A/N: I was thinking about "our shared moment" and this just happened.
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Getting a drink is the first thing he does when he returns from the docks – aside from shrugging off his rain splashed coat and boots – opening the fridge and grabbing the first bottle of beer he sees. He takes the cap of with his teeth, spitting it into the bin with an acquired accuracy before padding over to where Emma sits on the couch.
She murmurs a hello, humming lightly in contentment when he kisses her cheeks but doesn't draw her eyes away from the strange moving picture box. When she does it's to steal his bottle off him, taking a sip before passing it back. He rolls his eyes, thinking that she should have just asked him and he would have gotten her one too, but when she takes it again he doesn't complain.
Maybe he likes sharing with her.
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"Killian." She whines because it's the middle of the night and she's freezing and it's only until she notices her shocking lack of duvet that she realises why. "You're hogging all the covers.
He grunts in response but doesn't relent, simply loops his arm around her waist and pulls her into the warmth of his body and under the duvet they're meant to be sharing.
She falls into an easy sleep.
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She's making coffee, as she does every morning, when his head pokes out of the bathroom door. "Can I borrow this, love?" He asks and she has to squint to see that what he's holding up is in fact her eyeliner for crying out loud.
She sighs, resisting the urge to roll her eyes to the ceiling, instead just waves a hand in an airy gesture. "Yeah." He smiles and ducks back into the bathroom.
"My life is so weird." She mutters to herself. The "How so" that comes as a response is from Henry as he moves his way through the kitchen on a typical teenage ran-sack for food.
"My pirate boyfriend just asked to borrow my eyeliner."
He snorts on a mouthful of Lucky Charms.
"Point taken." He says after swallowing the cereal, now raiding the fridge for milk to wash it down with.
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"What was your mother like?" She asks one rainy Sunday afternoon, tracing the outline of his jaw with her thumb as they lie in a mess of tangled limbs and pillows and blankets on the window seat.
"Warm." He says after a moment of quiet contemplation. "Beautiful. Too kind for her own good – insisted on seeing the best in everyone, including my father. I think that's why she put up with what she did."
"How old where you when she died?" She asks softly, stroking his foot gently with hers.
"Seven." He says, something sad and sorrowful swimming in his eyes – blue blue eyes – and she aches to soothe the lines of his forehead, to ease the pain. She settles instead for reaching down, entwining her hands with his and tucking her head into the crook of his neck whilst the rain continues to lash against the window.
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"Finished?" She asks with a finger under the page, ready to turn it. He doesn't reply, simply reaches out from his position behind her and uses her finger to turn the page. She settles further into his front, wrapping her legs even more around his, enjoying the feel of his head in the crook of her neck as they read the fifth Harry Potter book together.
"This Umbridge seems like a bit of a bitch." He mutters, voice low against her throat and she hums, thinking to herself that he has no idea. She finishes the page before he does – she reckons he's the slower reader – but doesn't complain, simply enjoys the moment until his finger comes to turn to the next chapter.
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She's already there when he arrives, listening to Henry whilst stuffing a mouthful of pancakes into her mouth. He slides into the booth next to her, giving her cheek a light peck, a gesture to which Henry rolls his eyes.
He doesn't bother ordering his own meal, simply picks up a spare fork and cuts away a part of the stack.
She looks at him with an expression that borders on indignant as he eats them but he simply smiles through his mouthful of buttermilk goodness.
She rolls her eyes but pushes the plate so it sits in between them, picking back up her own fork. She turns back to Henry and continues to eat her breakfast, not even bothering to feel annoyed when she inevitably has to order a second portion.
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He's elbow deep in suds – scrubbing away at the stubborn grease that sticks to the pot – when she comes in from dropping off Henry.
She presses a kiss to his neck as she passes him and he hums contentedly at the action, eyes following her as she pulls a spare dishtowel from the ring around the oven and moves to start drying the wet dishes.
"I would have done that, love." He says, nodding to where she pokes her dishtowel into a sud covered wineglass.
"I know." She says quietly. "I just thought we could share the task." She turns to him with a raised eyebrow that says you got a problem with that? And he simply smiles, pulling the pan out of the water and placing it on the rack, bumping her hip playfully with his.
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Emma slides out of bed, smiling at the grumbled complaints that come from the sleeping form on the bed. She reaches down, picking up the first item of clothing she sees – his shirt – pulling it over her head.
"That's my shirt." He says, now in a half sitting up position, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Yeah, well, now we share it." She says, not missing his smile as she ducks into the kitchen to start making breakfast.
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She's looking for something – although exactly what slips her mind – when she stumbles across the wooden box. She recognises it, thinks maybe that she's seen it in Gold's shop, but not so much that she can identify its purpose in her house.
She pulls it out from the cupboard, rocking back from her squatting position and tucking her knees under herself as she places the mildly heavy box on her lap. It has a strange clasp – definitely Gold's shop – which she undoes with nimble fingers to open the lid.
Emma isn't quite sure what she was expected, only that this is far from it. It's full of polaroids, the small rectangular photos that are printed from the camera she got Henry for his birthday. She picks one of them up, mouth twitching when she realises it's of her and Killian.
The funny thing about the picture – which she recognises as being taken from Christmas last year – is they're not even doing anything that note-worthy. He's sitting in an arm chair and she's perched on the arm, legs swung over into his lap and he's looking up at her with a soft smile on his lips.
She drops it back into the box and picks up another one, frowning when it's of the name nature, this time taken at Thanksgiving. She's backed against the counter and Killian is stood in front of her, hands resting on her hips with his legs planted either side of her and he has that stupid grin on.
She picks up another one, and it's the same, just her and her stupid pirate boyfriend doing nothing at all in particular. Them watching TV together, cooking dinner together, reading on the window seat. Them asleep on the couch, blanket thrown lazily over them. Quiet moments too engrossed in each other to register the click of Henry's camera and she wonders how the hell she didn't realise that he was doing it.
She continues to sift through the photos and is pausing on one of her pushing Killian's face with her foot – presumably in bemused annoyance at something he's said – when Henry walks through the door. He pauses when he sees what's sitting on her lap.
"Did you do this?" She asks immediately, holding up a handful of the snap-shots, and he nods slowly, dumping his bag on the floor.
She turns back to the pictures, rubbing the side of one with her thumb. "Why?" She asks quietly as he comes to sit down next to her.
He runs his hand through his hair, disturbing that already painfully messy mop of brown hair on his head. "I don't know…you guys just share these really cute little moments…and I wanted to record them." He looks up at her with a shy sort of smile on his face and for a second she truly and genuinely believes she's going to cry.
She settles instead for ruffling his hair and placing a kiss on the top of his head – one which he of course tries to duck away from – "You are by far the sweetest kid ever."
He grins, pushing against his knees and straightening up. "I know, right?"
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Emma can't help but return to the picture box quite often after that. She goes to it for moments of soft reassurance and comfort, or sometimes just sits on the window seat with a pillow held to her chest and the photos in her hands for no reason in particular.
She reckons that of all the things they share – beer, books, pancakes, freaking eyeliner – these little moments, the one's that Henry has so graciously and sneakily snapped, are her favourites. The subtle smiles and contacts of skin and locks of eyes that convey that quiet affection.
And if this whole crazy experience – broken curses and the enchanted forest and Neverland and more freaking curses – has taught her anything, it's that you only get one life and she is glad beyond belief – beyond anything she could ever hope to convey – that she gets to share hers with Killian Jones.
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A/N: Review?