Author's Note: A simple, but touching, exchange. Let me know what you think. Thanks! -Fara
Emma was glad for her fluffy socks as she tiptoed down the hallway, her ears picking up the murmured conversation behind the bathroom door, the mechanism just shy of closed.
While Killian was always up and moving around by the time the sun rose, Henry was another matter entirely, so she was surprised to hear his voice joining that of her pirate's.
What were her boys up to?
She'd reached the door, and leaning quietly, back pressed to the wall, she listened.
"And what do you call this?"
She smiled softly, biting her lower lip at Killian's quizzical tone. He'd adjusted so well that sometimes she forgot he was a three-hundred year old pirate, and needed a bit of help now and again. Henry must have been explaining something to him.
Not wanting to disturb them, she was about to leave when Henry's next words made her heart clench in her chest.
"That's a razor. It's like a blade you shave your face with."
"This is not a blade, lad."
She heard the familiar shuffling of Killian's leather jacket—he must have been on his way to check the Jolly Roger—and then the snap of something metallic flicking open.
"Wow, that's awesome!" Henry exclaimed. "You keep your razor on you?"
"This is not a razor, Henry, it's a straight-blade—and a man can never carry too many blades."
"Even in Storybrooke?"
"Especially in Storybrooke."
There was a moment of silence, and Emma stood waiting, her fingers pressed firmly against the small smile on her lips.
"Killian," Henry began, his words becoming rushed as he expelled them in one breath. "Could you teach me how to shave?"
There was only a second of silence, and then Killian responded, his voice coarse and low.
"Aye, lad."
Emma couldn't help the sudden weakness in her knees, or the tears that finally rolled over her eyelashes, slipping down the curve of her cheek. Needing the feel of something sturdy beneath her, she quietly eased herself to the floor and tucked her arms around her legs, chin pressed to her knees, listening.
She let her heart wander as she listened to the touching back and forth between Killian and her son, memories of giving birth to Henry lingering, the pain she felt when she looked away, giving him up because she never thought she would be able to give him this. The moment where she realized that Neal could finally be a part of Henry's life, only to have him pulled away too soon.
Henry's voice broke through her reverie.
"Don't we need a hot towel or something?"
"A hot towel, why on earth would we need a hot towel?"
"You know, to like, make it easier, or something…" her son mumbled.
"Nonsense, lad. You simply take the blade like so…"
Killian's voice trailed away, replaced by the nearly imperceptible swipe of metal against skin, and then the splashing of water as he rinsed the straight blade.
"…and there you are!"
"Well, that doesn't seem so hard. Can I try?"
The silence stretched as Emma closed her eyes and imagined Henry raising the ornate straight-blade to his smooth cheek, fingers trembling slightly as he rested the sharp edge on his skin. She had watched Killian trim his stubble with it more times than she could count, his movements practiced and fluid as he worked, and she wondered what thoughts were running through his mind as Henry stood in front of the sink, his fingers cradling the blade that had been Liam's. Her heart tightened painfully.
"Ouch, that hurts!"
Emma bit back the chuckle that was threatening to escape, not wanting her boys—men—to know she was eavesdropping.
"Is this why you never shave?"
Killian scoffed, and she knew he would be ducking his head to the right, his nimble fingers finding that place behind his ear that always seemed to itch.
"I've never had any complaints, lad."
"Gross," Henry muttered, and Emma had to bite her tongue for the second time.
"Pay attention to the blade, Henry."
There was another drawn out silence.
"Shit, Killian," Henry started, a slight undercurrent of worry in his voice. "I'm bleeding."
She heard the rustle of Killian's coat as he leaned close, imagining his hand tipping Henry's chin upward, surveying the damage.
"Buck up, lad. Any pirate worth his salt is never afraid to get a little bloody."
"Will it scar?"
"It's nothing but a scratch. You'll pull through."
Emma smiled as she recognized the sound of Killian mussing Henry's hair, something he seemed especially fond of doing.
"Killian, thanks for teaching me."
Henry's voice dropped in volume, as if the words he were saying were too significant to be anything other than closely held.
"I know you miss my dad too, but I just wanted to let you know that I think he'd be really proud of you, and I'm really happy you're here—with me and my mom, I mean. Maybe you can keep teaching me things, you know, when I need some help?"
"I'll teach you anything you'd like, Henry."
And then the pirate's voice broke a little.
"I'd be honored."
Emma managed to scramble to her feet and back away from the bathroom before they opened the door, both of them lingering at its entrance for a moment, unaware of her presence. Henry extended his hand to Killian, and then changing his mind, leaned into the startled pirate for a quick embrace.
As Henry walked down the hall toward the kitchen, still taking no notice of his mother, a hand reaching up to run over his smooth cheek, Killian turned towards her, his eyes bright with tears that he smiled weakly through.
She moved to him quickly, her fingers brushing away the few droplets that ran down his cheek, her forehead pressed against his as he held her. She could see the happiness in the lines of his face, but also the doubt, the regret that he had guided Henry through a rite of passage that should have been Baelfire's place.
She knew that in that moment his heart was full of Baelfire as a boy, lost and frightened, and of Neal as a man. She understood that Liam lingered at the edge of his thoughts, a long-gone figure that once held that exact blade to Killian's cheek, guiding him through the same ritual he had just shown Henry.
Letting her fingers drop to his chest, the tips of them tracing circles on the echoing thump of his heart, her head fell to his shoulder, mouth tucked neatly against his neck. She rocked gently with him then, her lips murmuring words that were ones of comfort, happiness, and a sense of rightness in the world—words so precious that she kept them close to his skin, where he could keep them safe forever.
