A/N: …because I want to live in AU land for a little while surrounded by fluff, and I think all of you guys do as well. Mostly fluff with Christmas feels and a small touch of angst thrown in, but happy endings abound, I promise. As always, reviews, critiques and any support you want to give are appreciated. I intended for this to be much shorter than it was, but I'm pleased with how it turned out and I hope you are too.
On another note, I'm really loving the little universe I've created in my head for this one-shot, and I'm thinking about exploring it further, so if that sounds interesting, let me know.
There was a perfectly good explanation for why Emma was rolling her recently purchased, yet-to-have-been-sat-upon desk chair through her kitchen and onto the front porch that was laced with the first snowfall of winter, and while it would have been less embarrassing to blame it on a broken mechanism, poor décor choices, or even the fact that she no longer had a desk to go with it, the far more troubling motivation was the blue-eyed, shy-grin-giving altruist who would be arriving shortly to pick it up.
Since November she had gotten rid of an old bed frame that had been left in the cottage, several boxes of books, two kitchen stools, the table that went with said stools, her desk, enough clothing to fill the backseat of her Bug, and now the chair.
While she couldn't deny her frantic need to empty a house she had only recently started filling was a bit of a problem, it had started out honestly enough.
/
One look at the ornate, gilded bed frame the last owner had saddled her with was impetus enough to begin the search for a service that would come take the monstrosity off her hands, but because her cable and internet weren't due to be hooked up until the following week, Emma had found herself at the local library.
Her friend Belle had taken one look at the computer screen over her shoulder before disappearing, only to return a few moments later with a cream colored business card, the words Beanstalk Beginnings printed in dark green beside a wobbly rendering of a beanstalk reaching into the clouds.
Emma was only half listening to Belle as she fingered the rough card, her eyebrows coming together in confusion over the logo she was fairly certain had been masterminded by a five-year-old. It seemed a little unusual for a business owner to print a kid's drawing on the card that served as the first impression for their company.
She flipped the card over, and in conjunction with the bits and pieces she was managing to glean from Belle's hurried monologue, the picture in her head began to clear.
'Helping Kids Grow' was printed in neat text over the name Killian Jones, Director.
"Honestly, Emma, you can't go wrong. He's always on time, and all of the profits go straight to local afterschool programs that work directly with children in foster care."
It was an instinctual response, her fingers tightening against the card in her hand.
"Whenever I need to clear some shelf space for new arrivals, I always call Killian to pick up whichever books don't make the cut."
"As much as it pains you to lose any of them, I'm sure," Emma teased, hoping her overly bright tone would disguise the catch she felt in her throat and the slight tremble in her hand.
While Emma had made strides in coming to terms with her childhood over the past few years, it still wasn't something she spoke about freely with others, and Belle couldn't know the chord her easily given commentary had struck with her.
"I'll give him a call. Thanks, Belle."
Her intentions were innocent enough; she really did need to get rid of that hideous bed frame, and supporting a local non-profit that worked with orphans, well, there wasn't any part of Emma that could brush that aside, not anymore.
A few years ago, she would have tucked the business card into the back of a drawer and called a faceless company with a box truck to help her out rather than dial the number of a man who printed a child's drawing—one of the kids he worked with, she would bet—on his business card, a man who picked up used books and brought them to afterschool programs—a man who was invested. The old Emma would have never done that. It would have been too dangerous, hit too close to all of those old wounds she wasn't prepared to face reminders of, but over the past few years, Emma had changed.
Buying the cottage along the sound had only been the latest and largest step in trying to build a life for herself—a real life, something worthwhile, something less transient than empty apartments that were witnesses to an endless parade of takeaway containers and lonely nights. She wanted a life with friends, a community, a life with knick-knacks that made her smile and a welcome mat on the front porch.
Calling Killian Jones was simply one more small step in her refusal to run from her past and the happy ending she was trying to scrape from it.
Emma wasn't one to force expectations on reality, but while she waited for the director of Beanstalk Beginnings to arrive for her donation of one incredibly ostentatious bed, she found herself wondering what he was like. She imagined a middle-aged man with a kind smile and easy demeanor—someone who looked like a dad—perhaps someone who would stir aching memories of her own childhood as he thanked her for choosing to donate.
That's what she'd been prepared for.
As a maroon and cream colored truck backed down her driveway, the driver's side door swinging open as soon as it stopped, she realized she hadn't been prepared for Killian Jones.
He was walking sin wrapped in leather and black jeans, strands of dark hair falling into eyes so blue they couldn't possibly be real, a strong jawline shadowed by rough stubble. She headed down the porch to introduce herself, and if she tripped slightly on the steps, it could definitely be blamed on the fact that the cottage was still new to her.
He stepped forward to shake her hand as they met at the back of his pickup, his lips parting in a friendly smile as his hand, somehow still radiating warmth despite the frayed work glove, met hers.
She could admit it to herself, even if she would never say it out loud, but Emma had no idea what his first words to her were. Her mind was far too preoccupied with the brilliant flash of white that lit up his face when he smiled, immediately softening his chiseled, dark features. On top of that, her brain was too busy trying to understand why the palm of her hand tingled hotly as she gripped his gloved fingers.
She offered to help him load the various parts of the bed frame into his truck, but he brushed aside the suggestion with a strained smile and kind words, assuring her that he would manage just fine and should be out of her way shortly. She wouldn't deny the slight twinge of regret she felt at having dismantled whatever pieces weren't in need of a method more persuasive than her drill beforehand, having made the job that much faster.
They exchanged small talk as she leaned against the railing of her porch and watched him work, trading stories about how they each met Belle for the first time. Emma had struck up a friendship with her when she was in desperate need of locating a criminology textbook she had used weeks earlier, but had neglected to gather the proper source material from, and Killian had introduced himself to her when he was hanging flyers for Beanstalk Beginnings on the library's cork board.
She enquired about his company, listening intently as he told her about the small shop he ran in town reselling secondhand furniture and goods. It was impossible to miss the lightness in his step and voice as he spoke of the local programs he partnered with, programs that extended the school day for kids in need, providing a few more hours and an early dinner in an environment that was safe and encouraging.
He turned towards her then, perhaps to explain why he felt such a thing was so important, but the look on her face stilled him, and in that instant Emma saw the same thing in his eyes that she knew he saw in hers, her grip on the railing white knuckled. Two people that understood loss, that understood abandonment. Two people that truly knew what those few extra hours and a fresh meal meant to some kids.
He didn't say anything, merely offered her a knowing look, and she was grateful. Even though she'd moved past all of the hurt and uncertainty from those years spent in the system, it didn't mean remembering was any easier.
When she found four heavy boxes of books tucked into the attic crawlspace a week later, her thoughts immediately returned to Killian, though if she were being honest with herself, they'd found their way back to him more than once over the past week without much prompting. A quick message left on the answering machine for his shop secured a pickup the next evening.
Emma had somehow managed to spill the last of her coffee from Granny's down the front of her sweater only seconds after Killian had arrived, and after a muttered curse, retreated inside to dab at the growing stain. She watched him approach the rather large boxes through the kitchen window—it had taken her the better part of two hours to get all of the books from the attic to the driveway, carrying small stacks and replacing them in the boxes she'd left waiting outside.
That's when she noticed his hand.
Both hands were still covered by the same work gloves she'd seen him wearing the week before, but it was the way in which he used his left hand, or rather, didn't use his left hand, that drew her attention and taught her something more about Killian Jones.
Pausing in her attempt at stain removal—the sweater was probably shot, anyways—she watched discreetly as he used his right hand to tip the boxes, shifting the weight so that he could slide his left forearm under the upper corner, then using his right hand again, he gripped the side of the box and lifted, keeping his left arm firmly beneath it for support as he traversed the few feet to the back of the truck. She paid closer attention as he tended to the rest of the boxes, each time going through the same process, noticing that he never once actually used or unbent his left hand.
He couldn't.
Emma was never one to dwell on the wounds or hardships of others, having had more than enough of her own, she understood that not everyone wanted their struggles acknowledged. It had taken her years to finally crawl past her own trail of damages, and she knew how incredibly difficult that work could be.
Regardless of what had happened, because she realized that to her, it didn't matter at all, she was glad to see that Killian had somehow done the same. If anything was clear to her, it was that he genuinely loved what he was doing with his life, and he wasn't going to let having a bum hand get in his way.
Emma respected the hard climb he had probably made to get to that point more than most people would ever be able to.
She had made a similar climb herself.
By the time she made it back outside, the coffee stain had spread to ridiculous proportions. In fact, she was positive she had somehow made it worse. Killian had to hurry off to another pickup where one of his volunteers was waiting to help him get a dining room table, so they only spent a few minutes chatting before he waved goodbye and headed back up the driveway, his truck sputtering in protest as it went.
It was at that moment that Emma realized there was more than the basic law of attraction drawing her to him—the general law stating that tall, dark, handsome, and unapologetically charming were physically impossible to resist. It was the way his smile reached a little further when he met her eyes, the way he leaned toward her when they spoke, like there was something magnetic between them. It was the way her heart sped up every time she saw his truck. It was the way he gave her a time for a pickup, and was always there five minutes before. It was the way he had lingered over making sure the boxes were secure in the bed of his truck before closing the gate, wanting to wait for her to come back out before he headed off to his next appointment.
The fact that he had chosen not to see anything about himself as a shortcoming, especially something that most people would dismiss as exactly that, well, that was just more proof that he was someone worth knowing—worth taking the time to understand.
The next time Emma called was just a few days after he'd picked up the books.
Every morning she found herself rushing out of the cottage, whatever textbook her current class demanded in one hand, car keys in the other. She didn't have to rush, but she liked the routine of squeezing in some studying over a hot cocoa and eggs with bacon at Granny's before she headed to the garage for work. It wasn't that she was lonely. She got plenty of socialization as she scheduled appointments and helped with the occasional oil change, but there was something about eating breakfast in the diner, listening to the low hum of conversations around as she studied that relaxed her and made the day go that much faster.
It didn't hurt that Granny always gave her an extra dollop of whipped cream.
One morning she'd woken a half-hour earlier than normal, and rather than rushing through the kitchen, she actually stopped and took notice of the two red-topped kitchen stools huddled beneath a wooden table that folded down from the wall. It was meant to be a breakfast nook for the tiny cottage, a place to sit and relax, to enjoy an early morning coffee over the newspaper.
Emma didn't make coffee, certainly not after the first attempt that resulted in a layer of sludge at the bottom of her mug. Nope. She was far more likely to reheat coffee she'd picked up from Granny's on the way home than risk brewing her own, and she had no interest in reading the newspaper.
She couldn't deny that there was an appeal to the idea of lingering over a meal and conversation, it was, after all, what she enjoyed about eating at the diner, even though the conversations were not her own, but it was never something that had been a part of this life, the life that lie between four walls she called her own.
She really didn't need those stools, or the table for that fact. There was no one here but her.
Surely there was someone out there with passable coffee-brewing skills and a yearning for local news that would appreciate them more than she did.
Killian stopped by Saturday morning to pick up the table and stools, and though Emma had been waiting on the front porch for him, wrapped in a thick sweater to ward off the chill, the book spread across her lap had stolen her attention to the point that she heard neither the noisy approach of his truck, nor the staccato of his boots as he climbed the steps.
"What exactly is that, Swan?" he queried, an eyebrow arching upward as he gestured toward the table lying flat on the porch behind her, the supports that held it to the wall sticking up oddly.
"It's a table," she supplied, her lips lingering on the edge of a smile, as if he hadn't just asked a perfectly reasonable question. It was a rather odd table. "I thought you might like it and the stools for your shop."
Killian climbed the last step and moved past her, hunkering down to examine the smooth piece of honey colored wood, his fingers running over the carefully rounded edges before gliding across the large, hinging brackets and complicated locking mechanism that had connected it to the wall. Peeling specks of white paint still clung to some of the metal edges.
"Did this—did you take this off the wall?"
"I did," she announced, unable to help the anticipation blooming in her chest at the chance to tease him a bit, to prod the nature of their encounters from friendly to something more—to something hopeful that she had been unable to keep herself from falling towards. "Why? Didn't think a woman could handle power tools?"
She had thought her tone was light, openly teasing, perhaps verging on flirtatious considering she'd thrown in the phrase 'power tools', and it wasn't until after she'd said it that she saw his hand freeze in its inspection of the table, his shoulders tensing beneath the leather jacket he wore over his button downs.
It was only seconds, but it seemed like hours as the air stilled between them, and then she noticed his hand again. He hadn't worn his gloves today, though his left hand was still hidden from her view, tucked as it was onto his lap and obscured by the curve of his back as he knelt.
Her mouth was open because she wanted to say something, only she didn't know what, and then he was rising—stiffly, and when he turned to face her, she could see the regret and tension held in the firm press of his lips.
Shit. She was so terrible at this—at flirting. It had been so long since she'd even wanted to bother trying, and clearly she hadn't done it properly. He thought had had genuinely offended her.
"Emma—"
"Killian—"
They both started talking at the same time, but she wasn't about to let him go first, not when he was surely going to be a gentleman and apologize for something he shouldn't have to.
"I was teasing you, Killian," she insisted, looking up at him and sliding the book from her lap so she could stand up, her hands pressing against the cold deck and propelling her upward.
He ducked his head, the angle and sway of his tousled hair obscuring his eyes, but not the tentative curve to his lips as he smiled, his fingers inching upwards to itch behind his ear.
She was drawn once again to the long, capable breadth of his hand, his knuckles rough, the tips of his fingers calloused and only just visible as they slid through dark strands of hair, scratching at an ear that was only becoming a brighter shade of pink the longer he stared at the porch. Her eyes flickered briefly to his other arm, and she could see the hint of a simple prosthetic peeking out from behind his back, his arm angled to hide it behind the leather of his jacket.
It was a tactic she was familiar with, though she had been hiding something else all those years.
Not anymore, she decided.
The first two times she'd seen him, he'd worn gloves. She was more certain now than ever that it was something he always did when he was making pickups, one more layer of protection from prying questions and pity, but this time, he hadn't. This time he was bearing his scars for her to see, and she thought it might just be because he didn't want secrets between them. Maybe he was just as aware as she was of this constant pull she felt towards him, and it made her feel even worse for having marred the natural harmony between them, even if it had only been for an instant.
Suddenly she wanted to show him something of herself as well, and she made the decision just as he was bringing his gaze up to meet hers.
Turning away from him, she made her way toward the front door, her right hand catching the fingers of his prosthetic as she passed and giving a gentle tug. She paused just long enough to adjust for his momentary surprise and to let him see that she knew.
She knew, and she didn't care.
"Come on," she said, easing the screen door open and tugging him inside. "I forgot that I have one more piece for that."
She may not have any physical scars as he did, something left bare and raw for the world to see, but she knew the scars she did have would be just as visible to him as his was to her. She wasn't sure if it had to do with his non-profit, or perhaps the fact that she sensed a kindred spirit in him, but she knew that she would be an open book to him.
He worked with orphans, and if her intuition was right, as it so often was, he knew something of abandonment as well.
He would see her wounds in the bare shelves, the photo frames that held landscapes instead of family members, the open cupboards that held two of everything instead of six. Her scars were painted in the emptiness, the sum of her past, and he would understand.
There was no resistance as she led him into her home, and she let out a trembling breath she didn't know she was holding. He was the first person she had ever welcomed through that door. She led him past the sparse cupboards, the empty counters, the single cactus whose pot bore the name Spike in scrawling, black letters. She stopped at the edge of the counter where the table had been only last night and held his prosthetic for a few seconds longer than they held one another's gaze, a confident smile on her face that she hoped would sooth his more hesitant version.
"This is where the table connected," she pointed out, tucking her blonde curls behind her ears as she inclined her head towards the newly bare wall, several lines of holes marking where the table had been. "I thought it would be useful for you to see how it hung."
"Aye, that it is, Swan," he murmured, his eyes holding hers until he knelt down and dragged a finger from the base of the floor to the topmost hole in the sheetrock, as if he wished he could measure the distance. "It will be helpful to be able to explain how it attaches to those who enquire as much."
"I can measure those for you too," she offered, "so you can tell them about how high to hang it. I probably should have done that before I took it down."
"That's not your concern, Emma. I just appreciate you donating it to begin with."
"Still…well, let me grab you that last piece. It's a rubber buffer that keeps the tabletop from hitting the wall."
She turned away from him and headed upstairs to the bathroom, remembering that she had washed the rubber piece the night before when she discovered it was sticky with forgotten layers of breakfast, no doubt from grubby little hands. Her fluttering pulse calmed slightly as she walked upstairs, the tension from earlier gone, Killian's voice back to its usual light and charismatic rhythm. When she came back down Killian was turned away from her and she suppressed a smile as she watched him sit Spike back on the counter. She was enormously happy to see that he hadn't wandered back outside without her.
When they both stepped back outside together, Emma had taken her seat at the top of the stairs, her book held unopened in her lap. She told herself it was because it was probably one of the last beautiful days in December, and she could use some more vitamin D, but really it was because she liked to watch him while he was there.
Killian loaded up the last stool and shut the gate to his pickup, wincing as it creaked ominously before turning to go with a wave. They'd said their goodbyes at her door a few minutes earlier, her brushing one last touch against the crook of his maimed arm, and him giving her a hopeful smile that made her knees weak.
Emma waved back and opened her book to a chapter she'd already gone over, knowing full well that she wouldn't bother looking at it until after his truck had disappeared from view, so when he stopped and called her name, she wasn't surprised.
"Yeah?" she called back, leaning her head against the column beside the steps as she watched him take one tentative step back in her direction, his hand still resting on the door handle.
"I've a question, Swan, if you don't mind."
"Go ahead."
"Why get rid of it, the kitchen table?"
"I actually really like the table, Killian. I just—"
Her voice caught in her throat for an instant, and she didn't understand why the words were hard to say, especially after she had just invited him into her home so he could see how alone she really was.
"—I've never had much of a reason to eat meals at home."
He simply nodded at her, his lips pressed into a sad, knowing smile.
If she had said that to anyone else—and it just occurred to her that was why the words had been difficult, because she never had—the smile would have been one of pity, but with Killian, it was simply understanding.
"I'll be seeing you soon then, Swan," he called, the smile he gave her now a knowing smile of an entirely different sort, and Emma couldn't help the answering smirk on her face as he ducked into the cab of his truck and started off.
She was most definitely going to be seeing Killian Jones again. Her cottage was starting to feel like it held quite a few things she didn't need, but more importantly than that, that perhaps it was missing the one thing she did.
She wasn't surprised when a few days later she dialed the number for Killian's shop without even glancing at the card, and judging by the ridiculously pleased tone of his voice, he was expecting her call.
There was a desk she wanted to donate, and could he come by sometime in the next week to pick it up?
"Just a desk, Swan?" he'd enquired when he eyed the modern glass and metal affair sitting on her porch. "Nothing else, then?"
Just a desk.
He didn't move it to his truck right away, instead eying her as if he knew some deep, dark secret, his laughing blue eyes holding the green of her own as he pulled open the center drawer and looked inside.
Surprisingly, there was only the faintest tinge of pink coloring her cheeks when Killian pulled out the assembly manual and a rather recent looking purchase receipt.
"Shoddy construction," she supplied, shrugging her shoulders and internally blaming the flush creeping further across her face on the cold weather.
"Perhaps that has something to do with this, love?"
The pink tinge deepened to a burning red as he dangled a plastic baggie containing a handful of screws in front of her, the side of it clearly labeled 'WTF?'.
She would have to learn to be less organized.
Meanwhile, the sheer joy of having bested her had Killian doing his best Cheshire Cat impression, and while she was slightly embarrassed, she couldn't have been happier.
That was the first time he stayed, the both of them sitting together on the front steps for far longer than it had taken him to load the desk, Emma steadying the back end as he situated it and gathered moving blankets to wrap around the glass.
She didn't know how long they sat there. She didn't want to think of it in terms of minutes, or hours, because time had limits and boundaries that she didn't want to apply to the two of them. The notion of it felt all wrong, as if they were supposed to exist in some bubble outside of all of it, so for those moments while they sat, their hands occasionally wandering to one another as they teased and shared pieces of themselves, she was perfectly content to pretend that they did.
The next time she called his shop he answered on the first ring, and for a second the smooth lilt of his voice calling her name made her forget what exactly she had called about it the first place. When it finally came back to her and he answered, she couldn't quite hide the disappointment in her response when he said that he didn't accept clothing at the shop. She was sure he had picked up on it because after only a brief silence he offered to come out and pick the boxes up regardless, citing a need to stop by the local convent with a few items of his own for the local clothing drive.
She was about to tell him not to worry about making the trip out, that she was more than capable of running to the convent herself, but then she heard the hopeful upturn at the end of his offer, and she understood that he wanted to see her just as much as she wanted him to be there—which had been enough to fill a few boxes with clothing she wasn't quite certain she wouldn't need at some point during the upcoming winter.
When he pulled into the driveway, he didn't seem surprised to find her waiting and dressed for the weather, leather jacket, hat, boots, and scarf, the cottage locked up behind her and the boxes of clothing at her feet.
When he opened the passenger door for her and she saw the familiar takeaway bag from Granny's, the enticing aroma of grilled cheese and onion rings filling the cab, she didn't seem surprised either.
If the stop to eat dinner at the docks along the sound made the trip seem more like an impromptu date than a friendly run to the clothing drive, neither of them minded, both of them far too preoccupied with enjoying the flow of conversation and laughter that ran so easily between them. If there had been any doubt left lingering between them at the end of the night, the chaste kiss he pressed to the corner of her lips and the soft caress of her fingers against his cheek scattered it into the cool darkness of the night, leaving nothing but certainty and anticipation blooming in each of them as they parted.
When Killian's truck disappeared around the curve of her driveway that evening, Emma was already tallying the furniture left in her cottage and what had to go next.
/
Emma leaned forward as the chair spun freely on the empty porch, breathless laughter spilling from her lips as she tucked her feet more tightly against the base, reveling in the sensation of the world spinning wildly around her. She hadn't done this since she was a kid, and she'd been unable to resist the temptation as she waited for Killian. It made sense to sit in the chair at least once before she gave it away.
Her laughter faded into slow inhalations as the chair came slowly to a stop, her lungs burning as she sucked in the winter air. Once the world around her slowed, her eyes caught the still empty driveway, and despite the slight dizziness that still clung to her, she found herself standing, wanting to check the time.
Opening the door and popping her head back into the kitchen, she checked the clock on the microwave and relaxed. Killian had said five-thirty, and it was still ten minutes till. He was always early, which meant he still had five minutes to be on time. Snagging a fleece from the hook by the door, she wrapped it around her shoulders and returned to the porch, leaning over the railing and watching for the familiar sight of his truck coming down the driveway.
As always, he arrived with five minutes to spare, pulling his truck to a stop and crossing the distance between the driveway and the steps in a few long strides.
Emma couldn't help the purring satisfaction that coursed through her body when he came to a rough stop, something akin to lust and awe evident in the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the absentminded sweep of his fingers across his lips as he took in the sight of her cheeks reddened from the icy weather, blonde curls wild and wind-blown around her face, her green eyes alight with something fiery and beckoning.
A plume of insatiable need unfurled in her stomach, and she watched with anticipation as the carefree smile he'd worn getting out of his truck shifted to something far more dark and needy, his tongue running along the edge of his lip as he climbed the steps, his blue eyes locked on hers. He climbed with purpose, sparing only the most cursory glance for the chair as he moved to stand in front of her.
"Well, that's a plausible excuse for calling me, love," he whispered, inclining his head toward the chair as he lessened the distance between them, his fingers rising to gently brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "but next time, don't stand on ceremony."
His voice was low and rough, as if his brain were only just remembering how to string words together, and the raw desire she could feel behind them triggered some primal thing in her to twinge pleasantly. She loved that the sight of her could do this to him. She loved that he did this to her.
"I really did need to get rid of this, Killian," she teased, but she didn't pull away from his touch or the sudden urgency of his gaze. Instead, she stepped forward, tilting her head upward so their breath mingled between them in the cool night air, her fingers tracing the firm planes of his jaw. "If you recall, I don't have a desk anymore."
His hand left the side of her head and moved to the pink, chilled skin of her cheek, his fingertips brushing the dark sweep of her lashes as she let her eyes flutter closed, simply enjoying the fire that his touch ignited beneath her skin.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her carefully, his lips pressed into an uncertain smile.
"Emma, I hope you realize that you can call me for reasons other than furniture removal. In fact, I think I would like very much if you did."
"Maybe I would do that if I had your cell number," she pointed out, stretching her arms out over his shoulders so that her fingers linked behind his head.
"You have my personal number."
"The number from your business card is your private line?"
"Don't look so shocked, love. I don't think it will surprise you to hear that my shop—my work for the kids—it's been the entirety of my life for quite some time. There isn't anyone that calls me in a personal capacity, at least, there hasn't been…I was hoping that—"
It was a sentence he didn't get to finish, her lips moving forward to capture his roughly, her hands sliding down his chest and knotting in the leather of his jacket as she dragged him against her, her tongue sweeping his lips open as he began to respond in kind, his hand curling into her hair as he tilted her head to the side, exploring the delicious heat of her mouth with tongue and teeth.
She wasn't aware of time passing, her only concern the hot clash of his mouth against hers, the firm press of his arm at her back, his fingers twisting in her hair and urging her closer and then drawing her back, his mouth gliding lower to skim the taut flesh of her neck, his breath warming her skin as he moaned against her.
"Emma," he whispered brokenly, sounding as utterly wrecked as she felt, his fingers threading through her curls as his arm trembled slightly at her back.
"Come inside, Killian," she plead, her words muffled in his mop of dark hair. "Come inside."
"Bloody hell, I can't. Emma, I can't."
"Why?" she asked, stepping back slightly, not because she was confused, or hurt, but because she wanted to see his face while he held her, while his hand stroked her hair so lovingly.
"Only because I have one last pick up, and I can't simply not show up after scheduling the sodding thing. It would be bad form, love."
"Yeah, you can't—"
"I'll come back though—he's on the way to the shop, so it won't take more than a few minutes. I can be here at seven sharp. Let me take you out to dinner, Emma?"
"Yeah," she said. "Okay."
She wanted to say more, but her face hurt too much from the stupid grin that was spreading across it, and she didn't think she could bend her mouth to form the words she was thinking.
"I'll see you at seven, Swan," he said, placing a kiss to her forehead, and it pleased her to no end that she could feel the smile behind it.
She watched as he lifted the chair easily and carried it down the steps to the back of his truck, pulling a tarp over it to protect it from the light snow that was falling. She watched as he ducked into the cab with one last unbelieving smile sent in her direction, and she watched his taillights fade around the curve of her driveway.
Seven came and went.
Emma paced through the kitchen, the curls she had spent a half hour perfecting tangled against her shoulders as she ran her fingers through them, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, red and bruised, her green eyes staring out the window and into the darkness, waiting for headlights.
Waiting for Killian.
According to her microwave he was twenty minutes late, but what did microwaves really know, anyways? It had never really been that reliable when it came to heating things, perhaps it was just as lousy when it came to timekeeping.
She tried not to think about how the weather had worsened, how she'd stepped out onto the porch at seven expecting he would be coming around the bend of her driveway any second, but had almost slipped on the wet snow that was coming down and quickly freezing to the wood. She tried not to think of his sputtering, old truck with tires verging on bald.
Instead she thought about how carefully he drove, especially when he was moving furniture to the shop. She thought about how silly it was to be panicked because someone was twenty minutes late. Being late happened, it was a fact of life. Weather slowed traffic, old people that couldn't see over the steering wheel slowed traffic. Just because Killian had never been anything but early in the two months she'd know him, that didn't mean he wasn't going to be late once in a while. Late, but completely safe.
It didn't occur to her that someone might say it wasn't normal to be so distraught over a man that she'd only just met, so worried that she could feel the panic attack creeping up on her, because nothing about Killian had ever felt normal. Every moment with him always seemed charged with something deep and primal. More than once, as he'd finished her thoughts out loud, or read her fears as if she'd carved them on her skin for him to read, she could have sworn they'd known each other in some other life. No, nothing about she and Killian had ever been normal, and she wasn't afraid of that.
She wanted to embrace it.
She debated on calling him now that she knew she had his cell number, but was hesitant to distract him if he was still driving and the roads were bad. Perhaps his last pickup had taken longer than anticipated. It wouldn't be the first time someone had said 'end table' only for Killian to show up and find a marble topped coffee table he couldn't possibly move without Will.
She thought about all of the perfectly good explanations for why seven came and went without Killian at her door, and when those weren't enough, she shut herself in the bathroom and just counted breaths, focusing on the belief that before she got to one hundred, she would hear him knocking at the door.
She got to thirty-eight.
She didn't remember the steps between the bathroom and flinging wide the front door, couldn't fathom how her legs had actually carried her there.
"Emma—gods, love, what's wrong?"
She didn't have any words. In fact, she was fairly certain her heart had only just started beating again.
The warmth of his hand against her cheek was the physical link she needed, and her hand slid from the door as he stepped inside and brought his other arm up to calm her, both his hand and his prosthetic cupping her face.
She let out a tremulous breath, knowing that her face was as white as the snow outside, that her eyes had been wide and full of something terrifying when she opened the door, that her lip was swollen and her hands trembling, and of course he would have noticed it all. He was Killian, and she was an open book to him.
"What's happened, love?"
"It's silly," she mumbled, her eyes studying the deep blue of his gaze, the planes of his face as she spoke, wanting to memorize this image of him at her door, a reminder that he was there, that he was safe. "You said seven, and then…you weren't. You've never been late, Killian, not once, and I knew it was icy out."
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and raised her hand to his, folding her fingers around his.
"I just got worried. I know it's stupid, I know, but with you everything is just…"
She let her words fade, not sure how to express in a simple word what she was feeling, how every moment spent with him seemed rich, more colorful, somehow beyond any experience she could have had before she knew him. She should have known better—the two of them, they'd always been on the same page.
"More," he whispered, completely her sentence with exactly the word she needed. "Everything with you is somehow just more, Emma. I know. I understand, love, and it's not stupid. I can't imagine worrying over you like that. I'm so sorry I was late."
"What happened?" she asked, finally pulling him inside and closing the door behind him, reaching her hands up to brush the wet snow out of his windswept flop of hair.
"It was actually—"
He cut his words and the quick motion he had made toward the door, stilling and turning back to her with a nervous smile on his face.
"Do you know what day it is, love?"
"What day it is?" she echoed, momentarily confused. "It's…well, I guess it's probably…"
She hadn't been paying much attention to the date, one fairly common consequence of being raised in the system being a general apathy toward the more family-oriented holidays. As such, December tended to pass in a blur for her, but if he was asking with that look on his face, she had an idea.
"Christmas Eve?" she guessed, her eyebrows raised hopefully.
"Christmas Eve," he repeated, his expression still anxious as he watched her.
"What does Christmas Eve have to do with you being late?"
"Well, my last pickup was at Dr. Hopper's in town. He's a pleasant enough fellow, and he's donated quite a bit to the programs I partner with in the past. Anyways, when I stopped by his office on my way back to the shop, I found out that the pickup was actually because he had gotten something for me. Holiday cheer, and all."
Killian took a step backward, his eyes locked on hers even as he turned the knob on the door and eased it open. Emma's questioning gaze followed as he motioned for her to look outside, and unable to suppress the curious smile forming on her face, she leaned against him and peered out.
Sitting on her porch was a four-foot-tall Christmas tree in a pot.
"Why did Dr. Hopper get you a tree?"
"I suppose you could say I've a bit of a reputation among the townsfolk, Emma, at least when it comes to Christmas. I'll be the first to admit that the past several years the extent of my traditions have been closing down the shop and keeping to myself. Perhaps Dr. Hopper noticed that for the first time in years I've not shut myself in my apartment for the entire week and this was his way of encouraging my reformed behavior."
"Why did you bring it here?" she asked, already knowing the answer, but unable to take her eyes off the green, prickly monstrosity that represented so many unfulfilled hopes.
"Well, besides the fact that it seemed about time I brought something for you, since I've clearly emptied your house of all but the most basic necessities—"
"That's not true! There's still a plant stand upstairs that is completely inessential," she grumbled.
"I'm sure it was next on your list, love, but if I'm being honest, Emma, the reason why I brought it here is because you're the reason I'm not locked in my apartment with a bottle of rum. You're the reason Christmas suddenly seemed like something I might not only get through this year, but something I might enjoy, and I wanted to share that with you."
"Killian," she whispered, her gaze slipping from the tree up to his face as she turned against him, pressing her hands to his chest and placing a delicate kiss to his lips. "Thank you."
"I was also hoping…I was hoping you'd allow me to decorate it with you."
Emma followed Killian's suddenly shy gaze to a small box sitting on the opposite side of the screen door.
"That box is the reason why I was late. I stopped back at my apartment to pick up some ornaments. I know this was forward of me, Emma. We've only known each other for a short while, but for the first time in years, I feel like maybe this holiday means something..."
"Something more than it has in a long time?"
"Aye."
/
Emma doesn't tear up when Killian walks the Christmas tree into her living room and sits it in front of the big picture window, but she does laugh when he brings the rickety plant stand down from upstairs with the hopes he can convince Emma to keep something. Needless to say, one attempt at using it cements the Christmas tree's place on the floor. She notices for the first time that there is a strand of white lights wrapped around its branches, and she can't help the familiar sensation of tears starting when Killian plugs it into the wall and beams at her.
She teases that it can hardly be considered a proper Christmas tree without a fancy tree skirt for the presents, and there is only a small pang of longing in her chest as she remembers all of those past years where she asked for nothing but a family and never got one, but all of that is swept away when he spreads his leather jacket around the base of the pot with a shameless grin, and she laughs so hard that fighting the tears is becoming close to impossible.
She loses the battle entirely when he opens the box he brought with him and she sees the ornaments. They all look to have been handmade, some knitted, others painted, and even a few carved from wood. It is clear that they all have some meaning to him, and she is not the only one with tears running silently down her cheeks when he hands her one to hang that is a small red hand-print on clay, the initials K.J carved into the back.
They're both smiling though.
He touches each of them slowly, reverently, and when they are done decorating the tree, Emma studies the boughs laden with happy memories, trying to imagine what ornaments made from her happy memories would look like. She doesn't linger on the thought long, because it's not a pleasant one, and instead takes comfort in the realization that at least Killian had those happy memories at some point, even if it was only for a short while. Maybe she'll get a chance to start making some of her own.
His arms wrap around her as they stand enjoying the light from the tree, sprays of fresh green needles strewn across Killian's leather jacket that lies below it, the scent of pine filling the cottage.
"Are you alright, Emma?"
He asks because he understands her, because he knows that this is not easy—and he's right, but it's worth it. Emma is fine with the resurgence of difficult memories that doing this brings, because she's not looking at a brightly lit tree through some stranger's window, she looking at her Christmas tree—their Christmas tree, and it is just one more step she is taking to find her happy ending. Standing here with Killian, his arms wrapped around her and the ornament bearing his hand-print spinning idly on a branch, she thinks she is beginning to see a picture of what that happy ending might be.
Instead of answering him, any words she could say seeming too small and fleeting, she turns in his arms and shows him how happy she is. She shows him with her lips and hands, with the press of her body and the soft noises she murmurs against his skin. She shows him with her heart and soul because they are all she has to give, and then they are both falling into each other so deeply that she doesn't know where he stops and she begins, everything she has given tied inexorably with what he has given her, nothing less than everything.