Henry had insisted that they get there as soon as the museum opened.
"I've got the whole day planned," he said proudly, pulling out a marked up map that he'd printed off the website. Pointing to the various areas—numbered and highlighted areas, she noted—he began going through the plan of attack.
"Henry," she cut in, "kid, we're only going to be here for the day. This—all of these exhibits—would take days to get through."
With a smile, he handed both her and Killian their own marked up maps. "Then let's get going." Taking the lead, he started off to the left, leaving Emma staring after him and his loping stride and wondering when her son had suddenly become so grown up.
A nudge at her shoulder redirected her attention. "C'mon, Swan. Where's your sense of adventure?" His blue eyes sparkled with unconstrained enthusiasm as his warm hand took hers, and it was all she could to keep up with him, too.
First was the Roman and Greek collection. Henry immediately began pulling Killian away to show him the statue halls as she ambled over to her typical spot whenever they'd come here in the past.
"And don't worry about Mom," her son said when Killian stopped them and glanced back at her, obviously confused. "She likes to look at the jewelry. Earrings and gold and stuff."
"Hey! That stuff is cool," she protested. "And it's pretty. And it survived this long, so it should be appreciated."
Henry just rolled his eyes and resumed leading Killian away.
"Once a pirate, always a pirate," the latter called back, voice bright and echoing in the space. She shooed them away, laughing.
Next came the Egypt exhibit, which had always been Henry's favorite. They walked through the Tomb of Perneb and the Temple of Dendur . They looked at the various pottery and trinkets. They checked out the sarcophagi. They studied the hieroglyphic reliefs, Henry comparing them to a translation book he had. When he got stuck on one set ("I can't tell if that says 'throne' or 'Isis'"), Killian stepped forward and considered the grouping that Henry pointed out, both of their heads comically tilting to the right. A couple more consults to the book and some hand flourishes later, Henry exclaimed "Isis!" and high-fived the equally pleased pirate.
By far the most overwhelming section was the European art with its tapestries, silver, watches, embroidery, snuff boxes, lace, and seemingly endless, well, everything.
"Love," a whisper tickled against her ear about thirty minutes later, "I'm a bloody patient man and can appreciate luxuries when I see them, but I can only take so many of these tea cups and chayzees."
"Chaises," she intoned back. "It's French."
He huffed. "It's boring, lass."
He had a point, but she dragged out his misery a teensy bit longer and studied the turquoise and gold chair in front of her for another minute, just to see him pout again. She got what she'd wanted and teasingly kissed it.
Henry protested with an overly-dramatic gagging sound.
With a sigh, Emma began pulling away (they probably had been lip-locked long enough for propriety's sake), but Killian's lips suddenly crushed down on hers again, muting her startled cry as he dipped her in the middle of the crowd and kissed her and kissed her and kissed her…
They got applause.
They still got some approving thumbs up and knowing winks as they ate their lunch in the museum cafeteria. Henry was focused a bit too hard on his cheeseburger and fries, clearly still embarrassed.
Emma caught Killian's eye over their shared plate of fries and mouthed, "On three?"
He nodded, covertly shifting in his chair.
"One. Two. Three."
The two of them simultaneously jumped up and gave the sulky teenager a loud kiss each on top of his mop of hair. When they pulled away, it was difficult to say who was laughing the hardest.
They spent the rest of the afternoon drifting from collection to collection. Medieval art, modern art. Assyria, Mesopotamia, King Midas—the one who wasn't almost related to Emma and Henry. They traveled around the world from Tibet to South America to sub-Saharan Africa to the Pacific Islands. When the late sun glinted like topaz off of polished armor and chain mail and swords to make anyone covetous, all Emma had eyes for were two true-to-life heroes dazzled by it all.
Their weary feet—and brains—found them skimming through the last gallery on Henry's ambitious itinerary. It was the American Wing, which really was spectacular and worthy of their utmost attention. But all she wanted to do after—god—eight hours was collapse in the backseat of a taxi, have it drop her off at their hotel, change into one of those crazy comfy robes and order room service. Even Henry and Killian, as eager and knowledge hungry as they were, had started showing signs of wanting to wave the white flag about an hour ago. But Henry had insisted, and who knew when they would make it back to New York once he started high school in Storybrooke next month; so she hadn't put her foot down. (Her butt on one of the padded benches was a different matter. At least from there, she could see all the Tiffany glass.)
"Okay," Henry sighed as he trudged up to her, "I'm done."
She gathered up her purse and found the strength to stand. "Good—let's go."
"Wait, where's Killian?"
Emma looked bewilderedly at her son. "I have no idea. I thought he was with you."
"Nope. He left me ages ago, said he was going to find you."
Crap. "Come on," she said, feet protesting at the pace she set but she ignored it. Henry thankfully kept up with her.
They searched two rooms with no luck. Same for a third and a forth. Emma was about to let out a string of words Henry would never let her hear the end of, when they rounded a corner and there Killian was, standing like a statue himself in front of a painting. She couldn't tell what exactly he was looking at; but by his posture, again with the slight tilt to his head, she knew he was focused on whatever it was. They finished walking up to him, each coming to stop on separate sides of him as the artwork came into view, and Emma instantly just knew.
A ship out on the open sea, a favorable wind billowing its sails as it set a course due west into the setting sun.
It was breathtaking.
And he was remembering.
She slipped her hand into his, interlacing their fingers and giving him something to hold onto as centuries' worth of similar memories aboard the Jolly Roger—and countless others that he hadn't had time to tell her over these last couple of years together, though he tried—made him nostalgic.
For a few timeless minutes, they stood there, silent, together; each thinking of their Neverland voyage and the ultimate fate of Killian's beloved vessel. It still was a bittersweet mixture of emotions for her, recalling that it had been for her (and Henry and her family) that he'd sacrificed the only home he'd had for all those years. So many years. Without, before her. Yet still, he'd done it unhesitatingly.
I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat, love, he'd declared to her even though, at the time, she was only just able to admit to herself exactly why he would (and from there, it hadn't taken her long to let him know she felt the same about him).
As if sensing the path of her thoughts, he brought their joined hands up and brushed a kiss along her knuckles, over the white gold and diamond band she wore.
"My ship…" he began, throwing his arm over Henry's shoulders and turning to steer them all towards the exit, "my ship, she was a marvel." They crossed the Great Hall. "Have I ever told you about the time my brother made me scrub the entire deck with a toothbrush?"
"No," Henry replied with a small grin.
Killian responded with an even larger grin, adding, "You're in for quite the tale then. It all started with a girl I met in po—oi!" He stopped—so they all stopped—at her slight poke in his ribs as they were descending the stairs outside to hail a taxi. "No need to get defensive, love."
"Don't start filling his head with the wrong kind of stories."
He rolled his eyes at her before sighing dramatically. "You're spoiling the effect, darling," he chided but his tone was warm, gentle even. "If your mother had been patient, lad, she would have discovered that my point is: when it comes to a sailor's ship, a woman had better be worth it."
A/N: The painting I had in mind is Edward Moran's 'Ship at Sea, Sunset.' Isn't it beautiful? It's not actually at the Met, but everything else mentioned in this fic is. Written based on a tumblr prompt.