What time is your train again?
It's four in the morning, Swan.
That's not the answer I was looking for.
I'm going to need a few more words then. Several different nouns. Maybe an adjective or two thrown in just for good measure.
Why are you like this?
Because, as mentioned, it's four in the morning. Where are you? Are you in your car?
I mean, obviously.
Emma rolls her eyes, glancing out the window she's been using as a quasi-pillow for most of the night and this guy isn't going to show. God damnit. Another waste of a night and August is going to kill her.
Maybe he won't give her the time off.
Then she'll have an excuse not to go.
She really wants to go.
She maybe, sort of, kind of really wants Killian to go. He's got to go. Right? His brother's involved. And they're all a great, big happy family. Kind of.
God, she hopes not. That makes all of this decidedly weird.
Her phone is still buzzing in her hand.
Did you bring food? Or a blanket? That piece of garbage car doesn't have any heat in it. At least tell me you brought those hand warmer things.
I think you're just trying to find out if I'm using your gift in the field.
They weren't a gift. They were a tactical attempt to make sure that your toes don't fall off in the middle of a stakeout in December. I'm well acquainted with cold and the potential for frostbite, Swan. And, my train is at nine so there is minimal chance of missing it and Liam doesn't kill me.
She groans out loud, head thrown back against the seat and only he would be willing to tease her at four in the goddamn morning. He doesn't have to worry about Liam. Emma is going to kill him. Or maybe...just kiss him until he can't see straight.
No.
Absolutely not.
The opposite of that.
She's an unqualified disaster – who's completely given up on even the idea of a stakeout at this point and her coffee went cold hours ago and she's so goddamn bored it's practically making her go cross-eyed, which almost explains why she tugged out her phone and started texting Killian Jones at four in the morning.
And maybe she really likes talking to Killian Jones at whatever time of day or night and has for years and Emma doesn't really do friends, is usually more than content to just linger in the realm of acquaintance and professional contact, but this all just kind of happened and, if asked, she's more than willing to blame David.
It really is his fault.
Killian would agree with her.
David was barely out of the Academy, more prone to handing out traffic citations than diving into the deep end of investigations and grand larceny, but he'd been in the vicinity when the call went out and was nothing if not just a bit desperate to prove himself. So he went to South Street Seaport and avoided the constant horde of tourists and found himself face to face with the Jones brothers and their sailing company and their missing money and he took statements and helped solve crime or whatever and, suddenly, they were all friends.
Emma is still fairly convinced David broke several rules when he did that.
He didn't care.
And he didn't argue when Liam Jones offered up one of his boats – and Killian would tell her ships, Swan, they're called ships, if you're going to make fun of them, at least do it accurately – when David decided to, finally, ask Mary Margaret to marry him five years ago.
Mary Margaret, naturally, said yes – or screamed yes if David's story was to be believed – and the Jones brothers were invited to the wedding and Emma met Killian Jones in front of a table covered in champagne flutes and a questionable number of dessert options.
He looked unfairly good in a suit – all dark hair and blue eyes and a slight flush to his cheeks because it was negative ten-thousand degrees outside and there was some kind of historic wind coming off the East River, so, naturally, they'd taken pictures right next to the water.
He laughed at the goosebumps she couldn't seem to get rid of, no matter how much champagne she kept drinking and made some quip about how he was having some sort of affect on you and Emma rolled her eyes and decided, rather quickly, to hate him.
That didn't last long.
She kept drinking and he kept drinking and he looked so goddamn good in that suit and she dimly remembers dancing and laughing and talking and walking out of the hall with his jacket over her shoulders and...nothing else.
Emma woke up the next day in her own hotel room with record wind chills outside and a glass of water sitting next to two Tylenol and a note that read – take these, wait three hours before you drink coffee and remember to wear layers when you go outside.
He'd programmed his number in her phone.
She didn't text him.
Not for weeks. And Emma didn't think about what she didn't remember, far too nervous – terrified – to ask Mary Margaret or David or, God help her, Liam and, well, she had a life to get back to. She had deadbeat criminals to catch and return to jail and Killian had ships to worry about and Emma didn't even live in New York.
It couldn't work.
She didn't think that. Of course not.
She didn't want it to work. She didn't want to know what happened.
She didn't think about it at all, until, six hours into a stakeout in Dorchester and she was fairly convinced she was actually going to just start punching her steering wheel if she didn't do something and, suddenly, Emma Swan found herself texting Killian Jones and talking to Killian Jones and that was three years, nine months, four weeks and two days ago and they were still talking and she really, really wants him to go to New York for Christmas.
They never talk about the wedding.
And it doesn't really matter because they just seem to fall into friendship and comfort and some kind of routine where it's all just enough.
Her phone buzzes in her hand, jerking Emma out of memories and wants and she actually starts mumbling under her breath, like she's trying to psych herself up to look at Killian's latest message.
Swan. Did you wake me up just to ignore me, because, I have to be honest, love, that's kind of rude.
She sends back a string of emojis that don't really make sense in context, but are probably enough to get him to smile and, more importantly, give her a chance to catch her breath. She hasn't actually moved in hours.
She feels like she's run several marathons.
Do you have tours tomorrow? Does the other half get to just go out on the ocean no matter what temperature?
He left New York a year after the wedding – a Jones Tours expansion that Emma knows meant the world to him because it meant Liamtrusted Killian and all Killian really ever wanted was for Liam to trust him, especially after grand larceny and the accident and there was money in Newport.
There were rich people with a deep-rooted desire to be on ships and host parties and eat expensive appetizers and mutter what do you think happened to him under their breath when they noticed Killian and the prosthetic at the end of his left arm and even the thought made Emma's pulse pick up again.
Docked. For dinner. Someone I'm not entirely unconvinced isn't secretly John Jacob Astor come back to life has booked the entire goddamn ship for a very fancy dinner that has required me to talk to a very snotty caterer about linen options for most of the week.
Didn't John Jacob Astor die on the Titanic?
Why is that something you know?
Did you not? That's basic boat knowledge.
Ships, Swan. We have been over this eight-hundred thousand times.
She sends him more emojis – three of that little person paddling a canoe and five doughnuts and one set of toasting champagne glasses, which, she's found she sends more often than just about anything else when she's talking to Killian.
Is that an offer to buy me a drink when I'm in New York later this week?
Her heart absolutely does not stop beating for half a second – mostly because Emma's fairly convinced it just grows sixteen sizes instead and she nods in response, barely even remembering that she's texting him and not FaceTiming him because, technically, she's supposed to be working.
And he probably was going to try and sleep late if he has a dinner cruise the next day. Or, well, later that night.
Emma only realizes she hasn't actually responded when her phone shakes in the vice-like grip she has on it, nearly dropping the stupid thing and she manages to hit her head on both the roof of her car and the rearview mirror.
Killian would laugh at her.
I can buy the drinks if you want. I'm anticipating a few drinks.
What? Why?
Liam claims he has very important news and I won't want to miss it. I'm fairly positive he's exaggerating, but that may just be my anti-New York views shining through.
Since when are you anti New York?
Since my brother wants to share very important news a few days before Christmas and I don't want to pay for a hotel so I am staying in his and Elsa's spare room.
Also, you know, tourists.
We're not going to do touristy things.
Swan, are you kidding me? It's Robbie's first Christmas. If you don't think Mary Margaret doesn't have some kind of schedule to ensure that there are photographs of him at every major Manhattan destination and, possibly, that festive flower arrangement in Brooklyn, then you clearly haven't been paying attention.
You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?
It's easier to tune out the caterer and the difference between ivory and eggshell that way.
Is there a difference?
I really don't think so.
Huh. You know, I'm staying in a hotel. Well, Airbnb, but the sentiment is the same.
He doesn't answer immediately and Emma's previously expanding heart seems to shrink and twist at the same time and it's as uncomfortable and as cold as her car has become in the last few hours.
Emma chews on her tongue and her lip and her eyes keep darting towards the door of the building she's been sitting in front of for what has felt like actual days, but she knows this guy is long gone and that just means she's going to have to start all over tomorrow.
Maybe she can catch him at a bar.
She's always been good at that.
She's just about convinced herself that Killian has probably fallen back asleep, but some obnoxious corner of her brain is quick to point that he's never done that while she's been on a stakeout and that same voice is even quicker to point out that it's because he cares, but Emma ignores both noises and her phone does a pretty good job of drowning them out when it vibrates again.
Are you offering to house me in my time of need, Swan?
I mean if you get belligerently drunk then absolutely not, but if you're a delightful drunk who's willing to make fun of tourists and how expensive it is to ice skate at Rockefeller Center then, yes, absolutely.
I think you just called me a delightful drunk.
Sometimes.
I'll take my compliments when I can, love, particularly at some ungodly hour in the morning.
I'm sorry I woke you up.
Don't be. I'm glad you did. You get the guy?
Nah. Which I don't understand since I've been sitting here forever, but he's got a tendency to go to this piece of garbage bar on Adams Street, so I'll probably try there tomorrow. It's easier when I'm not stuck in my car anyway. I can at least feel my limbs.
Are you really not using the hand warmer things? I can bring more to New York.
Emma smiles before she realizes her brain has decided she's happy – or some other emotion that is decidedly more problematic than happy, particularly when she's just offered to share a hotel room with Killian.
At Christmas.
After, likely, being forced to do every single tourist activity in Manhattan. And probably Brooklyn. God, Emma doesn't want to go to Brooklyn.
She wants to get delightfully drunk with Killian and watch him make faces at an absolutely adorable Robbie Nolan because he does that every time he sees Robbie Nolan and Emma's fairly convinced he doesn't even realize.
It might be the single most charming thing she's ever seen in her entire life.
You don't have to bring more hand warmer things to New York. And, yeah, I've got some in my boots. I can feel my toes. Just...not much of the rest of me.
I'm going to bring you more hand warmers.
Emma laughs – a slightly giggly, absurd sound that seems to just bubble out of her chest and her teeth tug on her lip when she closes her eyes lightly.
Yeah, I know you are.
She catches her skip the next night – sitting at the bar with overpriced vodka in front of him, just like Emma knew he would be and his eyes almost visibly light up when he notices her. She doesn't really have a uniform, per se, while she's in the field, mostly because wearing Booth Bonds embroidered on some kind of polo would probably be bad for business, but in situations like this Emma has a small arsenal of well-fitting dresses and heels she can actually run in and she's ready to use both to get this asshole back to jail.
It goes easier than she expected and she expected it to last all of an hour, so Emma is pleasantly surprised when she's back in her apartment just before one in the morning, August's have fun this weekend ringing in her ears.
She goes through the motions of her post-work routine, kicking out of her heels and sighing when her feet land flat on her floor, grabbing milk out of the fridge to make hot chocolate as she tugs the pins out of her hair and scrolls absentmindedly through several different social media feeds while she waits for the microwave to ding.
It does and she takes the mug out, padding back across the living room and towards the couch and the TV on in the background is just as mindless as the endless Twitter updates she'd just been reading, but Emma's not really paying attention when her thumb hits a name and a number and she should probably start calling him at more normal times.
He was asleep. Or had been well on his way to sleep, hair disheveled when he blinks at the phone screen and he only keeps one eye open when he arches an eyebrow at her, a look that is so painfully Killian it sends a jolt of something down Emma's spine.
"Swan," he mumbles, mostly into the pillow he's still resting on and Emma tugs both her lips back behind her teeth, balancing her mug on her knees when she tugs them towards her chest. "Are you alright, love?"
Emma nods, teeth still digging into her lower lip and Killian opens his other eye, shifting slightly until she can make out the far wall of his room behind him.
She doesn't really remember when he stopped actually using her name – a pair of nicknames Emma would normally turn her nose up, and did at one point, if it were anyone other than Killian – but it might have been in between the first and the fifth glass of champagne at David and Mary Margaret's wedding and, at some point, it's just become part of them.
As if there is a them.
His gaze drifts across her face – looking for bruises or lacerations or signs that her skip actually struggled before being forced into a police car earlier that night and Emma can see his shoulders shift when he realizes there aren't any of those things.
He keeps staring at her though, intent and blue and the exact opposite of friends and Emma's hot chocolate is going to go cold.
"Not an answer, love," Killian continues, still not quite sounding awake and Emma's teeth finally have mercy on her lower lip.
She nods again and he rolls his whole head back onto the pillow. He's not wearing a shirt. There are frames on the small table next to his bed and Emma's never actually been to Newport – she's got a job and crazy hours, as this one in the morning phone call proves, and he's spent the better part of the last two years trying to prove himself and the timing is just never right for Emma to go there or for Killian to come here – but she can just make out her own face in one of the photos, her head resting on Killian's shoulder and his arm tight around her and the sun reflecting off New York Harbor behind them.
She's well acquainted with that picture. It's the lock screen on her phone.
"Swan," Killian drawls and it sounds like a whine, frustrated enough that it works a laugh out of her and he glares at the phone screen.
"I am fine," she promises. He lifts both his eyebrows. "Really. It was all done in nearly record time and I think August is going to build a statue in my honor or something. Right next to Samuel Adams."
"Is that Samuel Adams or John Adams in Quincy Market? And is that where the Quincy in John Quincy Adams comes from? Or the other way around?"
"Probably the second one. Also, it's in front of Quincy Market, if you want to get technical."
"I don't," he mutters, flipping again and tangling up the blankets he's wrapped in and Emma tries not to laugh too loudly. It doesn't work. His hair is sticking up everywhere. "What time is it anyway? And why Samuel Adams? He wasn't a president."
"I mean neither was Alexander Hamilton, but look how that turned out."
Killian hums in agreement, burrowing his head into the pillow and his shoulders shift when he takes another deep breath. "You're really ok?" he asks again, eyes flitting back towards Emma's face before trying to work their way down her body. "That guy didn't try and throw any punches did he?"
"That happened one time," Emma argues, curling into the corner of the couch and Killian doesn't even bother responding because it had been vaguely terrifying and he might have been more worried than Mary Margaret and David put together.
He offered to come to Boston when Emma called him – before Mary Margaret and David – sitting in an ER bed with a machine beeping in one ear and his nervous questions in the other and she'd broken her ankle trying to dodge a punch and it only took sixteen promises ofI'm fine, Killian, honestly before he agreed to stay in Rhode Island.
"You are avoiding my questions, Swan," Killian accuses, but there's a note of sincerity in his voice that does something very specific to Emma's pulse.
"I'm not, really. I just…"
Emma trails off, taking a far-too large swig of hot chocolate and that's a mistake because it burns the back of her throat and seems to settle in the pit of her stomach like some kind of flaming boulder.
Killian's eyebrows lower and his eyes narrow slightly, another look Emma's all too familiar with and he moves again until he's propped up on pillows and staring at her incredulously like he's just waiting for the truth to start spilling out of her.
"What happened, Swan?" he asks and it should be a simple question. It is a simple question. It's just not quite a simple answer.
"Nothing," Emma lies and he actually has the audacity to laugh at her, sounding far more awake now that he's activated worried mode. "There are no cuts or bruises. No punches were thrown. My dress is actually almost dry."
"Excuse me?"
"He threw his drink at me when I cuffed him."
Killian scoffs, but it's more impressed than anything and he smiles at her, eyes flitting back down towards the neckline of her dry, but absolutely stained dress. "Alright, well what did he say then?" he asks and Emma marvels slightly at his ability to get to the center of the issue when she wasn't even really aware there was an issue until his slightly sleep-deprived face showed up on her phone screen.
"How?" Emma counters, sitting up a bit straighter out of habit. Killian doesn't even blink.
"It's one in the morning, Swan. You haven't even moved out of the living room yet and you just downed that hot chocolate like you were doing shots. We said we weren't going to get drunk until we got to New York."
"I don't remember making plans to actively try and get drunk. That was more a generic what if."
"Eh, a little bit of both," Killian grins, tilting his head to try and get the hair away from his eyes. Emma drinks more hot chocolate. "The truth this time, love. Did he say something to you?"
Emma sighs, scrunching her nose and twisting her mouth and the small fire ball of hot chocolate in the pit of her stomach seems to evolve into something else, decidedly out of place ahead of a fun Christmas in New York City weekend.
Killian doesn't say anything, just blinks twice and waits, moving further down the bed so he can brace his arm against his leg and that's how it's always been.
He just waits – for her and her explanations and her questions and it's easy and comforting and Emma wants so much, particularly during a fun Christmas in New York weekend and she's going to wind up with coal or however that metaphor works.
"This guy…" she starts, mumbling the words and she can almost see Killian perk up instantly. It makes her smile. "He was trying to run and, uh, well I read the file...you know, obviously, but he's got two kids and the wife had put up the money for the bail and it's almost Christmas."
She swallows back the ball of whatever she can feel sitting in the back of her throat, doing her best to avoid looking at anything, especially the lack of festive in her apartment or Killian's apartment or, well, just Killian's entire face, certain it's doing that understanding thing it always does.
"And, so, we went through the usual schedule of things and the trusting and the cuffing and the drink throwing and we got him in the squad car and he made some...you know what, it doesn't matter. I don't...you were asleep."
Killian's lip quirk, like he's trying to stop himself from smiling and it's a piss poor excuse because Emma has a habit of waking him up and he's never once complained.
There's no reason to think he'll start tonight.
"Swan," he says slowly and Emma growls in the back of her throat. He's definitely smiling now and his hair is back in his eyes, falling across his forehead in a way that makes Emma want to teleport to goddamn Rhode Island and shove her fingers into it. "C'mon, look at me for two seconds, love."
She's half a second away from chastising him for double nickname use, but the words get stuck in her throat when she does finally meet his gaze and he's staring at her like she's the center of the goddamn universe or the star at the top of the Christmas tree or something.
"What did he say?" Killian repeats, soft enough that she can barely hear him several hundred miles away, but intent enough that she knows she's not getting off the phone without an answer.
"I walked right into it, honestly, made some kind of quip about how he needed to rethink his life and how he was going to hurt his kids and his family and maybe mentioned Christmas or just some generic holiday and…" Emma trails off again, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling and it's snowing. Figures. "And, well, it doesn't really matter because, like I said, it was my own fault, but he was a dick and started shouting about how I probably didn't know anything about having a family either and…"
She shakes her head, rolling her eyes like that will prove how fine she is and how her subconscious just decided to call Killian when she was upset.
It probably didn't have much to do with her subconscious.
"That was a long time ago, love," Killian mutters and he's not wrong.
It was a long time ago.
An eternity ago, really, filled with disappointments and different houses and families that didn't want her anymore when they could have a kid with the same genetic makeup as them and Emma knew all of it, knew she was ok and being a product of the system wasn't really all that bad when she had a job and an apartment and the deep-rooted desire to make something of herself.
If only to prove that she could.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Emma mumbles, well aware that it doesn't sound even remotely convincing. She sounds like a vaguely exhausted broken record with a burnt tongue and a generic frustration at the world that she's slightly terrified will never go away.
"I retract my previous request for alcohol," Killian says suddenly and it's the last thing Emma expects. He laughs when she makes some kind of confused noise, eyes flashing at her and it's all blue and emotion and she wants and can't have and this weekend is going to be some great, big, enormous tease dressed up in red and green.
"I'm very confused by this alcohol schedule you feel like you've come up with," Emma admits and the smile becomes a smirk and she's fairly positive a whole pack of butterflies break out in every inch of her body.
"Stick with me, love, I promise it makes sense." Emma widens her eyes, waiting for the rest of it and Killian's tongue flashes against the corner of his lip, something flitting across his gaze that she's not sure she could name if she tried. It feels a hell of a lot like want.
"At first," he continues, "I was going to buy the first round because, well, you know I'm a gentleman, but then, depending on whatever Liam's great, big important news is, I was going to just let you open a tab somewhere downtown and we'd see where we went from there. I've changed that plan now to just buying you alcohol all weekend, Swan."
He grins at her like that's that and it kind of is because he's nothing if not the single most stubborn human being on the planet. Or, at least, a close second to Emma herself, but he's still staring at her that very particular way and she tries not to dwell on the idea that he's thought about this.
"Does that work, Swan?" Killian asks, like he's not already painfully aware of the answer.
"How much alcohol are we planning on consuming in a four-day span?"
He throws his whole head back when he laugh, body shaking with the force of it and Emma's pulse thuds traitorously fast in her veins. Arteries? She's not sure how biology works. "That really depends on what Liam's news is," Killian answers. "And whether or not Mary Margaret is going to drag us to Brooklyn on Saturday."
"She's definitely going to drag us to Brooklyn. But, lucky for you, there's, like, four different train options in a running distance, so we've got getaway routes all planned."
"I think you've got getaway routes planned, love."
"Backup," Emma corrects. "But, just for the record, as it were, there are a bunch of bars also within jogging distance from the Botanical Gardens."
Killian quirks an eyebrow and it must be nearly two in the morning and she's got a train to catch in...a few hours. "Why did we just switch from running to jogging? Are you suggesting that I won't be able to hold my own in this escape we're planning?"
"You keep using that word and I don't think we're actually planning anything."
"I'm definitely planning several things, Swan, I don't know where you've been. If I'm expected to survive this weekend then there need to be several plans outside the original plan for me to focus on and look forward to."
He doesn't mean it the way it sounds. She knows he doesn't.
Rationally she's perfectly aware that the few sentences that seem to be almost hanging in the air in front of her don't mean much more than their actual definitions, but Emma's mind is still running a mile a minute and hyped up on adrenaline and that asshole skip and his accusations about her distinct lack of family and, so, irrationally, she starts thinking a whole slew of things she absolutely shouldn't.
And her certainty that Killian is able to read her mind only cements itself further when he clicks his tongue and stares at her.
"Is that alright?" he asks, a cautious note in his voice that doesn't entirely make sense with him and Emma must be absolutely exhausted because she's not sure she's ever been this confused.
She nods slowly, dimly aware that she's still holding a mug of half finished, ice-cold hot chocolate. "Yeah, of course," she says far too quickly. "I mean, you know...I'm the one who called you and brought up backups and running and I'm definitely in better shape than you are, so you're the one jogging in this scenario."
"Rude," Killian smiles and Emma finally puts the mug down. "And I'm glad you called, Swan. You don't need to rationalize that. Or the backups."
"You're really going to pay for my alcohol all weekend?"
He nods like it's the most serious thing in the world and Emma grabs a blanket off the top of the couch, burrowing into the corner. "Don't fall asleep on your couch, Swan," he chastises softly and she just hums, twisting until she's actually comfortable. "You're going to hurt your spine."
"You are not a doctor, Captain," Emma counters. She does it mostly – entirely – for the reaction and it works, Killian's eyebrows leaping up his forehead and cheeks flushing slightly before he can actually school his features and Emma smiles into the decorative pillow that came with her couch when she bought it. "And I'm not going to fall asleep. I'm just getting comfortable. Also, you didn't answer my question."
Killian makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, sliding down onto his back and flipping back onto his side and Emma hears the mattress shift when he props the phone up against the lamp on his nightstand. Right next to their picture. "I think I already made it fairly clear of my intentions, Swan," he says.
It sends...something shooting through every inch of her.
"Merry Christmas," she laughs and it doesn't really make sense, but Killian doesn't seem to mind. "How'd tonight go?"
He smiles at her, soft and easy and just a bit closer to tired than it had been a few minutes before and he tells her about the caterer and the linens and how one of the very rich mansion-owning attendees accused another of trying to seduce their nanny. His voice gets gruffer the longer he keeps talking until Emma's eyelids start fluttering and she barely hears him mutter good night, love before she falls asleep on the couch.
It's some kind of miracle that she makes it to the train on time – stuffing a bunch of clothes and presents into a bag and tapping Uber impatiently on her phone while chugging coffee-hot chocolate hybrid and trying not to count down the seconds – and Emma tries to fall asleep in between two other people on an overcrowded Amtrak car.
She doesn't.
Naturally.
The train seems to creak when it comes to a stop in Penn Station, holiday music pumping through the speakers as soon as she steps onto the platform and is, immediately, hit by six different people and one very large Macy's bag.
Emma takes a deep breath, tugging the air in through her nose and it still, somehow, smells like garbage and her phone has been painfully silent in her pocket since she woke up, just an I don't want to hear about the state of your back later on tonight, Swan that she absolutely isn't still thinking about.
She weaves her way through the tourists and the crowd and the people who are, genuinely, just trying to get to work, practically sprinting up the escalator and cursing under her breath when another Macy's bag-toting tourist is planted on the left side.
There's a line forming behind her now and a distinct grumble that Emma just assumes is the general mindset of everyone in New York City, even at Christmas, but she's only a few feet from the main floor and she's fairly certain she can already hear Mary Margaret screaming her name.
Her phone buzzes, barely audible over the din of another crowd and Emma is concerned she's about to dislocate her shoulder trying to grab the stupid thing.
It's a picture and he's probably infuriated half of Manhattan trying to take it, the angle far too awkward and his face slightly blurry, like he was walking and trying not to trip over his own feet and Emma grins in spite of either one of those things.
Or, maybe, because both of those things.
It's blurry, but she can still make out the smile on Killian's face and the hint of excitement in his eyes and she's probably fooling herself, but she likes to believe it's because he's going to see her later.
Are you here?
Emma glances around to make sure that no one else is about to run into her if she stops walking, hitching her bag up her shoulder and the phone buzzes again.
Swan, seriously, I thought we were supposed to get here at the same time.
You are in the wrong train station, Jones. How did you even end up on MetroNorth?
It was cheaper and I could drive to Stamford. Are you telling me you're at Penn right now? I'm standing in line for coffee.
Yeah. Why didn't you tell me you switched stations? Get out of line.
I mean, I want coffee.
Emma rolls her eyes, but the smile is still on her face and her cheeks are starting to ache a little bit. She can definitely hear Mary Margaret.
And did I really not tell you I was coming in on the East Side? I feel like that's something I would have told you.
I promise, you didn't. Good thing I'm the one planning all of these escape routes of ours all weekend. You'd end up on Staten Island or something.
I think you are woefully underplaying my sense of direction, Swan. I can't believe you're not here. I had all these plans for holding your bag and everything.
It's one bag. I think I can cope.
Gentleman.
Idiot.
Well, that's rude. Are Mary Margaret and David there yet? Did they bring a sign?
Emma opens her mouth to shoot back a retort, forgetting for half a second that she's texting him, but that only lasts long enough for a very solid something to crash into her side and Mary Margaret is hugging her and muttering nonsense in her ear while David tries to pry her away without dropping their kid.
If Emma doesn't have much experience with being part of a family, she, at least, has plenty of experience witnessing what a perfect family is supposed to look like because she's been on the metaphorical sidelines of the Mary Margaret Blanchard and David Nolan romance since the very beginning.
Mary Margaret likes to claim it was fate – paired together during a first-semester freshman year science class that neither one of them really understood or cared about and Emma is quick to point out the only reason they actually started talking was because she didn't want to fail and lose her scholarship.
It is, probably, a bit of both those things.
And it never really ended. They kept talking and taking classes together and moved off campus their junior year and David showed up and nothing really changed except, sometimes, Emma closed her door and fell asleep with her headphones stuffed in her ears and a decade later it's, well, pretty much the same.
Mary Margaret is just as certain as ever that fate is a thing that exists and hoping is as good as doing in most situations and David could probably challenge Killian when it comes to overprotective tendencies concerning Emma and it's almost like a family.
It feels a lot like a family when Mary Margaret is still hugging Emma tightly enough to do permanent damage to several internal organs in the middle of Penn Station.
Honestly, fuck that guy from last night.
And God bless us, everyone.
"I can't believe you're here," Mary Margaret shouts into Emma's hair. Emma glances meaningfully at David and he just shakes his head in response, mumbling something that just sounds like let it happen under his breath.
"Mary Margaret, you helped me pick my ticket," Emma reasons, but it does about as much good as trying to get around tourists on escalators.
"I know, I know, I know, but it's Christmas and you're here and this is going to be so much fun!"
"Is it?"
Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically, finally pulling away enough that David can make his move and he doesn't hug quite as tightly as his wife, but he does cup the back of Emma's head and press a kiss against her temple and whispers welcome home in ear.
Emma's phone makes another noise – a quick succession of vibrations and buzzes and it sounds like Killian texted her the entire transcript of The Night Before Christmas.
Mary Margaret's eyebrows shift at the sound, eyes flitting down towards the phone Emma's still holding. "Everything ok?" she asks, like she absolutely doesn't already know what's going on.
"Of course," Emma nods. "That's just...well Killian and I were trying to get here at the same time, but he's at Grand Central and it's more festive there or something and he's trying to take credit for it."
Mary Margret's eyebrows are going to get sprained, moving quickly in several different directions and David looks like he's carved of not-quite-surprised stone. Emma rolls her eyes, hitching her bag up again and planting her feet on the floor, like she's getting ready for a fight.
"Stop it," Emma commands, but Mary Margaret just hums and Robbie Nolan, as painfully adorable as advertised, makes a decidedly one-year-old noise in David's arms. "This is nothing."
Mary Margaret's lower lip juts out slightly when she nods and Emma's phone makes more noise. She briefly considers just throwing it on the ground, but reaches out expectantly for Robbie instead and starts making faces until she works a laugh out of him.
"It's not," Emma continues, not entirely sure why she's still talking. "This is...we're friends."
"Of course," Mary Margaret says. David still appears to be a statue. "I know that."
"Do you?"
"Emma, please. Of course I do. You tell me every time both of you come to New York. Trust me, I have gotten the message. Over and out. Loud and clear. Ten hut."
"Ok, well, you didn't need to use all of those sayings," she smiles. Mary Margaret shrugs. "Also, I don't think the last one actually made sense?"
"It absolutely doesn't," David answers, shaking his head at two people who, clearly, have not grown much at all in the last decade. "We just transitioned from, like, getting telegraphs to giving marching orders."
Mary Margaret clicks her tongue. "Traitor," she accuses and Robbie is clearly entertained by all the slightly insane adults in his laugh. Emma keeps making faces. David starts taking pictures.
"Oh my God," Emma groans, but she can't quite get enough frustration in her voice because this kid is absolutely adorable and wearing some kind of Christmas sweater she's fairly certain David's mom hand-knitted. "David, are you a photo freak now that you've got a kid?"
"No," he shouts at the same time Mary Margaret mumbles "absolutely" and Emma's smile is honest and maybe just a hint emotional and possibly a little festive
Robbie yanks on her hair.
Her phone makes more noise and David chuckles under his breath, a knowing sound that Emma's not entirely sure she appreciates, particularly when she realizes Killian is still texting her. And apparently getting update texts from David.
I'm not going to get into the particulars of David sending me pictures of you when I'm offering up selfies on my own, Swan, but you do look good. Even after the night on the couch.
She can't text when there's a squirming kid in her arm intent on yanking out half her hair, but Emma can feel the smile inch across her face anyway and David is still staring at her like he's trying to read her mind.
"Stop it," she says and he just shrugs. "We don't have time for whatever it is you're doing with your face. M's has probably come up with a very detailed schedule for the rest of our lives."
"I mean, you know, just the next couple of days," David reasons, grabbing her bag without another word. Mary Margaret can't even bring herself to argue. "It's a control thing, but she's been doing a good job of sharing those responsibilities with Elsa."
"Color me impressed. Also, backtrack for two seconds. Elsa? Like in control of everything that's ever happened at any point in history Elsa? God, we're not going to have a single moment to ourselves this weekend, are we?"
"No," David says and Emma wilts slightly. That may be because Robbie has gotten another fistful of hair. And is surprisingly strong. "Although I don't think Elsa planned much on Saturday. That was mostly Mary Margaret and Liam."
"What? Are you serious?"
David nods slowly, like that makes it a bigger deal and Emma wonders if Killian knows that. Or if Liam's plans on Saturday night may have to do with his great, big, important news.
"That is...that's insane, you know that?" Emma continues and David looks a little bit like a bobblehead, making significant faces in the middle of Penn Station.
"It's all been very secretive," he whispers and Mary Margaret groans dramatically.
"This is not the festive mood we were going for," she sighs. "Also, it is not a control thing. It is an efficiency thing and if I didn't plan stuff then none of us would have reservations anywhere. Also, also, you guys are rude. Bah humbug or something."
Emma flashes her a grin, following when Mary Margaret directs them to another escalator and 8th Avenue and she offers to buy them all coffee at the first Starbucks they walk by.
Mary Margaret, at least, pretends not to notice when Emma texts Killian back.
You keep bringing up the couch thing, but it's clearly your job to make sure I get up, so mission failed, Captain.
The rest of the day is some kind of Christmas blur full of actual, hand-written schedules and a one-year-old who's not all that interested in the cold or the general noise of midtown Manhattan and Emma's phone doesn't make much noise for the next few hours.
Mary Margaret does have a schedule – and lunch at Serendipity and a walk up 5th Avenue and Emma's fairly certain she's got several different bruises on her legs from bags and aggressive crowds on a limited amount of sidewalk.
It's not really late, but Robbie is one so, anything past seven o'clock feels like the middle of the night for him and Emma's in someone else's uptown studio with a balcony and Central Park on the other side of the street and a bottle of wine sitting on the counter in a kitchen she's not entirely familiar with yet.
There's a hum to the city and it's as festive as Mary Margaret promises it will be all weekend, the schedule says so and Emma's not sure how long she stands on the balcony, leaning in the doorway with one of those hastily packed sweaters wrapped around her.
She nearly jumps a foot in the air when the first knock comes, heart leaping into her throat and hammering against her ribs at the same time, tongue darting out to lick her lips as she tries to figure out who could possibly be standing outside someone else's apartment door.
Emma doesn't move at first – macabre images of tabloid headlines and far too many SVU episodes and that's not really festive either, but whoever is knocking is yelling now and they're yelling her name.
Or, rather, nickname.
"Swan," Killian shouts and it sounds like he's kicking the door now too. "If this isn't your apartment, this is going to be really awkward."
She jogs across the tiny space, doing her best not to trip over her unzipped suitcase, swinging the door open to find Killian with one hand raised and another bottle of wine tucked into the crook of his elbow. There's snow in his hair.
His smile does something absurd to her pulse.
Killian has always been stupidly attractive, enough that it kind of offended her when she first met him and she still almost resents it because it makes this whole friends thing she's trying to convince herself of a bit more difficult.
But, that traitorous voice adds, she'd probably still be stuck firmly in the realm of wanting even if he wasn't so goddamn good looking, simply because he's him and he's smiling hopefully at her and he's always doing that.
"Hey," Emma breathes and Killian's smile widens, rocking back on his heels when his eyes flit across her face. "Are you a wizard?"
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
"How did you know where I was? Are we both just forgetting parts of conversations we actually had, because that's kind of troubling."
"You didn't answer your phone."
"What?"
"Are you going to make me stand in this freezing cold hallway for the rest of the night, love?"
Emma furrows her eyebrows and she knows she's making some kind of ridiculous face, but Killian is still standing in someone else's doorway and staring at her like...well, staring at her and she's having a hard time piecing together all the information she's being presented with.
Killian chuckles, shaking the snow out of his hair and wrapping his hand around her shoulder, walking her back into the apartment and only letting go long enough to close the door behind him. His hand is ridiculously warm.
"Why is it freezing in here?" he asks, glancing around the space like he's looking for the small snow fort.
"Oh, uh," Emma mumbles. "I was standing outside?"
"Was that a question?"
"No, I was. There's uh...well, there's a balcony. I was...it was festive."
He glances at her over his shoulder, flashing her another smile and it seems to settle in between her ribs, some kind of personal furnace that almost makes sense in this scenario. "Ah, well, naturally," Killian says, closing another door and it's, instantly, ten degrees warmer. "How come you're not answering your phone, Swan? I'd almost be offended if David didn't promise you were ignoring him too."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. Why are you here? Don't you have Jones brother things to do?"
"That's beside the point and I want to be here. Elsa's parents and sister are in town too and Liam took them to dinner to try and impress them."
"What?" Killian hums, widening his eyes and sinking onto the couch. He's already taken his shoes off. And his jacket. "Just get comfortable, why don't you," Emma mutters, but that metaphorical furnace is still on fire or whatever and the snow in his hair is starting to melt. "Were you for real about Liam and Elsa?"
"Why would I lie about that, Swan?"
She shrugs, dropping down next to him and she didn't really calculate the space right because there's not much of it between them, thighs brushing and Killian's arm moves over the top of the couch, fingers tapping against fabric like he's trying to work out some kind of excess energy.
"I don't know," she mutters, pointedly ignoring how easy it would be to let her head fall against his shoulder. "She didn't mention that to me. I just figured...shouldn't you be there?"
"It's a them thing and, uh, maybe I had ulterior motives?"
"Was that a question?"
"Only in an attempt to try and save face if this is actually weirder than I think it is."
Emma laughs softly and, well, fuck it, she lets her head fall to the side and it's not like they've never done that before, but she's still pleasantly surprised when Killian doesn't flinch, just seems to settle back into someone else's couch cushions and his fingers dance across the curve of her shoulder.
The fire in her stomach is an inferno.
"Are you stalking me, Captain?" she mumbles and she hasn't actually had any wine, but she feels a little drunk, like all her thoughts are muddled and everything is moving in slow motion. It also might just be because he's so goddamn warm and his fingers are distracting and she hasn't actually seen him in person in months and the last few minutes have been kind of jarring to all of her senses.
It's also more comfortable to just curl against his side with an arm wrapped around his stomach.
Killian doesn't argue, at least.
"I guess from a certain perspective maybe," Killian says, hooking his chin over the top of her head. "But, like I said, this is mostly a product of your inability to answer your phone and let me know where you are and David said you guys had wrapped up today's itinerary already."
"Sounds a little stalker-like."
"Maybe a little."
Emma laughs, burrowing her head further into his shoulder and she's fairly certain he kisses the top of her hair, but she can't quite trust anything her mind is doing when it's so focused on trying to document how comfortable Killian is for posterity.
"I'm glad you're here," she whispers into his neck and his arm stills, tightening just a bit around her shoulders. "Did you...you really blew off Jones brother stuff to come here?"
She knows the answer already, doesn't really even know why she bothered asking the question because Killian's not going to give her a straight response, particularly not when she's less than twenty-four hours removed from an asshole skip who questioned her experience with families.
He surprises her.
"Yes," Killian answers, quickly and easily and it's the most important word Emma's ever heard.
"Why?"
He shrugs under her, but it's more self-deprecating than dismissive. "I can meet the entire Frosset family at any other point this weekend. Plus, Union Square is a disaster right now. I'm not going to Max Brenner's just so I can have some tourist try and share the same space as me because their tables are so close together."
"You have a questionable amount of opinions about Max Brenner's."
"It's just chocolate. It's not even good chocolate! It's overpriced, trying to be fancy chocolate."
"They have other food there," Emma points out, but Killian just makes a contrary noise, leaning both of them forward to grab the remote off the coffee table. "You brought wine, though."
He hums, flipping through channels and letting out some kind of yelp when he realizes CBS is showing a double-feature of Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman. Emma's probably just going to burn to death with emotional overload right there on someone else's couch.
She hopes Airbnb has appropriate insurance for that.
"I promised to buy your alcohol all weekend, Swan," Killian says, tightening his arm again. He doesn't object when she hitches her legs over his until she's mostly just a ball of Emma and sweater against his side. "That was the plan, right?"
"I just didn't realize the plan started tonight."
Killian's breath hitches slightly, nearly matching up to the chorus of Island of Misfit Toys and Emma tries not to read too much into that. That's way more Mary Margaret than her. There is no fate involved here. There is just a questionable amount of determination and metaphorical fire and, now, two bottles of wine on someone else's kitchen counter.
"Is that…" Killian mutters. "Is that ok?"
She nods against his shoulder, tugging lightly on the cotton underneath her fingers and she swears she can hear him smile in response. "I'm glad you're here," she says again. "But I'm not getting up to get the wine."
"I would expect nothing less, love."
Killian gets up eventually, but only after Rudolph ends and it's so goddamn endearing Emma is certain it gives Robbie Nolan a run for his painfully adorable money. They drink his bottle of wine and crack open hers, but barely make it halfway before Frosty has reformed and a slightly-drunk Emma makes sure to point out how weird that is.
"The power of Christmas," Killian entones and Emma dissolves into an immediate fit of giggles. He widens his eyes when her face presses into the crook of his neck and his fingers trace along her spine and it's so goddamn easy Emma has to bite her lip so she doesn't make a fool of herself.
"You think there's more Christmas on Netflix?" she asks and Killian finds something called The Nutcracker Prince that is both entertaining and kind of horrifying and involves a lot more creepy Uncle Drosselmeyer than she was originally anticipating.
Emma doesn't remember getting off the couch or falling asleep, but both things must have happened because she wakes up to another alarm and a note on someone else's nightstand with two packs of hand warmers on top.
You owe me coffee because I'm fairly certain I've been scarred for life by that monstrosity of a movie and I have a lot of questions about the rat hierarchy that are still unanswered. I will, however, only discuss them when properly caffeinated.
She smiles when she swings her feet over the side of the bed, humming Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies when she turns on someone else's coffee maker.