She leans slightly against the door of a yellow VW Beetle, golden hair streaming over her shoulders, evergreens visible in the distance. She might as well have stepped from the canvas of an Alex Colville painting. The differences from the painting in question (May Day, 1970, acrylic) consist of a black Canada Goose parka and a pair of fur-lined Sorels, a black bobble cap perched adorably over loose curls, skinny jeans, and a quirk of upturned lips as she peruses, he assumes, her grocery list. They make her real.

Killian watches her stride quickly toward the entrance, seemingly impervious to the slippery patches hidden beneath barely melting slush. He realizes he's standing in the middle of the car park goggling like a prat only when the tires of a passing SUV spray him with icy muck. He hastily steps toward the entrance and finds himself sprawled flat on his back, wet coldness seeping into the seat of his jeans. Right. It's to be one of those days.

He always begins in the produce section. (There's no sign of the lass, not that he's looking.) He ticks items off his mental list while he cruises the aisles. He's in the midst of an internal debate (fresh mint gel or whitening paste?) in the toothpaste aisle when he sees her pause by the prominent Godiva display. Her eyes widen in glee as she takes in the post-Valentine's Day half-off Shopper's Club discount on the various gold ballotins. She fist-pumps. She actually fist-pumps. She catches him peeking over the shelves of toothpaste and mouthwash and flushes prettily at his amused smile. He raises an eyebrow. (He is so smooth.) She offers him a shrug and a self-deprecating smile as she selects the largest box for her cart. He's officially smitten.

Through dumb luck (or some skillful mechanization on his part, but what's the difference, eh?) he finds himself unloading his cart in the checkout aisle right behind her. He'd be lying if he said the sight of his 2% milk nestled right next to her skim on the conveyor belt didn't do things to him. He catches her eye and grins as she helpfully places a plastic separator between their purchases.

"Thanks, love."

Her eyes simultaneously soften and brighten. How is that physically possible? "Seriously?" she groans, already laughing.

His brow wrinkles in confusion. "Pardon?"

"You, with the eyes and that accent. Are you for real?"

He deliberately leans in closer, noting with no small amount of satisfaction that the closer he gets, the higher the blush in her cheeks climbs. He lowers his voice to thismuch above a whisper. "I think you'll find that all of my parts are quite real."

She rolls her eyes, fighting back a smile, and turns her attention to the cashier. He takes advantage of her distraction to scope out her purchases. It's a study in contradictions: mostly organic produce and herbs, bulk organic grains, free-range, organic meats, interspersed with a tub of Rocky Road, a box of instant hot chocolate, a spray can of whipped cream, an assortment of cookies, a few boxes of sugary cereals, and the box of chocolates.

His affects an air of nonchalance as his ears strain toward the conversation between the blonde and the cashier. He doesn't know how he knows, but it's absolutely plain as day that she is not the type to spill details of her personal life to a random stranger in the grocery store. The cashier, however, is blissfully oblivious. The cashier is an older motherly type who, having already assumed that the lass is buying the chocolate for herself, apparently can't believe that such a lovely young woman is without a significant other, that she must buy her own box of chocolates (poor little thing), and if she can't find a special someone then what hope is there for anyone?

Killian smiles widely at the perfect opportunity fate has handed him. He's not the type to abandon a damsel in distress. He sidles up and slings an arm around her suddenly rigid-with-tension shoulder. "I did, in fact, shower the lady with chocolates and roses, but the chocolates were gone nary a day later. My love is bloody insatiable when it comes to chocolate." (He does not take advantage of the situation to lightly breathe in the scent of cinnamon and warmth and place a kiss to her temple.) He gestures to the sweets disappearing into the eco-friendly grocery bags.

He can actually feel the exact moment her icy green stare snaps to his face (inappropriately, he thinks you wouldn't like me when I'm angry and dubs it her Hulk Face). Her eyes narrow, then turn to the cashier, a portrait of wide-eyed innocence. "It's true, I just really like chocolate." She slips out from under his arm and finishes bagging her groceries. "I'll just wait outside for you to finish up, darling." The last word positively drips with sarcasm.

The cashier smiles dotingly. "So this is all together, then?"

She looks up through her eyelashes and gives him a saccharine smile. "This dashing gent will pay."

He covers his bark of laughter with a cough, accepting her challenge. "Absolutely."

He emerges from the store and finds her leaning against the Beetle again. She scrutinizes him intently as he approaches, though he can't tell this time what she is thinking. He stops just out of arm's reach, tilts his head slightly, smiling, and just takes it all in.

Reluctantly, almost against her will, she starts to smile back. "Look, I know you were just trying to be nice, but that was really unnecessary. I'm not in the habit of justifying my actions to anyone, let alone random grocery store cashiers-"

He cuts her off before she can really get going. "I'm honored you suspect me of such noble intentions but the truth is, it was more for me than you, love."

She pauses, surprised. "What the hell does that mean?"

He steps closer, invading her space again. "I merely seized the opportunity to learn more of the intriguing lass who has utterly captivated my attention."

She arches her eyebrow. Seriously? Pure skepticism. Again, clear as day.

"You're the very likeness of a Colville. And then you fist-pumped." He realizes he isn't making sense. Strangely enough, her face brightens.

She looks at her Beetle and the evergreens. "As in Alex Colville?" She arranges her hair over her shoulders and leans against the car. "May Day. 1970."

He smiles warmly. "Precisely."

0+0+0

Her name is Emma.

0+0+0

Grocery shopping sort of becomes their weekly thing. 8:15ish on Saturday mornings before it gets too crowded, but late enough for the shelves to be mostly stocked. At 8:15am, they earn very few glares as they amble down the aisles, carts pushed next to each other, unapologetically obstructing all traffic that attempts to flow around them. Those first few weeks they keep it casual, talking about their weeks, swapping a running commentary on the products on the shelves, the other patrons. It's light, but it's also intimate, that she knows what kind of soap he uses and his preference of breakfast cereals. She gets a twisted surge of delight when she drags him down the feminine products aisle, because she can see him biting his tongue against inappropriate comments, and that is so unlike him.

Killian has very definite opinions on their sugar intake you're just feeding the potential tumors, Swan, yet loads his cart with all manner of sodium-filled prepackaged food and frozen pizzas, justifying his purchases with the age-old I rarely have time to cook a proper meal, and why bother? There's only me. To be fair, the man does load his cart with a decent amount of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Sometimes Henry accompanies her when he's not spending the weekend at Regina's. Killian and Henry together make her eye twitch, because it's like they're absolute hellions, ganging up on her, racing each other down the aisles and doing tricks with their carts for God's sake, which forces her to be the responsible adult, the fun-sucker, when she would much rather join in the shenanigans, and how is that fair?

Sometimes Killian brings the y-jack, and they happily plug into one of their phones and wander the store lost in the joy of listening to music together. Many of their favorites overlap (Beatles, Queen, Arcade Fire, The National, and Counting Crows for the nostalgia), but he's so much better at unearthing newer stuff she's never heard of but falls in love with (Josh Ritter, George Ezra, The Districts, Hozier).

After a while the small talk gives way to information gathering. He builds boats for a living, former Navy brat, brother in England. She briefly sketches out her lonely childhood and thieving teen runaway years, but speaks openly about the transformation to bad-ass bounty hunter and fully reformed sheriff. It's always easier to talk about life after Henry found her. It's terrifying and wonderful how natural it is to talk to him: forever the introvert, always on guard, her tongue loosens and the words just pour out of her around him. He learns more about her in a few months than most people learn in years.

Mostly, though, he makes her laugh. She loves the crinkles in the corner of his eyes when he smiles, and the way his voice drops with every ridiculous innuendo. He flirts outrageously with her. He never pushes her for more than this casual (becoming ever closer and deeper) friendship, but she suspects things could be very different if she allowed herself to take him seriously.

0+0+0

He absolutely does not drive around town sometimes, looking for the yellow Beetle. Storybrooke is quite a small town, and she is the sheriff. When he runs into her at Granny's, or the Rabbit Hole, or the bakery, it's pure coincidence. Simple as that.

0+0+0

She's always happy when she runs into him unexpectedly, smiling that big, warm smile that makes her eyes sparkle.

0+0+0

Somehow they both happen to be at Granny's every Wednesday morning, so of course it's only natural that they should sit together. Henry is often there as well, and listens with rapt attention to Killian's stories of places he's lived and people he's met.

Emma and the lad drink identical mugs of hot chocolate, topped with clouds of whipped cream, and a dash of cinnamon, while he has his usual cuppa. They more often than not opt for chocolate chip pancakes, or French toast dripping in maple syrup, or the occasional warm bear claw with scrambled eggs. He bemoans the lack of beans, rashers, and black pudding, but ultimately rotates between three different kinds of omelettes with a side of hash browns and dry whole wheat toast or porridge and fresh fruit.

He listens with genuine interest to Henry's school stories and talk of fairytales and grand adventure before the boy dashes off to the school bus, backpack flying. Then he has precious time alone with Emma, content to share the same space for a little while more. They talk of books they've read, The Walking Dead (they're both obsessed), and tease each other mercilessly. Then she's off to the station or wherever the latest investigation leads, and he to the docks. (He'd never set foot in, let alone frequented, this establishment until he'd spied the yellow Beetle parked curbside on his way to the docks one morning. Now he can't imagine starting his Wednesdays any other way.)

They text frequently on Sunday nights, usually between the hours of nine and ten thirty, to "watch" their show together. They're so busy texting they miss half of the show, and have to rewind to watch it properly. It's much easier to just watch the damn show together, Emma points out, so that's what they do.

Henry is so disappointed to miss out on time with Killian (Emma refuses to allow a ten year old to watch such a graphic, violent, albeit brilliant show, reasoning he should be in bed by then anyway) that he comes over well before the show starts to spend time with him. They slowly construct an entire world of model ships, the kind that float on water, yes, but also ones suspended by wire from the ceiling, real models and models from Star Wars and Firefly and Miyazaki films. Killian is gobsmacked by the sheer scope of his imagination and feels quite certain the lad is destined to share his creativity with the world.

The distance between them on the couch gradually lessens, until the accepted position is Emma tucked into his side, his arm around her shoulder, her feet shoved under his thigh (because her feet are always cold and the man is like an electric blanket). If occasionally her head slides against his shoulder, and his falls against hers in return, well, it is late, after all, and they've been busy all week.

0+0+0

He snores (but only sometimes). It's shouldn't be cute, but it is. Damn it.

0+0+0

She's fallen in love with him and they haven't even kissed yet. What the hell.