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letmetellyouaboutmyfeels · 4 years

Note

Ahem. I'm just saying that since someone who is not me brought up a Lucy/Flynn jewel thief/art thief AU and since someone who is also not me mentioned the extremely rude image of Flynn with the black and the leather gloves I think it would only be fair if SOMEONE who is not me graced the world with some of the dirtier scenes that could arise from such a context. Just maybe. (Pretty please)

This took me forever to get to, I’m so sorry, but at last! Here we are!

Itwas bound to happen at some point.

They’vedisliked each other from the first moment they clapped eyes on each other. Allright, so maybe… dislike is too strong of a word. Or not strong enough. Lucycertainly felt something when she took in the height, the hair, the eyes, the…everything that is Garcia Flynn.

Andthen he opened his mouth and oh, yes, she’ll claim it was dislike until the endof her days.

Thatmouth is being used for much better things right now than making smart remarks.It’s devouring hers, hungry, and then moving down, latching onto her neck,teeth scraping along her pulse point. The heist went sideways and they managedto pull it off by the skin of their teeth (Mason is going to yell at themplenty for it tomorrow) and they’re both riding the adrenaline as Flynn getshis hands up underneath her thighs and lifts her up against the wall, his hipsimmediately thrusting forward to pin her into place.

Thosehands, his arms (oh God, his arms, she can’t even fit her hand around them asshe digs her nails in) have been lifting paintings in gilt frames off walls fora decade, of course he can lift her easy as anything.

Herhands might not be strong, exactly, but her fingers are nimble, and she undoeshis pants, shoves them down, rucks that black blasted turtleneck of his up tofeel the solid planes of muscle in his torso—and a few scars, too.

“Where’dyou get these?” she asks, as he spreads her open, spears his fingers in, takesand takes. “Somebody have a good security system?”

“Theonly one of us foolish enough to get a guard to shoot at us is you, MissTiffany’s,” he shoots back.

He’sdeflecting from answering the question, she’s gotten to know him well duringthis partnership, even if said partnership was because their backs were againstthe wall and it was against their will—but before she can draw attention to it,Flynn is surprising her by dropping to his knees.

He’sstill keeping her pressed up against the wall, what the fuck, does theman lift bags of cement in his spare time?

Thenhe licks into her and all thoughts fly out the window.

Lucy’shands twist in his hair, the hair that sometimes flops into his eyes a littlewhen he’s picking a lock (she’s better at it, jewelry tends to be kept insafes, he’s better with weight-based alarm systems since that’s what people usefor their paintings). Flynn is enthusiastic, savage, unrelenting, just like ineverything else, and she shivers and shakes and tries so very hard not to givehim the satisfaction of hearing her scream but she whines desperately anyway asshe comes with the flat of his tongue against her clit.

“Isaid,” she snaps, yanking him back up to her even as her knees shake, “fuck me.As in, with your cock.”

“Oh,I’m sorry, was that orgasm not to your liking?” Flynn started their acquaintanceby insulting her mother, the jewel thief who taught Lucy everything she knows(or almost everything, it was Henry who taught her to care about others, tohave morals, to use her skills to rip apart the exploiters with their prettystones instead of just doing it for personal gain) and since then Flynn’sobviously decided that he doesn’t need a shovel, he’ll use a bulldozer to dighis own grave, thanks.

Lucywraps her legs around him and yanks out his—very sizeable, very hot and thickin her hand—dick. Flynn makes a strangled noise that is extremely satisfying.

“This,”she promises him, rubbing her thumb over the head and loving how he jerks inresponse, “is to my liking.”

Flynngrowls, and his hips snap into her all the way the moment she guides him insideof her.

Theneighbors are probably wondering who’s dying next door as he fucks her hard,harder than any other lover, taking to heart her insistence that she’s notporcelain, she’s not fine china, she won’t break. She’s cursing and swearing upa storm, and it feels so fucking good and she hates that it feels thisgood, hates that because now nobody else is going to quite measure up and it’spatently unfair that the one man who seems capable of fucking her into nextweek is also the surly, snarky, chaotic, anarchistic disaster who’s been athorn in her side through five fucking heists and counting.

Heeven manages to generously hold out on coming until after she does. Theasshole.

Betweenthe banter and the high stakes it was bound to happen at some point, but ohGod, does Lucy hate him.

_________________________________________________________________

Thesecond time, it’s because the heist went flawlessly.

Theystumble into the hotel room and Lucy yanks the necklace out of her bra,hoisting it into the air. “Did you see that!?” she cries, twirling it aroundher finger and smiling so hard it feels like she’s going to burst. “That’s howit’s done, that’s how it’s done.”

Flynn’sgrinning at her, looking oddly proud, like he’s actually pleased with her, withhow this went off, and they did it, one more heist down, one less heiston Mason’s seemingly endless list, and Amy is going to love hearing this story(Rufus, less so, he says he wants to maintain some kind of plausibledeniability, as if that’ll actually hold up in court at all), and her heart ispounding and this is why she does it—she does it for the good of others, ofcourse, she does it to help people, to hock the jewelry and watch the richbastards tear their hair out while she sends the proceeds to the very peopletrying to right their wrongs—but she also does it because it’s a thrill,because it’s addicting, because it’s fun…

Andthen Flynn says, still smiling at her like that, “You were amazing, Lucy,” andshe kisses him before she can think twice about it.

Theystare at each other for a moment, and Lucy has no idea what Flynn’s thinking,but he looks rather like he’s been concussed.

Thenthey’re both diving into each other again simultaneously.

Theymanage to fuck on the bed this time, as she shoves him down onto his back andrides him, her hips rolling and meeting his harsh thrusts, and he’s so deepinside of her it feels like if she pressed the heel of her hand to her stomach,she’d feel him moving under her skin, and he grips her hips so hard hisfingertips leave bruises, and she comes so violently the world goes white.

_________________________________________________________________

Heknew, the second time—the second time they did it, as Lucy laughed and twirledthat necklace, he knew—he was in trouble.

Ofcourse, he’d been in trouble from the moment he first laid eyes on her andblurted out, “That’s the Cat?” because he hadn’t been aware that CarolPreston had retired and her gorgeous, brilliant, infinitely better daughter hadtaken over the family business. Maybe he’d even been in trouble before that,when Rufus had told him to get his ass out of whatever Brazilian bar he wasmoping in and come meet this thief he should work with, would work withif he knew what was good for him, sending him Lucy’s goddamn picture and info(sans, y’know, the whole oh by the way she’s the best jewelry thief in thebusiness information that would’ve been useful to have) like it was adating profile and it had fucking worked.

Buthe’s definitely in trouble now, walking into their hotel room and finding Lucystanding in front of the full-length mirror wearing the necklace they stole.Oh, and the bracelets from that other job. And the earrings she lifted just“because I wanted to” on their first heist, the ones that led to a massiveargument (one of many).

Itshould be noted that she’s wearing that, and nothing else.

Flynnis fairly certain he now knows what a stroke feels like. The necklace theyactually needed to use again to get into this other job they’re nowworking—Lucy wore it to the party their mark was hosting, assuring Flynn thatwith a statement piece like that, she’d both blend in and get the mark’sattention. She was right, which was why Flynn had been using the lobby payphone(less easy to track them, in case Rittenhouse is onto them) to call Rufus andask for the blueprints they need.

Clearly,Lucy thought that call would take longer.

Thenecklace was bad enough in that burgundy dress she was wearing earlier, the onewith the plunging neckline. The necklace wraps around her throat, and claspstight like a choker—but then the one part of it trails down, down, rubies andblack pearls sliding down in a sinuous line like a serpent, right between herbreasts and into the fabric of the dress.

Whenshe was wearing a dress.

Whichshe currently is not.

Thisis definitely a stroke.

Lucylooks up, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“What,”Flynn manages to croak, “are you doing?”

Lucy,to her credit, doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. They have fucked twicenow, and the second time they actually managed to get naked, so he figures it’sreasonable. Except he’s caught feelings for her and she’s standing therelike a queen, like some kind of painting, her skin soft and shining and herdark hair cascading down her bare back and the necklace resting right betweenher breasts and the bracelets circling her wrists and she looks—she looks likea princess, a queen, and he—

“Havingfun,” Lucy replies. She turns away from the mirror, her fingertips trailingalong the curve of the necklace where it sits against the hollow of her throat.“I like to… admire them, before I give them to Amy and she rips them apart andsells the pieces.” Lucy pauses, and Flynn sees a rare hint of vulnerability inher gaze. “I won’t always look like this. I’m okay with it, but I just…sometimes I want to look, and take a picture in my mind. So that when I’m olderI can remember—I once looked like this, I was once beautiful, and I worejewelry made for royalty. I had rubies around my throat.”

You’llalways be beautiful,Flynn thinks, and oh, he can’t say that out loud or he’ll really ruineverything, so he crosses the room instead and falls to his knees and kissesher right where the necklace ends, right in between the underside of herbreasts.

Lucy’sbreath hitches, and her hand slides into his hair. It’s the only go on thathe’s going to get and, well, he might be a thief with honor, but he’s still athief.

Heknows how to take.

Hekisses her, he kisses the cool stones against her skin until they become warm,he creates his own necklace around her throat, one with his lips, one thatcan’t be taken off so easily and will need time to fade. He tugs on theearrings, makes her shudder, tightens the clasp of the necklace once, twice,three more links until Lucy’s gasping for breath and whispering yes, likethat as she arches into him.

It’sonly their third time but he’s quickly figured out that they always, in theend, do what Lucy wants, and what Lucy wants is for them to be kneeling on thebed, for him to take her from behind, for her to get to watch them in themirror. He can’t look at himself—literally or figuratively—so he looks at her,looks at his hand around her throat, at her breast, at the curve of her body,looks at the red, red stones against her flushing skin, at the fierce, hungryshine in her eyes that matches the sparkle of the gems, and he thinks (knows)she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

_________________________________________________________________

Sheblames the gloves entirely for the fourth time.

Flynnwears these gloves, right? Italian leather, he got them in Florence (thebastard), they help him avoid leaving fingerprints but don’t impede hismovement or dexterity. He wears them to lift paintings and she can see his armsflexing underneath the black fabric and he’s utterly silent as he does it, henever makes a sound, the Shadow was well named—and there is nobody home in thismansion, anyway.

Sothey fuck on the marble floor in the gallery.

Well,technically, she waits until Flynn sets down the painting and then she gets onher knees and takes his cock out and puts her mouth on it, and Flynn, ever theprofessional, is utterly silent while she does it (the hilariously pained facehe makes when he comes, straining from trying not to make a noise, makes herwish she had a camera). Then she guides his hand between her legs and bitesdown on the leather of his other hand, tastes it on her tongue, and hefucks her and fucks her with it until she can hear how utterly soakedhis glove is, absolutely filthy noises of her own depravity the only thing shecan hear in the room, and when Flynn whispers, half dirty and half awed, “it’slike you want to take my entire goddamn hand,” she comes and bites down so hardon his glove he complains for three days about the teeth marks she left.

_________________________________________________________________

Thefifth time, Flynn almost dies.

WhenMason told them they had a common enemy in Rittenhouse, and told them that, asa billionaire, he knew where all the ill-gotten art was held, all the fancyhouses and safes it was hidden inside, Lucy had known there was a catch. Flynnhad too. They’d walked into this with their eyes wide open: go up againstRittenhouse and Rittenhouse would come for them.

Butthey’d been doing so well, they’d been so careful, and she’d started to thinkthat maybe they could beat it. She didn’t see it coming, she didn’t see the trapcoming, and then Flynn was bleeding and they had to run, run, run, notstopping until they got to their hotel room.

“Didyou get it?” Flynn asks, or rasps rather. His voice sounds like he smoked apack of cigarettes and then gargled rocks. “Did you grab…”

Heslumps down onto the floor, back against the wall, and Lucy tries not to lether hands shake as she brings over the first aid kit. It’s just a scratch, shecan see that, it’s only bleeding because it’s one of those annoying shallowcuts that bleeds like a motherfucker, but it’s so much blood and ifFlynn hadn’t dodged quite fast enough, if he’d twisted the wrong way out ofinstinct—

“You’rebleeding and you’re worried about a painting,” she hisses, yanking his shirtoff.

“It’sa Degas,” Flynn retorts.

Tobe precise, it’s one of the Degas works stolen from the Isabella StewardGardner Museum in the ‘90s. Not that Lucy really gives a flying rat’s ass atthe moment.

“Andthat means it’s worth your life?” she snaps, more heat in it than she’dintended, applying the antiseptic and all the rest.

Flynn,to his credit, doesn’t even hiss when she gets to work on the knife wound onhis stomach. “I’ve had worse, for less.”

Lucy’sthumb traces the scar that bisects his torso, the long, scary one she askedabout their first time, and tells herself she’s just bracing her hand to keephim still while she works. “Well, you’re not getting worse, not while you’re mypartner. The work isn’t worth your life.”

Flynnwatches her in silence for a long moment. “I’m not your mother.”

CarolPreston was devoted to her job. Too devoted.

“Iknow that. I don’t fuck my mother, for starters.”

Flynnsnorts in a way that manages to convey you are the most impossible woman Ihave ever met through a single sound.

Herhands are starting to shake again, so she quickly grabs the gauze and startsbandaging him. Flynn is watching her, and she hates how he can look at her andsee so much, see right through her, she hates how he’s so soft with her and yetnever yields, never gives quarter, takes all she flings at him and dishes itright back out, challenges her, she hates him, she hates him—

Sheties off the gauze. “There.” Her throat is thick. She clears it. “That shoulddo it.”

Flynnis still watching her.

“Lucy,”he says, and that’s it, that’s all, but somehow it makes a terrible sound (it’snot a sob, it’s too deep for that, she won’t call it that) well up in herthroat and she kisses him before she can say something horribly damning like yousteal art from Nazis and give it back to Jewish families or you calledme a genius or you think art should be shared and seen by everyone andnot hiding in a vault or, or, worst of all, don’t leave me.

Shewinds up in his lap, and she stays there, kissing him, and it’s all of the heatbut none of the ferocity from the first time, and her lips linger against his,and she tells herself that she moves slowly because he’s injured, not becauseshe wants to savor him.

Flynnholds her face in his hands, and if he tastes salt, he’s got just enough tactnot to mention it.

_________________________________________________________________

Heloses track of the times, but one time, one time it’s in a house by the ocean,as the sun is rising, because Lucy woke him up by crawling on top of him andnibbling good morning against his jaw, and he can never say no to her.

Earlymorning light, golden and clear, spills over them as they move together, herbody spread out underneath him, and he’s always been an appreciator of art, alover of it, never wanted to create it, but he wishes that someone would paintthis moment—Lucy glowing golden in the Mediterranean sun, her eyes glitteringlike opals.

Theylie sprawled out afterwards, his head resting on her breast, his arm thrownacross her stomach, her fingers idly trailing through his hair. Her nails(claws, cat’s claws, thief’s claws) scrape lightly against his scalp. Her thumbtraces the curve of his ear. The Sated Lovers, he thinks. Oil on canvas. 2017.Artist unknown.

“I’msurprised Mason hasn’t called,” Lucy observes after some time listening to thewaves crashing on the shore below them.

“Heprobably has.” Flynn nuzzles her warm skin, tightens his arm around herslightly. “I just turned off our phones. And disconnected the landline.”

He’sjostled as Lucy shakes with laughter. “He’s going to kill us.”

“Lethim.” Flynn tilts his head so that his chin is resting on her chest and he canlook into her eyes. “It’s our honeymoon, after all.”

Lucypulls him up and kisses him, and he kisses her back—the best damn thing he everstole.

(Although,to be fair, it was probably more like she stole him.)

#mads answers things #mads writes stuff #timeless #timeless fanfic #garcy #garcy fanfic #extasiswings

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lethbians · 4 years

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#12

it’s laid down in the grass / with our old and worn-out shoes / looking at the stars / on a blanket made for two - #12: in the stars - my brothers and i 

technically, you could see the stars from anywhere in derry. a small town not yet overtaken by the towering sky-rises or cloudy pollutions of the neighboring industrial plants, just about any spot was good enough to crane your neck back and see constellations from horizon to horizon in any direction. not that richie was gonna stand in front of the aladdin looking like a flipping idiot trying to see cassiopeia or hercules; he might as well slap a sign on his chest that said “henry bowers please kick the shit out of me.”

you could see the stars from anywhere in derry, but the quarry, still and calm and free of sociopaths horny for violence, was richie’s favorite.

“just be home by midnight, boys,” maggie says, smacking richie’s hand away when he scoops a finger-full of brownie batter from the side of the mixing bowl. “richie! wash your hands first!” 

“yeah, yeah, back by midnight, whatever, thanks mom!” he’s so tall he has to bend down to kiss her cheek now – like he has since he was 15, shooting up past her already impressive five-foot-eight and then surpassing even his father less than a year and a half later. the tallest of the losers by an inch (with stan tailing just behind) and the gangliest by a mile (though bill’s clumsy doe movements could give richie’s elbows a run for their money), richie was always bending, slouching, cramming himself into rooms and chairs and twin-sized beds. maybe that’s why he liked the quarry so much: at least out there he didn’t have to worry about smacking and whacking and thwacking into low door-frames or shin-height coffee tables.  

(eddie had laughed so hard the day richie ran forehead-first into a support beam of the bunker that he’d fallen out of the hammock. they’d spent the rest of the evening on richie’s couch watching cartoons: richie, holding an ice pack to his head, and eddie, holding one to his wrist. karma had never felt so fucking satisfying.)

“and take the quilt from the hall closet this time instead of one of my nice ones from the living room,” she adds sternly, and richie looks away, sheepish, as he wipes the saliva from his finger across his jeans. clearly he hadn’t done as good of a job getting the dirt stains out of the expensive fleece as he’d thought.

“i got it, mrs. t,” eddie says, holding up a roll of patchwork fabric half the size of his body. richie was the tallest, and eddie was the smallest, and it’d always been that way. (except for the summer that eddie hit his growth spurt before bill and spent two months holding that half-inch of height like a goddamn trophy until bill eventually overtook him again.) richie kinda liked it though; even now, eighteen years old and set on the path to university in the fall, they both still fit in the old worn-down hammock. they didn’t fit well, but they fit, and even if they didn’t, they would’ve found a way to squeeze in. eddie and richie were always finding ways to be close, making silent excuses for the way their thighs pressed together as they played video games or pretending their hands didn’t linger with every playful smack or tickle fight. they didn’t talk about it: the other losers didn’t either.

“rich, c’mon, we’re wasting daylight.”

“that’s the point, eds, it’s star-gazing.” but rich crosses the kitchen in two easy steps, and they take the bickering that follows out the front door as maggie calls out have fun! with a knowing smile on her face.

mothers always know.

* * *

“and that one’s gumbus minoris, named after the bravest man that ever lived; slayer of blockheads and — eddie, stop laughing, this is important — slayer of blockheads and slayer of pussy—”

“oh, beep beep richie,” eddie says, but his cheeks are red from giggling and his brown eyes sparkle with mirth under the light of the moon. “gumby doesn’t have his own fucking constellation.”

“he does too! trust me,” richie sniffs, rolling over to prop himself up on his elbow and using his free hand to push his glasses up his nose. “i’m an expert.”

“on what, bullshitting?”

richie scoffs. “why, i never!” he throws his palm over his chest, twisting his voice into something whiny and high pitched and about as close to a southern belle as eddie was to out-growing richie’s horrible Voices.

(which was to say not close, not even in the slightest.)

“ah swear it eddie, on all the fiyaflies in the field and all the twists in your britches.” richie gets another burst of sweet giggles for that and a light smack to his stomach. eddie’s hand lingers for a moment, fingers skimming over the faded print of richie’s prized liger t-shirt before dropping away. eddie’s gaze is still pointed at the sky, so richie lets himself indulge in the soft curves of the boy’s profile, in the way his long eyelashes brush against the hairs of delicate eyebrows.

when they were younger, richie used to pull eddie close and give him a gentle noogie or pinch his cheeks and call him cutecutecute. shit, richie still did that, did it a lot more regularly than ‘best friends’ probably should, but lately, richie was having to bite his tongue to keep from calling eddie something else — pretty, maybe. or beautiful. a downright knock-out, from head to toe. richie’s eyes flick to the stars. heavenly would work, too.

“i’m telling you, it’s up there! see, right…” richie leans over onto eddie’s side of the blankets — to get the sight lines right, of course — and points, tracing the outline of the green character over a configuration of stars. “right there.”

eddie tilts his head away from the sky, beaming, and when richie turns his head too their faces are close enough that richie almost goes cross-eyed. “uh-huh. is pokey up there, too, mr. expert?”

the weight of eddie’s stare sits on richie’s heart like a hot hand on his bare chest, like always, but richie’s greens are aimed down. soft brown freckles are spattered across eddie’s nose and spread ear to ear: fuzzy stars against warm skin. richie’s spent hours finding his own constellations there, and across eddie’s arms, and his back, too, when they were all laid out on the rocks drying off after a swim.

“nah,” richie says, and brings his hand down to ghost his index finger over the slant of eddie’s cheekbone. he traces… something, some shape, drawing invisible lines from one freckle to the next; suddenly he can’t remember who pokey was, let alone what he looked like. “he’s right here.”

the puffs of eddie’s breath come out uneven — richie can feel it against where his palm hovers over eddie’s mouth — and when richie finally scrounges up the courage to meet the other’s gaze, eddie’s eyes have become little more than chocolate rings around blown-out pupils.

the desire to close the gap and kiss his best friend is stupidly, ferociously, unbearably overwhelming. there is a possibility (or maybe just the heart’s whisper of hope in richie’s chest) that, with the way eddie’s eyes flit to catch the movement of richie’s tongue wetting his lower lip, eddie might want to kiss him right back.

but beneath every loud, obnoxious, look-at-me-or-i-swear-i-might-die funny kid’s facade, there is a coward. taking chances on a dirty joke, on crossing lines with Voices and bits, that was easy. taking chances on this? eddie and richie stood on a tightrope, a precipice of love and love.

don’t ruin this, the coward screams. you can’t lose him now.

so richie grins, pokes eddie’s nose, and flops back onto the blanket with his hands behind his head. “don’t bother asking about the blockheads, though, fuck if i know where they—”

if the force of eddie’s body dropping onto his wasn’t enough to knock the wind out of richie, the feeling of lips — his best friend’s lips, eddie’s lips, eddie’s pink, pouty, perfect lips — against his own did the trick. frozen, richie stares, wide-eyed behind the frames of his glasses that’d gone lop-sided when eddie flew across the blanket at him.

kiss him back, fuckass!

he does. richie’s head thumps softly to the ground as his hands fly to curl around eddie’s jaw, tender and desperate all at once. there’s no finesse, no grace to any of it; it’s all the fierce, wild energy that always ricocheted between them focused into a single, bruising kiss. richie’s heart is hammering against his ribs so hard he’s sure it’s shaking his entire being.

eventually, eddie pulls back, though his body stays half-flung over richie’s like a tiny blanket of energy. he’s breathing hard, and even in the faint glow of moonbeams, richie knows eddie’s face is flushed. actually, his probably is too; his cheeks feel hot (and his hands, and his stomach, and everywhere else eddie’s pressed up against).

“you’re a blockhead, richie,” eddie says, but his face lights up with the biggest smile richie’s ever seen.

i love you, richie’s heart sings.

“no, you’re a blockhead,” richie’s mouth says. his brain’s a little scrambled still, swimming with thoughts of eddie eddie eddie, and his smack talk suffers as a consequence. eddie still laughs; eddie always laughed. eddie would never tell, but he thought richie was the funniest person in the world, easy. it didn’t matter the joke, and it never would. if richie was speaking, eddie was right there with him, hanging on every word that came out of his trash mouth like richie was spinning gold with his tongue.

“guess that makes us a pair.” richie smiles then too, a rush of joy, unbridled and pure, washing over him so strongly he thought he might drown in it. the moment felt infinite and ephemeral, impossible and palpable, all at once.

“guess so.”

they don’t get home before midnight. in three weeks, richie (and the rest of the losers, too) would leave for school, while eddie would stay in derry to take classes locally. the coward inside richie screamed worries of drifting apart, permanently or not, but for tonight, it was silenced by the bravest man that ever lived.

eddie, not fucking gumby.

you could see the stars from anywhere in derry, but laying at the top of the quarry side-by-side with eddie, hands clasped between them and ankles hooked so that their dirty converse knocked together — yeah, that took the fucking crown.

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #my writing #this whole song actually screams reddie #id never even thought about it #god i almost hit 2k words with this #WHEN WILL I SHUT UP #i might post this on ao3 i...#ugh okay anywyas thank u for sending this in!!#Anonymous

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laschatzi · 6 years

Text

Family, Kind Of

Finally, I finished my very first knightrook ff... well, technically it’s not really knightrook, it’s more CS plus Alice... just give it a try? I do blame @thesschesthair a lot for fueling my knightrook feels, so this one’s for you.

title: Family, Kind Of

word count: 3k

summary: Alice Jones from Hyperion Heights, Seattle, comes to Storybrooke, Maine to finally meet the man who looks like her papa’s twin... and to hug the woman who saved his life.

rating: G for general and FF for family fluff

also on: ff.net and ao3

“You'll take care of her, do you hear me, lad?” There's still a trace of the severe police detective in Killian's voice, and he gives Henry the no-nonsense look.

The young man huffs, but in a good-humored way, because he perfectly well understands his friend's concern. He's a father himself, after all, and the most important thing to him is the safety of his loved ones, especially his own daughter. “Of course I will,” he replies in a deep, soothing voice. “You can trust me, Hook.”

“Good.” Killian sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I suppose then I'll have no other choice than to let her go.”

“Relax,” Henry tries to comfort, “she'll be back in no time.”

The former pirate nods grumpily. “Never too soon,” he grumbles and pulls Henry into a hug. “Say hello to your mother for me.”

“I will.” Henry returns the hug a little clumsily. “Sure you don't wanna come?”

“Maybe next time, lad.”

***

She walks along the street in her typical, carefree way, looking left and right with her huge blue eyes, soaking up everything she sees, like she always does. Henry offered to take her, but she declined, telling him she preferred the walk, because that way she could see more, discover more, satisfy her innate curiosity and her never ending thirst for seeing, hearing, learning – deeply rooted and stemming from the isolation in a goddamn tower for a big part of her young life.

Henry's directions were precise, and she doesn't let herself get distracted by the many new impressions she gets on her way, so she doesn't have problems finding her destination. When she's standing in front of the big white house that looks so inviting, she's feeling a little nervous for the first time, but then she pulls herself together and climbs the wooden stairs. Before she can get anxious about how the people living here might react to her, she quickly raises her hand and knocks at the door.

It's not long before she hears quick and eager steps, light, the steps of a child. Only moments later the door is opened, and she sees it's indeed a child – a blond little girl of maybe five, with long, wavy her, not unlike her own, and piercing blue eyes. Maybe the girl expected to see someone else, as she raises her eyebrows in a very adult, strangely familiar way.

Before either of them can say a word, she hears a strikingly familiar voice from inside the house, severe, but full of warmth, calling, “Alice! How many times have I told you not to answer the door without asking who's there first?”

The girl rolls her eyes impulsively, but then asks a little sheepishly and obediently, “Who are you?”

She smiles and hunkers down to be at eye-level with the little girl. “Hi, I'm Alice,” she says.

The girl's eyes widen in surprise. “But I'm Alice,” she replies and tilts her head, and the two scrutinize each other.

***

Killian hurries to the door to see who's there, making a mental note to have a serious talk with his headstrong little daughter. He's always impressed – and also proud of – her fearlessness, but even if things have been quiet and peaceful in Storybrooke over the last years... well. You never know. It could always be some new villain sweeping into town, knocking at the Savior's door.

When he steps into the door frame, his hand automatically reaching for his daughter's shoulder, he's confused at first, because it looks like there's nobody outside. On his second glance, though, he notices that there is indeed someone outside talking to his daughter... a girl, or rather, young woman, is crouching in front of her.

“Can I–“ help you, he wants to ask, but he never gets to finish his sentence, because in that moment the girl lifts her face and looks up at him, and he stops breathing.

He knows that face, has known it his whole life. In the flesh, he hasn't seen it since he was a small boy, when she was hovering over him, smiling, humming her lullaby and tucking him in to sleep. And even if she was no longer with him, she never really left him – not through the bitter years of slavery, not through the terrible times after losing Liam and, later, his first love. She was there to soothe his aching soul, at least a bit, her features before his inner eye conjuring pictures of long lost times, of happiness and innocence, helping him to drift into sleep when he was too troubled to calm down by himself.

Killian Jones is looking into his mother's face.

This can mean only one thing. He shakes his head, just a little, and swallows hard because his mouth is so dry, before he murmurs, “Are... are you–“

And she beams, because for her it's just as overwhelming as it is for him – which makes the semblance even more striking. “Alice,” she says, and even her voice sounds like his mother's, “I'm Alice.”

He makes her stay for the dinner he's been cooking, and they're having it at the kitchen table, the three of them (it's Emma's turn to work the evening shift at the sheriff station today), and they're telling little Alice that she's some sort of cousin, which comes quite close to the truth... kind of. She accepts that without questioning any further, because she's seen weirder things in her family: she has grandparents who are barely older than her mom and dad, a brother who's old enough to be her dad and an uncle who's only a few years her senior. So yeah, she's fine with a new kind-of cousin who wears the same name she has, who's adult but also kind of isn't and whose eyes remind her so very much of her daddy's.

With the promise she'd see her new cousin again the following day, little Alice allows big Alice to tuck her in, and she's delighted that she miraculously even knows the lullaby daddy often sings to her.

Later, they're sitting again at the kitchen table, waiting for Emma to come home, steaming cups of tea in front of them (because Alice isn't a hot cocoa kind of lass).

Killian asks, “What brings you here?” He can't stop looking at her.

She flashes him her toothy smile. “I wanted to see you,” she tells him without hesitation, “and my younger namesake. Henry has told us a lot about his little sister.” She nods solemnly. “And I wanted to finally hug the woman who saved my Papa's life.”

At the mention of his other version, Killian frowns and tilts his head. “I can't believe he allowed you to travel all the way here from the other side of the country!”

Alice huffs indignantly. “You sound just like him!” she complains, all the pouty teenager, even though she's older than that. But somehow, it doesn't really sound like a reproach. “I'm an adult, and I've been on my own for a very long time,” she points our, “he doesn't have to allow me anything.” Then she shrugs in an adorably sheepish way. “And he let me go because I was traveling with Henry.” She nods in affirmation. “He trusts Henry. Made him swear he'd protect me.”

“Ah,” Killian seems satisfied and points his ringed index finger at her. “That's more like it!”

She rolls her eyes and then tilts her head to scrutinize him closely. “I can't believe you look just like him.”

He swallows, overcome by emotions suddenly. “And you... look just like your grandmother.”

Alice nods. “Papa keeps telling me that.” She looks at him earnestly. “She inspired him, you know. The woman who gave birth to me, she...” Briefly, a shadow flickers over her face, but then she draws a determined breath. “Well, she went to do whatever she had to do. But he... he never abandoned me, not until he had to, that is.” For a moment, she looks down at her tea, and her eyes are shimmering with the pain of the memory – the loss she'd endured, the abandonment, the loneliness for most of her life. It's an expression Killian remembers all too well from Emma during the first years he knew her, and his heart goes out to the young woman. But the moment passes soon, and when she looks up at him again all the sadness is gone. “He said, she would have done the same. My grandmother.”

Killian tilts his head in agreement, the emotion thick in his chest. “Aye, that she would have.”

***

When Emma comes home later and doesn't see her husband in his favorite corner of the couch, she calls for him.

“I'm here,” comes his reply from the kitchen, and she makes her way there, hoping he someone read her thoughts from the distance and is about to prepare a hot cocoa.

“Good,” she replies, “I could really use a...” The words die on her lips when she sees a blonde young woman sitting at her kitchen table. “Oh.” She stops dead in her tracks. “We have a visitor.”

Killian has already risen to his feet and smiles. “Emma, you won't believe who–“

But the young woman jumps to her feet quickly and surprises Emma by throwing her arms around her which has her stumble a step backwards. “Whoa!”

“You saved my father's life!” she exclaims and hugs Emma with surprising strength before letting go of her, as if she doesn't want to scare her.

Emma leans back a little to get a glimpse at the girl and huffs a confused laugh. “I did?” She scans the young face and finds something weirdly familiar without being able to put her finger on it, so she throws Killian a questioning look and finds him smiling fondly at the young woman.

“Love, this is Alice,” he answers her unspoken question and motions to their guest. Emma looks at the girl again and scrutinizes her closely, and the mysterious feeling of knowing her somehow gets stronger and stronger, the fact that the stranger shares her own daughter's name adding to the notion. Before her mind forms the thoughts, Killian explains, “She's the daughter of...” he tilts his head, “well, the other me.”

“Oh...” Alice beams at her so openly that Emma can't help but spontaneously like her. She returns the smile genuinely. “Henry told us so much about you, it's so nice to finally meet you!” she tells her and adds in all honesty, “Kinda weird, but great!”

Alice nods. “For me too,” she confirms, looks at the man who's identical to her father and shrugs, “but I've seen weirder things.”

“Haven't we all,” Emma replies dryly, marveling at the fact that the existence of another version of her husband doesn't creep her out at all anymore. “And where is he?” she asks and is secretly amused that Killian's eyebrow twitches at her question.

“Oh, he's home,” Alice tells her, “He wasn't sure if he should come. Since there's already you here,” she gestures to Killian and tilts her head in a very Jones-ish way, “well, he didn't want to cause trouble.”

“Since when has that kept Killian Jones from doing the thing,” Emma murmurs fondly.

“Hey!” Killian protests, and Emma chuckles softly, laying a hand on his arm.

“And I love you for it,” she soothes and turns to Alice again. “And home is...?”

“Seattle,” the young woman replies, and briefly a shadow flickers over Emma's face when she thinks about Henry and the time he's lost, the time with his love and his kid that was irretrievably taken from him, like the time that was stolen from her, too. It was a long time ago, but sometimes she still thinks about it, and it still hurts. It always will. And Seattle will forever symbolize Henry's lost years for her, and she feels uneasy whenever he goes there for a trip. She can't imagine that someone who was cursed to an unfulfilled, unhappy existence at a place would decide to live there when they didn't have to. But then she thinks of her parents and most of their friends who were cursed and banned to Storybrooke, a foreign world, and yet, after the curse was broken, most of them decided to stay and made it their new home.

“I know,” Alice's voice wakes her from her thoughts, “bad memories, you'd think, but,” she shrugs, “also fond ones. We found each other again there, and... Papa says, as long as we have each other, we have everything we need.”

Emma swallows and smiles. “Yeah, that sound like something your dad would say,” she agrees and squeezes Killian's hand. “Is he okay?” she wants to know.

“Oh yes,” Alice says, “he's doing great. Since he quit the police and got his ship back–”

“Got his ship back?” Killian interrupts and raises his eyebrows. “Did he lose her?” He almost sounds a little offended.

“Oh no.” Alice shakes her head. “He gave up his ship so he could,” she shrugs again, “stay and take care of me when I was little.”

“He gave up his ship for you?” Emma echoes, her eyes sparkling.

“Why yes, do you doubt it?” Alice asks defiantly and narrows her eyes, ready to jump to her father's defense, and Emma's heart is about to melt when she sees the unconditional love and protectiveness in the young woman's expression. She realizes that Killian Jones of Hyperion Heights is fiercely loved, and in Emma Swan's experience, every version of Killian Jones deserves nothing less than that.

“Not for one minute,” she replies, and Alice's features relax again when she sees Emma's genuine kindness. Emma looks at Killian and then back again at Alice. “You know, that's kinda his thing.”

The young woman smiles and tilts her head. “He even took care of me when we didn't know who we really were.”

Emma thinks back to a bashful young man in another realm, willing to stand up to an evil queen and to die for a stranger and her son because of a bizarre story she told him and a mysterious connection he'd felt. She looks at Killian with a loving smile, and he must have imagined what she's thinking about, because he averts his eyes for a moment and scratches behind his ear.

“Like I said,” she just comments and asks out of the blue, “Are you staying with Henry?”

“Oh... yes,” Alice nods quickly, thinking she's being kindly asked to leave now, “I'll just–“

Emma raises her hands. “No, no, no,” she interrupts, “I wasn't ushering you out. Why don't you stay here for tonight?” she suggests. “We have a guest room, and I'm sure Alice will be delighted to see you tomorrow morning.”

Alice hesitates. “Ah... I don't know...” She looks at Killian who smiles and tilts his head in an encouraging nod. “That would be nice, but I wouldn't want to cause any inconvenience...”

Emma shakes her head. “That's no big deal, really.”

“I could maybe crash on the couch,” Alice shrugs, “I don't need much, I used to live in the streets...”

That hits Emma hard; they knew this detail from the young woman's past from Henry, but it's different to hear it from herself. Emma takes a step in her direction and suppresses the urge to hug her, seeing her younger self for a moment in this girl's eyes. “Alice,” she tells her firmly, “I have magic. Preparing a guest room isn't an inconvenience. And – I've been there, and I know it's not easy to let others take care of you. But trust me, it gets better.”

Half an hour later, an exhausted Alice is sleeping soundly in a bedroom upstairs, while Emma and Killian are snuggled up to each other on the couch and Emma finally got her hot coca.

“Is it weird for you?” she wants to know. “I mean, we've seen all kinds of weird stuff, but knowing that there's someone who shares part of your memories, who looks and sounds exactly like you...”

“I'm quite unique, Swan,” he teases mildly, and she knows it's his way of dealing with the situation.

“You are,” she confirms, “you and he... you're different persons with different lives and histories who just happen to share the same name, good looks and character traits.”

“Mhm.” He brushes his lips over her temple almost absentmindedly, not taking the bait to respond with banter, proof of how serious he was. Emma waits patiently for what he's about to say. “I'm glad she came to see us,” he finally admits. “It's amazing... she looks like my mother.”

Emma smiles to herself as she snuggles closer into his side. “I could see you wanted her to stay,” she tells him, and he hums his agreement into her hair. She's not the only one who is an open book sometimes. “The other you...” she goes on, “he was looking after Henry when we couldn't, and it's the least we can do to look after his daughter now. Besides...” Emma tilts her head a little to the side, so she can look into his eyes. “She's probably kind of family.”

Killian nods slowly. “Aye,” he agrees, “it certainly feels like she is.” Emma huffs a little laugh, and he tilts his head with a smile. “What?” he inquires.

She shrugs. “I'm just thinking... it's really amazing. Our family, I mean. Okay, extended family.”

“Unusual, you mean?” he asks.

“That too,” she agrees, “but what I meant was... we were all alone in some way. Just look at us: my parents, Regina, Henry, Ella... even Gold.” Emma ignores Killian's clenched jaw at the mention of the former Dark One's name and continues, “You, me, Zelena... and now the other you... and Alice. We were all loners, lost souls, wanting nothing more than a family, a place to belong. And now we're all thrown together to be that family.”

He smiles and brushes a strand of hair from her face. “And I have a feeling we're not finished yet.”

#cs ff #cs #captain swan #knightrook ff #knightrook #my ff #family - kind of

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years

Text

The Anti-Pumpkin Brigade (1/2)

Emma has a plan. Or, rather, a schedule. And she's not following either. Not for lack of trying, but before she can get to either one she has to contend with mandatory couple costumes and her kid tucked away in some corner and avoiding pumpkin at all costs.

Killian has a plan. Or, at least, part of a plan. And a list that seems to grow every single day. But before he can get to either one of those things he has to stand under bright lights and ignore how much foundation Henry's wearing and refuse to bake with pumpkin.

Or: A Halloween!themed Out of the Frying Pan almost sequel

Rating: T because who are these characters if they’re not, occasionally, swearing and making out? AN: Story time! About a month ago @laurnorder texted me and was like...you know what you should do, you should write Halloween themed Out of the Frying Pan and I was like...yes, I should do exactly that. So that’s what this is. There’ll be a second part on Tuesday because I don’t know how to write short stories. Obviously Lauren made this better by reading it and @distant-rose is the best in-writing flailer around. Also hanging out on Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

There was nowhere to walk.

And she was late.

Nearly half an hour and she’d blame traffic, which really wasn’t much of an excuse because the Battery Tunnel was barely a tunnel at rush hour, just some kind of glorified parking garage that had, at least, allowed her to change into her costume without risk of injury.

The restaurant was packed – tables covered in candy and drinks and people everywhere and Emma wondered how they knew so many people. Or, rather, how Mary Margaret and Ariel knew so many people.

Because Mary Margaret and Ariel seemed to know the entire population of Manhattan. Or maybe Brooklyn. Since that’s where they were.

There were, what felt like, several million people invited to this party.

And all inside the Jolly Roger, the second one because, as Mary Margaret put it, there’s more square footage there and the decoration options are just, you know, endless, and Killian had quirked an eyebrow at Emma and there wasn’t really anything any of them could do about it.

It was tradition.

Not to mention the combined Halloween-party-planning power of Mary Margaret and Ariel was just questionably strong at this point.

The party was mandatory and the smile was mandatory and The Jolly 2.0 was closed for the night and Henry was probably going to eat a questionable amount of candy.

Emma was wearing a costume.

Costumes were, still, mandatory.

“You look a little overwhelmed, love,” Killian said, an arm snaking its way around Emma’s waist and, well, maybe she did and maybe she took her first real deep breath of the night when she leaned back against him.

“God, you scared me to death,” she muttered and Killian might have pressed a kiss to her shoulder, but she couldn’t really think straight when his hand did whatever it was doing.

“Happy Halloween or something.” “That’s the spirit. If you knock this crown off my head, Mary Margaret will kill you.” “I would put my money on Ari.” “Ah, that’s probably right.”

He chuckled against her, fingers tracing absentmindedly against her hip and Emma tried to remember that whole breathing thing. “How’d it go?” Killian asked, mumbling the words against her neck and he probably had hair in his face.

There were people everywhere.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“Eh.”

“Not an answer, Swan.”

“Demanding. Bordering somewhere close to spookily bitter.”

“Curious,” he corrected, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice and he still hadn’t moved his head. “And I’ve been here for what's felt like several days. I think I’m also allowed a little bit of bitterness in between making sure we don’t break several dozen fire codes.” “How could you do that? Isn’t there just...like, one?” “I honestly have no idea,” Killian muttered, tugging her a bit closer to his front and Emma didn’t argue, letting her shoes slide across the floor until she was certain she could feel every inch of him against her. “Ask Locksley if you’re curious. I bet he’d know.”

“I’m too exhausted for any of that,” Emma admitted, eyes falling shut like they’d just given up and didn’t care about the party or the people or the inevitable string of questions she’d get from most of those people.

And none of them would be about the new cookbook – sitting at No. 1 on The New York Times Best-Seller list after a few only few days on the shelves, thank you very much – or how she’d hit her mark perfectly every time she had a mark to hit that afternoon.

While wearing a crown.

It was, after all, a theme episode.

No, the questions would be about everything else, the plans they’d only kind of discussed when they’d had two seconds to even consider any of it.

They should pick a date.

Mary Margaret kept mentioning that. And so did Ariel. And Ruby. And Regina. And Zelena, jeez, because being some kind of celebrity chef couple clearly meant a ratings boost the likes this network has never seen and Emma was fairly certain Killian was going to punch something when she told him that.

Killian must have smiled, or possibly laughed again because Emma could feel something that maybe was his lips moving against her neck again. “When did you change?” he asked softly, tapping one finger in some sort of unspoken suggestion to turn around.

She did.

And, shit, that wasn’t even fair.

Her reaction must have shown on her face because Killian’s eyebrows leapt up his forehead and that only made his eyes wider and even more blue and that was dumb. All of those things were dumb.

Halloween was dumb.

That was a lie.

Halloween in Brooklyn was a slightly tiring inconvenience at best and she hadn’t even done much more than sit in the backseat of a town car Regina absolutely set up and waited until the driver said ok, mascara now when they moved over the occasional bit of smooth road. There were a questionable number of potholes and cobblestones in Gowanus.

Halloween in Brooklyn, however, also meant that Killian Jones was standing in front of her in full, and mandatory, costume and, because, Mary Margaret was, well, Mary Margaret, that costume matched Emma’s.

“Huh,” Emma breathed, wincing slightly when she realized what she’d done.

Killian smiled. No, Emma’s barely functioning subconscious pointed out, he smirked at her, one side of his mouth tugging up and something flashing in his gaze and the real problem with Halloween in Brooklyn, she realized, was that there was no above-restaurant apartment to make out with her boyfriend in.

Fiancé.

To make out with her fiancé in.

Maybe she wouldn’t mind those sure-to-be asked questions quite so much.

“Swan,” Killian said, tapping his finger again and he hadn’t actually moved his hand. She was still standing there – staring at him. “Still with me, love?” “Why do you look so good?” Emma asked. God, she’d half shouted the question in his face like it was an accusation and maybe it was and that seemed like a bad starting point for what she was trying to accomplish that night.

She had a plan.

Or half of a plan.

Like, at least, a quarter of a plan. Maybe two-eighths at worst. No, wait, that was a quarter too. They’d just done fractions with Roland, like, four days before. She should remember these things.

But Killian had made onion rings and Will kept trying to teach Henry how to scoop ice cream so he could make his own floats and, at some point, there seemed to just be a decision that Henry could go behind the bar and that left Emma’s heart beating a bit faster than normal.

And her fiancé looked unfairly good in his costume.

Killian laughed, the crinkles around those absurdly blue eyes doing something else to Emma’s heart and all her backseat makeup work was going to be for naught if they just started making out in the middle of the restaurant.

She didn’t really care about that.

“You’re doing that thing with your face again, love,” Killian said, pulling his hand away from her waist long enough to draw a quiet whine out of her and tap lightly on her jaw, like that would prove his point.

Emma scowled and he laughed again, ducking his head and kissing right where his fingers had been. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she grumbled, but it sounded like the fairly weak argument it absolutely was. “Did you change here?” “That’s not how this works. I asked two questions already. You don’t get to follow up until I’ve gotten, at least, one answer.” “I really can’t remember the question.” “That distracted by how good I look in this costume, huh?” “That was a gut reaction, don’t let it go to your head.” “Far too late,” Killian grinned. “C’mon, Swan. How’d today go, really?” She probably shouldn’t still be so goddamn charmed by all of it, but she was having a hard time putting together coherent thoughts, so all things considered, swooning slightly, again, always, indefinitely, almost made sense.

And that vest was probably going to look really good on their floor later that night.

God.

“It was good,” Emma said, an obvious distraction in her voice that might not have had anything to do with the vest or how easily she could have pushed her fingers through his hair and tugged him towards her and, possibly, offended an entire restaurant with their public displays of affection.

“You sound very certain.” “You sound very sarcastic.” Killian shrugged, running his hand up her side and bunching up the fabric of her dress in the process. “We should have gone home,” he said softly and the actual, genuine concern in his voice didn’t surprise Emma, but her heart was possibly exploding.

“We couldn’t do that. You had to bake.” “I didn’t really bake that much,” he muttered. “There’s more candy here than any other food and just, like, a questionable amount of pumpkin-flavored stuff,, but Ariel had some kind of decorating scheme that had to be executed perfectly or, you know, the world was going to end. Plus, you know, I’ve got to do all that stuff tomorrow.”

“Ah, there’s the sarcasm again. You’re really anti-pumpkin, aren’t you?” “There was no sarcasm, Swan and I am anti anything that is a food stereotype. There’s just...way too much pumpkin in the world.”

“It’s blowing my mind that you have this many feelings about pumpkin. You’ll probably have to use that tomorrow.” “I refuse to use pumpkin tomorrow. I am just pointing out my schedule. To you, person who might be potentially interested in where I’m going to be tomorrow.” “I know where you’re going to be tomorrow,” Emma promised. “It’s all Henry’s been talking about for the last week. I think that’s why he wanted to come tonight. So he could show you off in front of his friends.” She didn’t even have to look up to see that the tips of his ears had gone red, but she was a bit surprised to see his lips pressed together tightly, like he was trying to stop himself from saying something and if she weren’t so goddamn exhausted, Emma probably would have asked about it. She was too busy trying not to fall over.

“You think?” Killian asked after a few more moments and it was loud in the restaurant, all those people and all that sugar and they should probably move. They had family members to acknowledge and vaguely matching costumes to show off, just to prove they were actually wearing them.

Emma’s crown was giving her headache.

“Do I think what?” Emma mumbled. It was difficult to keep up with the conversation, particularly when her mind was only firing on half speed and most of that speed seemed focused on directing the conversation to her reduced fraction of a plan.

“That he’s showing off,” Killian answered, voice still quiet enough that she could barely hear it over the din of the restaurant.

Emma pulled back and his eyebrows weren’t back to their biologically determined position, pulled low until there was a slight crinkle in between them that she swore she could feel in the very center of her and she licked her lips before she answered.

“I mean, obviously,” Emma said. Except the words didn’t come out as sure as she wanted them to, far too whisper-y and that wasn’t even really a word, but Killian looked so goddamn determined and earnest and maybe the plan was going better than she thought it was.

“You guys are totally going to win,” she continued, resting her palms flat against that stupid, offensive, green vest. No, green wasn’t the right color. God, it, like, accentuated his eyes or something. “What color is this?”

Killian blinked, the crinkle in between his eyes getting deeper or something skin couldn’t actually do. “This is a very confusing conversation.” “I haven’t had any coffee today.” “We could fix that.” Emma hummed, nodding and glancing slowly towards the kitchen, fairly certain it was, somehow, even louder there and that was probably Eric having some kind of mental breakdown about whatever menu Ariel and Mary Margaret had decided on.

“Yeah, ok, but seriously, what color is this?” she pressed, tugging lightly on the front of the vest. That was a mistake. It just pulled tighter, like that was a thing that was even possible, and Killian leaned closer to her out of instinct.

Maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to ensure Emma didn’t rip the vest. She wasn’t going to argue particulars when he was just a few inches away from her, her knees not working quite as well anymore and she pressed up on her toes before she thought about how she was going to stay upright.

It didn’t matter – he moved his arm back around her waist.

He tilted his head slightly, careful not to knock her crown on the floor and, eventually, she’d probably thank him for that. Maybe after the vest landed on a floor that also included a bed and didn’t require everyone they knew to be a few feet away.

They swayed slightly and Emma’s eyes closed again, but it wasn’t exhaustion, it was like she was trying to take in the moment or something equally sentimental and one hand was still holding onto the goddamn vest when her other fingers found the hair at the nape of Killian’s neck and he made some absurd noise she’d absolutely think about for a questionable amount of time.

Emma sighed or just exhaled or maybe resettled into the feel of him next to her and his lips against hers and the way his fingers always seemed to trace out the same semicircle at the bottom of her spine whenever they seemed up to end up this way.

They did that a lot.

They were were probably scarring Henry for life.

That didn’t bode well for her plan.

“You’re thinking,” Killian muttered, barely moving away from her lips and she could almost feel the letters lingering on her mouth.

“That’s stupid.” “They’re your thoughts, love.” “Why aren’t we still making out?” He pulled back slightly, staring at her incredulously and that wasn’t really what Emma meant to say. She bit her lip tightly, a fresh wave of something that wasn’t quite nerves – hadn’t been nerves in more than a year and certainly not since the ring had made an appearance – but might have just been want or need or something they absolutely couldn’t act on in the middle of a restaurant.

He was frustratingly good looking.

“I honestly have no answer for that,” Killian said and his expression shifted slightly, turning into something that looked a bit more like pride and maybe matched up with the want that Emma could practically feel simmering in the pit of her stomach.

That was almost a cooking pun.

It was gross.

Emma laughed, but it came out more as a scoff and her eyes were starting to droop again. They’d filmed early – in hair and makeup by seven and out of the studio by one and there’d been an interview that Emma was fairly certain she’d answered in English and then some signing thing at the Barnes & Noble on Fifth Ave and maybe she should try and challenge Henry to a candy-eating challenge if only to give herself some kind of sugar rush.

That was a bad plan.

She’d just end up crashing in the middle of the kitchen or at one of the fifty tables pushed in a brand-new pattern that both Ariel and Mary Margaret had probably thought about since the last Halloween party and Killian was still staring at her like he was worried her knees were just going to give out at some point.

They might.

If she got through her plan.

“Emma,” he said and her gaze must have gone cloudy because his had turned sharper, eyes narrowing again and mouth slanted somewhere between concern and chastising. She really just wanted him to kiss her. Again. Anywhere that was not The Jolly Roger. Where her kid was….somewhere, probably bragging to a whole group of friends how he was going to be on TV the next day.

“The line was really long,” she mumbled, dropping her head onto his chest and she was going to trip over her dress at some point. “And that’s a good thing, I know it’s a good thing, so it’s not like I’m complaining, really, but, you know…” “What?” “I kind of wanted to be here.” He stiffened slightly and Emma wondered what she said, but there wasn’t a chance to ask or answer any more of the questions she’d pointedly ignored or, she was most frustrated to realize, kiss her fiancé.

She should probably stop thinking of Killian like that, it felt decidedly possessive in some kind of middle school way, like she’d just started dating the guy she’d been shooting furtive glances in home room and it was a very convoluted metaphor, but she couldn’t stop lingering at labels.

Or staring at her ring.

God, she wanted to plan things.

She just didn’t want to answer questions.

“Yeah?” Killian asked and Emma got the distinct impression they were both dancing around something. They weren’t moving.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I mean...it’s, well, maybe not 2.0, because it is kind of, you know, out here, but in the kitchen in general and…” She should have talked faster.

There shouldn’t have been so much stuttering involved and she wasn’t scared of some sort of indefinite type of life plan, wanted in some sort of almost questionably intent way, but he’d asked Henry to help when Regina had announced you’re competing on Halloween Wars, there’s no room for argument, pick an assistant because they’re playing by different rules now.

He’d tried to argue anyway.

He stopped when he realized Henry was thrilled. Ecstatic. Over the moon. Actually jumping up and down – drawing the ire of Will behind the bar when he nearly kicked a bottle of what was promised to be the fancy scotch , but Henry had only mumbled a quick apology and then started jumping again and there hadn’t been a repeat since the dad incident, but Emma was fairly sure that moment was pretty damn close.

Maybe that was when she decided on the plan.

No, it was way before then. It was way before the ring and even before the dad incident, some tiny bit of her brain that had latched onto the hope and the idea and the maybe that she desperately wanted to be a certainty.

Emma was way too tired for any of this.

And there was a kid rambling next to her.

“Deep breaths,” Killian said, moving his right hand to ruffle Henry’s hair and earning a noise in response that was becoming far too familiar to both of them, something in between a grumble and inching closer to a moan every single day. “You’ve got enunciate if you’re going to talk.” “I am enunciating,” Henry argued. He widened his eyes in a move that was so Killian, Emma had to lock her knees to stop herself from just collapsing into a heap of feelings and a distinct lack of sleep and a different Rapunzel costume because Ruby bet her she wouldn’t change that year. “And you guys were, you know...whatever.” Killian laughed again, that tension that had been lingering in the arm still wrapped around Emma’s waist loosening slightly when he nodded seriously, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Henry made the sound again.

“What are you not enunciating, kid?” Emma asked, reaching forward to fix his hair. And there was the noise hat trick. “Jeez, come on, you can’t make that face when all your friends are in the corner and how many candy bars have you had already?” “None.” “Henry.” “No, seriously, Mom, like, not one. I’ve been…” He cut himself off, face flushing nearly as red as Ariel’s hair when his eyes dropped to his shoes, suddenly preoccupied with digging a heel into the floor Emma was sure she was half a second away from collapsing on top of.

And it hit her suddenly – Killian’s quick intake of air, his attempts to make the noise sound like anything except the laugh it was, appreciated, but entirely successful, aiding in the realization – her jaw dropping and Henry’s face, somehow, getting even redder.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled, head snapping between her, suddenly, very old kid and a fiancé she couldn’t seem to stop making out with in public places and her eyes were probably just going to fall out at some point. “If I say deep breaths again, but direct it towards you, that probably comes off as sarcastic still, right?” Killian asked, the smile turning back into a smirk.

Emma rolled her eyes, shoulders sagging and she hadn’t been holding her breath. She was desperately trying to breathe. She couldn’t understand how she was capable of exhaling that dramatically.

Henry looked like he was trying to teleport anywhere else in the entire world.

“Yeah, probably,” Emma muttered, but she wasn’t frustrated so much as slightly stunned and she probably should have known.

“Can we talk about, literally, anything else?” Henry begged. He hadn’t actually looked at them again, still trying to bore a hole into the floor with his eyes or, possibly, the heel of his shoe. “Like...anything. At all. Didn’t you have stuff to talk about, Mom?” It was her turn to blush – or possibly glare at her son. Emma inhaled sharply, trying to pull back all that previously sighed-out oxygen back in through her nose and Henry seemed to realize his mistake immediately.

“Oh sorry,” he mumbled, trying to stuff his hands into his pockets and rolling his eyes when he remembered he was also wearing a required Halloween costume. It probably matched with the girl he’d been making out with in that corner.

God.

“It’s fine, Henry,” Emma promised, doing her best to ignore Killian’s curious glance on the side of her head.

She’d asked Henry – of course she’d asked Henry – mentioned the idea of the idea of one quarter of a maybe-plan and hadn’t been surprised to see him start jumping again, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet as the smile on his face nearly took over all his other features.

He’d shouted yeah, yeah, yeah several times in quick succession and then launched himself at Emma, wrapping his arms around her waist and nearly knocking her into the couch.

“Somehow I feel like I’m missing something important,” Killian said, but the words seemed to get caught in Emma’s hair and she tried to focus on how he hadn’t actually moved away from her. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her, left hand moving up and down her back until it almost felt like a metronome, making it just a bit easier to breathe even when the goddamn Monster Mash started blaring over speakers someone must have rented.

“It’s fine,” Emma repeated. Killian didn’t look convinced. “Did they...um, where did we get speakers from?” She hadn’t meant for the question to come out so cautiously, the we there almost hanging in the air like some kind of flashing neon sign proclaiming a lack of wedding date and a restaurant that wasn’t really hers.

She did, however, spend most of the New York Wine and Food festival in the Jolly tent, building, thing , selling barbeque sauce and making sure there was double the stock than there’d been the year before because Robin was right – Killian never brought enough.

She’d helped make it, memories of that night sitting at the forefront of her mind for the last week, Henry perched on a stool he’d dragged in from the bar as he and Roland tried to figure out multiplying fractions and reported back on each taste-testing.

They’d ended up with more sauce on their faces than they probably should have and Regina had to throw away Roland’s shirt, the school uniform sacrificed to the sauce gods. Or so Killian told her when she asked what the hell is going on here as soon as she walked into the kitchen.

Roland took a picture.

They were...two-thirds of the way there, Emma was sure. She hoped. She wanted.

She’d never actually been behind the bar.

Killian, however, didn’t miss a beat, flashing a smile her direction and his hand didn’t still once. “Locksley knows a guy who knows a guy who owns some kind of actual, honest to God studio and here we are, blasting radio hits of the 70s.” “That’s oddly specific.” He shrugged and Emma got that feeling again – missing something or not hearing all the words in the sentence. And Henry was staring at Killian now, a look of barely contained disbelief on his face.

“Are we all having the same conversation?” Emma asked, having to shout a bit over the sound of the music and it was definitely on repeat. “God, aren’t there other Halloween songs?” “The entire soundtrack to Nightmare Before Christmas,” Henry suggested. It was a, nearly valiant, attempt at changing the subject.

Killian kept looking over Henry’s shoulder.

“M’s wouldn’t be into that,” Emma reasoned. “It’s kind of, you know, dark for her.” Henry hummed in agreement, eyes darting back towards Killian and the look changed from disbelief to something that felt a bit more like determination and expectations. “For real?” he asked. “You guys were all…” “So were you,” Killian said.

Henry blushed again. “That’s not even...whatever,” he stammered, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “I thought we were going to do this.” “Do what?” Emma asked, but she didn’t get a response or even an immediate acknowledgement that she’d done much more than just continued to stand there. Henry just kept staring expectantly at Killian who, in turn, did that wide eye thing that they, apparently, both shared now and Emma tried not to actually stamp her foot in frustration.

She didn’t get a chance.

Again.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret shouted, pushing through the crowd that seemed to be growing every minute, and wearing her own costume. And maybe Emma had spoken too soon about The Nightmare Before Christmas.

“What are you wearing?” she asked, gaze tracing over the black dress and high collar and Mary Margaret must have gotten that custom made. “God, who are you supposed to be?” Mary Margaret clicked her tongue, disappointment flashing across her face and Emma would blame the exhaustion for that. Or her general confusion at whatever conversation she wasn’t a part of.

Henry was still staring at Killian.

“Oh,” Mary Margaret said, nodding slowly in an understanding that Emma was both jealous of and frustrated with. “Are congratulations in order, then?”

Emma narrowed her eyes and the smile fell off Mary Margaret’s face so quickly it might have actually succeeded at that teleporting Henry was trying to accomplish earlier. “M&M’s,” he hissed, shaking his head deftly and Mary Margaret let out something that might have actually been a squeak.

Killian’s hand stopped moving.

“Did you know this music was, apparently, a radio hit of the 1970s?” Emma asked and her attempts at controlling the conversation were just pitiful at this point. “And also, where is the candy? I would like...just a questionable amount of candy.” Mary Margaret narrowed her eyes, glancing quickly at Killian who appeared to be pleading silently for her to stop asking questions and, maybe, for the first time in her life, she agreed. Kind of.

“Have you talked to Regina yet?” Mary Margaret asked. Emma’s eyes were going to get stuck facing the wrong way if she kept rolling her eyes.

Happy Halloween or something.

It wasn’t even Halloween – it was a week before Halloween, but the sentiment, she hoped, was the same.

She really hoped her eyes didn’t get stuck mid-roll.

“Where is the candy, Mary Margaret?” Emma countered, raising her voice again when Henry let out a whoop as the music, finally, changed. Goddamn Nightmare Before Christmas. “Jeez,” she mumbled. “Are we just going to play these two songs on a loop? And how did it switch when Monster Mash just kept repeating?” Mary Margaret glanced at Killian again, like she was trying to make sure Emma wasn’t having some kind of complete breakdown in the middle of the Jolly dining room. “I mean, that last one was a valid question. Although, I’m assuming it was probably Ari since she was in charge of getting the speakers. Is music her gig?” “Yeah,” Mary Margaret nodded. “She said she did at the old parties, so I just figured she could keep doing it.” “Is that how you know about the history of the Monster Mash? ” Emma asked. She probably shouldn’t have any candy. She was already bouncing from idea to idea and half-formed planned to potentially misplaced hope and her kid was still bright read with his arms crossed over his chest and his tongue darting nervously between his lips like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to leave.

Killian shook his head. “No,” he said softly, brushing his lips over her temple. “What did Gina want, Mary Margaret? And where is she?”

Emma tried not to actually explode.

It felt like she was going to explode.

Her heart definitely had already.

“God, will someone actually answer one of my questions?” she asked, but it came out a bit more like a growl and Henry actually stopped blushing long enough to stare at her with wide, slightly disbelieving eyes.

No one answered her for what felt like several eternities, or, at least long enough for David to appear out of nowhere, smiling and wearing his own dark-colored ensemble and he couldn’t really walk when there was a sword strapped to his hip.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” Emma demanded and David actually flinched, trying, and failing, to rest his hand on Henry’s shoulder.

It took, approximately, two seconds for him to recover, staring at her like she was sixteen and simply upset about the distinct lack of rocky road ice cream in the house. “We’re evil versions of Snow White and Prince Charming,” he said. “Obviously. It’s clever. Nice to see you’re sticking with the tried and true.” “I had to film all day and change in the backseat of a car. Forgive me for not putting more thought into a costume.” “I said nothing.” “You said words. Plus,” Emma added, leaning forward to tap her finger threateningly on the hilt of David’s sword. God, it wasn’t plastic. “I am part of a cliché couple costume this year, so, you know, whatever David.” “Can you call it cliché? Seems rude when the other half is standing right there. And Henry’s part of that cliché too, isn’t he?” David threw Henry a knowing look, shifting his eyebrows quickly and quirking his lips and Emma wasn’t sure it was possible for one person’s face to get that flushed. “It’s not really a couple’s costume,” Henry muttered, but Killian laughed again, pulling him against his side and everyone’s hair was a lost cause now.

Killian’s was definitely Emma’s fault.

And Henry was definitely part of a couple’s costume.

This whole night had already spiraled out of control and Emma hadn’t even gotten any alcohol yet. Or candy. She’d only made it halfway through the dining room.

“Mary Margaret,” Killian repeated and she nearly leapt to attention. Someone laughed. Ariel. Ariel laughed – loudly – on her way out of the kitchen with a bowl in one hand and a painfully adorable kid in the other and she was dressed like a fish.

There were scales on her dress and a fin on her back and if Emma wasn’t so goddamn distracted she probably would have been impressed by the dedication to required costumes. The kid had a tail.

“Oh my God they’re sea creatures,” Emma muttered and Killian hummed in agreement. He might have also kissed her hair again.

Henry groaned.

“Hey,” Ariel said brightly, bobbing up slightly on her toes and nodding towards the bowl. “Candy? We’ve just got like...a ton of candy. Also, Killian, Regina was looking for you. She just got off the phone with Zelena.”

“If this is about tomorrow…” Killian warned, but Ariel was shaking her head before he’d even finished talking.

“It’s not. You guys are totally going to wreck.” She flashed a grin Henry’s direction, gaze darting towards his neck quickly and Emma squeezed her own eyes shut, silently asking every religious figure she could think of that she wouldn’t actually see what Ariel saw. “Anyway,” Ariel continued. “She’s had, like, five martinis already and she was on the warpath as soon as she hung up, so you know, prepare your souls or something.” “Consider me prepared.” “Yuh huh.”

“Enough, Ari.” “Oh my God, have you not…” Killian glared at her and Mary Margaret looked sympathetic, but David just looked like he wished he could be anywhere else, clicking his teeth anxiously and grimacing when Emma stared at him. “For real? You guys were making out. I saw it,” Ariel asked, seemingly undeterred, particularly when the entire Mills-Locksley family could be heard pushing their way through the crowd.

Roland was yelling. And draped over Will’s shoulders. One of them was, apparently, supposed to be Robin Hood because there was a quiver hanging off Will’s forearm.

“Whose arrows are those?’ Emma asked, muttering the question and Killian, somehow, managed to hear her. He smiled at her.

“Rol,” he grinned, moving the arm that had been seemingly cemented around her waist, up to her shoulders and Emma could only imagine what they looked like. He was still holding onto Henry too. “Apparently the matching, cliché costumes for familial groups were also part of the requirement.” “Did I miss that meeting?” “There was no meeting, Ari just announced it”

Ariel stuck her tongue out and Killian’s grin widened when the baby made noise, responding with nonsense syllables and faces that made Emma’s already exploding heart disintegrate. “Stop talking trash in front of Seb, that’s just rude,” Ariel muttered.

“I am not talking trash. I am merely presenting the facts as they happened. If you want Seb to grow up to be a model citizen, he’s got to learn that his mom just likes to demand things sometimes.” Ariel growled, but Killian just kept smiling, leaning forward slightly – and bringing Emma and Henry with him – to make faces in the nearly two-year-old’s eyeline. “Isn’t that right, Seb? Just blink if that’s right.” “You’re an idiot,” Ariel grumbled and there was a note of something that felt a bit like pride in her voice. She did, however, wince slightly when Roland screamed for Killian, practically leaping out of Will’s grasp and nearly kicking him in the head in the process.

He seemed ready, though, letting go of Henry long enough to brace himself for Roland Locksley’s entire weight and Emma’s eyes flickered towards Mary Margaret, some sort of impossible look on her face.

“What do you know, M’s?” Emma asked, tugging on the back of Roland’s shirt out of instinct. Maternal. Maybe. Jeez.

“Nothing,” Mary Margaret said quickly. Way too quickly. Exactly like a lie quickly. Ruby practically cackled in response.

“Where the hell did you come from?”

Ruby shrugged, holding her own cup – fancy plastic covered in goddamn pumpkins and ghosts and filled with, what appeared to be, Granny’s incredibly potent punch. “Glad to see Granny’s expanded to the rest of the boroughs,” Emma said, reaching out to grab the glass and Ruby glared at her.

“Hey, get your own,” she snapped. “How come you’re just, like, awkwardly standing here? Did stuff happen? Did I miss stuff?”

“Stop talking,” Ariel muttered and Mary Margaret kicked at Ruby’s heels.

“What?” “Stop.” “But….” “Oh my God,” Killian sighed, running his free hand through his hair. Henry rocked back on his heels, glancing towards the corner when his friends – and the other half of his matching costume – started calling his name. “Go,” Killian added. “Just you know…” He waved his hand in the general direction of Henry’s face. “Maybe cut back on that. A little.” Henry grimaced – David laughed. “Yuh huh. And, uh, you guys...maybe talk. About things. Stuff. Important things and stuff.” “Eloquent.” “Yeah, thanks, Killian.” He nodded, arm still around Emma’s shoulders and Henry was nothing more than a blur of costume and early-teenage hormones and Emma tried not to think about that for any longer than absolutely necessary.

So she’d probably think about it for the rest of the night.

“I hear you’ve been depleting my alcohol stock, Gina,” Killian continued and Regina looked like she wanted to throw her empty glass at him.

“Don’t do that,” Robin warned. Will sounded like he was mumbling deterrents under his breath as well, but it didn’t really matter when Killian and Regina were already in the middle of some kind of staredown.

Killian quirked an eyebrow. Regina just tilted her head. “Gina,” he continued. “Why’d Zelena call? And why are you five martinis in?” “Three,” she corrected softly, but with an undercurrent of intensity that seemed decidedly out of place. “I have only had three martinis and it wasn’t even top-shelf gin. Also, Scarlet skipped on olives. You should hire better employees.” “I’m standing right here,” Will muttered. That didn’t matter either.

Killian just kept standing there and Regina sighed, a noise Emma wasn’t sure she’d ever heard the producer make. Even Ruby was biting her lip.

“Oh,” Emma said and she wished realizations would stop hitting her like that. She felt like she was on the wrong side of drunk – and that seemed decidedly unfair without the getting to that part. “So, we’re like, a solid no on that, right?”

Regina and Ruby both nodded in tandem and it took Killian, approximately, five seconds and one slightly tighter hold on Emma’s shoulders to get up to speed. “Absolutely not,” he said and Regina rolled her whole head in response.

“Obviously,” she snapped. “Although it did take some convincing. Zelena thought it was a really good idea.” “She wanted a special series,” Ruby added. Emma’s knees were wobbling again. “It took some tag-teaming, but we got her off that idea. Told her the two of you looking miserable on camera probably wasn’t good for the numbers.” “What kind of special series?” Emma asked, not quite sure why she was still asking questions when even the idea of filming the lead-up to a wedding that still didn’t have a date made her nauseous.

“Once a week for, at least, a month, probably longer, in the road to the altar. Her words, not mine.” Ruby waved her hand in front of Emma. “Oh, look, she’s making the same face I said she would, Regina.” Regina hummed in agreement and Emma could almost hear the gears working in her head. “Zelena had a follow-up.” “Yeah,” Killian said. It wasn’t a question.

“She does want something together and you guys have kind of opened up a metaphorical can of worms by letting Henry on Halloween Wars.” “He wanted to.” “I’m not disagreeing with that, I’m just relaying. She thinks we can pump the family angle.”

“Yuh huh.” Regina’s eyes darted back towards Emma – like she was going to ask a question or for a rehash of the plan for filming, but she didn’t actually say anything and Emma would probably have to buy her several bottles of gin for that. “Set a date for your wedding,” she continued. There went those bottles of gin.

And straight into some metaphor that definitely had her feeling drunk and, maybe, willing to throw the order of the goddamn plan straight out the window. Metaphorically.

“Soon,” Emma said and the whole lot of them moved in tandem, wide eyes and open mouths and that was a bit more intimidating than she was expecting it to be. “Wow, did you guys practice that?”

Mary Margaret shook her head and Ruby actually looked close to tears, but she might have actually been drunk and Emma could feel Killian staring at her again. “Swan,” he said slowly and he couldn’t really turn on her when Roland was still hanging off him like a piece of playground equipment.

“I mean,” she started, pulse pounding in her ears or just between her ribs and shrugging in that situation was weird so, naturally, she did just that. “Maybe? I kind of…” “Yeah.” “Was that a question?” “No, that was an affirmation.” “Yeah?” “That was a question.” “Oh my God,” Ruby mumbled, but she stopped talking when Mary Margaret muttered something under her breath and Robin already had his phone out, talking about dates and venues he knew of and Emma cut him off before he could actually just start making phone calls. “The water,” she said. Robin put his phone away. “That’s…” She glanced quickly at Killian, staring at her like she was the center of the goddamn universe or several different incarnations of the sun. He nodded. “I mean, there’s water downtown, right? And we kind...well, Killian owns a restaurant. Two restaurants. We shouldn't have to pay for anything. Someone could get one of those things off the internet.” “One of those things off the internet,” Will repeated skeptically and Emma shrugged again. “I’ll do it.” “What?” Killian asked.

“It’d probably take like five minutes, right Emma?” “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never tried to get ordained on the internet.” Will hummed, like that was an acceptable answer, but Robin had his phone out again, fingers flying across the screen and Emma wasn’t entirely surprised when Killian’s hand moved down her back. Again.

“You know it’s, like, insanely easy to get married at Battery Park,” Robin said. “That’s close to the restaurant.” “Efficient,” David mused, flashing a knowing smile at Emma. He probably knew the plan.

It did, actually, only take a six minutes to get Will ordained on the internet – on Robin’s phone and with a surplus of not-quite-top-shelf gin and Granny’s punch and they decided soon actually meant soon and even a few months seemed like not soon enough.

A fact Killian managed to point out no less than eight different times over the course of the night until Emma’s face was as red as Henry’s had been and she’d giggled more in a few hours than she had in her entire life.

“You’re still blushing,” Killian said, hours later and his steps weren’t quite as even when he walked into the bedroom.

Emma grinned, propping her head up on her hand and she appreciated whatever his eyes did when the blanket fell away from her shoulder. “How much punch did you have?” “Did you know that there’s grenadine in there? It’s basically a glorified Shirley Temple.” “Are your bartender senses tingling?”

His eyes widened again and Emma tried to move her eyebrows, but she was absolutely drunk and it didn’t really work. Killian took another step forward, the mattress dipping when he all but fell onto his side of the bed, but he barely waited a moment before tugging Emma to him and if the making out in semi-public places before had been something then the making out in the middle of their bed in their bedroom in their apartment was something else all together.

He groaned when her leg hitched over his, trying to stay balanced on her side and Emma couldn’t smile when her lips were otherwise occupied. She tried anyway. And that was fun.

Killian sighed, eyes fluttering closed and Emma suddenly realized how long his goddamn eyelashes were. “What was that, love?” he asked, a note of laughter in his voice and, shit, she’d said that out loud.

“Your eyelashes are stupid.” “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” He kissed her instead of answering. Emma didn’t argue. Well, not really. She just told him to take his clothes off.

She tried to catch her breath, some indeterminate amount of time later, staring at the ceiling and she could still feel the flush in her cheeks and moving down while Killian kept tracing out patterns across her collarbone.

“Are you trying to map me, Lieutenant?” Emma asked, whining slightly in the back of her throat when he dropped his head to her neck. “God, you can’t do that.”

Emma pushed against his shoulder, but it was no use. Ruby was going to kill her the next day. She didn’t want to think about Ruby. There was a plan.

She didn’t get to her plan.

“You want to buy a restaurant?” Killian asked suddenly, pulling away from her skin and she couldn’t really think when he looked at her like that.

“What?”

“Well, no, that’s not really what I mean, but that’s what they were talking about before. I have no idea how everyone figured out, but I guess it’s my fault for telling Locksley. Only seemed fair to let him know.” “You’re speaking in tongues.”

Killian grinned at her, that stupid, lopsided look that made Emma’s heart sputter and do several medically impossible things and she understood quickly – again. She must have gasped because Killian moved again, pulling himself down until he was eye level with her and her heart sped up.

“I love you,” he said and her heart beat out of her chest, burst into fireworks and rainbows and then dropped major relationship moment confetti over them.

“Yeah.” “Was that supposed to be a question?” “No.” Killian blinked twice, the ends of his mouth twitching like he was trying to stop himself from kissing her again or actually mapping out the freckles on her skin. He didn’t do either, just reached out slowly, brushing the tip of his fingers across her jaw and Emma’s heart retreated into her chest, desperately trying to keep her breathing even.

It didn’t work.

“I love you too,” Emma whispered. “Should have led with that.” “I got the idea.” She hummed softly, tugging her lip in between her teeth and she wasn’t quite so worried with extra makeup on her neck or even her own half-formed plan when he was still shirtless and staring at her with the kind of hope she thought only existed in dreams. “You’re sure?” Emma asked.

“About wanting to make you an actual partner in my restaurant instead of just a very good sauce chef and sauce packer?” “Don’t forget sauce hawker at network-sponsored events.” “That too.” Emma laughed softly, but it still wasn’t an answer and she couldn’t ever tell Mary Margaret any of this happened. She’d never hear the end of fairy tales and romance and it was such a far cry from the very first Halloween party with Killian, that it was early enough to make her head spin.

Killian moved his hand again, twisting his fingers through her hair and he did kiss her that time, mumbling the words against her lips. “I’m sure, Emma,” he said. “And, really, we should have before. Gowanus is there because of you and all of this is there because of you and if we’re going to do soon, then, yeah, I want that. A lot.

There’s a ridiculous amount of paperwork, but your name will be on all of it and you’ll be a partner and there’ll be profit, hopefully, at least, but if anything happened, then Henry would have some stock...at least biologically or something. I was only kind of half listening to that part of the explanation.” She kissed him that time, nearly laughing when he made that noise, shoulders pressed into the mattress and neither one of them was wearing enough clothes for this to not continue down a very specific type of path.

“Regina’s going to kill you, you’re going to have bags,” Emma mumbled later, tucked tightly against Killian’s side and she was so warm, some kind of comfortable fire settling into the pit of her stomach that she was fairly positive would just like forever.

Particularly after they got to soon.

Killian made a noise in the back of his throat, pressing another kiss to the top of her hair. “She can cope. She’s going to be hungover anyway.” “I can’t imagine that.” “Ah, yeah, me either really, but that would put us on slightly more even footing.” “You guys are going to win.” “You sound awfully sure.” “Confident, there’s a difference.” She wasn’t sure he’d realize, the words echoing in the room, memories of cooking competitions and moments in the Jolly and, now, the future laid out their feet, so of course he realized – arching an eyebrow when she glanced up at him and one of them moved and neither one of them really slept and both of those things didn’t really matter when there was a we now.

#cs ff #captain swan ff #ouat ff #cs #captain swan #did i have an ootfp sequel tag?#i honestly can't remember #i should be more organized #also it's not day appropriate but let's go ahead and tag this....#halloweek

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