A/N: Just a little bit of holiday angst(?)/fluff because why not?
"Killian, do you want to come pick out a tree with me and Mom?" the tall, gangly, brown-haired teen asked, addressing his sort-of step-father.
"What?" he replied in confusion, having not been paying attention to a single thing, lost in the turbulent sea of his own thoughts.
"Um, we have this holiday, in December –" Emma started to explain, her hand resting on his knee as they sat on the couch, a bowl of popcorn perched on her lap so that both of her boys could reach it while they watched the movie.
"I know what Christmas is," Killian snapped back at her, and Emma recoiled from him like she had been burned. "I was born in this land, you forget."
Before she could say another word, he had stood from his place on the couch and walked away, and Emma heard the back door close a moment later. He walked through their yard, down the path that led to the water's edge, and he stood there for a long time, picking up small stones and throwing them, sometimes skipping them, into the water. He couldn't get his mind to stop spinning, no matter how hard he tried.
This had been the one thing he had loved about living in other realms – Neverland, the Enchanted Forest, none of them had this bloody holiday. He felt like a veritable scrooge, but he had never been able to get in the holiday spirit, not in many years at least. When he was a very small lad, Killian had loved Christmas, simple though their celebrations were. They only got one present each from "Santa", it was all they could afford, but his mum made the most fantastic roast, with mince pies and Yorkshire pudding, and custard for dessert. Sometimes, if it had been a good month, they would even get little crackers to pull apart, with paper crowns inside, and Killian would go to bed that night and dream of being a prince, of a house that wasn't cold and draughty, of fine tailored clothes instead of ill-fitting hand-me-downs, of more toys than he could count. Until the Christmas when it all went wrong. He was only six the Christmas that his mum had pneumonia, and she couldn't make the usual roast (hadn't been able to make dinner in weeks really), and instead of presents on Christmas morning, they had a funeral mass to arrange. There were no Christmas crackers that year, no tree, no mince pies, no Santa. There were tears, and hands squeezed, and raindrops that feel on bare heads and traced the already salty tracks down faces. And after that year, Killian hated Christmas.
"Hey." He jumped when Emma's voice softly broke his reverie, and he turned to see her walking toward him in her thick coat, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jeans.
"Hey," he echoed, feeling guilty for the way he had snapped at her earlier.
"I brought you a scarf," she said quietly, holding out the deep crimson piece of fabric as evidence. When she was close enough, she looped it gently around his neck, tucking it into his leather jacket. "Do you want to talk about what's been bothering you lately?"
He shuffled his feet a little and looked out over the water, trying to find the words to tell her everything he was feeling. He did want to talk to her, but it had been so long since he had told anyone, he couldn't really remember how to.
"Hey, Killian," she whispered, her voice as soft as a blanket, and she reached her hand up so her fingers could wipe away the tears he hadn't realized were falling from his eyes. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"It's just… I'm afraid I'm not much one for Christmas, Swan," he said, trying to pretend that he wasn't feeling quite as deeply as he was. He flashed her a weak smile that she didn't return. Instead, Emma pulled him down so they were sitting on the pebbled beach, taking his hand and hook in both her hands. He took a great big, shuddering sigh, and forced himself to start talking. "My mum died on Christmas Eve," he whispered, turning back to face the water so she wouldn't see just how much pain was in his eyes. "When I was a young lad, before my dad left us, and it's just… it's never felt the same since."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked him, not in accusation or hurt, but out of concern for him.
"Seems odd to say, hey by the way, this holiday that everyone loves so much is actually the anniversary of my mother's death, so maybe we could not do it?" he quipped, voice heavily laced with sarcasm.
"Killian…" Emma's voice was gentle as she placed her fingers on his chin and turned his face to look at her once more. "You don't have to deal with things alone. Ever. Not anymore. I know that you've been through so much, carried so much pain in your heart for so many years, but you don't have to do it alone. If you let me help you, if you let me bear the burden with you, it might not be so bad, it might not hurt so much."
"How?" he asked, the one word all he could manage at that moment, choked up with emotion as he was.
"Tell me about her, if you want," Emma suggested, shrugging her shoulders. "Tell me how to remind you of her in ways that make you happy, or tell me when it's getting to be too much and making you sad. Give my hand a squeeze when you're thinking about her, or Liam, and you don't want to talk, you just need support."
"You would do that?" he inquired, a little bit in awe of her.
"Killian, I love you," she answered, holding his hand tighter, "and besides, I think we've pretty much established that I'll do anything for you."
"Aye, Swan," he replied, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth for the first time that day. "I love you too," Killian mumbled against her lips, and the vibrations made her smile.
"For now, I'll tell Henry to chill out with the Christmas stuff," she told him before pressing her lips to his once more.
It was several minutes before their cold-reddened noses and chapped fingers prompted them to return to the warmth of the house and the movie they had been watching.