Posted on tumblr a few days ago to fulfill a prompt...
Anonymous asked- -
I have a feeling we're going to get lots of Christmas stories in the fandom can you write a New Year's Eve one? pretty please with a Colin on top!
I'm totally aware that it's way early for New Year's and Christmas stuff…but I had written it and I'm terrible at keeping stuff to myself. So enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT
As I mentioned in my A/N for Between Sea and Sky (shameless self-promotion you should go check it out and read it if you're not already because I love you) I'm veering away from one-shots and sticking to my WIPS but I just wanted to make it clear to my readers this was written *before* that update :)
PLEASE REVIEW! :)
It's cold.
And late.
And starting to snow.
And she really hates New Year's Eve.
Veering off Main Street Emma pulls her coat tighter as she quickly shuffles over the snow-covered sidewalk, frowning a little as her breath pants out in front of her face—white little swirls puffing upwards into the dark and freezing night air. Turning the corner, she sighs deeply; her nose burning a little with the frigid temperature, she continues to move towards The Rabbit Hole at a brisk no nonsense pace.
And God, it's just really freakin cold out.
Her boots crunching beneath her, she tries to ignore the knots that are clenching in her stomach while attempting to disregard the feeling of slight melancholy that washes over her as her eyes dart out around her, taking in the twinkling and somewhat nostalgic sight of Christmas lights—electric blues, vibrant reds, classic whites, and bright greens— still strung along the otherwise dark and silent buildings; a slight pang resonating throughout her as her gaze lingers for a moment.
New Year's Eve has always been her least favorite holiday.
Stemming from when she was a young orphan floating around in the system, the entire holiday season had always depressed her; but New Years Eve had continually seemed the worst—always signaling the end of yet another year that nobody wanted her.
Forever a lost girl.
Ignoring the sudden frown threatening her lips, she shakes her head and clears her throat, trying to remind herself that she has people now—people who love her, people who want to be there for her, people who care about her happiness.
People who had adamantly protested her lack of real plans tonight, insisting that she spend the evening with them, clearly upset when she had waved their offers away.
And really, if she's being completely honest with herself, watching her parents make eyes at each other while whispering sickeningly sweet endearments isn't exactly high on her list of ways to spend the holiday, nor is dealing with Henry's tiring attempts at trying to force she and Neal back together—her heart clenching a bit as she recalls the kid's bright and hopeful expression.
(She definitely didn't refuse any of their offers because she might, possibly, kind of—not really—have tentative plans with a certain swashbuckling leather wearing someone else.)
(Nope, that's definitely not why she bowed out.)
(Not in the slightest.)
And feeling a hot blush warm her cheeks, she curses herself silently for her ridiculous and blubbering internal thoughts (idiot, idiot, idiot…stupid, stupid idiot) before pulling her coat tighter once again.
But even after she's thoroughly scolded herself—insisting that she most definitely does not have any plans whatsoever—she still feels like a complete damned moron.
She should turn around.
But she doesn't.
Pushing the bar's door open, welcoming the warmth and noise that rushes her as she hurriedly steps inside, she takes a moment to scrutinize the thick crowd of misfits that have packed themselves into the rundown dive—drinking themselves into oblivion apparently a common goal for those who've gathered.
(And if anyone asks, she's definitely not searching for anyone in particular; her gaze is most certainly not carefully scanning the too many bodies crushed into the too small space.)
Pushing away the prickling of loneliness that threatens to creep up on her as it fully hits her that she just came to a bar, alone, on New Year's Eve with—regardless what her brain says—no definitive plans; she briefly second-guesses her pathetic decision, only to quickly squash away the thought with a lazy roll of her shoulders and a tiny somewhat defiant self-deprecating smirk.
To be honest, she really had considered going back to her apartment after her shift at the station—intent on watching bad movies while stuffing her face with equally bad food—but for some reason, last minute really, the thought of going back to the dark and empty loft had depressed her…even more so than heading to a bar alone.
Which, she supposes, is saying something.
(And it's definitely not because a certain someone had made it clear where exactly he'd be spending his holiday evening.)
(Nope.)
(Not even a little.)
A nice stiff drink is exactly what she needs before calling it a night and heading home to watch a bunch of chick flicks that she'll never—not in a million years—admit to owning.
Weaving her way through the throng of people, she smiles tightly at those who are still sober enough to recognize her, pleasantly surprised when she spots a couple of empty stools at the end of the long and expansive bar. Sitting down with a soft yet somewhat exaggerated sigh, she stretches a little and smooths the wrinkles out of her skirt before running a stiff and half frozen hand through her windblown hair, attempting to thaw out a little.
One drink.
One drink and then she's done.
(And she'll be damned if she allows herself anymore than that because she's waiting on a specific someone who really she couldn't care less if she sees or not.)
And dammit she really, really, freakin' hates New Year's Eve.
Shrugging off her coat, she casually drapes it over the seat next to her, selfishly unwilling to share her space if she doesn't have to. And rapping her fingers along the glossy wood counter in an impatient and random beat, she tries to will the tension out of her body, slightly, and most likely unfairly, annoyed with the bartender for not noticing and serving her right away.
"Keep frowning like that Swan and you'll chase every man and woman away from the sodding place.
At the sound of his lilting and soft voice Emma starts—her fingers stilling, her stomach flipping, her gaze widening—and turning slowly, her eyes drift up to meet amused and vibrant blue.
"And who, pray tell darling, would you ring in the New Year with if you've gone and bloody well scared everyone off eh?"
"Jones." She ignores the fact that her voice holds a hint of humor—unconscious warmth seeping into her tone.
"Milady."
Rolling her eyes at the small bow he gives her, she pushes away the slightly heated and pleased feeling coursing inside of her and instead nods at the bartender as he makes his way over to take her order, her drink preference on the tip of her tongue until she's rudely (and not surprisingly) interrupted…
"Jameson on the rocks for the lady."
At his words (and dammit he's an observant bastard for knowing her drink of choice) she raises a brow and turns to him, watching with a thin-lipped expression as he takes a seat next to her, seemingly disregarding her coat as he settles in on the stool.
(This doesn't please her in the slightest.)
(No.)
(Yes.)
(Maybe a little.)
"I don't think I asked you to join me pal."
"And I think I'm the only reason you came here tonight."
Her mouth opens at his blatant and undeniably cocky statement and almost automatically she goes to make a snide remark, the quick retort hovering on her lips as her face heats with a fast and telling blush. But then he's grinning at her somewhat wolfishly and suddenly her words are caught in her throat, before, unmercifully, they're forgotten completely.
Damn. Him.
"Right. Or it's a small town with barely any bars." she manages with hardly any sarcasm instead.
"Mmmmm…." he hums as if amused, and leaning a fraction closer, his smile widens—the hint of bright white teeth spreading slowly. "But I did make it known to you earlier in the day that this is exactly the bar I'd be spending the evening…did I not?"
"You were mostly talking to Ruby."
"And you, lass, were listening."
She feels her blush sweep hotter over her cheeks at that; unquestionably embarrassed as he not so subtly calls her out. She wants to argue, scoff at the statement and cry foul…but truth be told…
She can't.
Because it's true, earlier in the day when she had gone to Granny's for lunch, she had unintentionally overheard the various conversations around her—although, in her defense, initially she had tried to block out the festive plan making as she had attempted to enjoy her meal.
And really, it isn't her fault that Killian had waltzed in and had sat down next to her just as she was finishing up. It isn't her fault that Ruby had inquired about his evening plans, encouraging him to join the festivities at the bar later that night. It isn't her fault that he had gladly and enthusiastically accepted with a grin and a wink. It isn't her fault that he had then turned to her and had smoothly stated (with a sly smile and a heated look) if she hadn't any plans he hoped to see her later before grabbing his food and leaving the diner. And it certainly isn't her damned fault that she hadn't been able to brush the stupid hint of an invitation away for the past few hours—debating whether she had wanted to give in and go for the rest of her shift.
"A bar is not an unusual place for a person to end up on New Years Eve Jones."
He merely gives her a knowing look, and leaning one elbow on the counter, he turns to her so that he's fully facing her, his eyes unabashedly running down the length of her body before meeting hers once more. "You're looking rather fetching this evening sheriff…." His voice is smooth and soft and the hint of unashamed desire laced through it makes her want to run and hide…
"Simply beautiful."
Or jump his damned bones.
There's a large part, a reasonable part, of her that wants to tell him to shut up, insisting she roll her eyes and push his comments away— because he's a flirt and she rarely wears skirts so she assumes she only had the comment coming. But instead of doing just that, instead of ignoring the word beautiful as it resonates within her—softening her insides and warming her skin—she merely grabs her drink as the bartender places it down in front of her: trying to, ridiculously enough, cool her suddenly dry throat with the strong and burning liquid.
"So Ruby tells me tradition states one is expected to get and I quote, piss drunk until the clock strikes midnight," he says conversationally, deftly veering the topic away from his compliment, avoiding an awkward and uncomfortable silence. And as her head shoots up she can't help the tiny appreciative smirk—wondering briefly if he had read her uncertainty. "Where then, celebration ensues…after, of course, a kiss or two is shared with the person of your choice…rather interesting tradition might I add…." His voice lingers on the last words—his tone betraying his obvious amusement laced curiosity.
Placing her glass back down on the bar, she shrugs her shoulders, trying to hide her smile as her eyes study the amber liquid and she considers Ruby's vague and brief description. "Yeah, I mean, more or less that's the deal…drink yourself stupid and at midnight grab the nearest person next to you for a kiss to ring in the New Year…simple enough I guess."
He's silent for a moment and she's sure he's processing her words carefully; she can see out of the corner of her eye his good hand rubbing his beard thoughtfully, can hear his steady intake of breath, followed by another, before, in a somewhat confident and definitive tone, he speaks…
"Well then by your side I shall stay darling."
His words have her gaze darting up to his again, something flipping in her stomach as her eyes suddenly seek his of their own accord. And as his statement quietly resonates through her, something inside of her sleepily stirs.
And then…
It hits her.
Even in jest it rings true.
So very true.
Over a year since their return from Neverland, months after the latest curse was broken, and he's still there, by her side, quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) making his presence known. He pushes her when she needs it and gives her space when she craves it most…never forcing her hand, never asking for anything in return.
She knows how he feels about her; he's always been vocal about it.
And if she's being truly honest, she has to admit that she had realized, months ago, deep down inside, even throughout the whirlwind of everything—the chaos, the magic, getting to know her family, rebuilding the town—that he wasn't going to go away, that he wasn't going to up and leave her. But still too afraid to really consider it, to fully believe that she deserved something so simple and beautiful and easy, she had told him, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn't ready to figure out her feelings—to choose, to commit… to accept.
And while she'll never forget the slightly broken look he'd given her (his damned eyes will be the death of her) covered up only by a quick smirk, a definitive nod, and the murmured words that he will wait; he had respected her wishes honorably—flirting, stolen kisses, and innuendos aside of course.
But now, now that the town is in a blissful and almost boringly peaceful lull, she can't help but find herself thinking of him more often than not—her head refusing to just take what's so blatantly in front of her, and her heart stubbornly attempting to finally open her damned eyes.
And really, the whole thing just absolutely freakin' terrifies her.
Only…
He's still always there, by her side, constantly surprising her, continually reminding her that he isn't going to leave…he's here to stay.
And she almost laughs out loud that the realization—the lifting of the gray and murky veil—comes on the heels of a flirty comment thrown to her in an overcrowded bar.
She really is a damned fool.
And looking at him, a sudden smile tipping up her lips, her heart beating fast even while something surprisingly calming settles itself over her, she watches through tunneled vision as his eyes widen slightly at her quick and easy grin—his features settling into something akin to shock as she leans over suddenly.
(And really, she's just so sick of hating New Year's Eve.)
Ignoring the warning bells in her head and listening to the whispered voices that are enthusiastically urging her to take, she grabs him by the lapels of his coat and kisses him hard and sound right on the lips.
It takes him a moment to respond.
But only a moment.
When he does react there's no hesitation is his kiss. Making a noise just short of a groan, he stumbles off his bar stool and shuffles closer to her; his good hand immediately fisting into her hair, his lips dancing over hers freely, moving in perfect synch with her as he deepens the kiss. He tastes like rum—warm and familiar and slightly intoxicating. And she finds herself wanting to get drunk off of him, unable to stop tasting him, unwilling to deny herself any longer.
It's only when his tongue darts out, urging her to open for him, his hand tightening on her head, fingers digging into her scalp, that her eyes, foggy and heavy, flutter open slowly—her body on fire, her stomach a mess of butterflies, and her legs feeling like weak and wobbly goo. Letting out a shuddering sigh, her breath washing over his lips, she quickly and dazedly assesses the situation.
She's the sheriff of the town.
And she's making out with a pirate.
In a bar.
For everyone to see.
Much to his (and her) disappointment, she pulls back slowly, his hand gentling in her hair as his eyes, heavy-lidded and darkened with clear and obvious lust, shift down to meet hers.
"I believe, sweetheart, that there's still quite some time before the clock strikes midnight." His voice is soft and tender and holds the faintest hint of awe, as his hand, still tangled in her hair, strokes her gently—she leans into his touch almost unconsciously.
Staring up at him, refusing to let herself be embarrassed by her blunt actions—she can feel the eyes of some of the surrounding patrons burning into the back of her skull—she shrugs her shoulders somewhat languidly; her lazy actions defying the pounding of her heart, and the fast rushing of the blood through her veins.
"I dunno I guess…I guess maybe it's time to break tradition."
And she wants to hate herself for the lame line, the way her voice wavers ever so slightly with it (because really Swan) but as a wide smile spreads across his features slowly, his eyes twinkling with mirth and shining with so much emotion that it makes her throat feel tight and her eyes prick with tears, she can't help but indulge with him; her grin matching his in lightness as they stare at each other stupidly—the sounds of the bar fading behind them into a low buzzing hum.
The Enchanted Forest.
Storybrooke.
Neverland.
And Storybrooke again.
Life, death, magic, curses, and everything in between.
He's not going anywhere.
And it's a beautiful thing, being able to pinpoint exactly when her heart and head come together to accept it.
So when he moves even closer, disregarding her raised eyebrows, and the way her body stiffens fractionally as he dips his head down, she deliberately ignores the tiny part of her that wants scold her for yet another public display of affection, forcing herself to relax instead.
Because it's a holiday and her shift is over…
And dammit she just really wants to kiss him again.
As he hovers just short of her lips, his breath feathering out over her face, his body close, so very, very close, she doesn't push him away, refusing to pull back again—refusing to deny herself him again (never again). Instead she parts her legs ever so slightly allowing him to step between them as his forehead comes to a rest against hers—their noses brushing, their lips parted.
And when his mouth quirks up into another quick grin, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face, she closes her eyes, silently swearing at herself for taking so long.
Why the hell had she taken so damned long?
Leaning into him, sighing softly, her eyes fluttering open before closing again and her heart pounding so hard she's almost positive he can hear it, she wills the rest of the bar away; pretending that they're alone, deep down knowing that she only has to say the word and he'll take her away—he'll take her anywhere she asks him to.
It's just barely, above the roaring in her ears, the rushing of her thoughts, and her own internal struggle not to cry (she'd never forgive herself if she cried) that she hears him; his voice soft, musical, and somewhat thick with emotion, whispers to her in a quiet tone….
"Happy New Year love."
Coda:
When she wakes the scent of salt and sea hangs in the air, there's a slight chill in the room, and she can feel a soft swaying beneath her as she snuggles closer to him. And as he lazily reaches down to bring the covers up around them, his fingers idly lingering on her bare shoulder before pulling her closer, she thinks, with a sleepy smile on her face and a deep contented sigh, that she could learn to love Near Year's Day.
END.
So I mean, you could get into the "holiday and giving spirit" early and leave a review? ;)