An interlude to fill in the gaps before the final chapter. Emma struggles to make up for the fact that she missed an American Thanksgiving, so they have one at the palace. Takes place about a month and a half after chapter thirteen.

table for four

Emma glances at Killian across the table, eyes flitting from his barely-touched meal to the glass of wine that is almost half-empty. She frowns.

This was supposed to be going better.

Killian has been in the palace for several weeks and has had plenty of opportunities to interact with her parents in casual settings so its not like they haven't eaten together before. When they're all home, they've had meals in the familiar quarters watching movies, and one time Killian and Emma even picked up Thai take-away as a surprise. Both her parents have been exceptionally welcoming to the surprise boyfriend she brought home from the United States (and given the circumstances, that's really more than she could have expected).

So, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

"We'll hold our own Thanksgiving dinner, since we missed it," she announces one day. She's been thinking about this for a long time, and now that Killian is feeling better – now that feeling seems to be returning to his fingers – maybe they can recapture something from back at college (she knows it will not be the same, not without Robin and Regina, but she realizes that she wants it, badly, because it's something that she lost in Cassidy's plot – in addition to her entire college experience – and this feels like it can restore the balance.

Maybe.)

"It will just be dinner", she tells him. "You've had dinner with them before."

Killian nods, looking down at his hands (his left hand still bears the slowly healing gunshot wound from Gold). "It's one thing to eat pizza and watch Netflix with your mother, Emma," he says softly, and she can see that he is nervous by the way that he moves his jaw, the way that he scratches behind his ear with his right hand. "It's another to dine with the queen, and on a holiday no less." He frowns. "This isn't even our holiday."

"But you've already dined with the queen." Emma knocks her shoulder into his lightly. "It will be fun – we'll be bringing a bit of America to Eira."

"And it has to be done in a formal dining room?" Killian remarks, and Emma rolls her eyes. As much as she agrees with him, she also knows that this is a reality of her life – that there will be formal dining rooms and wine pairings and proper use of salad forks. And if he wants to be here, with her for it –

Her heart jumps for a second, and she turns her head, rests it against his shoulder. "Apparently – that's what Regina says," is all that she can say, waiting for him to respond – to tell her no, that this is ridiculous -

She feels the sigh go through his entire body. "All right," he agrees, and with that, a weight is lifted. With a smile Emma slides into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. She shifts her hips against his, and the look of trepidation on his face changes to something darker and full of promise.

"I promise it will be worth it," she says, pulling him closer, feeling his hands on the small of her back, and Killian arches an eyebrow, right hand traveling up to her bra strap –

A server brushes by her and she starts from the memory, tucking her hair behind her ears and trying hard not to blush (the memory of how she thanked him is quite vivid, and so not appropriate when eating with her parents).

She has been texting and Skyping with Regina for weeks, planning this event and, if she's being totally honest, just talking to her friend. There aren't many people who understand what they've been through but Regina does, and it's a small comfort every time she sees Regina's face (and Emma never thought she would say that about the other girl ever). Regina gives her recipes and sends her pictures of her own family's Thanksgiving dinner, and Emma does her best to recreate it in Eira.

Killian has had Thanksgiving dinner before. This should be easy. It's just that this is, well, different - as different as it can be when you're seated in one of the royal dining rooms having dinner with the royal family, complete with their best china and crystal, fine champagne and French wine, and staff stationed around the table to refill glasses, offer more potatoes, and ensure that every need is met.

(This part was her father's idea when she suggested Thanksgiving dinner and explained it was a holiday, for all holidays call for champagne and the royal silver, or so it is for their family.)

Across the table, Killian is listening intently as her mother speaks, spoon hanging in the air above his soup, which is growing colder by the minute.

She turns her attention from her boyfriend to her parents. Her mother is beautiful, dressed in a simple yet exquisitely tailored black dress with gorgeous diamonds dangling from her ears. Every inch the queen, Mary-Margaret engages Killian in polite conversation, while her father sits on Emma's other side and watches, a slightly amused smile on his face as he cuts his meat. Her father has been in a good mood all night, peppering Killian with questions in between her mother's stories. Something feels off, like something is going on, and she's not entirely sure she's going to like it when she figures it out - this was supposed to be her celebration, not a way to make her boyfriend uncomfortable.

She reaches for her spoon and slurps her soup, catching her father's attention. She frowns, and he raises his eyebrows, and at that point Emma starts to worry.

…

"And that is how we managed to solidify trade relations with the Belgians," Mary-Margaret says, reaching forward for her glass and taking a sip of her wine.

Killian smiles at her (he does have a rather nice smile – when he finally steps out in public with Emma for the first time, she knows they will make such a fine pair). "I never would have realized the role that a bushel of apples could play in trade negotiations."

Mary-Margaret smiles in return. "There's always some solution to be found if you remain strong in your beliefs and hope for the best."

She can practically hear Emma roll her eyes when she talks about hope but she ignores her darling daughter's youthful skepticism, for despite what Emma thinks now, when she is queen she will realize how powerful hope truly is.

Thinking about Emma being queen makes Mary-Margaret remember Rumpel Cassidy, and that crisis, and she clenches her left hand in her lap. Her daughter is safe, her daughter's boyfriend is safe, and Cassidy is under protective custody at a rehabilitation center awaiting trial and recovering from his wounds. Every morning, she wakes up thinking about how close she could have come to losing everything, including her daughter, and every night she says a silent prayer that she never did.

David catches her eyes across the table, and gives her a reassuring smile, as if he knew what she was thinking (of course he did – that's how they work). She smiles back, and takes another sip of wine.

As far as a Thanksgiving dinner goes, it's not going poorly. Sure, they don't have some of the food that they do in America – no turkey, for that matter – but she thinks the kitchen has created a suitable meal based on the exhaustive notes and recipes that Emma provided them.

The servers are clearing away the soup (corn chowder) before the main course (roast pheasant), and she catches a look between Emma and David that makes her pause for a moment.

"Do you really think it's a good idea?" she asks, after Emma brought up her desire to have a traditional Thanksgiving, and after both of her parents pointed out that she was no longer living in the United States. It seemed to matter to her, though, and after all that her daughter has been through, having a meal together is a small request.

Mary-Margaret likes planning events in theory but hates the tedium of them in practice, so when David suggests moving it from the family quarters to the Blue Dining Room, she's unsure. She likes Emma's new boyfriend, even if it's taken some adjustment. The man risked his life for her daughter, and even if she's not thrilled at his dating history, she's seen how he cares for her, how she cares for him. She's grown quite fond of Killian, and she knows David has too, and she doesn't see why they need to subject him to the painfully ornate chairs of the royal dining room.

"I don't see the need for extravagance," she tells him as she slips into bed, but he sighs dramatically and pulls her closer to him. "There's no reason it can't be simple."

"We could keep it simple," he says, "but we need to see if Emma's beau can handle this. We need to turn up the heat just a bit before we completely give our blessing."

Mary-Margaret knows he's being serious – that he's itching to see Killian squirm, and she frowns. "I don't think it's necessary. Did my father do the same to you?"

David merely raises an eyebrow before tucking her head under his chin. "Compared to what your father did, this will be a walk in the park."

And so they're here, formal dinner, formal dining room, formal wear. David cuts quite the picture in his new suit and Emma wears a dress of teal silk with a sheer overlay at the shoulders, both of which they had already worn in the formal pictures taken to commemorate this holiday season on their official royal holiday card. Killian, too, looks rather dashing in the dark suit that Emma helped him choose, and Mary-Margaret can't help but smile at him again as the main course is placed in front of them.

Yes, he's a little rough around the edges, but with a bit of polish, Mary-Margaret thinks she can make a prince consort out of him yet (after all, she did it once before).

…

Sometimes, Killian thinks Milah coming into his life was the worst thing that could have ever happened to him, like when he was fleeing Eira, the image of her lifeless body flashing before his eyes as he took the first train to Bruxelles (and from Bruxelles to London, then to the United States, smack dab in the middle of the large continent, where Gold might never look for him).

There are other times when he is grateful for Milah. She taught him so many things, and most importantly, she taught him what a salad fork looked like. So he's not that intimidated when he first sits down to eat with Emma and her parents – after all, he's done this before, when Milah used to take him to fancy restaurants and order expensive bottles of burgundy and demand shaved truffles on nearly every dish, all on Gold's dime, of course.

It's the actual using of the utensils, and the maintaining of polite conversation, that's failing him and quickly turning this dinner into a blood disaster.

Killian's left hand still isn't quite what it once was nor will it be anytime soon, or so his physical therapists say as they make him manipulate marbles and rice and other thing with his fingers. Ever since Emma suggested this, one thing he has added to that routine has been practicing using a knife and fork, practicing holding and cutting and feeding himself, and while he's slow, he can manage to do it without dumping the contents of his meal all over the beautiful silk tablecloth. But it's a struggle, and probably will be for some time.

He looks out, past the candelabra and floral arrangements in autumnal shades (for some reason Emma swears that Thanksgiving has a color scheme, and he'd be willing to bet Regina has something to do with this), and sees Emma responding to something her mother has said, lips curving upwards in a smile, and Killian swears he falls in love with her all over again.

She has been amazing during this recovery – so helpful, and so caring, and there are days when he thinks (no, he knows) that he doesn't deserve someone like her, especially after all that he's done. So he does everything that she requests, from extensive hours of physical therapy to moving into the palace, and he does it because she asks it of him, and he would never deny her anything.

And so he sits, in a room that's a touch too warm for a wool suit, and eats pheasant and new potatoes, haricots verts sautés dans les herbes, and cornbread (oh Emma), washed down with champagne and the promise of apple pie for dessert. And so he answers questions from her father that range from asinine to serious, about his life in the United States to his military career, from his family to his friends, and everything in between, and the number of times Killian has to smile calmly and bite his tongue grows.

He loves Emma, but he's a bit over the third degree that her father is giving him. He'd love to say something to shut the man up once and for all (but he won't, because he loves Emma, and she loves her father, and he is not about to insult the Prince Consort under his own roof, where Killian has been staying rent-free for the past month).

His eyes meet hers across the beautifully decorated table and he raises an eyebrow. Emma responds with a smirk and a shake of her head, because she knows. Because there's something between them that transcends words that he's never felt before, and doesn't think he'll ever feel again (soulmates, she tells him sometimes when they are in his room, her head on his chest and the fingers of his left hand brushing her hair, grateful for the sense of touch and he's never believed in that sort of thing but with her – with Emma – he does).

And if being with her means being here, confronting the ghosts of his past every time he hears someone speaking their native tongue or sees a military uniform, every time he takes a walk in Sagobok and remembers growing up here what feels like forever ago – he'll do it. For her – for Emma – well, he'd go to the end of the world.

…

This evening is going even better than David hoped when Emma first suggested an American-style Thanksgiving dinner a week ago and the opportunity that David had been looking for finally presented itself.

He catches Killian and Emma exchanging a look across the table, which means it's time for him to launch into another round of questioning about Killian's short military career.

"So, Killian," he starts, and immediately Killian sits up straighter in his chair, turns his full attention to David. Across from him, he can see Mary-Margaret frown but he ignores it, instead asking about range training, the maneuvers that he must have done when he first joined, the pranks (Mary-Margaret's brow furrows and her frown deepens at this) and so, once he sees Killian reach for his water glass, he switches things up.

"Killian," he says, "I think it's time we had a talk about your intentions towards my daughter."

(He does enjoy watching the young man choke on his water more than he expected.)

When Mary-Margaret brought him home to meet her father – a young army officer from a foreign military, not any of the eligible bachelors of Eira – the king put him through the most uncomfortable two hours of his life.

It's only fair that David pays it forward.

"David…" Mary-Margaret starts just as Emma begins to speak as well, but Killian shakes his head and smiles at Emma before placing his water glass back on the tabletop.

"To be completely honest, your highness, my intentions towards your daughter depend as much on her as they do on me." Killian raises an eyebrow, and there's something in the young man's look that's a bit more challenging than David would have expected but in that moment he gains a bit of respect for him. It's not easy to become the consort of a crown princess – to give up a life you know for one of intense public scrutiny in addition to public service.

David thinks that maybe Killian will be suited for it after all, if Emma chooses.

It's only later, after dessert (Granny makes them apple pie and it's served warm with ice cream, and it is as delicious as everything else she's made) that David admits, "All things considered, that didn't turn out too bad."

Mary-Margaret folds her napkin and places it on the table, shaking her head. The smirk on her face is all that tells him how amused she is by his proclamation. "After what you put Killian through, I'm surprised that Emma still is speaking to either of us."

"Hey now," David says, getting up from his place and coming to stand behind his wife's chair, helping her up. "Compared to your father, I was a pushover."

"Compared to my father, Granny is a pushover." Mary-Margaret takes his hand as they leave the dining room, but David has an idea.

"I'm going to go speak with Killian," he tells her.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asks, a look of concern on her face, but David is buoyed onwards by the fact that Killian did even better than he expected when under pressure.

Killian's quarters are in the guest wing of the palace – not far from the dining rooms, and so David arrives easily, knocking on the door and announcing himself eagerly. "Killian! It's Emma's father, David. I wanted to say how pleased I am that Emma has found someone like you."

The door swings open and Killian stands there, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, hair a mess, and lipstick definitely on his neck (lipstick the same shade that Emma had worn that evening - )

"Thank you, your highness," Killian says, and damn if there's not a cheeky grin on his face (and David wants to be angry – he wants to be so angry, because this is his daughter that's presumably in there with Killian, and he doesn't want to know and yet he remembers, all too well, his own stays at this palace, and Mary-Margaret sneaking into his room, and - )

He coughs, says "Goodnight, then," and hurries away, trying to erase the sight from his memory.

(When he arrives back in their quarters, Mary-Margarets says nothing, just gives him a look that speaks volumes, and pours him some aquavit, pressing a kiss against his forehead and running her fingers through his hair.

"Still consider tonight a success?" she asks, and he takes a sip of the drink and sighs.)