Boxing Day

By: Souris

Rated: T(+?). Mostly for naughty innuendo.

Author's note: This story was written for my groovy 2014 Captain Swan Secret Santa, emmasneverland, and takes place at some nebulous future time when Emma actually has her own place. Captain Swan romance/fluff.

EMMA SWAN'S APARTMENT
Morning, Dec. 26

Emma gave the scrambled eggs one last stir, then covered the pan and set it to the side until the rest of breakfast was ready. She glanced at the clock. It was already a bit past 10, and her parents were supposed to be there at noon. Why on Earth had she volunteered to make them all lunch for Boxing Day? They should have just met at Granny's. It would have been a lot easier. Henry wasn't even going to be there, since he had stayed the night with Regina and Robin.

"Are you absolutely certain that your father and I won't be expected to engage in fisticuffs?" She glanced over at Killian, who was leaning against the counter.

Emma laughed, knowing he was teasing, then set about putting cocoa mix into mugs. "I told you, it's not that kind of boxing."

"If you insist, love. This realm has some peculiar holidays. I find the one with the unrealistically large rabbit who delivers a basket of eggs particularly inexplicable."

She snorted. Explaining that was a topic for another day. "Well, what sort of holidays do they have in the Enchanted Forest? I don't think I've ever heard my parents talk about any except for Harvest Day." She turned to find him poking his hook into the toaster to check on a not-quite-done slice and gave his arm a smack.

"Stop that! You're going to electrocute yourself! You're always so impatient. It'll pop up when it's ready." He had been obsessed with the toaster since Emma had unpacked it from one of her New York apartment boxes; the significance of the fact that she had bought Henry a toaster that charred the bread with a skull and crossbones design was not lost on her. Despite the memory loss, some part of her subconscious must have remembered the pirate who had made her smile through her tears at the town line and whose vow to think of her every day had touched her in a way she hadn't dared examine then beyond the pervading sense of lost opportunity to go along with all the other loss of that day. But she was home and they were together now, so there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on that year that had made her gain and lose so much at once. She grabbed the chilled bowl of whipping cream from the refrigerator and a whisk from the utensil drawer and thrust both at him. "Here, I forgot to whip the cream for the hot chocolate. Why don't you do that?"

She directed him to the other end of the counter, then took the pan of simmering milk off the stove and poured its contents into the mugs, adding a dash of cinnamon and a cinnamon stick to each. As she worked, she shook her head at the racket that Killian was making as he whipped the cream, metal utensil clattering against the metal bowl. Clearly he was putting maximum effort into the task. The cream would be whipped in no time.

The toast popped up with a barely heard "ding," and as she moved to retrieve it, she saw exactly why he being so noisy. "Killian! Don't use your hook for that! I gave you a whisk!"

He let out a derisive puff of air. "My hook worked like a charm." He wiped the metal clean with a dish towel, then tilted the bowl to show off the fluffy mounds of cream. "See? Why would I need that flimsy wire thing?"

"Because I know where your hook has been!"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I didn't hear any complaints last night, love. Quite the opposite, in fact. And if I remember correctly, you were there in the shower about half an hour ago, too, so you know it's perfectly clean."

She suddenly found herself hoisted up to sit on the countertop with a smirking pirate standing between her legs. A jolt of desire immediately sparked along her nerve endings, traveling all around her body before settling just there.

"We don't have time for this," she sighed, even as she wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him closer. Her body sometimes seemed to have a mind of its own when it came to him, and right now it was clamoring for his. Again. "Thanks to that shower, I haven't even started the casserole, and my parents will be here soon."

"Hours yet." He dipped his hook into the bowl, scooping up a large dollop of whipped cream and bringing it toward her mouth. "I thought you might like a taste of my hard work." His eyes glinted with that devilish blue twinkle that never failed to inspire her with detailed, sinful thoughts of what she wanted to do to him - and him to do to her. She had thought her desire for him might lessen somewhat now that they'd finally, blessedly given into their long-stoked hunger. But it had been weeks since that first tender, desperate, soul-shaking coupling, and if anything, her need for him had only gotten stronger. She couldn't seem to get enough of him - and the bastard knew it, too.

But two could play at that game; she knew she had the same effect on him. And the best part was, they'd both win. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and gazed up at him through lowered lashes, knowing how that drove him wild. "I'd like a big taste of what you have there." She would have laughed at the sharp intake in his breath, if the evidence of his growing arousal wasn't pressing against her center, making her shift her hips restlessly to build friction. She wrapped both hands around his brace, then darted her pink tongue out to capture some of the whipped cream. "Mmmm … delicious."

She ran the tip of her tongue along the curve of his hook, first inside and out, the metal and cream cold against her flesh. His breathing became more ragged, and his hand moved to grab her hip, pulling her harder against him as she licked his hook clean. A strangled groan came from his throat, and she pulled his mouth down to hers, still tasting the cream on her lips, melding with the peppermint of his toothpaste and that sweet, indefinable undertone that she had come to know as him and that she craved like air. Their tongues stroked and caressed as their bodies moved against one another, trying to get closerclosercloser than their clothes would allow, and if this wasn't happiness, she had no idea what that word meant, no one knew what that word meant, she was all sensation and color and bubbles and laughter and bliss and need and dear God, what had this relationship done to her? How could anything possibly be this good and this right?

They finally broke apart, resting their foreheads together as their lungs gasped for air. "More?" she wheedled when she could speak again, and he was quick to comply, his arm shaking slightly as he gathered another large dollop for her. She bent her head to the hook as she thrust her hips toward him and -

"Emma! We're here! I hope you don't mind we're a bit early. I thought I could help you make the - OH!" Mary Margaret stopped short just inside the front door as she took in the sight before her, instinctively moving to cover the sleeping baby's eyes with her hand as David bumped into the back of her. His face immediately became an almost impossible mixture of ashen and redness.

Emma half scrambled, half fell off the countertop, while Killian jerked backward until he slammed against the refrigerator, sending several magnets clattering to the floor. For a moment no one spoke as the awkwardness expanded to fill the apartment. Maybe even the whole town, Emma thought, feeling her face flame. She and her parents really needed to have a conversation about knocking.

Unsurprisingly, it was Killian who finally broke the silence. "I fear you may have been wrong about the fisticuffs, love."