Three months after they had returned from their trip to the past Killian had discovered a multitude of new sides to Emma. He'd be the most despicable liar, if he said he didn't love each and every one of them.
Sister Emma
She shined through every time she was with Neal. Killian was in the habit of missing half of what David was telling him when both of the prince's children were around. He simply couldn't tear his eyes off the sight that Emma made, eyes sparkling, golden hair falling over her baby brother, who wasted no time in capturing a strand of it and tugging and giggling. She giggled right along with him, loud and happy and free. There was a softness, a lightness, about her, the kind that the pirate hardly saw at any other moment.
And when she looked up and caught him staring ("You're always staring." "You're always beautiful.") she lifted an amused eyebrow at him but there was a little quirk to her lips, letting him know that she knew exactly what he was thinking. He shrugged at her anyway, bowing his head a little, and received the expected eye-roll but, oh, the fond smile that accompanied it. Yes, he was not ashamed to admit that he lived for that smile.
Hungry Emma
He believed that hurricane Emma was also a good label. He could tell by the very way the bell jingled painfully, nearly flying off its rightful place when Emma stormed in, that she had been forced to postpone her lunch break just that little bit too long.
She didn't bother with greetings or smiles or small talk but made straight for the counter, leaning her elbows on it, an almost animalistic glint in her eyes, and shot her order at the nearest unsuspecting waitress. Only Ruby ever dared to tease the sheriff when she was like that ("And here I thought I was the wolf in town.")
Order placed, the blonde plopped down in his booth and again without any greetings or preamble dug into his fries. By the time her food arrived, his was already gone. Her slight blush, after her appetite had been satisfied and she had asked him if he wanted her last pancake was in part due to her own antics and in part to the absolutely besotted look that was no doubt painted all over his face. Yes, he lived for that blush too.
Drunk Emma
Killian had been fortunate enough to find out that the sheriff was quite the passionate woman, a wanton lethal thing, more often than not a bloody tease and often enough downright dirty and inappropriate. But drunk Emma was a whole different kind of species altogether.
Drunk Emma took things to a whole new level, slamming him against the brick wall behind the Rabbit Hole, tearing his shirt off his body so fast that he was sure he wouldn't be able to go back inside looking even somewhat decent, not when her hands were wrecking through his hair and her lips were sucking on his neck in earnest. And to top it all she seemed to have a certain preference for his private parts when inebriated. That is to say… alcohol for Emma meant a blowjob for Killian.
It had made him rather uncomfortable at first, made him feel like he was taking advantage of her really and he had done everything in his power to deter her from her goal the first couple of times she had gotten well and truly sloshed. During the second hangover he had the privilege of witnessing (and hungover Emma was a whole different story), he had just come right out and asked her if she had always headed in that direction when drunk.
He had never in his life seen Emma Swan blush like that. Ever. She had been absolutely unwilling to meet his eyes, going to shake her pounding head and then thinking better of it and just mumbling a soft 'no' accompanied by a frustrated little huff. Well, that had made him rather proud of himself, he couldn't lie. And so had her over-exaggerated eye-roll at his smug grin ("Don't let it go to your head, baddy. And drop the gentleman act next time, a girl doesn't take it well when a guy declines a blowjob."). Oh, he remembered, his cheek still hurt from where she had hit him for trying to refuse her services. He was pretty sure she had been aiming for his nose though so he was counting himself lucky.
Sleep-deprived Emma
Today Killian is seeing a whole new side of his Swan. And he can't say he likes it too much. Well, he likes her, of course, bloody well loves her, but he isn't fond of the dark circles beneath her eyes and the exhausted sluggishness to her movements.
Insomnia, she said three nights ago and hasn't slept since. Not that he has slept all that much but she always quits fidgeting and getting up and lying back down around 4 am and tricks him into falling asleep, only to find her leaning against the counter, already with a hot cocoa in her cold hands at barely 6:30 in the morning.
Not tonight. Tonight Killian Jones is on a mission and he is not falling asleep until she does.
Tonight Emma is already too sleep-deprived to argue, which is how they end up on the couch under way more blankets than they really need and with two sets of already empty mugs of tea on the coffee table and another pair in their hands.
Gradually he has been become more and more aware of Emma Swan's main characteristic when sleep-deprived, namely affection. He is not one to complain, the amount of casual physical contact and sweet talk he has been on the receiving end of from the savior has surpassed his wildest expectation, given her generally distrusting and closed-off nature. But these last few days have introduced him to a whole new level of affectionate Emma. It might be the fact that her own body is struggling to produce enough heat but she seems to be constantly seeking as much contact with his warm skin as possible – nudging her feet between his legs, snuggling into his side while they walk toward Granny's, pressing her tight as close to his as possible in their booth, spooning, hand-holding, you name it, they have been abusing it in the last few days.
Currently the sheriff is comfortably settled on his lap, head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist, the other holding her mug close to her body. And Killian is doing his damnest not to move a muscle.
Because affectionate she might be but sleep-deprived Emma is also quite irritable and he had learnt that the smallest thing can set her off. Two hours ago she started yelling at him when he set his empty cup on the coffee table ("What do you think I am? Your servant?! You can at least wash your bloody mug, Killian!") Of course, when, eyes wide with shock because he always washed his stuff and she knew it, he made to get up and do as she asked, she had snagged her fingers into his belt loops and tugged him back down ("Where do you think you're going?! I'm cold!").
So currently he is going for not moving at all in the hopes that she won't find any fault with that.
"Why are you so quiet?"
No such luck.
"Wanna go to bed?" her fake yawn is so pathetic it's almost adorable, or it would be if he didn't know exactly what she is doing.
"Are you feeling like falling asleep, lass?" he asks, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.
She opens her mouth to reply, to lie, but thinks better of it. Good, at least they are pass that point.
"You don't have to stay awake with me," she mutters instead.
"I know," he replies, lips against her hair as he leans down to kiss her. "But how could I leave the princess alone in the dark and cold night. Who knows what vile rapscallion might sneak in and steal her away."
She sighs heavily, like he's just too much and it makes him grin a little.
"You're ridiculous."
"Duly noted, Swan."
"I still love you though."
He hums at that, tightening his hold on her and drawing her back to him from where she is leaning over the table to set down her latest empty mug.
"You're cute when you're sleepy," she says, poking his cheek with her index finger and tilting her head this way and that way as if trying to decide how come he is cute when sleepy, not that he agrees with the assessment but it is nearly 3am at least it looks like she has bypassed irritable and gone straight to affectionate for now so he doesn't have the strength to argue with her.
"I like your ears."
Killian's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he feels her tug at his earlobe and he thinks she must fall asleep tonight because she is half way there already, eyes hooded and a slightly dazed smile on her lips.
"My ears? You like my ears," he states flatly, clearly not impressed with the compliment.
"What?" she asks with a frown, clearly displeased with his lack of appreciation.
"Nothing at all, Swan, I was just hoping you'd like something more like my lips or my eyes or my hot irresistible body," he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
She's obviously not mellow enough to not roll her eyes at him.
"Everybody likes those. As well as your hair and your stupid eyebrows and yada, yada."
"Something wrong with people appreciating my dashing good looks?"
"No," she huffs, moving her hands to his shoulders and digging in her fingers.
Oh, he appreciates the hell out of that form of physical contact. Only when he tried to massage her to sleep yesterday… well, enough to say that it wasn't sleep that they ended up partaking in.
"I like the things everybody likes about you, love the things everybody likes," she explains as her hands work their magic on his tense muscles. "But I also get to appreciate other things that nobody else notices. Like your ears… or that mole on your left shoulder or the scar on your hip that looks like a trident."
God, he loves this woman. More than anything. But it still never ceases to amaze him how much she loves him. He knows he is never getting used to that, doesn't even try, just lets it floor him every time.
He realizes that Emma's hands have moved only when he feels her soft fingers ghosting over his stump.
"Even that?" he asks and bloody hell, he hates the way his voice wavers, the way his doubts make themselves audible and-
"Especially that," she says, drawing his forearm so that it's resting on her chest while her hands continue bestowing their soft touches on it. "You don't let anyone else see it."
He doesn't. And he has always viewed that as a burden for her more than anything else. He is too stunned to make sense of the fact that she obviously considers it a privilege. But it's obviously a well-known and established fact for Emma because she just bends down, planting a little kiss on top of his scarred skin before snuggling back down next to him, his stump still resting over her heart.
"Love your voice," she murmurs eventually, breaking him out of his stupor.
"How about I tell you a story then, lass?" he says somewhat distractedly, trying to compose himself.
She gives him a look he really can't entirely read in his frazzled state. But there's definitely surprise there and excitement, almost giddiness. And something else, something small and broken that he wants to smooth his fingers and lips over like she had done for him.
"Okay," she says before he can truly get to it, but he think it's okay indeed because the broken part seems to fade a little and become even smaller with her next words. "Tell me a story."
"Alright then," he tries to pull her even closer, resting his chin on her head and starting to draw lazy patterns over her tight. "Once upon a time…"
She falls asleep within ten minutes and he lifts her as gently as possible, moving them into the bedroom oh-so-slowly so as not to wake her and whispering that he was going to try and not take this as an insult to his storytelling skills.