Summary: Emma decides the best way to get Mary Margaret off her back about Walsh is to say she already has a boyfriend. Except she doesn't. That's where Killian comes in. Fake!Engagement fic.
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Chapter 6
She spends a long time looking at the scar on his cheek.
More specifically, she spends a long time ignoring his hand wrapped around her waist and her knee pressed between his - and instead focuses on the scar on his cheek.
She's not inclined to move, not just yet.
The first time they shared a bed was not long after they first met, Killian resolutely laying with his arms crossed over his chest, his body held stiff and tight away from hers. He had been so serious then, so unwilling to bend from his good form. But she had shown up at his door in the middle of the night while her roommate engaged in some rather concerning positions if the noises were any indication and he had let her in with a sleepy smile and anchor pajama pants, his hair sticking up every which way.
He shifts in his sleep and mumbles something under his breath, his nose brushing the hem of her sleeve while his fingers flex against her back. He's grown decidedly less serious since then, she muses quietly, ignoring the itching in her fingers that wants to push his hair back from his forehead. This is not part of the plan - allowing him to be like this when they're not actively pretending - but she just -
She doesn't want to move.
Not just yet.
It's incredibly easy being with Killian like this. Like this sleeping all tangled together and like this - holding hands and brushing kisses and smiling at each other over coffee mugs in front of her family. Too easy, really, and it makes all the suppressed feelings of the past ten years that much harder to bear. But this is what she wanted, right? To be with him but not be with him. To have her cake and eat it too, as Ruby would say. Probably with a smack to the back of her head.
But what she really wants is to have him still by her side at the end of this. She doesn't want to muck it up with unrequited feelings and a desire for him to slide the hand against the small of her back just a bit lower, press his fingertips beneath the hem of her sleep pants until skin presses against skin.
She sighs and his eyebrows furrow in response like he's programmed to note her distress, even in sleep. She smiles fondly despite herself and rubs her thumb along the inside of his wrist. She's starting to give herself a headache with all the things she does and doesn't and might and might not want.
He blinks blearily at her, narrow slits of blue barely visible in the dark. "S'early," he mutters. "Go back to sleep."
She presses her toes against his ankle. "You go back to sleep."
He sighs, bone-weary and exhausted, already half-unconscious, his hand drawing nonsense patterns against the small of her back. "Always so bloody stubborn."
His soft snores press against her collarbone as he shifts further against her and she reaches over him carefully to set the alarm on her phone. He won't remember this conversation in the morning. Probably won't even wake up with the alarm. When he sleeps, he sleeps like the dead, and the only thing able to wake him is the smell of chocolate chip pancakes being burnt on his stove or a well-placed flick to the forehead.
She traces the shell of his ear, allowing herself the small weakness. They're pointed at the tips, and she remembers nights out at the bar in college - when she made fun of his elf ears until they flushed pink.
He won't remember the pad of her thumb tracing over his ear to his neck, brushing carefully in the hollow beneath down to his jaw when he wakes in the morning, but she will.
She supposes that's the problem.
-/-
It's worse when she wakes up.
He's all flushed cheeks and ridiculously messy hair, face pressed into the pillow and arms tucked beneath. He looks comfortable here in her space, folded against her side and making little hiccuping breaths every other exhale. It presses down on her chest, every moment spent next to him like this, until she's frowning at the ceiling and digging her fingernails into her arms to keep her thoughts from spinning madly out of control.
Killian usually helps with that. Presses his palms into her shoulders until her breathing evens out and she has control of herself again. Makes a quip or a comment or alleviates the tension with the smile that only pulls at one half of his mouth, the other side rushing to catch up until the dimples flash in his cheeks.
It's a mess.
She's a mess.
He makes an aborted sound beneath his breath when she slides carefully from the bed, his whole body turning and crowding the space she just vacated, arm slipping beneath her pillow and dragging it to his face. He groans and grumbles and kicks with his legs until he's asleep once more, shoulders relaxing from their hunched position.
It's kind of the most adorable thing she's ever seen and it makes her frown that much harder, practically scowling at the baseboards as she shuffles to the bathroom.
All in all, it was a shitty decision on her part. To do this - to force herself through this sort of torture. Because she always knew they would be great together - that things would be as easy as the way he smiles at her half asleep and how he presses his thumb to the small of her back when guiding her out the door. It's easy and she knew it would be and that's why this was a terrible decision.
It doesn't help that every time Killian kisses her, he sways against her and with her - like her kissing him has thrown him out of his orbit and into hers.
It's certainly what she feels like.
"Shit," she turns the water extra hot, hoping to maybe burn these thoughts right out of her head. It's barely day two and she's losing the iron grip she's been white-knuckled clutching for close to ten years. The little box marked Obnoxious and Overwhelming Feelings For Killian Jones she keeps a lid firmly on in the back of her mind is starting to shake like that crazy book from Harry Potter, snapping angrily and trying to wrestle itself free.
God, she really needs a coffee.
She feels better once she's blasted the hair dryer on her face until her nose begins to prickle with heat, better still when she manages a cup of coffee with the cinnamon creamer her mom keeps special in the fridge. She finally musters enough willpower to march back to the front lines and try to wake him, only to bang her head lightly against the old oak of her door when she finds him sprawled, extra blanket curled around his shoulders like a royal coverlet, his legs tangled in her sheets.
Sleepy, disoriented men with insane bed hair are her weakness.
She's going to need another coffee. Preferably with the whiskey hiding under the second floorboard to her left, a stalwart keepsake from her teenage rebellion years.
-/-
Her sour mood dissipates as she watches him order a plate of bacon at the diner despite her warnings, the challenge of it all doing more to wake him up than the two cups of coffee she practically forced down his throat before they left the house. He grins at her as they chat aimlessly about their plans for the day, bickering over where the best berries can be found on the bush.
("I'll have you know, Swan. I am quite apt at locating the perfect berry in a bush."
"Are you now?"
"I know just where to press to elicit the sweetest berry of them all."
"You're so gross.")
She even forgets for a moment what they're actually doing here. The overall plan, not the fact that they're having breakfast in a sleepy diner with an owner who is still yawning behind the counter top. It feels like every other morning she's had for the past ten years, with Killian ordering the one thing she told him not to and carefully stealing bites of hers like she doesn't notice.
She's abruptly reminded, though, when the bell above the door chimes and a familiar lanky body ducks in.
He spots her immediately, because of course he does, and comes bounding over, sliding right into her space and pressing his lips to her cheek. She feels...nothing when he does it, except for the searing pain in her right hand where Killian is grinding her bones to dust with his grip.
"It's good to see you, Emma." Walsh breathes and she wants him to slide right back out of the booth, walk out the door, and never speak to her again. It's not that he's a bad guy, he's just a persistent guy. A persistent guy who apparently has been campaigning her mother for another shot.
One he is not going to get.
"Yeah, um," she looks to Killian, trying to extricate her hand before he dislocates a finger. "This is Walsh. Walsh, this is Killian."
Walsh's face clouds over when he finally notices Killian, extending his hand after a moment's hesitation. Killian - well, Killian looks like Christmas just came early.
She sighs.
"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Emma's fiancé."
Walsh's eye twitches. If she weren't sitting so close, she wouldn't have noticed it. As it were, Walsh decided to leave no space between them when he crashed their booth, and she has an up close view of his disdain. "fiancé, huh. That seems quick."
Killian shrugs, smile tight - the fuck you smile he gives to the assholes at the bar who talk down to him and spill beer all over his just-cleaned counter top. "Well, when you know it's right, you know it's right."
She didn't expect this. She thought they would come here, avoid Walsh altogether, and convince her mother that there was no matchmaking necessary. She didn't consider what could possibly happen if the two of them met, not giving it more than a brush over in the back of her mind. She had a good snicker imagining Killian in Walsh's too-crowded furniture store with the wood shavings on the floor and the unkempt filing system in the back, but then she moved on.
Considering Killian's tendency to rise to a challenge when handed to him on a god-damned silver platter, not a good move.
(And that is a habit just as much as Killian ordering the wrong breakfast and claiming hers as his own - this comparing every man she dates to Killian. Going on a date and wondering what Killian might think of them - if they would get along and have a beer or if Killian would sit silently in the corner, judging the man for sipping on a Budweiser.)
"When was the last time I saw you?" Walsh drums his fingers on the tabletop, elbow brushing hers. "Fourth of July? You didn't mention anything at dinner about seeing someone."
She didn't mention anything after either and judging by the way the silence lingers after Walsh's statement and his raised eyebrows, he's thinking along the same lines. It curls in her stomach, making her smile far too forced.
"We started seeing each other when I got home," she stammers, ignoring the way Killian's smile falters and his eyes get that contemplative look - the same one when she's lying about not needing medicine and he force feeds her ibuprofin for her bum ankle anyway. "I didn't say anything because - "
She hesitates. She didn't say anything because at the time, there was nothing to say. She gave in and went out with Walsh because she was tired - tired of her mother's incessant nagging and tired of her own voices in the back of her head - and she didn't call him again because the night she spent with him was a stark reminder at how bad she is at all of this.
She soldiers on. "I didn't say anything because nothing was for sure yet and I didn't want to give you false information."
God, she sounds like one of her god damned sources. False information. What even.
Walsh runs his finger back and forth over the salt shaker. "Wouldn't want that," he hums, gaze darting between her and Killian, eyes narrowed. Killian stares back steadily and her fingers crawl back across the tabletop before she can stop herself, grasping for his. He squeezes gently and she relaxes, sigh whispered between her lips.
Walsh notices, sighing himself. "I'll let you two get back to it. I can only assume you're here so early because Mary Margaret has granted you a task," he stands, idling by the table. "I know how much Emma hates mornings."
Her skin flushes hot, taking the dig for what it is. "Good to see you, Walsh."
He nods, ignoring Killian completely. "You as well, Emma."
She watches him pick up his to-go coffee before stepping out through the door, bells above his head tinkling merrily. Killian spears another piece of pancake off her plate.
"He seems nice. I can most certainly see why you joined him for dinner," one eyebrow raises as she darts her gaze back to his, the sarcasm thick in his voice. "I do have one clarification though."
She swallows against the knot in her throat, wondering if her hot chocolate would make it better or worse. Telling Killian partial-truths has never been a habit of hers, but she can't quite convince herself to tell him that she did more than just have dinner with Walsh. She doesn't know why, and she's not willing to examine it further.
"Yes?"
"How is it that we're berry picking in November?" His cheeks puffed as they are with her breakfast, his hand still in hers, conversation successfully diverted from all things Walsh - the knot easily dissipates on its own. Not for the last time, she's grateful he can read her so easily.
(Not for the last time, she's grateful there are times when he doesn't read her so easily.)
She smiles, elbowing her plate over to him. She's lost her appetite, and it's easier than him getting syrup all over the table between them.
"I know a guy."
-/-
"You said you knew a guy, Swan," Killian eyes the greenhouse warily, the hulking figure barely contained by the frame of the door holding his attention. "Not a bloody giant."
Their breath puffs in front of them in little white clouds and she's glad they're spending their morning in a greenhouse and not out in the fields. The chill is already seeping beneath her leather, making it hard for her to bend her fingers. She can't imagine what a couple hours crouched in the dirt and reaching for berries without heat would grant her.
"Anton is harmless," she rubs her hand up and down the outside of his arm, noticing the shiver that rolls over his shoulders. His eyes are still heavy with sleep and he yawns every other step, bumping shoulders with her when he loses his footing on a particularly stubborn tree root. Considering she wants to make it out of this trip alive, it's definitely a good thing the two of them aren't meandering about in the fields. "In high school, the kids called him 'Tiny'."
"Makes perfect sense," Killian grumbles. Then, after a pause, blue eyes alight with curiosity - "What did the kids call you?"
"Loner, mostly. Weirdo or freak if they were feeling particularly brutal," she shrugs when his eyes get sad, the wounds high school kids inflict upon one another no longer holding the same bite. "Don't look at me like that, it didn't bother me."
"Especially not after you punched young Jason Dempsey in the mouth, I'd wager."
She grins, a little bit surprised that he's remembered the story she told him long ago with her back against the deck of his ship and his fingers sifting through her hair.
"They called her Psycho after that one," Anton is suddenly in front of them, suspiciously quiet in his approach for a man of his size. He smiles warmly down at Emma and she presses up on her toes to wrap her arms as best she can around his shoulders, her laughter loud when he picks her up and squeezes tight.
"Hey, that psycho got Jack and James to leave you alone sophomore year."
Anton chuckles as he places her carefully back down. "Right you are. It's good to see you, Emma." While she did her best in high school to stay out of the way of the other kids, Anton was the exception. Constantly picked on for his size, she finally had enough and stepped up, putting that psycho nickname to good use. Even Mary Margaret couldn't be upset with her after she explained the situation. Anton peers over her shoulder at Killian. "Now, do I need to intimidate this guy," he points at Killian. "Or is he a friendly?"
"He's a friendly, for the most part."
"He's also standing right here and can hear everything you say," Killian supplies from his place just over her shoulder.
"He seems like a smart ass," Anton winks at her, then holds out his hand to Killian. It's night and day from their exchange with Walsh, and she chuckles when Killian winces against Anton's grip. "You seem like a smart ass," Anton tells Killian.
"He is."
"I am."
"A perfect fit for Emma, then."
Emma punches Anton in the shoulder as he begins to lead them to the seems she doesn't even need to try and convince Anton that her and Killian are together. She wonders if the word has spread that quickly (Uncle Leroy has been known to scream things down the street), or if he assumed it when they climbed out of the car together.
She doesn't know which is better.
He shows them to the blueberry bushes in the far right corner as soon as they enter the greenhouse, the humidity pressing down on her as they carefully pick their way through rows of herbs, vegetables and assorted greenery. The blueberry bushes had been an insistence from her mother, apparently, and Anton had considered it a favor repaid.
"Shouldn't I be the one reaping those benefits?" She takes the basket handed to her, side eyeing Killian as he scopes out the blueberry bushes with something akin to childish delight. He's already got a neat handful in the bottom of his basket, fingertips stained with blue.
"All in the family," Anton throws over his shoulder, making his way back to the front. "I've got some stalks to check on out in the fields. Lock up when you go?"
"Sure."
They work in silence side by side, the rustling of the branches as they catch on her coat the only sound between them. He hums a nameless tune under his breath as he ducks around the end of the aisle, disappearing behind thick branches of green. His boots scuffle every couple steps and the coziness of it all allows her mind to wander. The warmth of the small greenhouse, the way the sun filters in through the thick, fogged over glass. She used to come here with Henry when they first moved, too afraid to touch the delicate petals of the lilacs near the front, worried she would make them crumble.
"So fighting the good fight has always been in your blood, yes?" Killian appears suddenly at her elbow, reaching into her bucket and plucking a blueberry. "You helped Anton," he supplies in response to her silent question.
"Oh, that was -" she slaps his hand away from her bucket when his fingers go wandering again. It's no surprise that he has substantially less berries than she does. He probably got distracted by his own reflection in the windows. "That was a one time thing. It gave me an excuse to put some jerks in their place."
"Early allusions to your bondswork, perhaps."
She hums, tipping her bucket into his. "Maybe."
They have more than enough berries for the pies Mary Margaret wants to make, even if Killian does decide to keep sampling the stock. She smiles when he reaches back into the bucket without thinking, eyebrows pulled down low.
"You're thinking about making a beer, aren't you?"
He blinks. "How many packs of vacuum sealed berry bags do you think we can fit in our carry on?" She rolls her eyes and hopes he's kidding but knows from experience he's probably not. She has a nearly torn in half duffle bag somewhere in her apartment from his desire to own all the honey in Portland to prove it. "Do you think - ah, wait a tic, Swan."
He tugs on her elbow, bringing her around until her boots are pressed neatly between his, urging the bucket from her fingers and placing it just next to them. Holding her steady with his palm against her cheek, he tilts her chin up with his thumb beneath. His cold hands are a shock to her system, her body attempting to pull away from him even as he shushes her and brings her closer.
It's warm in the tiny greenhouse, warmer still with him standing so close. She feels it in her cheeks and sees it in the tips of his pink ears, lingering this close to him. She can see the spot just on the underside of his jaw that he missed when shaving, the red in his beard glowing amber in the morning light.
"You have a bit of - " his free hand swipes at the corner of her mouth and she licks her lips as his thumb drags down, working at her skin in firm circles to remove whatever stubborn bit of berry is clinging to her skin. Her hands find his hips to steady herself and he breathes in deep through his nose, eyes darting up from his thumb lingering on the dent in her chin to hold her gaze.
His blue eyes look brighter here, like this, standing in a too-quiet greenhouse on the edge of town with her fingers in his belt loops.
(She'll have to ask Anton if these bushes are laced with pesticides, because Killian breathes out again and she feels a weight in her arms and in the base of her spine, tugging her closer and making her heart pound too loud in her ears.)
"There," he whispers, and her hands flex against him. "Good as new."
She doesn't move from his hold, his palm sliding until his fingers tangle lightly in her messy bun, just behind her ear. It's what he does when he's about to kiss her, she's started to notice, and it's that idle thought that has her backing away from him, holding the bucket close to her chest.
"Thank you."
Kissing in a greenhouse with no one else around goes against every careful rule she's written herself for this charade she's placed them in, and unlike allowing herself to fall back asleep pressed against his chest, it's not one she can easily write off later.
When she looks back up, he's inspecting one of the blueberry bushes with a critical eye, and she feels stupid for thinking he might kiss her. What he feels towards her is strictly platonic, and she's seeing the things she wants to see. He's here because he's her friend - her best friend - and she asked for his help.
It's the heat in this tiny greenhouse - or something.
"Do you think you could extend that family favor and get Anton to ship me one of these?"
She rolls her eyes. "I don't think you can send a bush through the mail, Killian."
One eyebrow jumps up with a wicked smirk. "I beg to differ, Swan. I'll have you know - "
She's quick to turn on her heel to hide her smile. "Shut up."
-/-
He dozes in the passenger seat on the way back to her parent's house, arms crossed over his chest and forehead pressed against the window, his breath fogging the glass on every exhale. He isn't used to spending his days being a productive member of society, often not waking until around two to head into the bar. It's why she got him blackout curtains for Christmas after all, tired of his constant bitching regarding the amount of light in his apartment.
("Well maybe you shouldn't have picked the place with the floor to ceiling windows."
Sleep rumpled and blinking at her heavily, he watched as she stood on his dining room table to hang the drapes over the largest of the windows.
"But look at the view, darling," smile hidden behind his coffee mug, she had practically felt his gaze linger on her exposed shoulder, down to the small of her back where her shirt had ridden up. "A man can hardly resist.")
Her dad is on the roof when they pull into the driveway, not the best sign especially when Henry lobs a flashlight at him from down in the yard. David catches it easily, peering down the chimney with obvious hesitance.
"That seems troublesome."
Killian's accent is rougher with sleep, the edges to his words sharper. She frowns and kills the ignition, grabbing their bucket of berries from it's place nestled in the backseat.
"Probably a raccoon in the fireplace."
He looks at her in surprise. "Does that sort of thing happen often?"
A smile twitches at the corners of her lips as she leans closer, mouth just below his ear. "I heard something in the closet last night, could be a whole family of them."
He doesn't look amused when she throws her head back and laughs.
"Low hanging fruit, Swan."
She swings the basket back and forth in front of his face. "Good thing we had practice."
Henry greets them at the stairs, bundled in several layers. She thumbs at the striped scarf around his neck that he got when he first got to their group home, frayed at the edges with use. His eyes hold hers with a soft smile and she knows he's remembering, too.
They've come a long way from the scraggly kids they used to be.
"The heat kicked the bucket. Dad is up checking the chimney to make sure we can use the fireplace."
Killian nods sagely. "Raccoons."
"What?" Henry reaches in and snags a handful of berries, tossing them in his mouth. It's like the kid never stops eating, she swears. "Is that a thing in England? Raccoons in chimneys?"
Emma rolls her eyes with a snicker, pulling the basket out of reach and handing it off to Killian. "Take this in to my mom, I'm going to check and see if my dad needs help. You're then relieved of your duties for the time being."
Henry and Killian look at each other, mirrored grins fixed firmly in place.
"Call of Duty?"
"It's about time I taught you a thing or two in person, lad."
Their trash talk fades as they head through the front door and she climbs up the ladder propped against the front of the house, making her way across the roof to where her dad is still peering down the chimney.
"Need to make sure it's clear," he explains needlessly. When her and Henry first came home with the Nolans, David had taken special care to explain anything and everything he was doing. He wanted them to feel included. He wanted them to feel valued. For Emma, he wanted to assure her that she was finally somewhere she could stay.
It seems old habits die hard.
It makes her smile.
She rocks back on her heels, nodding. "I told Killian you were looking for raccoons."
David chuckles, clicking off his flashlight and slipping it into his back pocket in a practiced maneuver that speaks to years on the job as town Sheriff. "Did he buy it?"
She grins.
-/-
There's a cacophony of mortar shell explosions and high-power machine gun fire when she swings through the front door, immediately ducking into the kitchen to spare herself the brunt of it. There's a definite chill in the air from the lack of a functioning heater, but the ovens going in the kitchen make up for it - the fireplace able to kick in later. Mary Margaret smiles at her over the bucket of berries, that damned dwarf dish towel clutched in her hand.
"Did you lose your dad?"
"I think he voluntarily enlisted," she slides onto a stool. "Noble hero that he is."
"That he is," Mary Margaret smiles and Emma idly wonders if she will ever get sick of how much her parents love each other. While they have their moments where they border on gag-worthy, it's comforting to see a couple so in tune with one another. It gives her hope for her own future, that she's not so far gone that it's outside the realm of possibility. "How was Anton?"
"Large," she replies. "Kind, as usual. Hey, I don't appreciate you cashing in my favors, by the way."
"You can have the first slice of pie, if that makes you feel better."
"I'm sure you already promised that to Henry, so the point is moot," she watches Mary Margaret's hands gently clean the berries, setting them to the side to dry on a stack of paper towels. She debates mentioning Walsh, but she's chasing a hunch and her gut is rarely wrong. "We ran into Walsh at breakfast."
"Oh?"
Her mom's face stays carefully neutral, not even an eyebrow twitching out of place. She narrows her eyes.
"I knew it."
Mary Margaret puts the berries down. "Now, Emma - "
"You told him we were having breakfast there."
"It's the only place in town to get coffee that early. I couldn't possibly - "
"But you could possibly," she stresses the word. "Mention that you sent us on an errand at the crack of dawn." She crosses her arms over her chest defensively - frustration at Walsh, her mother, and herself combining into the perfect storm of hostility. Apparently it's going to take more than a fake engagement to get her mom off her back regarding Walsh.
Mary Margaret at least has the courtesy to look contrite, mouth pulled tight.
"I merely mentioned you were back in town for the festival and I would be sending you out to the farm for supplies," he shrugs. "I'm sure he put the rest together himself, that you would be at the diner that early."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure you assumed I would invite him along, didn't you?"
The slightly guilty look on her mother's face is all the answer she needs. Mary Margaret has always been kind of the worst at telling lies. It's how she knew she was getting the bug for high school graduation, and how she found out that they were even being adopted in the first place. Mary Margaret has a tendency to just...blurt things out.
She slides off the stool. "I'm going to see what the guys are up to."
"Emma - "
"No, just - " she sighs, shaking her head, thumb rubbing along the cold metal on her ring finger. She knows Mary Margaret means well, that she just wants her to find her own happy ending. But it doesn't sit right with her.
None of this does.
"Lights tonight in the square?"
Mary Margaret nods. "We're going to wait until it gets dark so we can see how it looks all done up."
Emma forces a smile. "Sounds great."
"Emma, honey -"
"Sounds great, Mom."
-/-
Killian, for his part, doesn't say anything about the downturn of her mood. He just laces their fingers together on the couch and presses a kiss to the side of her head when she joins them, handing off his remote to David and instructing Henry (bickering) on how to best capture their enemies flag.
They spend the afternoon just like that, huddled together on the couch, Mary Margaret appearing with sandwiches and apologetic eyes that Emma does her best to avoid.
It isn't until they're suiting up to head to Main Street that Killian brings it up.
"Alright, love?" He tugs her cap down over her ears, carefully pushing strands of wayward hair away from her face.
"Yeah," she sighs. "I'm alright."
"Anything I can assist with?"
And maybe it's because she's tired of fighting it so much or maybe it's because she's still fanning the flame of rebellion, but she grips his coat collar in her hands and tugs him down so his nose brushes hers. Her dad is standing just behind him, and it's as good excuse as any.
"Kiss me?" she whispers, hating the thinly masked need in her voice. Being in this house makes her feel sixteen again, in more ways that one.
He doesn't answer her with his words, instead pressing his fingers to that spot just behind her ear that he favors. His eyes search hers for several silent moments and when he leans down to press his lips to hers, it feels feels more and she finally (finally) lets herself fall into it without the constant mantra of pretend, pretend, pretend looping in the back of her mind. He keeps it soft and careful and sweet and when he pulls back, he lingers in her space, nose dragging along her cheekbone.
"Who am I to deny a beautiful woman?"
"You two are so gross," Henry wedges himself between them in his effort to get to the door, forcing them apart. She gives Killian a small grin in response, but he just blinks at her, his cheeks pink.
She blames it on the cold settling over the house, and it's as good excuse as any.
-/-
Whatever hesitations she had earlier in the day regarding her (fake) relationship with Killian quickly evaporate over the course of the evening. With her hand in his, they set themselves to twining twinkle lights around the light poles up and down Main Street, getting themselves tangled more than once. She laughs loud when he curses at the bloody things, demonic fairy lights to be sure and takes the tangled batch from his hands, working it free quickly and efficiently, him glaring at her the whole time.
"I loosened it for you," he mutters.
"Mm hmm."
It's the lightest she's felt since she woke up the morning after her dream where she was stuck on his boat without him. Apparently there's something to be said for just going with it.
She knows she'll pay for it later - that the voices in her head will come back ten-fold - but she can't really stop herself from giving in when he slips his heavy flannel coat from around his shoulders to drape around hers, working her arms through it and zipping it up carefully.
"Leather is hardly appropriate for late fall, darling," his breath is white and his coat smells like his body wash, wintergreen and sweet. "What kind of boyfriend would I be if I let you freeze?"
She pulls the sleeves over her hands, smiling. "Fiancé."
"Aye," his answering grin is just as wide. "Fiancé."
Henry's voice is far away - but not lacking in volume - when he yells from his perch atop a street bench.
"Still gross!"
-/-
All hesitation disappears by the time they make it back to the house, her bedroom so cold they can both see their breath in the air between them. The space heater her dad gave her just isn't cutting it and she's cold.
She folds herself into his arms as soon as he's done tucking the surplus of blankets around them both, shivering as he rubs his hands up and down her back.
"I promise not to steal the blankets tonight," she presses into his chest, nose digging into his collarbone.
The ancient space heater sputters in the quiet of her room, a mechanical clanking as it does it's best to churn out heat.
"I would make a quip about creating some heat of our own, but even I'm too cold for that," he gives a violent shiver against her, his sock covered feet kicking back and forth beneath their blankets. "Are you alright, Swan? Earlier, you seemed - "
He lets his sentence drift off and she balances her chin on his chest to peer up at him. She can barely make out the angles of his face in the dark, but she can feel the way his fingers press a bit harder at her skin through the material of his sweatshirt, how his strokes become more calming and intent.
It's the good part of being with someone - the soft, silent comfort - without the heartache of potentially messing things up. Of things ending.
(Of her never seeing him again after she inevitably fucks it up.)
(It's the only way - this pretend - it's the only way she can ever have something like this with Killian. All the wondering, all the - Ruby calls it yearning - all of it. She can have her week of make-believe and they can go back to what they were. He can stay in her life and she can look back on this and remember the way his arms feel wrapped around her, lips pressed to her forehead, when she really needs it.
It's the only way.
She can't - she won't - try it for real.)
("It would have happened if it was supposed to, and it hasn't, so this is what we are. This is what it is.")
She burrows further into him, her face in his neck.
"I'm okay."
She's kind of perfect, actually.