A/N: My apologies to Ingrid Michaelson. My version of how Hook's wardrobe change will come about.
It starts with a scarf.
They've spent the day unpacking the many boxes from the New York apartment, working through lunch and only stopping for dinner when Emma's stomach omits an obscene rumbling sound. The kitchen utensils are still packed, as well as the dishes, so a trip to Granny's is really the only option. He stands and moves to the kitchen to wash the packing box dust from his hand as Emma reaches into one last box, clearly marked "Henry." As he's drying off, he senses her behind him and feels something soft and warm placed around his neck.
He grumbles a few words of protest as she moves in front of him to secure it more tightly and cover the gap left by his shirt and coat.
"The storm is picking up out there," she shrugs in explanation. He has noticed the wind rattling the windows of her new house with greater force as the day progressed into night, but he can't let it go quite that easily.
"'Tis not just an excuse to stand this close to me? Though I'd certainly prefer the clothing to be going in the opposite direction..."
She just rolls her eyes, pushing him away with a huff and heading towards the coat rack by the front door to dress herself.
He refuses to admit that the scarf really did keep him a bit warmer that night.
xXx
Next comes a hat.
He'd come to the station to pick her up for lunch and she laughs as he tries to shake the wet snow from his hair.
"You look like Pongo," she gasps between giggles. While he's always thrilled to see her happy and carefree, he'd rather it not be at his expense. Except the dirty look he shoots her and his mutter cusses seem to just set her off more.
She finally calms and he's succeeded in at the very least melting the rest of the snow into his hair when she moves to retrieve something from her lower desk drawer. She approaches him slowly, with an item held hidden behind her back, again looking at him much like he's a skittish animal.
He eyes her warily when she's only a hairsbreadth away. "Swan?"
Her left hand comes up to first cup the side of his face before moving up to cover and warm his red and frozen ear. He barely notices as her right arm moves up to do the same because she simultaneously leans in to kiss him deeply, distracting him as she brings the hat down over his hair and secures it over both ears.
She pulls back, smiling brightly, clearly proud of her both her deception and the way she's left him breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
xXx
A thermal shirt follows.
He's covered in paint, having been roped into painting baby Charming's nursery in the Charming's new house.
Blue and green paint speckles his pants, his shirt, his hair and basically, his everywhere.
"Maybe letting Henry work on the latter above us wasn't the best idea," Charming finally allows, surveying the damage of his own clothing.
They've both slumped to floor, leaning against the lad's dresser to survey their work and slugging from well deserved beers. Now he remembers, the alcohol is how Swan talked him into doing this. Plus maybe a few other whispered promises he fully plans to collect on once he can move again.
Just as he's contemplating a nice hot shower and sleep, Swan appears in the doorway looking grim.
"Elsa," she states with a sigh, and tosses him a thermal shirt clearly pilfered from the boxes of David's clothes she and Mary Margaret were responsible for unpacking.
He tries to ignore the fact that it matches both the scarf and the hat.
The next day, after spending all night trudging through the snow covered woods in search of Elsa, he finds it difficult to care when Mary Margaret admits that his paint sodden shirt may have disappeared into the trash with the rest of their painting detritus. Chugging his coffee to both wake up and warm up, he misses the looks that are exchanged between mother and daughter following her lie.
xXx
This protracted winter isn't ending and while they now know Elsa isn't necessarily a bad guy, they also haven't made any progress in controlling her temper. Snow and the baby have both come down with colds and been banned from leaving the house. Charming himself caught the flu from any one of the townspeople and weeks later is only beginning to recover. Everyone is tired and moody and cabin fever has undeniably set in from the extended season; Henry and Emma are no exception.
Killian has been leaning against the front door, listening to mother and son argue over the lad's current wardrobe for the better part of an hour.
"It's July! I'm not wearing a winter coat! I don't need a winter coat! I'll be fine."
"I don't care if it is July, its five degrees outside! You're wearing the coat or you're not going!"
"Killian's not wearing a winter coat! Why should I?" the lad yells back, his teenager status never more apparent.
Killian closes his eyes and tries to rub away the brewing headache with his hand as he listens to a series of doors slam and then silence takes over.
When he opens his eyes, Emma is standing in front of him sheepishly, eyes averted and holding a thick coat out in front him. This time the item is clearly not borrowed, tags still attached to the arm. Again he notices, it matches the scarf, hat, and borrowed (and unreturned) shirt.
He raises a single eyebrow in question, silent as he waits for some sort of explanation.
"Please?" she asks with a hint of desperation. "We're going to be late and I can't have him catch pneumonia on top of everything else. I'll explain later..." she trails off, sounding a bit embarrassed and follows her line of vision over to the hall closet, where a series of boxes are neatly the stacked. The top one open and the packing material haphazardly thrown to the floor.
He takes the coat from her and holds it up for examination, noting that it clearly is his size, purchased for him. His breath catches a little as he notes the number of other boxes still in the closet. One is clearly marked as snow boots, he can only begin to guess at what other kind of winter gear from this realm is contained in the rest.
She's not just worried about Henry catching pneumonia. He's grateful that he's already leaning against the door for support as his knees buckle a bit at the realization. It's been so long since someone has taken care of him. Since someone has cared enough to do so.
He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak, to know what to say, and settles for removing his hook to be able to slide his arms through the jacket. She steps closer to help him remove the tags and drag the zipper up and closed, letting her hand rest for a minute over his heart when she finishes.
He lifts his hand to her face, pulling back just a bit to look her in the eyes better. She still looks a bit embarrassed, and a bit scared to see his reaction. Neither of them have said the words yet, but he knows her actions are as telling as any.
He nods again in understanding, and then kisses her softly, trying to convey his gratitude, his own love and appreciation without the words. He wants to kiss her deeper, to the have the conversation they've been avoiding, but he knows that Henry will appear at any minute, suspicious of the silence and looking to resume their argument. And no sooner do they both pull away but he's standing there in the hallway outside his bedroom, one arm in his coat and rolling his eyes in a way very reminiscent of his mother.
"Fine. You've made your point. Let's go." He stomps past them and out the door. "But he'd better be wearing a pair of those ugly fleece gloves you ordered, too!"
Killian feels Emma exhale in relief against his chest (and jacket and scarf) and he laughs at the Henry's familiar stubbornness. He gently pushes her away from him and towards the hall closet.
"You heard the boy. Bring on the bloody ugly gloves!"