Despite any misgivings she may have had about the Jones brothers, they are what make this Christmas one of the best Christmases Emma's ever had and probably the best one Henry ever has.
(She's beginning to sense that this is a trend. They've been in Storybrooke six months and already whenever the Joneses are part of their day, it becomes one of the best days in Henry's book.)
(A part of her cringes and wonders if any of the earlier days, when it was just the two of them, make the ranks. It's a worry she believes any single parent has when another, cooler adult comes into their child's life. But she has faith in Henry, because when he's sick or sad, he doesn't go running to Killian or Liam.
He comes back home to her.)
As agreed to, Emma and Henry spend the morning together, hunkered down in her bed and daydreaming about what they'll make for breakfast. They'll eat it in the living room, opening presents between bites, because the Swans may not have many traditions, but being lazy and living room-eating on Christmas is one neither are willing to break.
It comes down to French toast or pancakes with whatever food they've got in the fridge that could possibly taste good within a pancake. Emma's leaning toward French toast because it's technically easier and the bread is probably going to go stale any day now.
"Ooh, or we could have cinnamon rolls!" Henry exclaims, rounding on her and nearly smashing his face into her pillow.
"We don't have any and I'm not making them from scratch," she tells him, a strong yawn cutting off the end of her sentence.
Pushing himself up on his elbows, Henry shakes his head emphatically. "No, there's a can of Pillsbury in the fridge," he says.
"Not if I buy the groceries, which I do," she reminds him.
"No, Killian and Liam gave me one."
That stops her from stretching out further beneath the covers. "What? When?"
He shrugs and collapses back into the fluff and comfort of the bed. "When you sent me over there to distract myself while you were wrapping presents and fixing that thing. I went shopping with them and Liam said they would buy me some." Seeming to sense his mother's displeasure, Henry buries his face in the pillow. He says something that sounds like a muffled, "They're down in the fridge."
"They just bought you a can of cinnamon rolls?" she asks incredulously. "Without any prompting or anything?"
If possible, Henry seems to sink further into the sheets in defeat. He turns his head to the side, his words still unclear but much more understandable and hesitant. "Well, we passed by the milk and I said something about how long it's been since I had them and Killian asked if I wanted some." Sitting up and leaning against the headboard, Henry stares her down. "I wasn't going to lie, Mom. You taught me not to lie."
"I did, but I didn't mean for you to finagle it into getting free food." Emma sighs, scrubbing at her face in slight frustration. Putting on her best mom face, she looks right back at her son, hoping to put the fear of god in him. "It's Christmas, so I can't punish you, but you better believe you're writing a thank you note tomorrow."
"Mooooom," he whines, falling against the headboard. "It's cinnamon rolls, not a Rolex."
"How do you even know what a Rolex is?" she asks with an impressed laugh. Emma shakes her head. "Never mind. If you're involved in Storybrooke's criminal underbelly, I don't want to know. I don't want to have to testify against you in court." She pokes him in the stomach, restoring the normalcy between the two of them and forcing a giggle from his lips. She continues to tickle him, both of them squirming and nearly hitting each other until they're both breathless.
With a sigh, Emma wipes at the tears that spilled over in their frivolity. "Well, if Killian bought them for us, we might as well put those rolls to good use."
Henry cheers and jumps from the bed. He barrels down the stairs, his feet slapping against each step until Emma can hear him mount the back of the couch and fall back on it. She can imagine his feet in the air and his head dangling from the center cushion.
"Preheat the oven before I come down there and revoke your couch-sitting privileges!" she shouts. Savoring the quiet and stillness of her few minutes of Christmas morning alone, Emma sits up and stretches. She smacks her lips together, like a character out of a classic movie, and sighs again. So far, it's a great Christmas.
Breakfast comes and goes in a flurry of sticky icing and ripped gift wrap. Henry, her sweet baby boy, must have gone shopping with any number of the people close to them to get her presents. A scarf he had to have Mary Margaret's help in choosing, books bought on Liam's recommendation for sure. And his reaction to the Lego set and video game she had David's assistance in choosing leave both of them with huge smiles on their faces.
Liam texts as she and Henry are cleaning up the living room around 12:30, asking if they need to bring anything over for dinner. Emma tells him no, unless they want alcohol with dinner, in which case, yes. She adds that they should bring a little bag or something so they could take their gifts home later that evening.
He texts her back just as she's stripping out of her shirt to jump in the shower, Henry already bathed and happily situated in front of his new game. There's sauce bubbling on the stove that her son's promised to keep an eye on and if he doesn't, that brand new game is doomed to get lost in the throes of her closet while he learns his lesson.
You know you didn't have to get us anything, Liam responds.
She types back, It's Christmas, Liam. People give presents. Deal with it.
Showering quickly - not because she doesn't trust her son, but because there's a lot to be done before the Joneses come over for dinner - Emma decides to spend a bit more time primping than she normally would. Since they are having guests over for Christmas dinner instead of it just being her and Henry, she figured they should all dress for the occasion. Again, when else do the people of Storybrooke get all dolled up? Her son's got a sweater on instead of an old, stained sweatshirt of hers he'd made his own and she...well, she's not bringing out the big guns, but the artillery is moderately sized. A more casual dress, flats but not heels, a little more effort applied to her hair and maybe a smidge of makeup. It is Christmas, after all. People dress up for holiday dinners, right?
Snow begins its descent outside as she comes back downstairs, a half hour or so until Liam and Killian should be knocking at their door. There's still so much to do.
"Hey kid," she calls on her way to the kitchen. "I need some help with dinner."
"Mom, I'm in my nice clothes," he replies amid the sound effects of heavy wind and rain, a shot ringing out and some character moaning in pain.
"This was your idea, Henry," she reminds him, pulling out a pot and giving the sauce a stir. "You invited Killian and Liam over for dinner, you better help put it together."
He groans, but the video game noises cease and stuttered footsteps get louder as Henry comes into the kitchen. Emma points toward the freezer. "You can be in charge of garlic bread and salad," she directs him. They're the easier tasks left to do and if her son manages to get a stain on his sweater making a salad, she'll be more impressed than angry.
Emma doesn't cook much, and when she does normally, it's blue box macaroni or microwave popcorn. For a long time, it was what she could afford, simple to make, and didn't taste like ass. It just became habit.
But now that Henry's older, he sometimes goes through phases where he wants to help make dinner every night, or venture into the world of baking after a Great British Bake Off binge. Now that they've got an extensive array of kitchenware, it's become more frequent. He even tried to make pumpkin pie with pretty successful results for Thanksgiving dinner at the Nolans'. No one got food poisoning and that's all either of them really needed to mark it as a win.
The doorbell rings just as Emma pours the noodles into boiling water.
"Henry, can you go let them in?" she requests. "Ask to take their coats and hang them up."
Doing as she bids, he asks, "When did we move to the Plaza?"
Emma tries to stifle her laughter at his quip. She hears the front door squeak open, the heavy footfalls of boots following shortly after. Booming laughter echoes through the hall and she has the brief thought that she's outnumbered in her own house for the night.
"It smells delightful, Emma," Liam says by way of greeting, his younger brother and Henry trailing behind him.
"Thank you," she says kindly. Tapping excess sauce off a spoon, Emma spins to find the men well-dressed, both similarly garbed like Henry. Nice slacks, sweaters over button ups, coiffed hair at least on Liam's part. "It's not much, but we do our best to outdo our usual Chinese takeout and TV dinners at Christmas."
Liam sets a cloth bag on the counter, removing three bottles of wine and a bottle of rum. At her questioning look, he grins. "One is for dinner and the rest is your present from us," he explains.
Emma is about to retort when he holds up his hand to stop her. "It's Christmas, people give presents, deal with it," he says with a smug smile. "I believe that's what you told me earlier."
"And these are for you, lad." Killian reveals two comic books, both contained in plastic bags, from behind his back. "We wanted to make sure the snow didn't ruin them before you got to fully enjoy them."
Henry gasps, his eyes going wide. He takes the comics from Killian carefully, as if he's been handed one of the most precious and fragile jewels in the world.
"What do you say, Henry?" Emma coaxes.
"Thank you!" he shouts, hugging Killian tightly before doing the same to Liam, all while they laugh. "These are great! Santa got me this Lego set!"
"Really?" Liam asks. "Well, now you have to show me. I loved Legos when I was a boy."
They go off to the living room to start building the spaceship 'Santa' brought Henry this morning, leaving Killian behind.
(Emma wonders idly if that was their plan all along, for Liam to distract Henry while she and Killian...whatevered.)
(So much for Liam not playing wingman.)
"Would you mind opening up one of those?" she asks of him, pointing toward the alcohol. He's hovering as it is and it makes her more nervous for what may come. "Whatever you want. I drink it all."
He goes straight for the hard stuff, finding glasses and pouring them a couple fingers of rum each. He hands her a cup, then holds his own up to cheers.
"Merry Christmas, Swan," he says quietly.
"Merry Christmas, Jones." She takes a healthy swig of the drink, keeping her shudder to a minimal shake. The liquid warms her stomach and, temporarily, calms the nervous bubbles. "So hear I need to thank you and pay you back for a can of cinnamon rolls," she says casually, stirring the noodles in their pot. Emma's been alone for so long in her life that she, to this day, still has trouble taking kindness as it is. People always expect something in return: favors, money, sex, whatever. She is of the firm belief that people – or at least the people she talks to and deals with – never do or say things from the goodness of their heart. Nobody is that nice. Nobody isn't that self-serving.
Except, it seems, for Killian. What a surprise there.
"I will accept your thanks graciously, but absolutely refuse anything else." She glances at him with a raised brow. Shaking his head, he sighs. "It's a can of cinnamon rolls, Swan. We were out getting groceries as it was."
"Still…"
With a short moan, Killian scratches at the back of his neck. "Emma, it's Christmas, the season of giving." He sighs, leaning up against the counter next to the stove, his hip jutted out. "If you really feel the need to thank me, I've got an idea." She looks up at him and he taps at his lips, a smirk growing across his face.
(He wants her to kiss him. Again.)
(She's inclined to do it. But not without resistance for the fun of it.)
"That's what the thank you was for," she murmurs, trying to hide her grin.
"Is that all that's worth to you?" Killian asks dramatically. "You were willing to throw money my way mere seconds ago." When she keeps quiet, he exhales and places a hand on the small of her back . moving ever closer to her. "Come on, Swan, consider it my Christmas present. I don't even bite unless asked."
(If all he wanted for Christmas was another kiss from her, she'd be glad to keep the ornate copy of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea she got him. Henry would be more than happy to read it.)
"Please," she scoffs. "You couldn't handle it."
"If I remember correctly, I already handled it quite well," he mutters. Then he challenges her: "Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it again."
There's a slight moment of hesitation between the two of them where they just stare at each other. Emma looks deep into Killian's eyes, brighter than she's ever seen them in the dim light of her kitchen.
Then she pounces.
Grabbing at his shoulders, she pulls him down to her level and all but attacks him. Her lips on his, her hands in his hair, and his hands traveling the expanse of her back.
It doesn't last long - certainly not as long as their kiss at the wrap party - but it's certainly more messy and real. It feels like he's trying to infuse her with his affection or desire at the same time, aiming for the adventure of a first kiss and the passion of the last all in one go.
Liam's masculine laughter and Henry's childish giggles emanate from the other room, interrupting them, and then the timer for the pasta goes off and life is moving forward once more.
"Mm, I think I can still taste the cinnamon on your lips," Killian says softly, still close enough to keep the goosebumps that popped up on her skin from dissipating.
"God, I hope not," she chuckles, moving to turn the stove off and drain the pasta. "I brushed my teeth and everything before you showed up."
He chuckles in turn. "If I didn't know any better, I would say you were trying to impress me this evening."
Emma shakes her head, the flume of steam flying up from the pot of noodles. "No, I'm celebrating," she corrects him.
"Whatever you say, love." Pasta settled in the colander and hot metal pot set down, Emma turns to grab at some olive oil when Killian tugs at the skirt of her dress. He pulls her closer until she's between his legs, leaning against him leaning against the counter. "I like this regardless. You look quite fetching."
She smiles, blushes, and hits him on the shoulder with said olive oil. "Go set the table or something," she says, ushering off into the other room.
(Literally. Any other room. She's going to end up burning herself with him distracting her like he is.)
"As you wish," he murmurs, sending Emma a salacious wink and leaving to join his brother and her son.
And she thinks that, despite her opposing words from earlier in their friendship, Killian Jones has managed to charm her through Princess Bride quotes.
0000
Like she's spent much of her time this year, Emma rings in the new year on a boat. A ship, she mentally corrects herself. She's getting better at remembering the difference.
Jones hangs near her the entire night, which she's fine with, but when he grabs her hand as the countdown starts, she panics. They like each other a little more than liking each other and a little less than like-liking each other. But a kiss to begin the New Year? That's asking a lot of her.
She squeezes his hand and hopes that he understands what she means. Because when midnight strikes and the fireworks start, Emma reaches over to Henry and smushes his face to her lips. "Happy New Year, kid," she whispers. "Let's hope this one's as good as the last."
How she ever raised such a sass-master for a child, she'll never know, but Henry allows her one more kiss to the cheek before he responds, "I think it's gonna be great."
And then he pushes her into Killian's waiting arms.
While Emma rolls her eyes and puts up a small fight to release herself from his arms, Jones manages to match the sway of the ship on the water. "What do I have to do to earn your trust, Swan?" he asks gently. "Jump in the water in my skivvies at this hour?"
And maybe it's the alcohol that makes her say it – aren't the only people who are completely honest are drunks and children? – but still she lets the words "I already do" pass her lips. And then, realizing it doesn't make much sense, Emma corrects herself with a shake of her head. "I mean, nothing. You already do."
"Really?" he says with a hint of surprise, recoiling just a bit so their gazes match.
"Of course." Emma wrinkles her nose and chuckles. "Oh captain, my captain and all that, right?"
He smiles endearingly. "Emma," he whispers, and there's so much sweetness in his tone that it makes her toes curl and her tongue run across her teeth just to make sure they haven't rotted and fallen out of her head.
She expects him to kiss her. She's ready for it, or at least that's what she'll tell herself when she reflects on the moment in the future.
But he doesn't kiss her on the lips: instead, he presses his lips to her forehead for an extremely inordinate amount of time. "Love, you may not remember this in the morning – whether you black out or you erase it from your mind – but I always will remember the night you graced me with your trust. I will hold it close to my heart."
She smiles, letting the warmth radiate from his kiss to the rest of her body. "Happy New Year, Killian."
He chuckles. "And a first name reference as well?" he teases her. Killian pulls her into his chest, and she goes willingly. "Emma, love, you have made a poor man's New Year mere minutes into it."
Emma shrugs, unperturbed by the strong set of arms around her. "I do what I can."
"You do so much more, love," he whispers.
a/n: as always, thank you to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and captainswanbigbang. and an equally as big thank you to you for sticking with the story thus far!
