Happy Christmas! This was my CS Secret Santa fic for indecisively_yours. Apologies to my friend Savvy for stealing her very real gas problem (in Japan) for fic purposes.

There's no possible good answer to give to Mary Margaret's question about the temperature when she comes home that afternoon. Oh, Emma's tried to think of one all day, but really all it boils down to is-

"We forgot to pay the gas bill and they're closed until Tuesday unless it's an emergency and yes, I know, I tried to tell them it's fucking Christmas and December in Maine, but it's not a blizzard and neither one of us is old and at risk of dying of hypothermia so they basically told me to pay the bill tonight and it'll get turned on again on Tuesday and 'get fucked' was kind of implied in the woman's tone, but I kind of deserved it because-"

"Emma." Mary Margaret's got her 'teacher voice' on, which is really intimidating to the ten-year old living in Emma's brain most days. "Back up, slow down." She drops her bags on the loveseat near the door and doesn't take off her peacoat or hat, which is probably the smart thing to do since their apartment is, after all, without heat for the foreseeable future. "When did we forget to pay the gas bill?"

Emma bites her lip and fidgets a little under the responsible stare of Mary Margaret Blanchard, woman of top-buttoned cardigans and color-coded schedules, voted Preferred Designated Driver three years running by their friends, rare rule-breaker, and master of 'I'm not mad I'm just disappointed' looks. "Um. September. And October. And last month."

"Emma-"

"Look, I know utilities are my responsibility-"

"Emma," Mary Margaret says, louder this time. "Okay. Did you pay the bill?"

"Yes."

"Even the overdue fees?"

"Yes."

"And they'll switch it on again on Tuesday?"

"Barring any weather emergencies, yes."

Mary Margaret is quiet for a long moment, then scuffs her shoes on the welcome mat briefly before heading for her room. "Okay."

Emma twists in the chair to watch her fling back the curtain dividing her sleeping area from the living space of the loft. "Okay? That's it?"

Mary Margaret glances at her before ducking to retrieve a bag from under the bed. "You screwed up, you admitted to it, you took care of it. Being mad isn't going to help."

"You're never mad, you're-"

"I'm disappointed, but it happens, Emma," Mary Margaret says, opening her wardrobe.

Emma squints at her best friend, watching as she removes a few items of clothing and puts them in the bag. "You're being really reasonable about..." She cuts herself off with a gasp when a drawer is opened. "Mary Margaret Blanchard, you scheming little-you're going to David's!"

"What?" Mary Margaret slams her underwear drawer closed, her cheeks pink. "No!"

Emma grins. She knows for a fact that, despite having gone on more than three dates, Mary Margaret and her new boyfriend have yet to spend the night together. (They haven't used the words yet, but really, the way that David looks at Mary Margaret makes Emma surprised that he didn't pop the question on date two.) Someone had mentioned something about throwing off the weight of expectations and letting it happen naturally.

Well, naturally, Emma had forgotten to pay all of their utilities on time, so the time for letting it happen is apparently now.

"That's your good underwear drawer," she says, getting up and trying not to look too smug about the whole thing. "Because you're an anal retentive freak who of course has a good underwear drawer and a period-panty drawer, and I say that with all the love in my heart-ow!" Emma laughs as Mary Margaret smacks her on the arm, the pink on her cheeks spreading up towards her ears. "So what was the plan going to be, appear on his doorstep with a bag and big sad puppy eyes and a story about how I'm the worst roommate in the world?"

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes and yanks open the drawer again - the good underwear drawer, thank you very much - digging out some lacy things that toe the line between racy and tasteful. "Well, first of all you aren't the worst roommate in the world. You haven't flooded the place or burned it down."

"Your roommate freshman year does not get to set the standards for the rest of your life."

"Oh, she does," she says, irritation clearly written on her face at the memory. She shakes her head. "Forgetting to pay bills happens, and it's not like we aren't used to things getting cut off."

Emma has to admit the truth in that. She and Mary Margaret have spent more than one night with candles and flashlights as their only light sources, or splitting a box of mac and cheese for dinner… every night in a week. Only in the last year has Mary Margaret upgraded from substituting to teaching full-time, and while bail-jumpers still aren't as common as Emma would like, she's still on the payroll down at Booth Bonds and August makes sure she's taken care of (even if he is kind of an ass about health insurance) in between the bonuses she gets from catching a dirtbag. So maybe she's gotten used to having things consistent, like actual vegetables to go with their mac and cheese diets, or the power only going out during a nor'easter, and forgotten how it wasn't that long ago when this was an every-other-month kind of thing.

"And if it gives you an excuse to get laid…" Emma grins as Mary Margaret reaches to smack her again, skipping out of the way. "Look, more blankets for me and I get to hog the space heater. It's fine, go use your boyfriend. In every sense of the word."

Her friend looks aghast. "You're staying here?"

"Where else am I supposed to go? I am definitely not sleeping on David's couch while you two figure out how to dance the horizontal mambo." At Mary Margaret's look, Emma balks. "No. I know that look on your face-"

"He'll be more than willing-"

"Which is exactly why I'm saying no-"

"Just call him!"

"Mary Margaret!"

"Emma!"

A knock on the door breaks up their bickering. "It's open!" Mary Margaret calls, flashing Emma a smile. "It's Friday - you have a standing date," she whispers.

"It's not a date," Emma hisses, just as the door opens.

"Bloody hell, it's cold in here."

Emma turns just as Killian Jones - man of artfully disheveled hair, buttoned shirts that somehow never button up to the top, scoundrel and rogue, voted Preferred Drinking Buddy three years running, and one of the best friends she's ever had - looks around the apartment with concern. "Seriously, are you trying to save on energy costs? Your pipes are going to freeze."

Emma and Mary Margaret share a panicked glance before Mary Margaret says, "Slow drip, quick."

As they split up to turn on all the faucets enough to keep water running, though slowly, Killian watches with increasing confusion. "No really, what-"

"I forgot to pay the bill and the gas company can eat my ass," Emma calls from the bathroom.

She hears Killian snort. "Lovely as your arse is, Swan, I doubt they took the suggestion very well."

Her mouth twists and she feels her cheeks warm. "I didn't say it to them."

"No, you just thought it. Loudly."

Coming out of the bathroom, she grabs one of her beanies and shoves it on over her hair, hoping to retain some of her body heat. "Did not," she says, mulishly.

The look he levels at her makes her feel warm all over. "I know you, love, don't forget. The moment you can tell someone to piss off, or one of your other charming turns of phrase, you do. There's no hesitation."

"He's right," Mary Margaret says, placing a few more items into her bag and then zipping it shut. "There's a reason I made you call the cable company." She picks up her bag with a small grunt, walking awkwardly towards the door with it. "Okay, so I'm going then. Emma, you do what you need to but please do not freeze to death in our apartment over Christmas. You'll hang around as some sort of Christmas ghost and judge me for whoever I choose as my next roommate."

Emma snorts. "Please. I would not Marley you, you're way more Fuzziwig than Scrooge."

Mary Margaret laughs and waves as she heads out the door. Killian looks at Emma, still bemused to the whole situation. "So, there's no heat."

"No."

"And Mary Margaret is going… where, exactly?"

Emma smiles, wrapping herself in a blanket from the back of the couch and plopping down on the cushions. Killian sits next to her, looking at her with one eyebrow raised expectantly. "She's going to go make a man out of Sheriff Nolan," Emma says, a note of pride in her voice. "Making the best out of a stupid situation. I'm sorry movie night is going to be kind of cold."

Killian shakes his head. "No, it's not." At her inquisitive eyebrow, he continues, "It's not going to be cold because we're going to my place. And you're bringing a bag and you aren't coming back until they've turned your heat back on. I much prefer your company while you're not half-frozen, Swan."

Her heart leaps into her throat. "Killian, I can't possibly impose like that."

"It's not an imposition if I offer first, love."

"Still-it's Christmas, and-"

"All the more reason. Tis the season and all, yeah?"

Emma huffs and Killian smiles. "Look, Swan, it's not as if either you or I have any big grand plans for the holiday. In fact, if I recall correctly, our plan was to have takeout together and watch ridiculous movies. This just ensures you won't be late."

She scoffs, smacking him on the arm, and his smile widens into a grin. Her heart, slowly making its way down from her throat, skips a beat.

This would be why staying at Killian's would be a terrible idea. She's had a ridiculous crush on him since-well, since she shot him down that one time he asked her out and then actually backed off respectfully. It wasn't an immediate thing, more a slow realization that he actually meant it when he said he'd back off if his advances made her uncomfortable. And then it turned out that they worked ridiculously well together - as friends, as partners in pinochle, as Tom Servo and Crow when it came to bad movies.

And then Emma didn't want to ruin that by saying "Hey remember when you asked me to dinner and I told you to get lost? Yeah, taking that back now, let's go out. And then make out on your ridiculously comfortable couch."

It's going to be a lot harder to resist making out with him on his couch when she's going to be sleeping on said couch.

Though, maybe, it might be harder when he's sleeping on said couch.

"I'm not staying here if you're making me take your damn bed, Jones," Emma says an hour or so later, braced for a fight in his blessedly warm living room.

"And my mother will rise from the dead and shame me from now until hell freezes over if I allow a woman to sleep on my couch when I'm not bedridden or otherwise incapacitated."

Mary Margaret's always warning her that if she keeps rolling them, her eyes are going to roll right out of her head and across the floor, but everyone just keeps saying ridiculous things and Emma can't help it. "Well, I'm pretty sure that I'm a big girl who can make her own decisions on where to sleep. And it's on the couch. You have an extremely comfortable couch."

To prove her point, she goes to root around in his linen closet, intent on making up the couch herself. Yes, they were planning on a movie night still, but that didn't mean she couldn't have everything ready; she smiles to herself, thinking about how he's going to grumble when she inevitably kicks him out to sleep in his own bed, but then her hands still as she wonders what might happen if she just… didn't.

If she just asked him to stay. Or… didn't ask, but didn't… make him leave.

She feels warmth behind her and Killian's hands cover hers, taking the sheets from her. "Stubborn lass," he murmurs, right near her ear.

Emma watches him go, fingering the hems of her sleeves while she watches him make up the couch. Quietly, she goes to change into her pajamas-no use taking extra steps later, be comfortable now-and by the time she comes back out of the bathroom he's already finished with the sheets and the blankets; now he's perched on the end of the couch, a 6-pack of Christmas ales sitting unopened on the coffee table, with a fresh bag of chips and some salsa sitting out for their eating pleasure. "Well isn't this festive?" Emma asks, sitting down and opening the bag. "What's on the docket for tonight?"

They argue for a bit about what to watch-Christmas movies are for Christmas Eve, Die Hard is so a Christmas movie and thus off the table, they don't want anything too sappy or action-y tonight-and while Emma then scrolls through the movie list, Killian goes to put on his own pajamas. She's distracted when he comes back, eyes following the line of his well-fitted shirt (seriously, who wears a fitted shirt to bed? Killian Jones, apparently) down to where his pajama pants sit low on his hips.

Her mouth feels very dry and there's no bottle opener for the Christmas ales.

Fuck, staying here is a terrible idea, no matter how warm his apartment actually is.

He barely sits when he says, "Damn, the bottle opener," and gets up to go to the kitchen and fuck her life if his pants aren't like, expertly sculpted to his ass. Did Yves Saint Laurent make pajamas now? Distracted as she is, she doesn't really pay attention to what movie she picks; her fingers just seem to take over from her brain's complete lack of comprehensive abilities and all Emma hears is the 'yay thank you for choosing a movie!' noise coming from the TV. She just hopes she didn't choose something too sappy or silly or childish. Or all three.

"What are we watching?" Killian asks, the bottle opener in his prosthetic and picking up a beer with the other. He pops the lid off and hands it to her, reaching for his own.

"I left it to the whims of fate," she says, hoping she sounds very casual about it and not at all like she wants to say 'fuck this' to the movie and crawl on top of him and rip him out of his absurdly well-fitted pajamas. "Like throwing a dart, but less holes left in your wall."

He chuckles, setting the bottle opener down. "Well I, and my landlord, thank you for the consideration, love."

They tap the bottlenecks together and take a swig; Emma practically dives into the chips and salsa while whatever it is her fingers picked to watch starts playing.

It's some animated movie. It might be about feelings or growing up or both. She's not too sure, but it's bright and colorful and she absolutely starts to feel tired about half an

hour into it. She steals the blanket across the back of the couch and bundles herself in it, snuggling into the cushions and just… closing her eyes for a moment.

Just a moment. Just…

There's a pillow under her head. There definitely hadn't been any pillows like this on the couch, a plush and soft one with an actual pillowcase, and while Killian's couch is comfortable, it's not pillow-top comfortable.

She vaguely remembers being picked up at some point, but nothing after that. And if she'd been picked up, it meant Killian had put her in his bed, after she'd specifically insisted-

"Dammit, Killian," she mumbles, stretching a little and rolling onto her belly.

"What on earth have I done now?"

She freezes, mid-pillow plumping, and realizes that the weight around her middle is not, actually, the blankets bunched up on her. Turning her head, she cracks open an eye and sees him lying next to her, one arm around her middle, and seeming just as half-asleep and bemused as she. His hair's a riot on top of his head and his beard is scruffy from lack of trimming, and Emma has never felt more like she might be in love with him than she has in this moment. "I told you to let me stay on the couch," she whispers finally.

"And you did fight me on that, even in sleep. I did attempt to move you, and yet you clung to me even in sleep and refused to let me leave, so in that case it seemed to me that the best compromise was to stay."

Emma's glad for the darkness in the room still because she's pretty sure there's not much that she could use as an excuse for why her cheeks were so red. "Well, I won't apologize since it wasn't what I wanted in the first place," she grumbles, snuggling deeper into the pillow.

Killian chuckles and she feels his thumb tracing a pattern on her hip. "Stubborn lass."

She hums in agreement, wriggling into his touch and feeling sleepy again. Killian mumbles something under his breath and moves closer, pulling her snug against his chest. "Killian," Emma whispers, sucking in a breath and feeling much more awake.

But he's fast asleep, or good at pretending, and doesn't reply. Emma lays still for a few moments to make sure he's asleep once more, then pulls away. He was half-asleep, she thinks as she gets out from under the blankets and to her feet; the carpet is cool under her skin and her heart races as she tiptoes to the kitchen to get breakfast going. It didn't mean anything, he was half-asleep.

Killian's kitchen is well stocked, but even so she's not that much of a cook. She gets the coffee going, which is honestly the most important part, and then just decides to make pancakes. Beating the eggs and whipping the powder mix together helps her get her emotions under control, though she possibly squishes the pancakes down a little harder than necessary in the pan.

She's pathetic, in love with her best friend and too chicken to say anything about it, too overcome by a simple thing as him holding her to stay in bed and enjoy it. He'd been warm and she'd really just wanted to roll over and press her back to his front and enjoy the feeling of being held, but no. He was half-asleep and it didn't count and he's just her best friend and why does it hurt so much?

God, she hopes Mary Margaret is having a better Christmas weekend than she is. Not that this is bad, per say, but she'd rather go without having more fuel to add to the fire that is her stupid, unrequited crush.

There's a shuffling down the hall and she busies herself with the pancake mix. "Hmm, something smells delicious," Killian rumbles.

She glances over her shoulder, watching briefly as he scrubs his hand over his face. "It's just from a box," she says, feeling a little dejected.

"I wasn't talking about the pancakes," he says and she hears the grin in his voice. "The coffee, love, it's a godsend."

She cracks half a smile as she hears him rattle around with the coffee mugs. "It's why I did that first. And before you say anything, I am, in fact, aware that I don't have to cook for you just because you let me stay. Even if you did drag me to bed against my will."

He makes a sort of choking noise into his coffee mug. "Pardon?"

"Oh you told me all about it, buddy."

"I did?"

Her heart sank a little further. "Yeah. You must have been talking in your sleep, but I cussed you out about it and you just went back to sleep."

He's quiet for a few moments and she finishes the last pancake, sliding it onto the stack and turning off the burner. She goes to drop the pan and the mixing bowl in the sink and as soon as they leave her hands, his own catches her wrist. "Emma, are you cross with me?"

No, never with you. Except when you cheat at Scrabble, but that's fair game, she thinks. "No."

He pulls a little and makes her look at him. That's cheating, giving her those big eyes, so full of trust and sincerity, letting her know that it's completely fine to tell him anything. "I'm not," she says. "I'm just… well, you're just as touchy-feely when you're mostly-asleep as you are when you're drunk, that's all."

"Emma, if I've at all behaved inappropriately towards you-"

"No! God, Killian, no. You were just missing your teddy bear or whatever," she says, yanking her hand free and going to get plates.

He doesn't respond and they eat in the most uncomfortable silence Emma's ever sat through. She doesn't look at him and though she's fairly hungry, her cinnamon-laced pancakes go down like lead. She shouldn't have said anything. Now he feels awkward and it didn't bother her-not the way he probably thinks-and she's made the whole of Christmas weekend terrible.

"I'm going to shower," she says quietly after she's put her dishes in the sink.

She's quick and efficient, drying her hair in much the same way. She packs up her bag when she's done dressing, figuring the fastest way out of this awkwardness is to just leave him to it alone. She can suffer with a space heater and a mountain of blankets. "Swan, what are you doing?"

Killian's in the doorway, watching her with a worried look on his face. "Going back to my apartment," she mumbles, zipping the bag up with more force than strictly necessary.

"Emma, please talk to me. Have I done something?"

Frustration bubbles up in her chest. "No," she snaps. "It's not-look, I liked it, okay? You held me this morning, and I liked it, and I don't-I just need to go, okay?"

"Emma." He's like a brick wall in her way, giving her a pleading look as she tries and fails to get past him. "Lass, I may-I may not have been entirely truthful. Or, rather, chose not to mention… It wasn't an accident."

"What wasn't an accident?"

She feels nervous all of a sudden, adrenaline making her fingers tingle and her heart pounds in her chest. He looks just as nervous, but his lips quirk up in a brief smile. "The teddy bear thing," he says, his voice almost a whisper. "It may-it may not have been-well, it wasn't an accident. I wanted to… It wasn't very gentlemanly of me and I apologize about that, but I just wanted to see… for once… what it might feel like to hold you."

That last part is barely audible, but she's close enough that she hears it all the same. "You-"

"Aye."

Her nerves increase but it's powered by hope rather than fear, and she's not sure which of them moves first but they do meet somewhere in the middle for a tangle of lips and tongues and sighs. Her hands find his hair, still a complete mess and about to get even messier if she has anything to say about it, and his arms wrap around her waist to pull her in snug against him. She still has some questions about how it might-will-feel to have his front pressed to his back, but she's fairly certain that having their fronts pressed together is the most wonderful thing she's felt in ages.

Though there might be too many clothes between them, if the way his body is reacting to hers has anything to say about it.

It's a tangle of limbs and laughter as they stumble back to the bed, knocking her bag off of it in the process as they lay back down, but there's no move to remove their clothes, simply reveling in the learning curve of kissing and light touches. He finds where she's ticklish and makes her giggle against his lips and his smile is bright enough to rival the Christmas tree out in the living room and she's happy. The fastest switch from glum to glee she can ever remember feeling and the cause of both is the man in front of her, his fingers tracing her chin and looking at her like he's never seen anything so wonderful in his entire life. "I can't-I've been in love with you for what feels like forever," she confesses quietly.

He smiles, it's soft and she loves the lines that crinkle around his eyes. "Yeah?" he asks.

"You're going to kill me for it, but probably around the time I told you to fuck off after asking me out."

He looks at her differently now, maybe like she's grown another head, but then he starts to laugh. He rolls onto his back, tears streaming from his eyes as he laughs so hard he can hardly breathe, and Emma eventually starts to giggle too, burying her face in the crook of his arm. "You bloody would," Killian says finally, wiping the heel of his hand across his face to clear the tear tracks.

"Shut up," she mumbles, still giggling, and pinches him for good measure.

He yelps and wriggles away, leaving her to prop her head up on her arm to look at him better. He turns his head, his cheeks pink from laughter, and her heart melts a little at his smile. "I've loved you a bit longer than that, I think, but I never expected you'd return how I feel."

"Yeah, well… I came around to the idea eventually. And was a big chicken about it. It was easier to stay quiet."

"While I wish you hadn't, I understand why. And I wouldn't trade our years of friendship for anything, love. We got there in the end didn't we?"

She smiles and leans forward, touching their foreheads together. "Yeah. Eventually."

On Christmas morning, Emma's cell phone wakes them both from the bedside table. She rolls over and reaches for it, swearing up a storm at the noise and at Killian's laughter next to her. "Good morning and David had better have turned out to be the guy who floods the apartment and burns it down," Emma says.

Mary Margaret just laughs. "Merry Christmas to you, too. Have you survived the weekend?"

Emma smiles as Killian's lips brush over her bare shoulder. They'd talked yesterday about letting their friends know about this little development, but decided just to keep this between themselves for a little while longer. Their own little Christmas secret. She leans into it and smiles wider as his hand brushes down her back and teases the backs of her thighs. "We've survived. There was a lot of beer and movies. I should be asking you that-how's the state of your vagina?"

Killian makes a noise that's halfway between a choke and a laugh and Mary Margaret is a little more vocally scandalized by the question. "Emma Swan, you-it's fine, thank you very much, but what was that noise?"

"Killian's coming down with a cough. He was up before me making coffee, making noise and trying to wake me up," Emma lies easily.

Her best friend hums, not quite believing her, but perhaps in the spirit of Christmas she doesn't question it further. "Well, things here have been good. Better than good. You didn't hear anything more from the gas company?"

"No," Emma says, arching her back a little into Killian's touch. "But I expected as much. Might not be able to go home until Wednesday."

"Shame," Mary Margaret replies, a little wistful and not at all regretful about maybe having to stay at her boyfriend's house another day.

Killian ducks under the covers and his lips start mapping a path down her back. "Yeah," Emma says with a happy sigh. "A damn shame."