Chapter 7

He's not going to press his advantage.

It's not the gentlemanly thing to do, and he won't have Emma under duress. If she makes the decision to be with him outside this farce they've constructed, he wants it to be her own.

He doesn't want it to be because the heater in her parent's home had a rather violent end to what he's come to understand was a long and dignified life.

("It sort of - exploded."

"It's an old house. To be expected, I'm sure."

Three sets of eyes staring back at him until Henry -

"What even happens in England?"

Apparently exploding heaters are not to be expected.)

He also doesn't want it to be because of her mother, and whatever she said to Emma in the kitchen that had her bothered. He had caught the way Mary Margaret was desperately trying to lure Emma into eye contact, and it would take a fool of a man not to notice the way Emma curled in on herself throughout the afternoon - the furrow in her brow growing deeper as the sun progressively dipped lower.

(It would take a fool of a man not to notice the way Walsh had clearly tried to goad him with the comment about Emma in the morning - an immature dig if he ever saw one. It had made Emma pause, though, a wince flitting across her face before she bid Walsh a frosty farewell and, well - it's not like he needed more reason to hate the man but he's quite content to add it to the list.)

(He thought about asking her if there was any truth to the statement. If her dinner had in fact been more. But Emma has never been one to hide things from him and letting Walsh under his skin regarding a relationship that isn't even real probably qualifies as bad form.)

When he asked what she needed as they stood bundled in the foyer, he had meant it. He'd bloody well cross to the end of the world and back if it meant it removed that haunted look from her gaze. What he hadn't expected was for her to ask for a kiss. For her voice to go soft and her fingers to curl around his elbows, tugging him closer into her space as her chin tilted up.

What he hadn't expected was the soft noise made under her breath to settle low in his stomach, his fingers clenching tight in the hair just behind her ear.

He feels the shift in her - her smile bright in the glow of the infuriating twinkle lights her mother has them twining around every available surface in the center of town. He feels the change in the air between them but he's not - he's not going to press his advantage.

Not even when she's curled against his front in her tiny childhood bed, her breath warm against the hollow of his throat.

Not even when she finally relaxes into sleep with his arms tight around her, his lips brushing back and forth against her forehead.

Not even when his shivering subsides to the warmth between them, her fingers tangled tight in the material of his sweatshirt.

"You'll be the death of me," he mutters as she shifts further into him, the honey vanilla smell of her shampoo wrapping around him.

All in all, not a bad way to go.

-/-

He dreams of the greenhouse, of her lips soft beneath his and tasting of blueberries. He dreams that his thumb lingers in the dent in her chin as he presses her back into the little wooden shelf, their bucket tumbling to the ground between them when her fingers abandon it for the collar of his shirt. He uses his thumb on her chin as an anchor, gently guiding her mouth open wider against his own, the low hum beneath his skin growing to a dull roar when she gasps out his name on a shaky exhale. When his hips press tight to hers and the branches from the bushes scratch at his arms. When his tongue curls around hers in a wet slide of heat that has him pressing his hips against hers tighter, the edge of the cedar shelf no doubt digging into the small of her back.

She's stunning with the morning light in her hair and lips stained blue, swollen from his kiss as her tongue traces over it. Captivating when her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and a smile curls at the corners of her lips. The edges around her are soft and her skin glows unnaturally in the light - the odd sensation of knowing you're in a dream but not giving a flying twit about it.

She leans back from him but doesn't go far, her cheeks pink and eyes shining.

"You wanted to do that, didn't you?"

He smiles, giving in and nudging her nose with his own. "You didn't truly think me that enamored with a blueberry bush, did you, love? Certainly not with you so close?"

"No," she smiles, and the tender understanding in her eyes makes everything blur and then snap back into focus, the meadow behind her through the fogged up windows tilting on it's axis. He tilts as well, wishing so badly it could be this easy in their waking moments. She cups his jaw with her hand, her skin cold against his own. "No, I didn't."

He wakes with a start, the room still dark, the air still cold around them.

But where Emma is pressed against him, he is unbearably warm. She mutters something under her breath about fairy lights and he chuckles, the racing in his heart calming. The images of his dream are already slipping through his fingertips, nothing but the taste of blueberry lingering on his tongue. After counting her breaths and doing his best to match his breathing with hers, he soon forgets why he's awake at all.

Though his last fleeting thought before sleep claims him again is perhaps blueberry beer isn't such a bad idea afterall.

-/-

He wakes to her still in his arms, her hair a tangled halo against the pillow. He fiddles with it, twisting the strands around his fingers and watching the way it slips against his rings. He had half a mind to think she would already be gone when he woke, her avoidance of him as she lets herself give in to his comfort a tried and true pattern. She had avoided him for nearly a month back in university when his nose had brushed hers during a particularly boozy night at the bar, their heads bent low together and her breath sweet against his chin. She had avoided him for two weeks when she told him of her troubled past - of bouncing from foster home to foster home and the chasm it created in her chest.

But she's still here, and his stomach flips a bit at the indication.

Perhaps - perhaps she's starting to see just how wonderful they could be together.

A particularly stubborn curl snags on the ruby ring he wears on his index finger, and she makes a disgruntled noise beneath her breath.

"You're pulling," she mutters, swatting at his hand. "Stop it."

"I'm merely untangling the disaster that is your hair."

She squints open one eye to look at him. "I would ask if you're always this charming first thing in the morning, but I already know that answer."

"Aye, so you do." He grins and she huffs, burrowing herself further against him. The air of her bedroom is still biting cold, the stiff wind that whips at the windows not helping matters. He smoothes his palm over the back of her head, careful to make sure his rings don't catch this time.

"Why is it still so cold?" She whines somewhere in the depths of his sweatshirt, her fingers slipping up the sleeves to press against his forearms after she drags his arms back between them. He jumps at the touch of cold, and she snickers into cotton.

"I would assume November has something to do with it."

When she makes no move to respond with violence, he decides perhaps he should play nice. No need to poke the sleeping giant and all that.

"Shall I fetch you some hot chocolate from the kitchen?"

She tilts her chin against his chest until all he can see is the green of her eyes, squinting up at him from beneath the blankets that are pulled to her ears. She's painfully adorable in the moment, and he has no doubt she would resort to violence if he were to impart his thoughts.

"With cinnamon and whipped cream?"

He scoffs, mentally bracing himself for the cold. It's so pleasantly warm beneath the covers with her body pressed to his, he's loathe to leave it.

But he did make the suggestion.

"You act as if I've never made you a hot chocolate before."

"You have, it's just - "

He stops from where he'd been working to disentangle himself from the sheets and her limbs, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"It's just, what?" Her lips twitch at the corners and he frowns. "Swan, have I not been making you adequate hot chocolate throughout the years?"

"You just - you forgot the cinnamon once and I - "

"It was one time, woman." One time when she had whipped off her shirt immediately upon entering his apartment, ranting and raving about the prick who had elbowed her into the trash depository on the end of the park, mustard and god knows what staining her favorite stake out shirt. She had been clad in nothing but her sports bra - breasts pushed up and full - and he had forgot the cinnamon. She's damn well lucky he managed to heat up the milk and pour it into the mug at all, especially when he returned to his living room to find her shrugged into one of his flannel button ups. "Shall I never be free of my sins?"

She nudges him out of bed with her foot, clearly ignoring the way his whole body seems to cave in on itself when the frigid air of the house wraps around him. She pulls the blanket tight under her chin.

"You'll be free when you bring me a hot chocolate," she yawns and closes her eyes. "With cinnamon."

-/-

He's just pouring the steamed milk over the cocoa powder when a voice startles him.

"Wow, you're whipped."

Henry slides onto a stool at the breakfast bar, smug grin on his face, knit cap pulled low over his ears and hands rubbing against the outside of his arms. For the lack of familial blood between them, him and Emma share an alarming amount of mannerisms.

Killian shrugs, his hand steady as he stirs the chocolate in. "I don't consider doing kind things for the people you care about whipped, as you so eloquently put it. Plus, as I'm sure you'll find out later in life, a man who gives to his woman - " he continues to stir while poking his tongue at the inside of his cheek. " - is a man who receives from his woman."

Henry makes a face that looks as if he's just swallowed an entire lemon. "That's - disgusting."

Killian chuckles and places the spoon in the sink. He'll let the hot chocolate cool for a moment before adding the whipped cream, knowing Emma doesn't like it when the sugary white confection melts too fast.

"Not how I meant it, though I'm sure the point is the same." At Henry's deepening frown, he rolls his eyes. "I was just trying to say that I'd do just about anything for you sister, if only to see her smile."

Make hot chocolate in the freezing house. Stuff protein bars in her glove compartment to make sure she consumes actual, valuable sustenance.

Pretend to be her fiance.

"You really mean that don't you?"

He turns fully to meet Henry's suddenly serious stare, chin balanced in his palm as he coolly assesses Killian.

"Yes," he says without hesitation, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "I do."

"That's good," Henry answers after another tense beat of silence, eyes narrowing in silent contemplation. "Because Emma hasn't had many people in her life that do that."

"She has you," Killian supplies, smiling slightly when a proud grin tugs at the corners of Henry's mouth. "She has your mother and your father."

"Yeah, and now she has you, too."

Killian nods, doing his best not to let his smile falter. He tries to reason with himself that Henry wasn't referring to their engagement specifically - that their bond runs just a deep without a ring on her finger for real. But it itches beneath his skin - that Emma has him but doesn't want him. That she sees the implication of all that they can be and she still - she still chooses to hold herself back.

But that's what his agreeing to this trip was for, after all. To show her that they could have more, and still be everything they were.

He reaches for the whipped cream with renewed determination, using a bit too much force as it sprays half into the mug and half into his hand.

"Aye, me as well."

-/-

Halfway back up the stairs with the mug of hot chocolate in hand, he turns and retreats back to the kitchen. Henry is still sitting at the kitchen counter, but he's managed to scrounge up some of the baked goods covered in foil on the far end, a fork held above the pie tin as he watches Killian place the mug down carefully.

(It has dancing dwarves on it and he noticed them placed strategically throughout the house - in the form of a dish rag hanging over the edge of the stove, in a series of vases stacked on the mantle above the fireplace. He makes sure to take extra care when placing it down. He doesn't want to destroy some sort of family heirloom.)

"You forgot the cinnamon, didn't you?"

Killian glares into the cabinet, reaching for the silver can near the top. "No."

He ignores Henry's best imitation of a whip as he heads back up the stairs.

-/-

Emma is smiling at him, bleary eyed and beautiful, when he enters the room.

"You forgot the cinnamon, didn't you?"

He drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, an exasperated sigh whispered through his clenched teeth. "How did you know?"

"Henry's voice carries," she mutters, reaching out from beneath her blanket burrito and extending her hand. At his slightly alarmed look, she smirks. "Don't worry, I didn't hear your battle strategy about your stupid zombie duty - "

"Call of Duty, for god's sake, love."

" - or whatever. I just heard him say something about cinnamon after you clomped back down the stairs. I put the pieces together."

He slides back into bed next to her, sighing at the immediate warmth and the way her feet lock around his ankle. She sits up slightly and tosses the extra blankets over his lap, curling her palm around the steaming mug and taking a gentle lick at the whipped cream on top, smiling serenely.

It takes everything in him not to lean forward and taste the whipped cream on her tongue - the bit clinging to the corner of her lips.

"I don't clomp."

"Uh, you definitely clomp. I'm surprised you didn't wake up the whole house."

He's relieved by the turn in conversation, even more relieved that she didn't hear a majority of his discussion with Henry. It's nothing she doesn't know - how much he values his place in her life - but she has a tendency to get skittish when her past is brought up. What's worse - defensive and haunted when the people who have left her behind are alluded to.

And what they have right now - her pressed into his side as she sips at her hot chocolate, humming under her breath with every odd sip and extending her mug out to him - it's good.

He curls his fingers around the mug, skin lingering against her own. He's delighted to see a blush light her cheeks, lip caught between her teeth.

"You have a bit of, uh - "

She taps at her own nose in silent explanation and he chuckles, going crosseyed and sticking out his tongue to try and gather the whipped cream left on his nose. He's reminded of their afternoon in the greenhouse, and his almost painfully transparent excuse to touch her.

"It seems we both have a tendency to be messy eaters. Or rather drinkers, in this case."

She smiles at him like she knows a secret he doesn't and he idly wonders if she knows more about that errant swipe of blueberry and his thumb working against her chin then she lets on. He can still feel the soft fullness of her bottom lip against the pad of his thumb - remember the way her breath had backed up in her lungs as he crowded her space.

"Just don't get whipped cream all over my bed."

She realizes her words almost immediately, rolling her eyes and groaning as he lets out a hearty laugh.

"Shut up."

"I said nothing."

"Yeah, but you wanted to."

"Not a thought crossed my mind."

"Mmmhmm."

"I'll have you know, Swan," he leans forward until the remnants of whipped cream on his nose brush against her cheek in a haphazard line. "I'm always quite careful with my cream."

She looks unamused when he pulls back, the blush still lingering on her cheeks, her palm swiping at the sticky confection he left against her skin. Instead of wiping it on his sweatshirt as he anticipated, she - god help him - she licks at it with the flat of her tongue. A broad stripe that has him biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his groan.

She's teasing him. On purpose.

Some might even say flirting.

Faltering for something to say that doesn't give away the tension pulling low in his abdomen, he coughs, feeling like a sodding fool for having indecent thoughts about her while in her childhood bedroom. But it's far from the first time this has happened, and he's sure it's far from the last.

(Not to mention this is another step in the progression she showed last night. Something else that shows she might - she might actually want him. Want this.)

(He wants to watch as she drags her tongue along the line of his neck, down over his collarbone, to the lines of ink that drag over his chest. He wants to watch her nip with her teeth and pull - leaving marks next to his scars and tattoos. Pink and indented with her teeth as she struggles to hold herself back.)

"So," he does his damndest to move the conversation to safer waters, giving in and rolling his eyes when she smirks at him. "What's on the docket for today, love?"

Her eyes brighten, the haze of (what he hopes to be) desire dissipating in her excitement. He can't help but mirror her grin, her obvious joy infectious.

"We're going to set up your Kissing Booth."

His head snaps up from where it had been resting comfortably against her backboard, a sharp crack protesting the abrupt movement. He narrows his eyes are the smug expression tilting her lips - the arch of her eyebrow like she's just daring him to say something about it.

"You're kidding."

-/-

He's relieved to discover that she was in fact kidding about the kissing booth.

He hates that he had to figure it out by bringing it up casually in conversation with her parents - tripping over his words like an adolescent about his hesitance to do something so - painfully unhygienic.

Emma and Henry had immediately dissolved into a fit of giggles and he had glared daggers at the back of her head.

Instead she has them stringing more of the infernal lights - this time from rooftop to rooftop in the center square in an intricate criss cross pattern that Mary Margaret actually laid out on a diagram. His copy of which he lost within the first ten minutes balanced on the edge of the rooftop.

"You know I'm kind of surprised that you're doing that without gloves," Emma offers from her place propped against the stairwell door, grilled cheese covered in foil fit neatly between her mittened hands. "Considering how unhygenic it is."

"I have half a mind to fling that sandwich from the roof in retribution," he mutters, dropping the tangled strands of lights and clomping his way over to her. She holds the grilled cheese protectively against her chest, but it doesn't deter him. "In fact - "

She laughs loud when he cages her in with his arms, beard brushing against her cheek when he leans forward and takes a vicious bite out of her sandwich. There's cheese hanging from his mouth and he's sure he looks a sight, but her face is an appropriate combination of horrified and amused, her green eyes sparkling up at him as he does his best not to choke on the sandwich.

A hard feat, that, when her cheeks are flushed just so and she snorts a laugh through her nose.

"I hope you choke on that," she whispers when he doesn't move from her space, chewing obnoxiously loud and glaring at her. The fingers not around her sandwich curl around his wrist pressed against cold brick and his eyes narrow. There's no one here to see them, no one here for them to play pretend for, and it makes his heart flip foolishly with hope. She holds up what's left of her mangled sandwich and smiles sweetly. "Would you like the rest?"

"Since you asked so nicely," he pushes himself off the wall, not liking how much it makes his head spin to be so close to her. Or rather, he likes it too much. "I daresay I would."

She hands it over without complaint and he takes another careful bite without looking away from her.

"After all," her serene smile turns into a wide grin. "Wouldn't want you to be unhygenic."

He throws the little ball of foil at her head.

-/-

She pulls another sandwich out of her satchel, and bloody hell -

"Swan, you aren't playing fair."

She shrugs, unwrapping the foil from around what is clearly a BLT. The mouth watering scent of bacon hits his nose on a breeze clearly sent from hell and he pulls overly hard on one of the strands, no doubt tightening it beyond repair. She knows how he feels about bacon.

She knows.

"Maybe if you hadn't been such a barbarian, you would have received your favorite sandwich."

"Wench," he mutters under his breath and she chuckles.

After a beat of silence that's filled with the infuriating sound of his hands furthering the mess of lights and the crunch of crisp (god) bacon - an indecent groan from her that makes him think terrible, terrible things - she sing-songs across the rooftop to him -

"It has avocado."

- and that's it. He throws the lights down for the second time that evening and storms over to her, his hands on her hips guiding her back until she's nestled against the wall once more, her boots tucked neatly between his. He reaches forward with his mouth as his hands are otherwise occupied with holding her firm as she squirms against him. And it's a bloody cluster fuck of a situation, her arm angling up as he leans forward, and he doesn't mean it, he really doesn't mean it, but his mouth -

Well, his mouth lands right on her neck.

His teeth even bite down a little bit, intent on the sandwich she's still holding aloft like a shining trophy - a beacon of his torment, if you will.

But this. This is a whole other sort of torment.

She lets out a breathy sound, her thigh nudging his.

Infinitely worse.

His bottom lip drags against her skin as they both freeze, the tip of his tongue grazing her skin like he just can't help himself. It would be comical, the way they sort of stop all movement immediately, if he didn't feel like he were fit to burst by his mouth between her shoulder and neck. He aches to taste her skin - aches to bite down harder and see if she makes that cross between a sigh and a moan again.

Aches to kiss her for real, with everything he has, with no one else watching.

Instead he leans back from her, an apology on his tongue because it would be just his luck to fall into a compromising position with her. Just when - just when she seems to be coming around to the idea of him and them and all the things they could be if she just -

"Wait."

Her hands tighten over his biceps, keeping him where he is, lingering in her space with his nose still buried in her hair. It's a touch better than his mouth on her, but just as disarming.

Just as distracting.

"Emma?"

He leans back to see her eyes because he needs to see her eyes - see what she could possibly be thinking. The sandwich in her hand drops to the ground between them and he would be more concerned about the bacon if she wasn't licking at her bottom lip, glancing between his eyes and his mouth, her fingers clenching and unclenching against his jacket.

"I - "

"Emma? Killian?" She jumps as if the voice is right between them instead of on the street down below, a smile smile quirking her lips as she releases his arms. "Are you guys up there?"

He allows her to slip out from between him and the wall, her boot steps sure as she walks over to the edge.

Him? He's not so sure.

The only thing he's sure of is the whispered wait between them.

Sure he'll wait as long as it takes.

-/-

Emma leaves him to go down to the street and oversee where the tents will be placed, her voice carrying up to him every now and then from down below. He curses the timing of it, feeling as if they were on the precipice of - something. Henry comes to assist him with the lights briefly -

("You know for a self-proclaimed sailor, you're pretty terrible at the whole knot thing."

"I'm adept at making knots, lad. Not undoing them.")

- before abandoning him to other ventures as well. The lights are strung according to what he remembers from the document Mary Margaret handed him, and he idles his time after, sitting with his feet hanging over the edge of the roof. His mind wanders from his conversation with Henry early in the morning, to thoughts of Emma and the way she had looked at him with her back pressed against the brick, to Will and whether or not he's managed to burn down the brewery in his absence. He's just about to gather himself and seek out Emma when he hears her laugh - a sharp bark of it that has him glancing for her golden hair among the people milling about on the streets.

He spots her by the edge of a folded up tent, her arms crossed over her chest, talking to - bloody hell - talking to Walsh.

She looks uncomfortable, from what he can see, and he's just preparing himself to vault himself right off the roof to her side when her shoulders suddenly relax and a smile blooms across her face. She steps closer into Walsh's space and his hand comes to cup her elbow and he can't look anymore, his stomach dropping to his toes. That comment of Walsh's in the diner niggles at the back of his mind and he turns off the ledge before he sees anymore, before he can be haunted by Emma smiling for another man.

A man she has no interest in pursuing something with, if she is to be believed.

But is that why he's here? To buffer her mother's unwanted critique of her love life? Or perhaps he's read this whole situation completely wrong. He was the one to suggest their farce, after all. He was the one who suggested he come with her and pretend.

Perhaps Emma wished him to accompany her purely to make Walsh jealous.

The thought twists his gut.

(But he saw the way she looked at him when curled against him in her bed, the way she looked at him just now with her hair tangled beneath her knit cap and her hands curled around his arms. He could feel her pulse beneath his mouth and the way it sped up - how her breath hitched. She feels something for him. He knows it.)

He's still frowning when he pushes out the door on the ground floor of the small diner they had breakfast in previously, the smell of roast and caramelized carrots tickling his nose. His stomach gives an appreciative rumble, a reminder that all he's had to eat today is sips of her hot chocolate and a grilled cheese bitten out of her hand.

But that line of thought certainly doesn't help his souring mood and he does his best to squash it, fixing a smile on his face as he slips out the door and into the brisk evening air. He makes his way to where he spotted her last, hoping Walsh has already made himself scarce and he doesn't have to hear if her voice changes with him - if her fingertips graze his chest in the same way they do his.

He thought himself cured of this long ago - the surge of possessiveness that tugs at him every time he sees Emma with someone else. But it seems something has changed for him as well.

"You alright?"

Walsh is blissfully nowhere to be found when he sidles up to her side, hands deep in his pockets. Apparently he wasn't doing as good a job at faking his good cheer as he presumed, shaking his head and grinning tight.

"Aye, love. Fine."

She gives him a skeptical glance, reaching for his hand and tugging until it's about her shoulders.

"They're about to turn on the lights," she nuzzles a bit into his arm and he feels himself relax, the tip of her nose pink from the cold. "Time to see your handiwork."

"It'll be nothing short of perfect, I'm sure."

She snorts. "It'll be a miracle if the whole town doesn't explode."

It's impossible to maintain his foul mood when hers is so light, especially after their shared moment on the roof. Impossible when she's in his arms and her hair keeps getting stuck in his beard, her arm pulling him tighter into her side.

"Hey, engineering degree, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember."

There's a dramatic countdown led by Emma's mother, but it's botched when at three Uncle Leroy trips the switch and the town is bathed in light. The strands he was responsible for hang perfectly, not a single bulb out of place.

Her hand slips into his, squeezing tight.

"Okay, maybe it's perfect."

-/-

She laughs at his jokes during dinner with her family - curls next to him in the booth and sneaks the onion rings he ordered for her off his plate. He pretends to care, but judging by the smirk on Henry's lips, Emma is the only one who is fooled.

When they get back to her parent's house, she slumps her way to her bedroom while he helps her father unload the truck, various boxes loaded into the garage and a number of space heaters donated by town patrons being shepherded in the house. He's given two for their bedroom upstairs and he tucks them carefully up his arms, making sure his footsteps are light in case Emma is already asleep.

She's curled beneath the blankets, nothing but a riot of blonde against the pillow visible.

"Come to bed," she mutters. "It's cold."

"Your father gave me more space heaters," he answers, shucking his jacket and plugging in the largest of the two, settling it on the windowsill so the heat hits her directly.

"Just need you," she slurs. He stills, peering down at her immobile form. She certainly didn't mean the words as he takes them, but he lets himself do a little of his own pretending, hating the part of himself that craves to hear the words in another matter entirely. She sighs and shuffles further beneath the blankets. "You're like my own personal space heater."

And suddenly he doesn't care the reasoning for why he's here. Jealousy or buffer, it doesn't matter. He gets this - Emma soft and half-asleep, arm outstretched over his pillow, quietly asking him to join her in bed. He gets shared hot chocolate and grilled cheese snatched from her hand, her laughter pressed against his throat when he falls into her and she doesn't press him away.

He gets time spent with her family, with her, showing her that this can work. They can work.

He gets to show her that he can - he can be something.

He can be better - for her.