"Machete'd potatoes?" He peered with trepidation into the glass bowl full of steaming, boiled potatoes.

"Mashed potatoes, Kilian. Mashed."

"Oh. Well that makes much more sense, love. Because this," He brandished the metal contraption. "This is no machete. It wouldn't even make an adequate sword. Maybe a mace or some such…"

"No. It's a ricer." She went back to stirring gravy.

"A what? Isn't rice something else entirely? I swear nothing in this realm makes any sense at all. Just when I think I understand it."

"Ricer. It's just...uh… Martha Stewart says it makes the creamiest mashed potatoes."

"Well who is this Martha, then? A kitchen fairy? A witch?"

Henry snickered at the end of the kitchen counter. He'd been quietly shucking green beans for an intensely agonizing 20 minutes. But he became instantly silent and more focused on his task the moment Emma threw a cold glance his way.

"I guess you could say that. A very famous, kitchen, home styling magic-like person." She turned back to the stove.

"Problem solved, then. Let's summon this Martha person and get her working on fixing all this. The feast of thanks is saved and we can all toast to a job well done. I'll get the rum."

"No! For the last time. We are doing this. We are having an old fashioned, happy family Thanksgiving if it kills us all." She threw a spoon into the sink of ever piling dishes and tasting spoons and glared at Hook.

It was probably going to kill them all.

"Uh Mom?"

"It's not like I'm asking for a lot here. Just some mashed potatoes, turkey, a little cranberry sauce…"

Yes. It was definitely going to be the Thanksgiving where everyone died. Curse be damned this was worse.

"Uh, MOM?"

"What Henry? What?" Her tone was screechier than she meant it to be and she was instantly sorry. "Sorry, kid. What did you need?

"Do you smell burning?"

"Burning?! WHAT?! Oh God! Oh No. No. No. NO."

As Emma wrenched open the oven door she was greeted with plumes of black smoke and the stench of charred turkey.

"I'm no Martha kitchen witch, but that looks rather over done, Swan. And it's probably dry." Killian's voice came from behind her shoulder as she surveyed the blackened bird. It was the light taunting tone he reserved for trying to make her laugh. But it wasn't working just then.

He smelled musky, spicy, mildly exotic like dark rum but everything else around them had the acrid stench of burnt meat.

"Yeah. It's over. Kid. Go to Granny's and spend some time with Regina. She said she'd be there today if I needed her to hang out with you in case I had my hands full. If you see your grandparents tell them I'm sorry." Wordlessly she brushed path both Henry and Killian.

Slamming her bedroom door she threw herself face first onto her bed and stuck a pillow over the back of her head.

Stupid. This was stupid. She was acting like a child. But for some reason she couldn't quite stop.

"Emma?" She hadn't heard him come in but she felt the pirate's weight sag the bed beside her. His voice was incredibly tentative and uncustomarily soft. It would be kind of appealing to have him say her name like that in her bedroom at just about any other moment than this.

She felt the warmth of his hand as his fingers absently brushed the tendrils of her blonde waves snaking down her back.

"Emma. Love. It's just a meal. Granted a strange, elaborate ritual feast that seems to involve almost every kind of side dish and utensil this realm has to offer, complete with extreme preparation specificity. But it's only a meal just the same."

"I know." It was hot under the pillow and her voiced sounded muffled. She was being stupid. Why did it hurt so much?

She pulled out her head and turned to look at Killian while she sat up. He began to gently brush back the errant strands of her hair, which with her luck were probably standing on end with static, while he remained gallantly backlit by the diffused light coming through her bedroom curtains. It all made him look a little darker, a little broodier, a little romance novel cover worthy. Perfect.

"It's just. Just…"

"What, love?"

"Besides Christmas, Thanksgiving is THE meal. The get together." She dared to meet his eyes in the dimly lit room. "It's the ultimate expression of family. It's supposed to be perfect."

"Ah… I see now. A family feast. The kind of event an orphan might think about a lot in their spare time, perchance? Maybe even dream about from time to time?"

Her chin dropped to her chest like it was suddenly too heavy for her neck to keep holding up.

Damn him. He got it. Like he always got it. He never stopped getting it. Why be surprised now.

Gently, he placed one finger under her chin lifting her focus back to his stormy sea blue eyes.

How could he seem so rough and be so gentle at the same time? He could make her feel so delicate and precious, yet instantly sarcastically toss around the steamiest of dirty innuendos that never failed to hit their mark.

She met his intense gaze. It was a little harder to feel sorry for herself when he looked at her like that.

"Isn't it possible, Emma, that putting all of your lofty expectations into one meal may just doom that experience before it begins?"

He could feel the pain and disappointment coming off of her in waves. He could feel it all. It was in her face. It was in her eyes. Eyes that were close to spilling their contents down her soft, creamy white cheeks. The forgotten orphan. The loner. The outcast. She was always looking for a home, a place to belong while simultaneously running away in an attempt to keep herself safe from harm.

He felt her sob softly when he pulled her to his chest, letting her head rest on the crook between his neck and shoulder. He could feel the dampness of her tears against his exposed skin.

"Emma. Listen. Love. You are surrounded by people who love you." She shook trying to keep her sobs silent. "I've never met anyone with more loved ones than you. It's practically the entire town. How many orphans can say that?"