London - 1891

The narrow street was dark, gas lamps extinguishing one by one as his carriage rumbled past them with the clatter of sharp hooves against the cobblestones. Fog shrouded the ebony coats of the horses and gave them a rather spectral air, seeping up in a thick swirl of grey mist that looked almost like smoke, as if the eternal fire that burned unseen in the world below was escaping across the barrier between his birthplace and the city where he maintained one of several residences.

Killian held his gloves loosely in one hand when the carriage door was opened by his driver and he alighted down the steps, his evening coat left open over his dark suit and a white silk scarf wound loosely around his throat, both worn for fashion and not for warmth. His house was a tall, narrow terrace at the end of the street, the only one unadorned by greenery tacked to the door, and he paused at the small iron gate and bare shrubs, his eyes narrowing at the sight of a faint yellow glow visible in the parlour window. A candle was burning, ordinarily not a cause for alarm, but he had dismissed all of his servants for the evening and the house should be empty. Church bells rang faintly in the distance, setting his teeth on edge as they always did but even moreso on this holy night, the twenty-fourth of December, Christmas Eve, a night for song and prayer, a night when he, infernal demon born of Hell itself and certainly not in a stable, preferred to be completely alone.

Few would dare to intrude uninvited into his chambers and he was wary, keen senses listening for the sound of a heartbeat when he entered the silent hall, seeking the one who had interrupted his chosen solitude and would pay the price for it. His eyes flashed red and his shadow lengthened and stretched, peering into the open doorway first and he felt himself frown.

The parlour was empty.

But a long taper in a brass holder was set on the windowsill, the flame flickering and dancing against the lacey pattern formed by the frost on the glass as he slowly approached and contemplated the meaning of it. Pure white wax that stood unmelted even as the wick burned, not so much as a single drop had rolled down the side of it. The light chased away the darkness that clung to him, miraculously staying lit even when he pursed his lips and attempted to blow it out.

Few would dare to intrude into his home uninvited, but only one was always welcomed when she did.

Emma

The rustle of silk skirts and something else came from behind him and Killian turned, pursed lips turned to a smile and lifting the top hat from his head as was proper in the presence of a lady. She was dressed in a narrow gown of a rich, emerald green, high at the throat and caught up in the back in a bustle, hair in tight curls swept back from her forehead and a single white flower pinned in the heavy mass in lieu of hat or jewel.

Gardenias were hothouse blooms from tropical shores, nearly impossible to find in the midst of a cold English winter, but when one was willing to spend as many sovereigns as it took for the one gift his angel would accept from his hands, he had worked his own miracle to send them to her.

"Salve de infernum, beata. Have you come to bring me tidings of great joy?"

Her face conveyed her amusement in the lift of her brow and the quirk of her lips, "Salve de caleo, damnate. If you were a humble shepherd tending to your flock, then perhaps. But we both know you are the wolf in sheep's clothing."

He set his gloves and hat aside on the table, trappings of his latest guise as a wealthy banker, and bowed with a flourish of his wrist.

"The wolf is at your service, my lost little lamb."

Emma came closer, the light from the candle glowing even brighter at her approach and turning her hair to molten gold, like the gift of the Magi all those centuries ago. Gifted to him this night, his fingers easily found the pins that held up her coiffure and the curls spilled down loose on her back. He left the gardenia, heady scent wafting to his nose when he bent his head and rested his forehead on hers. Not lost, she hadn't wandered unaware across his path, she had come unasked for reasons known only to her. He'd wanted to call out, but Christmas was a time for saints, not sinners, and the angels rejoiced while the demons kept to the shadows. Surely his voice would have been drowned out by all the others, so he'd stayed silent and resigned himself to waiting patiently for the New Year.

"Did you miss me?"

It was whispered between them while her fingers curled in his waistcoat, holding him in place. The windows were completely fogged over by the contrast from the cold outside and the heat that blazed under his skin while the house was quiet and still, caught in that ephemeral hour between very late and very early, where darkness was absolute and yet would inevitably yield to the light. Emma didn't answer, not with words, anyway, but in the rise up on her toes to press her lips to his. A thrill ran through him at the contact as it always did, his touch was utterly forbidden to her yet she sought it out, craved it even, he knew (hoped) and for all his many sins there was no greater one for a demon than to fall on his knees before an angel in supplication. He might not be the lawless pirate he once was that night he'd first lied with her under a sky filled with stars, but he was still willing to defy his own lord and master for this and follow his own star wherever she led.

She took him by the hand and led him silently up the oak stairs, to his private chambers, carrying the candle with her to light the way in the deep gloom. A small supper was laid out on the table, cold meat, mulled wine that smelled of spices and orange peel, not a grand feast but a festive one nonetheless, with sweets dusted with sugar like a fall of fresh snow. He'd been gone for hours and the room was cold, frigid even, but it quickly warmed when he lit a fire in the hearth with a snap of his fingers. It sizzled and popped as the logs caught, roaring hotly to life in an instant and glowing a deep crimson. The flames reflected against her pale skin, seeming to lick and caress and consume and the burn grew in his belly at the sight of an angel on fire. His power was muted at this time of year when man was slightly more congenial towards his fellow man, old carols of miracles and faith sung again on every street corner and in the city squares and wreaths on every door, warning his kind away, but it was still there, smouldering like banked coals just under the surface and hungering for more than just meat.

"Emma...why are you here?"

The flames didn't reach her eyes, untouched by the shadows that filled the room and jewel-bright as if lit from within. Her light shone even brighter this night than it usually did, her power at its peak. It could blind him and bind him and he should flee from it, scuttling away like a rat on a sinking ship.

He didn't.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She smoothed down a fold of her gown, uncertainty crossing her face. He closed the distance between them in a blink, moving much faster than a mortal man to tip her chin up with his ringed thumb and stare directly into her light.

"You know the answer to that." he said, softly.

They sat down to dine with the words left unspoken, it was late, and time was far too precious to waste, even for two immortals. He could hear the faint tick tock, tick tock from the tall grandfather clock out in the hallway, reminding him that there was never enough time. They weren't meant to be, they had never been and at some point these stolen moments would run out. Killian put the thought aside for now, though he knew he would return to it later over a glass of scotch that would undoubtedly turn into the whole bottle.

The candle continued to burn tall and unchanged through the meal even as the fire started to die down to embers and ash. Shadows moved across the walls, silent witnesses while the gown slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor in a heap. Wine clung to her lips, turning them the colour of fresh cherries and just as sweet on his tongue with a faint hint of nutmeg and cinnamon underneath. The silk of her underclothes parted like water under his fingers, whalebone corset and beribboned stockings that he untied, on his knees, sliding hands up her inner thighs and feeling the muscles quiver while another rich scent filled his senses and made him giddy with anticipation. It was cold outside, bitter winds that cut like a knife and ice grown thick on the banks of the Thames itself, but even without the fire he was more than enough to keep her warm and Emma leaned into his touch when he rose and traced the tender curves of hip and breast, lush and ripe and the little sound that escaped her lips when his thumbs brushed her nipples went straight to his cock. His waistcoat was quickly discarded, the shirt unbuttoned and peeled back from his shoulders with his cufflinks scattering somewhere under the table, forgotten instantly when they were both bare and he lifted her into his arms. The bed curtains were pulled back with a flick of his wrist, revealing sumptuous linens and swanfeather pillows. Swans reminded him of her, he would walk along the river on fine days and watch them glide about, beautiful, graceful creatures that were far more powerful than they looked. She wore their feathers in her hair the night he had watched her dance at Versailles, accompanied by a man who betrayed her and chose another, the bloody fool.

Unlike feckless mortals, swans mated for life.

Emma stretched out on the bed and drew him easily into her arms, fingers tracing gently along the line of his spine and kissing the hollow of his throat, making him swallow hard. They lay on their sides, facing each other, feet tangled together and palm against palm. Killian was content to just stay in this moment, even with his raging lust pressed hot to the soft skin just below the shadowed dip of her navel, another feeling had his heart beating faster and a different kind of warmth than the carnal spreading over him from somewhere deep inside.

Joy

Jewel-bright eyes stared into his, green flecked with gold, and her voice was a soft confession in the dark. "I did, you know. Miss you."

It was effervescent, to feel such delight right down to his toes. He knew what it was to be sated, to be satisfied, to be happy even, but this was different. Emma had brought joy into his eternally damned existence, his shining star from the heavens above.

She rolled him onto his back then and straddled his hips, the feel of silken flesh gliding across his groin making him hiss and twitch with the need that flooded him now, sweet torture to be hovering so close to sheer bliss. His palms now pressed to her thighs, sliding back to the curve of her arse and helping her lift and position herself to take him in. His cock twitched even more and a rosy flush spread across her breasts, nipples hard points that jutted out proudly and made his mouth water. Emma rolled down and he arched up, they joined in a rush of sensation that had his stomach contracting and a low noise rumbling deep in his chest from the voluptuous pleasure of being sheathed to the hilt. Killian guided her movements, rocking in a steady rhythm and watching as her head tipped back and her lips parted on a sigh of his name. It pulled at something primal within him, the sound of a demon's name on an angel's lips, and he pressed his thumbs to where he was buried deep inside, planting his feet against the bed.

"Come here, darling."

His voice was hoarse and begging while he circled his hips as best he could in this position, seeking just the right angle to find that sweet spot and hear his name again. Each stroke had him gasping, every time she accepted the full length of him sent pleasure shooting under his skin at the heated slide of his throbbing cock into her velvet quim, wet and snug and divine. But it was nothing compared to when she fell forward, hair curtaining them both and hands braced on his chest, light pulsing under her palms to the same quickfire stattaco of their hips moving together and sinking into his skin, she was inside him while he was inside her and Killian wasn't sure if it was the wind howling or him, windows rattling in the frames and the bed shaking and squeaking from the force of their coupling. They weren't so much kissing as breathing together, mouths open and his tongue darting out to flick across her lips. Emma rode him at a near gallop and Killian relished it, her nails digging in with bursts of pleasure-pain and his arms wrapped around her back, holding her to him until she squeezed around him with a cry and it was all too much. His head fell back, chest heaving into hers as he was dragged right over the edge, swelling that final bit and letting go in a hot spill while his vision flared incandescent. A thousand candles burned behind his eyes and his limbs went utterly slack, he was helpless as a babe and heedless of nothing but the angel in his arms. Dangerous, to let his guard down so fully when he was at his most vulnerable, but he didn't bloody care and never did.

Emma stirred and he tightened his arms by reflex, knowing he couldn't truly stop her from leaving. She wouldn't stay, not the way he wanted, but the candle still hadn't gone out and it gave him a tiny bit of hope that he might be granted another miracle.

"I know you have your obligations in the morning and I won't keep you from them, but it isn't morning yet. Will you stay until then, blessed one?

"I will, infernal one. Until morning."

Emma tucked her head into his shoulder and the bed curtains fell shut on his unspoken command, cutting them off completely from the world outside for the rest of the night.

Almost.

But it was enough.