the way to the heart

Inspired by a couple things: Sometimes I like to text Sarah about my obsessive love of peanut butter, and this time we spun it out into a few headcanons. Also, I've got a pregnant friend coming over for lunch this weekend, so I've been thinking a lot about what pregnant ladies eat. And I just really love peanut butter.

Disclaimer: I know that there is some talk about peanut butter during the third trimester/breastfeeding and peanut allergies, but everything I read was inconclusive. And Emma's not in her third trimester in this story.

Emma's relationship with food is complicated at best.

She remembers the metric ton of French fries she ate when she was pregnant with Henry, hours spent dreaming about them in all of their shapes and sizes, and the kind cafeteria workers who made sure to give her extra (French fries are cheap and come in bulk, and giving a second helping to a pregnant teen was no big deal). So, the first time she has lunch with Henry in Storybrooke, and he helps her destroy a basket of cheesy fries – well, that is a moment she cherishes forever.

(It's not until later, during their year alone in New York, that she tells him and it becomes a running joke about how he's really part French fry, so whenever he demolishes his order and a healthy portion of her own at a restaurant, it makes them both smile.)

She won't touch hot dogs – too many of her dinners growing up were hot dogs, cut up and put in baked beans, in buns, or alone, with ketchup and maybe mustard, depending on the home. The brief stint with the foster parents who respected animals but not the kids living under their roof means she hates tofu and broccoli with the passion of a thousand burning suns. And she's pretty sure that she made a huge dent in her life expectancy purely based off the amount of ramen she ate in the twenties, the nineteen cent packets of noodles and seasoning getting her from paycheck to paycheck as she bounced from town to town, living in efficiencies with faulty stoves but working microwaves.

Emma is picky about what she eats. Her hot chocolate has to have cinnamon on it, and she's got a weakness for Honey Nut Cheerios that earns her Henry's constant teasing. She won't touch Fruit Loops (she still remembers the cigarette smoke hanging in the air of that foster home, the way that the oldest kid punched her when he found out she ate the last of the sugary sweet cereal, and the food turns to ash in her mouth). Too many tuna noodle casseroles and Hamburger Helper meals means that she's not a fan of either, even when stretched for cash.

But peanut butter – peanut butter is her eternal love. Cheap, readily available, and utterly delicious.

Besides grilled cheese, nearly every foster home had a container in the pantry. Sometimes there was jelly, and in rare cases a banana that her foster mom would add to her sandwich, on the rare occasion that she pack lunch for her to take to school (more often than not, she did that herself). Emma is not a stickler for detail like Killain, but she always made sure to cut off the edges carefully, because that's what the Swans did and she liked it like that. Even at a young age, she spent extra time dragging the knife through the white bread, carefully cutting off just the browned edges and feeding them to one of the dogs found in every single foster home she was ever in.

Even though she packed it herself, Emma would still pretend her mom did it for her. She tried not to think about the people who gave her up, but sometimes she did, wondering if it was because of her best chance or if it was like the other foster homes. In her mind, the woman making her sandwich had blonde hair and green eyes, and she would kiss Emma on the forehead before sending her out to catch the bus.

Years later, and with full knowledge that her mother has black hair, not blonde, the scent of a PB + J sandwich still sends her back to elementary school cafeterias, milk in tiny cartons and the way that those plastic lunchboxes seemed to keep the scent trapped inside, releasing it when she opened the clasp, allowing her to inhale and pretend, for a second, that there were people who loved her in the world.

Of course, now that she's pregnant, it's all that she wants.

…

There are nights when neither of them can sleep: Emma struggles because her mind keeps thinking about everything that still needs to be done, every improvement to bring Storybrooke into the twenty-first century, every potential warning sign for another future foe, and Killian…well, his reasons are his own. Those are the nights when they end up in each other's arms, her chin on his chest, his heartbeat loud in her ears.

Emma doesn't do intimacy well, and neither does Killian, but somehow they strike a balance. Judgments are never passed in those dark moments before the dawn, where whispered confessions and idle thoughts are treated with the respect and reverence they deserve (so much of this relationship is build on respect and trust that it's the one thing they can count on).

Tonight, it's Henry's impending fifteenth birthday that keeps Emma awake, and after she tells Killian about his birth (he is the first person to know the real story, not the fairy tale that Regina gave her years ago), she adds, "I don't know what I would have named him if I kept him. Not Henry, that's for sure."

"Is there something wrong with that name?" Killian asks, moving his left arm to draw her closer. Emma sighs, feeling guilty for even bringing this up, but she knows she can tell him anything and that thought pushes her onward.

"No…but I wonder what I would have called him. Maybe something popular at the time, like Cayden or Bryce." Her thoughts drift off, because it feels like treason, to speak so about the son she loves fiercely, who is sleeping just two doors away in his own room.

She hears Killian inhale, then exhale slowly. "I like Henry," he says, and she smiles.

"Of course you do," she responds, and he laughs, low and quiet in the darkness.

"No, I mean, I think it's a good name – a name a boy can grow into," he admits. "Not entirely sure about Bryce, however."

"Then what would you name a boy?" Emma asks, and the minute the words leave her mouth she feels anxious. This is new territory, talking about a future (they are always running from one bad guy to the next, one monster or villain or portal taking up a considerable amount of time) and thought of actually planning a happily ever after feels foreign to her.

Killian is silent for some time, and it makes her nervous, the way that the question spans the space between them, until he finally says, "I was always a bit fond of David…" trailing off and she swears she can see the smile on his face in the dark.

"Of course you would want to name a kid after my father," she says with a laugh, and she can feel Killian shrug as he pulls her closer. She knows that her father has become a close friend despite their rocky start, and so the choice of name is suspect (brown-nosing much?).

"Of course, the prince is a suitable choice to name a son after, but I do like the name." With his right hand, he traces the curve of her arm, thumb brushing against her skin and making her shiver just slightly at his touch.

"What about William?" Emma throws out, still slightly surprised at how he likes her father's name, and wondering if he's actually thought about it at all, or if he's just messing with her (it would so be like him to mess with her).

"That's Smee's first name," he points out, and she can practically hear the grimace in his voice. "It would go to the poor man's head if I were to name my son that."

Killian's words send a thrill through Emma that is equal parts excitement and dread. They haven't talked about kids, haven't really discussed what would happen if she did get pregnant (she's been off the pill but they're still using protection, just in case) but…the idea doesn't scare her like it would have days or months or years ago.

Instead, it just feels right.

…

Henry introduces Killian to peanut butter early on in his stay, explaining the health benefits and of course the (former) pirate captain adores it. She soon finds three different varieties (creamy-crunchy-natural) in her pantry, then five, then six, and then they keep expanding: peanut butter with dark chocolate, peanut butter with honey, peanut butter with a jelly swirl sit next to a run-of-the mill Jif (they avoid Peter Pan for obvious reasons).

When she asks him about it, he merely reminds her that he's just taking care of them, and that old habits die hard, and when she kisses him there is a faint hint of peanut butter on his lips from the toast he eats every morning.

And ever morning, when he makes his breakfast, he makes her toast with peanut butter as well.

It helps with the morning sickness. Sortof.

…

It's not like this pregnancy is unexpected, but it happened a lot faster than Emma thought it would. One minute, she's living her life, and the next she's running to the toilet, arms around her stomach, hoping against hope that this will be the last time today, that she'll keep her streak of not vomiting in a public restroom intact.

They had talked about kids, once or twice, never explicitly but she's seen the way he looks at Henry, remembered the way that he spoke kindly of having Neal on his ship. When she misses her period and takes the first pregnancy test (and then a second, because this shit isn't happening, it's too soon) all she can feel is relief - not because she won't have to do this alone, but because if Killian can love another man's soon as deeply as he has in the past, than she can't even imagine what it will be like for him to have a child of his own.

He's still sleeping when she exist the bathroom, one test in hand, the other on the bathroom counter, but he wakes instantly when the door creaks.

"This one's positive," she tells him, "and there's another on the bathroom counter." She hands the test to him, watching as he stares at the two lines with bleary eyes, frowning as he tries to understand just what she's showing him (she can't blame him, she really should have gotten the digital ones that just say YES or NO).

"What does this mean?" he asks, voice thick with sleep, and Emma fumbles with an explanation, "I'm pregnant" running into "it's still really early" and colliding with "we need to go to see the doctor" but he's smiling at her, reaching for her and pulling her back into bed.

He wraps his arms around her and tucks her head beneath his chin, and while he doesn't say anything else before drifting back of the sleep, the way that his hands linger on her stomach says more than any words might.

…

Henry takes the pregnancy in stride, his only comment something along the lines of being grossed out at the fat that the the two of them had sex, but she expected that much, to be honest. Killian looks almost nervous when they tell him, and she doesn't know why – the only thing the kid has ever wanted is a big family, and now he's got it in spades.

They don't decide to tell her parents right away, choosing to save it for themselves (and even though Henry knows, he loves a good surprise which makes it so much easier). What Emma doesn't anticipate is for her mother's roast to taste like garbage, for the smell of the carrots to be too much, and all that it takes is one look towards Killian and the news comes spilling out.

After the tears and the hugs, they go to Granny's where Emma orders a chocolate peanut butter shake and an order of cheesy fries. She takes her time eating, watching Killian try to stop Henry from stealing her fries, listening to the idle chatter of her parents and her two boys, and she can't stop smiling in spite of her crazy constant need to pee.

…

Emma knows it's an adjustment for Killian. She can tell by the way that he watches her eat (or avoid eating, pushing food around her plate because suddenly her stomach is way too full), the way that his forehead creases when she starts to keep crackers by the bed so she can eat them first thing in an effort to stave off the nausea. He always asks her how she's doing, and she tries to smile and tell him that she's fine, but it's harder and harder every day when her hormones are going haywire.

It's the pregnancy itself, the thought that nine months from now there will be a little kicking, screaming person in their world, that gives them both pause.

She knows when he's putting on a brave face (the upward tilt of his chin, the smile that doesn't meet his eyes) and she sees it, more often than not, after they find out they're pregnant when they're the only wants to know. She tries to ask him about it, but he tells her everything is fine, that he is happy, and changes the topic of conversation back to her.

She's been pregnant before, but this time is different. She's older, and her body is way less willing to accommodate her growing stomach than it was when she was seventeen. She finds herself in front of the mirror one morning, hands pressed against the slight bulge in her midsection that could be gas or just bloating, she's not really sure but it's there and making her pants feel more than a bit uncomfortable.

Emma hasn't ever worried about her weight –poverty and foster care took care of that for her – but there's something about the way that her jeans press against her stomach that makes her fret, even though she's more than aware of what's happening.

Killian catches her like that, studying herself from every angle, and he stops her with a hand on her hip, gently turning her body into his own. She glances over at the mirror and sees them together – how good they look, which means they're going to have a damn good-looking baby – and she can't help but smile.

"Much better," he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead, soothing his hand down her back between her shoulder blades. "You look lovely."

"I'm gaining weight," she blurts out, and he looks at her like this is not news (and it isn't, she's pregnant of course she's gaining weight).

"You're supposed to, love," he tells her, in the same tone of voice that he uses when he tells her that her magic is good and that she is powerful, and it does the trick: she takes a deep, shaky breath, and nods, feeling the tension slowly leave her body.

"You're right," she tells him, leaning into his touch. "You're right, I need to stop freaking out."

He's pulling her closer to him, hand resting on her small of her back, hips together, and she sighs at the contact (it's always like this with him, like a fire immediately in her very core when he touches her). He leans down, presses his forehead against her own.

"Are you okay with this?" she asks, hands finding his hips, keeping him against her. "Are you okay with – "

He kisses her thing, softly, a promise of things to come, before he answers.

"I won't lie, love – it's been quite a shock," he admits, but adds quickly, "and a good one. It'll be an adjustment period, that's all, and if anything, I'm quite adaptable."

"I know," she tells him, grateful that he's told her this, and she knows that there are still weeks and months to go, and that, eventually, they'll figure this out (together).

Before she can say anything else, his lips are on her neck, his hand on her hips, and she decides that there will be other times when she needs to worry about how her pants fit (but right now, pants are not required).

…

Between bouts of morning all day sickness and napping marathons, Killian does his best to take care of her. He never expresses it outright, preferring to do things quietly, but he makes sure that Henry is out of the apartment if she's sleeping, or that her favorite yogurt is constantly in the fridge, and if she turns up her nose while cooking dinner, then there's pizza en route, delivery in thirty minutes or less.

She sips at her hot chocolate, trying to curb the growing desire to empty the nonexistent contents of her stomach once more, before a bowl of Jell-O is placed in front of her (she'll hand it to him, this is one case when Jell-O definitely makes her feel better). Turning, she watches Killian in the kitchen, the way that he uses his fake hand to hold the plate steady while he spreads peanut butter across her slice of toast.

"What's going to happen when I go off peanut butter?" she asks, more than slightly fearful of waking up one morning with a severe aversion to the stuff that's made her life more than bearable for years. Killian shrugs his shoulders.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, love," he tells her, placing the plate in front of her, brushing her fingertips across her shoulder. She leans into the slight touch, appreciating the feel of him, the subtle ways that he soothes her. He knows her better than she knows herself sometimes - that much is true.

He sits down next to her at the table, watching her over the edge of his coffee as she picks at her food, eating slowly to quell the queasiness inside of her. She makes sure to eat some of the Jell-O before attempting the toast, watching him demolish his own piece as she takes off the crust, nibbles at the middle.

"Now you're just playing with your food," he points out, leaning back in his chair, and she shrugs. "Crumbs all over the table – bad form, love. Think of the example that you're setting for the little one."

"What are you going to do about it?" she asks him, mouth curling upwards in a smile, because he won't do anything about it (but she'd like to see him try).

He merely raises an eyebrow as he takes another sip of coffee, not at all amused by her bravado, and she can't blame him. She takes hour-long naps and can't keep breakfast down; she's hardly a threat to anyone or anything right now.

And then, just like always, the very thought sends a wave of nausea through her and she is sprinting to the bathroom. It's only when she's done that she hears his footsteps outside the door, and opens it to find him holding out a glass of water for her.

She doesn't say anything, just takes it, sipping from it carefully, watching as Killian takes a seat on the bathtub, quietly waiting for her to recover, his silent presence more than enough for her.

"It'll pass," she tells him. "We're at twelve weeks – it should end soon." She'd like to think that the books are right, and that this won't continue into the second trimester.

Killian gives her a sincere smile, says, "And if it doesn't, we'll work around it." He pauses. "After all, there's always peanut butter."

She doesn't finish her toast, choosing to take a shower instead of eat, and when she heads into the kitchen to grab some more yogurt and a granola bar, she finds that Killian has already made her lunch and left it on the counter. He's even scrawled her name like he's seen Regina do on Roland's lunches, and there's something about the action that makes her stomach flip-flop, and not from hormones.

It's not until she's at the station that she opens the bag, the smell of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich assaulting her already-sensitive nose and making her heart race (when she takes a bite, it tastes like love and like home, and she doesn't have to pretend that there's someone who loves her when she knows that there is).