Emma takes time off. They take time off.
The first few days are a haze of sleep and soft sheets and making love and fucking (Emma's noticed a distinct difference between the two depending on how desperate they are for each other at any given moment and relishes them both). They hardly come up for air at first, scarcely leaving the bed for the odd shower or trek to the fridge, but it never lasts long before they come together again in a dance of lips and tongue and skin.
The fog slowly lifts. They drink in their fill of each other again and again and again until it's nearly been a week and they realize they haven't really seen the sun in days, only soft light filtered through heavy curtains. As loathe as she is to leave their house (their house - it's such a big idea that settles so easily in her heart) there's something to it, walking down the street hand-in-hand to meet her family at Granny's and then a detour to the grocery store on the way home.
It's so simple, family lunches and perfunctory shopping with the man she loves.
She's waited 28 years for this, to do these things. It's been far longer than that for Killian and her heart aches at the happiness on his face, at how he's relaxed and easy in a way she's never seen before, his kisses no longer desperate, his hand at her back less protective and more content.
It's like they can finally breathe together. It's like they were meant for this.
She doesn't miss the look on his face as they push the cart through the narrow aisles of the little grocery store. As well-traveled and educated as he is (he knows Greek, honestly), it's obvious he'd never seen so much food in one place before coming to Storybrooke. It's not even his first time here but he can't stop the way his eyes widen at the sheer volume and variety available to them. She pushes down the thoughts of how he grew up, of what his childhood self would have thought to see something like this.
"Do you know how to cook?" she asks, careful to keep her voice casual as she tosses a package of chicken into the cart.
"Enough to keep myself from starving, but I'm afraid my talents end there."
"Same." She pauses as they pass a display on the end of an aisle, various cookbooks arranged on a tall stand. She looks at them and then up at him, a tiny smile crossing her features. "Maybe we can learn?"
-/-
They take turns.
Even so, neither of them are ever truly alone in the kitchen. Killian will drift in between chapters of whatever novel he's devouring, chopping vegetables or measuring spices for her. And she's never far when he's the chef for the evening, peeling potatoes or lending an extra hand when he needs one.
(They never talk about it, the tasks he can't complete by himself because of the hook, for as remarkably resourceful as he is even he has limits. Emma always steps in without him needing to ask, and there's an entire conversation hidden in his grateful smile.)
They try everything, from Thai to Italian to Southern (the fried okra is a disaster but even the thought of the green bean casserole still makes her mouth water), and save the more adventurous recipes for the nights Henry and his picky palate aren't with them. It's what finally allows Killian to get a handle on the Internet - the YouTube tutorials save both their asses on several occasions - and it's just -
It's nice. It's home.
The one constant, whenever they cook, is music. Emma buys a speaker dock for her iPhone and shows Killian how to work Pandora, and soon there's never a silent moment in the evenings. She likes classic rock and the occasional 80's pop song - which Killian tolerates like a champ - and he's mostly addicted to the classical station, with the occasional foray into the 40's. He's not much for big bands but loves Frank Sinatra.
He's eschewed the Rat Pack on this particular night in favor of classical, humming along with the violins and woodwinds (he's learned a frightening number of this world's composers already) while they stir and measure and chop. It's technically his night to cook but Emma can't resist standing next to him at the counter to listen while he hums, his voice low and melodious and she knows someday she'll ply him with enough rum to get him to really sing for her.
He's just put the finished casserole in the oven when the song changes and smiles to himself after a few measures of some sweeping orchestration Emma doesn't recognize.
"What is it? You know this song?"
He shakes his head. "No, I've never heard this one before."
"Then why the smile?"
His expression starts as a smirk but softens when he looks at her, his hand scratching behind his ear. "It's a waltz."
Her heart skips and swells all at once, memories of a royal ball and her hand tracing over the pages of a storybook coming back in a rush. "You never did tell me how you learned to dance. Naval academy?"
His smile grows fond. "Aye. Couldn't have officers attending royal balls without knowing how to dance, now could they?" He chuckles to himself. "Liam hated the lessons; he was never much for dancing."
She nudges his shoulder with hers. "Not like you."
"I did take to it a bit better," he admits.
"You must have been a popular dance partner. I bet the girls were falling all over themselves to get a chance to waltz with you."
He leans against the counter, shaking his head with a rueful sigh. "Not so much."
"No?"
"Believe it or not, Swan, I wasn't always so confident around the fairer sex."
She can't stop the giggle from bubbling forth, delighted by the mental image of a young, starry-eyed Killian in naval uniform, too nervous to ask a young lady to dance. "You were shy?"
"Young and inexperienced," he corrects, but looks too amused to be truly affronted.
"And now?"
It's a shamefully obvious setup and she knows it, but she wants the raised eyebrow, the innuendo, his tongue tracing across his lips as he looks her up-and-down. But he surprises her as he so often does, holding out his hand expectantly. "May I?"
"Smooth bastard," she mutters, but grins when he pulls her into a proper dance hold, resting one hand on his shoulder and curving the other gently around his hook.
Emma still couldn't explain the steps of a waltz to anyone else if she tried; both times she's done this it's purely as a follower to an expert lead. Killian gently but firmly guides her around the kitchen through the turns and steps, gracefully steering them around the table and into the open floor of the foyer.
It couldn't be more different from Midas' ball. There's no grand dance floor, no voluminous ballgowns or princely attire. She's barefoot in a sweatshirt and yoga pants and he's long since shed his coat and vest, sleeves rolled up and buttons even more undone than usual.
It couldn't be more different. It's better.
She's not afraid to meet his gaze now, holding eye contact through the gentle rise-and-fall of the dance and enjoying the way the skin crinkles around his eyes when he smiles down at her. And his smile, God, his smile, there's nothing tentative in it anymore, no waiting for the other shoe to drop, just simple, trusting happiness in his features.
His hold on her makes her posture better, makes her stand up straighter, makes her feel like a real princess even in workout clothes and a messy topknot, and it's so easy to let herself get swept away like this. She lets him guide her with ease until the song ends, settling into a gentle sway as he presses his forehead to hers and his hand tightens around the small of her back.
"You're gonna ruin your reputation, sweeping me off my feet like this," she whispers around a grin.
"I don't bloody care."
His mouth is soft and hot against hers, lazy and languid in that way he gets when he wants to taste every last inch of her. Emma sighs into it, tilting her head and dropping her jaw as he nips at her lower lip before sweeping inside.
She pulls back before he can press too deeply, pressing her hands to his chest and leaving one last peck on his lips as he groans in protest. "Easy, tiger. We let this go any farther and dinner'll end up burned before we can come up for air."
"Still don't bloody care," he murmurs, nudging her nose with his.
"Later," she promises, kissing the tip of his nose before stepping out of his arms. He looks so put-out that she can't help but laugh. "Look, the dishes aren't going to do themselves and I'd rather get most of them done now."
His smirk returns as he follows her to the sink. "You have plans for when our meal is done, love?"
She doesn't even bother to conceal the once-over she gives him. "Oh, yeah."
They lapse into silence as they tidy up, loading the dishwasher as Vivaldi plays in the background. Emma's returning spices to the rack (seriously, what the hell is marjorum?) when an all-too-amusing idea strikes her.
"You know," she muses, "you could probably make a killing as a dance instructor if you wanted to."
He laughs at that. "That so, Swan?"
"Yeah. You wouldn't even have to be any good at it, you'd just have a bunch of women who'd pay out the nose to dance with you."
His smile makes her heart jump, just a little bit. Ever since they've returned from the Underworld she regularly does this, hints at just how attractive and charming he is, and she'll never get enough of the way the tips of his ears redden at her words.
(It also makes her heart ache, knowing just how much of his bluster is, well, bluster.)
"Would you?" he asks.
"I don't need to," she grins. "I get to dance with you for free."
"Are people in your realm truly so little-educated in dancing?" He seems genuinely curious. "It seems everyone learned in the Enchanted Forest."
Emma shrugs. "Dancing's more of a… specialized hobby here, I guess? Most people don't know how to waltz or foxtrot, or anything like that. And it's not like people here attend balls. School dances, maybe."
"School dances?"
"Yeah, in high school we had prom and homecoming. It's like…" she struggles to explain at his confused look. "Formal occasions, I guess? Everyone would get dressed up for a big party, and there'd be music and slow-dancing, and everyone made such a big deal out of getting a date for it."
He smiles. "That sounds lovely." His expression turns wistful then and he looks down to his feet, the pang of lost childhoods hanging heavy between them before he gathers himself. "A coming-of-age event?"
"Sort of." She shrugs again. "I dunno, I never went."
"No?"
"No. I got moved around so much I was always the new girl at school, so it wasn't like I really had any friends. And even if I wanted to go without a date, the dresses and stuff were really expensive, and you had to buy tickets to go, and I just. Yeah."
Killian, to his credit, doesn't offer sympathy that he knows Emma wouldn't want. "Well, if most people in this realm don't know how to dance, I can't imagine an official 'dance' would be all that enjoyable."
"You'd probably hate our slow-dancing. There aren't even any steps, really."
Now he's intrigued. "How on earth can someone dance without steps?"
Emma has to fight down a smirk; he's probably not ready to be introduced to twerking just yet. "You'd be surprised."
"Show me?"
Emma laughs, but stops short at the painfully earnest look on his face. "You're serious."
"I've shown you how to waltz, haven't I? Fair's fair."
"Okay, but I warned you. C'mere."
He instinctively reaches his hook for her right hand to pull her into a proper ballroom hold, but she shakes her head. "Nope, arms around my waist. And mine go here," she demonstrates, sliding her arms over his shoulders. "You stand close like this and then just sort of… sway, I guess."
His eyebrow goes up. "That's all?"
"That's all."
"This is no dance at all, Swan."
"Hey, I told you. People here suck at this. Though to be fair, this music isn't helping." She steps out of Killian's arms and makes her way to her phone and speakers, frowning at the screen. Flight of the Bumblebee? "Hang on, let me find something a little better."
She scrolls through Pandora until she finds the Classic Love Songs station, making a face when Celine Dion starts blaring through the speakers and quickly hitting thumbs-down. She skips the next few songs until she finds what she's looking for, smiling as the familiar string section of "At Last" fills the air around them.
When she turns to face Killian he's got that look on his face, the one she sees every time he's discovered a new favorite song. She steps in close and pulls his arms around her, gently placing his hand and hook at the small of her back. She drapes her own around his shoulders, leaning in close enough to press her nose into his neck.
"Oh," he breathes as she snuggles in close, slowly swaying as Etta James' voice floats around them.
She grins against his shoulder, letting her eyes drift closed. "Yeah."
As much as Emma enjoys waltzing this is better, the closer hold allowing heat of him to seep into her as he breathes her in.
"This does have a certain… appeal to it." His words are low and soft as if he's afraid he'll break the moment if he speaks above a whisper. But it adds to the spell instead, the soft rumble of his voice settling low in her stomach while his lips move against her ear.
"Yeah," she breathes out. "Yeah, it does."
Her fingers thread through the hair at the nape of his neck and he pulls her in tighter at the touch, fingers splaying wide as his hand presses up the center of her back. She lets herself float with the feeling, his breath warm on her skin and his arms strong around her as the song builds, the graceful melody swaying along with them.
She can't stop herself from pressing her lips to his throat and they're not even dancing anymore, simply standing in one another's arms and holding tighter still.
Emma hasn't been truly hugged by many people in her life. For so many decades the rare occasion has felt awkward or perfunctory, a short countdown of seconds until it was acceptable to let go and step back and get the hell away from the awkwardness before it swallowed her whole. Henry quickly disabused her of that notion and she's slowly grown into that same sort of comfort with her parents.
But Killian. Killian. He holds her as though letting go is the awkward part, as though being wrapped up in another human being is the most natural thing in the world, and he makes her believe it too, makes her forget three decades of conditioning and lets her melt into him, welcomes the quiet kisses she presses to his neck while they wrap around each other with no end in sight.
(They forget dinner, left to burn in the oven as they lose themselves in one another.)
(They don't bloody care.)