A/N: Slightly canon divergent in that certain events may not have occurred around Christmas time, they are as close to the canon timeline as possible.
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1.
Her breath clouds her vision as she walks briskly towards the Emergency Room entrance, the heels of her boots clicking against the pavement in a hurried rhythm. The automatic doors open with a low whoosh, the subsequent gust of wind blowing most of the hair from Emma's face while her gloved hands smooth the rest into place.
It's calmer than she expected, so accustomed to the frantic energy and bustling masses that usually crowd the ER in larger cities, especially this late at night. But it seems the earlier incident was a rarity in this town. There are nurses making the rounds, a janitor mopping the white tiled floor with an especially fragrant lemon-scented cleaner, a few lingering family members (she assumes) milling about with coffee cups and dollar snacks in hand.
Emma strolls past the lobby without question, the staff preoccupied with hanging up holiday-themed decorations: string lights by the windows, garlands along the filing cabinets, a miniature Christmas Tree at one end of the main reception desk and a tiny transparent Menorah on the other.
As cynical as she usually is during this time of year, seeing the festive spirit come to life even in such a sterile and somber place does manage to make her smile. She waves at them as she keeps walking, leisurely unbuttoning her coat and loosening her scarf as she goes.
The closer she gets to his room, however, the more anxious she becomes. She doesn't even know if he's supposed to be taking visitors, what drugged up state he's likely in, or if he's even awake. She doesn't even know which version of him would be easier to deal with when she arrives.
She checks herself in the reflection of the vending machine at the end of the hall, fidgeting with her clothes and tucking strands behind her ears before she realizes what she's doing. Seriously? she thinks, abruptly stopping her actions then giving herself a scolding glare before turning the corner. She should not be caring about what she looks like. She shouldn't even be here to begin with, and if asked she'd simply say she was doing her duty as town sheriff and leave it at that. The explanation Emma gives herself is not far off, a repeated mantra of just covering all the bases before she heads out to New York with Henry and Gold for an unspecified amount of time.
The steady beating sound of the heart monitor coming from his room makes her feel marginally better, regulating her breathing to it's tempo. It grows louder as she approaches; it's faint, but strong, and a surprising sense of a relief washes over her with that tiny bit of information regarding his health.
Not bothering to knock, Emma steps through the threshold. Hook's blanketed feet come into view first, then his similarly covered legs and torso, until she finally lands on his face. He's elevated, neck turned away from her but not quite directed at the television either. He appears lost in thought, staring at the frosted glass panes that line the entire left wall. It's only until she takes another step, making sure the rubber of her shoes squeaks against the floor, that he shifts to face her.
"Swan," he says simply, voice hoarse from disuse but gentle, kind even. His speech is somewhat slurred, courtesy of the painkillers coursing through his veins. They maintain eye contact for a while, his once hooded gaze becoming more alert with visible effort, while she stands there, pushing her hands deeper into her pockets. Emma looks away finally, clearing her throat as she moves closer to his bed without much purpose except to be nearer to him. "Two visits in one day," he continues, bolder and more flirtatious as he gets his wits about him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Just—" she begins, still not entirely convinced of the answer herself. "Making sure there aren't any loose ends." She doesn't bother looking at him, tapping the tip of her foot on metal bed frame, opting instead to scan the room like it's designed any differently from all of the others.
"Ah." His brusque response does get her attention, though, and when she meets his eyes again, she sees the wheels already turning in his head. He's already reading her like the open book he once said she was, and knows he doesn't believe her.
Too bad, she resolves. That's all he's getting out of me.
"Well you needn't worry, love. My restraints—" he proceeds to make a show of his restricted movement caused by his shackled ankle, a necessary alternative after cuffing his wrist proved ineffective — "are still intact." His annunciation is sharp, more annoyed than enraged but clearly unhappy with his situation, which makes Emma smirk in return.
This she can do. This she can handle. This is why she came here: to forget; to avoid the worried looks and whispered strategies of her parents, their concerns well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful and overwhelming. She doesn't want to think about the stranger who came from out of town, or Cora's next move, or Gold's very serious threat to harm the man slouched beside her, dazed and vulnerable as ever.
She doesn't want to think about the ever-looming possibility of relocating to the Enchanted Forest, Snow's insane suggestion from earlier that night replaying in her mind. Emma had managed to dodge any more discussion on the topic, but with Henry having gone to bed it would only be a matter of time before the subject was broached again.
It's ridiculous. They couldn't really expect her to uproot her life and move across an entire realm, one she's seen firsthand is a shell of what it once may have been. That's not her life, living in castles and attending balls and riding around in flowing gowns. She's not a princess; she's never truly felt like one, and doubts she ever will. She doesn't belong in some fairytale world.
The mattress creaks and the bedsheets crinkle, a muffled moan escaping from Hook as he adjusts his position. Emma's brought back to the present, suddenly aware that she's been awkwardly inert and mute while he tries to remain conscious.
It hits her, then, that for all her protests about being far removed from the fictional world her family comes from, she's literally in a hospital room with the real Captain Hook.
She snickers at the thought, the random huff of laughter making her seem like a crazy person surely. Hook's brow raises in curiosity, a wordless invitation for her to enlighten him about what is so damn funny.
"Sorry," she says, trying to contain the last remnants of amusement. "I just, didn't expect I'd end up here."
"That makes two of us." He rolls his eyes but she can detect a hint of mirth in his expression, like he finds the prospect of being in her presence equally as bewildering but not completely unwelcome.
It's unusual, seeing him like this. He's softer, more relaxed, even if it is artificially induced. That luster he had about him atop the beanstalk is still absent, but he's also not brimming with that fury he determinedly holds onto. It's almost… pleasant, sharing in this silence with him, which started out uneasy but has now transformed into something more natural. Friendly, even. Maybe he needs the company as much as she needs the escape.
Emma takes note of an unfinished bowl of blue jello on his tray table; the way the lapel of his plush white robe falls down slightly off his shoulder; the prominent bruises on his cheek and nose that haven't healed much since the last time she saw him; how he holds the remote control loosely in his hand, his thumb resting on the large red power button at the top, like he's still deciding whether he wants to turn it off or leave it on despite being more than halfway done with the movie. She doesn't envy the person who took on the task of introducing the concept of television and film to a 300-year-old pirate.
The movie in question is one of her favorites, and she looks up just in time to catch George Bailey running after his wife, pleading with her to believe him before the police give chase and he's forced to flee.
(Emma briefly wonders what that would feel like, for someone you love to not remember who you are.)
"I'm, uh, not certain how to work this contraption," he says slowly, willing himself back to wakefulness. "I've no idea what I've been made to watch these past several hours. It ends, and then starts back up again from the beginning, I don't know how to make it stop—"
"It's a Wonderful Life," she interrupts, answering his previous inquiry. "It's called 'It's a Wonderful Life.' It's a—" she struggles to find the best way to explain this to him, her hands gesturing back and forth as she tries to find her words—"a story that people can watch whenever they want. It's not real, it's just people, actors pretending to…"
"Yes, Swan, I'm quite familiar with the concept of theater, thank you." Hook's tone is bored, and he's moderately offended she would give him that little credit. But she only smiles at his dramatics, and his humor returns to him as well. "Is it any good?"
"You've been watching this for several hours and you haven't decided if it's good or not?"
"Whatever concoctions your world gives to its ill, it's quite powerful. I'm surprised I remember my own name."
Emma hums in acquiescence, knowing that movie marathons are their own form of sleep aid. It dawns on her that there's a chance he won't even remember any of this: her visit, their talk, whatever shared moments they have afterward. The recognition is strangely freeing, giving her permission to act a little selfishly and indulge in a mostly consequence-free rest of the evening. Just this once.
She makes her way to the beige recliner at the opposite end of his bedside table, sitting down and curling her knees into her chest as she settles in. He doesn't comment on her evident decision to stay, instead releasing his grip on the remote as he makes a decision of his own to have her as his guest.
"Yeah, it's good."
It plays two more times before he fully succumbs to sleep, and as the sunrise peaks in through the hallway, Emma takes her leave, unsettled by her hesitance to go. It was nice while it lasted, but the real world awaits her and she's got a long day ahead.
.
.
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2.
They arrive back to her apartment, no words exchanged on the way down from her building's roof. He'd watched her every move for some further indication of what she's feeling, the details of her encounter with Walsh still fuzzy, and her words from before echoing in his head: "All that I wanted, that I thought I could have was not in the cards for the Savior."
How desperately he wants to prove to her she's wrong, even if he's not entirely sure if she is. It doesn't escape him that he's the reason she's suffering now; why her happy life with her son, however false it may have been, was ripped away in an instant. All because she was needed elsewhere. It isn't fair. She deserves the tranquility and fulfillment of the fake life to be a reality, someday, but he has no doubt that right now she's only fixated on what she's just had to give up.
The fact that Walsh proved to be a literal monster, though, does ease some of Hook's guilt. At the very least, he helped to save her from that.
Emma locks the door behind them, hanging her keys on the ring on the wall beside it, and he waits to take her lead as she fully enters the space. She takes her time removing her outerwear, seemingly in a haze of resignation and acceptance of what is being asked of her. He's glad he was able to persuade her, in the end, to go back to Storybrooke, but the burden that comes with it is one he wishes he could have spared her from.
"Henry shouldn't be back for a few hours. I told him to text—uh, send word when he's on his way." Hook nods his understanding. They have some time to figure out their next course of action and to process the newly realized threat looming over them, hopefully without additional interruption. He is also keenly aware of what she's politely omitting: that he cannot be there when Henry returns.
She walks over to the dining table, their glasses and the bottle of rum left open in his haste to come to Emma's aid (unneeded as it turned out, unsurprisingly, but the urge to be by her side in moments of danger is still strong despite living a year without it). She goes to take the nearly empty tumblers but pauses before leaving them where they are. "I have a feeling we're not done with these yet," she says tiredly. An understatement, he thinks.
They end up settling on her couch, the brown leather cushioning a much more comfortable resting spot than the hard surface of the wooden chairs. The couch is long, more than enough space for the both of them, but they find themselves in the center only a few inches apart. She refills their glasses, then sinks back into her seat, the material creasing and squeaking under her weight.
"You have a lovely home," he says, more to break the tension than a genuine observation.
Her home is nice. It's simple, neatly held together, everything in it's apparent rightful place. Despite all the earthy tones and warm colors, however, it feels… cold. Lived in, yes, but impersonal somehow. Even for having only known Emma and her son for such a short time, he can come to the conclusion that this isn't quite them.
"Yeah…" she drawls, possibly in tune with his own train of thought. "I have the previous owners to thank for that."
He grimaces at her dry, self-deprecating delivery. The last thing he wants to do is make her feel worse about, well, anything, and so far he's doing a piss-poor job of it. Emma must notice his reaction, for her expression turns from biting to apologetic.
"I'm not really one for decorating," she adds amicably, craning her neck to look around, an action he mimics. "It's mostly Henry who likes doing that sort of thing. Like that plant over there. Totally his idea. Most kids want a dog or a goldfish or a lizard, or something. He wanted a plant."
Hook laughs at that, finding the boy's quirks endearing almost as much as her rambling. A grin spreads across her face soon after, discussions about her son clearing some of the fog from her eyes.
"How… is he?"
She looks at him then, her head tilted at an angle and her brows pinched together. "Do you really wanna know?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't." She watches him for a beat, her face unreadable. He hopes she detects the sincerity in his words; that he really does have an interest in Henry's well-being. Whatever her assessment of him is, it's enough for her to let down her defenses and lean back against the sofa once again.
She tells him about Henry's schooling, her pride in his intelligence and ability to effortlessly make friends palpable. She talks about how much he's grown in just the past few months alone, and how he took their hasty (and fabricated) move from Boston to Manhattan without complaint. Hook gives her his full attention, even when she makes references he has trouble grasping. He's glad to hear about the boy's resilience. Perhaps he'll take the inevitable revelation about who he truly is in an equivalently positive way.
"And what about you?" she asks, catching him off guard. "What've you been doing here, besides stalking me."
It's a safe enough question. She's not probing about the entire length of his journey to find her (yet), but he can tell she wouldn't object if he divulged about more than the past couple of days. He'd rather not tell her any of it, frankly. Finding her with that flying ape—this "guy she loved"—was enough of a blow; he'd prefer to maintain what little he has left of his dignity if he can.
But talking about her son has alleviated the load she's been carrying since she drank that potion, if only temporarily. So, he lifts his glass to his lips, gulping down the remainder of its contents, wiping the excess with his thumb, and tells her. "Assessing my surroundings, mostly. That, and trying not to get struck by one of those speeding deathtraps. Again."
"So you went… sight-seeing."
"Aye, if that's what you call it. Or I attempted to, whenever the swarming masses would allow it." She scoffs in response, eager to tease him, he's sure, and he'd happily let her if it meant keeping that smile on her face.
"What, Captain Hook can't handle rush hour? You must've been to crazier places than this."
"That I have. But this city of yours, it takes some getting used to. It's loud, for one. Exceedingly so. And bright. Even the bloody trees are covered in light. There's one in particular—"
"I know the one you mean."
It's practically a whisper when she speaks, the warmth of the rum tinging her cheeks a delicate shade of pink. Her body is slanted towards his, the distance between them narrower than it was before, and she's looking at him in a way that makes his breath catch. She is a vision, one he'd tried to recapture every night spent away, longing to see again if even for a fleeting moment. He unwittingly matches her stare with one of his own, filled with longing and a need to remember her like this, to savor what he can in the event of his separation from her.
"They tend to start early with all that stuff," she says, steadier this time, breaking the spell as she rights herself. She takes hold of a grey pillow and tucks it against her side, her fingers playing with the matching patterned piping. "They don't even wait until after Thanksgiving most of the time."
His confusion must be obvious because her eyes suddenly widen as she mutters something under her breath like a self-reproach.
"Thanksgiving is a holiday, a day where families come together to eat a big meal and stay over and just spend time with each other."
Emma imparts the information as if she's reading an excerpt from a pamphlet, and less like she's speaking from personal experience. The celebration she's describing sounds lovely, and while he has no family left with which he could partake in such a thing, he can imagine it's appeal. The fact that Emma herself lacks a fondness for it makes his heart twinge. He knows what's been taken from her—twice, recalling the tearful goodbyes exchanged between her and her parents before Pan's curse enveloped them all—but, hopefully, in a few hours she'll be reunited with them, and she'll have a chance to take part in this annual gathering.
"Christmas is like that too," she carries on, the pillow now cradled in her lap. "It's a big deal, and it's in a few weeks, so the whole of New York gets decorated for it."
"And yet," he says carefully, chin pressing against his neck as he thinks of how to proceed, "your home is not."
She freezes, then shrugs her shoulders in a show of nonchalance. It's a brief thing, a reflex he would've missed if he hadn't been looking out for it. "We haven't gotten to it." Emma takes a sip of her drink, still with a feigned sense of indifference. "My Christmas tradition usually consists of Chinese food and sitting on the couch watching movies. And Henry hasn't even told me what he wants this year, so."
He accepts her answer, with no intention of prying further despite his desire to learn more about the whys of Emma Swan, maybe even suggest that the life she's missed out on—the life that she should've had—is waiting for her back in her true home.
A strange buzzing noise jolts him from his thoughts. Emma scrambles to her feet, jogging towards the kitchen to grab a small rectangular object, the likes of which he's seen virtually affixed to every person's ear he's come into contact with thus far.
"It's Henry. He'll be home in thirty minutes," she relays to him, tapping against the device in what he presumes is a reply to the lad. As confounding as her world may be, it does have its marvels. A dove travelled miles and weathered storms to deliver its message to him, and yet Emma is able to accomplish the same task in a matter of seconds.
"So," he rejoins, remembering to screw the cap on the bottle this time. "What's the plan?"
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3.
The dried leaves crunch beneath their feet, the chilly night air filling their lungs as they make their way uphill. There's been no snowfall in this part of the woods yet, fortunately, but the overcast sky signals its potential at any moment. It's certainly cold enough, Emma thinks, her layers of clothes, beanie and scarf providing just enough heat to keep her from shivering, but it's a near thing. And she doesn't even want to know how Killian's fairing beside her, ever adverse to bundling up aside from a high-collared thermal in place of his leather jacket.
She doesn't remember it ever being this frigid on her few visits to the Enchanted Forest, but then, they've never been stuck here in the middle of December.
"Swan," he calls from a few steps behind her. She ignores it at first, like she has every time he's tried to get her attention in the last ten minutes. Emma knows what he's going to say: that it's getting late and they should make camp for the night and continue their journey tomorrow. But the sun's only just begun to set. They have a good hour until they absolutely need to stop.
He quickens his pace to catch up with her, his hand grasping at her bicep in supplication for her to just listen. She slows down, turning to face him at last. "Killian, I know, OK, but we have to—"
"Get back, I'm aware, love. I want to return home as much as you do." Concern pours out from him, his expression strained and his gaze pleading. There's a mild bruising beneath his eyes, just as she assuredly has as well, but she knows his request is entirely for her benefit. "We'll get back in time, I promise. But there's nothing more we can do tonight."
He's right, as he usually is during these situations. The fact that a swashbuckling rogue is the frequent source of reason and pragmatism in their partnership speaks to the level of reckless compulsion always at the surface with her. He loves her for it, as she does him, and in the end it's what makes them such a great team. There's no one else she'd rather have alongside her. As apprehensive as she is about making it to Storybrooke in time to spend the holiday with Henry and her parents, she trusts him unconditionally. If he says they'll succeed, she believes it.
She takes a calming breath, dipping her head in concession. Killian pecks her on the cheek in appreciation, the action never failing in making her skin tingle and heart melt, her anxiety fading in the process.
They keep trekking, searching for a suitable resting spot instead of trying to make it to their destination of a small village where it's rumored an old medicine man may have the means to travel between realms. She can't tell if they're running in circles, her sense of direction and ability to track a far cry from the expertise of her mother (or anyone really, storybook character or otherwise), but Killian traverses through the forest with confidence.
"Find anything?"
He sighs, his hook piercing through the bark of the tree in front of him to make an X-shaped mark. "Nothing fitting, no. Perhaps we should venture north."
"Aye aye, captain," Emma responds enticingly. She bites her lip as he approaches her, his tongue peaking out from the corner of his mouth and his thumb crooked around one of his belt loops.
"Come along then, you," he banters, interlocking their fingers and swaying their arms as they tread along the slender trail. One of this rings clicks with the diamond solitaire she now wears, the added pressure making her tighten her grip and lean her head against his shoulder. She's still unaccustomed to the sensation but she blissfully welcomes it as their new normal.
They halt their steps as the thicket becomes more open, giving way to a clearing they spy just up ahead. An odd feeling of déjà vu comes over her, his own stiffness next to her indicating he shares in it. So far nothing has seemed familiar to her—nor to him, she assumes, for he certainly would've mentioned it—but as they move closer to the expanse, memories of a previous visit to this precise location flood into her mind.
The last time she was here, it was with him. And Snow, and Mulan and Aurora. They were dragging him, bound and struggling, to the tree just beyond, where he had been tied up, interrogated and—
"Swan, is this where you held a knife to my throat and threatened to feed me to the ogres?"
"Yup, that's the one."
As they walk towards it, she notes its worn appearance. It lacks most of its leaves, the remaining foliage yellowed and shriveled. Even in the fading light she can make out the erosion of its husk and the damage to its roots. Its been through a lot since their last encounter, but then, so has she, and so has Killian.
For all it's endured, there is beauty to it as well. Its still sturdy and broad; the very reason she had chosen it years prior is the same reason she decides they've found their post.
"Looks like this is where we're staying," she says fondly, releasing her love's hand to inspect the area.
"It'll leave us vulnerable," he states matter-of-factly. He doesn't seem opposed to the idea, but he requires some convincing.
"Wouldn't we already be vulnerable with a fire going anyway?"
"Yes, but I'd like to minimize our chances of being spotted. I'll not have you in harm's way if I can help it."
"Or I could just do a cloaking spell," she offers, coming back around to where he's standing.
"Darling, you need to save your strength. We can find another—"
Before he can finish, she lifts her arms and shuts her eyes in concentration. Her palms outstretched, a burst of magic flares from her fingertips, and they are encased in a shimmering, translucent dome which soon turns invisible. "I'm cold and I'm tired. You were right, we both need the rest and I choose this tree. It's our tree," she breathes, caressing the stubble on his jaw. "And thankfully I've got you to protect me."
He chuckles at her repetition of his past claim, his eyes crinkling and his grin wide. "You mean me and the cloaking spell."
"Mostly the cloaking spell."
"Mmhmm," he grumbles, bending down so he can bump his nose with hers. Their foreheads touch, lingering for a bit before she bridges the gap and kisses him soundly.
Together they build a fire and set up for the evening. The soil is unyielding but they make due, their backs propped against the oak and their legs intertwined. The crackling of the burning timber mixed with the chirping crickets lull them into a tranquil repose.
Killian holds her close while she has him in an embrace of her own, her arms circling his waist and her ear upon his chest.
"This isn't how I pictured our first official Christmas together," she says, some wistfulness in her tone.
"This won't be how we spend it. We'll be back before you know it."
It's a similar feeling she has as before: a desperation to get back to her son, and a fear that she'll be stranded in a far off land. But this time, she's more hopeful, both from past experience and because of the man who's with her. She hadn't been alone before, but she felt it at times, only now there isn't a trace of that inkling. Killian is her constant, their goals always aligned, their connection unbreakable. Through every crazy development and every dastardly villain, they've gotten through it all. This time will be no different.
And if even this was how she would spend her Christmas this year, she'd be content to share it with him, no matter the circumstances.
"Look, Swan," he says suddenly, cheerfully. "It's that mistletoe you were telling me about." He holds up a pine sprig between them, one of several littering the ground, absent of any red berries.
"That is not mistletoe," she laughs.
"A technicality. Use your imagination, love."
"You know you don't need an excuse to kiss me, right? You kind of sealed the deal on that when you gave me this." She takes hold of the branch with her left hand, the light from the fire illuminating the stone of her engagement ring as she angles it into view.
The reminder of it makes him bashful, his now vacant hand coming up to scratch at his scalp. His childlike giggle triggers her own fit of laughter. They make a sickening sweet spectacle as they curl up closer, Emma on the verge of straddling him while his hook rests against her hip and his fingers card through her hair.
No, she wouldn't mind if this is how she spent her Christmas at all.
.
.
They acquire a magic bean (because of course their solution would come in the form of a magic bean) and are transported back to Storybrooke, just off the side of the road, on Christmas Eve morning.
"Told you, Swan," he boasts as he helps her get on her feet.
"I never doubted you for a second."
Unlike the Enchanted Forest, Storybrooke is engulfed in snow and ice. With a flick of her wrist, they're taken to the front steps of Granny's, where they're joyously greeted by their family and friends, who have all congregated there in celebration (because of course their victory party would be held at Granny's) until the diner's early closing forces everyone to disperse and venture to their respective homes.
Henry is assured a full afternoon spent sledding and fort building and snowball fighting for the following day, but tonight will be spent on their couch in front of the television, watching movies and eating everything in their kitchen containing sugar (Killian even vows not to chide them for it if only under pain of being called a 'grinch' for the rest of the season). It's tradition, after all.
After parsing through their accumulated DVD collection, Killian finally makes a selection. On the cover is a black and white portrait of a man and his wife, their children enthusiastically clinging to them, the title penned in an illustrative script. It's one of Emma's favorites.
"It's a Wonderful Life," he announces, his choice met with unanimous approval. "I hear it's good."
/