It's only once everything else has calmed down for a minute that Killian finally allows himself a week of despondency. But it's not at his own place that he ends his first night, it's at Emma's. The bottle of rum he brought with him rolls half-empty away from the recliner as he collapses onto it, pulling his favorite blanket around his shoulders as he settles in with a movie. He sends what he thinks is a mostly intelligible response to an e-mail from Emma before closing one eye to focus on the movie as much as possible.
He's just about asleep, curled up on the chair, when his phone buzzes with an incoming e-mail, and he loads up the picture of her with humor dancing in her eyes and exasperation playing at her lips. "Go to bed, drunky" is the only thing she wrote back, so he takes her advice and turns everything off before collapsing onto her bed. A year before, he had never slept in her bed. Now, he's sleeping in it alone for the first time.
He wakes up, still drunk, wrapped in Emma's comforter and almost painfully aroused. It's been since February since he touched her, since she touched him; that time just a hurried moment in the hotel room before they both had to be going where they were going. His shirt is sticking to him in a boozy sweat, his pants painfully confining, and his phone lights up with some notification or another just as the inspiration hits to take a peek at that picture of Emma again.
"Forgive me, Swan, for what I'm about to do," he says to the quiet, empty bedroom. He hastily strips out of his clothes, switching on the small lamp on the nightstand in order to better locate the lubricant stored in her side drawer. He's not quite sure what drives him to switch to the camera, to snap the first picture as his hand wraps around his erection. But soon there's a series of pictures, several making it clear exactly where he is. Her curtains are in the background of one, her distinct lampshade visible in another.
His phone gets abandoned as he optimizes his hands, closing both his palms around his cock as he links his fingers, letting his memory run wild with images and sensations he's stored from his time with Emma. He remembers that first time, the moisture in the air from the humidity and storms outside, the sweat tracking down both of their skin as they coupled, even as the air conditioner worked hard to cool them back down.
There are images of her in his mind as she sat on the couch, her bare breasts tantalizing under his chef's coat, her lip caught between her teeth as sin flashed in her eyes. There's the wine room, Emma perched on the table, her legs open and dangling off the edge. And that time she all but tackled him in his own personal kitchen, only pushing down his trousers enough for them to join, her riding him with her head thrown back and her camisole a sweaty mess. All of the memories run together, all of Emma giving and taking in the sprints and the marathons, in the passionate and the carefree, whether graceful or clumsy.
He thinks of every stolen kiss in dark hallways, every movie night that the movie became background noise as they explored every inch of each other, every stroke, every touch, every hungry mouth leaving marks on skin.
He imagines what she would do if she were here, if she would be partaking in the action or sitting back and watching him at work – something they'd done once or twice in order to rile the other one up more – and it's the thought of her perched at the bottom of the bed, kneeling over his shins, possibly allowing one hand to wander between her own legs that finally pushes him over the edge.
Grabbing tissues from the nightstand, he makes sure to clean up thoroughly when he's done, leaving no trace on the sheets but vowing to wash them the next time he's over. They won't smell exactly like her, but her detergent will be an adequate substitute for the time being. Nothing will measure up until she's home, regardless.
After a quick rinse in the shower, he feels much better, but still not sober enough to drive home. He settles back into his spot on the bed, leaving her side open as he carefully selects pictures from his phone to send along. In any of the ones of his face, he looks utterly licentious. He looks for details that he knows she prefers – the way he grabs, the way he pulls, a certain angle – and loads them into an email with a simple heading to remind her to read that e-mail when she's very alone, away from prying eyes. He also includes some succinct descriptions of how he wishes she'd been present, before hitting send and throwing his phone onto the empty side of the bed.
In the morning, when he wakes up hungover, but slightly refreshed, he finds a response from Emma in the form of a singular sentence in their message thread: Payback is a bitch.
-x-
On their third trip for supplies to send along, Killian finally exposes much more of his hand than he intends. In an instant, he goes from overly-attentive friend to obviously-boyfriend. In the middle of the hygiene products, Mary Margaret grabs a box of feminine products for Emma, and without a thought Killian shakes his head and takes them back out of the cart. Back they go on the shelf, and he selects the correct ones in the process and adds them to the pile. He makes sure to include a package of the sanitary wipes she prefers, as well, before turning and wandering to the location of their next item.
"How do you know which ones are right? It took David forever to get the correct brand," Mary Margaret says, eyeing him carefully.
"No offense to your soul mate, love, but he also tends to forget which deodorant he prefers until he's already rolled on the wrong one."
"True." She goes silent again for a moment while they grab a couple boxes of Emma's beloved Pop Tarts. "Killian, are you and Emma together?"
"Hmm?" He's reading the nutrition information on the side of the box, wishing for nothing more than to make her something from his own menu, when the words she's just asked finally register. "So," he says neutrally, "how about that thing that changes the subject?"
She makes a sound of irritation and follows after him to the next aisle. "Fine then, keep your not-really-a-fucking-secret relationship to yourself. Just know that we're here for you if you need us." She wanders ahead to the other end of the row after she says it, giving him a minute to collect himself.
They become partners in sending packages, teaming up with Ruby when she has widespread requests from the unit or has something small to include for Mulan. They get contributions from patrons at Granny's diner every time they walk in, and Killian has never been so happy for flat rate boxes in his entire life.
Time without Emma moves as if the world barely revolves without her daily presence. He goes to work, he goes home, he sleeps. He wakes up. He repeats it all again. It sometimes takes him weeks to venture out of his apartment to do something other than work, but he does little more than mope into his cheeseburger while David grimaces every time Killian sighs and hoards the onion rings all onto his plate.
He tries to limit that behavior to the first month of her being gone. After that, he's far too busy to really concentrate on his own misery. It turns out the bride that demanded a cookie table the year before had spoken highly of their picturesque location to all of her friends, all of whom are apparently also getting married, all of whom also want tables loaded with cookies made by the locals. Lucky for him, he has more than a night's notice for these events, and he also has Belle to supplement the work he can't do himself.
Regina tugs him aside the day after their fourth wedding in a row, explaining that if they can keep up this kind of business through the rest of the summer, then she might finally be able to eliminate Hades' position as financier. If anything was going to light a fire under his arse, it was definitely going to be that information. No quarterly tasting menus that turn into insult festivals is something he could get behind.
Every Saturday in July ends up booked for destination weddings, the scenic Maine seaside location offering everything the couples are looking for. It not only increases business to the country club, but also boosts several other businesses as well. Suddenly, there's not a single vacant room at Granny's Inn during the weekends. The restaurants and cafes are all waitlisted, the patios are filled with people enjoying the mild weather, or wandering the beach, or shopping their small boardwalk.
On his days off, which are few and far between, he schedules time to chat with Emma via Skype, savoring each moment he gets to see her face through the grainy quality of the video. Those days are also set aside to help fulfill his duties as Best Man for David and Mary Margaret's wedding. He takes on the challenge of helping them pick out their menu, and inspecting the kitchens at their venue of choice when they finally decide on the fairy tale castle of their dreams.
It all keeps him busy, so that time moves minimally quicker, which is nice when he's missing someone as much as he's missing Emma. When he closes down the club more often than the bartenders, he worries that he's overworking himself, but it doesn't stop him from doing it.
He has the chance to stand in the halfway house bar when it's all emptied out one night, staring out through the open garage doors to the lights on the lake, thinking about that time he swore he would tell Emma he loved her in that exact spot. He swears to bring her back when she gets home and tell her the moment he gets a chance, finally paying her back for the hasty admission of her love when she left.
When he gets home that night, there's a small package from Emma waiting for him and he smiles fondly as he settles in to get it opened up. Inside the box is a familiar sight; his chef's coat is neatly folded inside.
His brows furrow in confusion, and he lifts the coat out of the box, only to spot a thumb drive beneath it. He walks over to his kitchen table where his computer has taken up residence during Emma's deployment and gets it started up so he can plug it in. There are two folders and a singular document titled "Open Me First" which he does.
There's one line in the document: Told you. Payback is a bitch.
He closes out of that and goes to the first folder with a simple title of '1' and opens it. The sight that greets him has all of the air whooshing out of his lungs at once, a hungry noise tearing out at the same time as his eyes go wide. They're pictures, and if the count at the bottom of the folder is to be believed, there are 63 images in this batch. Various patches of Emma's skin are visible in each of them, the coat in question the only thing she's wearing becoming more and more obvious as he clicks through the images.
The first few are her posing in front of a cheap mirror they hung on the back of their trailer's door, her legs slim and bare beneath it. There's a series of her pulling the one edge and each of the safety knots giving way to reveal her breasts and lack of underwear. He palms his growing erection when her hands start traveling in the images, with her on the bed in the open coat.
If this is the first folder, he's not sure he can handle the second, but he goes back and clicks on it anyway. This one is a single video and it's clear by the open coat that she made it in the interim between the standing photos and the ones in bed.
"Hi," she says with a little grin when the video starts up. "So a couple months ago, you sent me a really great e-mail with some pictures and I finally got a day off. While I have the trailer to myself, I thought I'd return the favor. Bonus, you'll get a video of it all as well as the pictures."
She settles back after that, and he watches as she snaps a few photos before she gets to work on herself, her hands kneading her breasts before continuing downwards. He watches with rapt attention as she slips her fingers between her legs, taking a couple more pictures and glancing over at the camera on her laptop when she finds a particularly good rhythm.
He comes in his chef pants at his kitchen table when Emma bites the collar of the coat to stifle her own completion, and it's only when he inspects it later that he can see the teeth-marks she left behind. The message he sends her after he's cleaned up explains it all: You're right, I couldn't handle it.
-x-
Killian has to celebrate their one-year anniversary alone, and wonders if it can really be considered their one-year if she's been gone for all but three and a half months of it. It still counts, though, so he sends her a video message, making sure to find another way to skirt around telling her he loves her, holding tight to his stubbornness on waiting to say it when she's back in his arms. He proceeds to lock his liquor cabinet after that, not in the mood for that big of a hangover when he has to be at the country club early for a meeting with Regina.
He doesn't feel right when he wakes up, though. Doesn't feel as focused as he normally is when he parks his truck. The back door is unlocked when he gets there, so he ducks downstairs to check the kitchen quickly before he heads to Regina's office. He knocks lightly on the doorframe to announce his presence and enters when she waves him in.
"You're here earlier than I expected," Regina comments as she keeps her eyes on her computer monitor. "Just give me five more minutes. Pick out your new uniforms while you wait." Without looking, she pushes a catalogue in his direction.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unscheduled meeting? Hades isn't going to show up and breathe down my neck while we talk, is he?"
"He did get really close during that last meeting, didn't he?"
Instead of answering, Killian makes a noise and shifts around, trying to get comfortable in the plush chair on the other side of Regina's desk. Many a meeting has he sunk low into one of these chairs, never having a problem achieving a comfortable stance without trying. Today, however, seems to be an off day.
When Regina finishes whatever she was working on, she turns off the computer monitor to focus all her attention back on Killian.
"You look like shit, Jones."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mrs. Mills-Hood."
Hearing the hyphenated last name obviously still does the trick, because the stern woman smiles and softens her previous stance. "Anyway, the reason I asked you here is to introduce you to my sister, but she's running late."
"You have a sister?" In all the years he's worked for her, this detail somehow never came up.
"Half-sister. She's a little crazy, so I don't publicize the fact that I'm related to her. She's lived in Kansas for a while, which doesn't help the whole 'crazy' thing."
"My apologies to Kansas," he says, enjoying the sisterly love he can hear in her voice, even below the words of vexation.
"She's going to be staying with me for a couple months as we work on the next big adventure."
"Oh?"
"Gold is opening up the old banquet center across the lake. He wants me to start offering up larger wedding packages starting next summer. It's been dormant for about fifteen years, so the renovations have just begun. Zelena is a catering chef and will be helping with the hiring and training to make the creations that come out of your brain to be made in larger quantities without breaking the budget."
"Sorry for being so late, I was standing outside the doorway eavesdropping to make sure you weren't speaking ill of me again," a red-head says, sweeping into the room with a flourish.
"Finally," Regina mutters, otherwise ignoring what the other woman has said. "Killian, meet my eccentric sister, Zelena. Zelena, this is my broody and very much attached to another woman executive chef."
"Pity, he would've made a nice looking affair while I was in town."
He would protest, or joke, anything at all in response to the two women, but at that exact moment his stomach heaves and Killian shoots out of the chair to grab the small trashcan next to Regina's desk. He can hear the commotion of both of them moving at once, but he's too busy slumping down the wall and closing his eyes, both of which feel far better than they reasonably should.
From her position in the doorway, Zelena makes a noise of disappointment. "Certainly the first time I've gotten that response to that joke."
He's going to enjoy working with the lass, as soon as the room stops spinning around him, that is.
-x-
"C'mon, old bean. I can barely lift my five-year-old anymore. Surely I can't lift your fat arse to get you out of here."
It's hilarious, really, because he's younger and lighter than Robin, but the other man seems to have forgotten both of these facts as he taps Killian's cheeks repeatedly in an attempt to revive him.
"If you keep smacking me, I will tell Roland that there's no such thing as Santa Claus and that you've been hiding this from him since birth." His voice is hoarse and strained, his stomach filled with what feels like piles of rocks, and he feels clammy and hot all at the same time.
"You worried us there for a minute, mate." This comes from somewhere by his feet, where Will is apparently lounging about. "I asked if I could drive you to the hospital and make the siren sounds with the windows down, but they wouldn' let me."
"How bloody long was I out?" Killian asks, finally cracking his eyes open to look at either of them. He's still in Regina's office, still by the wall he went down earlier, but he's laid out on his side. There's no sign of either Regina or Zelena, but he's sure he'll never hear the end of this.
"Just a few minutes. I was outside checking to make sure they closed the pool properly over the weekend when Regina ran out."
"And Belle came in early to make the samples for your friends' cake tasting today, so I decided to keep her company."
"Right," Robin and Killian say in unison.
"A likely story," Killian finishes, doing his best to grin at his sous chef.
"C'mon then, mate. We're gonna get you home. Regina's banished you from work for the next two days while she disinfects her office." Killian accepts the hand that Robin holds out to him, allowing him to do most of the work to get Killian standing again. Will grabs the now-sullied trash can and hands it to him.
"Just in case," he explains. "I'll be following in your truck."
He just barely manages to convince them to stop so Robin can grab him some supplies, and then he's being bundled into his apartment with strict instructions to take it easy.
Amongst the fever dreams and trips to the bathroom to empty his already destitute stomach, he realizes that this is the first time he's gotten sick without Emma there to take care of him since the day they met. But he also finds that his support network has grown in numbers since those days. It helps to be friends with the boss's husband, and the staff that works with you on a daily basis. He even gets a text from Regina telling him to get well soon, and to not bring back the trash can.
Mary Margaret checks in on him the next day, forcing him to clean himself up in the shower while she remakes his bed and starts laundering his sheets. He still can't hold down solid food, but she brings him homemade broth and Pedialyte, claiming that it's better than the sportsdrinks he got from the corner store.
He makes sure to send a flower arrangement to Regina when he's officially on the mend, the note simply apologizing about her trash can and indicating that he's looking forward to the banquet opportunities that are around the corner.
By the time he goes back to work, still weak and on a steady diet of rice and broth, he has a full line of ideas to bring to the table on the banquet menu, and a very high appreciation for all the friends he's made in this town over the years.
-x-
The time leading up to Mary Margaret and David's wedding seems to go faster than any of the time that Emma's been gone, and he only wishes she could be there to be part of it all. He doesn't see the dress that Emma would've worn until the day of the wedding, and while the apple color looks absolutely fitting on the one they usually call "Red" it would've looked just as stunning with Emma's hair and skin tone.
Even more breathtaking than that is the bride herself, gliding down the aisle in a dress that looks like it was specially made to fit her. The organza overlay extends across her shoulders to create short sleeves with lace detailing that looks like leaves, and the same trim lines the bottom of the veil attached to a headband in her pixie-cut hair. Her bouquet, a mixture of autumn-colored flowers, melds nicely with the cream color of the dress.
He glances at David's face as she walks down the pristine ivory runner. The groom looks completely gob smacked, as if the vision walking towards him isn't real, something ethereal instead of tangible, and as if he's either entirely undeserving or the luckiest man alive. It brings a smile to Killian's face – the most genuine one he's had in a while – and he claps his friend on the shoulder in solidarity.
The ceremony is that perfect blend of short and just long enough, by no means the nuptial masses he's attended before, but not a speedy process. He notices that Ruby cries a little more than he would've thought she would at weddings, but he also wonders if the absence of her partner is a contributing factor to the errant sniffles he hears. While he'll head back down the aisle alone, per Mary Margaret's insistence that they always leave the space that Emma would've occupied, he makes sure to pull his handkerchief and hand it off to Kristoff to give to Ruby on their way out of the small chapel.
They're free to spend an hour relaxing at the venue after the initial pictures are taken. He's incredibly glad that the tweed suits David picked are the softer version, instead of the itchier kind he remembers trying on for fitting, because he's less inclined to tear out of the garments the moment he enters his rented room. Instead he just strips off the jacket before he sits down heavily at the desk the room comes with, fingering the zipper pull on the personalized leather shave-kit bags David had bestowed them with this morning. He tries to keep his focus on the evening, how useful the bloody thing is instead of a tie clip, anything that will keep him in the here and now instead of letting his mind wander too far.
Mostly, he fails, though. His eyes glaze over as he stares at the bag, thinking of Emma. He hasn't heard from her in days, barely got response back from the birthday messages he sent her, and he's grasping to Ruby's advice like a lifeline. This is the longest she's gone quiet, but she's okay. She has to be okay.
Still, he pulls his flask from the shave-kit and takes a long drag from it. He could soak in ultimate indulgence and smoke the cigar that came in the kit. Emma loves the lingering smell of them, but can't stand to be around them as they're smoked. Maybe he'll save it for a day where she can catch the straggling smell, press her nose to that spot on the side of his neck that immediately starts the gears turning to her taking him to bed – because that's how it goes most of the time.
Not that he doesn't initiate his fair share of the sex (case in point, the now-infamous sexting incident), but Killian has definitely discovered that he enjoys it when Emma rocks the boat. She is carnal and impatient, and passionate – so bloody passionate he can barely comprehend it – and he's already looking forward to the moment when she's back in his arms, in this town, in this state, in this bloody country when she will make small waves in their personal flotation device, throw him over the side, and –
And he realizes he's let most of the time before the reception's cocktail hour go by the wayside daydreaming about Emma Swan. With another generous tip of his flask, he stands up. He abandons his suit jacket, leaving the red shirt and suspenders exposed, and makes sure his obliging best-man smile is in place as he caps the flask and stashes it away again.
There's a lot of Killian hovering around his seat at the head table. He attempts to be as accommodating to the newly married as he possibly can be, especially since Ruby still hasn't come back to the hall, and Kristoff is off canoodling with Anna somewhere. He breaks away at one point, when their sweet nuzzles and cavity-inducing smiles get to be a touch too much for a man who hasn't even held his girlfriend in eight months, and they almost look apologetic as he quietly excuses himself after dropping off drinks for the both of them.
He's in the restroom when the music suddenly cuts out, and there's a noise of surprise, and he's sure it's just some grand gesture that Dave's put together for his new bride, so he takes his time washing his hands and making sure his hair is still in order. The rum from earlier has all but worn off, and all he can think is how much he needs a drink of his own to continue up the happy façade he's had going.
It's not that he isn't happy, he thinks as he wanders out of the bathrooms. It's just that this is the first time he's had to relax in a while, to not stress over work, and it's obvious more now than ever that Emma's not here to share in this day.
At first he barely registers what he's looking at on the other side of the room. Mary Margaret is smother-hugging someone, and David has his arms around both of them, his hand on the waterfall of blonde hair like he's seen him do to Emma in the past.
It hits him like a ton of bricks. Mary Margaret and David Nolan are both crying or on the verge of it and holding onto a blonde, and he can see Ruby on the outskirts, smiling with tears in her eyes and her hand possessively clutching Mulan's. David looks up to see him at that moment, the relief and love and astonishment plain in his expression, and he smiles. Mary Margaret is saying something to her and laughing through her tears before she, too, looks over her shoulder to see Killian watching.
And then she turns. She turns and his heart stops, because he has seen her hair around every corner. He's heard her laugh in the kitchen when none of his chefs even sound remotely like her. He's gotten a whiff of her perfume when he's grocery shopping, at the book store, when he walks from his kitchen to the living room when he's finished doing his dishes and cleaning the counters. Ghost after ghost of the woman he loves creeping around while he knows she's still months from his arms.
But there she is.
"Swan," he whispers out loud, and even though she can't hear him, he sees the subtle change in her smile, the features of her face softening as she wipes her eyes, and he's in motion before he remembers he has legs. His lips are crashing into hers before he can stop himself, and while he hears the crowd's obvious approval, he can't find a flying fuck to give about any of it. Because Emma Swan is wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him harder.
-x-
When he looks back at the reception later, Killian will remember that one defining moment as the center point of the evening. Everything that happens after revolves around the fact that Emma is there with him. She gives a speech during dinner that moves just about every guest to tears, and spends the length of the festivities with her hand in his, or her arm linked around his, or pressed against his side, and no one says a damn word.
He's sure the questions will follow, once the hubbub dies down to a faint buzz, but for this one night, no one asks a single question about their relationship or the fact that Emma is here early, or at all. It's purely about celebration. And if he smiles a little more, and if they all perhaps drink a little more in all variations of celebration that they can, no one blinks an eye. That's what weddings are for, after all.
"Killian," Emma says, tugging on one of his suspenders suddenly at one point. "Killian are these mini grilled cheese points with tomato soup chasers?"
"That they are, my love. Inspired by you and our lovely autumn theme," he tells her honestly. It was Mary Margaret who found the idea, running it by the catering chef and Killian with a sly smile on her face.
She fawns over them for a few minutes, making sure to hug Mary Margaret as tight as she can over the little delight. "You guys didn't tell me about these! Why didn't I get the memo?"
"We didn't want you to get mad at us for eating something we knew you'd love while you were stuck eating MRE's," Ruby chirps as she passes by, winking and smiling at Emma. It's increasingly clear that Ruby has been in on the homecoming for some time, especially considering the fact that Emma is in her bridesmaid's dress. Her matching necklace, Mary Margaret's gift to her girls, is even in place. The last he heard, that was stashed in the Nolan household, waiting for her arrival home.
With a reassuring squeeze to Emma's hand in his, he breaks away momentarily to hug the brunette in question, whispering his thanks to her in her hair.
At the end of the night, there's far less people left behind to filter back to their rooms (or the bridal suite, which the married couple leer over plenty of times) but there's still another round of tight hugs and a few grateful tears. Emma follows him automatically, leaning heavily against his side in her obvious exhaustion.
Despite the fact that she is here, and she's in his arms, there's no rush on either part to immediately fuck each other, and Killian is actually a little relieved. He's utterly beside himself that she's here, that she has kissed him so many times in front of the world, as far as he's concerned. But he wants, and he wants to take his time with it.
As if reading his thoughts, Emma pulls him down just enough to rest her forehead against his. "Tomorrow?" she asks.
He hums and nods against her. "Too tired," he says, and turns his face away just enough as a yawn comes over him again.
"Too drunk," she responds, laughing softly at the both of them. She tilts her chin up and kisses him, some delicate balance between soft and sinful, and he feels the tears at the corners of his eyes at the thought that she's here, she's home, and it's going to be extremely difficult to go to work on Monday.
Coming back to their surroundings, Emma looks around and deflates with a heavy sigh.
"What's wrong?"
"My bag got delivered to Ruby and Mulan's room. I don't care about my contacts. It's time to switch them. But my clothes for tomorrow are in there."
"We can call them in the morning before breakfast so you don't have to wear this beautiful dress to eat crepes. For now, I have clothes for you to sleep in."
She murmurs her thanks against his lips when she kisses him again.
He gets to help her unwind the dress, brushing his fingertips reverently over her skin as he does. In return, Emma peels off the suspenders he's wearing, her hands gliding over his pecs and up along his shoulders, down his arms and back up to unfasten a few of the buttons he's left closed. He's half-hard by the time she's done, but he makes no push to continue down the path they've promised for the following day.
Instead, he wordlessly digs out the garments for her to change into, kissing her once on the cheek and ushering her towards the bathroom to get cleaned up and changed for bed. She comes back a couple minutes later, squinting around with her face devoid of make-up and her hair falling completely free around her shoulders. He helps just a little, guiding her to the bed so she won't stub any toes in her attempt to get there without vision correction.
When he finishes his own nightly routine, she's half asleep on the side of the bed he's used to seeing her sleep on, and he feels complete for the first time since she left. With that sense that everything is finally where it belongs again, with the knowledge that his heart will go to sleep next to her heart tonight, he moves easily to shut off the light and climb into bed. She reaches for his hand as soon as he's settled, placing a sleepy kiss to his knuckles before she's fast asleep.
As it goes, they don't even make it to morning to wait. Since he wanted it to be at Emma's pace, he's surprised when he wakes up to her lips on his shoulder, trailing their way up to his neck as she presses close. The moonlight coming in through the window is enough to illuminate her features in the dark, and he takes a moment to observe her until one hand travels down his torso to stroke his cock from outside his underwear and that's enough to wake him up the rest of the way.
His t-shirt gets delicately removed from her shoulders and thrown off the side of the bed, both of them shucking pairs of his boxers as greedy hands reach for places they haven't touched since she was in Boston.
"Condom?" he asks as she moves to climb on top of him.
"You didn't think I'd come back and not come prepared, did you?" she asks, her incredulity full of endearment as she reaches for the clutch she left on the night stand and pulls out a couple small foil wrappers. "Brought a couple, just in case."
She already has one ripped open and is rolling it on before he can move, and then she's ever so slowly sliding down the length of him, relaxing to adjust to him as she goes. They both sigh when she's settled on top of him, a sound of reuniting and contentment.
It's a hell of a time to notice it, but he realizes that the hips he's grabbing are far more angular than he's used to. Looking down in the faint light, everything is sharp and tight. He's used to her being fit, but this is almost a whole new level. He's not sure he could even pinch an inch if he tried.
"You seem to have left your curves back in Afghanistan, love," he says, just as his hands slide over her thighs and find much the same structure waiting for him.
She twists her hips, clenching her inner muscles as she does so and drawing a moan from him. He can see that wicked smile, and she leans over him so her breasts press against his chest, still just as supple and soft as he remembers them.
"Gimme a month, and I'm planning on having them all back. One solid month of eating whatever I want. I don't want to see a fucking cantaloupe for at least a year, okay?" She pushes herself back into a sitting position, widening her knees so she drops down further so she can take him all the way in. She sets the pace and all he can do is follow as she braces her hands on his chest, her blunt fingernails digging into his skin as she continues. "And no chicken, for at least a month."
"Tell me whatever you want and it's yours, Emma," he admits, and definitely means more than just food.
"Touch me," she sighs out, and he immediately complies. "I need burgers and fish, and fresh vegetables. Piles of fresh fruit. Cake. Cold beers. Veggie mess. Killian, I need you to make me veggie mess when we get home," Emma tells him, her voice bordering on desperate as she presses her hand against where his fingers are rubbing over and around her clit.
He knows she's about to climax when she stops, her eyes training right on him as her brows furrow and she bites her lip to stifle the noises he looks forward to hearing when they're not staying in a public venue again. She gasps his name as she finally comes, her whole body tightening around him, gripping him tight and bringing him over the edge with her.
Breathing hard, she drops to her elbows to kiss him, deep and long, and then she smiles wide above him. "Well," she says, her voice light and joyful, "I think that more than makes up for 'welcome back,' as well as 'happy birthday and anniversary' all rolled into one."
"I think we have a long way to make up for all of the above, Swan." Her laugh is low and throaty, and it awakes his hunger once more, but he knows they both need to sleep, and that they're a long way from the quiet reunion they'll both be craving after the buzz of this night dies down. When he shifts to pull out of her, though, despite being soft and them both being spent, she halts his movements.
"Just another minute. I just need another minute," she pleads, and he relaxes beneath her. He reaches up to run his fingers through her hair, to frame her face with his palms and thumb at the corner of her smile. She sighs, nuzzling into his hand and turning her head to kiss his palm. "I missed you," she murmurs, leaning down to kiss him again.
"I missed you, love. More than words can properly express." He pauses, takes a deep breath and vaguely wishes the lights were on and they were maybe a touch less exhausted for the moment, but before he can open his mouth to say what he's about to say, she's pushing off of him. As he watches, Emma slides off the bed, only stumbling slightly (and who's to say whether that's lingering exhaustion or alcohol, at this point?) as she reaches for the switch on the lamp.
"Wait, no. I wanna say it first," she says in a rush, clambering back onto the bed and laying down against his side. "I love you, Killian. And I'm sorry that the first time I said it, I couldn't see the expression on your face, but the one you have now kind of makes up for it." She reaches out and lets her fingers skim over his cheek and dimples.
He briefly closes his eyes, huffing out a small laugh and leaning onto his side to pull her close and kiss her again. "Emma, I love you. Have loved you. Will continue to love you for as long as you'll allow me."
"Really?"
"Aye," he answers without hesitation. "Now sleep, my love. We have all the time in the world."
"So I shouldn't volunteer to go to the DLI in a year? Learn some languages? Move to California?" She runs her fingers over his ribs as she says it so he'll know she's joking, and he grunts and squirms from the playful action.
"Only if it's what you wish, Swan," he says, giving her the honest answer over a return jibe.
"I wish to have some peace and quiet for a little bit. Or as much as Storybrooke will allow me," she gives back. He agrees with the sentiment, even as he slides out of the warmth of the bed momentarily to turn the light back off. Before he can even settle himself behind her fully, she's already asleep again.
-x-
He wakes up before her when the sun's rays are intruding on their room, and even though he's pretty sure she sleeps through it, he still rubs a soothing hand over her bare shoulder and tells her he'll be right back. With a quick text to Ruby, he's wandering to the other wing of guest rooms to collect Emma's bag.
Ruby looks just about as exhausted as he is, so he just gives her a grateful smile and mouths 'thank you' before taking the bag and pulling the door shut for her.
Emma is still asleep when he gets back, but she's just starting to exhibit signs that she's waking up, so he sets her bag on the desk chair and returns to the bed. The jostling of the mattress is what pulls her closer to the surface of wakefulness. She yawns, big and leisurely, and opens her eyes slowly. When she catches sight of Killian, however, her eyes pop all the way open.
"Oh! Not a dream," she breathes out, her smile brilliant beneath her bleary eyes.
"No, not a dream. There will be a freshly wed couple downstairs in forty-five minutes for breakfast, and I'm sure they would love to have the same reassurance, if you're up for it."
In lieu of an answer, she nods emphatically, briefly closing the scant space between them to kiss him just as hard as she did at the reception, but she breaks away to head to the shower, shooting him a grateful look when she spots her rucksack on the chair.
"The world would be a better place if everyone had their own Killian," she tells him as she shoots a grin over her bare shoulder and heads off to the en-suite.
Unless it's a day off after a particularly grueling shift, Killian is used to Emma's showers being notoriously speedy. The other exception to that, of course, is when he's involved in the shower, but he's leaning back against the headboard waiting his turn, so he knows that's not what's taking her so long. He weighs whether or not he should check on her, trying to decide if it's pushy if he does, callous if he doesn't, and there's no simple answer without just asking her.
He knocks lightly, first, not wanting to intrude in case she is just trying to take an extra few minutes to herself, but she answers just loud enough to be heard over the water. The curtain that hides her is sheer at the top, so he sees that she's just standing in the large tub. She's facing the water, letting it hit her chest without making any moves to wash herself.
The faraway expression on her face is what prompts him to shuck the clothes he'd slipped on to retrieve her bag, and he climbs in behind her without a word. He reaches around her to grab for the shampoo they provided in the room, squeezing it into his palm before slowly working it into her damp hair. With a soft noise, she tilts her head back a little further. When it's all thoroughly lathered, he gently urges her forward to rinse. The water runs clear after a few swipes of her hands and he's about to repeat with the conditioner on the shelf, but she leans back against him, instead.
His arms wind around her, one hand resting on her waist as the other crosses over her chest to hug her to him. She clasps his arm in both her hands, resting her head back on his shoulder and absorbing as much heat from the water and his skin as she can.
"This is the first time I've felt warm in a month," she tells him softly. "Coming home to fall is like going straight from the fiery depths of hell to the North Pole."
"I have a sweatshirt in my bag. Long sleeve shirt as well. Help yourself to any layers you need, love."
"Thank you, Killian," she says, turning in his arms to make eye contact again. "Not just for that offer but just, all of this. I love you," she tells him, and despite the fact that it's now the third time she's told him that, it still makes his heart speed up.
He leans forward to give her one light kiss, slicking her hair away from her face with one hand as he pulls back. "I love you, Swan. Whatever you need of me, it's yours. Whether it's my presence or absence, my comfort or distance. Whatever it is you need, love, you have it from me."
"I think we've finally passed into the same sap level as David and Mary Margaret," she comments, wrinkling her nose to show her thoughts on this.
"No, love. They're far worse. Plus, they're married now, which means it'll be their usual saccharine behaviors on steroids, now."
She pulls another face, rolling her eyes and turning back around. "Skip the conditioner for now. We're already going to be late and there will probably be no less than four jokes about our delay being due to sex."
Amazingly, though, there's not a single comment again when they finally make it down to the dining room. Instead, they encounter all their closest friends nursing varying degrees of hangovers. Even when she pointedly grabs Killian's hand after they've settled in their own chairs, there's no mention. Just the overwhelming sensation that comes when a missing part has finally been returned home.