to keep. Aside from being the most comfortable pair he owns, he quite enjoys the whimsical print of yetis sledding and decorating Christmas trees. He takes a step towards her and she backs up.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

“I’m not certain what is happening here.” 

“What’s happening is, you’re a sick fuck.” 

He frowns. That seems, to put it mildly, uncalled for. “Okay, hold on now —” he takes another step towards her

“You stay there,” she demands, pointing a finger at him.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He has so lost the thread of this conversation. And he really should have just stayed at Liam’s house for the night. “I won’t come near you, lass, but if you could return my trunks I would —”

The indignation on her face makes her appear incandescent. “Yours?!”

“Yes, mine.” 

His neighbor starts sputtering and then she goes silent, her jaw clenching in a way that is, if he were to be honest, rather intimidating. Still, Killian does (for some unknown reason that would likely require a good amount of therapy), what he so often finds himself doing whenever he meets his match: he smiles.

His smile only makes the frown lines on her face deepen. 

“Look,” he says, in his most sensible tone of voice. “Do you really believe I would be daft enough to steal your undergarments and then remain in the laundry folding them knowing any moment you might return?” 

It’s only for a split second, but her features relax as she considers his words. Then she full on glares at him, clutching the briefs in her fist. But then her eyes dart to one of the dryers on the wall. 

“Have a look,” he says, gesturing with his head to the dryer.  

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

She remains true to her word, keeping one eye on him as she opens the dryer and roots around inside. He knows she’s found what she’s looking for when he hears her groan. “Fuck me,” she mutters to herself, and then pulls out a pair of briefs identical to his own. 

She groans again. “This isn’t possible.”

“Yet here we are.” 

She shuffles over and hands him back his briefs. Killian has to actively work to keep in his laugh as he watches her remove her clothing from the dryer and start another load. From the way the pink in her cheeks burns brighter, she’s aware of his gaze.

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving?” he asks. And there’s that rather becoming jaw clench of hers. “Accuse men of stealing your underwear, I mean?” 

She remains silent and Killian decides to show mercy, finishing up his folding and stacking the clothes in his basket. His neighbor gives him a wide berth as she carries her laundry basket on her hip and leaves - no, flees - the room. But not before she mutters an apology. “Sorry if I, uh, said — you know?” 

“Now, what could you have possibly said?” he asks, all faux innocence.

If possible, her blush gets even brighter. “Happy Thanksgiving.” 

Once back in his flat he texts Liam the whole story. As he putters around, remaking his bed and pouring himself another glass of wine, he bursts out into little chuckles of laughter replaying the scenario. Laughter which Liam echoes in emoji form once he responds. Frankly, this woman is Killian’s hero (Liam's too, as he offered to buy her a gift basket for helping keep Killian's ego in check). Maybe he’ll see her in the mail room and can assure her of her place of honor in Jones family lore. 

He’s settling into the couch with a book when there’s a knock. Killian frowns, his eyes darting to his wall clock. It’s somehow only half-eight, but he isn’t expecting anyone. He looks out his peephole and smiles at the sight of one his young neighbors holding a platter of baked goods. They’ve only chatted in the elevator and occasionally in the halls but Henry is a warm and charming young man, and Killian always looks forward to their interactions. Which doesn’t explain why he —

“Mom, get your butt over here.” 

“You knocked, he didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.” And then the woman from the laundry room comes into view and it all makes a little more sense.

“When you mess up, you apologize. Those are the rules.” 

“The rules for what?” she asks.

“For life.” 

“Who taught you these rules?”

“You did.” 

She huffs out an exasperated laugh, but wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulder and pulls him close. “God, why couldn’t I suck more as a parent?”

Killian decides to put her out of her misery and answer the door. Young Henry looks delighted at his appearance, and his mom appears miserable. Like she wants nothing more than to sprint in the other direction. 

“Mr. Jones! Happy Thanksgiving! This is my mom, Emma.” 

“Sir Henry, Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He looks to Henry’s mom. “And to your lovely mum.”

Henry shoves the platter of treats at him and Killian bobbles it before holding it steady. “These are for you!” Henry needlessly explains. It’s a platter teeming with pumpkin pie, cookies, and some sort of toffee almond concoction that looks delightful. “My Aunt Mary-Margaret is the world’s best cook,” Henry says. 

“Well, thank you, Henry. And please give my thanks to your aunt.”

“I will. Now my mom has something she wants to say to you.” Emma looks ready to protest but then Henry smiles up at her, his grin wide and toothy and she shakes her head, affection for her son apparent. “Goodnight, Mr. Jones.” 

Emma watches as Henry walks down to the end of the hallway, unlocks the door, gives his mom a thumbs up, and walks inside. Once inside, Emma turns to him and mumbles something barely audible. 

“I’m sorry. What was that, love?” 

She huffs out a breath, fluttering a strand of her hair in the process. “I said, I’m sorry for calling you a pervert.” 

“And?”

“And for trying to steal your underwear?” 

“What about for calling me a sick fuck?” 

“I did not!” she protests, but at his look her brow furrows in concentration. “Oh my god. I did, didn’t I?” She shifts her weight from side to side and he’s pretty certain he hears her mutter another curse word under her breath. She looks up and locks eyes with him. For a moment all he can think is wow, green, but she starts talking again. “Look, Henry and I had a really great day at my sister’s house but then I got this message from my ex, Henry’s dad, and to be honest it sent me into a bit of a tailspin. So then I go grab my laundry and there you are with a very peculiar pair of underwear and all I could think was ‘not today, asshole’ and then — well, you were there. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re forgiven, Emma.” Then it’s his turn to frown, gesturing towards the direction Henry walked as he leans against his doorway. “How did you know who I am?” 

“Oh, I mentioned what happened to Henry and he asked me to describe the neighbor.” 

“Smart kid.” 

“Yeah.” She fidgets again, kind of shaking the tension out of her hands as she rocks back on her heels. “Well, I…that’s all, I wanted to say, so…”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. And Happy Thanksgiving.” She backs away from the door giving him a perfunctory little wave. For some reason, after he closes and locks the door, he finds himself looking through the peephole to watch Emma’s retreat. She lingers outside the door for a second before smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand and then does an entirely unbecoming and yet endearing full body shake and flail, tossing her head back and groaning. She appears to catch herself, and Killian watches as she looks to his door. Her eyes close in resignation. “You saw that didn’t you?” 

“Every single second.” 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Killian.”

Christmas Eve Or, the holiday where Killian almost freezes

It’s a working theory of hers, but Emma is willing to argue with anyone who cares that Christmas Eve is far superior to Christmas. The whole day is filled with baking, and listening to Christmas music, and lighting every baked good themed candle she owns. Plus! she doesn’t have to wake up to an overeager eight year old shaking her at dawn. It’s wonderful. 

As she stores the vacuum in the hall closet (one last round of pre-festivity cleaning), her phone vibrates. She pulls it out of her pocket, smiling when she sees it’s a text from Killian.

Texts from Killian: another thing that is wonderful these days, if not unexpected. 

11:12 AM - Killian to Emma My oven is on the fritz. Can I use yours for a bit? 

11:13 AM - Emma to Killian Define ‘a bit’…

11:14 AM - Killian to Emma Ok. Less ‘a bit’ and more ‘a while.’

11:15 AM - Killian to Emma And by 'a while' I mean the rest of the day.

Emma snorts at that one.

11:17 AM - Emma to Killian It’s all yours. Though, I thought your fruit cake would be in door stop mode by now?

11:19 AM - Killian to Emma For the last time, woman, it’s not a bloody fruit cake.

When Killian proudly told her and Henry over Saturday morning pancakes he was preparing a classic Christmas cake for their Christmas Eve celebration, and then proceeded to explain the weeks long process behind making the cake, Henry frowned. “I think that’s a fruit cake.” 

Which was the first, but certainly not the last time, Killian insisted: “It certainly is not!” And then Killian proceeded to explain, again, what a Christmas cake was. 

From Killian’s explanation of how to prepare it, though, there shouldn’t be any baking required today. Which begs the question as to exactly what Killian is doing. As the host of the event, Emma is only responsible for appetizers (thank you Trader Joe’s), and booze with the rest of the guests bringing the meal.

A meal which apparently includes a British man she met a month ago, bringing a fruit cake to the Christmas Eve celebration with her family and closest friends. What is her life?

Dare she say it, life is pretty great these days. And Killian is definitely part of why that is.

After their ignominious beginning, she and Killian found themselves bumping into one another constantly. If they didn’t cross paths in the mail room, hallway, or elevator, it was Henry - her kid who would find a way to make friends with a paper bag if given the opportunity -  who started inviting Killian to join them everywhere. While on their way to the movies it was a “hey, Killian, wanna come?” More than a few times Henry went to check the mail as Emma cooked dinner and when he returned Killian was with him. “I told him all about your chicken and dumplings, mom!” 

Somehow Killian joining them for chicken and dumplings turned into the two of them texting throughout the day — Killian in between clients at the physical therapy clinic, and Emma whenever she needed a break from real estate contracts — and then a second glass of wine once Henry went to bed. Apparently, unbeknownst to Emma, this was all leading to Killian celebrating Christmas Eve with her family and friends. Oh, and coming over the next day for Christmas morning pancakes. 

Despite what her sister and brother-in-law would like people to believe, Killian is only spending the holidays with them because his brother left for his in-laws earlier in the week and Henry didn’t want him to spend the holiday alone. That’s it! If it was more than that, would she be okay with Killian coming over while she was in her cleaning clothes? Obviously not. So, suck it universe. 

Killian shows up ten minutes later looking fine and not at all biteable in a truly horrendous Christmas sweater that no one has a right to look as…completely adequate…in as he does. His arms are laden with grocery bags. 

“All this for a fruitcake?”

“Christmas cake. And no. That has been done for some time, as you well know. I told Mary-Margaret I’d make Yorkshire puddings to go with the prime rib. And Liam would disown me if I didn’t make mince pies.” 

“How British of you.” 

“Well, I am British.” 

“You know what I mean.” Emma grabs him an apron so he doesn’t mess up his Christmas sweater and as he makes himself at home, she buzzes around getting the apartment ready - pulling the folding chairs and table out of the closet, making sure Henry has enough clean clothes to wear for dinner, etc. Henry spends the day floating in and out of the kitchen to bug Killian. He plays his video games for a little bit and then is back to the kitchen and gets annoyed because there’s not enough room for him to make a sandwich. He is only appeased when Killian reveals he brought over leftover Chinese. 

“Why did you bring so much extra food?” she asks, ignoring Killian’s disapproving stare as she bites into a cold eggroll. She’s pretty sure he also brought over a gallon of milk and what looks like leftover roasted vegetables. Weird. 

“Do you know what the two of you are like when you’re not fed?” Killian shudders in horror, and Emma smacks him in the back of the head. She also pinches mince pie filling to be a brat.

When she comes out in her loungewear, after having showered, there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air. Before she even asks Killian hands her a mug of mulled wine. How did she even get this and what does she have to do to keep it forever? Emma freezes at the thought. By this she means his friendship. Obviously.

Once Mary-Margaret and David, then Ruby and Mulan arrive, the evening, dare she even thinks it, is borderline perfect. Continuing the British Christmas theme, Killian brought Christmas crackers from World Market. Henry got so excited at the hat and little joke in his that he hug bombed Killian and the poor man spilled his hot chocolate down the front of his sweater. Henry apologizes profusely, but Killian assures him it’s okay, losing the sweater for just a black tee underneath. Which, again, is fine and makes Killian look fine and Emma really needs the commentary in her head to quiet down. 

“Hate to see a Christmas casualty,” David muses as Killian tosses the sweater aside. 

“True, but good things tend to happen to me when I do laundry on a holiday,” he replies. 

And Mary-Margaret gets this wide knowing grin, which Emma does not care for at all, but her heart is currently beating fast enough that she lets it pass. 

The high-point of the night might be when Mary-Margaret serves slices of Killian’s Christmas cake alongside her caramel apple pie. Ruby holds up her plate, sniffs Killian’s cake, and with a perfectly cocked eyebrow simply asks “Fruit cake?” Henry almost falls out of his chair laughing. 

Mulan and Ruby are the first to leave, needing to get to Granny’s where they’re staying the night. Killian offers to stay and help clean up but Emma refuses. The man spent all day cooking in her kitchen – she’s not going to make him clean, too. But when Henry hugs him goodnight and tells him they’ll see him for pancakes, Emma has to admit she’s a little sad to see him shuffle down the hallway back to his own apartment.

Henry proceeds to line up his mom, his aunt, and his uncle, debating as to who deserves to read to him that night. David wins the privilege outright when, upon Henry asking each of them to share their Percy Jackson voice, he actually recites from memory an excerpt from the book Henry is currently reading. Fucking show-off. 

Mary-Margaret doesn’t even wait for them to leave the kitchen before she looks at Emma like she must say something or she’ll burst. As Emma is want to do, she ignores it. No wonder David lobbied so hard to get the bedtime story invitation. The two were in cahoots. As they do dishes, Mary-Margaret keeps dropping conversational breadcrumbs =, waiting for Emma to take one up. Which Emma steadfastly fails to do. So Mary-Margaret stops being subtle.  

“So, Killian was here all day, huh?” 

“Yes.” 

“Huh,” Mary-Margaret says, drying a wine glass and setting it aside. “Interesting.” 

“Stop.” 

“Stop what?” 

“You know what you’re doing.” 

“Do I?” 

“God, you’re annoying,” Emma says, smacking her shoulder with the back of her hand. 

Mary-Maragret frowns and does it right back. “I like Killian.”

“He’ll be thrilled to hear it.” 

“And I think you like Killian, too.”

Emma glares at her. “Well, he’s my friend.”

“Who you very much would like to be a naked friend.”

“Mary-Margaret!”

“What?” 

She steals the towel away from Mary-Margaret and snaps her with it. “Can we be done with this conversation?”

“No. Because I have something important to say to you.” Emma groans and Mary-Margaret takes a step forward, placing a hand on either side of Emma’s face. “I know you think you’ve got this bruised and battered heart. But that’s not true, Emma. You have the most open heart of anyone I’ve ever known. And I don’t know how you do it, but as someone you let see that big beautiful heart, I just need you to know how lucky I am to have you in my life. Anyone would be so lucky to have you. So be brave.” 

Emma feels her eyes go glassy and seriously! Mary-Margaret has been in her life for more than twenty-years. How does she always do this to her? She reaches forward and hugs Mary-Margaret tight, blinking the tears back.

“I love you,” Mary-Margaret says. 

“Shut up.” Emma holds her even tighter. “I love you, too.”

After Mary-Margaret and David leave she gives Henry a final tuck into bed then takes a moment to look around the apartment. The space feels emptier than when the day started. It must be the come down from an almost perfect night. Right? Not like she’s feeling morose because there’s a person down the hall who she very much wishes was still currently in her apartment. Someone to perhaps share leftover pie and a glass of wine with. That would be absurd. It’s just that the whole night felt a little magic, and now it’s over.

Emma blows out the living room candles and that’s when she sees it — Killian’s ugly Christmas sweater draped over the back of the couch. Which Emma immediately decides she should return to Killian. It’s urgent. That sweater could mean a lot to him. Or, something. 

She locks up the apartment door and heads to Killian’s. Knocking on the door triggers a feeling of panic and she’s tempted to drop the sweater and run. But then he opens the door and his already bright eyes somehow get brighter. This was the right decision. 

“Emma! What are you —” 

“You forgot your sweater.” 

“Thanks, love.” 

She immediately notices that his apartment is very dark. Was he already getting ready for bed? This early? She stands up on her tiptoes to peek, and his smile falls. Killian wedges himself into the doorframe, closing the door behind him and obstructing her view. Emma narrows her eyes. 

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.” 

“Do you have someone over?” 

“No. I’m just —”

“Why are all your lights off?” 

“Being energy efficient. Climate change.” 

“Really?”

“Yup.” 

“Huh. Fine, then. You should probably stain treat this,” she says, and hands him the sweater. 

“Thank you.” He reaches for it and the moment he does Emma pushes him aside to crash into his apartment. All the lights are off. He's lit a few candles, and oh fuck. Does he have someone over?

“Killian, your lights are off.”

“What do you call those?” he asks, pointing to the three-wick sugar cookie candle Mary-Margaret got him.

“Killian.” It’s a tone that usually convinces Henry he in fact does need to wear socks with his shoes but simply causes Killian to smirk at her. 

“Maybe I want to romance myself, Swan.” 

“Gross. All your lights are off," she repeats. "Even the light on your microwave.”

He looks like he wants to protest but must sense she is in a particularly stubborn mood because he stops himself. If she weren’t trying to get him to fess up Emma would take a moment to gloat that the look always works. 

“I was working on a project this afternoon and think I crossed some wires,” he says, running a hand through his hair in, she presumes, some mild embarrassment. 

“More than your oven is on the fritz," she realizes, making sense of why there is currently milk in her fridge. "Isn’t it?” 

“Seems that way.”

“Well did you —?”

“Aye, I tried, but it didn’t work, and with the holiday the electrician isn’t able to come until Thursday..” 

“Well, why not call —?”

“How do you think Leroy is going to feel about me doing an undisclosed wiring project and killing the —?”

“—yeah, I get it. Look, I need to get back to Henry, but pack a bag and I’ll see you soon.” 

“Do what now?” 

“It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight, Killian. You are not staying in this apartment without power.” 

Emma watches as he mulls over her words, considering whether or not he should abide by them. “I could sleep on your couch and then away to my flat in the morning.” 

She shrugs. “Or, you could pack a bag.” A little voice inside her head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mary-Margaret is cheering her on. Telling her to press a little more. That it’s worth it. “Come on, Killian. You can’t freeze to death on Christmas Eve. Imagine how that would play on the evening news.” 

He laughs, shaking his head in that way he does. If she isn’t mistaken, it's tinged with a little more affectionate every time. “Depressingly, I imagine.” He breaks eye contact long enough to look down at his slippered feet. For all the times he’s made her blush in their month of friendship, it is ridiculously rewarding to see the tinge of red on his cheeks as he looks up at her. “I’d love to join you and Henry for Christmas.” 

Emma dashes home and checks on Henry. He is, predictably, still fast asleep in that way he most frequently is — legs akimbo and sticking out of the blankets like he’s preparing to start running the moment he wakes up. 

As she waits for Killian she changes into her pajamas and makes two hot chocolates, adding an extra large dollop of leftover whipped cream to the top pf each. 

Killian’s knock is borderline inaudible and it makes her smile, how she knows he’s being careful for Henry’s sake. She takes his bag and invites him to get comfortable on the couch — “it will soon be your bed, after all” — and, as has become the habit, they face each other as they sit there. There’s a lot she loves about their friendship, but high on the list is the way their conversations always start in the middle rather than at the start. She loathes small talk. 

“Your family and friends are lovely, Swan.” 

“Eh,” she says, scrunching her nose in consideration, “they’re alright.”

“You and your sister appear rather close in age.” 

She nods. “We’re only a year and a half apart.” Killian smiles, like he is happy to accept that as a complete answer if she so chooses. And maybe it’s that she’s listening to her sister, or maybe it’s Christmas, or maybe it’s that Killian faintly smells of his sugar cookie candle, but she takes a deep breath and sets her mug on the coffee table. “I’m adopted, actually.”

He hesitates, uncertain. “Emma, I didn’t mean to —” She doesn't want him to be uncertain. 

“I was with a family for three years and they couldn’t keep me. I was so young that my social worker really didn’t want to put me in a group home, so they opted for short-term care while they searched for a permanent solution. But at the end of the two weeks, when they got ready to move me to a new home, Mary-Margaret had an utter fit. Refused to let anyone near me when she found out they wanted to take me away. And then she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into her room, barricaded the door, and we hid under her bed. She was five.” 

“You remember all that?”

“I remember her grabbing my hand and us hiding. Mary-Margaret remembers some and my parents filled in the rest.”

“So after that?”

“They decided to adopt me.” 

“That’s quite the story.” Killian gently places his mug beside hers and he inches closer. His hand hovers over hers for only a moment before he settles, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Please don’t let this go to your head,” she says, and rotates her palm to squeeze his hand right back, “but you’re really easy to talk to.” 

“Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I can see why Mary-Margaret did what she did.” 

There’s a teeny part of her that doesn’t want to inquire further, but she blames her damn sister and her damn hope speeches for asking, “And why is that?” 

“Because I think you’re the type of person it would be impossible to say goodbye to.” 

Emma doesn’t know about that — a whole host of boyfriends might say otherwise — but she believes he believes it. Sitting across from him on the couch, his lack of electricity, and the two of them in their pajamas, Emma feels almost a glimmer of magic come back into the room. 

Christmas Or, the holiday where Emma almost accidentally murders Killian

Killian wakes up to the sound of giggling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The gas fireplace is already switched on, as are the Christmas lights, and he’ll have to ask Emma later how she managed to prevent Henry from crashing into the tree in his excitement to get at his presents.

“I’m going to set the table, so go ahead and gently wake Killian —” And that should prepare him, but he doesn’t hear the rest of Emma’s prompt as a hurling mass of eight year old runs into the living room and jumps on top of him. “Oof,” Killian groans. “Merry Christmas, Sir Henry.”

Henry leans his face down and grins. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

“Henry, I said gentle!”

“Yeah, but you kinda winked when you said it.” 

Killian manages to sit up just enough to watch Emma try and deny that she did in fact encourage the barbarism of her child. He raises an eyebrow in question and she responds in the first true “harumph” he’s ever heard in real life. 

“Breakfast is ready,” she says. 

Killian sits at the table and apparently the Swans take their Christmas breakfast seriously. Fresh fruit, and coffee and — shit, he forgot to mention something, didn't he? he thought she knew?— breakfast burritos smothered in avocado and tomatillo salsa. 

“So, what’s the plan for the day” Killian asks, and then takes a sip of his coffee. Emma passes him the bowl of fruit, and — of fucking course — there’s bananas in it. He pours a little on his plate and hopes he can get away with just coffee for breakfast.  

Henry explains that they always eat breakfast first because his mom thinks delayed gratification is good for him — “I stand by that,” Emma says — and then he and his mom exchange presents, and then they play boardgames, and then have Christmas Eve lunch leftovers, and then they go to a movie and have popcorn and milk duds for dinner.

“Milk duds play what part in delayed gratification?” Killian asks, pushing his plate, he hopes discretely, aside.

“I’m not a monster,” she says.

“Why aren’t you eating your burrito? Aren’t you hungry?” Henry asks.

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” At that precise moment, Killian’s stomach growls louder than it’s every growled before. Liar, it seems to proclaim. He sighs. “I’m actually allergic.” 

“You are?” Emma asks. If her wide eyes are anything to go by, she is horrified.

“To burritos? That sucks,” Henry says. 

“No, not to burritos, but the avocado on top.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughs, because of course Emma would argue with him about his food allergies. “I assure you I am.”

“But when we got lunch last week, you ordered that sandwich with avocado on it.” 

He doesn’t think he should be as flattered as he is that Emma remembers that. “I took that one to go. For Liam.” 

“But…but…” and then she drops her fork to her plate and covers her mouth with her palm. “Oh my god I could have killed you!”

“Emma…” 

“I almost murdered you on Christmas.”

“I can assure you…” 

“That I almost murdered you? Because, yeah, figured that one out.”

“It’s not nice to murder people, mom,” Henry helpfully comments then reaches for Killian’s plate. “Can I have this?”

“It’s all yours.”

“What else are you allergic to?” Emma asks.

“Nothing.” She doesn’t seem to believe him as she sits with her arms across her chest, challenging him. “Seriously. Just the avocados.” And then quietly adds, “And kiwis and bananas.”

“So the fruit is also poison,” she says. “Anything else?” 

“Latex.” The instant he says the word he regrets it. It’s true, completely, but with the way Emma is looking at him it feels a little…inappropriate to say.

“Latex,” she repeats. She doesn’t break eye contact as she takes a sip of coffee and sets her mug aside. “Interesting.” 

“Why is that interesting?” Henry asks. 

Emma maintains eye contact, but her cheeks go a little rosy. "Well, um, see the thing is…" she trails off. 

Killian cuts in. “Because when I go to the doctor, sometimes the doctor or nurses wear gloves with latex in them.” 

“That’s not interesting,” Henry says.

Emma makes him an omelette and then proceeds to apologize all morning. After they open presents (Killian will remember the look of delight on Henry’s face for all his days), she also makes a quick batch of chocolate chip muffins and insists he eat several. The rest of the day unfolds just how Henry said it would. Except Henry didn’t mention he’d only make it two-thirds of the way through the movie before falling asleep on his mom’s shoulder, curled up in the seat. As he snoozes he kicks his feet out into Killian’s lap and Emma rolls her eyes and helps herself to the rest of Henry’s popcorn. 

“No personal space boundaries,” she whispers.

When they make it back to Emma’s, Henry wakes up just enough to shuffle to his room. And much like the night before, they find themselves on Emma’s couch talking over the day when she reveals she has a present for him. 

“We said we weren’t buying presents, Emma.” He completely bought her a present but was planning to bend the rules by giving it to her on New Year’s Day. Surely New Year's Day presents are a thing somewhere. Right?

“It’s just a little something,” she says. 

As Killian opens the gift he registers the novelty print first, and he is almost certain he knows what she got him. It’s three pairs of underwear in rather absurd prints and patterns. The same exact brand and style she tried to steal from him on Thanksgiving. 

She grins as he laughs tossing the paper aside. “Did you know you can get them personalized?” 

“Excuse me?” he asks.

She takes one of the pairs out of his hands and shows him the inner waistband. There it declares in embroidered thread "Property of Killian Jones."

“Just in case someone else tries to steal your underwear.” 

“Nonsense, Swan. That’s our thing.” 

The silence stretches between them as Emma rests her head on the back of the couch, her face turned towards him. Over the course of the night they’ve moved close enough to one another that their knees are touching. How did that happen? 

“Killian, I want to tell you something.” 

He swallows. “You can tell me anything you want, Emma.” 

“I —” she begins, and then cuts herself off. “I —” she begins again before stopping, letting out a frustrated groan. She offers him a tentative smile. “I want to thank you for doing everything you did for us today. It meant a lot to Henry.” She pauses, and it looks like she's going to say more, but she simply adds, “And to me.” 

“Of course, love.”

“And I’m sorry for almost killing you.” 

“I fully intend to use your guilt to my advantage in our relationship for years to come.” 

She smiles. “The electrician is coming tomorrow?”

“He said he’d arrive somewhere between 7am and 3pm.”

“Nice he could narrow it down for you.” She looks away and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Do you want to stay here again tonight?” 

“Aye,” he says. “If you'll have me.”

"I'll have you," she whispers, her lips tinged with a smile.

And he knows he shouldn’t be disappointed. Staying the night on her couch is wonderful and generous and it means another day of getting to wake up with the Swans. But there was a little part of him that thought she was going to say — he’s not entirely sure what. Strangely enough it’s the feeling of disappointment that confirms for him a long held suspicion of his. That with Emma the more she gives him, the more he wants. Every smile she gives makes him want 1,000 more. Every story she shares makes him want to share 1,000 of his own. He’d do anything for her to know he understands her. And he’d never intentionally hurt her. And that this Christmas was one of the best of his life, and is there any way she’d be willing to give him her New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and perhaps Flag Day, too? 

Boxing Day Or, the holiday where Emma breaks herself

For as relatively calm and almost perfect as Christmas was, the day after is completely different. 

Henry comes running into Emma's room at 8:00 AM insisting they don’t have enough batteries. When she calmly reminds him about the extra supply in the hall closet, he runs off without a thank you. A little later she’s pouring herself coffee and Henry runs into the kitchen, grabs the poptart package out of her hand and runs out again. “I’m putting together my legos!” he shouts. 

“We are leaving in one hour, Henry.” Silence answers her from his bedroom. “That means shoes, scarf, coat and gloves.” More silence. “Henry!”

“Got it mom! One hour!” Door slam. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Killian barely stifles a laugh as he watches the sequence of events from the coach. 

“How much for you to take him off my hands for the next two to three years?” she asks, trying to ignore how cute he looks waking up in her apartment, sleep rumpled with hair sticking up every which way. 

“You want me to bring him back as a pre-teen?” 

“Good point. What about one of those boarding schools in Switzerland rich step-mothers always want to send their kids to? You know those ones in movies with the Olsen twins?”

“You’re truly trying to cast yourself as the stepmother in this situation?” 

“Shut up and come get your coffee.” 

She can see why Killian and Henry get along so well. Much like her son, Killian can’t simply stand up and walk into the kitchen. No. He bounds off the couch — she has no doubt he was tempted to hurdle it simply to prove he could — and then swaggers towards her. Does he always lead with his pelvis? God, why is she thinking about his pelvis? Once he’s in front of her, his mess of hair appears even more riotous and her fingers actually twitch with the urge to smooth it down. Instead she hands him a cup of coffee and picks hers up again. If her hands are busy maybe she’ll keep them to herself. And why did she think having him sleepover again was a good idea? What was she thinking? 

Well, to be honest, she knew what she was thinking originally. But then late last night he shared why it is that Christmas is usually a hard season for him — a reminder of losing his mom as a child and his fiancé just two years ago — and all she could think about was how lucky she was to have walked into their laundry room that night. 

Killian is a big one for eye contact — she knew that the day they met in the laundry room and it’s been confirmed a million times since — and it has a very squirm inducing impact on her insides. His heavy lidded eyes make everything twist up, and flutter, and race in a way that is almost painful. But like a good kind of painful. 

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “Betray your kindness for a bit longer and wait for the electrician to arrive. Yours?” 

“Henry is going ice skating with a few of his friends. I’m going to go for a run after I walk him to Avery’s, but no plans after that.” She clears her throat as her pesky thoughts urge her to ask him to spend the day together. Naked, a part of her brain unhelpfully suggests. 

“You’re going to walk in this weather? And then run in this weather?” 

“I snagged a parking spot right in front and Avery’s family only lives a few blocks away. There is no way I am sacrificing my parking spot.” She turns away from Killian to top up her coffee. “And running is good for me. Helps me make sense of my thoughts when they’re all muddled.” 

“What is making your thoughts muddled?” he asks.

She freezes for a second, the question taking her by surprise, and then turns around slowly. And holy fuck why do his eyes have to be so focused on her and so damn blue?! It’s oppressive, his eye color. “I didn’t say —”

“You kind of implied.” 

“I did not.”

“You did.” 

She bites her lip to stifle a laugh, shaking her head. “You know it’s moments like these that remind me you’re the baby brother.” 

He laughs, nodding his head in concession. “True. But in this case my persistence is motivated by my own selfish curiosity."

“What makes you curious?”

“I’m curious about all sorts of things. But I have to admit that my thoughts have also been rather muddled these days.” ” He taps his lips, thinking, and that is not fair. “For instance, I’m curious about what you wanted to say to me last night. Before you stopped yourself from continuing.”

How did he —? 

“I’m curious about why you’re taking such shallow breaths right now,” he continues, sidling closer to her. 

“They’re not —”

“But really, Emma, I find myself wondering if you would be interested in knowing what has my thoughts muddled these days?” He moves even closer as he reaches behind her to set his mug on the counter-top.

She takes a shaky breath. “I might be.” 

“Then ask me.” 

Okay. So, last night she chickened out. Sitting on the couch with Killian — the fire going, and Henry asleep, and Killian sharing his life with her — Emma had every intention of doing herself, and Mary-Margaret, and every human being who finds men attractive proud by telling Killian that she thinks about kissing him. Thinks about it a lot. So, she's smart enough to see this moment for what it is: a second chance. Another opportunity to get it right. Because Killian wouldn’t be leading her like this simply to reveal his thoughts were muddled with — fuck, she doesn’t know — whether or not he should finally bump Russian Doll to the top of his Netflix queue. 

(He should, by the way, but that isn’t the point. The point is, he’s trying to lead her somewhere and she has to decide if she’s going to follow.) 

She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. “Tell me?” She doesn't mean for it to come out like a question. 

“Emma,” he says, leaning in and resting a hand on her hip. “It’s you.” 

Now, here’s the thing. Nothing in Emma’s life has ever resembled the plot of a romantic comedy. Every time she let herself think — secretly and only in her head and only like three times — “maybe this is my big romance!” it crashes and burns and turns out the guy only looked at her with stars in his eyes because she kinda reminded him of his ex. Until she met Killian. Because no sooner does he whisper the words “it’s you” — and holy shit that is some Mr. Darcy level stuff — her son comes crashing into the room, dressed for ice skating and holding his jacket. Then he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and telling him he has to play Smash Brothers with him because he’s been practicing and he’s finally going to beat him but he’s only got fifteen minutes left to prove it.

Killian looks at her, a little helplessly as Henry drags him away. She smiles to reassure him it’s okay. They’ll get to talk soon. Right? At least that’s what she keeps telling herself as she gets into her running clothes and laces her sneakers. 

“Henry,” she says, walking out of her room. “Time to go kiddo. I told Avery’s mom we’d be there in 10 minutes.” Henry must be losing to Killian. It’s the only explanation for why he so readily sets the controller aside.

“See ya later, Killian,” he says, and tackle side hugs Killian before sprinting for the door. 

Emma grabs him by the hood of his jacket and pulls him back before he can bolt for the door. “Henry. Gloves.” She gestures to the coffee table where they’re waiting for him.  

“Oh, right.” 

As they walk out of the building, Emma is trying so hard to listen to Henry’s enthusiastic play by play of the game he just played with Killian but all she can think of is the fact that Killian is in her apartment. Waiting there for the electrician (and her?). Sitting there on her couch. Unless the electrician arrives while she’s on her run he’ll be there when she returns. What is she going to say? How do they even pickup that conversation? 

It’s this state of distraction that she blames for missing the patch of ice on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She slips and lands hard not even certain of what happened.

“Mom!” Henry shouts, immediately at her side.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” she grits out, trying to catch her breath. “I just slipped.” Except for when Henry tries to help her up her knee buckles and pain shoots up her leg. Shit. She sits on the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, not wanting to scare Henry. 

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Can you do me a favor, bud?” She pulls out her phone, scrolling through the contacts. “Talk to Killian and ask him to come down, okay?” Maybe she should be the one to call but she kind of feels like crying and needs a second to gather herself. To focus on not bursting into tears from shock and pain. 

After Henry hangs up — “Killian come quick! Mom fell!” — Emma steels herself and calls Avery’s mom to explains what happened. Thankfully she tells Emma they’ll just swing by and pick Henry up, no problem. 

Killian comes running outside, not even wearing a jacket the idiot, as she hangs up with Avery’s mom. Emma has to stop him from picking her up and bringing her inside immediately.

Her whole body shivers; the sidewalk absolutely icy and freezing. “We need to wait with Henry,” she tells him. 

Once Henry leaves, Emma reassuring everyone she’ll be just fine, Killian helps her up. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and she leans into him as he takes her weight and walks her inside. It’s amazing how being in pain can zap all sexual tension from an encounter because Emma isn’t thinking about Killian with his hand on her hip in the kitchen. Not at all. All she's thinking about is how nice he is, and how thankful she was that he was there to help and, okay, fine, maybe being in pain can only zap 80% of the sexual tension. Still. That’s a lot less sexual tension. 

Once back in her apartment Killian settles her in the armchair and props her leg up on the ottoman. He buzzes around, bringing her water and ibuprofen, and then asks to see her ankle. She supposes this is kind of his area, so she nods and does her best to hold in a wince as he removes her shoe and sock. He moves her ankle gently from side to side and she braces herself for the pain but it actually isn’t that bad. Until he presses on a spot at the top of her foot and —

“Holy shit that hurts!,” she exclaims.

“Good news is it’s not broken.”

“Feels broken to me.” 

“Probably just a really bad sprain but I can take you to get an x-ray if you want.” 

“Or?”

“Or I collect some supplies from my apartment and I’ll wrap it myself.”

“That option is free?” she asks. Killian nods. “I choose that.” 

“Keep this elevated.” Before he leaves for his apartment, he notices her struggle to get her other shoe off. He sighs affectionately, unlacing her shoe and setting it aside. Without asking he reaches for a blanket on the sofa, one he used the night before, and lays it over her lap. “Back in five minutes.”

The moment the door closes behind Killian tears spring to the corner of her eyes. Yes, Emma’s in pain, the ibuprofen not quite kicking in yet as she feels her ankle throb. And, yes, her butt is a little cold, but that doesn’t really explain why she starts to cry. These past couple of days have just been a lot. In a really great way, but it’s still a lot. 

The tears must be something Killian notices when he gets back because in a flash he crouches in front of her, resting a hand on her uninjured ankle. “Hey now, what’s this?”

She shakes her head, not really sure how to explain. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” 

His raised eyebrow and tightly drawn mouth indicate he doesn’t believe her, but as she dabs her eyes with her sleeve, he takes to unpacking the supplies he brought over. The truth is that it’s not nothing; more like it's everything. It’s that his apartment is down the hall and when she demanded he come stay with her and Henry he could have refused, or used his spare key to stay at his brother’s, but he didn’t. And that while she has yet to hear an explanation concerning his “it’s you” statement, she has a feeling it’s something good. It’s everything to her — the ways both big and small he chooses her and Henry. And it’s only been five-weeks but she wants more. She want more weeks. 

He wraps her ankle up then fits her to the pair of crutches he brought over. As he helps her stand, she stumbles and accidentally puts pressure on her ankle. She hisses at the sudden pain, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Careful, Emma,” he says, running a hand up and down her back in comfort. She looks up at him; his eyes are all soft and concerned. “You okay?” 

It’s you, too, she wants to say. I don’t know how or why, or even what it means, but it’s you. She nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

New Year’s Eve Or, the holiday where Killian meets the ex

“So tell me about this party, Sir Henry.”

Killian’s noticed that when Henry has a lot to say, he has a habit of taking a deep breath and then clenching his fists at his side. It's like Henry’s little body is bracing itself for an onslaught of enthusiasm. “Well,” Henry says, fists clenched, “Aunt Mary-Margaret and Uncle David have this big farmhouse that is so cool and my friend Roland and his dad, and my other friend Violet and her dad, and my other friend Gideon and his mom, are all coming over too and we’re having a big party. And then after we eat so much food, we’re going to play sardines inside with all the lights off, and then after that we’re having a campfire out back, and then after that…” 

Killian does his best to listen — really, he does — Henry’s enthusiasm is genuinely delightful so it isn’t hard to be interested. Usually. It’s just that as Henry is talking Emma walks out of her room dressed for the evening in a tight black dress and he kind of loses his head a bit. Actually finds himself staring at her, which he only realizes when she catches his gaze and smiles. 

“Breathe, kid,” she says, breaking their stare. “Your aunt texted and said they’ll be here in five minutes. Got all your stuff?”

“Yup!”

“Go get your shoes on, then.” Henry runs off and Killian watches as Emma inspects Henry’s pile of belongings, confirming to her own satisfaction that Henry won’t be without a change of clothes or toothbrush. 

“This party sounds fun, Swan. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend time with your friends and boy there?” 

“Nope. We’re going to Ruby and Mulan’s, and we’re dancing until at least 1:00 AM because that’s when they bring out the dancing snacks.”

“Dancing snacks?”

“Donuts and coffee for the drive home. It’s the best.” He’s about to point out that there exists these wonderful things called donut shops that allows one to purchase a donut and coffee at a time that is not 1:00 AM, but her phone rings.

Emma halts her process of shutting off lights in the kitchen to answer. 

“Hey Rubes.” As Ruby talks, Emma refreshes her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She pauses the action, groaning in aggravation at something Ruby says. “Seriously?! Can’t you be total dicks and tell them to leave? Since when? Fine! Be good people! Yeah, we’ll be there in about thirty.” 

Emma hangs up and Killian tries not to laugh at Emma’s quietly muttered, “Well, shit.” She told him a few weeks ago her resolve to never swear in front of Henry gets a little weaker with each passing year. 

“What was that, love?” 

“Apparently the sister of one of Ruby’s co-workers invited herself to the party — much to everyone’s annoyance because Zelena is apparently awful — and then proceeded to be even more awful by bringing along her new boyfriend who, pause for dramatic effect, happens to be my ex.” 

“No.” 

“Yes,” she says, finishing her lipstick and dropping the tube into her purse. “And Walsh being Walsh, he’s too much of a —” Emma trails off, her eyes darting down the hallway to see if Henry is coming — “fucking narcissistic dickhole to leave once he realized whose house he was at. I know he’s only staying to drink booze and leer at me when I show up alone. Sure, he’s the one who got drunk one night and cheated on me, but I’m the one who is going to have to deal with him.” 

“But you’re not showing up alone.” 

“Yeah, but you’re my friend date. Not my date date.”

Killian’s heart clenches a little at that entirely accurate explanation. 

Hard to believe it was only five days prior that he and Emma were seemingly on the emotional precipice of — well, something. He’s not entirely sure what, because first Henry interrupted their conversation, then Emma sprained her ankle, and then, as he was in the midst of applying his physical therapy degree in perhaps the most important context of his entire life, the electrician called to say he arrived. The man spent several hours trying to undo what Killian did, and then Emma called and asked him to pick up Thai takeout for a late lunch, and before he knew it, Henry was back from ice skating, and Emma was asleep on the couch with a bowl of Phad Thai balanced on her chest.

So, her assessment is correct. Right now they are friends and this is not a date date. Though he wishes it was, and he is certain all it would take is an uninterrupted moment for him and Emma to find that bit of magic again. He’s also convinced that Emma in her dress — black, and short, and lacy, with long sleeves and a neckline that is both wonderful and tempting — is a bit of magic in and of itself. 

David texts Emma that they’ve arrived, and Emma and Henry both get bundled up to meet them outside. Killian grabs Henry’s piles of belongings and they’re out the door. 

Emma has this whole theory that with surge pricing likely in effect all night, it would be wildly irresponsible to take an Uber to and from Ruby and Mulan’s house. Killian vetoes her theory with his medical opinion that as her PT, it would be wildly irresponsible to allow someone who sprained their ankle a week ago to walk a mile in high heeled boots. She scowls but he requests the Uber anyway. Fuck, he must be far gone because even her scowl is starting to feel like a kind of magic.

As the night goes on, Killian discovers that the problem isn’t if he should confess his feelings but rather what feeling he should confess to first. He watches Emma run in and hug Ruby and Mulan and thinks “I should confess how her smile makes everything better.” When he discovers one of his co-workers is also at the party, apparently a regular at the diner Ruby owns, Emma is kind, and warm, and eager to get to know the man, and Killian thinks “I should confess that my days don’t quite feel real until I am able to talk them over with her.” And then there’s the confession he’s been concealing for well over a month: that he wants to kiss Emma, and he wants to kiss her a lot.

Turns out Emma has a confession of her own to make. Well, not so much a confession as a bald-faced lie. 

Killian and Emma are in the middle of a rather heated debate with a couple they’ve just met about the best claymation Christmas movie when a supercilious voice interrupts their conversation, seemingly not caring about a lack of courtesy. 

“Isn’t this a festive coincidence? Us being at the same party?” Emma clenches her jaw at the voice and plasters on the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It screams false, false, false. She turns around to greet the man. 

“Walsh,” she says, and then extends her hand to the woman who must be Zelana. “I’m Emma.” 

“Oh, I’m aware,” she responds, ignoring the hand. Zelena looks at Walsh, the two of them laughing at some shared joke. 

“Seriously, Ems, what are the odds?” he asks. 

“Well, seeing as Ruby and Mulan are my friends, the chances of me being here were pretty high. I don’t even know how to calculate the odds of you showing up. Nor do I really care to,” she shrugs.  

Killian chuckles at that, bumping Emma with his hip in what he hopes is a dual gesture of both affection and camaraderie. I’m here for you, he wants the gesture to mean. It also has the effect of catching the attention of both Walsh and Zelena. 

“Emma,” Walsh says condescendingly. “You didn’t introduce us to your friend.” The emphasis on the word friend is mocking. Like, “look at me with my girlfriend, and here you are with just your regular old friend.” Killian hates this guy. 

But, because he likes to think himself a gentleman, he extends a hand in greeting. “Killian Jones,” he says. “Emma’s —” 

“Fiancé,” she cuts in almost immediately. Emma wraps her hands around his arm, snuggling into his side. “This is my fiancé.” 

“Oh,” says Walsh, glaring. Killian doubts he’s jealous as much as he’s mad Emma’s potentially happy.

“But where is your riiiing?” Zelena simpers. Killian didn’t know the word ‘ring’ had quite that many syllables. “Could you not afford one?” He's decided he hates her, too.

“Oh,” Emma says, voice quiet. “Well —” 

Fine. If they’re going to do this… “It’s at the jewelers. Being resized. It was my mum’s ring, and a little large for Emma I’m afraid.” 

“Right,” Walsh frowns. “How did the two of you meet?” 

“Neighbors,” Emma practically shouts. “We are neighbors. And that’s how we met.” 

“Rather ordinary,” Zelena says, sounding bored.

“Well, the sex is great, so…” Emma trails off and Killian almost chokes. Her expression makes him want to laugh — she apparently took herself by surprise with that one. It’s like she can hear herself saying the words and would like to be able to stop saying them, but can’t. 

He would never want Emma to think she caused him any distress. They’ll surely talk about the whole fiancé thing, but he’s been hoping all night for a magic opportunity to appear and maybe, he thinks, it’s time to make some magic of his own. 

“Truth is,” he says, “I knew Emma was the one for me months before we actually met.” He looks down at her. “I know you’re sick of this story, love, but mind if I tell it once more?” She shakes her head, eyes wide and questioning, and he turns back to Zelena and Walsh. Walsh, who it must be said, looks like he’s sucked on something sour. Killian wasn't sure he'd ever confess this to Emma, but here they are. 

“My first glimpse of Emma was in our apartment lobby. Henry must have been at a sleepover of some sort, because Emma was coming home at the early hours of the morning with her sister and friend, stumbling into the lobby clearly drunk and laughing. Then Emma shouted 'we should race!' and someone else said the loser had to make breakfast and no sooner did the words ‘ready’ come out of her sister’s mouth, than Emma took off her shoes and sprinted for the stairs.” He looks down at Emma and notices a rather stunned expression on her face. He hopes it's a good kind of stunned. Might as well keep going. “I think someone called her a cheater and Emma called them sore losers and she was up the staircase, and certainly to her apartment before the two of them even managed to stumble to the elevator. And I remember thinking to myself ‘this woman is amazing.’ We met officially in the laundry room a couple months later and she’s confirmed that thought every day hence.” 

He feels that sizzle in the air, of hope and possibility and one of Emma’s hands leaves his arm to slide around his back, squeezing his waist gently. She turns into him further, away from Walsh and Zelena. When he looks down, she leans up and kisses him, soft and delicate on the corner of his mouth. 

Walsh coughs, and Zelena says something he immediately opts to ignore. Magic. 

“Killian,” she whispers. 

“Yeah?” 

“Emma, you have to come take shots with us!” And man, Killian likes Ruby a lot but her timing is on par with Henry’s. Ruby is wearing heels that must be at least four inches high and as she approaches their little circle, wedging herself in close to Walsh, she stumbles. It feels like it starts to happen in slow motion but then all of sudden it's over: the bright red cocktail in Ruby's hand sloshes over the edge of the glass and douses Walsh in what Killian hopes is something both sticky and impossible to get out. 

“Fuck,” he shouts, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “This is Tom Ford.”

Ruby holds her hands up and shrugs. “Oops.” She crouches down to be at eye level with the stain. “Sorry, Mr. Ford,” she says, slurring the words. 

Walsh storms off and Zelena follows. They furiously grab their coats from the hook and leave, silencing the crowd with their ire. As soon as the door slams the strained silence in the room breaks, and Ruby turns to him and Emma with a big smile. “Happy New Year, guys!” Miraculously sober once more. 

“Ruby,” Emma scolds, not sounding the least bit upset. “You are ridiculous!” 

“Excuse you, I tripped.” 

“Why didn't you 'trip' two hours ago when Walsh first showed up?” 

“I could have,” Ruby says, "but it was so satisfying to watch it happen, wasn’t it?” 

Emma looks like she wants to maintain her indignation, but then Killian bursts into laughter, and Ruby grins with unfiltered pride at her accomplishment. 

Just as Killian is plotting as to how he and Emma can escape next — (she only kissed him about two minutes ago but it feels like it’s been a lifetime; why is it the second he manages to make a little magic the universe appears dead set upon stealing the moment from him and Emma?) — Ruby tells them “Ems, I wasn’t joking about shots. I need you.” 

She looks over to Killian, her brow furrowed. “Actually, Ruby, I need to —” 

“Go on, Swan,” he reassures, “I’ll be here.” 

Ruby pulls Emma away, no further conversation, Mulan whooping loudly as they get closer. Was that a mistake? Or should he have followed them? What is he even doing? He has no strategy when it comes to Emma. He has no plan; only an intended end goal. Which is her in his life for as long as possible. Ideally with more kissing. Why has he been wasting all this time? He should have asked her out the second she and Henry brought him toffee almond bark. 

He pours himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cart in the living room and then escapes to the back porch, sipping on the drink, cheersing the smokers out there as they all make small talk. Ruby slides the door open a few minutes later. “Come inside future emphysemiacs of the world, the countdown is starting in one minute.” 

At Ruby’s commanding tone, everyone tamps out their cigarettes or ceases vaping and moves inside. But Killian stays where he is. He’s too much of a romantic for a New Year’s Eve countdown. The strike of midnight without a kiss from Emma just might break his heart.  

The door to the patio opens again, noise swelling as he hears a few people start the countdown with a loud “60! 59! 58!” 

“Ruby, I’ll be right in.” 

The door closes. “Not Ruby.”

At the sound of Emma’s voice, every nerve ending in his body starts firing. Heart beating wildly. Palms sweating. And he’s either halfway to being in love with this woman or he’s about to throw up. 

He looks at her, and her smile is open and warm. He can’t help but smile back. “Emma.”

“Some party, huh?” she asks, standing beside him, forearms resting on the banister. Neither one of them are wearing jackets, and her sleeves might be long but they’re all lace. There’s no way they’ll last out here long. 

“Yeah.” 

She looks at him. “I feel like I should apologize for the whole fiancé thing. But —” she trails off. 

“But?” he asks. 

“I’m actually a little more interested in that story you told Walsh.”

His heart isn’t possibly beating loud enough for her to hear. Right? That noise is all in his head?

“What about it?”

“Was it true?” 

Somewhere distantly he hears the group inside continue their countdown, now hitting “34! 33! 32!” and getting louder with each number.

“Yeah. The first time I saw you was in the lobby of the building.” 

She immediately shakes her head, appearing almost angry at him. “No. Not that part. I remember that night with Mary-Margaret and Elsa. The other part. The part about me. About knowing —” A shiver runs through her. He can see the goosebumps on her skin, and yet she persists. “About me, and knowing that —” 

“Of course it’s true, Emma. I wouldn’t make that up.” 

Then Emma does the last thing he expects and punches him in the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure him but it’s surprising enough that it hurts. “Ouch!” he says, rubbing the spot she hit. “What was that?” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Are you saying I should have?” 

“Well, obviously.” She clenches her fists, and huffs out an aggravated breath. “I don’t make eyes, Killian. Okay?” She doesn’t punch him, but she does sort of push his shoulder. “I am not a make eyes person.” And she pushes him again. “Got it?”

“God, woman, would you stop shoving me?” 

“No, because you are an idiot.” 

“Are you drunk?”

“No. And are you listening to me? I DON’T MAKE EYES.”

“Okay, fine!” They’re almost shouting now, but he can still make out the “10! 9! 8!” from inside the apartment. “You don’t make eyes! I read you!” 

“I don’t make eyes,” she says, for the fourth time, a little quieter but no less emphatic. “Except I do make eyes at you. Pretty much from the first moment I met you.” 

What? Her words take a moment to register, and then all he manages to say is, “Oh.” 

Emma is having a harder time keeping in her shivers now. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and there’s something about seeing that which springs him into action. He steps closer and runs his hands over her arms, hoping to bring some warmth to her skin. 

The group inside bursts into a jubilant shout of “Happy New Year!” and he has apparently been making eyes at him. This whole time. 

“Oh,” he says again.

“Yeah.”  

New Year’s Day Or, the holiday where Emma and Killian make magic

Emma is tempted to go inside for two reasons: one, to get out of the cold because sheesh, and two to text Mary-Margaret to inform her “I did the brave thing and all he did was say ‘oh.’ Twice!” 

But something about the way Killian said ‘oh’ the second time and the way he looks at her now has her rooted in place. He’s running his hands up and down her arms to help warm her up. It feels better than anything has the right to. 

“Happy new year, Emma,” he says. She hears the slight shake in his voice. Is he nervous, too? She kind of hopes so.

“Killian,” she says, and takes a small step closer. And, shit, she really hopes she’s not misreading his signals here. “Kiss me.” 

For a fraction of a second Killian’s hands still entirely and then his brain seems to take over. One hand snakes around to her waist and he grabs her, bringing their bodies flush, and the other goes up to the nape of her neck. Killian’s thumb and forefinger are doing this massage thing which is utterly divine, and — Oh, she thinks, we’re kissing now. 

It isn’t something she’s actively thought about — the logistics of kissing Killian — but that seems to be okay because her body is charged and humming in a way she’s never experienced before. She is suddenly struck by the sensation that she does not have enough hands. She tangles a hand in his hair, grabbing a fistful and earning her a grunt from Killian, which makes her want to do it again. But if her hand is in his hair then she can’t run it up and down the planes of his back and that’s a shame. So, she does that. But, she finds, if both hands are feeling the corded muscles of his back, then she can’t feel the firmness of his arms, which is a crime against the world. And if she’s gripping his biceps, then she can’t get a handful of what she has always suspected, and has now been able to confirm, is a phenomenal ass. It’s a problem scientists should dedicate the rest of their lifetimes to solving —  too much Killian and not enough hands. 

Killian runs his tongue along the seam of her lips and the sensation is so overwhelming she has to take a second, pulling away with a gasp. Only now they're too far away from on another so she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She keeps her eyes closed, wanting to savor the everything of the moment for another second. 

“Emma,” he says. 

She smiles, and opens her eyes only long enough to kiss him again, sweetly on the lips before nuzzling into his the space between his neck and shoulder. Either she's aggravated her ankle or something about Killian is affecting her because she's having trouble standing.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her once more, and yes! This is significantly warmer than the rubbing of arms things. They should have been doing this the whole time. The kissing is so much warmer. 

“Emma,” he repeats. 

“Hmm?” she doesn’t feel like she can actually say full words. Maybe it’s the not saying of full words that’s allowing her to feel this warm (also, made her something called a snowball shot and it was minty and wonderful and that might also be contributing to the warm feeling). 

“How committed are you to this hanging around for donuts and coffee thing?” 

“Why? You have a better offer?” 

“I could make you hot chocolate,” he says. 

“And?” 

“That’s not enough?” 

She smiles, opens her eyes and shakes her head at him. “Coffee and donuts. That is a beverage and a snack. You offered only a beverage.” 

“Counteroffer: I steal a box of donuts from Ruby and Mulan’s kitchen and we bring them back to your place.” 

“Now you’re talking.” Their plan is to get bundled up in their outerwear, say their goodbyes and then grab the donuts, but it all goes to hell when Ruby asks Emma why she’s being weird and in response she shouts “I kissed Killian and I’m stealing your donuts!” She grabs a box and runs. As they try to make their getaway Ruby’s shouts at them from the front door. “I’m sending you a request on Venmo! Donuts are for non-horny guests who stay for dancing!” 

Safely tucked into their Uber (she asked about the true horror of surge pricing and Killian refused to answer), Emma finds herself fixated on the red glint of Killian’s stubble under the passing glow of streetlights. He swallows a few times as she runs her finger along the line of his jaw. 

“Killian? Has your heater been working okay?” 

He nods. “Right as rain.” 

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “Well, if it ever stopped working, you could stay at my place again.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch as he holds in a smile, and she really wants to bite his neck but she also doesn’t want to negatively impact Killian’s Uber rating. “Is that so?” 

“Just being neighborly.” 

“Obviously.” 

The rest of the ride to their apartment complex is wonderful, with the touching, and the smiling, and the knowing that she has a box of contraband donuts, but she wants more. 

As soon as they get out of the car, Killian takes Emma’s hand but she stays where she is and pulls him back to her. 

“I changed my mind,” she says. He looks uncertain, and she rushes to explain. “You should stay at my apartment even if your heat is working.” 

“Well that sounds grand,” Killian says, his voice low. 

“Well good,” she says, and that’s when inspiration strikes. Once in the lobby, she unzips her ankle boots and holds them out for Killian to take. “Trade you boots for donuts?”

“Deal,” he says. 

“So.”

“So.” 

“Who would have thought, huh?” 

“What?” he asks. 

“I mean, who would have though that me calling you a sick fuck on Thanksgiving would lead to us fucking on New Year’s Day? Crazy, right?” She asks the rather audacious question in as casual a tone as possible. Killian looks a little dazed and Emma leans up to kiss him again, smiling as their lips meet. 

“I —” he sputters. 

“Killian?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Loser makes breakfast in the morning,” she says, and then she’s running through the lobby, clutching the donuts to her chest.

Killian’s laughter chasing her up the stairs is magic. 

[darkpoisonouslove]

Setting Sale and Stardust for the fic ask game :)?

This took forever but I couldn’t make myself get to it when I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I have written both of those a long time ago and I don’t even remember the entirety of the fics and what happens into them. I’ll see what I can remember about the process, though, because I most certainly don’t have headcanons about them.

Setting Sale:

1. That was written for the Curious Archer Love Library. I really wanted to do something for that event and I had the idea but there was some panic over it as I wasn’t sure how to approach it. I was ready to give up at one point but theonceoverthinker encouraged me to keep it up (I’m pretty sure she used a Julie Andrews quote to achieve that) and I ended up writing it one sitting.

2. I remember that there was some back and forth with the ship. I wanted Robin to propose on the Jolly Roger and my mind insisted that it would be so much more romantic if she put in the effort to get the Jolly Roger that actually belonged to Wish Killian so I had her do that. And then I had to make sure that she knew how to sail it so the lessons in that came in.

3. I remember that coming up with what the engagement ring would look like was a process and describing it was no less of a process as well. XD English is not my first language and descriptions aren’t my strong suit so that was a bit of a struggle but I am quite pleased with what I got in the end. The idea that Zelena used magic to make the gems on the ring the exact color of Robin’s eyes came in during the writing because I thought it would be cool if the gems were the color of Robin’s eyes (to link the ring to the love she holds in them for Alice) but I thought that would be (next to) impossible to achieve without magic so I threw that bit in. And then I got the idea that Alice would like to give Robin a ring as well and she could use her powers to do that and make it an original idea (which I think it really was if I do say so myself).

4. All the mentions of other characters actually came in once I started writing it. They were never planned but I thought it would give some flavor to the story and flesh out life in the United Realm so I decided to include what I could and whatever came up to me. I ended up mentioning most of the extended family and I was super happy with that. I love including all possible characters even if it is in small ways!

5. I was so giddy with happiness and pride when I thought up Robin’s idea to make the entire ocean “the place where they got engaged”. I thought it was really romantic to tie it to Alice’s love of the sea and the freedom and happiness it brings her. In fact, writing this fic led me to the conclusion that I should probably open up and agency for personalized events as I think it really turned out romantic and unique and very personal to the two of them and their story, or at least Alice’s story. (I had an idea of Robin shooting an arrow at an apple on their wedding btw but I haven’t gotten to fleshing out my image of that event enough to write a fic about it).

Stardust:

This one is actually harder even if it is more recent.

1. When I saw the theme of stars for Knight Rook: a History, Stardust was pretty much the first thing that popped into my head. I remembered only the end of the movie but I was convinced that Alice and Robin would be great in the main roles. I actually had to rewatch the movie in order to write the “fic” which was kinda ironic since I ended up changing most of it anyway. I think a lot of the structure of the story remained the same even if the events were tweaked and adapted to the OUAT world and characters.

2. I had a blast with this like I always do with AUs. I love taking the characters and adapting them to a new setting or situation. It is one of my favorite forms of creativity and there was a lot to adjust with this AU. I used versions of the characters from different time periods. Emma isn’t the daughter of Snow and David (but they still have Neal) and I actually merged Killian and Wish Killian together, the Golden Hook relationship was actually at its final phase instead of going through all of them and I adapted the plan for the star to be more Gothel rather than the way it was done in the movie. The ogres having come from bugs when the ground got poisoned with darkness was one of my favorite things to come up with ever!

3. I got the idea of them all living in Mist Haven from season 2A. The people left behind after the curse had their safe haven from the ogres and I decided to have that and with some inspo from the visuals while Cora cast her spell to protect her and Killian from the Dark Curse, the barrier around Mist Haven was born and the beginning and the ending of the story were set. I actually really loved how that turned out as it provided one of the major points of Robin’s arc and that was searching for who she is and being unable to find it in her birth place. And it also led to another one of my favorite ideas and that was reshaping the magic of the glass slippers to allow Robin super speed. Now I have no idea how I did that but I love it on all accounts, including the fact that it fit in very well with me trying to keep Robin to her not so well developed powers.

4. Now Alex and Gideon took some effort until I figured out how they fit into the grand scheme of things but I knew I wanted them to be in it as Robin’s lifelong friends. I really think that the friendship that was sort of forming between Zelena and Belle would have transferred onto Robin and Gideon if the Golds had stayed in town so I took the opportunity to have it here. And I have always been a big fan of the idea that Alexandra and Robin were best friends, at least before Robin started learning magic. So I included her as well and eventually they fell into their places to bring the story full circle.

5. The ending wasn’t supposed to be sad at first but then I figured that that was what made the most sense. If Alice’s light was to neutralize the darkness, it would only make sense for both to disappear, not just the darkness. And despite the pain it brings me (and believe me it hurts so much to know Alice dies when both she and Robin were just a step away from getting everything they wanted), I am actually very happy with the way I wrap it all up. I like how Robin gives back to other pieces of both herself and Alice to help them find closure for the wounds she is responsible for causing them and I am still so in love with my ideas about the yellow flowers left behind after Alice’s death (had to include that nod to canon) and the final idea of fish turning to starfish when swallowing the stardust. It was a nod to canon again and a way to come full circle with my entires for Knight Rook: a History since I had that same idea in my first entry. And to me, personally, even though the end really hurts, it is also satisfying and even sort of peaceful when all the plot threads feel finished.

So that is all I got on these. I hope those were at least somewhat interesting to you!

[ad1thi]

we’re connected

commission for @hawkbucks, who asked for winteriron + bucky meeting harley. im really sorry this took so long, but i wanted to make sure i got it right before i put it out, (1) because you gave such a generous donation without even asking for anything and (2) you’re one of my favourite content creators

--

in this au, harley is tony and maya’s biological child; because i read a piece a couple of weeks ago where that was the case and i love that concept (if anyone remembers what fic that is, will they please tell me so i can link it here); and pepper and tony never get together. 

set sometime after endgame, established relationship, desi!tony, irondad

//

James had survived 70 years as HYDRA’s plaything, died because of a megalomaniac purple minion and the absolute unit that is James Rhodes, and the thing he was still the most scared of was meeting Tony’s son

If the way Tony kept bobbing his foot up and down despite his aversion to people fidgeting their feet was any indication; Tony was also nervous

Silently, James reaches over and threads their fingers together, and Tony smiles at him gratefully

He leans his head against James’ shoulder, and they stay like that for a couple of seconds- until the bell at the front of the restaurant rings and they jump apart

Harley walks over and wraps his hands around his father from behind, leaning down to press a kiss on Tony’s cheek, before he pulls out a chair and sits down

“Harley Keener,” the eighteen year old says, extending a hand that James shakes, “its a pleasure to finally meet the guy who’s making dad so happy”

“James Barnes,” he replies, “but you already knew that”

He smiles at Harley, before a thought occurs to him, “wait- Keener?” he gestures between Tony and Harley, “I thought you were Tony’s kid?”

“I am,” Harley says, “but I didn’t know that until I was about 13. Plus, Harley Stark sounds like the name of a bike not a person”

James chuckles, and next to him- Tony’s shoulders slump ever so slightly, “yeah I guess it does”

“So!” Harley claps his hands, and starts looking around for a waiter, “should we order?”

-

Lunch goes smoothly, albeit slightly awkwardly until Tony realises that his son doesn’t hate him for getting a life, and he loosens up

Harley, James discovers, is just as witty as his father- an as intelligent, if not more

“It’s because mine and Maya’s DNA combined to form him,” Tony says- trying to demonstrate the bonding of DNA with his fingers, “individually we’re more geniuses so our baby is a super genius”

“Maya’s the um, EXTREMIS chick right?’ James asks- and instantly he knows its the wrong thing to say because Harley’s face darkens

“My mom didn’t create EXTREMIS,” he says coldly, “my mom created a serum intended to help veterans. Killian created EXTREMIS, and my mother died trying to stop him”

He dabs the napkin at his mouth, before pushing off the table, “excuse me I need the loo”

He shifts out of the way as Tony reaches for him, and Tony just watches him go- looking between the two of them helplessly

“I’m sorry,” James says urgently, because he needs to make sure Tony knows he didn’t mean to, “I’m so unbelievably sorry I didn’t realise what I was saying that’s completely on me I - “

He stops when Tony waves him down, “I know you didn’t mean it James, but I still gotta -” he gestures towards the bathroom, “Just stay here I’ll be back”

Tony pushes off the table and barely restrains himself from sprinting after his son, and James is left mulling at his food- wondering how he’d already fucked up

He’s picking at his mac and cheese, when Harley sits back down on the table; and James freeze immediately

“At ease soldier,” Harley says with a half smile, “I’m not going to bite”

“Where’s your dad?” James cranes his neck to look past Harley, who snaps his fingers in front of James’ face

“Dad’s not coming back, I asked him for some time alone with you”

There’s a familiar sense of dread taking over

“Look,” Harley says, scratching the back of his neck, “I’m new to this whole thing okay? I know my dad was this huge playboy before he knew I existed or whatever, but ever since he took me in- he’s never had a person over. I’ve only known him for 5 years but it feels like a lifetime, and this is hard for me”

“I’m not ready to share him with someone else,” Harley says- and James valiantly fights the urge to reach over and comfort the teenager, “but he seems to really like you, and from what I can tell; you do too so it should be okay”

James smiles,”I love your dad Harley, and I’m not trying to take him away from you I swear. Tony made it clear from the first date that you come first, and I respect that. I would never do anything to hurt him, he’s the love of my life”

“Good,” Harley says, the heat in his eyes a stark contrast to the nonchalant tone of his voice, “because if you do try and hurt him, I won’t be the only one coming after you. But I will be the one you don’t expect”

James gulps, but before he can try and think of a response; Tony comes back to the table with a tight smile on his face

“Everything alright here? How’re my favourite boys getting along?”

Harley turns around and beams at his dad, “swimmingly”

“I’m glad,” Tony says; settling in next to James, “now- about this Parker boy in your texts”!

Harley groans and covers his face in his palms, before mulishly talking about Peter, some guy from his Physics 101 class

Under the table, Tony’s fingers find his and they squeeze, and James knows that they’re going to be okay

Fin

// 

i really hope you like this!! if anyone else wants to commission something, my kofi is linked here and im currently raising money for my greek gods au

[owlways-and-forever]

A/N: I feel like a lot of the fic I read (and write) centers around Emma, and paints Killian as a pining and/or doting partner, and we never really get to see the angry pirate side of him. I wanted to experiment with something different, so this piece aspires to be more Killian-centric and a little bit darker. Hopefully it comes out as what I imagine it to be. Warning, graphic depictions of violence ahead. American Assassin inspired AU.

Summary: After tragedy tears his life apart, Killian Jones is determined to exact revenge on the ones who wronged him. But his path to revenge turns out to be a winding one, filled with surprising characters that may even change his life again.

Word Count: 1306

Links: ao3, ff.net

Prologue

Killian toyed with the ring in his pocket while he waited for the bartender to make their drinks. He'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about how he'd do this, but he hadn't been able to come to a decision. Putting the ring in the drink seemed a little too cheesy, not to mention a choking hazard, but he wanted to present it in some special way, not just hand it to her like a bar of chocolate.

The bartender set two drinks down in front of him, and as Killian's eyes took in the large, tropical flowers sitting atop each, he knew what he wanted to do. Carefully, he pulled the ring from his pocket and balanced it in the center of the flower, threading the pistil through it. Smiling he turned and located Milah on the beach, where she was emerging from the water, hands running over her dark curls. She smiled when she saw him and jogged toward him, accepting her drink while keeping her eyes locked on his, and he placed his hands on her waist, pulling her closer. Milah's eyes flicked down as she went to take a sip of her drink, and the shine of the ring caught her attention at last.

"Killian?" she asked, her voice brimming with surprise.

"Milah, my love," he said, taking her free hand in his, "you are everything I could ever need in this world and so much more. You brought me out of the darkness and showed me that life could be more than just loss. You're my one true love, and there's no one else I would rather travel the world with. I never want to be parted from you. Will you," he continued, dropping to one knee, "allow me the honour of becoming your husband?"

"Are you serious?" Milah exclaimed, her eyes glistening with tears. "Are you really serious?"

"Is that a yes?" he asked, nerves practically paralyzing him.

"Yes, of course that's a yes!" she nearly squealed, falling into his arms as he stood and peppered her face with kisses.

Killian took the ring and slipped it onto Milah's finger, and she pressed a long kiss against his lips. He opened his mouth under the pressure and was only dimly aware of the applause coming from the people around them.

After a few moments, they broke apart, and Milah buried her face in his neck, laughing happily.

"I should go get the camera," Killian whispered to the top of her head, his heart pounding with joy.

"Okay," Milah agreed, stepping away. She took his cup and lay down in one of the lounging chairs.

Killian took a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looked before jogging off in the direction of the hotel. As he went, he noticed a speedboat zooming across the shallows, sending waves across the sand. Boats themselves weren't unusual, but it was the first time he had seen one so close to the beach. There was nothing sinister about a speedboat, however, so Killian simply kept moving, wanting to get up to their room and grab the camera as quickly as possible so he could return to celebrating.

Just as Killian was wrapping his hand around the hand of the door, he hear a barrage of gunshots, and he turned to see bullets spraying across the beach, striking down one person after another. Fear gripped him, and he turned immediately to run back toward Milah, but people were running everywhere, and he could no longer see where she was. Her brown curls blended into the crowd of people and despite his best efforts, he couldn't seem to locate her.

"Milah!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, trying desperately to be heard over the hundreds of other people calling for their loved ones. "Milah!"

As he ran towards the spot where he had left her, his feet began to grow damp with the blood that was spreading out from the fallen, stained pink sand sticking to his skin. Suddenly, piercing pain shot through his shoulder and chest, spreading down through his abdomen and arm to the tips of his fingers. He screamed in pain and collapsed to his knees in the sand, blood dripping down his bare chest from the wound in his shoulder. Still, his thoughts focused on Milah, and he pushed through the pain, standing and continuing to run, trying desperately to find her.

At last, he caught a glimpse of long black curls down by the hotel's pool, and he sprinted toward her, vaguely aware that we was running towards the shooters. It didn't matter, as long as he was with Milah. He was feet away, so close to her, when he saw her body lurch forward with the impact of being hit, and a guttural cry was ripped from his chest as he watched her fall into the pool. Killian pushed his body harder to reach her, to pull her from the water that was already turning pink with her blood. He was almost there when pain seared through him again, this time knocking him down as his thigh was shredded by a bullet. He tried, but he couldn't stand, so he crawled, half dragging his leg behind him, to get closer to the pool. Another shot and another bullet found its target, this time burying itself in his hip. He was reduced to trying to army crawl his way, leaving a smearing trail of red behind him, but he was rapidly losing strength, and he felt his mind beginning to cloud as unconsciousness threatened.

"Milah," Killian croaked, tears pouring down his face. He was going to die, he was certain of it, and either Milah would follow him, or she would be left behind, and he knew all too well the pain of that.

"Vasha zhena?" a burly looking man with a rifle sneered from above Killian, and he turned his head enough to see the man leering at Milah. "Ona krasivaya."

He ran a hand over himself in a way that made Killian want to vomit and bash his head in, or maybe castrate him, all at once. With a chuckle, he knelt down and grabbed Killian's hair, roughly tugging his head up so he had a clear view of Milah, while he aimed his gun and shot right through Milah's forehead.

Killian let out a choked sob and one arm reached out toward Milah, and he barely even registered the pain as another bullet tore through his hand. The monster still holding him laughed and released Killian roughly, taking a step toward the edge of the pool. Killian watched as he pulled a phone from his pocket, and aimed it toward Milah's body.

"For to remember her tonight," the man said with a twisted smile, and Killian heard the camera click and closed his eyes. "Do svidaniya," he sneered, aiming his heavy boots at Killian's side and kicking him hard into the pool as he walked away.

The edges of Killian's vision were starting to darken, and he knew that if he didn't get out of the water, he would bleed to death very quickly. It was tempting, just to let go, allow himself to follow his parents and his brother and now Milah. He felt so empty inside, as if someone had just carved out his heart. But in it's place he also felt a boiling rage, coursing through his blood and enveloping what consciousness remained to him. He let it propel him as he used his good arm to pull himself through the water to the stairs, where he was able to heave himself onto the top step, just high enough to keep is wounds out of the water. The effort drained last of his energy, and he allowed himself to succumb to the darkness.

[fandomflail]

title: Recognition (3/8)

rating: T/M

summary: Soulmate trope AU. Set in a world where humans and elves coexist.

a/n: If you haven’t, don’t forget to the CS Fanfic Survey (updated link, please use this) which is a 2 minute survey about how this fandom consumes media. Analytics will be published for everyone’s curiosity.

Past Chapters: (1)  (2) or AO3

CHAPTER 3

It felt like everyone was staring at her. Emma couldn’t tell if she was being paranoid or if the itching and heat all over her body was the culprit. The moisture soaking through her matching lace underwear was uncomfortable and made her too aware of the sensations he’d awoken in her. They needed to leave. Now.

No man she had ever been with had ever, ever garnered such an intense reaction from her body. Not even that artiste who had spent hours mapping her body by the pristine beaches of Thranduilia.

She reached Henry, grabbing on to his arm like he was her anchor.

“Mom, what—“ he sputtered, falling silent.

It was at that moment that she realized she must have looked quite a fright.

“I knew it,” Jefferson hissed, eyes widening in alarm.

Even Gracie, who was usually so poised, took one look at Emma, and gasped.

“Papa,” she whispered, “papa, she’s….”

“Hush now, time to go.”

“What’s going on?” Henry asked, looking at the three of them, and Emma wanted to cry. An elven couple were looking at her funny, and she didn’t know what was wrong.

“Come now, before anyone really sees anything amiss,” Jefferson said quietly, putting an arm around Emma, ushering them through the back of the room. She couldn’t help but shake him off, the feeling so wrong that it made her want to heave.

They exited the main hall, all the way down the corridor, when two tall elves stepped forward. They were dressed in the tunics of the Sukrasa, the guardians.

“His Highness has forbidden you to leave. If you follow us, you may find reprieve in —“

“Tell Killian to shove it,” she snarled, rage spiking her blood and distracting her from the other sensations and tugging under her skin. “I told him not to tell me what to do.”

The two Sukrasa’s were not cowed by her anger; merely stared her down. Beside her, Jefferson fidgeted with his sleeve, arm cradled protectively around Gracie.

“You cannot forbid us from leaving when we come at our own leisure,” Jefferson said, speaking to the older Sukrasa.

“Then we shall not,” the older man replied, stepping aside.

“What the? That’s it?” she asked incredulously.

“Not now,” Gracie said, reminding Emma that there was a lot of things about this world she didn’t know.

Henry was quiet and tense beside her, and none of them spoke until they were far away from the hall. Jefferson had insisted they adjourn to the park near his house, sitting on one side of the picnic table while she and Henry sat at the other.

“Okay, what just happened?” Henry asked, breaking the silence.

“Your mother, it appears, is in fact elvish,” Jefferson said, with a trace of smugness Emma wanted to punch off. Henry’s jaw dropped, but he said nothing. No one did.

“Half,” Emma clarified, after a beat of silence.

“Excuse me? What do you mean, half?”

“Apparently, I’m half.”

“That’s impossible,” he told her, as if she didn’t know that.

“He called me an impossibility,” she conceded, not really knowing how elven genetics worked.

“He? The prince?” Gracie asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you never been to a Healer before? A hospital?”

“No, never been sick enough for them to take blood.”

“Okay,” Henry said, “but that doesn’t explain why…”

“They Recognized, Henry,” Gracie said, sounding far wiser and older than Emma thought she ought to be.

“What? You have a soulmate?!” Henry said, whipping to pin Emma with his stare. “Your soulmate is the prince?!”

“Well, no one can know for sure,” she began, only to be cut off by Jefferson’s sarcastic laugh.

“Are you kidding? Have you seen yourself? Gracie, you have a mirror, don’t you?”

The girl pulled out her mirror, handing it to Emma, who flipped it open.

She gasped.

Her eyes, usually a dark forest green, were bright and wide, the gold flecks in them more pronounced, making her seem…elf-like. Her hair felt lighter, but it was brighter too, and as she ran her fingers through it, realized it seemed finer, the strands like thread. Her pale complexion seemed ethereal, and she knew it was because she was different inside. It was like meeting her soulmate had awakened her dormant genes, bringing forth the elvish part of her to the front.

Her ears, however, remained their disappointing rounded shape.

“And that itching you feel? That hollowness? That need?”

Her eyes snapped to Jefferson, who was looking at Gracie instead of her, “That feeling won’t leave. Not until you… you don’t die if you don’t, unconsummated Recognition is never fatal, but you’ll always feel like your body is in the wrong skin. And if you do, and then you lose them, that feeling never goes away.”

It clicked, suddenly, as she watched him watch his daughter. Gracie had been born of Recognition. It was said children who were the product of a Recognition, had greater physical, mental and magical gifts than those who were not. The whole point of the phenomenon was to  produce healthy offspring that had the maximum beneficial inherited characteristics of both parents, after all.

And if after all these years, he still felt that physical lost of his mate, no wonder the man acted weird. She suddenly felt sick, imagining living her life knowing she could cure that feeling but doing nothing about it, pretending like Killian didn’t exist.

“So what happens now?” Henry asked, looking between the two adults as he attempted to figure it out. Emma wasn’t sure she wanted him to - not until she figured it out first, at least.

“What happens now,” Jefferson said, standing and looking at his watch, “is that the two of you youngsters go to bed, while we discuss some important matters.”

“We should be a part of it,” Gracie said firmly, “after all, it’s something I should know for when my time comes, and what affects Emma affects Henry too.”

Jefferson looked like the idea of Gracie going through Recognition was the last possible thing in all the planets he could possibly want, face souring dramatically as he swallowed his words. If anything, that universal parental feeling of thinking of your adolescent child as a sexual anything made her take pity on Jefferson.

“Nice try, but it’s bed for you two.”

Gracie pouted, while Henry just looked at her worriedly. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Are we staying at the Swan’s, papa?”

Before Emma could open her mouth and agree to that, Jefferson shook his head.

“No. We’re going to stay at a quaint little place I know, under the name Hatter.”

“That seems rather excessive, don’t you think?”

“Better safe than sorry,” he said, getting up and steering the children down the path.

She didn’t ask exactly what wasn’t safe. Killian wouldn’t hurt her, she knew that, even if she didn’t know him. But he had seemed unstable… like the burn was harder for him. Paranoid though he may be, Jefferson had a point. At least until they figured… something out.

After the children were tucked in, Jefferson led her to the kitchen of the Bed & Breakfast. They were its only inhabitants, so it was quiet where they sat at the breakfast bar.

“What are you going to do?” he asked her, after pouring a generous amount of wine into her glass, claiming alcohol would help dull the edge.

“I don’t know. There’s two huge things. One, I’m half-elf, which means, I am, literally, a freak of nature.”

“Plus, I guaranteed you weren’t abandoned. The humans may have instigated the war, and the elves may have pushed back, but all said and done, they would never harm an elven child, half or not. You were probably sent away from protection, if anything.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “In any case, I’m a long, long way from home. Nysno. If my parents are still alive, well, they’re really far away.”

A pause, then, “Will they run weird experiments on me?”

“Of course,” Jefferson said blankly, “you’re a miracle, Emma.” His lips turned down as he said, “But you’ll also become a political piece, whether you like it or not. Those who fight against Integration will call you an abomination, and those who fight for it will use you as proof that we can inhabit this planet together. The hardiness of the human genetics and the longevity of the elves, among other things.”

“Realistically, who will know?”

“The Sukrasa serve the Ruling Noble Family exclusively. They live, breathe and die by their code.”

“They let us pass.”

“It’s in the code.”

Emma rolled her eyes, moving on to more important things. “So, as long as Killian keeps his mouth shut, they keep their mouth shut?”

“Yes. Announcing something like this would cause disturbances in both worlds, until there is proof, and until they figure out how this benefits their agenda, you’re safe,” he said, “you best be prepared for what if the prince doesn’t, though.” he warned, the way he said prince sounding like an insult to her ears.

“Yeah,” she sighed, taking a large gulp of the wine. Her skin was burning up. She wanted to run a few miles to burn energy, but settled for bouncing her leg up and down instead.

“So, are you going to ignore your soulmate?”

“I don’t know. I know, logically, that I shouldn’t.”

“You do realize, that this itch, this need will abate almost immediately after sex, right?”

“What?”

“Surely, you can’t be ignorant to…” he trailed off.

“I’ve never needed to know the details, it’s never concerned me,” she defended.

He sighed. “I suppose, one day, hate as I do, I will have to speak to Gracie about this. Well, might as well start with you.”

He sighed again, taking a sip of his own wine, and squared his shoulders.

“You see, when two elves Recognize,” he said, ignoring her muttered half-elf comment, “their soul meets when their eyes do. You, I, everything in this universe is created from the stars. The ether, the cosmic dust. The energy from where you are created has its own musical energy, a vibration.”

She nodded, paying attention despite the buzz in her brain willing her to move. To consume.

“Most of this energy isn’t sentient, so of course, there is no pull, but sometimes, two beings are created from the same space of energy. You match, on every particle of your being. That is your soulmate. Does it happen to everyone? No. Do their personalities always match yours? No. Does it always end happily? No.”

“I’ve read about that,” she said, remembering reading a magazine about how nasty a soulmate break could be.

“But when it does, it consumes you. Every part of you is screaming to be reunited with its mate. So all you need to do, to satiate that, is, well, mate. His seed must flow uninhibited to you,” he said.

Emma made a face of disgust, letting out a long string of ewwww’s.

“Hmm, I should reword that when I tell Gracie, yes?”

“Yes, dear sweet lord almighty, never use that sentence again.”

“Alright then, what do you suggest?”

“What I get is that… he has to cum in you to fix the edge?”

“How is that less crass?!”

“It wasn’t, I was just clarifying!”

“Right. Well, he has to…” Jefferson trailed off, taking a deep breath. “He must ejaculate without any protection, and you must not in any way alter your chemical composition either. No emergency contraceptions, or anything.”

“Is that why it usually ends up in a kid?”

“Essentially, yes. There’s plenty of literature about how the mixing of the basic seeds of life is what harmonizes the body.”

“Yeah, there’s no way to reword this section without being 100% gross.”

He sighed again. “That’s essentially it. But the feeling is so good, the person feels so right, that most of the time, they become your mate for life.”

“Is that how you had Gracie?” she asked, after a moment of silence.

He sent her a sharp look, never one for sharing personal information.

“Yes, and her mother died in childbirth, as they often do. Gracie barely made it, but she’s a strong girl.” The finality in his tone let her know that was all he was going to say on the matter.

“Soooo…. I just need to find the prince, fuck him, and I can go back to my regularly scheduled life?”

“In theory, I suppose.”

“Okay, that sounds like a plan.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“It’s a solid, 10 out of 10 plan.”

Jefferson sighed again, draining his wine.

* * *

Emma could not sleep.

Torment.

There was no other word to describe what she was experiencing; the dull throbbing between her thighs pulsing through to where her womb would be. Recognition triggered ovulation, the book Jefferson had left for her had said. But it wasn’t quite time for her yet, so she wasn’t sure how that worked. Still, it felt like everything below the waist throbbed, and her chest felt hollow.

In the quiet of the small private guest room, Emma let a whimper escape her lips as she lay curled on her side, the book open. The words were blurry and out of her focus as she gripped a pillow between her thighs, walking herself through the sensations.

‘Fucking it out of her system’ seemed like she was letting herself down. She could take a challenge. She could override fate and the universe. She was stronger than this bullshit.

Emma wasn't weak. She would obey her brain over her body.

“It’s just Day 1, Emma. You just need to learn how to deal,” she told herself soothingly.

She didn’t dare close her eyes again, as Killian’s lips had flashed clearly through her memory, the bright blue of his gaze searing her. Her imagination outdid itself as it imagined the lithe elf above her, his body merging with hers. She was so wet and lush down there that it was easy to imagine the essence that coated her was his.

What sort of lover would he be like?

She’d had a few elves, both male and female, some with grace, but some encounters, with strength. She wondered, lying there, even as she told herself to stop thinking about it, if Killian was the kind of lover to give pleasure first. Many elves were like that - the longer they had lived, the more patience they had, the more they understood that true pleasure was in giving first, before receiving.

But there were a few others, the younger ones, who loved their displays of strength, like the she-elf who had fingered Emma so hard she’d bruised her to the point of blood. Killian fingers would fit well in her, she thought suddenly, remembering the way he’d curled them around her neck.

She wondered if he’d also curl them around her neck in passion - did he have the need to just possess? Was he lying wherever it was he lived, his large fingers wrapped around his swollen manhood, attempting to alleviate the need?

She’d given it a go herself, had rubbed the ridiculously swollen flesh of her sex, tweaked the tight little nubs her nipples had become, had flicked and flicked herself until her back had arched off the bed, only to realize that it wasn’t quite what her body needed.

“It always seems like the worst ever when you first get hit, but then you adjust,” she whispered, rubbing her belly in gentle circles.

“All you have to do, Emma, Emma my girl, my buddy, my pal, is stay the fuck away from that really hot, how the fuck is he so hot, elf. Recognition is for making cute little elf babies that for reasons I can’t figure out tends to lead to their mother’s death, what the fuck is that about, how can they have not figured out how to make that not happen, and anyway, you don’t need an elf baby, or a human baby, or whatever, so just stay the fuck away, ride out this wave of lust and sex crazy bitch in heat thing you have going on, give it a few days and treat this like a period but inverse and then it’ll go away and you’ll learn to deal and you can stay away from this mess and you’re good. Whoo,” she rambled under her breath.

It may not have been the most motivational or inspirational self-talks, but she believed herself, and that was what truly mattered.

Go to Chapter 4

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