David's just entering the police station as she's on her way out.
"Hey, Emma! Dropping off your latest?"
She can't help but smile when she sees him. David Nolan was the first person in New York - well, other than Killian - to go out of his way to befriend her. The fact that he chased off the creepy sergeant who kept hitting on her was just an added bonus.
"Yeah. He didn't put up too much of a fuss, either. I wish they could all be that easy."
David glances down at her little black dress. "Fake Tinder date?"
She nods. "Thank God for the Internet, seriously. It makes my job so much easier."
"It's amazing how stupid some of these guys can be. We just had a guy brought in on Possession with Intent because his probation officer saw that he'd put pictures of himself holding bricks of pot on his Instagram."
Emma laughs. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Dead serious. Hey, my shift's over in an hour and Mary Margaret and I are going out for some drinks with friends. You should come! She hasn't seen you in a while."
That, right there, is why she likes David so much. For as much as she'd expected New York to be aloof and indifferent, Killian and David had quickly changed her opinion on the matter. "Thanks, but I already have plans. Rain check?" Okay, so her plans for the night involved sweatpants and Netflix; but these shoes were killing her.
"Are you sure? It'll be fun - it's our last chance to ourselves before the in-laws come in for Thanksgiving."
"I'm good, but thanks."
"So what are you doing for Turkey Day?"
Shit. "Um. No plans."
David raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
She shrugs, trying to play it off. "Yeah, I was never really a big Thanksgiving person."
His frowns, his face growing earnest and oh dear God is he going to - "Emma. You know there's a place at our table. You should have dinner with us. Mary Margaret would love to have you. You could bring Killian, too."
The offer - such a kind, genuine gesture - shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Emma plasters a smile on her face and hopes it looks natural. "That's really nice, Dave, but I'll be fine."
He doesn't seem convinced, but bless him, he lets it slide. "Okay. But you're coming to our Christmas party and I won't hear any arguments."
She feels her smile relax into something a little more genuine. "I wouldn't miss it."
It isn't until she leaves the station that she has to fight off the overwhelming urge to cry.
"You all right, love?"
She can feel Killian's words rumble through his chest, snuggled up to him as closely as she is on his couch. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You've hardly said anything all night. And you're not paying a bit of attention to this movie, even though I know you've got a crush on Tom Hardy."
"Do not," she mumbles into his shoulder.
He chuckles, his fingers sliding under the hem of her t-shirt to caress the skin at her back. "You're a terrible liar."
She doesn't answer, just breathes him in and burrows further into his side.
"I'll leave it alone if you want me to, Emma. I just - "
"I ran into David at the station today."
"Oh?" Killian doesn't seem phased by her abrupt change of topic. "How's he doing?"
"He's good. He wants us to come to his Christmas party."
He gives her hip a quick squeeze. "Lovely. I've got the perfect ugly sweater to wear."
She smiles. "How ugly?"
"It's got snowmen, reindeer, and little sleigh bells sewed into it."
She feels Killian pull her in tighter when she laughs into his chest, an unspoken there's the Emma I know pressed into her skin. "I can't wait to see it."
He hums to himself, presses a kiss to the top of her head. "I look quite dashing in it, I'll have you know."
"Mmm. I'm sure you do." She'll never figure how he does it, how he makes everything so easy. It's probably why she keeps talking.
"He asked me about my Thanksgiving plans."
Killian's fingers still against her back. "Ah. I've been meaning to ask you myself."
He's a terrible liar, too. She knows he'd never ask, would only wait for her to bring it up first.
"Can't say I've ever celebrated myself. Less than a week away, no?"
"Yeah. When I told him I wasn't doing anything, he invited me to have dinner with him and Mary Margaret."
"…and?"
"I told him no. I've had too many Thanksgivings as the odd one out in a big family."
Of all the things she loves about Killian (it took her far too long to tell him, the face-splitting grin he had when she finally said the words still one of her favorite memories), one of his best qualities is that he knows when not to speak. His hand leaves her side and finds her own, his fingers lacing with hers, a gentle encouragement for her to continue.
"I just… everyone has this big family dinner and traditions and I… don't. Even when I wasn't in a group home, holidays with foster families always felt awkward, even when they tried to include me."
"And they didn't always try." It's not a question. She gives his hand a quick squeeze in response.
They sit silently for a few minutes, wrapped up in each other, and Emma thinks that's the end of it. She even makes an effort to watch the stupid movie, even though the plot is lost on her by this point.
It startles her when he pulls away from her, looking down and forcing her to meet his eyes, which are practically dancing. "What do you say we start our own tradition, Swan?"
The turkey's a little dry.
Emma's not sure if it's because she didn't brine the damn thing (the internet wasn't all the helpful when she tried to figure out the best way to prepare it), or if her little oven's unreliability is the culprit, or if she's just not that good of a cook.
The entire morning is a frenzy between their two apartments, and they eventually just give up and leave their doors open to save time because their tiny kitchenettes can barely handle the amount of cooking they're trying to do at once.
Making real stuffing would take more bowls and time than either of them have, so they settle for StoveTop. But the mashed potatoes are delicious, the pumpkin pie smells heavenly, and the gravy turns out well and helps to hide the dryness of the turkey. Just a bit.
Her studio is fairly bursting with good food. She doesn't have enough counter space to hold it all, and her little bistro table with the two stools she got from Goodwill isn't quite big enough to hold everything, but her coffee table works well enough when they need a place for the pie and the basket of crescent rolls.
"So, Swan," he asks, halfway through their meal and through a mouthful of green bean casserole, "how's this for a holiday?"
She shoves a bite of stuffing in her mouth and chews on the answer, looking around her tiny apartment. It's more lived-in, now, with actual furniture and a few pieces of cheap art on the walls. It actually looks like it belongs to someone.
She swallows down her food and smiles across the table at this beautiful, infuriating, thoughtful man who gave her this, a real, normal holiday with fights over how to make the gravy and shuffling around the too-small kitchen that couldn't handle this volume of food and a glass of riesling once everything was finally done. The man who gave her something that was hers, something she could keep.
She tries her best to keep her voice steady. "It's perfect."
They're halfway through washing the dishes when he reaches out and stills her hands in the sink, forcing her to drop the plate she's holding and spinning her until her back is pressed against the counter, crowding her space and sliding his lips over hers.
He's absurdly warm pressed against her like this, and her soapy hands find their way up his back without a thought, not when he's nipping lightly at her bottom lip before plunging inside in a slow, hot slide against her mouth.
He doesn't pull back when he finally breaks away, instead choosing to drift across her jaw and neck with his mouth, sweet and warm and so, so soft.
"Happy Thanksgiving, love," he whispers against her ear.
She kind of can't wait until Christmas.
