It's a nubby, thickly woven monstrosity and Killian loves it.
She has no idea where it came from, it was suddenly just there. The black wool of the sweater is marled and woven into a complicated cable knit pattern, which in itself would be fine. But the giant red skull and crossbones emblazoned across the chest are what do it. The first time he had casually slipped it over his head upon getting out of bed, hair mussed and sticking up at all angles from sleep, she could only stare dumbly as he strolled from their bedroom.
He's since taken to wearing it in the way some people wear a beloved college sweatshirt, comfortably and often, with just a hint of reverence. She'll catch him absently rolling the hem between his fingers when they are tucked on the couch watching TV. It's never hung or tossed carelessly on the floor; he is meticulous about folding it gently and placing it on the shelf in the closet. The one time she asked him if he wanted to add it to the wash he looked at her with wide, horrified blue eyes and clutched it protectively to his chest.
What is happening?
.
.
.
Her curiosity finally gets the best of her.
"Ok, what's the deal with this sweater?" she blurts out one evening.
"Hmm?" he answers absently, turning a page of the book he's engrossed in. Having recently returned from Sunday dinner at her parents, they're digesting lazily on the couch as Henry finishes his homework upstairs. Her socked feet are wedged cozily under his thigh, his arm lightly wrapped around her bent knee as he reads.
"Your sweater. The one you wear all the time now. The one that you're wearing right this moment," she nudges the red skull and crossbones with her foot. He finally turns his attention away from the book, focusing back on her.
"Oh. Um. Well. Granny made it for me. For Christmas."
"Granny?"
"Yes, Swan. You know, the Widow Lucas? Formidable owner and proprietor of the place we dine far too often?" he rolls his eyes.
"I know who Granny is, you dork, I just—"
"What's a 'dork'?
"It's like a nerd. Or geek."
"What's a 'nerd'?
"Oh my god, that is not the point. Why did Granny knit you a sweater?" she drills on.
"I don't know, really. I suppose she's merely just another good woman fallen prey to my dashing charm?" he waggles his eyebrows at her lecherously.
"But you like it," she says slowly, not taking the bait.
"I do," he answers sincerely.
"It just doesn't seem like your usual…style."
His grin dims a little at this, turning slightly shy in the way it sometimes does when he reveals something personal. The way that makes her heart squeeze. Next up will be the scratch just below his ear—yep, there it is—and a slight blush that turns the tips of his ears pink.
"It's just been a while since anyone has made anything for me, is all."
"What do you mean?"
He hesitates, and she nudges him again with her foot. Though they are well past each other's walls, old habits tend to die hard. Sometimes it takes a little push here and there to remind each other of that. "My mother used to knit us things. Before."
"Did she?" Emma smiles.
"Aye. Though I suppose that was just what was done back then, mothers made clothes for their families. We didn't have those bloody shopping mall monstrosities or whatever," he chuckles. "There were shops and merchants, of course, that you could buy things from. But we didn't have a lot of money, so she crafted most of our clothes."
"That's nice, though."
"Aye, it was. I always liked the evenings where she would just knit quietly by the fire, wool pooled on her lap and needles clicking away as she made us scarves and sweaters and whatnot," he trails off for a moment, lost in memory. "And then when she died, well, the clothes she made us were all we had left of her really," he finishes quietly.
Emma thinks of her baby blanket, the soft woolen thing her mother made her and that had been her talisman all these years. Her anchor to a faraway family, the one thing that she's carried with her always. "I get it," she murmurs, curling her hand around his. "Do you still have them?"
His smile is sad. "Unfortunately, no. When…Liam and I were taken into service after our father left us, our master wasn't the kindest of men. Wanted us to focus on work, not cling to the ghosts of our past. So our belongings were promptly tossed overboard, including all of the things our mother had knitted. It broke my heart a little, to lose that last tie to her."
Emma's heart breaks a little too, for the sweet, young orphan boys and for the man who overcame several lifetimes of loss and heartache to find her.
"Anyway," he clears the emotion from his throat. "I know it's a wee ostentatious, but I'm honored she'd spend the time to make it for me. But I can—"
She stops him mid-sentence. "Killian. Wear it. It's great." She wraps her arms tightly around his shoulders, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, and just holds on, letting him know that she understands completely.
And suddenly an idea pops in her head.
.
.
.
"You want me…to teach you…how to knit," Granny says slowly, one eyebrow arching incredulously.
"Yes."
The older woman narrows her eyes, suspicion coloring her features. "Why?"
"Because I want to make something for Killian."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Does it matter? I just do," Emma clenches her teeth.
"Mmmhmm," Granny intones. "He's been wearing my sweater, hasn't he?" The older woman has the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to the truth. Well, more the nose of a wolf, Emma corrects to herself, but regardless. She always cuts right to the chase.
"Why did you make it for him?" the question pops out before she can stop it.
"I like the lad, even if he's silly enough to sneak rum from me and think I don't notice," Granny snorts, reaching back to grab the coffee pot to top of Emma's coffee. "A while back, it was slow and I was knitting here at the counter. He swaggers in, all sin and sass as per usual, but stops short when he sees the scarf I'm making. We get to talking, he mentions how his mother used to knit for him. So I made him the sweater. That's that. No big deal."
But they both know it is a big deal. Emma considers the old battleax for a moment before smiling. "I'm glad he has you in his corner, Granny."
"Well, I can never seem to resist taking in wayward souls," Granny replies, giving Emma her famous pointed look. A brass key flashes through Emma's mind. You enjoy your stay...Emma.
"So can you help me?"
Granny looks down at Emma's hands for a moment, surveying them with eagle eyes through the half-moon lenses of her glasses. "That remains to be seen. But I suppose I can try." Emma nods her gratitude, wrapping her scarf around her neck before heading for the door. "We'll see if you can do anything besides shoot a gun with those hands, Sheriff."
"Says the woman with the crossbow," she calls over her shoulder.
Granny's laughter follows her out of the diner.
.
.
.
Learning to knit is a nightmare and Emma curses and angrily shreds countless bungled attempts at creating anything that slightly resembles a piece of clothing. Granny just rolls her eyes and tells her that her mouth is becoming as filthy as her sailor boyfriend's and hands her more yarn.
This was a terrible idea.
.
.
.
It takes her nearly a year to make something she thinks is halfway decent, but the timing actually works out as Christmas approaches once more. It's been hard doing this on the sly, sneakily knitting in her sheriff's cruiser whenever she can carve out a free hour. Which, sadly, in this catastrophe of a town, isn't as often as she would like. But finally she finishes the simple hat and all but races to Granny's.
"Well?" Emma asks as they huddle in the small office behind the front desk of the inn, nervousness making her voice tight.
"It's not half bad," Granny says, examining the beanie closely. The black wool Emma used is soft and supple, and while her weaving leaves a lot to be desired, it's a hat. It's pretty well-shaped, and it holds together as Granny turns and tests it, stretching it this way and that.
"Do you think he'll like it?"
"Honey, you could wrap a turd in tinfoil and the man would cherish it," the older woman deadpans and Emma huffs out a reluctant laugh.
"That doesn't give me a whole lot of confidence in my knitting abilities."
Granny just rolls her eyes, hands her the hat back and shoos her on. "He'll love it. Now stop hanging around her and go give it to him."
.
.
.
It's silly how nervous she is.
It really is.
It's just Killian, for chrissake. The man who loves her beyond reason, every part of her, no matter what. As Granny said, he'd probably like anything she gave him. But she can't help it; her stomach is in knots because she wants this to be just right-she doesn't want to screw up a thing that is so important to him.
She doesn't put it under the tree on Christmas morning, but instead places it his pillow later that night after all the Christmas rituals have been completed and everyone departs for home. She slips into her favorite flannel pajamas as he brushes his teeth, and she lets out a deep breath and then joins him in the bathroom to brush her own, a practiced picture of nonchalance as he finishes up. He ducks to place a kiss on her shoulder before walking out, and she waits.
Silence.
Oh god.
She braces herself and turns back to the bedroom. His back is to her as he sits on his side of the bed, head bowed over his lap. Her wrapped package is no longer on the pillow, and she knows he's holding it. She forces herself to take a step, then another, until she's walking over to him. He's clutching the small bit of wool in his hand, thumb gently tracing the haphazardly woven pattern.
"Do you like it?" she bites her lip.
His eyes are wide when they meet hers, shock coloring his dark features. "Did you…make this? For me?"
"I did."
His eyes darken, and a slow smile settles on his lips, tipping the corner up and making his dimple flash. Her stomach swoops low as he looks at her, heart beating wildly in her chest. As always, he seems to sense her distress and doesn't ask her the whys and hows, just simply accepts the gift.
"Will you do the honors?" he holds out the hat. She blushes a bit, but takes it from him and pulls it onto his head, adjusting it to make sure it covers his ears. A wayward bit of inky hair escapes from the front, and he looks so boyish and adorable as he looks up at her that she has to blink back the hot sting of tears.
"Well? Will I do?" his grin is that shy one again, and she feels the tension begin to seep from her shoulders.
He likes it.
"As if you could look bad. But it looks great," she laughs as she cups his cheek, and she means it. How the man can look as perfect in modern clothes as he does in pirate ones, she'll never know. His eyes dance as he smiles up at her in his beanie, and then they grow serious as his hand reaches up to lightly grasp her hip and pull her closer.
"It's the best gift I've ever received, Emma. Truly." He wraps his arms fully around her, hugging her close to him, pressing his face into her flannel-covered stomach. "Thank you," his sincere words are muffled against her, and her body finally relaxes completely. She crawls onto his lap, straddling his hips as she hugs him back.
"Well, perhaps a bit of gratitude is in order now," she sits back a bit and teases after a long moment, tapping her lips with her forefinger, mimicking a time long ago in a jungle far away. She's laughing when he pounces, attacking her with lips and tongue, rolling her underneath him and whispering in explicit detail how he plans to show her just how grateful he is.
Maybe she'll try a scarf next year.