She's not quite sure when exactly it started, she's only sure that she's in too deep.
And that her father is going to kill her.
A gust of crisp fall wind greets her as she steps out of Granny's Diner, lifting her raven curls and tipping her beanie askew as she makes her way quickly down the sidewalk, a bag of sandwiches tucked neatly under her arm. She told her parents that she was going to the sheriff's station to finish up some paperwork, which wasn't exactly a lie (no use even trying when Emma Swan is your mother) – but it wasn't exactly the whole truth either. She just has to make a little detour first.
(She tries not think about the way her mother's sharp green eyes had lingered on hers before she dashed out the door, tries to pretend that her secret is safe.)
(But deep down she knows her mother sees too much.)
"She's lying to us."
"Who?" Killian replies absently, scrubbing at the pot in the sink. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, a dishrag tossed carelessly over his shoulder as he works. Emma sometimes still revels in how well domesticity suits the fearsome Captain Hook, even after 25 years together. He will forever be a marvel to her, she supposes, a fascinating swirl of hard edges and soft, of rebellion and stability. She stands there for a moment, distracted by the way the muscles in his forearms flex and move as he scrubs, before she remembers what she wanted to tell him.
"Charlie."
This stops the scrubbing, and he turns slowly to look at her. "Charlie's lying? About what?" Dark brows drop in dismay as his face tightens with worry at the mention of his daughter's name.
Emma weighs her words carefully, wondering how to share her suspicions, not wanting to upset him too much. Killian has always been ridiculously protective over Charlie, to the point of sometimes becoming almost a sitcom dad-like cliché. It's sweet, really, and it makes her go all warm and soft just as often as it exasperates both her and Charlie. "I think she's seeing someone. Like a boyfriend," she says slowly, bracing for the explosion. "And I think it's Oliver."
But the fuse does not even spark.
"Oh, that," he murmurs, scratching behind his ear before turning back to the sink.
She blinks, momentarily confused. "'Oh, that?' That's it?" and then her confusion fades as her wifey-sense begins to tingle. "Wait. Wait. Do you know about this already?"
"Well, I don't know anything for certain, Swan, but I have my suspicions. The tell-tale signs all seem to point to that conclusion," his shoulder lifts in an effort of forced casualness, and Emma's having none of it.
"What 'tell-tale' signs? I haven't seen any signs," she prods, arms crossing over her chest as she unconsciously slips into sheriff mode.
"How many times to I have to tell you, love? You Jones women are open books to me," he quips, a slow smirk deepening the dimple in his cheek. This earns him a snort and an eyeroll, if only to keep up appearances because she begrudgingly knows he's right. He's always had the uncanny ability to read her, damn him, and it's no different with their daughter.
"But Oliver Gold? Really?"
"Apparently so."
"And that doesn't bother you?" she asks incredulously.
"Not particularly. Oliver's much more Belle's boy than his father's son. And he and Charlie have been in each other's pockets since before they could walk," his words should make her feel better, as shocking as they are, but something still sits uneasy within her. Killian places the last dish on the drying rack, turning to settle his back against the counter and face her fully. "Are you worried about her?" he asks earnestly.
"Yes. No. Kind of? I don't know. I mean, I know she can take care of herself, she's ours after all. It's just that–," she trails off and gnaws at her lip, trying to put her finger on the unsettled feeling sitting heavy in her belly. Killian senses her distress and steps close, trailing a hand gently down her ponytail before hooking his thumb through her belt loop and tugging her into his space.
She tucks her nose into the crook of his neck, arms slipping around his back. She can feel the rumble of his voice when he finishes her thought, "It's just that she felt the need to lie to us."
Emma sighs and nods, bumping his chin with her head, and just lets herself lean on him for a moment. Charlie is a grown woman, she knows this. And she's free to pursue any relationships she chooses. She also knows this. But the sting remains around her heart that her daughter wouldn't share this with her.
(Wouldn't want to.)
"Give her time, Emma. She'll come to us when she's ready," he leans back and swipes his thumb gently across her cheek. "If there is one thing I've learned in our life together, it's that you can't push a Swan woman to do anything before she wants to."
"Yeah, well, given that you still use his father's face as target practice on your dartboard in the garage, I can see why she's been less than forthcoming."
He laughs at this, deep and true, and it's one of her favorite sounds in the world. "You have me there, darling. I suppose I can be a wee bit dramatic where the Crocodile is concerned."
"You? Dramatic? Nooo!" she deadpans.
"Right, that's it. Enough sass from you tonight," he whips the dishrag off his shoulder, tossing it aside. She takes a step back, about to run, but he's quicker- dipping low and hoisting her over his shoulder, her laughter echoing as he marches them up the stairs towards their bedroom.
Across town, Charlie burrows further into the wool of her coat as she walks quickly past the door of the sheriff's station. The streets of Storybrooke are surprisingly quiet at night, everyone tucked in tight at home, a habit borne from living in a town where mythical beasts and villains attack on the regular. Not that her family shared that particular habit-why hole up safely when you could run head first into danger?
It is the Charming-Swan-Jones way, after all.
Reaching the destination of her detour, she steps into the library and is welcomed by the quiet and the dusty smell of books. It's homey, somehow, the stillness and must. The low lamp light of the reading tables casts shadows across the scuffed floors, creating muted patterns that she sometimes finds herself tracing with her footsteps. She does so now, weaving quietly through the hushed room, green eyes searching for a familiar form.
His familiar form.
She finds him deep in the stacks, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a small fort of ancient-looking books built haphazardly around him. Pausing, she leans her shoulder against a bookcase and watches him for a moment as he scans the page of the book in his lap, fingers absently tapping a silent tune on his knee.
(She wonders how it's possible to ache this much for someone who's right in front of you.)
"Permission to enter the castle, my liege?"
He looks up and her breath catches, warmth blooming low and languid in her stomach as he grins at her. The chestnut curls he inherited from his mother are in full disarray, the tip of a pencil peeking out from behind his left ear. His glasses are smudged from where he's been pushing at them, and she wants to wipe them clean and kiss him soundly.
And Charlie Jones has never been one to deny herself of what she wants.
What can she say? She's got too much pirate in her.
Plopping herself down next to him, she leans in and catches his smile with her lips, sighing slightly as his arm snakes around her waist and anchors tight. Her magic tingles under her skin, sparking to life at his touch. He pulls back and bumps his nose to hers, and her heart settles into the warm, lovely place it always does when she's with him.
"Hi."
"Hi. I brought you a sandwich," she pulls his glasses off, wiping the smudges with the hem of her sweater and smiling when he leans in to press a kiss to her jaw.
"Granny's?"
She nods as she inspects the now-clean lenses, gently placing the frames back on his face. "Obviously."
"Turkey?"
"Extra avocado."
"You're a dream."
She bites into her sandwich to cover the blush staining her cheeks, and a companionable silence falls between them. She has always loved the library- she remembers being small and accompanying her father here, her small hand tucked into his large one, the metal of his rings cool against her fingers. She would dart towards the small children's section as soon as they walked in, his deep chuckle following her before calling a greeting out to Belle. They'd hang out for hours - Dad researching with Belle, she curled in an overstuffed chair with Oliver, reading stories about far-off lands and adventures.
He's always been in her life, half-in and half-out because of his parentage. For as much as her father adored Belle, he hated Rumplestiltskin, which meant Oliver probably occupied an odd little space in his eyes. Charlie knew her father was a better man than to judge a child for the sins of his father, but still. It's Rumplestiltskin.
Which is how she came to find herself secretly dating Oliver Gold.
"So, what did you tell them tonight?"
She wipes a stray bit of avocado from the corner of his mouth, smiling inwardly when his eyes darken a bit as she delicately licks it from her thumb. "The usual. Doing paperwork at the station. You?"
He chuckles, "Charlie, my mother bought me a cot for the back room. I don't even have to bother trying to explain anymore. I'm as much of a library lost cause as she was."
They laugh and she wonders if it would be like this - if it would be this easy and comfortable and wonderful - if their secret was out. If the weight of their families and histories and feuds and expectations was pressing in on this cozy world they had created together. Would Oliver still tangle his fingers with hers under the table with her father's blue eyes watching them carefully?
Tension abruptly creeps in like an unwanted guest when his next comment seems to respond to her thoughts. "We're going to have to tell them, you know," he looks at her in that way of his, the way that unravels her a bit, and she feels her smile tip down. He's right, of course. She can barely handle the sneaking and lying as it is, it just feels so...wrong. Her parents deserve better, Oliver deserves better.
(But she is terrified. And mad at herself for being terrified.)
So she retreats. "I'm pretty sure they already have an idea of what's happening," she mumbles, dropping his gaze and shifting slightly away.
"It's not the same," he tugs her back to him.
"I know, I know. It's just..."
"It's just that Rumplestiltskin is my father."
And there it is. When this (whatever this is) first shifted beyond friendship, she'd known. When he had first looked at her - really looked at her, and she him - she had known from that very moment it wouldn't be easy. Even as she continued to tumble hard and fast into love with him, between every stolen kiss in the alleys and shadows of Storybrooke, it had always been there: the worry about what her family would say when they found out.
(How do you tell your father you're dating the son of his mortal enemy? Over breakfast? Like, pass the butter will you, dad? Also, I'm dating the son of the guy you loathe.)
"I'm always going to be his son, Chuck," Oliver says quietly, breaking her reverie and looking down at the sandwich in his hands. "I can't change that, even for you."
"It's not-," she huffs and shakes her head, frustrated that the right words always seem to elude her when she needs them most. He looks back up at her, and it's the flash of pain in his eyes that reflects the ache in her heart that suddenly steels her resolve. She's her mother's daughter, dammit, and to hell if she won't fight for what she wants.
And she wants the hell out of Oliver.
"You're right. Let's do it," she gains her feet and adjusts her beanie determinedly, turning to him and extending a hand.
"I'm sorry, what exactly are we doing?"
"We're going to tell them. My parents. About us. Now." It's a measure of Oliver's character that he only blinks once before letting her pull him up.
"Charlie. Are you sure?" he steps close and his hand tangles in her curls, thumb brushing gently along her jawline as he cups her face and looks at her intently. "There's no pressure. That's not what I meant earlier."
"Of course there's pressure! I know you hate all this sneaking around. Because I hate it, too. I'm sick of hiding, Oliver," the words tumble out in a rush, but it's vital to her that he understands this. "I'm not ashamed of you."
Her statement hangs heavy in the air between them for a moment before his mouth is hot on hers, a desperate clash of lips and tongue. It's rare the beast within him roars to life, but when it does, all she can do is just hold on for the ride.
(And what a wonderful ride it is.)
Her hands sneak under his sweater and find the purchase of warm, bare skin, causing him to grip her even tighter as the kiss becomes nearly carnal. He hitches her up, causing her back to hit the bookshelf behind them and books to tumble to the floor.
With a groan, Oliver pulls back and looks down at the scattered tomes. "Ah, damn. That's a first edition," he notes. And with that, the beast calms and the bookworm emerges once again. His glasses are crooked and he's still breathing heavily from their antics, and it takes all of Charlie's self-control to not postpone the family talk and instead make good use of his little cot in the back room.
But she knows what needs to be done.
"Come on, let's go."
Her parents are tucked together on the couch when they walk in the front door, Charlie's grip on Oliver tightening as she sees their gazes drop to where their hands are intertwined.
(In for a penny…)
"Hi, guys," she is proud that her voice doesn't shake.
"Charlie. Hi, Oliver," her mother's look is curious but not suspicious, which is a very important distinction in the realm of Emma Swan. Her father, on the other hand, looks almost smug, and that is rather worrisome. And confusing.
"Must have powered through that paperwork, lass," he has the cheek to grin and Charlie's stomach drops. Not good. Oliver's thumb moves gently back and forth over the top of her hand, and she focuses on that and squares her shoulders.
"Yeah, about that. I lied. Well, kind of. I do have paperwork to finish and was going to, but I-"
"You just had to go makeout with Oliver Gold for a while first?" her mother supplies.
"Mom!" Charlie goes beet red with embarrassment. "How did you-"
"Human lie detector, remember?" Emma interrupts, giving her daughter a pointed look. Charlie adds foolishness to the list of feelings currently swirling within her.
Her father speaks up. "I-we," Killian corrects, dipping his dark head in her Emma's direction, "have suspected something was happening with you two for a while now."
Agog at this not playing out remotely as she thought it would, Charlie can only manage a weak, "You have?"
"Aye," her father confirms.
"Well, then why didn't you say anything!?" she drops Oliver's hand and slams her hands on her hips, a perfect replica of her sheriff mother in interrogation mode.
But said sheriff mother is having none of it. "I think the real question here is why didn't you?" she shoots back. Charlie is instantly contrite, knowing she really should have trusted her parents to understand.
Trusted them - of all people - to believe in impossible love.
Her father sighs and stands, walking over to her. "What your mother means is that you could have - and should have - just told us, little love. If you're happy, that's all that matters to us."
"Seriously?" Charlie's voice is warily incredulous. "That's it?"
"What were you expecting, darling? Trial by fire?"
"Or at least by hook," she mutters under her breath and Oliver elbows her.
"Don't look a gifthorse in the mouth, Chuck," he says in hushed tones.
This earns a smile of approval from Hook. "Smart lad," he winks.
And with that, it's done.
Killian announces he needs a drink after all of this, so they adjourn to the kitchen table and fall into surprisingly easy conversation over shared rum. And when Oliver tangles his fingers with hers under the table, her father barely pays it mind, instead inquiring how they plan on telling the other set of parents.
"Mum knows, has since the start," Oliver admits.
"And your father?" Hook asks, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow.
Oliver's smile is tight as he shakes his head. "Haven't told him yet, no."
"Marvelous," the pirate nods, his grin wolfish with delight. "Please, allow me. It would be my greatest honor to share the news with him."
Charlie just groans buries her head into Oliver's shoulder, a reluctant smile curving her lips as she feels a laugh rumble through him.
(This should be fun.)