A/N: This fic fought me, and fought me hard. Started it back in October, thought I deleted all traces of it in December, but it was still hanging out in my google docs and oubliette14 convinced me to revive and finish it. Also thanks to nothandlingit for the look over and to both ladies for the constant support and being the best cheerleading squad ever! Mentions of sexual conduct, but no detail. So read at your own discretion.
It's three in the morning and she should be sleeping. Should be. But no matter how she tosses and turns, it's like there are lumps under her pillow and mattress, nothing is making her comfortable. And this has been going on for hours. With reluctance, hesitance, almost begrudgingly, Emma Swan gets out of bed and sits back down at her desk.
For the most part, she only uses her computer for research on her job assignments, but on the rare occurrence that she absolutely can't sleep, it's used for a much more frivolous purpose. Following the web address that she types in, she enters the chat room and only has to wait the space of a heartbeat before the flood of messages begins. Of the fifty-ish people currently logged in, a vast majority of the participants are male. Factoring out the ones that are already chatting, or the ones who are too busy fucking around in the general chat window, Emma expects to wade through at least ten assholes before she finds one decent person to have a conversation with.
DrLove: hey swan, asl?
Swan: Are you really a doctor, or just a KISS fan?
DrLove: lolol im realy a doctor. wanna check out my stethoscope?
Emma sighs heavily and closes the private chat window, with six more popping up in its place. She immediately rules out the obvious ones: bignthick, horny4u, bangme... The noise that leaves her this time is half sigh, half groan, and she's losing faith in this idea real fast. The name "Red" appears in the next window, but it's just a well-intentioned bisexual looking for escape.
Swan: Sorry Red, I'm not in that kinda mood tonight. But I hope you find what you're looking for.
Red: you actually mean that, don't you?
Swan: Absolutely.
Red: you're pretty cool swan. hit me up if you're ever in that mood.
With a little smile, Emma closes that window, only to have it replaced by one JollyRoger. Here we go again, she thinks. The chat window opens with just two words.
JollyRoger: Hello, love.
Swan: Not your love. What'll it be? A joke about hoisting the mainsail? Pillaging and plundering? Something about stealing booty? Or Jolly-ing your Roger?
JollyRoger: Do people actually use those lines?
Swan: And then some. So what's with the name?
JollyRoger: An embarrassing and profound love of Peter Pan, and the misunderstood Captain Hook. Plus, I may or may not be slightly inebriated at the moment.
Well, color her surprised, Emma's mouth actually pops open a little in shock at the very straightforward answer.
JollyRoger: It was a rough work week. I went out with a few mates for drinks. I'll admit, that may have swayed my decision in names.
Swan: That's completely reasonable. You get bonus points for surprising me.
It takes all her effort to not add a winky face, because that would be flirting. And the last thing she intended on doing when she came in here was flirt.
JollyRoger: Where are you from, Swan?
Swan: Does it really matter?
She lets her imagination run wild, perhaps thinking the pause in response is from him chuckling, something deep and rich that would send a shiver up her spine if she were to hear it in person.
JollyRoger: I suppose it doesn't. Shall we stay anonymous then? Share secrets through the night?
Swan: That sounds like a fantastic plan, actually.
JollyRoger: Go ahead then, Swan. You first. Tell me a secret.
There is absolutely nothing sexual about the experience, yet she shifts in her seat in anticipation. There's an intimacy riding below the surface here that should bother her. He's a stranger. She doesn't know his name, or how old he is, or if he's some balding, beer-gutted guy sitting in his parents' basement.
But at least he has friends, she thinks. Which is more than she can say for herself.
She drums her fingers on her desktop, trying to think of a secret to share with her accomplice of the night. The answer is obvious.
Swan: I don't have any real friends.
JollyRoger: That sounds awfully lonely, Swan.
His constant use of her nickname is like a gentle caress. Once again, it's something that would normally bother her, but it's comforting. She has nothing to call him that seems as endearing, so she barrels on.
Swan: Your turn, JR.
JollyRoger: JR? Oh, of course! An even better improvement on my nickname.
JollyRoger: Let's see, a secret no one knows about me, then...
JollyRoger: I don't entirely care for where my life has ended up.
Swan: I'm sorry to hear that. But I get it.
Swan: It took me a long time to find the job I'm in. Now I get to work on my own for the most part, which is how I like it.
JollyRoger: I feel like my job is slowly tearing away at the core of values and good form that I spent my life building. I don't care if I work with someone, or alone, as long as it's making me happy for once.
He doesn't even miss a beat, jumping from what was clearly a stressful topic to return to their game.
JollyRoger: Why the name Swan?
Swan: It's my favorite animal.
Emma hopes it's the only lie she tells her stranger. No one needs to know it's her last name.
JollyRoger: Graceful choice.
Swan: So, rough week?
JollyRoger: I ended up working almost 70 hours when all was said and done, and I just learned that my ex-wife passed away.
It's more personal than she thought they'd get, or maybe hits too close to home with tragedy in her past as well, and she contemplates ditching the conversation, maybe even just shutting down for the night. While she wages war with herself over this decision, her lonely companion speaks again.
JollyRoger: Apologies. Too much information. For the record, we were divorced for a while before she even discovered she was sick. Married young. Dumb decision. I'm only 33, in case you're worried that you've accidentally tangled with an elder gentleman.
Swan: So you're a gentleman, JR?
JollyRoger: I'm always a gentleman, Swan.
JollyRoger: I want to pretend we're sitting at a bar or a coffee shop. What would I be looking at?
She could lie. She could give him a completely false appearance and a fake age. Hell. She could make up whatever life sounded best if she really wanted. But why bother?
Swan: I have blonde hair. It's pretty long. Green eyes. The rest is pretty standard. I have a face and a body and hands and feet. Good enough?
JollyRoger: I'm just about six foot. Could I place my elbow on your head and rest there comfortably?
Swan: That's a weird way of asking how tall I am. But probably not. I'm 5'5 and like to wear heels and boots.
JollyRoger: I like a woman in heels.
Swan: And also, you've only got me by three years. Just so we're on even footing here.
JollyRoger: Much appreciated, lass. So surely it's time for another secret, aye?
Swan: I'll think of a secret. You tell me what I would be looking at in our imaginary bar/coffee shop.
And she does sit there and think about it because she wants to share her secrets with a complete stranger. Maybe it's the lack of people to communicate with, or the fact that he won't judge her because how could he? If he did, she can just close the window and be done with it.
JollyRoger: So imagine, if you will, a very attractive man with dark hair, the artful scruff of one who doesn't like to shave often, but also dislikes full beards, trimmed to please the eye. I have blue eyes, and an accent that I'm told will get me all the ladies, but I'm not so womanizing that I've tried this out to prove it. We can call my looks 'dashingly handsome' if it helps.
Emma can't help it, she snorts when she reads his description because she can't tell if this is how he would normally describe himself or if it's because he's been drinking.
Swan: Right. Helpful.
Swan: I guess my next secret is that I hate cooking. Not that I can't, I just hate doing it. Making meals for one person is the most depressing thing ever. So I hardly ever cook. I am the queen of take-out.
JollyRoger: Same. Plus if you make something that won't freeze, you're stuck eating the same bloody meal until it's gone!
And just like that, she's sucked into the conversation with her stranger.
Two hours later, Emma looks at the clock and grimaces. She had no intentions of staying up this late, but she also has no desire to sign off now. Unfortunately, she can feel knots forming in her back and asks her mystery friend to hang on while she repositions to the bed.
JollyRoger: You're not getting sleepy on me Swan, are you?
Swan: No, I just need to stretch out. I've been hunched over my desk since we started talking and I'm sore from sitting in the same spot after such a long day at work.
JollyRoger: Apologies, love. Was never my intention to keep you up so late.
Swan: It's no problem. I just wish I had a masseuse now.
JollyRoger: I wish I could help out.
Swan: You give good massages?
JollyRoger: I do. Do you, Swan?
Swan: Wouldn't you like to know.
JollyRoger: Perhaps I would.
Her stomach dips down, not in fear or anxiety, but in anticipation. Suddenly, the chat doesn't seem so light-hearted or innocent.
JollyRoger: Swan? I'm sorry. If that was too forward, I take it back.
Swan: So tell me what you'd do if you were here.
Emma's no stranger to things like sexting. It's been a while and she never thought she would be doing something like this again, but here she is. There's a pause before he answers again, perhaps as if he's also astonished that this is where they've ended up.
JollyRoger: Well, if it's a massage you're after, I would start at your scalp. Is your hair up or down, Swan?
Swan: Down.
JollyRoger: Excellent. I would run my fingers through your hair, gently untangling any knots I come across and lightly massage your scalp. Then I would sweep all the hair off your neck so I could work at the muscles there. Because I am a romantic, I would kiss from just beneath your hairline to the spot between your shoulders as my hands now work at any sore spots and knots of the muscular kind.
JollyRoger: Once I know your back is freed of all tension, I would ask you to flip over onto your back.
JollyRoger: Should I keep going, Swan?
Swan: Please.
In a move of pure need, Emma's hand slides along the path that her new inamorato describes in his messages. He types as if she's still fully clothed, so she follows along, dragging fingertips over her nipples through the material of her sleep shirt. They follow his directions over her stomach and he tells her how he would pause just above the waistband of her pants.
JollyRoger: Describe for me your sleep-attire, Swan. For science.
Swan: They're embarrassing.
JollyRoger: Darling, I'm wearing flannel bottoms with anchors all over them and still have an erection. You could tell me you were wearing a burlap sack and I would still be fine with it.
Swan: They're fleece. And purple. And they have mustaches all over them.
Swan: My favorite pair with ducks are in the hamper.
JollyRoger: That's hot, Swan. Maybe too warm for this conversation.
JollyRoger: Maybe you should slide those off?
Swan: Done.
She clicks send and waits for her next instruction. There's something about this whole interaction that makes her want to ask more about JollyRoger. She wants to ask his name. If they're in the same time zone. If he wants to exchange information to have another chat someday. She hasn't felt this connected or open to someone in longer than she can remember, and maybe that's a sign that she should actually get to know this man more.
JollyRoger: Which do you prefer, Swan? Mouth or fingers?
Swan: Why not both?
JollyRoger: I like the way you think.
She decides to break the anonymity, knowing that it could change the entire dynamic of the conversation from here on out, but before she touches herself and pretends it's him touching her, which she knows she's about to do, she at least needs to know his name.
Swan: And what name should I be calling out when the time comes?
She hits send and waits.
But she doesn't get to wait long.
Faintly, she can hear the screeching tires and the crashing crunch of metal, and then her entire apartment goes dark. In the pitch-black, Emma's eyes go wide. A quick glance out the window reveals more dark, more lights out, more affirmation that she has just been torn away from JollyRoger without ever even finding out his name.
-x-
Killian Jones blinks in the sudden darkness of his apartment and absorbs this new and terrible twist of fate. Nearly two and a half hours of unexpected conversation led to the most intimate moment he's encountered in years and right as she asked his name, right as this could have maybe become something more, the bloody power had gone out. In the unnatural stillness, he realizes the streetlight that normally illuminates his bedroom is also out.
At least it seems to be a local thing instead of finding out the landlord of the building didn't pay his dues, or something of that nature. Still, there's an ache in his heart at the loss of his companion. And not just because of what could have potentially been a phenomenal orgasm, because he was already well on his way there, but because this woman, this Swan-
I don't have any real friends, she'd admitted to him. He has his small group of mates that he drinks with on occasions, but he didn't have them when he first moved here. How quiet must her world be if this is the first secret she handed over to him?
In the distance, he hears sirens approaching and figures an accident of some nature is the cause of his woes. He only hopes no one is injured and thanks the heavens that it's not yet fall. He requires neither heat nor air conditioning to be comfortable. He heaves a sigh and drops back in bed. Without his Swan to keep him engaged, he quickly falls asleep.
It's late when Killian finally wakes up, and he's glad it's Saturday and he doesn't have to go to his miserable office job. He'd not been lying when he told Swan he was unhappy with how his life had turned out. When he dreamed of his adult-life when he was but a lad, he pictured a job that made him happy, a wife and kids, a house with a yard and a dog. That he pictured all of it also happening in his home country was another matter, but here he was. Single, divorced even, could have been widowed if he and Milah had worked out and stayed together.
The hands on his watch let him know that while it's late for him to wake up, it's still too early to start drinking all over again. He's allowed himself this weekend to mourn his ex-wife and friend before he pulls himself together. She'd even said as much in the letter he'd gotten the day before. She instructed that if he wallowed too long, she would haunt him from beyond the grave and be even more of a pain in the arse than she was when they were married. At least this time when he laughs, it actually comes out as such instead of the sob that escaped him yesterday.
With the idea of a shower out the window for the moment, Killian rolls out of bed and changes. He has things he needs to accomplish today, even with the power out. He can still write out bills (he's old-fashioned, refuses to sign up for e-pay) and fit in a work out. If that's successful, he can take a cold shower if the power is still out. Eventually he'll have to acquire groceries, but no point to that if the fridge isn't working. But first he needs sustenance.
As he walks down the street, Killian's eyes are drawn to blonde hair. He doesn't even know what Swan looked like other than her very basic physical description, so he's not sure why he thinks he would recognize her amongst the sea of blondes out and about on this day, or any other.
Approaching his favorite diner two blocks over, he's distressed to see Ruby standing out front shooing away potential customers.
"Sorry, buddy. Even the backup generators aren't working. Granny just got the rest of the perishables out of here until we're back up and running." When she's finished speaking, his friend gestures to the transformer across the street, obliterated but free of the debris from the apparent accident.
"There's some cosmic joke being played on me this weekend, I believe," Killian utters, dropping heavily into one of the patio chairs.
"How're you holding up?"
"As well as can be expected," he admits.
"I was surprised to see you in the chat last night, Captain Hook! Figured we left you too drunk to function or operate a computer."
Killian chuckles weakly and rubs his hand across his face. "Yes, and now I'm hungover and slightly heartbroken for an entirely different reason."
"Did you meet someone?" The brunette's words come out bright and excited and he immediately regrets mentioning it.
"Kind of? I don't know, Ruby. I never even learned her name but there was an honest connection, if you can believe it."
"Serendipity, my friend. Maybe you'll luck out. She could be walking down the street right now," Ruby says, wiggling her eyebrows at the passers-by. One of them happens to be blonde, long haired, even. She stops at the entrance to the patio in front of the quaint diner, but trudges on when she sees the "closed" sign, disappointment plastered on her face.
"Yes, clearly. I'll just start approaching every lass I meet and ask her if she's Swan."
"Ohhh, Swan. I was hoping she played both sides like me. Lucky man, actually capturing the attention of an unfamiliar."
Instead of responding, Killian just groans and puts his head in his hands.
The power is back on by that evening, and Killian logs in hoping to find her again. He goes in again the next night, and the next. And for a whole week Killian spends a part of his evening logged in to the chat room in hopes of finding Swan again, but she never shows.
Something amazing happens after that week, though. Killian starts looking for a job that will make him happy instead of the paper-pushing nonsense he'd been doing for three years. It takes almost a month, but he's so confident after the interview that he types up his resignation and hands it in the next day. The new job is closer to home, with better pay, but what's more is that it makes him smile. His coworkers are genuine people who do things like laugh and converse and be normal, as opposed to his previous job where he's not entirely convinced they weren't all robots.
A month into the job, he meets one of the workers from a different department when they're all out for drinks.
"I'm Emma!" She asserts over the loud music. If she offers a last name, it's lost to the noise around him.
"I work upstairs and I mostly work solo which is why we've never met before!"
He holds out his hand and nods and only offers his name, too mesmerized by her blonde hair and green eyes, and it's the first time in over a month since he's looked at a woman and wondered if this is what Swan looked like. She smiles a little, arching an eyebrow in question and he realizes he's been staring at this poor stranger for longer than is polite.
"Sorry, you just remind me of someone," he explains lamely, scratching nervously behind his ear as he regards his beer again.
They end up chatting through most of the evening, and he finds out Emma knows Ruby as a frequent patron of Granny's.
"I don't live too far from there," she tells him as they stand out on the quiet street after the bar has closed. "I started going in frequently enough that Ruby and I just sorta became friends."
"She does that. Did she ply your friendship with greasy foods as well, then?"
"Onion rings."
"Bloody hell do those sound good about now. Fancy splitting an order?"
When he sees her full name in the next company-wide email, his eyes gloss over the last name Swan and he doesn't think of it any further. What he does manage is to strike up a friendship with her. She's quick-witted and feisty, and they spend their time bantering whenever they see each other in the halls. They eat lunch together a couple times a week, and Killian quickly finds himself enamored with the woman, and she smiles at him like she might just be on the same page.
It's New Year's Eve when he finds Emma outside after their boss lets them leave early, in the snow as it falls in great big flurries, frustration creasing the space between her eyebrows as she fusses with her phone.
"Is everything all right, Emma?"
She makes an aggravated noise as she jams at the screen of her phone before clicking the lock button and shoving it in her pocket.
"Car won't start and I can't get ahold of any towing companies," she grits out. She pulls her knit beanie tighter over her ears and struggles to get her gloves back on, and Killian's immediately ushering her a few spots over to his own vehicle.
"Why don't I take you home for now? If anyone answers, I can bring you back to meet them. Sound good?"
He already has her bundled into the car and is working on getting the heat blasting before she can even answer. She huffs out a laugh and rubs at her nose.
"Thanks, Killian."
The drive is short, and they mostly sit in companionable silence. Killian makes sure to point out his street as they pass by it, only a few turns away from her own.
"I didn't realize you were that close! How have we never run into each other before?"
"Who knows, maybe we did and we don't even realize it. Fate does work in funny ways, Emma."
They laugh, because they both think fate is silly and made-up, and nothing that applies to either of them. Killian just parks his car in the small lot devoted to Emma's apartment building and follows her up and out of the cold. They immediately begin shucking layers, hats and gloves and scarves all carefully hung, along with their winter coats. Killian makes sure to toe off his boots carefully on the entrance mat so as not to track the slush around her apartment.
He takes a moment to look around, admiring how everything seems to have a place, but there's still an element of lived-in disorganization.
"Do you mind if I use the toilet?"
"Go right ahead," she answers, once again scrolling through her phone, probably in hopes of a tow sometime before the blizzard that's supposed to hit their state. She points the way for him and he leaves her to her phone call as he carefully clicks the door shut.
When he exits the restroom, Emma has her back to him, still fiddling with her phone in an attempt to get her car out of the employee parking lot before the storm hits in full swing. He meanders into the living room and sits down on her couch, reaching out for a book on the coffee table and leafing through it as he listens to Emma's voice take on new tones of defeat.
"No, I understand. Thanks again," she says, disappointment heavy in her posture. She slumps onto the other end of the couch and buries her face in her hands momentarily. "You can go home if you need to," Emma says to him. She rolls her neck to loosen it up, and Killian watches with fascination as her hair glides with the movements.
"You've got two options, love." Her eyes pop open a little in surprise, probably from the fact that he didn't immediately take her up on the offer to get out while the roads were still driveable.
"Oh? And what are my options, oh wise one?"
"One. You sit here by yourself, eat Poptarts for dinner, spend the rest of the snowstorm alone until you can wrangle someone to rescue your car."
She purses her lips and tries to fight the smile he can see peeking through. "Or?"
"Or we order take-out, watch fantastic eighties movies, and I'll take you back to your car when a tow truck will be available and the roads will be clear.
She stops and pretends to weigh each option, as if spending the evening alone without a form of transportation is highly preferable over company and dinner, but he sees the smile finally crack through, and she laughs as she tells him she'll grab the menus of places that will deliver.
Within the hour, the disgruntled guy that delivers for the Chinese restaurant at the end of the block is banging on the door, practically throwing the bag of food at Emma, but then slowing down for a moment when Killian hands him two twenties and tells him to keep the change. It's a hefty tip, for trudging through the elements, and Leroy suddenly smiles, which is, quite frankly, scarier than his grumpy face. With a hearty thanks, he's on his way, and Killian and Emma are seated around the coffee table, camping on couch cushions, and sorting through the various containers that hold their food.
They eat in relative silence, while The Breakfast Club plays on her television and the snow continues falling outside the apartment building. They watch it build up on the balcony, the snow piling up against the sliding doors, and he wonders if she's worried at all that he'll be stuck there overnight, but she seems to relax the longer he's there.
They settle onto the couch to watch the rest of the movie after they clean up the leftovers. It's during Sixteen Candles (his choice) that they move imperceptibly closer, little by little. Halfway through Ghostbusters (her choice), she presses against his side, and Killian carefully removes his arm from the back of the couch and rests it across her shoulders. As the credits are rolling, Killian looks at his watch and realizes that it's half past twelve, and he chuckles.
Emma hums her question from where her head rests on his shoulder, and one glance shows that her eyes are closed, although the way her hand continuously brushes along his side shows that she's not asleep. To counter the soothing movement, Killian brushes all her hair off her neck and slowly massages, starting along her hairline and working his way down.
"It seems we've missed the changing of the years. Happy New Year, Emma." He whispers it somewhere in her hair, as his ministrations bring her closer, and their changing positions leave him breathing in the scent of her shampoo. And then she's turning her face towards him, eagerly seeking his lips with her own, sinking into the kiss as if she's been waiting for it just as long as he has. He buries one hand in that glorious hair, cradling the back of her head as his other hand sweeps down her spine to continue the tender seeking of knotted muscles.
So goes the pace with the whole evening, after that. It's quiet when she lifts herself from the couch and holds out her hand to him. The world is muffled with the blanket of snow, and also where his lips press against her bare skin in the darkness of her bedroom. Even with the urgent undertones to feel, to touch, to give and receive, they take it slow, savouring each and every single breathy gasp and muted moan. He marvels at the closeness he feels to her, despite their surface level work-friendship. It's as if he knows her secrets, and she knows his, as he follows his own once-typed directions down her body without realizing it. And it's a little like finding some lost piece of himself when she slides down onto him, her hands on his shoulders while his travel her back once more.
It's not until they're both on their backs, bare chests cooling in the open air, hands clasped loosely between them, that they realize the apartment is too dark and rapidly chilling over with the temperature drop.
"Not again," Emma groans out, throwing her free arm over her eyes in exasperation.
"Does this happen often to you, too, love?"
"Once would be too often to me. Twice in the last couple months is just ridiculous." She goes to stand, presumably to find warm clothes, but Killian tugs her back down to kiss her instead, delighting in the way her hair curtains around their heads and the way she smiles even as she playfully wriggles from his grasp.
"Have any flashlights?" he asks when she succeeds. He also gets out of the bed to retrieve his boxer-briefs and his undershirt. He finds his phone and makes sure he has enough battery before turning on the flash and shining it her way.
"There's a perfectly good and real flashlight in the top drawer of my nightstand," Emma says, blinking in the bright light and not even bothering to cover her herself. Instead, she bites her lip and winks at him before she turns around to her dresser and digs out sleep clothes. He turns the flash to the nightstand and finds the flashlight in question. When he shifts which device is in his hand, she's already moved to the closet, reaching high to grab a stack of blankets from the top shelf.
He considers offering help, really he does, but he becomes fixated on the strip of bare flesh exposed between the thermal top and pajama pants she's slipped on. He spends a good minute appreciating the way the fleece covers her rear end. No matter that he recently saw all of this, felt it beneath his fingers, tasted it with his own lips…
His thoughts trail off as he actually focuses on the pants, instead of what they're covering. Purple. Fleece. With black mustaches drawn in all kinds of variations across the fabric. What are the odds.
No really, what are the odds?
He's so shocked that the flashlight slips from his hand and the room is plunged into darkness as it falls into the folds of the comforter. He hears the tumble of blankets falling, and Emma's muffled noise of surprise as the blankets all fall at once.
"Killian, what the hell?"
"Swan."
"What? Where's the light? I'm cold and want to be back in bed with you."
He repeats it, hoping she catches on to the fact that he has never once called her by her last name. "Swan," he murmurs and adds, "are the pajama bottoms with the ducks still in the wash?"
Suddenly she's scrambling on to the bed and feels around until she finds the abandoned flashlight, and Killian has to bring a hand over his eyes as she shines it on his face at close range.
"There's no way," she says, her voice full of resolve.
"You hate cooking for one. You didn't have any friends, although you've made splendid steps to correct that one," Killian points out, tugging her off balance so she lands back in his lap. He runs his tongue along the shell of her ear before tugging on the lobe once with his teeth. "You would've preferred mouth and fingers when I went down on you."
As his soft words rasp out and his breath hits her ear, she shivers in his arms and pulls back enough to look at him. She angles the flashlight so it's shining upward, illuminating both of their faces. "You hated your job, so you found another one. And you have a profound love for Captain Hook." She stops for a second and laughs, running her fingers over his stubbled jaw. "Do you feel like we should've known? You make pirate jokes all the time."
"Your last name is Swan and I never even thought to put the pieces together, darling."
"I tried to find you again," she admits, her lips turning down. "You were never there."
"I was. But when I'm not intoxicated, I go by the much less incriminating KJ4665. Did you come in as Swan again?"
He just barely manages to save the flashlight from falling again as she abandons it to cover her face in her hands.
"No. I was coming in as a guest, figuring I would just spot you and either message you or pop back out and change the name I was using."
"Well, perhaps this was fate's way of saying we weren't ready for this right here until we'd both figured some things out," he assures her. His fingers trace over the lines of the pattern on the fleece, and he smiles again.
"C'mon," Emma urges him. "Help me with the blankets. Maybe we can share a couple more secrets without the screen names?"
"Secret number one," Killian announces as he sets the flashlight on its end on the nightstand. The light points upward, giving a faint glow to the surrounding area, but it's enough for them to see what they're doing, and to see each other as well. "I quite fancy you, Emma Swan."
"I don't think that's exactly a secret, Killian." She tosses one of the blankets at him from her end of the bed, and he manages to catch it against his chest.
"Secret number two," he adds. "I have fancied you since you threw pirate innuendoes at me whilst trying to figure out what pirate innuendoes I was going to throw at you in a chat room." He takes the blanket and spreads it over the comforter, taking the next one she offers and hurrying as he sees her shiver again. He doesn't wish to see her do that unless he's the one causing it.
Emma huffs out a laugh at his response and picks up the last blanket. She takes advantage of Killian placing them all on the bed and crawls back into their veritable nest of blankets. He scoots back in a moment later, making sure the blankets are tucked around her shoulders as another shudder shakes her body. With her cold toes pressed against his shins and her chilly nose warming against his chest, she finally speaks up. "Secret number one, I never thought I would meet you, but I'm so incredibly happy I did."
"Secret number three," Killian says into the hair on the top of her head. "Me too."
By the time they finally fall asleep, the snow is finally slowing and the sun is rising behind the thick clouds that still cover the area. It'll be hours before they awake to the power back on, and most of the extra blankets pushed to the floor in their sleep.
The heavy snowfall, by that point, has been plowed away to give them plenty of options. But other than a short venture out into the world for food, and fresh clothes for him, they opt instead to spend their holiday weekend making up for lost time.
Somewhere, fate decides it's done alright for these two and wanders off to find new havoc to create.