A/N: I originally posted this on tumblr (requested by katniss-annabeth-luna-jones), but decided to post it here so I could turn it into a series of one-shots so people on fanfiction know that I am still alive. Find me on tumblr as ohmyjones where the stuff will be posted first although I can't say how regularly I'll update this.
Prompt: post tacos cuddles
They weren't a thing. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
She tells herself that every time she wakes up next to him, his arm a warm weight around her waist and his scruff rubbing against her neck. And she says to him - and herself - every morning when she finally gets the strength to pull away from his embrace, that this is nothing but a way to scratch an itch. He used to believe her in the beginning, a flash of hurt in his face that was quickly stifled, layered upon by innuendos and jokes and promises, but he can't hide from her. It hurts, but he allows it anyway.
(What she doesn't know is he lays awake long after their done, content for the few moments of peace to hold her, and each time she whispers his name gives gives him strength for the way she'll pull away in the morning. As long as she does that, he can wait for her. He will wait for her.)
This morning is no different than the many times before, her words little more than a whisper because even she couldn't buy them anymore, but she can't just stay either. She wonders why she can hurt both of them, but figures this hurt, momentary and forgotten by the next time they fall into each other's arms, won't last as long as the one where she lets him and fails him. She isn't so much sure that he'll fail her, patient and waiting, more of an open book than he was comfortable admitting, but Emma loses everyone and she knows this is a fault of her own.
She just can't risk it.
So she leaves. He doesn't stop her.
(He does, however, lay in bed for a while longer, knowing that he'll wait for her, but hoping that he won't have to wait for long.)
She can't share this with Mary Margaret, her mother, even if she was Mary Margaret, her friend, first. Somehow though, Mary Margaret knows enough. She pretends to have her back to the door, allowing Emma to escape to her room, to shower and collect herself, but when Emma comes out, there's a cup of hot chocolate on the counter made just the way she likes it.
"You know, I had my reservation as well," Mary Margaret says, blowing steam off her own cup of hot chocolate, turning to face the sink, to face her. "About Charming and I. It happens, we're human, sometimes we doubt our significant others - and, sometimes, we doubt ourselves."
Emma hums in response, but she doesn't think the legendary romance of Snow White and Prince Charming matches the tale of Emma Swan, orphan, and Killian Jones, pirate.
She freezes. When did it became Killian instead of Hook?
Her mother doesn't comment though she could feel the weight of her eyes. "I remember telling you once that your walls keep out pain, but they keep out love too."
Emma had forgotten about that, but at the words, she remembers the day well and flinches into her mug.
"Just remember that, Emma." Her mother leaves her alone then.
Emma drinks slowly, her hot chocolate becoming cold the longer she sits there, half thinking and half feeling. Half dreading, half hoping. Half running, half stuck in place. She thinks she's always been torn this way. She thinks that someone programmed her to be this way, to stay away from leaps of faith because she's afraid she might splatter rather than be caught, but she knows that it's just the build up of all the times she was abandoned. She knows this and that's why she knows that no one should take a leap of faith on her because she would, surely, let them fall.
She wonders how long she'll be marred by her past. Forever the lost girl. She wasn't anymore though, twenty-eight years of her life leading to Storybrooke, to her family, the one she left behind and the ones that left her behind, together at last.
Her thoughts roam too much and she almost misses when Mary Margaret comes back into the apartment, two jars of salsa in her hands and David follows her holding a large container covered in foil. When Killian follows, his eyes flashing to hers immediately and smiling, then Henry, who carries a liter of soda and movies, then Regina, carrying a pie, she realizes it's Taco Tuesday.
She blames this tradition on Henry, but she can't because it's her fault too. She loves the crunch of tacos and so does Regina and, really, he wants his mothers to bond. He wants his family to bond because he's tired of being the mediator. Their tired of making him be one too. So they all suck it up and accept it.
(Everyone enjoys it after a while. They've taken this leap of faith and run with it.)
Henry turns on a movie. It's Christmas themed because it's finally that time of the year. He sits on the sofa with Regina while Mary Margaret and David cuddle up on the floor, leaving Killian and Emma to share the love seat. Even while she eats, she's acutely aware of how close they sit, of the way his leg brushes hers when he laughs (and he laughs a lot because the television is still new to him and he finds it hilarious), of the way he glances back at her when he doesn't understand something, of the way his hand inches closer and closer to hers.
His smile when she takes his plate because she needs to get away from him for a second because, if she doesn't, she might get tempted to take his hand and lay her head on his shoulder. Because she thinks that if she takes a leap of faith, he'll catch her and it'll be sunshine and roses until she fails him.
She takes a long time cleaning up their plates, picking up the mess around the counter, tidying up in a way that she rarely does. She only stops because Mary Margaret gives her a pointed look and gestures back to Killian with a slight tilt of her head, who flickers his gaze between the television and watching Emma.
And she realizes that, if she were to ask him, he would say that he'll take that leap of faith any day. Every morning that he's there, his smile and his trust and the shine in his eyes, says that he is taking that leap of faith already. After all, he's here, isn't he? Taco Tuesday with her family, watching a movie with her son, and she feels a flutter in her gut that makes her dry her hands on the dish rag and sit beside him on the couch once more.
She thinks it was her who reaches over and takes his hand, fingers shaking and clammy, his own twining around her, gripping them gently. It's reassuring and she thinks through the rest of the movie, unaware of when she leans against him and his arm goes around her until its over. She stretches, freezing a fraction when he does as well, before settling back down, thinking very hard, made difficult by just how warm he was.
She fights the urge to snuggle into him because Emma Swan doesn't cuddle.
His thumb rubs her shoulder reassuringly, a gentle motion that eases her and tenses her in the same breath, and he listens his chin down on her shoulder while the others head into the kitchen.
(Everyone knows what they are doing too, conveniently finding excuses to speak loudly so they can whisper quietly.)
"You're afraid, Swan," he says. She doesn't deny it.
"I'm getting whiplash from how often you hate me and how often you don't." She knows. She doesn't hate him though, but she knows that it might seem that way.
"Sucks to wait for you to decide if I'm worth it or not," he continues, voice barely above a whisper and she controls her face, brows arching, wincing inwardly. It wasn't a question of whether he's worth it or even if she's worth it. They are worth it. She just... doesn't want to mess this up and that says a lot about their relationship, doesn't it? His thumb continues to rub soothing circles. "But I will wait for you still. I'm willing to take that leap of faith."
She forgets, sometimes, that she's an open book to him as much as he's an open book to her. She stares at him, thinking hard again, and he kisses her temple before he gets to his feet. She wonders if he needs space now too.
(He does because sometimes it's too much and he's not a patient man, but he finds the strength to continue on. He always does.)
She's done thinking the next time they are together. She rests her head on his chest, his breath warm against her and his hand strokes his hair. Neither say anything yet, content for the moment, but she knows they will soon because tonight was gentle and slow, filled with loving caresses and equally loving kisses, the exact opposite of the flurry and heat in their previous lovemaking.
He, however, makes no move to speak and Emma realizes that she needs to finish her leap of faith, to plunge in head first, so she lifts her head up. He tenses briefly, his arms tightening around her, but allows her to move, his eyes guarded. Like he thinks she's leaving. She has to prove him wrong and, more than that, she has to prove to herself that she can do this.
"You've waited a long time for me."
"Aye," he says seriously.
"Sometimes I wonder how you have the patience not to run off-"
"Sometimes I wonder that too," he muses and she smacks his chest gently, giving him a stern look. He stays silent, tilting his head, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Sometimes I wonder how you have the patience not to run off and just leave me in the dust, as I would do if I was in your shoes and was facing somebody like me," she tries to keep eye contact, but tears her eyes away after a moment because his are too intense and she needs to say this. "I'm... glad you didn't though. You are important to me."
He interrupts again, his expression stony when she looks up. "Is this where you tell me that you just want to be friends?"
"No, this is where I tell you that I love you and I don't want to run anymore."
He blinks, once. Twice. A third time. "Aye?"
"Aye," she parrots, smiling when his entire face lights up and - damn - she's never seen a smile like that on him before. Not a grin or a smirk or a half-smile, a real one that stretches his face and makes his eyes crinkle. Then she stares because he's looking around the room suspiciously. "What?"
"You aren't just messing with me, are you?"
"No," she says, somewhat hurt, but not surprised.
"Good, that would have made this awkward." He kisses her and kisses her, barely letting her up for air, trailing kisses and nips down her jaw that make her sigh, memorizing the taste of her skin and the sound of her voice.
They wake up at the same time the next morning and he rolls onto his back, releasing her, giving her the chance to back away as she does most mornings. Instead she lays her head on his chest, pressing a gentle kiss to his heart because she's trusting that he knows what he's doing with his heart when he gives it to her.