They've been going at it for hours.
He tries to focus on the book in his hand, one Lady Belle gave him and Henry assured was a must-read in this realm – one of magical school and little orphan and it shouldn't hit that close to home but it does –, only to be snap out of his reading every so often. A too loud gasp or too cheery laugh and he raises his head to the two women in the sitting room.
They're a sight to behold – the queen, with her regal dress and even more regal posture, the princess, sitting cross-legged on an armchair. The smiles are easy, the laughs even more so, as they trades stories of their adventures and tales of their past. It used to hurt, Killian knows – he saw it in Emma's eyes after each meeting with the little queen. They're so alike, in the bad experiences as well as the good ones, that it stirs something inside her, something deep and almost forgotten.
(He can't erase the images of her magic being out of control, the fear in her eyes and power at her fingertips. The unshed tears when she hurt her father and shivers at the thought of doing it again, over and over again. There is good in her, she would never hurt on purpose – not unlike some people he knows, himself included – but coming to terms with that was a long and painful process.)
(She sees herself in the woman sitting in front of her, and has every right to. Their friendship is one to be cherished, for not many people can understand, truly understand, what his Swan is going through. And it pleases him that the two regal women get along so well, that they can offer each other what nobody else can.)
So laughs and other gleeful little sounds it is, and Killian has the ghost of a smile on his lips even as he tries to immerse himself in the curious tale of the young Potter.
It's ten more minutes before he gives up on the book altogether, standing up and busying himself with making tea while he listens to Emma's story. And it's impressive, really, how she manages to be so chipper when she speaks of their adventure up the beanstalk – the memories of metal around skin and I can't take a chance that I'm wrong about you branded into his brain. But she twists their adventure just so, and it becomes something else altogether, a tale of blossoming emotions and nascent partnership.
His smile grows bigger, fonder, at the words in her mouth, the cadence of her voice – she's come a long way, after all – as he caries the mugs of burning tea to them, one in hand, the other two dangling almost dangerously from his hook.
Elsa accepts the tea with a smile and a nod, the china turning a pale blue as she cools it down. Even if he is used to magic by now, having seeing it up close and all, it never ceases to amaze him. So he returns her smile and puts the other two mugs on the table in front of him, before his hand finds Emma's shoulder.
Her hand settles above his after only a few second as she presses her cheek to his forearm with an easiness that has his heart beating faster every time. But it is Elsa's eyes that startle him, for he doesn't miss the longing in them. Even if she told them love and marriage are not in her plans ("Anna will give us heirs, after all."), she craves companionship, understanding – Killian wonder if those women know, how alike they are in so many ways it become rather unsettling at times.
He wonders if Anna will become more than the mother of an heir, if she will wear the crown herself, for Elsa belong somewhere else, belongs in this too little town with another blonde enchantress.
(Maybe the queen and he are more alike that Killian would like to admit, too.)