25 Days Christmas Romance Challenge|| Day 4: Character A is desperate to find a particular item (book/toy/etc.) as a present for someone, but it's been sold out everywhere. Character B helps.

A prequel of sorts to Tea, Vaccines and Other Necessities, which I wrote an year ago around Christmas again. :)


"Bloody America!"

Emma groans. Perhaps a bit too loudly, considering the look David throws her way.

She doesn't care. Emma has been listening to Killian Jones moan and groan and mutter under his breath about "Bloody America" and "centre of commercialism, HA" and "disorganized Yanks" for the last week.

Disorganized? Really, Jones? Really? He's one to talk.

She is at the end of her tether and yet… If she asks, she shows interest and showing even the barest interest in Killian Jones is what Emma Swan has been solely focused on avoiding since he joined the Creative Department 8 months ago.

But, if those 8 months have thought her anything, it is that she cannot watch Killian Jones struggle. It gnaws at her, bothers her in ways few things do, does something irritating as all hell to her heart strings and generally doesn't leave her be until he is back to his naturally lost and (not 'impending doom' lost) state.

And he sure is good at struggling.

In less than a month Emma was convinced that Jones was a brilliant designer, a royal pain in the ass and the kind of friend that can save your life.

But in less than a week she was convinced that Jones was the most disorganized person she had ever come across and the creature with worst self-preservation skills on the planet.

No, seriously, it was like observing a whole new kind of species. There are only so many times you can watch someone almost staple their hand by accident. How he still has both of those is a mystery to her.

So, knowing her wrist (that particular spot that seems to be a 'Killian Jones is in trouble button) was going itch all day and probably well into the night again, if she didn't try to help him, Emma decides to just bite the bullet. Nonchalantly, of course.

"What has the country that took you in and gave you a job done wrong this time, Jones?"

"I'll have you know, lass, I can go back and get the same job on the other side of the planet."

Which will probably make her life a lot easier and calmer and quieter and, generally, will suck. But Emma chooses to banter instead of dwell on that thought.

"And yet here you are. So what have we "Yanks" done to offend your Irish sensibilities again?"

"For a country that prides itself on having completely dehumanized and commercialized the Christmas holiday, you sure do make it difficult for a man to do a spot of Christmas shopping," he sighs, and after a few more angry hits at his keyboard, pushes his chair away from his desk and leans his head back with a groan of defeat.

Emma doesn't stare at the muscles in his neck and the veins and the Adam apple and all that. Jones is a big fan of the whole God-why-me, eyes-to-the-ceiling, hands-behind-your-head pose. She knows better than to look.

"First of all, we don't exactly pride ourselves on it," begins Emma with a little frown. "It just… happened."

He snorts in amusement and she still manages not to look.

"Second, what the hell are you looking for?"

"A toy train, Miss Swan. A mere classical, well-functioning, realistic-looking toy train."

She can't help it. She looks. And, yeah, he as sinful a picture as she imagined he would. As unaware of it as possible as well. For someone who has no problem flaunting his sexuality around, the man sure is clueless about some of the things he does that force Emma to take a few extra seconds to swallow.

"Why are you looking for a toy train?"

"Well," he has the decency to whirl his chair so he can incline his head to the side and look at her without actually having to regain use of his neck muscles just yet. "My brother and his wife are so kind as to drag themselves all the way across the ocean to spend the holidays with me. The least I can do is buy them and my nephew decent gifts now, isn't it?"

There are some strange things about Killian Jones that make Emma Swan scrunch up her nose in confusion. Like how he puts almost as much milk in his tea as he does water and won't drink any at all, if someone (read: Emma) doesn't replace the carton in the office kitchen every week. And how he can go without water for 8 hours straight, if someone (read: Emma) doesn't throw a water bottle at his head. And how he'd create the most perfect sketches and then completely forget to send them to Regina unless someone (read: you know it, Emma) exclaims (loudly and repeatedly) how they had only an hour to go before they were done for the day, only half an hour now, better start tidying up, twenty minutes and boy, she hopes she sent in all her projects!

And then there are other things. Like how he urges her to play her music even though she's forgotten her headphones because surely no one would mind being treated to her excellent taste in punk rock bands. And how he brings donuts for the whole damn office and comes to her first so she can snag one of the two bear claws for herself... Fine, sometimes she takes both, sue her.

And then there are the other things. Like how whenever he talks about his brother and his family, Emma doesn't get the annoying, jealous little itch she gets whenever other people talk about relatives and homes and things she knows little about and can relate to even less.

But, you know, Emma is pretty good at keeping all of those things to herself.

"Are you being a lazy ass and trying to find one online?" she asks instead of picturing him playing with toy trains and a little boy with eyes as blue as his.

Killian finally straightens. If just to glare at her.

"It's called availing myself of the modern comforts that are supposed to compensate us for the pollution of our planet, Swan."

Emma is half-convince he said that simply to see how far she can roll her eyes.

"Sure, Mr 'I can't work with Excel, Swan! Rescue me from these task sheets! I'm a creative soul, Swan! This is killing everything pure inside me, Swan!'"

He looks at her long and hard and then sighs in something reminiscent of resignation.

"At least you didn't do the accent."

"You just gotta go out there and do the leg work, like any other tortured soul caught in the pre-holidays madness," she says with a shrug before turning back to her computer.

"Must I?"

Emma doesn't look at the pout and the lashes and the baby blues. She knows better. But she hears it all in his tortured sigh just the same.

/

It is 5pm on a Sunday when she receives his text.

You sent me into the lion's den, Swan!

She is confused for a few seconds before she gets the second one.

And for nought!

Attached is a selfie of one Killian Jones with a perfectly satisfactory toy train in the background, which has apparently failed to meet his standards, if his face is anything to go by.

She doesn't reply. But 20 minutes later she opens her laptop and starts a toy train research that takes her well into dinner.

/

Step 1 is putting him on the mailing list for the online shop in which (at 11pm, God help her) Emma finally found a train set so intricate and decadent even Killian Jones will have to be impressed.

She has little hope of that being enough. Jones hardly checks his mail, let alone clean out his Spam and Junk folders or open adverts.

Step 2 are an extraordinary amount of pointed hints to maybe look online again, to maybe try a few stores known for their handmade toys, to maybe this or maybe that.

She should've known better. Killian continues to be foiled by technology at every turn.

Step 3 is literally leaving a post-it with the shops name on his desk.

That desk is a whole other disaster and her post-it doesn't even have the chance to get the trademark Killian Jones teacup ring on it before it is lost under an avalanche of sketches, notebooks and other equally doomed post-its.

Emma is well-aware that the logical next step is to just tell him where he can find the perfect stupid train, say she stumbled upon it by accident and be done with it.

Emma, for all her virtues (not that many of them, if you ask her), is a woman of little to no logic when it comes to Killian Jones.

/

The 22nd is their last day at work before the holidays and Killian looks dejected at best when David asks how his shopping went. He shrugs, mutters something about board games being all the rage this season and looks up to give her a smile and a 'Happy Holidays, Swan' before he walks out."

Her desk, unlike other people's, is ordered at best, downright Spartan, if you ask Killian. Which makes it all too easy for her to spot the little white box with a red ribbon and the freaking post-it.

'Hopefully some of my shopping endeavors were successful'

It's a simply beautiful glass swan with a golden beak and it makes her feel just a little bit better about her stalking ways.

/

"Yes?" Killian growls impatiently as he wrenches his door open and tries not to glower at the clearly lost delivery man in front of him.

He has 3 hours before he has to pick his brother from his airport and his apartment… is not exactly guests-ready.

"A delivery from 'The Enchanted Forest of Toys'."

"I'm sorry, I believe you have the wrong address, mate," he answers with a frown, while mentally putting more and more objects on his grocery list.

"Killian Jones."

"Yes."

"Then this is for you, sir."

The guy reaches over to drag a huge brown package from where it was obviously leaning against the wall.

"I did not order this," Killian reaches to help despite his confusion.

"Well, maybe your Secret Santa did," the guy mutters without too much cheer but not unkindly so Killian tries to suppress his eyeroll. "It's paid for and you just have to sign here."

Brow furrowed in bewilderment, Killian signs the slip of paper and watches the guy run down the stairs before he shakes his head and closes the door. He rips into the paper with only a few seconds of hesitation.

"Bloody Hell!"

Killian Jones is not a non-believer. Christmas miracles are a real thing as far as he is concerned. And he is pretty sure his has green eyes and a penchant or leather.

And will deny it into next Christmas.