Let Your Heart Be Light
When Killian wakes up in the middle of the night and finds the bed beside him empty, he is immediately fully awake. He doesn't break into fits of panic any more nowadays when he doesn't know where she is, but he's neither calm enough to just roll over and drift back into his slumber again. So, he throws back the blanket and leaves the bed. He doesn't turn the light on – doesn't need to; tonight, there's a full moon bathing the bedroom in a silvery gleam, and the thought alone how its pale beams are reflected on the waves of the ocean eases his mind. Not that he's got much to weigh him down these days; it's been peaceful and quiet in Storybrooke for the last few months, fitting for the Christmas season.
Quietly, he descends the stairs on his bare feet and finds the spacious living room dimly lit by the lights on the huge Christmas tree and the faint glow of the dying flames in the fireplace. Emma is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, looking at the tree. This tree is much too big, even for their large living room, but she wanted it. Same as she wanted to load it with glass ornaments and lights, and every flat surface with decorations. He thinks he has an inkling why she wanted all of that so much, and of course her wish was his command.
He walks over to her and picks up a blanket from the couch on his way, draping it around her shoulders. In response, she smiles up to him. "What are you doing down here?" he asks softly. "It's cold." He motions to the dying fire and adds lightly: "Our bed is much warmer, especially when we're both in it."
Unusually for her, she does not roll her eyes at his remark but just nods. "Yeah." She turns her eyes to the enormous tree again. "I just wanted to..." She pauses and shrugs. "A quiet moment, you know? Having all this to myself." Killian nods in understanding and is contemplating to retreat back upstairs again to give her a bit of room, but she pats the floor beside her, inviting him to join her; and when has he ever denied her his company when she's asked for it? So, he sits down on the hard wood and is delighted to see that she's moving into him immediately and, most of all, naturally. He puts his right arm around her shoulder and shelters her from the coolness of the night air and whatever else she might need shelter from. So, they just sit there for a while, and the closeness is enough for both of them.
Being the perceptive man that he is, though, he soon feels her mood teetering on the verge of joy and melancholy, when he wants her heart to be light and joyful. So, he assumes a teasing tone. "You were hoping to get a glimpse of that pursy weird man in red, admit it," he quips and raises his eyebrow in mockery when she turns to him with her best really?-look. "Even for someone coming from a land with magic," he goes on, "it's weird to believe that someone dressed like that would jam himself into the chimney to..."
Emma swats his arm playfully. "Don't be such a spoilsport, pirate," she replies, though there's no real sharpness to her scolding. After a short pause she goes on in a pensive voice: "You know, it's a nice thing to believe in for a kid." She shrugs again, and his ears prick up, like always when she talks about childhood – her childhood. "That there's someone out there who doesn't care who you are or where you come from," she explains, not looking at him, "and who thinks of you at least once a year." Thoughtfully, she chews on her bottom lip when she falls silent. He doesn't answer, but obviously she doesn't expect him to. He understands that this is her way to make peace with another painful bit of her past, so he does the best he can and runs his fingertips up and down her arm in a soothing caress, all the same signalizing her that he's listening. Finally, she continues with a little sarcastic snort. "Until the day you realize... nope, not even an imaginary guy is thinking of you." She shrugs again. "Whatevs."
This is a bit too much melancholy for him. "Swan..."
"It's okay." She interrupts and turns to face him and smiles up at him. "I believe in other things now. Real things." The self-irony isn't lost on her. Three years ago she would have laughed at such a statement – real things like having fairytale characters as parents and friends, fighting ogres and witches, breaking curses and loving a legendary pirate with a hook for a hand. Said pirate smiles back at her with his eyes of the blue of the forget-me-not (Emma makes a mental note to ask him if he's ever met a man named James Matthew Barrie; she wouldn't be surprised) and brushes a kiss over her temple. She nudges her forehead against his scruffy jaw and murmurs: "I suppose there's not much Christmas spirit going on on a ship either, right?"
He hums deep in his throat. "Not much except for more graft if you're a cabin boy... especially if you're just someone else's... property." His smile fades a little, and now it's Emma's turn to provide comfort, at least sort of. She recalls his own words: wounds that are made when we're young tend to linger. She knows – roughly – what has happened to him and his brother when they were children, but they haven't talked about it in detail yet; it's all still too freshly been brought up in their shared time of darkness and the abyss of the Underworld they returned from only a few months ago. So, she just reaches for his hand that's still resting against her upper arm, finds his fingers and squeezes them; he replies with her own words from earlier, a reassuring tone in his voice: "It's okay. At least I had my brother who was thinking of me."
Emma holds her breath, wanting him to continue, to share one more bit of his past as she knows he's about to. His voice is far away now. "Liam always found a way to make it a little special," Killian goes on, and she smiles at the boyish delight in his eyes when he speaks about his brother, still his personal hero and idol. "I don't know how he did it, but he always had something for me." He furrows his brows, obviously trying to remember some of those special treats. "An extra slice of bread," he murmurs, and her heart goes out to him when she thinks of a poor enslaved child, suffering raw want. God knows she wasn't bedded on roses either, but she can't even begin to imagine what those years of servitude must have meant to Killian and his brother. "A clean pillow," he continues, and suddenly his eyes pop open and his whole face lights up. "Oh!" he exclaims. "But you know what's the best thing he ever gave me..." – the boyish joy in his otherwise so manly voice makes her turn her head again and look at him with an expectant smile. She loves when he recalls a happy memory of his earlier life – they are rare enough, just like hers. "That was a pair of shoelaces. Made of leather!" His eyes stare into the distance, back in time, and he tilts his head in awe when he remembers the smug twinkle in Liam's eyes. "To this day I don't know where he got them."
Emma listens to his tale in earnest fascination, and he closes his eyes, his fingers fidgeting against her upper arm when he tries to recall it against his fingertips, the feeling of the finest leather laces he's ever touched. "They were so soft yet firm, and they smelled like..." He stops in mid-sentence and hesitates when he opens his eyes again and sees her expectant smile. They smelled like Father, he wanted to say, but he feels that could add a little too much weight on the already slightly melancholic mood. So, he just finishes a little vaguely: "...like home."
She raises her eyebrow at him, but says nothing, and he has a feeling that she knows exactly what he wanted to say, but decides to leave it at that. He knows, sometimes he's an open book to her, too, and not because of her super power. Because she loves him. "You know," she says instead and motions to the Christmas tree and all the decorations she has – they have – put up, "I told myself I was doing all this for Henry. But it was for me."
He tightens his embrace. "I know," he murmurs into her hair.
"Somehow," she goes on, "this is the first time since I came to Storybrooke that I get to celebrate Christmas properly. So I thought I needed all this." She motions her head vaguely to the overly decorated room while Killian watches her quietly, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he sees the shine in her eyes and realizes it's a happy one. "But actually, I don't," she shrugs. "I have all I ever wished for."
He nods, her words music to his ears. "A family who loves you and a home," he confirms.
Emma shoots him a glare. "And you," she almost snaps. "Why do you always leave yourself out?"
When he smiles, his eyes are glittering brighter than all the lights of the Christmas tree. "But I didn't," he replies quietly, and she understands. Finally, he includes himself. Her family, her home – Killian Jones has finally realized he is part of it.
She laces her fingers through his and turns her head to the right, pressing a kiss on the back of his hand. "And if I had no one," she says almost solemnly and looks into his expectant eyes again, "I'd still have you."
Killian swallows, a thick lump in his throat, and his heart as light as he hasn't felt it in a long time when he answers: "And I you."