A/N: hey there! for anybody who's been around AO3 or even tumblr, this fic may look slightly familiar, but I thought I might as well post it on here too and see if I could catch any new readers who might enjoy it! :) it's Henry af, Captain Cobra Swan af, and a story I am very proud of loosely based on the novel "What Maisie Knew" (with elements of the film thrown in). It's three parts and I'll be updating it every weekend!
I should also say there are slightly trigger warnings for certainly not abuse, but perhaps what some could delicately consider dubious treatment of a child. Some parents don't always get it right, even when they desperately want to.
But that aside, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you thought!
This is just like Neal.
"You don't understand," Killian tries to reason, "I'm not even supposed to be here, I have the week off. Henry's father is supposed to be picking him up today."
"Yet, as you can see — Henry is still here, and it is well past the end of the school day."
It's his sodding week off, and of course it only takes two days for his cell to light up with the familiar number from Hopper's Elementary with a receptionist on the other side demanding to know why nobody has come to pick up Henry Cassidy after the final ring of the bell. Killian had jetted down there as fast as the Boston traffic would allow, but he only has his bicycle and there's no chance in hell he's letting Henry on it without a helmet. Not to mention he has a shift starting in thirty minutes and Neal still won't answer his bloody phone. He's probably at work and has completely forgot about the basic parental responsibility expected of him, he usually spaces when it comes to Henry if Killian isn't around, but he's still his father. There are certain things you don't just forget — and Killian only started looking after the boy as a favour to an old friend with a busy professional schedule.
That was five years ago. Becoming an on-off live-in nanny for half of his income had never been the plan. Yet, here he is.
"Miss Blanchard," he begs, "I'm on my way to work, all I have is my bike. I can't take him. There has to be some other solution."
Henry's small hands begin to play with Killian's fingers resting at his side as he hums quietly to himself. His heart melts for the six-year-old, and he finds himself crouching down so he can lift the boy into his arms — it isn't Henry's fault, it never is. The lad is always so good about being handed around like a sack of potatoes from sitter to Killian to sitter to Dad, bearing it with a staggering patience and grace for a child his age.
As much as Killian considers Neal a friend, that doesn't change the fact that he doesn't deserve Henry, or Henry's good favour. Killian presses a kiss to the crown of his chestnut hair.
"I wish there was something I could do, Killian. Aside from calling social services and letting them deal with it there's very little else within my power — we only rang you because you're Henry's emergency contact."
Just at that moment, as Killian is trying to furiously think his way out of the dilemma, there is a quiet knock on the classroom door before it opens to reveal the most arresting woman he has ever laid eyes on. She steps hesitantly inside.
"Uh, sorry to — um. Neal Cassidy. He sent me to get his son?"
With long, lightly curled blonde hair that falls to her waist and frames a lovely, unblemished face with fierce green eyes, Killian finds whatever response he had been about to utter to Miss Blanchard dying instantly on his tongue. She's wearing only a simple red jacket and jeans and he struggles to identify just what it is about her that takes his breath away — he's not entirely unused to the objective attractiveness of women, after all. On closer inspection of the storming jade of her eyes he can detect a hardness to her stare. Although her expression exudes the sheepish timidity of one having walked in on a conversation they weren't invited to, there is some sort of mask in front of it that snaps any semblance of emotional connection. It's difficult for him to describe. He feels as if he is merely observing an impossibly detailed artist's impression of the human face rather than the article itself. A person with a screen in the way.
She's beautiful.
But she's also unfamiliar to him — and apparently she's here for Henry.
Killian's arms tighten around the boy protectively, who is watching the stranger with interest in his keen brown eyes.
Miss Blanchard's response is in direct contrast to the way Killian's hackles have raised, and blesses the newcomer with a friendly smile. "And who might you be?"
The woman shrugs awkwardly, stepping fully into the classroom. "I'm, uh. I'm his — I'm sorta like Henry's step-mom."
That Killian hadn't been expecting.
His eyebrows climb all the way up to his hairline. As far as he's aware Neal isn't even seeing anyone, let alone getting married to people Killian hasn't even met. Instinctively, his gaze drops to her left hand and there, clear as day, glints the familiar gold of a wedding band.
"I beg your — you're — what?"
He must have heard her wrong.
"I'm married to Neal, yeah."
Killian can only stare at her in disbelief. While he fumbles for words, the woman turns her attention to the boy in his arms watching the proceedings unfold silently.
"Hey, Henry," she waves tentatively, the corner of her mouth lifting in what she probably hopes looks like a reassuring smile. It doesn't. Henry's hand fists into the lapel of Killian's jacket. "How're you doing? I'm Emma, do you remember me? We met a few weeks ago?"
They've met once? Gods, help him.
"Hi Emma," Henry says quietly, but Killian can feel his distress in the tightness of his grip.
Miss Blanchard shifts her weight, looking between the two adults with concern. "This is — this is highly unusual, Emma. We don't just release children to anybody walking into the classroom."
"Uh, no. No, of course not."
Killian balances Henry on his hip, using his free hand to dial Neal's number once more.
He doesn't answer.
Once the three of them step outside the air is still thick and uncomfortable; there is nothing Killian wants less than to leave Henry with a total stranger, but he has to get to the Rabbit Hole or Jefferson will put another mark on his record and he can't afford that. And besides, if she really iswho she says she was then there probably isn't a problem at all — if only Neal would answer his bloody phone.
Killian places Henry down onto the sidewalk, gently brushing his hair from his eyes.
"Am I going home now, Killun?"
Aside from his timid greeting of Emma, it's the first thing Henry has said since his initial enthusiastic greeting of a frazzled Killian, fumbling with the straps of his bicycle helmet as he stormed into the classroom.
He smiles faintly. "Aye, you're going home, bug. Just give me a tick."
He straightens, watching Emma warily. Her hands twitch at her sides as if she were agitated, probably feeling as awkward as he is, before she stuffs them into the pockets of her red leather jacket. The blare of traffic is the soundtrack to their first exchange alone, cars charging past them on the street with horns drifting into the air with jagged, staccato leaps. Emma breaks their stalemate first.
"So who are you, anyway?"
"Killian Jones," he says, "Henry's sitter."
Emma arches her eyebrow. "What, so I'm doing your job?"
It's an attempt at humour, of levity. He doesn't appreciate it. "It's my day off."
"Right. Uh, of course." She's on the back foot again when the joke doesn't land, just like when she first walked into the classroom. The gentleman within him is desperate to throw her a rope so she might climb out of her discomfort, but he's thinking of Henry — and perhaps he's being somewhat unfair by displacing his anger at Neal Cassidy towards his new wife, but he can't help it. Henry's father is supposedly his friend, he shouldn't have to deal with this. Henry shouldn't have to deal with this.
As if reading his thoughts, Henry's hand reaches for his own and he links their fingers together as he too surveys Emma. Killian wonders what he's thinking.
Emma folds her arms then, adjusting her posture into something more guarded as she fixes on a mask of indifference to Killian's icy attitude.
"Look. I'm a stranger to you and I get that — just ring Neal and then he can confirm who I am and then we're good, right?"
Killian scowls. "You ring him, I've been trying for half an hour. Maybe he'll pick up for you."
Emma already has her phone out and scrolls only for a few moments before she lifts it to her ear. When Killian hears the familiar click of it being answered he barely stops himself from letting out a visibly frustrated noise. How the hell is he supposed to babysit the damn kid if his father keeps dodging his calls? It's an admission of guilt, Neal not wanting to talk to him. And it's goddamn childish.
"Yep. Uh huh, I've got him. I'm just with his sitter, Killian? He's a bit — yeah. Hang on." Emma holds out the phone towards him. "Here he is."
Killian lifts the handset to his ear. "You could've answered when I was ringing you, prick." Neal's voice buzzes on the other end of the line. "Fine. Okay. If I miss out on my first hour's pay you're covering it." At the brief acknowledgement he receives Killian hands the phone back to her.
She goes to continue speaking into her cell. "Okay, cool. So I'll just bring Henry to… Neal?" Emma pulls it from her to ear examine the screen. Call ended. He watches the colour flood to her cheeks and realises she probably doesn't want a witness to that particular dismissal so Killian averts his eyes, kneeling down to talk to Henry instead. Their relationship, their marriage, isn't his business, and if Neal didn't trouble himself enough to tell him it happened in the first place then that was that. All Killian cares about is Henry.
He pulls the lad into a brief hug. "Okay, sailor. You be good, yeah?"
Henry doesn't want to let go, and Killian has to carefully extract his arms from around his neck so he can straighten, pulling up his bike from the sidewalk he'd dropped it on.
Henry's eyes are wide and frightened. "I don't want to go with her."
"It'll be alright, she's just taking you to Daddy."
"Can't I come with you?" His voice his impossibly small and Killian's heart stutters. Emma watches the exchange awkwardly.
Killian presses a kiss to the top of his head. "I don't have a helmet for you, Henry. Next time."
"Please."
He shakes his head as he lifts his leg over the side to straddle the bike. "Be a little gentleman for Emma, now. The Captain will know if you aren't." He taps his nose once and Henry nods dejectedly. Gaze drifting to Emma, he has to catch his breath when he finds her emerald stare already on him. He's already anxious about the whole situation, but he can't afford to waste any more time — he might stop in on the Cassidy's after his shift, or tomorrow depending on how late it goes.
"Just…" he starts, but he can't find the right words. "Don't take your eyes off him for a second. He's a wanderer." With that, he pushes away from the kerb and out into moving traffic. He checks his watch. Ten minutes.
He tries not to look back.
-/-
"I had the situation under control — that's why I didn't pick up."
The flippant dismissal is standard Neal fare.
"He's your son, Neal," Killian insists. "There are only so many times he will let you let him down before he gives up on you altogether."
"Alright, parent of the year." He lifts his hands in a placating gesture while he sets his jaw. "Remind me how many kids you have?"
Killian's ears burn, but he refuses to let the comment put him on the spot.
"You only get so many years with Henry forgiving you so easily. Don't waste them."
At that moment, the door to his study is pushed open and the boy in question tumbles in. Neal's expression immediately lights up and he opens his arms to lift Henry high into the air — the six-year-old squeals with delight as Neal presses wet kisses against his cheek. Henry wraps his arms tight around his father's neck.
"Daddy, did you really get married?"
"Uh huh," Neal nods with a wide smile, stepping past Killian and carrying Henry out into the hall. "But I still love you the best."
Henry's smile could have powered at least three blocks.
"And you know she's just… she's just like a friend, yeah? You don't have to call her Mommy. You can just call her Emma."
Killian has a lot of other choice names for her, but they aren't any he can say in front of Henry.
"Did you have a ring bearer?"
"Oh, you know what?" Neal makes a show of looking immensely regretful. "If we had, it would've been you. But we kept it really low-key," this he punctuates with a tickle to the boy's stomach. "We didn't even have a cake."
Henry is aghast. "No cake!"
"No cake," Neal repeats gravely. "Crap, isn't it?"
That is enough for Killian. Most of the time he can work his way past it, but it's hard to watch Henry with his father sometimes — they care about each other, that much is obvious. They just have very different ideas about what the father-son relationship should entail, and standing by and watching as Henry slowly readjusts his expectations to only a few shared meals a week, his dad being out of town regularly and some fancy presents on his return is painful.
Are you lonely? he had asked Henry once. The boy had simply giggled and urged Killian to join in with his play.
"You've got to start being responsible, Neal," he mutters darkly. Although his friend's attention is on his son he knows the other man has heard him. "The teachers notice when you pull stunts like this. Keep on and you'll lose custody."
-/-
"Uh, hey," comes Emma's hesitant greeting when they cross paths in the hall.
She's dressed in a long, light sweater that scarcely reaches her mid-thigh. Although his mouth goes dry at the sight of her bare legs, it's hardly the sort of clothing that should be worn with a small child in the house — it's probably not deliberate, she's clearly unused to being around children, but he's already irritated and he can barely stop himself from lashing out.
"So — tell me. Was it a quickie at City Hall or an accident in Vegas?"
Her posture immediately changes. Straightening and folding her arms, she flips from uncertain to stony and defensive in seconds.
"I don't think that's any of your damn business."
Killian grits his teeth, letting the door slam shut behind him.
-/-
Getting married had seemed like such a good idea.
A big "fuck you" to the system, a farce. A mockery of the institution that so many people poured so much of their lives into. She'd been seeing Neal casually for only a few weeks when he dropped the suggestion that they tie the knot, and she'd laughed for nearly a full fifteen minutes. It was only once she'd realised he was serious that she'd demanded an explanation for his reasoning. Lord knew she was aware she meant about the same to him as he did to her, which was as a worthy manner with which to pass the time but little more than that.
Then he'd told her about his son. About how, apparently, the courts were urging him to introduce another parental figure into his life, how they'd voiced concern about the amount of time he spent away from home and away from the boy. Having Emma around would probably assuage their worries.
He'd been so entirely sincere when he'd said it, the reasoning was so unselfish, and the memories of the first eighteen years of her life growing up neglected and passed around parents who didn't want her were still fresh enough that she had agreed. If she could play a part in making sure some kid got to stay with a dad who clearly loved him, then fine. She hadn't been planning on marrying anyone else, anyhow, and she liked Neal well enough. True love and happy endings don't exist, so marrying someone she liked well enough seemed like as good an idea as any. She's not taking his name and he'd already assured her if it didn't work out it'd be easy enough to obtain a divorce.
(Although there was a part of her that would always hope it could develop into something more. A real family. The goddamn princess inside her she'd been unable to shatter no matter how many times the world took a hammer to her.)
So there it was. Fuck you, matrimony. And Neal's apartment is so much nicer than her old one.
And Henry is a sweet kid. His babysitter's a bit of a downer, but mercifully he's only around some of the time. Apparently it's been a lot less than usual given she can now be in the house while Neal is at work — god bless her night shifts.
What she didn't realise was that in some bizarre, ironic twist, spending time with Neal himself would become more difficult once they were bound in holy union. He works long days and goes on frequent business trips out of state that he insists she can't join him on because of expenses, so for the first week of their sham of a nuptial she's been twiddling her thumbs or accompanying him to the office with Henry so she might steal some time with him between meetings. It's not exactly a perfect arrangement, but it is what it is. Neal's charisma tends to buoy her when she's in low spirits and make the moments he is around as enjoyable as she expects a marriage to him to be.
Henry takes to it like it's normal, ferrying between the apartment and his father's office on the weekend. Perhaps it is.
Emma watches him sat on the floor a few feet in front of her, some books with large lettering and a handful of crayons scattered across the surface of the coffee table, his little legs folded haphazardly beneath him as he hunches forward to draw. From her desk, Neal's PA keeps frowning in their direction, probably not impressed with the greeting area for his clients being turned into an artist's studio for the afternoon. Tough. Emma hadn't really known what to do, it was a Saturday and Henry had been desperate to spend some time with his father who was being dragged into the office — his suggestion that they join him so he could come out and play between meetings had been well received. Unfortunately, his meetings are pretty much back-to-back with very little play time available.
Henry seems pretty content, though. Emma reckons either he's forgotten that they were here to see Neal through the blur of colour splashed across paper or he wasn't really expecting his father to join them at all.
Emma, though. Emma is bored.
She cranes her neck to try and get a good look at what he's drawing but Henry's hunched form preserves his secrecy. The boy has scarcely had five conversations with her since she picked him up from school last week, and Emma can't tell who is more to blame for it — understandably, Henry is shy and would much rather play by himself in his room than with a virtual stranger, and she has absolutely no idea how to engage a kid.
How do you talk to them without sounding condescending? Is it okay to sound condescending? Do kids know when they're being condescended to? Not to mention it's been about fifteen years since she so much as picked up a toy.
Still, if she and Neal decide to stay married, she's going to be a permanent fixture in his life. They'll have to talk sometime.
Biting the bullet, Emma slides off the sofa so she can settle herself beside him. He doesn't immediately react, continuing to drag his crayon back and forth on the paper.
Emma makes a show of leaning closer. "So, uh, what're you drawing, kid?"
He doesn't look up, but she detects the hint of a flourish in the way he lifts his crayon. "A castle."
"A castle, wow," she says sagely, "very uh, cool." Was that too condescending? "Is it your castle?"
Henry gives her a look that suggests two spring onions have sprouted from her ears.
"It's Snow White and Prince Charming's." He points at one of the turrets as if it should have been immediately obvious.
"Oh, I see. My bad." Beside the castle Henry was just finishing the edge of a cape for a stick figure with a wide smile and a crown coloured a startling yellow. Emma points at it. "Is that Snow White?"
Henry crinkles his nose and shakes his head. "That's the Evil Queen." He frowns at the paper now as if Emma's failure to recognise his drawings instantly is a reflection on his ability as an artist — Emma feels bizarrely compelled to reassure him.
"She looks kinda — I mean, she looks too nice to be the Evil Queen." It's the wide, friendly smile drawn in crooked black crayon that does it.
"She's not actually that evil," Henry informs her matter-of-factly. "Just bad things have happened to her. She's good really."
Emma reckons that 'she's good really' isn't a particularly fitting character description for someone who's supposed to be the villain, but she supposes this is one of those situations she'd be better surrendering to his superior knowledge. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd read a fairy tale.
"Ah," she says, "so you kinda like the anti-hero thing then, right?" Henry seems to mull over this before deciding that yes, he does, nodding just once before returning to his work.
Sensing this is something of a dismissal, Emma lets out heavy sigh.
"Yeah. Me too."
True love and happy endings don't exist. She'd take battling an Evil Queen at odds with herself over a fancy life in a castle any day.
She shuffles backwards, resuming her spot on the sofa as Henry continues to scratch his crayon across the table. After checking the time she realises it's been four hours and they've seen Neal a grand total of once — her gaze strays to his office door and she ends up accidentally locking eyes with his PA. Tamara, she thinks her name is, and she's startled by the dirtiness of the look the other woman is giving her. Perhaps also surprised at being caught out, Tamara hastens back to some paperwork on her desk.
Henry has to be the best-behaved six-year-old on the planet, sitting quietly and not being a nuisance to anybody. He's just drawing. Talk about an overreaction.
It's while Emma's thoughts are trailing off as she watches Neal's office door that she feels the weight of something being dropped in her lap. Instantly looking down, she finds a book having been placed there by tiny hands and glances up to see Henry watching her expectantly.
"Will you read it to me?"
The book is heavy and huge, and Emma realises this must be the reason Henry wears a rucksack almost as big as he is. Its cover is worn and frayed around the edges, the title Once Upon A Time emblazoned across it in faded gold lettering — it's clearly a well-loved tome, and she doesn't miss the way Henry's fingers linger gently at its spine.
For all intents and purposes, it feels like an invitation from the boy. An entryway into his world. For some reason a positive response won't come, the words sticking in the back of her throat as she feels suddenly flattered by the request.
For Christ's sake, Emma. He just wants you to read to him.
"Daddy's always too busy," Henry continues speaking and she realises she hasn't said a word since he asked, "will you read it?" He taps his right hand on the cover for effect.
"Uh," she says stupidly, "sure. Yeah."
Without further preamble, Henry jumps onto the sofa beside her and lets his head drop to rest on her shoulder. Emma feels something warm blossom through her chest at the gesture.
"Which story?"
"Snow White," Henry informs her, reaching to turn the pages to the correct one already, "duh."
Emma laughs, eyes flickering to his abandoned drawing on the table.
"Right, Snow White. Duh."
-/-
"A shared custody arrangement?"
Killian has to sit down he's so shocked by the suggestion.
"Are you — are you serious?"
Neal's sitting room had been the backdrop for many serious discussions about Henry over his short life, from how Neal could wrest custody from his rather unstable mother (a battle they had won) to decisions about which schools to send him to and even simpler things, like where to take him on one of Neal's all-too-rare days off.
(There were only ever two options, Franklin Park or the library. Those were the places that made Henry the happiest.)
But in all those six years, never in a hundred years, had Killian thought Neal would suggest sharing custody of Henry between the pair of them. Henry was Neal's son, that had always been the case, Killian was just a helping hand. A helping hand he'd soon had to start receiving payment for because of the amount of time he was giving up to aid in taking care of him, a helping hand that had quickly come to contribute to over half of his total income, a helping hand that had brought the endless joy and light of Henry Cassidy into his life.
"I'm deadly serious," Neal says from where he's sitting at the other end of the sofa, watching his friend carefully. He sighs heavily. "C'mon Killian, don't act like it isn't basically what we already have. I'm man enough to admit that he spends just as much time with you as he does with me. I couldn't have done any of this without you."
That Killian is certain of, but the monumentality of this step is overwhelming.
"But I'm not even a parent."
Neal shrugs. "You love Henry, man. Just as much as I do. This would be just — putting a label on it. Sticking your signature in a few places, making sure everyone knows just as well as I do how much of a say you get over him. And if I'm honest," he runs a hand through his hair, and Killian doesn't miss the way his face falls ever so slightly, "if I'm honest making things a little more stable and official can only be good for him."
"I couldn't agree more, I just," he flounders for some sort of response, "I'm flattered you think so highly of me."
"It wouldn't just be for you," Neal says, even around his smile. "It pretty much kills me that most of the time Henry spends with me I'm not really there. Whether I'm away for a week or so or I'm taking him to work with me — it isn't fair. And I was thinking," he continues, leaning forward, "if you had him for say, ten days, and I just work mad overtime then I can probably free myself up a little bit more for when I have him, right?"
Killian has his doubts; Neal's work has always been notoriously unforgiving, but it wasn't just that either. Neal loves whatever obscure marketing position he'd found himself in and he loves the big fat pay check it came with even more — Killian is well aware that, occasionally, his priorities where his job and his family are concerned find themselves a little askew. But if Neal is optimistic, maybe he can be too.
The pain is palpable in his tone when Neal speaks again. "I don't want all his time with me to be associated with me working, Killian."
It might be the most honest acknowledgement of how his schedule affects Henry he's ever given. To Killian, it sounds like a victory. A step in the right direction.
"Alright, say — say I agree to this, and we miraculously manage to clear a voluntary custody agreement with court, how would this work?"
Neal leans forward from his position in the armchair. "We can work out most of the details later, but I think of it like this. Instead of coming in for a few hours most days, staying overnight here whenever I'm not around or — or whatever our arrangement's been for the past few years, we make it stable. Henry goes to you for ten days. You feed him, take him to school, you're his guardian. Then he comes to me for ten days, but you're not about at all. I've got Emma now who can watch him when I'm at the office, she works nights and her shifts are really flexible if for some reason I can't make it home. Then that week you can probably be a little more efficient with your time, pick up some more hours at the Rabbit Hole, I dunno. Whatever you want. In ten days' time you pick him up again."
Killian rubs a hand across his brow, mulling over the suggestion.
"How does that sound?" Neal prompts.
Looking after Henry full time, being legally recognised as his guardian. Not having to keep a constant eye on his cell in case it rings and he has to rush around to make sure the boy is supervised or being picked up from school on time.
Meaning something to Henry, to the boy who had practically lifted him up from his horror and his pain single-handedly by just being his wonderful, kind, generous self; meaning something to Henry on paper. It's not the sort of decision that takes too long to reach an answer for.
Killian lets out a long breath. After a few moments, his expression breaks into a wide smile.
"It sounds bloody brilliant."
-/-
It isn't.
Bloody brilliant, that is.
It's hard work. Henry radiates energy at a rate Killian can scarcely keep up with, and his first week as a full-time parent involves tantrums, tears and a lot of sulking on behalf of the six-year-old. It had only taken a month or so to clear it through the court and Henry had been excited beyond belief at the idea of living with 'Killun' for a week; his enthusiasm had quickly waned once the reality of the arrangement hit him on day two and he demanded Killian take him to the office to see his father instead of to school.
Henry was homesick, but that was okay. Kilian was well-versed in dealing with a Henry-tantrum, and he'd endure a whole storm of them for the way he drifts off to sleep on the sofa in front of cartoons or how he'll smile at the simplest of joys and it lights up his entire apartment.
He loves Henry with a fierceness that is almost frightening to him.
It's what makes it so tough when he has to drop him off at Neal's at the end of day ten, well aware he won't see him for another ten days. It's the longest he'll go without seeing him since he was two-years-old.
Emma is the one who answers the door, as stunning as she had been the day they met even in just sweats and a t-shirt, but she barely has time to inform him Neal isn't home yet before Henry has grabbed Emma's arm and dragged her into the sitting room so he might show her one of the souvenirs he'd acquired during his final day with Killian.
They'd visited Franklin Park — it was a bit of a treat, really. After a week fraught with its share of highs and lows, he'd wanted Henry to remember the past few days positively, as it'd hopefully make him a little less resistant to Killian when the time came to switch around again.
(It was basically bribery. Henry's face as he animatedly demonstrates his new crocodile figurine opening its jaws to Emma makes it more than worth it.)
"Tell Emma what else you did today Henry," he suggests, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards as he watches Emma's expression attempting to match Henry's enthusiasm for the crocodile.
"We… went to the zoo!" Henry declares.
Killian laughs indulgently. "She knows that, bug. You haven't stopped gabbing on about it for hours."
Henry looks offended at the suggestion. "Not hours," he insists with a whine.
"Hours and hours and hours," Killian continues, waving his hand around. Truthfully it's only been long enough for Emma to make him a cup of tea but with Henry's mouth moving at a mile a minute the entire time he makes it easy to tease him about it.
Henry makes a show of looking cross. "No."
"But go on, tell Emma. We went to the zoo and then we went to…" he prompts.
"Oh!" Henry smacks his forehead as if he's annoyed he could have forgotten it, and Emma throws her head back with laughter at the action. It's a nice sound, soft and warm. It makes Killian's cheeks hurt from how widely his grin stretches.
"Then we went to the science museum and it was so cool and they had these planes and they were like this big and Killun said I couldn't reach the wings even if I was on his shoulders but then I could and then he kept making funny faces at the pilots and there was all this stuff about space and there are over two thousand satellites around the Earth and — oh!" Henry suddenly stops, pausing for breath. "I said I'd show Killun my rocket! Wait!"
The demand is met with Henry charging over to Killian to briefly place his hand on his thigh as if the action was the only thing that would stop Killian sneaking away while he was out the room. "Wait," he says again.
"I'm waiting," Killian insists with a laugh. Satisfied, Henry sprints towards his bedroom, leaving the pair of them alone.
Emma speaks first. "Busy day, huh?"
"The busiest," Killian says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Damn kid naps when we're en route like a nuclear recharge. I'm not afforded the same luxury as I'm the one who has to navigate Boston traffic." Not to mention he always cycles extra carefully when Henry is belted into the bike seat, which could sometimes do as much as double his journey time. How the lad manages to fall asleep so quickly in the middle of such a noisy area is completely beyond his comprehension.
"The zoo and the science museum, though?" Emma arches an eyebrow, leaning back into her chair and folding one leg over the other. "You know you're setting the bar pretty high, right?"
Killian grins. "What's co-parenting without a little competition for the child's affection, anyhow?"
This remark is blessed by a smile and it's like a diamond of the first water.
Although they'd had a somewhat shaky start, he and Emma are more than capable of acting civil to each other and over the past month and a bit he's gotten to know her a little better than his snap judgements at the school that first afternoon had afforded. She's funny and she's smart and he can see why Neal likes her, but by far his favourite thing about her is her smiles. She drops them with a rarity that makes him want to actively pursue them and the way her dimples lift her cheeks into rounded apples, lightly coloured with a warm flush.
Emma Swan looks beautiful when she smiles.
(And when she doesn't.)
That said, he's quite grateful this arrangement will probably limit their interactions to just drop off and pick up days — it saves him from letting his thoughts run wild and thinking things about the stunningly gorgeous wife of one of his oldest friends he has absolutely no right in thinking. The back of his neck still floods with colour when he remembers the day he saw her in just the jumper, all adorable rumple and dark allure with her long, bare legs on show.
He has a bit of a crush, he can admit that. It'll go away. After Milah they usually didn't last long. He'll just have to wait this one out, that's all.
-/-
"Imagine that," Neal says, lips dropping to press gently against the base of her throat. "Alone at last."
Emma had been promised a day with no distractions, no work commitments and no demands on their attention aside from each other, as husband and wife, and some much needed time alone. With her working late nights and Neal even longer days, snatching moments in between their schedules has been near impossible — she can't even remember the last time they had sex. So when Neal had assured her he would be taking the day off work so they could just spend some time together she'd been eager to agree. That was what she'd been promised.
It isn't what she got, though.
"We're not really alone, Neal," she points out, turning her attention back to the carrots she is chopping on the kitchen counter in front of her, "your kid is home."
Hopper's Elementary had closed that morning due to a burst water main, and the message had been circulated to every family that the children not brought in unless it is entirely unavoidable, such as inability to find a sitter. Killian, now halfway through his week off, is apparently unreachable.
So Henry, thrilled to be granted a Thursday off school, is sat in the lounge doing some colouring.
His father is in the kitchen attempting to lure his wife into something a little dirtier.
"He isn't listening," Neal points out, arms snaking around her waist, "Henry's got homework to do."
Emma finds herself leaning away from his touch. "Shouldn't somebody be watching him?"
"He's fine, Emma," Neal assures, releasing her so he can spin her around. "Now will you please let me at least try and give you the day I promised you?"
His hand trails down her back to rest on her ass and she gasps at the touch, immediately arching into him as her arms link around his neck. Neal chuckles, a deep sound she can feel reverberating in his chest and he swoops down to capture her lips with his. For a few moments Emma lets herself get swept up in the sensation of their mouths slanting together — kissing Neal is familiar, it's something they've done for hours upon hours in her apartment in the weeks leading up to their 'wedding', but she feels the desire pooling in her gut is likely far more to do with the reminder his kisses bring. She associates them with that eventual satisfaction, a sex-addled conclusion, and after a considerably long dry spell all she can think about is getting off to the feeling of somebody inside her. Her body is already psyching herself up for it.
But then she thinks about Henry, sat innocently not twenty feet away, colouring silently. She thinks of his patiently sketched castles and turrets and the Evil Queen who is good really and her mood shatters entirely.
Emma breaks away, pulling back from Neal. Immediately he leans forward to follow into her space but she bends back further, placing her hands firmly on his chest.
Neal's eyebrows knit together. "What's wrong?"
Emma shrugs helplessly. "It's just — it's Henry. It feels — weird."
"C'mon Ems," he turns his eyes skyward, arms tightening temptingly around her. "I haven't had the pleasure of my wife's company in weeks. The kid's six. We could tell him we were just making tacos in bed and he'd believe it."
Emma does feel a smile tug at the corner of her mouth at that, and Neal takes it as an invitation. He stretches back in to kiss her but at the last second she turns her head, so his lips only brush the shell of her cheek.
"It doesn't feel right."
It doesn't.
Irritably, Neal drops his arms. "Fine, fine. I get it." He does, she can see it in the curve of his brow — Neal is the parent here, he understands just how weird it is. She can just sense his libido is a little stronger than hers, possessing the power to overlook this little setback. Hers isn't. His frustration is palpable in his jerky movements as he pulls away from her completely, stalking over to the refrigerator to examine its contents.
Over his shoulder, he throws, "Just see if I take a day off for you again soon, hm? I can't afford to."
It feels oddly like a threat or a jibe, and it makes Emma bristle. Neal doesn't look back in her direction. Feeling slightly bereft, Emma departs the kitchen to head to the sitting room instead.
There Henry is, contentedly filling pages upon pages of crooked stick figures with matchbox swords and neon crowns. He looks up at her as she walks in, something expectant in his chestnut brown eyes.
For a moment, Emma is totally at a loss.
In the end she asks, "you hungry, kid?"
Henry just beams.
-/-
Later, while she and Neal sit on opposite ends of the couch, Henry stands in front of them with an old exercise book and a full day's work resting open in his hands.
"… and they all lived happily ever after."
Immediately, Emma lets out a loud holler and claps her hands together wildly. That's the most important thing, right? Encouragement? It's how she tackles most of her interactions with Henry — she thinks about what it would have been like to have somebody cheer her on, even if it was somebody who wasn't her real family. She considers the difference it might have made, and that's the kind of impact she wants to have on Henry Cassidy. A positive one.
And even if it weren't about that, part of her is in awe of this kid's imagination. With nothing but time on his hands he had set about constructing his own fairy-tale, a creative tale about the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, Henry's favourite characters.
He'd also named that character Emma.
Her heart wanted to melt in her chest.
"That was awesome, Henry!"
Henry receives her praise with a brimming joy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he hugs the book close to his chest, but it isn't long before his attention turns to his father. Emma does the same, her grin pulling at her expression as she waits for Neal's echo of her sentiments. When she looks at him, though, she doesn't see the immediate encouragement she expected. Instead his expression is neutral as he looks between the pair of them.
Okay, so it was a story written by a six-year-old. It wasn't winning any Pulitzers, but what was he doing? Couldn't he see this kid was desperate for his approval, hanging on his every word?
Neal ran a hand through his hair, his expression neutral. "And what am I, invisible?"
Henry's smile falters, and Emma is astounded. Neal smiles, but it isn't warm. He throws a side-along look at Emma.
"You know you don't get a bonus for making him fall in love with you."
Emma's jaw drops. Her gaze drops, and her cheeks begin to burn.
Neal turns his hazel eyes back to his son. "Why don't you go play in your room for a bit, Hen. So Emma and I can talk."
Henry looks uncertainly between the two of them, his tight grip on the exercise book faltering as it drops to his side. Emma can't even meet his eyes, there's something like shame lingering near her and she can't tell what it's for. On Henry's behalf, that Neal had been so dismissive of his work, or that he had made her praise seem so — so disingenuous.
Eventually he scampers away, discarding the book at the door to his bedroom.
Emma is almost furious.
"I haven't got an ulterior motive, Neal," her tone is filled with steel. "I'm just supporting your kid."
"Then why have you got to undermine me while you do it?"
"Under — undermine you? What the fuck, Neal?"
He looks irritated but his jaw locks and he refuses to add any extra comments to his argument. It's as if he knows he's being petty, but it's more than that — is he jealous?
Emma stands, disgusted. "You're going to go in there and tell Henry that was the best damn story you've ever heard, got it?"
"Don't tell me how to raise my kid."
"Then fucking raise him."
-/-
Even later, Henry is playing with the crocodile Killian bought for him, making croaking noises along the edge of his cabinet as it peruses for its next victim when Neal walks in.
At first he doesn't say anything, merely nestles himself on the ground with the exercise book clutched tightly in his hand. Henry, who had paused in his play as his father entered, resumes just as soon.
"Raaarrr," he says, biting the neck of one of his soldiers.
Neal's vision swims, and his breath has been completely stolen from him. Sometimes he forgets Henry is a miracle. His miracle. His little man.
"I'm sorry," he says, quietly, and Henry watches him from the corner of his eye. "I don't know when I became this uh," he takes a steadying breath and fights to keep his tone even, "this petty."
Henry's crocodile continues to crawl along the cabinet.
"I just wanted to make life easier for us, y'know? Do you understand?"
This time Henry's eyes flicker to his, but he still doesn't respond. Perhaps he has no idea how to, maybe he has no idea what the hell Neal is going on about. The kid is six. Sometimes he can't tell if today is the day Henry has woken up and realised he's the biggest asshole there is.
So instead his eyes drop to his knees, knuckles tightening around the exercise book as something wet begins a slow crawl down his cheek.
"I thought your story was really cool, Henry."
For a few seconds the words float heavily in the air between them, before Henry discards his crocodile to step over to him. In moments, he's crawled into Neal's lap and has wrapped his little arms around his necks, kissing the tear away from his skin with a tenderness that makes him want to sob harder.
"Thank you, daddy," he says, and his smile is warm and understanding and more than he deserves.
You only get so many years with him forgiving you so easily. Don't waste them.
His arms tighten around the boy, determined — he won't.
-/-
While there are multitudes of benefits to this new arrangement, such as Killian being able to pick up far more day shifts at the Rabbit Hole and allowing himself to insert a little regularity into his routine, there are just as many foreseeable downsides. Killian can' always take a whole week off work to care full time for Henry — on these nights he usually leaves him with his good friend Robin and his son Roland. Henry particularly enjoys wowing the younger boy with the advances in wisdom his extra two years on the planet have afforded him, such as which primary colours are mixed to make orange or green and which fairy-tale character each person in his life resembles.
(Apparently Killian is Captain Hook. It's probably just the British thing, but he'll take it.)
But some nights, like tonight, Robin is on shift too. This usually happens when a couple people have called in sick (it almost always includes Will ruddy Scarlet, about as reliable as a career politician) and it's all hands on deck as Jefferson calls in every employee he has at his disposal. These are the nights Killian curses the fact that he has so few friends, as with not enough time to acquire a sitter he has little choice but to bring Henry to work with him.
Henry loves these nights.
"One raspberry lime rickey for my favourite little sailor, on the house." With a flourish, Killian places the drink on a napkin in front of the boy. It was basically just sugar, definitely without the vodka, but the vivid red of the liquid delighted Henry to no end. A few patrons sitting beside the boy laugh indulgently as he eagerly slides the glass a little closer, kneeling up in his seat so he can wrap his lips around the provided straw.
Turning his attention to Henry's new neighbours, Killian asks, "you don't mind if he sits here, do you?"
They each wave him off with amused glances at Henry's loud slurping. That's one of the things he loves about the patrons of the Rabbit Hole — for the most part, they're fairly polite. And often very patient when it comes to Henry's inquisitive questions about the conversations he snoops in on. He's a great listener, which is why Killian is careful to entice him with colourful drinks to lure him away from conversations he deems far too mature for a six-year-old to be eavesdropping on. In a bar, it's bound to happen.
(He's had one too many occasions with Will filling Henry's head with questions he later repeats that make Killian blush to the roots of his hair. Somehow, he suspects that's Will's intention.)
Killian spots Jefferson, the landlord, waving him over from the side of the bar, and after asking Robin to keep an eye on Henry he sidles over.
"Look," his boss starts, never one to waste a word, "I love Henry, you know I do, but it's not really appropriate for him to be here."
"I know, I know," Killian holds up a placating hand with the good grace to look sheepish — he knows a bar is no place for a child. He just didn't have any other option. "I'm sorry. I couldn't find anyone to watch him."
Jefferson, a single parent himself, visibly softens, although Killian can tell he's trying to keep a sternness to his posture.
"And those fancy drinks are coming out of your own pocket and not mine, I take it?"
"Aye, absolutely," Killian assures him.
Jefferson throws one more glance in Henry's direction, chattering animatedly to a young couple sitting beside him. Finally, he turns back to Killian. "Maybe just let me know next time, then I can arrange for Grace's minder to babysit upstairs instead of at her place. I'm sure she'd be happy to take care of Henry too."
It takes considerable effort for Killian not to lean forward and kiss him. Instead he claps his boss on the shoulder, who flinches at the unexpected contact. Killian just can't help expressing his gratitude.
"Thanks, Jeff. That would be amazing."
Having somewhere a little more suitable was ideal, even if Henry wouldn't find it nearly as fun. Killian has a suspicion that sitting at the bar makes him feel more like a grown up, especially when the other adults engage him.
After returning to his spot behind the bar and reaching for a cloth to wipe it down, one of the women in the young couple Henry had been speaking to turns to him. She and her partner are regulars, and he's pretty certain her name is Dorothy.
"Your son is adorable," she gushes.
Killian feels his heart sink a little, smile faltering. "Oh, he's not…"
Her expression immediately morphs into one of apology. "Sorry, I didn't mean to —"
"No, no," Killian waves her off, trying to smooth the crinkle in his brow. "Not to worry, lass. Our arrangement is a little peculiar."
His eyes, filled with mirth at the forced jest, search for Henry's but Killian finds his haze has dropped to the napkin in front of him, his tiny hands slowly shredding it into even tinier pieces. He has no idea if Henry witnessed the exchange, and not for the first time he longs to ask him what he is thinking. The lad has a way of shutting down and not letting anybody puzzle him out, hiding behind his storybook or a toy and retreating into himself.
Killian wonders if he ever thinks about things being different. About the life he himself has no right thinking about, about one where he doesn't have to tell people he isn't Henry's father.
About a life where Henry has a father who makes him a priority.
Wanting nothing more than to lift the dark cloud from surrounding the boy's head, Killian taps the counter in front of him twice.
Henry immediately looks up. "Watch this." Killian grins.
He reaches for one of the cherries from the bowl behind the bar, tosses it into the air and catches it in his mouth.
Henry lets out an awed noise, clapping his hands in delight and immediately demands a go. Killian laughs and drops a few cherries onto the bar, watching the boys not-quite-developed coordination levels fail miserably at catching a single one of them.
They try a few more, even tossing them to each other to the amusement of the surrounding patrons, cheering when any of them make their mark, before a few customers demanding service draw Killian away again.
Out of the corner of his eye he can still see Henry with his mouth wide open as he tries to catch another cherry.
Henry loves these nights.
And maybe Killian does a little, too.