"Mary Margaret, I swear, if you don't stop staring at me like that, I'm going to scream."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You are. Currently. With your face."
"Well, yeah, that's how staring works."
"I thought you weren't staring."
Mary Margaret's eyes widen, enough that Emma laughs and the noise almost doesn't sound entirely sarcastic. Almost. There's a bit of triumph in there too, but Emma figures that doesn't mean much when the triumph is so, decidedly, sarcastic.
And Mary Margaret is still staring at her like some sad, broken thing in a bridesmaid's dress she's never going to get any more use out.
"You should have been a lawyer," Mary Margaret mumbles, leaning around Emma to grab the drinks they were waiting on.
"I really don't think arguing about the state of your face is a direct sign that I would have passed the bar. Plus, you know, there are all those rules."
"Rules?"
"Yeah, you know, I can't actually call anyone an asshole if I'm trying to sway a jury."
Mary Margaret makes a less-than-dignified noise into her drink, pulling her lips back behind her teeth when several different people threaten to gape at them. Emma isn't sure if it's because they're lurking by the bar or because their dresses are incredibly red, but she's slightly certain it's neither one of those things.
Her speech did not go great.
And, really, she'd told Ruby that she wasn't cut out for that, but then Ruby had made that face – some kind of pout she'd perfected when she was sixteen and Granny threatened to move curfew to eleven instead of midnight and it had taken Emma approximately forty-seven and a half seconds to wilt under pressure.
She honestly would have made the worst lawyer in the history of the world.
So, Emma stood in front of the crowd at a wedding that was, not technically, holiday-themed, but was pretty damn close and stumbled over the words, promises about love and emotion and how much better Belle made Ruby. In retrospect, that part of the speech might have been kind of offensive.
She'd told Ruby it should have been Mary Margaret.
But then Ruby had made the very good point that Mary Margaret probably would have started to cry during her speech and, well, that was true. Emma, at least, didn't mess up her makeup while waxing poetic about feelings she didn't entirely believe in, but her cynicism had been obvious in every single word and she was treading somewhere between feeling horrible and not at all surprised and at least three quarters of her muscles wanted to run out towards Fifth Avenue and never look back.
Because the wedding was being held in Bryant Park.
It was totally holiday-themed.
Their dresses were so goddamn red.
"Yeah, that's probably true," Mary Margaret admits, taking another sip of her drink. Emma hasn't touched hers yet. That feels like a sign – that she wants to pointedly ignore.
"See. No dice on the lawyer. I think I'll stick to chasing down the criminals. Let the rest of the justice system do its job after that."
"Are you guys talking trash about the justice system?"
Emma rolls her eyes as soon as she hears David's voice – mostly because Mary Margaret's smile is suddenly so sugary sweet it threatens to rot the teeth of everyone in the room. He chuckles when he notices Emma's slouched shoulders, suit jacket long gone and a flush to his cheeks that hadn't been there a few hours before.
"I don't know how you got trash talk out of that," Emma mutters, leaning back against the bar and she wonders how long she can stay at this wedding before it becomes socially acceptable for her to leave.
She is the worst.
"Eh, it was said with a certain hint of bitterness," David says. He slings an arm over Mary Margaret's shoulders as soon as he's within reach, her own arms wrapping around his middle and it's a picture of something that makes Emma's stomach twist uncomfortably.
"Yeah, that's kind of the theme for the evening it'd seem," Mary Margaret mumbles. Emma clicks her tongue.
"Aw, c'mon, that's not fair, at all. And decidedly out of character for you."
Mary Margaret can't shrug. David's arm is in the way. She tries anyway. "Did you or did you not say, and I'm quoting here, that love had taken some of the bite out of Ruby's approach to the world?"
"And something about claws, I think," David adds.
Emma groans, letting her head roll back. That's exactly what she'd said. She wasn't sure where she got the wolf theme from, but she hadn't really planned her speech and that was probably her first mistake. "If you think about it," Emma starts, "those are actually kind of compliments."
David and Mary Margaret make matching contradictory noises and they all spend far too much time together.
"Is it though?" Mary Margaret asks.
Emma refuses to meet her gaze. David makes that noise again.
And, really, the whole thing is absolutely, positively Emma's fault – because she's some kind of bitter shell of a human at this point, with a certainty that love does not, in fact, conquer all, at least when it comes to her and her life and everyone else around her seems bound and determined to prove her wrong.
It's not a great mindset to have around Christmas.
Or, well, any time really, but especially at Christmas.
The whole thing makes her feel as lonely as she's ever felt, despite being surrounded by nearly everyone she's ever met or ever cared about and it's suddenly very difficult for Emma to take a deep breath.
It's also right around then that she decides she'd like to get incredibly drunk.
"I told Ruby I didn't want to give the speech," Emma says, not for the first time and she needs to set some alarms on her phone so she can keep apologizing to both Ruby and Belle once every hour. "This is...it's not my thing."
Mary Margaret makes a slightly different noise, not quite sympathetic, but getting there and Emma feels as if she's been thrown in a snowbank. She takes a rather large gulp of her drink.
"Please stop making these rather judgmental noises."
"I'm not doing that," Mary Margaret argues, but David mumbles ehhh under his breath. That almost gets Emma to laugh. She finishes her drink.
"At least it's a good story," he reasons.
Emma is going to do permanent damage to her throat if she keeps groaning. "Aw, God, that's even worse than whatever Mary Margaret is trying to do."
"What is Mary Margaret trying to do?"
"Set me up with someone at this wedding."
David doesn't look particularly surprised – and that's fair. It's one-hundred percent like Mary Margaret to do something like that because it is one-hundred percent like Mary Margaret to care, almost too much, about Emma's happiness.
It had been that way since they were teenagers and, occasionally, ignoring curfews together and Ruby would probably help if she weren't a little annoyed that Emma had messed up the bridesmaid's speech at her wedding. She'd probably given Mary Margaret a list of eligible bachelors at the reception anyway, just on the off chance that Emma agreed to any of this insanity.
That, however, would be some kind of Christmas miracle.
Because Emma Swan, a failure as a bridesmaid and growing more and more tipsy by the moment had done love and feeling before and it had all blown up in her face. She was better on her own, anyway.
There was no one to question her work schedule or worry incessantly about her overnight stakeouts and, sure, it had been nice when someone that wasn't Mary Margaret or David or Ruby wanted to double check she'd brought hand warmers because the heat her car was notoriously bad, but Emma didn't need that.
She didn't need anyone.
She was good. As is. Or was. Whatever tense. No matter what.
Getting set up at a wedding, at Christmas, was a ridiculous cliché.
"Did you really expect anything less?" David asks, and Emma can shrug. No one's arm is around her shoulder. She might honestly be drunk already.
"I did not."
"Then, you know…"
"What?"
"I don't know."
Emma narrows her eyes, because it's almost too obvious that David does know and has known and the tenses still don't really matter. They honestly all spend far too much time together. It's probably because they all moved to New York together, like some kind of coming-of-age movie and half the food in Emma's fridge is there because Mary Margaret put it there.
Mary Margaret has a key to Emma's apartment.
Mostly to feed her. And make sure she's not suffering from internal bleeding after dealing with potentially dangerous skips. Those are David's words though, opinions formed by the actual law enforcement he's a part of and he'd saved all his PTO to get this weekend and the week between Christmas and New Year's off.
Emma's got a bet with Ruby that he's going to ask Mary Margaret to marry him. It seems likely; like a movie, or something.
"What?" David prompts when Emma doesn't say anything else. "I can hear the gears turning in your head."
"Are you suggesting I'm some kind of machine, Nolan?"
She's going to get coal in her stocking because she'd done it entirely for the reaction, but Mary Margaret's lips quirk and Emma takes that as a victory. "That's not what I said at all," David mutters. "I just…"
"Yuh huh?"
"Ok, you have to promise not to throw your drink at me."
"I finished my drink," Emma points out. Her cheeks are starting to feel warm, an almost pleasant buzz tugging at the back of her mind as she waves down the bartender. It's an open bar. She'll have to thank Ruby for that at some point.
Maybe after she apologizes.
Again.
Indefinitely.
Every Christmas for the rest of her life.
"What are you drinking?" David asks, an absolutely horrible attempt to deflect the conversation he started. Emma lifts her eyebrows. "If it's wine, you're going to have a shit hangover tomorrow. You are not twenty-three anymore."
"Man, the opinions just get more and more scathing, don't they? Are you going to tell your story, Nolan or what's your deal?"
He huffs, but Mary Margaret isn't even trying to hold back her laugh at this point and she's always been an incredible lightweight. None of them are twenty-three anymore. That feels like another sign.
"My deal is that I was outside before because my mom was leaving and-"
"-Your mom left already?" Mary Margaret asks sharply, and Emma can hear the undercurrent of nerves in her voice.
"I doubt she's personally insulted that you didn't say goodbye to her, M's," Emma reasons. "Plus, you know Ruth, all this noise and the lights. It's...it's not small town Storybrooke." David tilts his head, probably because the words threaten to burn a hole in the ozone, so drenched in acid Emma can't believe they don't fuck up her tongue. "Stop that," she warns, but he holds up his free hand. "Can you get to your point, please?"
"The point is that my mom was leaving and she was talking to Granny who, you know...was talking about Christmas at home and plans and, maybe, expressed some concern that…"
He trails off, teeth digging into his lower lip. Emma briefly wonders if her face will stick in the scowl it's currently in.
She doesn't dwell on that thought though, just the three quick gulps of Pinot that land with an almost audible thump in her stomach.
And she knows how the sentence was going to end anyway, because Mary Margaret and Ruby have been trying to set her up at a variety of family and decidedly non-family events for years, certain if she just opened herself up she'd meet someone, anyone that she'd be willing to bring home for the Storybrooke Christmas extravaganza that happened every year.
That wasn't really what it was called.
It deserved a name though – three days of schedules and sweets, pies and tree lightings and events that were as much a part of Emma as the bitterness that seemed to grow more pronounced the longer she stood in front of David and Mary Margaret. It was home in the way she'd never expected until she stumbled into it because her bitterness had started long before she landed in Storybrooke and, it seemed, all Storybrooke wanted was for her to add someone, anyone, to the mix.
Like it was a cookie recipe or something.
They had a cookie exchange too.
"You know," Emma drawls, and she's thankful for the bar behind her if only to ensure that her balance stays relatively balanced. "Telling me that your mom and Granny are gossiping about my relationship status on the same night M's is doing whatever it is she's doing with her face, is not really helping, like, anything."
David doesn't actually blush, but it's a pretty close thing. He twists his lips, a sardonic expression that Emma has come to refer to as detective angry face. She mumbles those exact words under her breath, kicking lightly at his ankles.
It's another mistake, she's had far too much wine in the last fifteen minutes and the edges of her vision are starting to blur a bit, but David moves and he's got one arm around Mary Margaret and the other on Emma's hip and they're a jumble of limbs and absurd dresses and the mutual certainty that most of Storybrooke has already spent the majority of December dissecting the potential of Emma Swan's miniscule love life.
She waves down the bartender again.
"Just the messenger, Em," David says, and Emma can hear those emotions too, as if he's not upset, he's just disappointed.
"That doesn't make it any better, honestly."
"Yeah, I know that too."
Emma sighs, some of the fight falling out of her as soon as she hears the clink of another glass on the bartop behind her. "Are there new people coming this year?"
"Are you speaking in tongues?"
"Home," she groans. "New people coming home. To Christmas."
"Why would you say that?"
"Because you're really, really bad at the face thing too. I mean, not Mary Margaret bad, but-"
"-Ok, can we stop talking about my face like that?" Mary Margaret asks, but it doesn't sound nearly as frustrated as it probably should. She pulls Emma's glass out of her hand, taking a rather large sip of wine. "God, what is this, Pinot?"
"Get your own drink then," Emma mutters. Mary Margaret finishes the wine. "What do you know? And why have you been hiding it?"
"Not hiding. Biding."
"Your time?"
"Yes, because I thought-"
Emma nearly growls, drawing a few more questioning looks because the end of that sentence seems to reach out and slap her across the face. "I am not hooking up with someone at this wedding and then bringing them home," she hisses. "That is insane."
"That's not what I'm suggesting," Mary Margaret argues, and the words sound empty and a little placating, particularly when David scoffs loud enough that someone on Belle's side of the family actually glares at them.
Emma rolls her eyes. "Oh my God. Seriously, between the two of you, it's a wonder we can have one, cognizant conversation. You're both horrible storytellers, you know that? Should I guess? Who's not already paired up that they can bring someone home?"
She runs through the list in her head – Regina's got Robin and two painfully adorable kids and Ruby and Belle aren't even going to be there, some holiday honeymoon because that's the week they could get off and that will be weird, but Emma's not so much of an asshole that she doesn't hope they have fun. Elsa and Mulan always split the holidays, a strange tradition that's almost equal fodder for Storybrooke gossip as Emma's lack of significant other and-
"-Oh God, is it Ruth?" Emma sputters, not sure what response she's worked out of her two closest friends.
Mary Margaret's eyes threaten to fall out of her head and David's jaw nearly hits the floor, words falling out of his mouth that lack any real syllables.
"No," he growls. "Jeez, oh my God, that's, Em are you-"
"-It's Anna," Mary Margaret interrupts before this can dissolve into total and complete farce. "Anna is bringing home a guy and Elsa's only kind of freaking out, but that's happening and so, you know…"
Emma does know. She wishes she would stop knowing. She wishes she didn't feel like she already had a wine hangover. "Anna Rensdyr is bringing home a guy?" she balks, Mary Margaret already nodding. "But isn't she an actual human child?"
"Em," David sighs. "We all literally bought her a twenty-first birthday present over the summer."
"Did we really?"
Mary Margaret nods again. Or hasn't ever stopped. "We did. And I can guarantee that she is bringing a guy because she told Regina. He doesn't like apples, apparently."
"And Regina's still going to let him in town?"
"Her mayoral powers do not extend that far."
"Eh," Emma objects, but the sound quickly dissolves into another sigh because she's nearly ten years older than Anna and she can't imagine Regina would let any of her boyfriends, imaginary otherwise, refuse to eat the apple pie.
"So," David continues. "You know, that's the update and home is home and there's talk and then you made that speech, so...the rumor mill is spinning. As it were."
"Right."
"And," Mary Margaret adds, a note of something in her voice that makes Emma stand up a little straighter. "I'm not suggesting that you should hook up with someone at this wedding and bring that same person home, but, uh...that guy in the corner keeps trying to make it look like he's not blatantly staring at you."
She has no idea what is happening in the pit of her stomach. It feels like nerves. Or butterflies. Maybe snowflakes. That's more festive.
Emma turns her head slowly, ignoring the hammering of her pulse and the small tide of Pinot that's churning in the very middle of her, and she might sigh out a quiet oh under her breath.
She knows him.
Or, well, she knows of him – knows is generous and she's not sure she's met him more than once in anything except passing. He's Belle's side of the reception, a backstory Emma isn't entirely aware of, but dimly remembers being kind of depressing and she's not sure why she remembers the exact color of his eyes.
Like they're branded on her memory or something equally ridiculous.
Killian Jones is not part of the group, metaphorically or otherwise.
Emma's pretty positive he doesn't actually live in New York, but he's sitting at a far table in that reception, legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes don't move when she stares at him. He's not wearing his suit jacket either – it's impossibly hot, somehow, despite being the middle of December and Emma assumes it's because most of the people in that reception are dancing and drinking and not worried about the gossip of a small town in middle-of-nowhere Maine – but that's probably for the best because the shirt he's got n is honestly absurd and very likely tailored to fit him. That also seems kind of ridiculous, and really, almost a waste of money, but Emma's not sure what Killian Jones does for a living, so it seems wrong to critique the way he conducts his finances.
He keeps looking at her.
And she keeps looking right back.
At some point his lips quirk, like he's waiting for Emma to blink, but she's a stubborn, bitter, asshole and she's far too busy taking stock of his admittedly very attractive face anyway. There's a slight angle to his hair, like he's been running his fingers through it, and a shift to his shoulders, a bit of tension that Emma feels puts them on equal footing. Neither one of them are moving.
She can't possibly see how blue his eyes are from this distance, but her mind does not care.
Emma licks her lips.
And Killian Jones smiles at her.
It feels like...something. Like the Earth shifts or pauses or starts spinning backwards and Emma is vaguely aware of Mary Margaret talking, mumbled words in her ear and David's eyes boring into the side of her head and the wine in whatever glass she's on now has gone warm.
"Do you know him?" Mary Margaret asks, a little clear that time and Emma nods numbly. Her tongue feels like it's growing.
God, that's gross.
"Yeah, uh-"
"Maybe you should go over there?"
"Should we all go over there?" David asks sharply, and Emma's laugh sounds manic and cautious and everything is definitely spinning backwards.
She shakes her head, taking a drink she instantly regrets. "No, no, it's, uh…" And, honestly, if asked, Emma will blame temporary insanity. Because she never entirely understand the next few words that come out of her mouth, the lie tasting as foul as the warm Pinot and Mary Margaret's answering gasp is the loudest noise in all five boros. "That's, uh, Killian Jones. He's friends with Belle. We, uh...we went out on a very horrible date once."
Emma squeezes her eyes closed as soon as she finishes the sentence, a rushing in her ears that very likely has to do with the suddenly incorrect alignment of the planets. David and Mary Margaret appear to each have several thousand questions – when and why and why again – but Emma keeps shaking her head and trying to breathe and she is honestly the world's biggest asshole.
She makes early-in-the-story Ebenezer Scrooge look like a standup guy. She'd probably claim she made out with Bob Cratchit at some point or something.
"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles. "So, you know...no dice on that set-up, M's." Mary Margaret gapes at her, something almost like disbelief settling on her face. "It's fine," Emma promises, another lie and the room appears to be shrinking. "Just...I'm going to be fine going home and neither Ruth nor Granny need to worry and I'm really excited to see how Regina acts when Anna's boyfriend won't eat apple pie."
Mary Margaret blinks.
David looks like he's frozen.
"So," Emma continues, dragging the word out until it sounds like she's reciting the 12 Days of Christmas. She needs to stop making so many Christmas puns. In her head. "I'm...going to get some air and I know you guys want to dance. You don't have to babysit me anymore."
That wakes both of them up.
"That's not what we were doing," Mary Margaret whispers.
"Eh, kind of. But I'm good. And I'm totally going to surprise everyone with my ability to make the best pie this year."
"You buy your pie every year," David says, half a smile on his face.
Emma shrugs, already moving towards the nearest door. "No one knows that."
Ebenezer Scrooge did not lie this much. Everyone knows she buys her pie the day before she leaves for Storybrooke. It's why there's always so much of Emma's pie left.
That might be a metaphor for her life.
Maybe the bartender will give her an entire bottle of Pinot.
"Ok, Emma," Mary Margaret says. It's the single most depressing sentence in the world and neither one of them try to stop her when she all but sprints across the room, heels clacking on the temporary floor and it's absolutely, goddamn freezing as soon as Emma steps outside.
The air stings her lungs when she breathes in, blinking quickly to make sure she doesn't manage to embarrass herself even more. There's nowhere to sit, only a few inches of space because they're in the middle of Bryant Park and there's an ice skating rink a few feet away and shops selling overpriced items that no one actually wants for Christmas and that's somehow even more bitter than before and-
"Swan?"
She clicks her teeth, the sound reverberating up her jaw and into her ears and possibly her soul, so it's entirely likely Emma has gone completely insane.
She's not nearly as surprised he's remembered her name as she probably should be.
"Swan," Killian repeats, the crunch of something under his shoes sounding impossibly loud. He's moving slowly, like he's approaching some kind of wounded or vaguely terrified animal. Emma still doesn't move. "Would you like to explain why Mary Margaret Nolan just tried to turn me to stone with her eyes?"
Emma spins around so quickly she nearly falls over. That's probably the wine. Probably. "What?"
"It was a very impressive attempt, really. All intense glare and thin lips. I think her husband was debating the pros and cons of challenging me to a duel."
"That's not her husband."
"What?"
"Not her husband," Emma says again. "Yet, at least, but I'm pretty positive I'm going to get my fifty bucks, so you know…"
Killian stares at her – all blue eyes and confusion, both of which are equally and separately distracting. A piece of Emma's hair has fallen out of her rather ridiculous updo. "They're really not married?" he asks, and the muscles in her neck do not appreciate the amount of head shaking she's doing. "How is that possible?"
"Because David's obsessed with the perfect moment and Mary Margaret is a giant sentimental sap, so…"
"Right, right, and you bet fifty bucks on…"
"Them getting engaged by New Year's."
"With?"
"Ruby?"
Emma isn't entirely ready for his laugh. It shakes across the rather minimal amount of space between them, honest and almost joyful and she doesn't shiver from the wind. She wraps her arms around her middle, holding onto something she's only vaguely confident she actually has and Killian takes another step forward.
"That was a question," he says, eyes flickering towards Emma's lips when she starts to chew on her lower one.
"I'd rather you didn't mention that to Mary Margaret. Or David. Or, well, Ruby for that matter."
"I don't think I know any of them well enough for that, actually. That's why I was so confused by the death glare."
"Mary Margaret really isn't capable of that."
"Eh," Killian laughs, and he's close enough now that Emma swears she can feel the heat radiating off him. He's not wearing his jacket. He's holding it. And offering it to her. Maybe this is A Christmas Carol scenario, where she sees all the things she could have or something. She hopes there aren't any ghosts involved.
That won't help the inevitable wine hangover she's absolutely going to have.
"You didn't see her," he continues, shaking his arm when Emma keeps staring at his outstretched hand. "There are goosebumps all over your arm, love and, at last count you've shivered at least six times since I've come out here."
"Why are you keeping track of that?"
Emma absolutely, positively does not acknowledge that he calls her love.
She stores it away instead, for posterity or something. Even Ebenezer Scrooge had a girlfriend that one time.
"I'm a real nice guy."
"Yeah, nice guys don't actually say that."
Killian chuckles, another shake of fabric that looks incredibly warm. Emma grumbles, but she takes the jacket and they both widen their eyes when their fingers brush. There aren't any sparks – this is not that kind of romantic comedy – but there may be something and it feels like electricity in her veins and a jolt to her entire being and Emma wonders if, maybe, the cliché is true. She feels as if she could get lost staring at him.
"Yeah, that's fair," he agrees, leaning forward to drape the jacket over her shoulders. "Why did Mary Margaret, who I honestly cannot believe is not married to David, try to kill me five minutes ago? I don't think that goes with the theme of the wedding."
"There is no theme to this wedding."
He makes another noise, a contradiction and a click of his tongue that should not nearly be as attractive as it is. Emma is, however, admittedly distracted by however his jacket smells. It's easily the most ridiculous thing she's ever thought.
"Is there not?" Killian asks. The smile that had been there before has evolved into a vaguely patronizing smirk and an arch to one eyebrow. Only one. Emma is personally offended by that.
"If you're friends with Belle then you should know the answer to that question."
"I'm not sure I know the answer to any question at all at this point."
"Wow, that's dramatic."
"And yet, I'm not the one who waxed poetic about the maybe healing powers of love before and then made some mad dash to the exit of this...what would you call a room like this?"
"I think the technical term is temporary structure that required me to deliver several different permit requests more than a year ago."
Killian lets out a low whistle, lips quirking down and he almost looks impressed. "You made sure Ruby and Belle had the right permits to host this holiday extravaganza?"
"Is that surprising?"
"You did make that rather pointed speech, love."
Emma doesn't quite gag, but it's a close thing, and she's certainly not memorizing the sound of Killian's laugh. She wonders if cold can make a person delirious. Shit, it's probably the Pinot.
And how goddamn blue his eyes are.
"I told Ruby it shouldn't have been me, but…" Emma shrugs, like that's an explanation and Killian tilts his head. It's not a question. He doesn't actually push. And the words seem to tumble out of Emma. "I spent the first decade or so my life in a foster home and then, uh, I don't know, the world decided to cut me a break or something and I ended up with Ruby and her grandmother-"
"-The woman critiquing the appetizers earlier?"
"One and the same. So. Granny opened her house and her whole goddamn town to me and I...well, I never left again or went back into the system and Ruby's the closest I've ever really had to an actual sister and, oh shit, don't tell Mary Margaret that either. It's really both of them and, I guess, David too, but he's more an absurd overprotective brother and…"
She cuts herself off as soon as Killian's fingers curl around her shoulder and Emma hadn't realized she'd started bobbing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide and breath coming in pants. The smirk evolves back into a smile.
"Did Ruby threaten you if you didn't make a speech at her slightly holiday themed wedding?"
"It's not a holiday themed wedding," Emma says. His hand is warm. "Kind of. And yes. Very much so."
"That may be the nicest thing I've ever heard."
"You've got a twisted sense of nice."
Killian hums, a flash in his gaze that makes the tide metaphor Emma forgot about rise up and drift dangerously close to a hurricane. "It does, however, still leave us with the rather glaring question of why the very unmarried Mary Margaret was glaring at me as if I had personally offended her or suggested that fruit cake was an acceptable substitute for candy canes."
"This is not a holiday themed wedding!"
"Candy canes on every single table, Swan. And some kind of peppermint monstrosity for the reception drink."
Maybe he should have been the lawyer.
Maybe he was a lawyer.
Emma had no idea what Killian Jones did.
"I argued very strongly against the peppermint drink," Emma mumbles, drawing another quiet laugh out of him.
"What's your drink of choice?"
"I think the bartender was a little worried I was going to jump behind the counter and demand he hand over his entire stash of Pinot."
"That probably would have caused more of a scene than your speech.
Emma makes a face, mouth dropping and eyes widening, but Killian does something ridiculous with his eyebrows, the tip of his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth. She must be drunk, that's the only reason any of this is working. Because this feels a hell of a lot like flirting.
"You just lost any self-proclaimed nice guy tendencies," Emma says. "Did you actually try the peppermint monstrosity?"
"Ariel did."
The jacket suddenly feels like several weights, threatening to yank Emma into the ground and she bites the side of her tongue. There are tourists everywhere, noises and the general sense of festive because they're only a few weeks removed from Christmas and it may be a holiday themed wedding.
They'd taken bridal party photos with Santa Claus at Macy's two days before.
And, really, Emma isn't sure why she feels as if she's lost her footing on the skating rink behind her, but it really had seemed like they were flirting and he'd been staring and he'd followed her out there.
He'd followed her.
"Not an actual date," Killian says, rushing over the words with an honesty that makes Emma bite her tongue again.
"What?"
"She's not...Ariel knows Belle from Boston too and-"
"-You live in Boston?"
He nods slowly, running a hand through his hair. Emma does a triple axle – metaphorically. "I do. That's how I met Belle. She and Ariel were working at ISG a couple years ago and I was doing research and.."
"Is that code?"
"It wouldn't be if you'd stop interrupting me," Killian says. He's still smiling, rocking towards her, possibly unconsciously and Emma hopes. She's not sure for what, but it's there. "The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is a very fancy art museum with very fancy art and Ariel was working on an exhibit there. She's got an eye for those kinds of things. Belle had been working there as a kind of...historian, record keeper."
"And you?"
"Hmmm?"
"What were you doing at that very fancy art museum with very fancy art?"
He ducks his eyes, which is only kind of surprising, the tips of his ears going red. Emma's smile feels as natural as anything she's done all night. "Oh, uh, research," Killian says.
"Research? Are you a secret nerd?"
"It's not a secret depending on who you ask."
"I'm asking you," Emma mutters, and it feels like more flirting and balancing on the ice and she should have suggested some kind of boozy hot chocolate as the drink for the reception.
"Very much," Killian grins. "You know Isabella showed up at the Boston Symphony in 1912 wearing a headband that said 'Oh, you Red Sox' on it? Caused a panic right there in the audience. A wealthy woman supporting baseball? She was fascinating."
"And you were...stalking her art collection?"
"Writing about her. Although, again, stalking may be the correct answer depending on who you ask. Ariel will agree with you."
Emma blinks, opening her mouth only to close it again because she's kind of confused and slightly charmed and Killian's fingers are tracing absent-minded patterns on her arm. She figures they're absent-minded. Neither one of them has really mentioned it.
"You wrote-"
"-a book," he finishes. "Several, in fact."
"That's insane."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Yeah," Emma nods. "That's...how many books is several?"
"Four?"
"Four!"
Killian arches an eyebrow. "It still doesn't sound like a compliment, love."
Emma is waffling somewhere between complete surprise, swooning and something that feels like guilt, so naturally the next question out of her mouth has nothing to do with anything. "Why'd you bring Ariel to this wedding?"
"Excuse me?"
"Ariel. She seems to have several sweeping opinions about the state of your whole being so…"
"She's friends with Belle, I just explained this."
"So she presumably would have been invited to the wedding on her own," Emma continues. She needs to find a different Christmas character who is worse than Ebenezer Scrooge. That's who she is. She's...the ghost of Christmas past and current embarrassments.
Killian licks his lips, eyebrows staying frustratingly high and she can see a muscle in his jaw jump when he clenches it. "Presumably," he agrees. "But her boyfriend wasn't able to make it."
"Oh."
"Yes."
"And, uh…"
"No, no, no," Killian laughs, a distinct lack of humor in the sound. "I'm not giving away any more details until I get a few of my own. Mary Margaret tried to kill me, Swan. I want to know why and I want to know why you were out here without a jacket on."
"We didn't get them with our dresses."
"That was the less interesting response."
"Yeah, it absolutely was."
"So," Killian prompts, leaning towards her, which is almost impressive considering the distinct lack of space between them. There is heat radiating off him, Emma is certain. "Why the disappearing act and the death? Neither of those are festive."
Emma huffs, a put-upon sigh that she doesn't deserve because she's backed herself into this corner and he followed her out there. She still can't wrap her head around that. "Ok, you have to promise not to freak out," she warns, and Killian's lips twitch. She's staring at Killian's lips.
"Unfortunately for me I didn't have any friends with conveniently out of town significant others to come to this wedding with me and Mary Margaret's made it her duty in life to make sure I have some kind of dancing partner and-"
She takes another deep breath, tilting her head up and it's half defiance, half determination. Killian doesn't blink. "She maybe suggested that you were looking my way and that I could possibly dance with you-"
"-Is that a euphemism?"
"Not in this case," Emma promises. "But, well, there's been a whole thing about Christmas and going home and remember the quip about the Pinot before that was, like, half true and-"
"-What did you tell her?" Killian asks.
"How do you know that?"
"You've got a very expressive face, love. And you did look rather put out while you were at the bar. Even without the siege of Pinot."
"I knew you were staring!"
"Yes, well, it's a very red dress, isn't it?"
"Festive," Emma mumbles, and she doesn't remember moving her hands to rest flat on Killian's chest. She's got to drink some water. "Ok, you're really not going to be mad?"
"What did you tell Mary Margaret?"
"That we'd gone on a date before and it ended badly."
He blinks. And blinks. And tilts his head. Only to tilt it to the other side. And blink again.
Emma grits her teeth.
"I don't…" Killian starts, shaking his head like he's trying to wake up from this admittedly absurd dream. "Why?"
"I genuinely have no idea."
"Are you kidding me?"
"I would not joke about that," Emma says. "This is why I was so serious about the not getting mad thing. Also, I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"I barely even know you. I mean...how many times have we met?"
"Enough that I'd like to believe any date we went on would be better than whatever you'd come up with."
"I didn't come up with anything," Emma argues. "There were no details. There was just a general sense of desperation to get my friends off my back for two seconds. I'd already fucked up the wedding with the-"
"-You didn't fuck up the wedding, love," Killian interrupts sharply and there's that word again and that tone again and Emma's going to need stitches in her tongue.
"That's an awfully generous opinion from a guy who barely evaded death tonight."
"Yeah, well, Mary Margaret's very good at shooting those metaphorical daggers."
Emma scoffs, but Killian is still smiling and maybe she was hoping for the laugh that seems to ring out around her. He throws his whole head back, the sound shaking its way through his body and out his fingertips, moving straight into her and through her and it feels as if it warms her from the inside out.
That may just be his jacket.
"You know this may be the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to me," Killian mutters, laughter still clinging to his voice and his gaze is soft when it drifts back to Emma.
She'd probably melt the ice.
"I'm really, really sorry."
"You don't have to apologize, Swan. I'm just upset our date ended badly enough that you wouldn't even afford me a dance."
"What?"
His grin is quick – a flash of teeth and lips that she's far too preoccupied with and Emma swallows when Killian's hand flits towards her waist. And she hadn't really noticed before – part of her is loathe to realize she hadn't really remembered before – but there's only one hand, a plastic prosthetic at the end of his left arm that's probably part of the vaguely depressing backstory she's only slightly aware of.
"A dance," Killian repeats, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It's either that or staging that conquest of Pinot you were suggesting before."
"That makes it sound way more epic than it is."
"And what is it, exactly?"
"A distinct lack of plus-one and overbearing friends and…" Emma shrugs, not willing to drift into self-pity when there are so many tourists nearby and Killian's fingers tapping on the fabric of her ridiculously red bridesmaid's dress.
"A situation I'm entirely too familiar with," he says. "So, what do you say? We give them a little bit of a show?"
"That sounds devious."
"God bless us, everyone."
Emma's laugh bubbles out of her – like opening a bottle of champagne, but that's more New Year's than Christmas and Killian doesn't give her a moment to second-guess herself. His fingers lace through hers as he walks them back towards the makeshift dance floor, jacket still hanging off her shoulders and Emma can feel several thousand pairs of eyes follow them.
That last part may be an exaggeration.
She hopes there's wine in her apartment.
"You going to let me lead, Swan?" Killian asks, hand still wrapped up in hers. It feels like an especially important question, but Emma rolls her eyes.
"Absolutely not."
"I figured as much."
The music shifts – and Ruby was vocal about nearly every aspect of the wedding, but she'd been nearly terrifying about the music choices and Emma is not surprised when she hears the Beach Boys start to play.
She's even less surprised by whatever Killian's eyebrows do.
"Rubes loves this song," Emma explains, humming out of habit and several summers of Pet Sounds played on repeat. "This is not the first time she's made the DJ play it."
Killian hums, the threat of more laughter tugging at his mouth. "I noticed that. Ariel and I debated doing shots every time we heard the Love Actually song."
"Wait, what?"
"This song. They play it at the end of Love Actually ."
"I can't believe you just tried to tell me that God Only Knows is the song from some God awful romantic comedy. Why are you aware of the soundtrack to Love Actually ?"
"Why do you think Love Actually is a God awful romantic comedy?" Killian challenges.
Emma's eyes are going to get frozen mid-roll. That's a lie. She's far too warm for that. She ignores the double-entendre there. "That's easy. I'm super bitter and very anti-love."
"There's probably a Buzzfeed quiz you can take to figure out how those particular characteristics make you one of the many relatable characters in Love Actually. Also, this proves my holiday-themed wedding point. There was one of those in the movie too."
"No there wasn't!"
Killian's eyebrows fly up his forehead so quickly, Emma can't quite believe he hasn't defied every law of human biology in the process. It's getting increasingly difficult to think when he keeps smiling at her.
He's trying very hard not to touch her with his left hand.
"That so?" Killian asks archly, and Emma rolls her whole had that time. "Who would you say is Keira Knightley in this real-world scenario? Ruby or Belle?"
"Did you not already take that Buzzfeed quiz?"
"I'm asking for your opinion, Swan."
That feels like another incredibly important sentence. Emma inhales slowly, letting the oxygen fill her lungs to the point of over-capacity and Killian's eyes don't leave her face. If anything, they trace over it, taking stock and looking for something Emma isn't entirely sure she wants him to find because he's done a pretty good job of reading her already.
She feels bad about their bad fake date.
"Ruby is obviously Keira Knightley," she says, doing her best to sound like she's annoyed by the conversation. "If only because she'll demand perfection from the videographer and she'd also freak out if every visual of her was blue on her wedding day."
"You seem awfully well acquainted with this God awful romantic comedy."
"It's not cute to just keep throwing my own words back at me."
"That suggests it could be cute if I did something differently though," Killian smiles. A real, genuine smile. Emma's heart races. "So I'll take that into consideration. What don't you like about Love Actually, Swan?"
"That Keira Knightley storyline is actually super creepy."
"Yes, it is, next?"
"How do you know there's a next?"
"Because I can practically hearing you fuming with opinions. Next."
Emma clicks her tongue again, but she's still kind of swooning and they've moved on to a different song. It's only a matter of time until the Beach Boys play again. Ruby is nothing if not predictable.
And it's probably good Killian and Ariel didn't do shots – they'd be dead.
"Natalie was not fat at all," Emma starts, Killian humming in agreement. "The body double part is...weird."
"They cut that out a lot on TV."
"How often are you watching this movie?"
He squeezes her hand. "Enough. Keep going."
"That one guy literally went to America to fuck girls. Alan Rickman was a total jerk and Laura Linney should have just explained her situation to that guy. He was clearly super into her, he definitely would have been cool about it."
"I've never understood that part," Killian admits. "But then, I guess, if people actually talk about their problems in movies like that, there's not much of a movie."
Emma makes a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. "Also, as mentioned, the guy from The Walking Dead is a giant creep."
"Oh, that's just a patented fact now. I think everyone agrees the sign thing is creepy. Total dick move."
"Right? What was Keira Knightley supposed to do? Leave her husband? That was whatshisface's best friend."
"Did he have a name in the movie?"
"You're the Love Actually expert," Emma says, and they're not so much dancing anymore as they are just swaying in each other space. Like they're settling into each other's orbit.
She does not know enough about space to make these kinds of metaphors.
"Not an expert," Killian argues. "I've got passable knowledge of Love Actually."
"The best storyline may actually be the guy from Pirates of the Caribbean."
"Who?"
"The clown dad."
"You're just saying words now."
Emma shakes her head, and she's having far more fun than she expected. Maybe they would have had a good, fake date. The thought leaves her slightly and inexplicably disappointed. "His kid was the clown in IT. "
"No, no, that was the other guy in Pirates of the Caribbean. I think."
"You're not sure?"
"No, and clowns freak me out."
"What, really?"
"Completely and totally," Killian nods. They're making an announcement – something about cake and more dessert options and maybe something about more alcohol. Emma latches onto the last one, needing some kind of excuse for whatever her whole body is doing.
"You want to get a drink?"
He squeezes her hand again. And keeps his left arm at his side. "Yeah, ok."
They don't get drunk, but it's pretty damn close – Ariel joining eventually, a high-pitched where the hell have you been on her lips that disappears as soon as Killian slides a peppermint monstrosity towards her. They try that too, grousing and groaning and Ariel takes pictures, promises to send them to Emma, but the words get a little slurred and Killian's hand settles on the small of Emma's back.
To keep her from falling off the bar stool.
Or so she tells herself forty-seven times.
At least.
The Beach Boys play several more times, more samplings from Pet Sounds and Emma groans when she hears the first few notes of Run, Run Rudolph. Killian practically beams.
"Holiday wedding," he mouths at her, earning another eye roll that only ends with more smiles and more laughter and Emma pointedly ignoring the questioning glances of everyone who is absolutely staring at them.
He does, eventually, have to leave, although he seems frustrated by that, brows pulled low and eyes narrowed, like he's trying to glare Ariel to death for suggesting it.
"And I'm not walking back to the hotel, you giant cheapskate," she announces before turning on her heels and waving towards Belle and Ruby. They're kissing. That's been a theme for the entire night.
Emma wobbles on her seat as soon as Killian moves, teeth back on her lip and nerves in her stomach and-
"Here," he says, holding his hand out again and she stares at it like she's never seen anything resembling a human male before. "Your phone, Swan."
It takes some finagling, but they get her phone out of the bag she'd actually left at the bar before and he types, what she assumes, is his number, a smile on his face when he drops the stupid piece of technology back on her lap.
"Just in case you need to express more opinions about Christmas-themed...anything."
Emma smiles. "Sure."
She doesn't notice Mary Margaret and David staring at her. She's far too busy watching Killian leave.
And a week goes by and then two more days and she's supposed to be going back to Storybrooke in three days and it's snowing and Emma's staring at an open suitcase wondering if she can actually show up without a pie because she just got off the phone with Granny who informed her, in no uncertain terms, that she absolutely cannot show up without a pie.
Or a guy.
She didn't actually say that last part.
But it was implied.
It only takes five minutes to find the bottle of half-finished wine in the back of her fridge, the taste of it almost bitter on the back of Emma's tongue, but that may also just be her. It takes less than thirty seconds for her to grab her phone again.
Her fingers fly over the keys, a mix of alcohol and adrenaline and some other word that starts with 'a' and may just be annoyance.
What are you doing for Christmas?
Emma bobs on the balls of her feet, waiting for an answer and ignoring whatever her pulse is doing as she waits for an answer and it takes him, exactly, thirty-six seconds to answer.
Swan?
Oh, shit, I didn't even think about telling you who this was.
I'm assuming it's you then.
Yeah, yeah, me.
With Christmas questions.
You did say I could ask.
About movies.
And?
And I think Rudolph is fundamentally better than Frosty the Snowman.
Everyone thinks that.
I don't know about that. Why are you asking me about Christmas?
Emma takes another deep breath, feet staying firmly planted on the floor if only to try and ground herself because this may be the single most ridiculous thing she's ever done.
I've had an idea.
What did you have in mind?