Prompt from the incredibly wonderful stunningswan over on tumblr:

Emma runs an etsy store, and when she goes to the post office to mail the orders, the guy behind the counter keeps smiling and making eyes at her

.

The Postal Service.

.

She has no idea how she ended up here, sinking into the material of his couch, its cushions worn soft with age, shirt and bra flung so far across the room its practically comical, and his teeth grazing along the outside edge of her jaw.

But somehow that's exactly where she finds herself.

Five minutes ago she was straddling him, whispering something about Postman Pat in his ear (trying to make an unnecessarily salacious comment in relation to the only other Englishman she could think of that worked with mail), and then suddenly he was settled, hip against hip, between her legs. Trying not to think about how ridiculous it is that a simple bottle of wine stopped them from making it any further into his place, Emma tries to focus more about the fingers grazing the underside of her thigh (oh god) –

But she opens her eyes, only briefly, and tilts her head to open up her neck in invitation, and that's when she sees it, sitting there on his window ledge. The mere sight of it there shocks her, and suddenly she isn't sure what to think any more.

The daft things had taken her two week to make. Not because she didn't know what she was doing – Emma knew what she was doing – but because nobody had ever bought anything from her before, and she needed to get them right, and round, and smooth, with aching precision.

The little Etsy shop that she had set up a month ago had piqued a bit of interest, favourites, complimentary messages and the like, but no one had actually ordered before.

Ceramic planter set of three, copper geometric design - $64.23

She wasn't quite sure at the time why she didn't just round the number off, but that was what the cost vaguely came to, and it seemed to be an unspoken rule on the website's community that prices had to have nonsensical decimal values.

The hobby had never been something she would have considered seriously, but staking out pseudo-criminals with a penchant for not paying (often literally) for their crimes had lead to sketching on scrap paper in her car while she waited for them to leave their hideouts. This in turn had led to a pottery class on the weekends and now –

Now she made pottery. Spherical, cylindrical, rhombus-like, it didn't matter, she'd perfected it.

She also didn't have much going for her in terms of a social life and so the pots became her passion. She got to the stage, rather quickly, where she made far too many of them, and palming them off to the few people she did know (neighbours, cops, almost her local barista that one time – that was a low point) was no longer an option. She had only started doing that because she'd run out of space in her own tiny apartment to put any more of them, and her décor was rapidly becoming more ceramic vases than furniture.

(One slight gust of wind, and the ones she had resting half on, half off her fireplace mantle, were bound to crash to a plaintive pile on the ground.)

Hence, Etsy; hence the enormous queue at the post office she now found herself in.

She could have probably prevented this too – the queue – because she already had the postage box, she already had ample amount of stamps to ensure it made it to Oregon, but she'd panicked about the bubble wrap. Emma had never cared so much in her life about whether or not something she mailed made it in one piece or not (actually, had she ever had something to post to anyone before?), and so she found herself questioning that the layers she had were enough.

Twenty minutes later, she was finally at the desk, being served by an old woman with half-moon spectacles and an almost offensively colourful scarf. Emma pulled out what she had hoped to send, heaving a messy bundle of bubble wrap and plastic out of her tote bag and starting off a spiel to the lady about not knowing what was considered excessive.

He wasn't even the one to serve her, but he definitely laughed at her loudly enough to draw attention to himself, not simply from Emma, but the woman he was serving, the people behind her, and the others working behind the desk. She turned to glare at him, and he at least had the decency to scratch awkwardly behind his ear, even if his eyes maintained a look of mischief about them.

Okay, so maybe, definitely, too much bubble wrap – but the hell if she knew what she was doing.

The woman serving her gave her a patient and gentle smile, telling her that she had more than enough bubble wrap, and that the extra weight of the plastic layers would cost her. In a panic to fix the cost to what she had originally estimated, she planted herself on a nearby and unused counter, unwrapping, rewrapping with such stress to get the whole thing over and done with that she kept cutting her fingers on the sharp edge of the sticky tape holder.

(And staunchly ignoring the smile from the dark-haired guy behind the desk who'd laughed in the first place.)

Emma became something of an expert at bubble wrap in the coming weeks, perfecting the art of neatness, stuffing a little bit of paper on the inside, placing them securely in their little cardboard shipping containers.

Her first customer appeared pleased with her shipment, completely unaware (or too polite to mention) the way the bubble wrap looked too used and how there was far too much sticky tape. But the kindly review that she left meant that there were plenty of orders (and by plenty, Emma meant ten, but to her that was more than she'd ever considered). She'd had the foresight to make a few extras the first time, hoping in a rare show of optimism that this would happen, and hoping that by settling herself down and making a handful of them at her first order, she wouldn't jinx her chances.

(It hadn't, and work had been mildly slow, giving her plenty of time to make a few things on the weekends.)

She still had to go into the post office every time, however, and she often made a point of doing it before she had to go off and stalk some bail-jumper.

He was always there - the guy who had laughed at her. Emma would be lying if she hadn't resented him a bit, even though she knew how ridiculous she would have looked, and how if their roles had been reversed she definitely would have laughed at him. He never served her though, she always seemed to get Uberta, the kindly old woman who had come to her rescue the first time.

But not today.

"Pen pal?"

These were his first words to her, and all she could do was relay him with a very confused squint.

"All the packages, love, you must have a pen pal."

"Right, no, sorry, I run an Etsy."

Taking the package from her hands he placed the box on the scale to double-check the cost that Emma (now an expert in these things) knew it would amount to. She cursed herself, however, for the unexpected and totally out of the blue thoughts she had about how big his hands were, as it was part of a slippery slope she started many weeks ago.

(Okay, so maybe the thought wasn't totally out of the blue.)

The slope started with quite simply his face, and how every time she came in, he smiled. Sometimes it was a tired, worn smile, drilled into place by the usually chaotic jumble of people and the way Andre Rieu always seemed to be playing, though mostly it was a warm, genuine little thing. That smile that made his eyes crinkle at the sides, regardless of how wide the grin, was the second tumble down the metaphorical hill, and then, sure enough, every time she went in she found something new about him that she found attractive.

(The colour of his eyes; the fall of the fringe of his hair; the sharp curve of the point of his ears, that was a hard one to shake.)

And apparently, today it was two things: his accent and his hands.

"What's an Etsy?"

"You know, the online thing where people set up shops of their own and people like things and favour-" Emma stalled a little at the way his face seems to pause, trying to gather the scattered information and form something in his mind that registered. "You know what, it doesn't matter, I make stuff then sell it online."

("What is it that you produce?" "Wouldn't you like to know.")

"Business is booming, I see."

The post office was eerily dead that day, a few straggling people eyeing calendars and stationary, but not even the beginnings of a queue in sight and as a result Emma had marched straight up to the counter in front of him.

She was frazzled today, she knew it and furthermore, she knew she looked it. Last night's perp had gotten away from her, leaving her with a deep sense of irritation and, to be perfectly honest, Emma was hoping that that smile of his might cheer her up a bit.

"Hand over fist," she flustered, running a hand through her hair and putting a few boxes she'd pulled off the shelves, and a ceramic package, readily wrapped for one, over as well.

When she looked up at him again, sure and predictably enough he was eyeing her, smile tilted at one side.

"What?" She asked him, a little softer than she had meant to, but the look confused her. Emma was far from a stranger to his mischievous glances as he remained determined to throw them at her every time she came in, that devilish gleam written all over his face as he simply smiled at her, intention clearly written all over his face.

Today, however, it was a different look and she had no clue what to make of it.

Instead of responding to her, he reached across the counter, tugging gently on a strand of hair from about her face. The action caught her off guard, and she momentarily felt her breath linger a little too long in her lungs, her heart betraying her and stuttering in her chest –

Until she saw why he'd leant across, pulling a small lump of clay from her hair. She laughed at him (or rather at herself) a little awkwardly, watching without looking at him directly to see how he smiled back at her in response, tossing the dried and hardened piece of earth behind his shoulder.

"Don't work too hard there, Swan."

He grabbed the scanner to process her purchases, but he hadn't even realised what he'd done. Emma noticed, she noticed straightaway, the shock in her system seemed to pound in her ears and she could no longer recognise the music playing overhead, the feeling only exacerbated by the way he had pulled on her hair moments earlier, the sensation still lingering on her scalp.

She'd never told him her name.

Emma knew how he'd easily have known it though - every parcel she sent came with a return address with her name written all over it in case of breakage, dissatisfaction or mistake, no doubt he'd seen it half a dozen times – but that wasn't what had thrown her.

The way he'd said it, the cavalier way it had simply rolled off his tongue (with an annoyingly beguiling cadence) implied that he thought about her name often enough that it could just fly out like that, which meant that he thought about her often enough to think of her name.

And suddenly she couldn't stop looking at him, at the way his dimples settled into his cheeks while he put her box on the scale (today it was his dimples that made her lose a little more footing on that hill, his dimples and the way he said her name).

(Yes, she was definitely frazzled today.)

When he looked up at her to quote her the cost, she was stunned for a moment, unable to do anything but blink at him a few times, only vaguely aware of how her lips were open (if only by a millimetre). His smile grew as he followed her fluster, from the way she blushed a little to the way her hands clambered around in her bag, digging for her wallet.

Pull it together, Emma, this is hopeless.

So she did just that, pretending like she hadn't just become lost literally staring at him.

"So you know who I am, and you haven't even told me your name?" Emma teased, pressing her credit card to the scanner. Her heart was still thumping in her neck, but her brain was slowly winning out. He started a little bit at her question, as though distantly recollecting what he'd done, but he clearly felt no embarrassment in the slip.

"Killian Jones."

He said his own name with only slightly less debauchery than he'd said hers, but they were on even footing again, and she grabbed her flattened boxes before giving him her best coquettish glance over her shoulder as she left.

There were only two occasions that she saw him before she asked. On each of those occasions she cursed her luck for not getting his window at the counter, and cursed him for greeting her with the simple sound of her name. ("Swan." "Jones.").

On the second occasion she couldn't ignore if she tried the way he started a conversation with her, despite the fact he had an entirely different customer. ("How are things in the indoor planter selling business, love?" "My colleagues at the police station have started making 'Ghost' references, so I've started whacking them on the head. How's the mail business, gone postal yet?")

(It hadn't even occurred to her at the time to ask how he knew what they were she was selling, or maybe she simply assumed she'd said something to Uberta and he'd overheard.)

However, the third time, she didn't even have anything to post. She simply made the rash decision one day to replenish her bubble wrap (even though she knew that she could buy it for cheaper round the corner at the two dollar shop), and luck – for once – was on her side, allowing her to arrive at the counter in front of him. He looked tired, running a hand through his hair restlessly.

"Hi."

"Emma Swan, a sight for sore eyes."

It didn't matter how ridiculously he made eyes at her, or how many times he tongued the back of his teeth suggestively, or complimented her – she could brush them off easily enough, words were words, and flirtation was easy – his smile, and the way it lit his whole face when he did it ardently, never failed to throw her.

(She almost hated him for it. Or she tried to anyway.)

(She didn't try very hard.)

Perhaps that's why she blurted it out.

"I'mheretoaskyouout. To dinner, or something…?"

She's not sure how she didn't notice the darn thing before. At the very least she's certain she walked past that window earlier that night.

The shock leaves Emma instantly as a burst of laughter erupts from her.

Killian stops what was a particularly tingly nip of her collarbone, to figure out why the hand that was buried at the nape of his neck is suddenly clasped tightly over her mouth, attempting – in vain – to control the laughter. He doesn't seem worried, in fact if anything her laughter puts an extra little glint in his eyes, a smile of his own growing on his kiss-bitten lips. Emma moves her hand from her own mouth, no longer interested in hiding her grin, moving it to Killian's own and reverently tracing his bottom lip with her thumb before answering the enquiring scrunch of his eyebrows.

"How long?"

She managed to breathe out the words, though they sounded like they'd croaked out from the depths of her throat, and sounding quietly in the room around them; her breathing a little shaken from their tangle on the settee, but also from the unwarranted chuckle aching in her ribs. He still hadn't followed her train of thought however, and instead he begins leaning on one elbow, brushing a few errant hairs from her face, fingers warm and gentle (if not slightly calloused from paper cuts).

"How long have you had those stupid planters on your window sill."

This time, Killian follows her words to the far side of the room to see three little spherical vases, averagely loved ferns sitting inside all three, none leafy enough to hide the copper geometric pattern decorating them.

"Ah, that," he buries his head in her neck again, this time simply to nudge her jaw with his nose, making a mirrored nudging movement with one of his legs and hers. "Roughly two months."

"Killian, we've only been dating for seven weeks."

"What's your point, love?"

She considers his question rather seriously, not entirely knowing why knowing he had it was so amusing to her. It wasn't mocking, that certainly wasn't it. It was more likely to be a reaction to disbelief, disbelief in knowing that he must have done it out of sentimentality because he certainly hadn't told her, and therefore he hadn't bought them for show or for her benefit. Which meant that the purchase was for his own tender and sappy reasons, and it is that alone that makes her smile softly up at him, hands on either side of his face, with a look that she hopes reflects her understanding, her affection. But she always feels like this with him – light, happy, affectionate, a buzzing relief that somehow anchors a feeling in her heart.

(A feeling she wouldn't dare say.)

(Yet.)

And her words are soft and croaky, and they catch a little bit in her throat, more than they had before.

"You really like me, huh?" Unsure if she's accidentally voiced her own feelings, rather than his.

Killian bows his head a little, smiling brightly yet shyly, the corners of his mouth pushing a little crinkle to his temples once more, though avoiding her gaze and reminding her why all those months ago she was drawn to him in the first place. Emma moves her fingers a little more gingerly, following the lines of his features with both hands (around his forehead, along the bridge of his nose, his cheeks), before he captures the palm of one hand, kissing it in earnest, then turning to meet her eyes once more, a devious look in them, and a playful taunt in his brows.

"That, or I simply appreciate a woman who's good with her hands."