She programs his number into her phone the second Henry's door slams behind him. He got an idea on the ride back. He needed to write it down right away. So in the wake of her son's excited babbling (wasn't Killian the best? wasn't he so nice? wasn't he so funny? wasn't he so inspiring? wasn't he so down to earth?) Emma is free to lean against their front door, let out a breath and bang her head against the solid surface behind her.

Yes, as a matter fact, he is so nice, and funny, and inspiring, and down to earth, and gorgeous as all hell. And, yes, Emma is absolutely screwed. She knows it as she takes out the book – the one with those dangerous, tempting numbers inside. She knows it as she drops down on the couch with a disgruntled huff. She knows it as she copies every digit, checking three times that she got it right.

She knows it as she deletes the first of many texts lost into the void of the unsent.

/

His mom has her addictions (hello, bear claws, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, cocoa with cinnamon and Quentin Tarantino) but her phone is not one of them. Unless she is working a case, she never has the device glued to her hand, certainly not when they are spending some 'quality mother-son time'.

So Henry has trouble connecting her announcement of being free from work for the rest of the year with the way she keeps glancing at her phone. It's nothing short of glaring, really, even if the glare seems to hold little animosity and a fair share of guilt.

/

Emma doesn't text Killian Jones after meeting him on the 21st and she doesn't text him on the 22nd and she blanches at the very thought of calling him. Now the 23rd is slipping from her as well and she is a fucking coward but one with common sense so whatever.

It's not like this (good lord, this isn't even a thing, there's no this or that or anything at all, there's just her overprotectiveness of her son, resulting in her stalkerish ways, resulting in a ridiculous borderline-creepy crush, resulting in a proper crush fueled by one Killian Jones's whole… person), it's not like it could work.

The most it can be, Emma is well-aware despite having been on a strictly fairytales diet for the last week, is a messy and possibly disappointing one night stand that she cannot afford to have around the holidays. She has a son. The whole reason for her predicament, the little shit.

And Killian… Killian will hardly be sticking around, if he is not gone already.

The whole thing is ridiculous and she decides to put it out of her mind, even if she doesn't have the heart to delete his number just yet.

So when Emma gets the delivery, she is confused at best and a whole lot of suspicious. She tears into the simple brown wrapping with her patent patience. Meaning – none.

Her gasp when she sees the cover of New Tales from the Old Forest VII is so loud she almost ruins what must be a Christmas surprise for Henry. She knows that's what it is so why is she so bitterly disappointed when the beautiful inscription in Killian Jones' ridiculously princess-y handwriting is indeed for her son and her son alone?

Henry will be over the moon. So Emma tells herself she is over the moon as well.

And then a thick envelope falls from the back of the heavy leather-bound book, with 'Emma' in that same stupid cursive, and she remembers what being over the moon really feels like.

/

Killian hasn't done the whole 'balls of paper lying everywhere but in the trashcan' writer cliché in years. Bloody hell, years. He has been writing for years. He is a successful writer. He is a bloody bestselling author. It still blindsides him on occasion.

He doesn't pay much attention to social media even if he does his best to post something every month or so. A poem. A quote. Things that speak to him and he hopes, he knows (he is slowly but surely beginning to know) speak to others as well.

But he takes special care with his fan mail. The actual mail. Not many people bother with that these days when their idols or current celeb crushes are just a tweet away. Yet more than Killian thought still do. He has a rather steady flow of letters, cards and small packages coming his way every month and he likes to think it is the perfect amount to remind him that people do want to read his words but not so much that he loses his head.

He has lost his head before and he has no interest in doing it again. Yet it seems that his heart is the one in danger now, something he never could have predicted, a plot twist so ingenious he has to tip off his hat to fate. It has certainly bested him.

Much like Emma Swan's smile has bested him. And the way her eyes flitter away when she is nervous. And the way her hair gets in her eyes. And the way she cradles books (his books, bloody buggering hell) in her arms. And the way she looks at her son. And her son. He has rarely wanted to see what becomes of someone as much as he wants to see what becomes of Henry. Because he knows it's going to be grand. And he wants to help it happen, he wants to watch it happen.

He is absolutely screwed. He knows it as he takes his own brand new copy of New Tales from the Old Forest VII off the shelf. He knows it as he lets his pen run with his head and, much more dangerously, with his heart as he dedicates it to the boy whose smile he can still feel tugging up the corners of his own mouth. He knows it as he takes out a stack of papers and his favourite black pen and starts writing to his mother next.

So here he is. Screwed and littering his own house. Because, much as he tries, she refuses to squeeze into the tight corset and twirl at the balls under the gazes of dozens of wish-to-be suitors. Because, much as he tries, he cannot pen anyone smart enough to outsmart her or bright enough to outshine her.

So with one last clumsy ball (truly, crumbling paper into a ball is not nearly as satisfying with one hand and Killian knows it's a ridiculous thing to miss when he still has trouble with his shoelaces but he does) he sets all ideas of writing her into a royal world of pomp and glitter aside and pictures the way her green eyes flashed back to him one last time before she led her boy away.

And just like that he leaves the ballrooms and castles far behind and the masts and planks and black sails and vicious storms rise up with a roar. He feels himself nodding along as he adds the Captain before her Swan and biting his lip as he straps the sword to her belt and grinning like the fool he is when he sprays the sea salt on her cheeks.

/

Emma exercises the one virtue she has never possessed and waits. She wraps Henry's book in the best wrapping paper she has left (and only sneaks a peak of the first page… ok, maybe the first five) and, on a whim, ties her own bulky letter with a bow and puts them both under the tree.

Dinner on Christmas Eve is a quiet but happy affair and as she looks at her son, she knows she will be fine no matter what, long as she has Henry. And yet… she finds it in herself to admit that maybe just because they are good, doesn't mean they can't be better. Maybe just because it's been the two of them for years, doesn't mean it always has to be.

She bites her lip until it almost bleeds but manages to be the adult, the responsible mother, and hands him one of her own presents to open before bed. No way is he ever falling asleep, if he sees the book. No way is she resisting opening her letter, if she gives him the book.

/

Christmas has never let him down!

Henry knows that his mom is only humouring him when she doesn't argue with his talk about magic and destiny and True Love but he also knows that there are some things even she doesn't know. So he humours her in turn and doesn't try to convince her of the magic that is so obviously everywhere. But on Christmas he doesn't hold back. And Christmas has always repaid his loyalty but this year. This year it outdid itself.

New Tales from the Old Forest VII

VII! As in the one that wouldn't be out for another two months. As in the one no one has seen yet. As in the one he is currently holding in his hands.

The one with Killian Jones's own handwriting inside it, calling him his 'favourite fan' and 'hopefully future fellow writer' and-

Christmas really outdid itself this year!

/

Emma would've thought she couldn't be more grateful for the absolute joy on her son's face when he tore through the reindeer to get to what she is sure is his new favourite possession. She would've thought that but then she discovers that Henry's absolute fascination with his book also gives her a reprieve from his admirable, but sometimes rather challenging, perceptiveness.

All she needs is the puppy eyes and a beseeching 'MOM' and she waves him off, pardoning him for his desire to spend Christmas Day buried in stories she frankly can't wait to read herself.

So maybe she has an ulterior motive as well, maybe there are other things she can't wait to read as well. She thinks she can be forgiven.

Emma scowls at the way her fingers almost tremble as she tears the corner of the letter. She is not fancy enough to have a letter opener (this is the first personal letter she has received since the one that contained nothing but a car key) and obviously not sensible enough to keep it together while just opening a stupid envelope.

The bulk of the thing should've given it away, yet she is still surprised, still gasps a little just like she did when she saw the book, when she pulls out the small stack of papers. There are at least twenty pages in her hands and they are all covered from top to bottom in his beautiful scroll.

Emma doesn't bother hiding in her bedroom, she is too stunned to think about keeping this from her kid, too wrapped up in trying to keep her thoughts from completely running away from her. She shuffles to the armchair, hand clutching the sheets of paper as if they might decide to slip from her fingers and make a run for it, grabs one of the many blankets, takes the couple of steps to the couch, mouth still slightly agape, and plops down in the vacant corner, glancing up to see that she could've started setting off fireworks and Henry still wouldn't have looked up from his book on the other end.

She spares a thought to making herself some hot cocoa but cannot convince herself to set down the pages or risk bringing them anywhere close to the damn surface of her kitchen counter. So she just plunges in.

/

She doesn't call him on New Year's and she doesn't text him.

Because it will be cliché and because he is probably celebrating and because she is too busy watching the fireworks playing over Henry's wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression.

And yet. It's only the twelfth minute of 2017 when she thinks about him for the first time this year. And she has a feeling it won't be the last.

/

She sits down on her worn couch on the 18th, after having put her kid to bed and having done the dishes. After having already put three dirtbags behind bars this year. After having read New Tales from the Old Forest VII and read and re-read and re-read and re-read his short story, her short story, at least a dozen times.

She sits down and prays to every deity, that might not be too hungover post-Christmas and New Year's to hear her, that she hasn't missed her chance with what she is afraid might be one of the single most amazingly talented and even more amazingly sweet men on earth.

/

So how is your new year going so far? – Emma Swan (Henry's mom, from the signing in NYC)

His eyes boggle and his grin is almost painful but he prides himself on the fact that the shock and elation and relief (the thought of never hearing her voice again has been slowly driving him insane for oh, about 28 days) don't incapacitate him completely for more than a couple of minutes.

/

She re-reads her stupid, stupid, text for the 8th time in the last 2 minutes and rolls her eyes at herself for the 8th consecutive time. Maybe she should've also added what she was wearing back then and quoted word for word everything he'd said. Pathetic. She is so not good at this.

Suddenly it seems like it might be the best one in a good while. – Killian Jones (the guy that has been staring a hole in his phone for the last month)

Well, maybe she isn't so bad after all.