It's official.
Killian Jones doesn't do casual.
In the blur that is moving house (moving in together), it takes Emma a couple of days to notice. Once she does notice, though, she can't unsee it, as Henry would say. Whether it's relationships or clothing, he is – to borrow a phrase of his from a lifetime ago – someone who likes to stand on ceremony.
She can't deny it, the reality of living together is both exciting and a little awkward. They've already shared so much - life and death and danger and sacrifice – that the intimacy of sharing a bedroom and a bathroom should be a walk in the park, but it's not, at least not at first. She's never given so much thought to such mundane rituals as tossing her worn underwear into the laundry basket or shaving her legs in the shower, and she's pretty sure she hasn't blushed this much in her entire life.
She's never been happier, though, which is probably the real reason why it takes her a few days to notice that her live-in pirate is still a little old-fashioned when it comes to clothing.
For the most part, Killian's adapted well to modern life. He's a quick study when it comes to appliances and gadgets, soaking up every new contraption like a sponge, his eyes bright with curiosity as he reads each instruction manual from cover to cover.
(She's not going to lie. That part's pretty adorable.)
There's one thing, however, that makes her feel like they're still just playing house rather than embarking on a life of domestic togetherness. It shouldn't niggle at her, but it does, because it's just weird to sit entwined on the couch watching old movies with her wearing yoga pants and a faded t-shirt and Killian dressed though he's ready to run out the door at a moment's notice.
Thanks to her shopping efforts, his chest of drawers in their bedroom is filled with sweatpants and t-shirts, both long and short-sleeved, and enough fuzzy house socks to make any pirate feel comfortable in his own home.
As far as she's aware, though, he hasn't worn any of it.
It's only when they're getting ready for bed that he allows himself to slip into informality. It's only when he's down to his boxers and undershirt that he unclicks his hook and loosens the straps of his arm brace, as though finally allowing himself to believe no monsters will be coming after them on his watch.
He may have swapped his pirate costume for a modern version, but she recognises the signs of someone hiding behind the armour of clothing all too well.
The next afternoon, she comes home to the sight of her boyfriend and her son sitting on the couch, Henry's homework scattered on the coffee table in front of them. Henry's changed out of his school uniform into jeans and a t-shirt, but Killian is still dressed in the clothes he'd put on that morning, including his leather jacket.
Emma frowns. Okay, this has to stop.
Despite being in the middle of explaining what sounds like a nightmarish math problem to Henry, Killian's whole face lights up as soon as he catches sight of her. "Care to join us for an algebra lesson, Swan?"
Over Killian's shoulder, Henry laughingly rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Mom, it's so much fun."
Her frown vanishes, the unease tugging at her insides fading. Pushing aside her disquiet, she laughingly waves away their decidedly unappealing offer. "Thanks, but I'll pass."
The next morning, she watches Killian once again carefully dress in his new battledress (boots and all) before the sun is even fully over the horizon, and her resolve is reignited. Dropping by Marco's place on the way to work, she puts in a request for yet another commission.
Two days later, there's a beautifully crafted wooden coat rack on the wall just inside her front door, and she swears Marco has managed to find little hooks that look just like Killian's.
"A new addition?" Killian's hands are warm on her shoulders as he comes to stand behind her. "Very practical."
"Now we can take off our jackets as soon as we get home," she informs him brightly, "and not have to ransack the house looking for them the next time we go out."
She feels the brush of his lips on the back of her neck, and swallows hard against the flurry of goosebumps that prickle down her spine. "Brilliant."
And there's that damned blush again. "Thanks, but it's hardly my original idea," she protests as she turns to face him, her hands coming up to push pointedly at the lapels of his leather jacket. "Why don't you break it in?"
Amusement dances in his bright blue eyes, but as usual, he's quick to indulge her. "If the lady insists." He has to detach his hook so he can slip out of his jacket, but he's so practiced that it literally only takes five seconds. She brushes his cheek with a lingering kiss as he hangs up his coat with a flourish, and feels his mouth curve in a smile. "I'd best see to dinner."
Emma pauses in the middle of peeling off her own jacket to give him a smile of her own. "Need a hand, love?"
He waggles one long finger at her, his teeth flashing white against his dark beard. "Cheeky," he teases, then tilts his head towards the living room. "Go and put your feet up, love."
She hesitates, but he's already headed back to the kitchen, a man on a mission, and she decides to bide her time.
An hour later, after he's cooked yet another two-course dinner without breaking a visible sweat, she eyes him across the dinner table and takes a deep breath.
"You wanna get changed before we eat?" She tugs pointedly at the cuff of his shirt sleeve, still tightly buttoned around his right wrist. "I promise not to start without you."
Confusion dances in his bright blue eyes. "Why would I need to change?"
He sounds beyond baffled, and Emma bites her lip, suddenly feeling as though she might be making a mountain out of a molehill. Or something. "I just thought maybe you'd be more comfortable."
He offers her a reassuring smile, looking every inch the gentleman in his buttoned up waistcoat and flowery long-sleeved shirt. "I'm perfectly comfortable, I promise."
At least he's taken his leather jacket off tonight, she tells herself as she takes the wine he pours for her with a nod of thanks. "This looks amazing."
"Thank you." His bashful smile is almost enough to make her forget that he's still acting as though he's not sure he belongs here. "It's always a pleasure to cook for you, and for Henry too, of course."
There's a lump in her throat the size of a fist, and she knows she won't be able to swallow a bite. "Wait, we need some water." Slipping into the kitchen, she stares unseeing into the open refrigerator, letting the cool air brush against her face, her heart suddenly feeling so full it might burst.
They're alike in so many ways, something she accepted long ago, and she didn't need to see the single chest he brought to the house on moving day to know his habits are deliberately sparse when it comes to belongings. He's always travelled light, just like her. But now they've both got a home, they've got a home together, and she wishes he'd just relax.
He loves her. He loves them, and she needs to find a find a way for him to feel truly at home here.
"Shoes off, please."
Killian looks up from his mug of tea and evening perusal of the newspaper (he's not sure why the town bothers, not when the dwarf telegraph system seems perfectly adequate) to see Emma brandishing what looks like a pair of fuzzy black shoes in his direction. "Sorry?"
Her smile is a softly hesitant curving of her lips. "I bought you some slippers. You know, to wear when you're at home instead of your boots." She drops them onto the table in front of him without ceremony, obscuring an article about the latest crops to be planted in the old Giant's bean field. "Wanna try them on for size?"
Despite her attempt to appear nonchalant, there's a too-bright tone in her voice that has him studying her lovely face. "Just what are you up to?"
"Nothing." The hint of colour staining her cheeks suggests otherwise, and he can't help smiling. Stars above, she is truly a dreadful liar.
"As the lady wishes," he deadpans as he reaches down to pull off his boots, tucking them neatly under his chair before turning his attention to the slippers. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Emma clearly doing her best not to laugh. "Spit it out, Swan."
"You and your tidy ways," she teases softly, gesturing towards his boots. "This is your home too, you know. You should leave some of your stuff lying around, make it look lived in."
He takes another sip of tea, trying to find the right words to explain what's in his heart. "I've lived my life below deck for a long time, love." Reaching across the wooden table, he strokes the back of her hand with his fingertips, her skin warm and smooth beneath his touch. "It takes a while for a man to become accustomed to having so much space to spread out."
Her lovely mouth presses into a tight line, as if she's having to stop herself from speaking out of turn. After a long moment, she nods, a brisk tilting of her head. "I just want you to be happy here."
He sees doubt swimming in her brilliant eyes, hears her unspoken with me, and he gathers her hand in his, lifting it to his lips for a lingering kiss. "I am."
They take to their bed not long after that. She seems to find special delight in peeling away his clothes tonight, and he struggles to return the favour against the onslaught of her hot mouth and searching hands. In the darkness, in the silken clasp of her body, he finds home anew, with every kiss, every touch, every cry of pleasure mouthed into his skin.
Afterwards, they lay sprawled in a tangle of languid warmth, her fingernails scratching a slow path up and down his chest, his hand stroking the golden tumble of her hair as it flows over the curve of her breast. Her touch slows gradually, matching the change in her breathing, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. A few minutes later, she seems to have slipped into slumber, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
They're poor company.
In this realm, people pinch themselves when they wish to make sure something isn't a dream. If he followed this custom tonight, he suspects he'd be black and blue. He is holding his dream in his arms, and has found his home in the shelter of her heart, yet every new dawn brings the fear that something will tear her from him.
Relax, she keeps telling him, but how can he relax now that he's found the most precious piece of his life's puzzle?
The precious piece in question shifts, her whole body seeming to sigh. "You know, I can hear you thinking from here."
"I'm sorry, love."
"Don't apologise." He feels the rustle of magic in the air, tiny pinpricks of sensation on his skin, then the candles on her wooden dresser flicker into life. "I'd much rather you tell me what you're thinking."
He hesitates, once again trying to find the right words. He thinks of the delightful way she pads about the house on bare feet, wearing her nightclothes until noon whenever no new disaster or villain manages to disturb their Sunday. He thinks of how she bought a special mantel on which to hang their coats. He thinks of the drawers she's filled with soft trousers and zippered jerseys (hoodies, she calls them) and suddenly he understands the unspoken anxiety she's done her best to hide.
And then, of course, there's the way she makes his heart seize in his chest by strolling from the bathroom to their bedroom clad only in the tiniest of towels.
Perhaps it truly is time he learned to relax, as she keeps saying.
"I was thinking about my new slippers."
She nudges his shoulder with her chin, and he feels her soft snort of laughter. "Seriously?"
"These items of clothing you keep buying for me," he ventures, and feels an answering streak of tension stiffening her body. "You'd like for me to wear them whenever we've private time away from the world?"
She shifts closer, her eyes searching his avidly. "Something like that."
Love can be complicated, he knows. In the end, though, some things are very simply fixed.
"Then it would be my honour to – what does Henry call it? – slob around with you."
Her eyes glitter as her hand slips down to find his, her fingers smoothing across his palm. "I understand why you felt like you had to keep, you know, standing on ceremony."
"You do?"
"I'm the one who wore a red leather jacket like it was chainmail for a decade, remember?" Her mouth is warm against the curve of his shoulder. "Things like that are a uniform, something constant in a world that keeps changing and fucking up around you."
He doesn't need to pinch himself. If this is indeed a dream, he has no wish whatsoever to awaken. "It's as I always say." He touches his mouth to her temple, tasting salt and warm skin. "You're a perceptive woman."
"I like how you dress, by the way." Propping herself up on one elbow, she flashes him a mischievous smile, along with a delightfully bare breast, both of which he appreciates very much. "But you don't have to wear your armour all the time. Especially not around me."
Gathering her close, he closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the heat of her skin sinking delicately into his. "I'm over two hundred years old, Swan." He tries not to wince as he says the words. A man has his pride, after all. "And still there are days when I fear I'll never truly understand who I'm meant to be."
"You're the man that I love." The brush of her lips against his chest sets his pulse to fluttering. "The man who loves me."
"Aye." Bending his head to hers, he kisses her softly parted lips, letting his mouth linger long enough to taste the hitch in her breathing. "That I am."
His kiss seems to fill her with renewed vigour, although he didn't exactly envisage it inspiring her to leave their bed. "Come on." Rolling away from him, she clambers to her feet, then holds her hand out to him. "Let's test this new resolve of yours."
"It's late," he protests, as he knows she expects him to do, and hides a smile when she waves his words away.
"Tomorrow's Sunday. On your feet, sailor."
She instructs him to pull on a robe (a soft black thing much improved on the item he'd once worn whilst a guest of the local hospital) before doing the same. She then draws him downstairs and out their front door, her hand clasped tightly in his, overriding his request to pull on his boots.
As they stand on the top of the stairs that lead down to the front garden, she breathes one single word. "Relax."
To his surprise, he does.
Above them, the night sky is startlingly clear, the stars impossibly close and bright. They make their way slowly down the steps until they're standing in their front yard, arms entwined. The night dew has left its calling card on the lush grass, and the soft turf is cool and damp under his bare feet.
"What do you think?" Moving to stand behind him, Emma wraps her arms around his waist, her hands linked on his belly, her chin coming to rest on his shoulder as he breathes in the scent of lavender and geranium. "You ready to be a sweatpants-wearing slob whenever we're kicking back at home?"
He covers her linked hands with his own, lifting and pressing them hard against his heart, beating fast beneath the soft robe she'd bought for him. The night breeze flutters around his bare knees and shins, and his soul suddenly feels lighter than it has in years. "That depends."
"On what?"
He leans back against the slender weight of her. "Are your parents likely to keep dropping in unannounced?"
"I'll see what I can do." Her laughter lilts breathlessly against his ear, filling his mind with enticing visions of laying her onto the soft grass and kissing her from head to toe.
"Perhaps we should go inside," he murmurs, turning around in time to see the disappointment flash across her face.
"But it's such a nice night."
"I'm all for informality, Swan." His blood sparking with rekindled hunger, he slips one hand into her robe to cup her breast, his palm teasing her nipple into a tight, tempting peak. "But I do feel we need to retreat indoors this instant less we scandalise the neighbours."
She clutches at his hips, one thigh pushing between his with an accuracy that has him sucking in his breath. "In that case, Captain Sensible." Rising up on her toes, she puts her lips to his ear, her teeth nipping at the lobe with an intent that sends his blood southward in a heartbeat. "I'm afraid it's back to bed with you."
The next morning, he wakes to find his clothes strewn around the room in crumpled abandon, tiny, bright green blades of green still clinging to his bare feet and the sound of Emma Swan singing loudly in their kitchen as she shamelessly mistreats his beloved coffee machine.
A man could easily become accustomed to being this content, he decides.
Grinning, he flings back the covers, eager to join the singing barista downstairs. Two minutes later, Emma's eyes light up at the sight of him, and he finds himself running a self-conscious hand down his chest. "Well?" He clears his throat, trying not to sound too uncertain. "Do I pass?"
Her bright green gaze drops to his bare feet, then travels slowly upward, taking in his choice of grey sweatpants and black t-shirt with Hogwarts emblazoned on it, the shirt Henry insisted he have. Her whole face softens, and she abandons her battle with the coffee filter to take his face in her hands and kiss him so thoroughly he almost forgets his name, let alone what day of the week it is. "With flying colours."