She hears their laughter even before she's reached the landing outside the door of the loft. The sound is raucous, almost bawdy, and she wonders idly if she's somehow fallen through yet another portal and come up in a realm where her parent's loft sounds like The Rabbit Hole.
She hasn't, of course, but it's still more than a little weird to push open the door (unlocked) to find her parents, Robin of Loxley and two dwarfs being instructed in the finer points of a drinking game by a black-clad pirate whose cheekbones are tinged with the flush of victory.
The game taking place in the kitchen seems to involve a cup, a pair of dice, and apparently every single bottle of booze from David's liquor cabinet. There are also jugs of what she suspects is some form of mulled wine and several shot glasses lined up in a neat row. None of this is surprising (it's Killian Jones showing them the ropes, after all) but the sight of Snow White, wife and mother and rightful ruler of the Enchanted Forest, punching the air with one hand and making an unmistakable 'in your face' gesture at Leroy and Happy, her face pink with alcohol and triumph, is something else.
Emma grins, remembering many shared drinks with her friend Mary Margaret when she'd first arrived in Storybrooke. Things have changed a lot since then, not least of all the fact that her friend (now her mother) confided only last week that she felt as though she'd been pregnant forever. Baby Neal (God, that is going taking some getting used to) had decided from Day Two that he preferred formula, and it seems that Mary Margaret has finally decided to let her hair down.
"Well, what do we have here?" Emma asks of the room at large, and several heads turn in her direction. She only has eyes for one person, though, and apparently the feeling is mutual, because Killian's face lights up at the sight of her.
"Swan!" Leaping gracefully from his perch on the kitchen counter (now she knows she's fallen through a portal, because her mother would never allow such a thing), he makes his way over to her. His blue eyes are gleaming, his grin wolfish, and he's looking at her as though he wants to eat her alive. Again, the feeling is quite mutual, and as much as she loves to see them all enjoying themselves, why the hell can't they do it when she doesn't have some serious alone time owed to her? "We've been waiting for you, love."
He presses his lips to her cheek, a chaste brush of his mouth that still manages to make her belly clench, and she threads her arm through his, tugging him closer, hoping to God her face isn't as red as it feels. Not sure when he decided they'd reached the point of kissing in front of her parents, but it looks like they've been doing some serious bonding while she was dropping Henry at Regina's place. Nothing like a drinking game to break the ice, she thinks with amusement. "Really?" She glances over Killian's shoulder at the kitchen counter, where several pairs of overly-bright eyes look back at her. "Looks more like you've started without me, actually."
"Sorry, that would be my fault!" Snow shrugs, her grin faintly sheepish. "The Captain was telling us about the games of chance he used to play, so I asked him to show us."
Emma looks at the gleaming row of bottles (a third of them are now empty) and wonders how long it's going to take her to catch up to their level of merriment. After the beyond awkward exchange she's just had with Regina while dropping off Henry (the icy winds outside don't even come close to the coolness of the reception she'd gotten) she's more than ready for a drink. "And how long ago was that?"
Beside her, Killian chuckles. "Over an hour ago, I'm afraid." The solid heat of him presses against her side, chasing away the lingering chill of the night air. It was the coldest autumn in Storybrooke on record, according to her father. "I wanted to wait for you, but your mother is quite the persuasive woman." He dips his head, his whispered words grazing her ear. "Just like her daughter."
"What a shame you'll have to wait until we're alone in your room at Granny's before I can show you just how persuasive I can be," she whispers back, grinning at the way his eyes widen, pink tongue darting between white teeth as her unspoken challenge hits home. "So," she goes on a much louder voice, clapping her hands together as she turns to face the waiting crowd in the kitchen. "Are we playing this game or what?"
"Be careful what you wish for, Swan," murmurs the pirate at her shoulder in a voice meant for her and her alone, much like the sudden smoothing of his warm palm over the curve of her ass. "I've been going easy on your parents, but I may not extend the same courtesy to their daughter." The party in the kitchen appears to have restarted without them, the sound of cheerful voices and laughter covering a multitude of sins, including the way he's wrapping his tongue around the most ordinary of words and making her feel as though he's serenading her with lyrical prose. "You just might find yourself bested."
Emma's clothes suddenly feel as though they've shrunk a size or two. Between the hand on her ass, the heat in his eyes and the way his mouth caresses the word 'bested', she's not sure how she's still upright. They've only managed to snatch enough privacy to make love three times since the night everything changed between them, and her plans for this evening definitely hadn't involved watching him from across a crowded room while her parents flirt over loaded dice. Still, she's an adaptable woman, and there's a lot to be said for anticipation. Tugging off her gloves, she fixes him with an innocent smile that's made many a lesser men quake in their boots. "We'll see who bests who, Jones."
Killian Jones is no lesser man. His answering smile is slow and smug and she wants to bite it right off his mouth. "I'm sure we will."
Two years ago, if someone had informed him that he'd be well on his way to being blind scuttled drunk in the company of royalty, having been invited into their home even after they suspected he was bedding their daughter, he would have told them they were barmy. And yet, he thinks as he watches Emma Swan laughing as her parents bicker amiably over whether the calibre of the flick of the wrist determines a dice's fate, here he is.
She's joined in him sitting atop the counter, her shoulder against his, one shapely thigh close enough to make his palm itch with temptation. After a particularly rowdy round (they're on an even keel but her parents have started losing in a very serious fashion) she reaches out and taps her mother on the shoulder. "I'm guessing that my silencing charm is still working on the nursery, otherwise we'd have a wide awake baby on our hands."
Mary Margaret puts down her empty shot glass, then touches her fingertips to the corners of her mouth, as if trying to wipe away the taste of their hastily prepared mulled wine. "Working like a charm," she says, then starts to laugh and hiccup in equal measure. "I'm sorry, that was terrible."
Her husband leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head. "You've earned the right to a few bad puns." He looks up at his daughter. "What your mother is trying to say is that your little brother is sleeping peacefully, thanks to your magic."
Emma beams at them (Killian's heart stutters at how utterly happy she looks), then turns to look at Robin, who is very carefully not watching the happily married couple. "Your turn, I think?"
Robin picks up the cup holding the dice. He'd arrived with the dwarfs (at Mary Margaret's behest) and while conversation in the loft had been stilted at first, the drink had soon soothed over any cracks in the conversation. Killian truly feels for the man - his current situation is both a nightmare and a dream come true – and he understands why he has sought out a few hours in the company of people who will not press him to discuss the fact that his wife has suddenly returned from the dead. "I do hope I'm spared another bellyful of that grog," Robin says as he twirls the dice cup with a flourish, darting a sly glance at Killian. "Not all of us have a pirate's constitution, you know."
"You're missing out, mate," Killian tells him, then smirks as the dice cast their vote. "And it's another drink for you, I'm afraid."
Beside him, Emma laughs softly, leaning closer to murmur in his ear. "I think you're enjoying this a little too much."
He swallows hard, because her perfume has just filled his nose, and while it's happened many times before, now he knows that she always dabs the spicy scent in the hollow of her breasts, because he's tasted it there on his tongue and his lips. The scent now makes him think of their first night together, when she'd come to him after everyone had gone to their homes, slipping into his arms in the darkness of his room at Granny's, letting him take her to his bed, allowing him to pleasure her until she shook and sobbed beneath him, her mouth and hands bringing him to the point of the most exquisite madness he's ever known.
"Perhaps, but I can think of several things I'd enjoy much more," he shoots back in a whisper, using the cover of the dwarfs loudly egging on Robin's mulled wine consumption to seize the chance to bring a blush to her cheek. "Most of them start with you in my bed, Swan."
Emma coughs loudly, and he looks up to see her father's blue gaze fixed squarely on him, his usual regal authority struggling under the burden of far too much mulled wine. "Did I miss another bad joke?"
"Not at all, mate." He grins at the prince. "Just telling your daughter that I'm prepared to wipe the floor with her if she insists on taking me on one-on-one." David's eyes widen (as do everyone else's, come to think of it). Sitting beside him, Emma is literally vibrating, although whether it's with suppressed laughter or fury, he's not quite sure. He waits just long enough, just until he senses she's about to pinch him somewhere very hard, then adds, "In the game, I mean."
Emma sighs loudly, surely for her father's benefit more than anything else. "Your impressive vocabulary is doing to be ruined if you keep spending hours playing video games with Henry."
"You mean he won't sound like such a smartass all the time," mutters Leroy, but he's loudly shushed by his fellow dwarf. Killian merely smiles. He and the man so aptly known as Grumpy had come to an understanding of sorts over the last few weeks, but it's not without its ups and downs. Perhaps it would be best if he let Leroy win the next round, he thinks, then he feels the brush of Emma's fingertips down the length of his spine, and nothing else seems to matter.
He still manages to ensure Leroy wins the next round. No sense wasting good intent, after all.
The rest of the evening passes in a warm blur of laughter and cheerful accusations of cheating and skulduggery, and he's never been more painfully aware of another person in his entire life. The sound of Emma's laughter lifts his heart, the light of happiness in her eyes has his breath snagging in his throat, the brush of her hand over his shoulder or knee has his pulse staggering at every new touch. His heart has known hers for some time, but now his body knows hers, knows its secrets as well as it knows his own, and that first flush of knowledge has done nothing to slake his hunger for her. If anything, it has only sharpened it to a razor thin edge of need that he has every intentional of attempting to blunt as soon as possible, and as often as possible.
From the other side of the kitchen, she smiles at him, her green eyes glittering with a promise that rings out like a clanging bell only he can hear, a veritable siren's song on dry land. If they ever get away from this bloody loft tonight, he thinks, he's going to make sure she understands the consequences of looking at a man like that, especially a man who's been on his best 'in front of the parents' behaviour for hours.
To his relief, the party breaks up just before midnight. The Prince had opted out of the game long before, turning instead to making both hot tea and several trips to the nursery to check on his newborn son. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, is happily stretched out on the couch, smiling at her guests as they started to collect their belongings. She'd lost the most rounds of the game out of all of them, and it seems that a year spent drinking nothing stonger than coffee has made her (as her daughter succinctly put it) a cheap date.
Robin makes his farewells quietly, thanking the Prince and his wife for their hospitality before leaving in the company of Leroy and Happy. He reserves a firm clap of a hand on a shoulder for Killian, shaking his head ruefully as he smiles. "Next time, I get to pick the libations."
Killian grins. "Asking for a rematch already?" He nods to where Emma is sitting on the arm of the couch, chatting quietly with her mother. "You'll have to speak to the current champion about the terms, I'm afraid."
"I think I'll have to wait until I recover from my first defeat at her hands."
"Take it from me, mate." Killian returns the cheery clap on the shoulder. "It'll take a lot longer than you expect."
Robin laughs at that, then the three of them are gone, clattering down the internal stairs with no thought for the lateness of the hour.
Mary Margaret is asleep on the couch, her head resting in her husband's lap. Emma is leaning down to kiss both their cheeks in turn, a familial farewell that makes his throat tighten, knowing how close they'd come to losing it all, finally knowing how much he wants to be a part of it all. There are many things he thought he'd never have again, and most of them are right here in this room.
He shakes the Prince's hand in farewell, then gestures towards Mary Margaret. "You've got yourself quite a woman there, Dave."
David smiles down at his sleeping wife, then raises one eyebrow. "I sure do." His tone is mild, but it still manages to hold a polite warning that doesn't surprise Killian in the least. "I could say the same to you, but then again, I'm a little biased."
Emma flushes a delicate shade of pink, and immediately mumbles something about having to get back to Granny's before they're locked out. It's all nonsense, of course, as Granny wouldn't dare impose a curfew on the Sheriff, but David nods and smiles as though it's the gospel truth, and finally they're collecting their coats in preparation for the short walk in the frigid night air.
Of course, first he must deal with the fact that Emma had indeed won their little game of chance and, judging by the triumph shining in her eyes, she's not going to let him forget it any time soon. "What was that about wiping the floor with me?" she asked him sotto voice as she pulls on her woollen cap, and he can't resist the urge to assist her, tucking stray golden curls beneath the tight knitted fabric. Once that's done and he no longer has an excuse to toy with her lovely tumble of hair, he reaches for his coat where it hangs on the rack. He shrugs into it, then waves her through the front door of the loft, waiting until he's pulled it shut behind him before he reaches for her. He slides his arm around her waist, tugging her closer, close enough to nudge his nose against the smooth skin of her cheek and the curve of her jaw.
"The night is still young, Swan." He feels the tiny shudder that goes through her at his words, and his pulse spikes at the thought of making it happen again and again as she's spread out beneath him, making her shiver with his warm breath and the scrape of his beard on her soft, secret skin. "I haven't lost anything of real value yet."
Turning her head, she lets her lips catch his, a feather light kiss that has his mouth instantly burning for more. "I was hoping you'd see it that way," she breathes the words against his mouth, each syllable a teasing caress that inflames his blood, then she leans back in his embrace. Grinning, she fishes something out of her coat pocket and waves it in front of his nose with a flourish. He stares at it for a moment, his whole body tightening with anticipation, because she's holding the wooden dice cup, and judging by the mischievous gleam in her eyes, the rematch she's clearly planning is of a much more private variety. "Are you a betting man, Captain?"
Easing her back against the wooden door, he presses his hips into hers, letting her feel exactly what kind of man he is. She pushes back gently, a delicate challenge in the arch of her spine, and he has to bite back an audible groan before he can speak. "When it comes to beautiful and clever women, love, I learned long ago that all bets are off." She's gazing at him, her lips softly parted on a smile, her eyes shimmering with an emotion he can scarcely believe is for him, all for him. "That said," he whispers, kissing her between the words, gently and slowly, the thrum of desire catching and flaring between them with each new shared heartbeat, "I'm always prepared to take a chance on you, Swan."