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Whatever this is, Emma doesn't have time for it.
Mary Margaret is expected back from her dentist appointment any minute now — something which will have undoubtedly only amplified her recent health food kick — and the last thing Emma needs is the new guy from seafood distracting her from her shopping.
Something he seems hellbent on doing.
"It's the marshmallows that make life worth living, love."
Her hands tighten around the cereal boxes. "What?"
"The marshmallows," he says again, as if it should be obvious what he's talking about. (It isn't.) "Without those sugary little hearts, stars, and clovers, life is nothing but a bowl of cardboard mush."
"Right," Emma says, deliberately chucking the Special K into her basket. Henry will complain, she knows, but she certainly can't get the Lucky Charms now, not without encouraging Lord Byron over there.
"Ah, yes, taking a stand against the perpetuation of hurtful Irish stereotypes," he says, undeterred, tapping the little green leprechaun on the box she's shoved back on the shelf. "Also a noble choice."
"I'm sort of on a schedule here, so why don't you go back to boiling lobsters to death or deboning something?"
He grins at her. "I would, but my crew is loading in this morning's catch and it gets a bit cramped behind the counter. You should come visit sometime."
She shouldn't respond. She should walk away, walk far, far away, and not respond.
"And interrupt the crowd of bored housewives suddenly feeding their families an exclusively seafood diet?"
Damn it.
"Ooh, jealous, lass?"
"Not at all, we can use all the help we can get now that the Mills down the street opened..."
There. That's good. Keep it professional.
"...even if that means you winking at everything that walks by."
So close.
"I wasn't aware you'd noticed," he says, eyes fairly twinkling, "but I am glad to see my efforts to fight off the big bad corporate chain are being recognized by the boss."
"I'm not the boss."
"You're a boss, higher than me on the Nolan's Grocery food chain, at least. Assistant store manager, isn't it?"
There's a headache blooming behind her right eye, Elsa's about to leave for a summer-long vacation, and if Mary Margaret gets back and catches sight of the Teddy Grahams and Hi-C in her basket, she's going to have to endure yet another impassioned speech about healthy eating.
That's three — count 'em, three — good reasons for the way she snaps at him.
"If I'm the boss, don't you think you should stay on my good side instead of pestering me in the middle of your shift?"
His posture straightens, immediately making him look more closed off.
"Right, sorry," he says and turns away from her, boots thumping softly as he walks down the aisle.
At the last second, before he rounds the end-cap, he looks over his shoulder at her.
"Don't sell yourself short, love, they're both your good side."
And with a wink, somehow exactly the same and entirely different from the ones he gives the housewives, he's gone.
&&.
She'd gotten her groceries in her locker just in time to see Mary Margaret push into the breakroom, all bright sunny smile and sparkling white teeth.
Technically with how their little house is set up, there's a shared kitchen, and Mary Margaret will see the groceries eventually, but with the way Henry's growing lately, it's possible he'll eat everything before either of the Nolans even realize it was there.
"How was the dentist?" Emma asks, spinning the dial on her locker for good measure.
"Oh, terrific, not a single cavity," Mary Margaret beams. "You really should take advantage of our dental coverage, Emma, it's great."
"Pass, thanks," Emma says, but mentally makes a note to at least make an appointment for Henry. He'll probably need braces soon and the thought that she can provide that — that she has a steady job and steady benefits and can take care of her son makes her proud in a way she couldn't have imagined at 17.
"You know," Mary Margaret says, raising her voice in a not at all subtle manner, "they don't offer anything like that at Mills."
Mary Margaret's eyes dart around the room, trying to see if she's captured anyone's attention. Leroy is still glaring down at his sudoku puzzle and Ruby's fixing her lipstick in the mirror on her locker door, but Mary Margaret trundles on anyway.
"Did you know, Emma, that most of their employees don't even qualify as full time? It certainly seems that they don't care about people, just profits."
"I've heard that," Emma says, voice just the slightest bit flat. Mary Margaret's their de facto head of HR and ever since Mills opened, she's been banging this same drum — trying to make sure they don't lose any of their staff to the looming presence of a corporate chain, leaving Emma and David to worry about losing other things to them, like customers and revenue.
That's part of why they brought Killian on — gathering up every little advantage they can find.
Mills' seafood is shipped in through some big faceless supplier; having Killian behind their counter, grinning at customers and talking about hauling in this fish or that one with his own two hands gives them a sort of farm-to-table (sea-to-table?) edge.
That he's doing for the female customers what Ruby does for the male ones is just a bonus.
Before Mary Margaret can start on something else — an after-hours team bonding and engagement activity has been brought up more than once — Emma grabs her name tag from the counter, pinning it to her t-shirt.
"Well, duty calls," she says.
&&.
The music in the store is a work in progress.
Technically it's David's call.
David Nolan, of Nolan's Grocery, he's got final say on everything.
Except when your entire staff goes mutinous at the very thought of one more REO Speedwagon song and your wife jumps on the chance to make everyone "feel more like a family."
Then it becomes a game, a contest, employee of the week picks the Spotify playlist for the next week, and so on and so on.
There's a customer comment box at the front of the store and an employee comment box in the breakroom — everything's totaled up on Saturday mornings, and the winner's posted in a frame Mary Margaret hand-made right near the sliding glass doors on Saturday nights.
Which means that Sunday mornings — like this one — are when you find out your sentence for the week.
Will it be a week of clanging, pogo-ing Britpop from Will or slow, moody indie rock from August?
Today she's only been in the store for five minutes, the environmentally friendly lights Mary Margaret had installed last spring still working their way up to full brightness, when she hears it — the fucking Lion King.
Which means it was Belle. Belle won and now they're all doomed to a week — a full seven days — of Disney soundtracks.
She rounds the corner to seafood, trying to work out if she can anonymously suggest that this is some sort of copyright infringement, when she spots Killian hefting a fish over his head, a giant, ugly, dead fish, being held aloft as if it were Simba.
There's no one else around, but he exhibits the fish to the imaginary masses, arms extended, all tan and bare and muscled and it's endearing, it's cute, it's...something she needs to walk away from.
Instead — "That's morbid, showing a bunch of animals a dead animal."
Killian coughs, dropping his arms and beginning to pack the fish in the ice of the display case.
After a moment, his eyes finally meet hers, the corners of his mouth turning up in a little grin.
"Do you think so, Swan? Because I think it's the...circle of liiiiiiife," his voice picks up exactly in time to the song, raising loud in the stillness of the store before opening. "...and it moves us all...through despair and hope...through faith and loooooove."
Killian's waltzing fish after fish straight into the ice, singing dramatically, as Emma rolls her eyes and tries not to laugh.
"You're an idiot," she says, but there's a smile on her face.
"Really? Should I be more...like you?" As if on cue, she realizes the Circle of Life has ended, trailing right into the Jungle Book, ...I wanna be like you... and Killian's face lights up.
Oh my god. How did he —?
"You? You picked this station?" She tries to recall the plaque at the front of the store — had she actually seen Belle's picture or had she just assumed?
He laughs. "No, love, it was our own inimitable Belle, I just saw her programming it in the breakroom this morning."
Something in Emma riles at the way he's described Belle. Emma's been at this store for more than ten years now, they're a family, all of them, just like Mary Margaret wants them to be, and Killian...Killian hasn't earned his place yet.
So, she ignores the comment in favor of another. "And, what, you're just some sort of Disney freak?"
"No, but my niece is, and Uncle Killian's a sucker for just one more movie, please."
Emma snorts, thinking of Henry, and Killian smiles.
"Oh, is Auntie Emma a sucker, too?"
It would be easy to ignore him, keep her mouth shut, let him think what he wants, but instead what comes out is, "Mom."
"Pardon?"
"Mom Emma is a sucker."
"Oh," he says. "Oh." She doesn't miss the way his eyes glance down at her hand, the bare ring finger.
"Yeah, uh. So...you know...get enough of Disney at home."
He nods, his expression turning softer, but it doesn't look sympathy, it looks like...interest?
It looks like something she needs to escape.
"Today's the first day Elsa's out," she says, rapidly changing the subject and her tone into something more professional. "I might need help keeping an eye on frozen food."
"Aye," he says, gesturing to the radio clipped to the front pocket of his jeans.
(His tight, black jeans...no. No.)
"I'll keep a lookout."
"Thanks," she says.
He glances at the ceiling, the sound coming in from the speakers. "Hakuna matata," he says, and sends her off with a wink.
&&.
Staff t-shirts come in solid colors, Nolan's Grocery in solid print and bordered by some storybook detailing on the chest over the heart and big across the back.
Emma's worn these shirts in a thousand different ways, on a thousand different days.
Big and baggy at 17.
Tied in a knot at the hem at 21.
Sleeves rolled up at 24.
Fitted and loose and torn and new and dirty and clean, they've become a uniform in more ways than one — something she hardly even thinks about anymore.
Except today.
Because today — a hot, sticky, summertime Wednesday three days after she busted him singing Disney songs in the seafood department — Killian Jones is watching her in her blue t-shirt like it's a ball gown or a corset or not even a shirt at all.
(His staff shirts are always black, the same way Ruby's are always red.)
(Not that she's noticed.)
(Much.)
"Swan, you are a vision," he calls across the seafood counter, his voice clear even over the hum of the frozen food case she's got propped open, straightening and re-straightening boxes of Popsicles.
It's only because she'd eaten lunch outside and the cool air feels good that she's lingering, not because it's so close to the seafood counter.
Definitely, definitely not.
"What?" she shouts.
"You're looking quite healthy is all, lass."
"What?" she says again, letting the freezer door swing shut and walking toward him. There's no need to shout, no need to draw any more attention from the lady staring daggers at Emma while Smee wraps up her purchase.
"Tan, Swan, you look tan," he clarifies when she's standing in front of him.
"Oh. Uh. Thanks?"
She's given up trying to make sense of the things Killian says or why he says them, but she has been spending a lot of time outside with Henry lately.
"Let's have a look then," he says, sticking his arm out across the counter and gesturing for her to do the same.
They're nearly the same color, but it looks different on him, the dark hair on his arms, the tendons and muscles and...tattoo?
"What's that?" She draws her arm back, knocking a knuckle against the edges of the dark ink she can see curling up his skin.
His eyes fix hard on the mark, but when he looks at her, he slaps on a smile. "Something old," he says, lifting his arm from the counter.
She gets a better look at it then, the word "Milah" just visible before his arm disappears back to his side.
Over the store speakers, Meg from Hercules is crooning about not saying she's in love, and Emma rolls her eyes at the heavy handed presumption of the universe.
(She Googles late that night — opening an incognito window and everything — but “Milah” only brings up results about circumcision.
She’s fairly certain he’s not commemorating that on his arm…if he’d even had that done at all…do they do that in England?
She figures “Milah” must be a woman after all.)
(Of course.)
&&.
It bothers — intrigues — her for days.
Most of the staff has been with the store so long that she knows their entire life stories. Hell, a lot of their stories started at the damn store.
Teenage Emma Swan, newly single and newly a mother, counting out pennies for baby food, hands shaking and nervous as the line behind her grew.
David Nolan, newly graduated and newly in charge of his family's store, sweeping in, putting the baby food on the house, offering her a job.
Mary Margaret, months later, caught shoplifting, the start of a romance like nothing Emma had ever seen.
So many stories like that — Nolan's Grocery as a turning point, a new chapter, a start, but Killian's story is very clearly already in progress, and she doesn't even know what kind of book he is.
&&.
Four days later (and still literal months until Elsa returns to take frozen foods back), she finds out he's a picture book.
Drawn by her son.
Henry's art has long hung in the brightly lit halls and aisles of Nolan's — both the grocery store and the family home they rent rooms in — but recently he's gotten good, like, really, objectively, no-mom-colored-glasses good.
Mary Margaret had given him his first chance months and months ago, paying him a crisp twenty dollar bill to draw a flier about their Thanksgiving sales.
It was only an insert in the store circular, but it made him so proud.
It made Emma so proud.
Valentine's Day, the start of barbecue season, produce specials, it's gone on and on — once or twice, David's even sprung to place them as ads in the local paper.
But lately signs have been appearing across the store, marking the departments, the people who work in them — clearly part of Mary Margaret's ongoing efforts to humanize them against the faceless competition of Mills.
In frozen foods, a caricature had gone up of Elsa, a pretty blue dress surrounded by swirls of snow and ice.
The drawing of Belle, tacked up near their coffee bar, had her smiling beautifully, a chipped teacup in her hand.
In produce, there was Kristoff, clutching a bundle of carrots.
At the front of the store, near the Employee of the Week plaque, a cartoonish picture of Emma herself hung, hair in a braid and sheriff's star on her chest.
And now today — strung high above the seafood counter — a picture of a pirate ship, The Jolly Roger emblazoned along its side — and Killian, stubbled and smirking at the helm.
She snaps a picture on her phone, a reminder to tell Henry how awesome it was later, when Killian pops up from behind the counter.
"Looks great, doesn't it?"
Emma grins, pride in Henry outweighing whatever confusion she has over mysterious, handsome fisherman and the dumb things she feels — much too soon — for them.
"It does," she agrees. “Does that make you Captain Hook?”
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Maybe — they had a clever little lad in here just yesterday, sat with me for an hour while he drew, asking all sorts of questions…I think it was Smee being, well, Smee that really put the boy over the edge to Hook. You must've met him? I saw yours at the front."
Emma laughs to herself, thinking of Henry promising to stay in the breakroom and clearly escaping to seafood instead. "Yeah, I've...met him."
Killian gives her a strange look, there must have been something in her tone, but she's curious how far she can take this.
"What did you talk about?" she asks, buffing a smudge of lipstick off the glass at the front of the counter with her t-shirt. She doesn't even want to know how that got there.
(Except she kind of does, she's watched them before, from her spot in frozen foods, the gaggle of women that crowd his counter every day.
Women in yoga pants, women in high heels, women in short skirts and tight jeans and make up fixed to perfection.
It almost makes her annoyed that she's...attracted to him. It's too predictable.
Or something.
But while he's polite and courteous and charming — in a different way than David — he never looks at them the way he's looking at her now.)
He shrugs, dancing a finger in the air above a row of fish. "Oh, you know, girls, drugs, drinking..."
"What?"
"I'm just teasing you, we talked about sailing, since you're so interested. He said he might ask his mum about getting him some lessons."
"Did he now?"
Killian nods, finally settling on a fish and dropping it onto the scale. "Yep, told him I'd be happy to help — if he can get permission, of course."
"Right," Emma says, drawing the word out. There's something going on here.
Across from her, Killian's busily preparing a fish, a sharp knife and precise movement working to do...something.
She's just about to wander back to frozen foods, when he holds up a finger to stop her. "One second, love."
Then he's wrapping the fish, passing it over the counter to her. "Tell Henry this will go great with the fruit punch you bought him last week..."
Emma feels her mouth open. He knew.
"...and to meet me at the dock at 5:30 tomorrow morning, if he manages that parental permission."
With a wink, he ducks back into the prep room.
&&.
Six hours later, Henry's got a mouthful of fish, barely stopping to chew, as he gushes about Killian.
"He likes you, Mom," Henry enthuses, slugging down a gulp of fruit punch before attacking his fish again.
"He doesn't even know me, kid."
"Well, he wants to fix that."
She's not particularly happy to hear that Killian's using Henry to get to her, but at the same time, she can't quite snuff out the tiny — minuscule — part of her that wants to preen at Henry's assessment of things.
"Yeah? He should talk to me about that then, and leave you out of it."
"Mo-o-om," Henry says, and it's been happening so much more frequently lately — these glimpses of a teenager on her horizon. "Anyway, I think you should let me sail."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I do, I've been saving up all the money from the store drawings, I can pay for the lessons myself if you want." He says it so matter-of-factly, like he's rehearsed it, but, as little as she knows about Killian Jones, she's confident he'd never take Henry's money.
"This means that much to you?"
He nods, gulping down another sip of fruit punch.
"All right, kid, we'll give it a shot, but I'm not gonna drag you out of bed for it — you have to take responsibility and make sure you're up on your own."
Henry grins. "...and then get you up?"
"You worry about you, I'll worry about me," she says, snatching a piece of fish from Henry's plate.
It's good.
(It's really good.)
&&.
There's a lot to be said for the challenges of summer vacation — convincing Henry to go to his day camp regularly, keeping him busy, keeping him out of trouble, the list goes on.
But she never, ever thought that she'd be faced with getting up before the fucking sun to get him to the dock.
"Are you sure you wanna do this, kid? Whaddya say we go back to bed, meet in two hours over a box of Pop Tarts?"
“Mom.”
“All right, all right, get in the car.”
&&.
It’s sort of nice, watching the dawn break over the horizon, the quiet, private stillness of the early morning. It draws a tiny bit of attention to the worrisome noises her Bug makes — noises apparently usually drowned out by the hum of traffic and the sound of the radio (silent now because Henry, despite his insistence on being awake, is snoring in the passenger seat) — but for the most part, on this first day at least, she’s enjoying it.
If this becomes a habit, a regular occurrence, she’s sure the shine will wear off.
Or, well, that’s what she thinks right up until the moment she sees Killian in the parking lot. He’s got on a long-sleeved grey t-shirt and the same (tight) black jeans he wears to work, but he looks more rumpled, somehow even more attractive.
She hadn’t thought it was possible, and she takes a second to picture the same crowd of women from the store, but standing out here in their heels and skirts.
It makes her laugh enough that she’s smiling when she gets out of the car — a smile Killian matches with his own.
“Wasn’t sure you’d make it,” he says, sounding pleased, like, crazy pleased.
She shrugs. “Rip Van Winkle in there was insistent.”
“Well, I’m glad for it,” he says, scratching behind his ear in a way that is somehow bashful and devastating. “I have a few things left to ready on the boat…if you want to let him sleep for a bit, I can walk you through the first of the lessons?”
She casts an uneasy eye at the water, trying to assess if Henry will be all right by himself.
“Oh, you can see the car from the deck, that’s how I knew you were here.”
The way he says it, and the way he’d said the thing about walking her through the lessons — it’s…reassuring, like, other than the scheming that led to these lessons in the first place, he wants to make sure she’s comfortable with every part of things — that she feels like she’s able to make the best decisions for her son.
It’s a nice switch from other men, as few and far between as they’d been, always trying to ply him with candy or an extra hour of TV without checking with her first, like Henry was something to be bought off and dealt with.
“Sure, yeah, that sounds good,” she says, shutting the car door gently and double-checking the lock. “Lead the way, Captain.”
He grins at that, gesturing with a deep bow for her to precede him toward the water. “After you, m’lady.”
She rolls her eyes, but sets off toward the dock anyway, resolutely not glancing his way when he catches up to her and matches their strides.
When they reach the boat, he clambers on ahead of her, extending a hand to help her on deck. She takes it before she can think better of it — telling herself there are a lot of, like, boating traditions she doesn’t know anything about, maybe this is some Fisherman’s Code or something.
His hand is rough and a little bit dry, but it’s a firm, warm grip and she revels in it for just a second after finding her feet on the deck.
When she finally lets go, he’s watching her closely, and she rushes to break the silence. It’s one thing to admit to herself she’s not above handsome men with pink cheeks and tight jeans, it’s another thing to let on to the men themselves.
“Where’s your, uh, crew?”
He laughs. “My crew is just Smee, gave him the morning off.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah," he says, and then launches into a long and passionate explanation of everything he'd like to teach Henry, both today and in the long term.
It's...dazzling, the way he practically comes alive, pacing around the deck, demonstrating things, making sure she understands every step of the way. And she does — she follows most of it, enough to know that Henry is in capable, trustworthy hands, which is — which is — well, it's sort of startling, this type of confidence in someone that's not David or Mary Margaret or Ruby or Elsa.
She's not prepared to let on to him though, and instead changes tack, slipping into the business demeanor she uses back at the store, negotiating with suppliers over the bulk price of seven grain crackers.
"So, how does this work? Pay up front, buy ten get one free...?"
Killian recognizes the switch immediately, his eyebrow raising in acknowledgement. "Well, as the kind folks at Nolan's are paying me a fair wage, I find myself in a position to be more...creative with my payment requirements here."
"Really?" Emma says, deadpan. "Is this the part where you extort me into agreeing to go on a date with you?"
He looks surprised (and delighted) at her audacity, but doesn't waver on his response. "Not quite, though dinner would be involved."
"Of course it would."
"Now, now, hear me out — are you familiar with bartering?"
"What, like, I give you three bags of wheat and you give me a kettle of fish?"
"Again, not quite, but, sure, fish can be on the menu, if you'd like."
Emma glances back at her car, hoping to see Henry walking toward them, ready to break this conversation up into something altogether less confusing, but no, he's still slumped in his seat, eyes closed in sleep.
"So...what is it you're looking for then?"
"I'd like to eat dinner together — at my flat, or at yours, or in a restaurant. Henry can come, if you'd like, or not, or perhaps someone from the store? Ruby, maybe?"
"You've...thought this through." She's trying not to fidget under the realization that she doesn't quite want Henry there. Or Ruby. Stunning, exciting Ruby.
"I have."
"And what would you get out of it?"
"The pleasure of good company." He's standing stalwart and resolute, not a trace of hidden agenda about him. He looks completely at ease, as if this is a normal transaction for him.
"And how is this not a date?"
"Emma, love, what you put it down in your diary as is no business of mine, but I'm just a lonely foreigner, trying to make a friend in a strange land."
"A friend."
"Indeed."
She blows out a puff of air. "All right. What's the exchange rate? One-to-one?"
He shrugs. "If you like."
"Fine," she says, extending her hand. "Deal."
He shakes her hand firmly, the same warm, comfortable grip he'd helped her aboard with, and the same pleased smile he seems to sport perpetually around her.
"Should we make arrangements now?"
He winks. "Let's see how the lad likes it first, wouldn't want you planning McDonalds when we should be somewhere with linen and candlelight."
She squints at him. "Awfully confident, aren't you?"
"Oh, darling, you have no idea."
&&.
She'd run a couple of errands — close by, but not hovering — while they'd done their thing, and when she pulls back into the parking lot, they're both waiting for her, twin grins sparkling in the bright sunlight.
When she gets out of the car, Killian claps Henry on the shoulder.
"Well done, lad, don't forget to work on those knots, and I'll see you next week?"
At the last part, he looks to Emma for confirmation, and based on the pleading look on Henry's face, she gives it without hesitation, but with a put-upon look of indulgence.
Anything for that kid, right?
(Henry, unsurprisingly, loved his first lesson and gushes about it the entire drive to day camp, Killian this and Killian that.
He's so enthusiastic that Emma's mentally preparing for a seven course meal with all the trimmings.
To see Henry so happy, it's...well, it's worth a million dinners.)
(It doesn't hurt that Killian looks like he does though.)
&&.
Later that day at the store, Killian finds her while she's chipping ice from a broken cooler.
"What's the verdict, love?"
She puts down the ice pick.
"He loved it...as you well know."
Killian smirks impishly. "Did he now?"
"Don't push it."
"So, where does that leave us with dinner?"
"A restaurant," she says.
"With tablecloths?"
She thinks of Henry stopping to tie his shoe on the walk to the day camp building. The complicated knot he'd tried to execute.
"With tablecloths," she confirms.
&&.
At the last second, she nearly panics and invites someone, anyone, the entire fucking store and all its customers — going so far as to hold the PA mic in her hands.
Instead she takes what’s meant to be a calming walk around the store — something that changes when she spots a woman in front of Killian's counter.
This woman's a regular customer, but, since Killian started, she's turned into a super customer, the sort that they should give a gold-plated loyalty card to or something.
(Her poor family is probably in danger of mercury poisoning.)
It's no more brazen than usual though, until it is.
"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" the woman asks, calmly and reasonably, not a trace of nerves and she's probably a doctor or something. A supermodel doctor.
(Clearly no family to poison then, hopefully. Or they can add 'adultery' right next to 'being infuriatingly beautiful' on this woman's list of sins.)
"I've already got dinner plans, actually," Killian says, with an unreadable tone.
"Another time?" The woman doesn't even falter, but also doesn't seem pushy, she's handling this exactly like Emma could never hope to — all well-spoken, composed grace.
Killian scratches behind his ear. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm hoping...to have a lot of dinner plans."
"Oh," the woman says at the exact same time Emma thinks it.
Oh.
"Yes, so...apologies, truly," Killian says, and they part ways with some words Emma can't hear over the roaring of blood in her ears.
It's probably the most...mature exchange like that she's ever heard, and the implication — that Killian's dinners, the ones he's hoping for, are with her, the absolute mess about this sort of thing that she is, it's terrifying.
She should stop it before it begins.
&&.
It's too late to cancel dinner for tonight, and Henry's so excited for her, telling her all these things she should ask Killian about — get him to tell you the story about the pirate ship off the coast of Spain — that she pastes on a smile right up until she's driving to the restaurant.
They'd arranged to meet at Granny's, something she clearly hadn't thought through enough, because it's going to be all over the grocery store tomorrow — this tiny town and its huge gossip mill.
But she parks anyway, securing a booth in the back, and smoothing down the skirt of her dress — the one she'd swear she only picked because it was clean.
She has to stop this, she has to stop this, she has to stop this, it's running on a loop in her head.
Killian, he — well.
He doesn't need to get tangled up with someone like her. Someone with...Neal...and Graham...and Walsh. Someone with abandonment issues and control issues and some of the worst luck she's ever seen.
Luck that's apparently continuing because Killian's walking in right now and he looks, christ, he looks incredible.
The Nolan's t-shirts were one thing, all black and tight and flattering, but tonight he's wearing a vest and a button down and those same tight jeans and, fuck, fuck, fuck, he would have to make this difficult, wouldn't he?
"Emma!" he says brightly, twinkling grin on his movie star face as he cuts past the tables to the booth she's secured.
"Killian."
He slips in across from her, the denim of his jeans brushing her bare legs, and it can't get any worse.
It just can't.
Until it does.
He's easily the funniest, most captivating man she's ever had dinner with (Henry notwithstanding, of course), easy to talk to, easy on the eyes, everything easy except for how hard it's going to be to keep this platonic.
For his part, he's flirting like he’s got nothing to lose — she thought she’d done an admirable job of making it look like she meant this wasn’t a date, but clearly she hadn’t laid it on thick enough.
Because Killian’s here on a date, and they both know it.
But she’s on — she’s on an altruistic platonic outing in support of Killian’s emotional preservation.
Or something.
She’s here only to make it abundantly clear that starting up with her — like that — is not an option. The risks are too high.
Which is exactly why she laughs and smiles more genuinely, more times, than she can remember ever having done on a date — on an altruistic platonic outing.
That’s just…a part of plan.
&&.
She doesn’t kiss him at the door, but it’s a near thing.
Henry — who had apparently been watching through the window — boos when she walks in.
&&.
It continues like that, in a cycle — sailing lesson, non-date, disappoint Henry.
He’s firmly Team Killian, and he’s recruited Mary Margaret and Ruby over to the cause.
The only sane one left is David, who innocently inquired just last week what abolishing the seafood department would do to their bottom line.
…so not quite sane, but, well, “overprotective, worried dad vibe” is still better than changing the week’s playlist to “slow jams from the mid-90s.”
Emma’s not sure who they had to buy off and for how much to make that happen, but if she has to hear Boyz II Men crooning about making love one more time, she’s certain what they’ll be asking for her bail will be higher.
Killian, for his part, manages a clichéd spin around the bread aisle after closing, twirling and dipping her like they’re in one of those movies Mary Margaret sometimes coerces her into seeing.
It’s the first time she’s really touched him, and he’s so reassuringly solid that she can’t even beat herself up about it.
(Henry once found a med school text book in the lost and found and spent an entire month announcing every word he could sound out.
Oxytocin came up more than once.
She'll blame that if she has to.)
&&.
It's a Sample Sunday when they make the shift from dinner to drinks, something that makes it harder to deny that none of this is dating.
The weather had started as rainy and stayed rainy, leaving the store with a surplus of chicken nuggets and little cups of hash browns and soup and fruit snacks — all the things they'd already set aside to pass out to hungry customers.
The staff makes short work of all of it, Will and Killian perfecting a party trick where they simultaneously throw a tater tot into the other's mouth, but it leaves Emma too full to hit Granny's.
(And it has to be Granny's — now that the initial gossip has passed, if they move to a different place, a more romantic place, that would be too telling.)
So it's with bellies stuffed with finger foods that they head to a bar — some generic place she's passed a thousand times, but never had occasion to go in, not as a single mother, and not as a woman who's sworn off men.
Killian starts with rum and she settles on beer — something she can nurse nice and slow in between handfuls of pretzels and pretending Killian isn't exactly what she wants (but can't have).
Which is obviously why one beer turns into three turns into overturning the whole Neal story right onto the well-worn table top.
"Bloody hell, Emma, that's just — that's — it's...bad form is what it is."
Emma laughs. "I've never heard it put quite like that, but I guess you're right, it is bad form."
"Is he still..." Killian makes a gesture with his hand, "...around?"
She shrugs. "Sort of, when he wants to be, I try to make it look like more than it is, for Henry's sake, that Neal showing up at ten at night on a school night is some big surprise instead of just —"
"Bad form," Killian supplies.
"Right, exactly," she says. "But, you know, can't always make it work. And Henry's smart, I don't even know where he gets it from, he's so...perceptive."
"I think you need to give yourself more credit, Swan."
"Yeah? Well, he wants me to take up with you, so maybe I'm giving him too much credit."
It's something she wouldn't have said three pints ago, but it's the tone she uses that's the real nail in the coffin.
A tone like she's looking for him to reassure her, to challenge her, to say maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.
"Now it's me that deserves more credit, lass. Whatever you think of me, I assure you my intentions are nothing but noble."
His eyes slide deliberately down the front of her t-shirt — still work clothes, but ones she's taken to wearing tighter lately.
He quirks an eyebrow when she does her part and catches him looking.
"Well, mostly," he says with a smirk.
"Where did you even come from?"
"England, by way of Neverland," and this time he winks.
"Yeah? Well, I've had a few too many Peter Pans in my life, maybe it's time to give Captain Hook a try."
Killian takes a breath, his reluctance to respond like he'd clearly like, and potentially spook her, written all over his face.
Instead he takes a swig of his drink and when he finishes, he says, "Perhaps it is."
&&.
She doesn't kiss him at the door that night either, but this time it’s not her fault, David opens the door as soon as they arrive home, putting the porch light on and everything, doing absolutely nothing to dispel the overprotective dad wrap.
Which is what makes it extra perfect that it’s David that’s the catalyst when she finally does kiss him.
&&.
Summer camp was supposed to be a break from school for Henry, it was supposed to be…well, Emma doesn’t know exactly — Ropes courses? Hiking? Macrame? — it was definitely not supposed to be science projects and Career Day.
But that’s what it is — Career Day, unholy in red marker on the calendar in the kitchen.
David had volunteered to go weeks ago. Grocery store manager isn’t particularly glamorous by itself, but it does make it natural to bring in food, which is a surefire way to win any kid over.
Henry had checked and double-checked that Emma’s feelings weren’t hurt, which was nice, but talking about the details of her job to a room full of pre-teens was hardly at the top of her bucket list, and she’d ceded duties to David with hardly any fuss.
Except now it’s the day — Career Day — and David’s in the middle of supplier negotiations, trying to reason with one of the best bakeries in town that selling exclusively to Mills is not in their best interest.
It’s not so much that they can’t live with one less loaf of bread on their shelves, it’s the precedent it would set, which leaves David and Emma with a day full of unmissable meetings.
Mary Margaret is the next likely candidate, but with them out of commission, it’s down to her to play manager. Elsa’s still out, it’s delivery day for Ruby, Will is more likely to teach the kids card tricks or pickpocketing techniques, which leaves…Killian.
Henry’s beaming as she types out the text, proof-reading it over her shoulder and insisting she add an emoji at the end before she hits send.
Any chance you could talk to a bunch of kids about being a fisherman today? :)
The little typing-back dots come up almost immediately.
A specific group of kids or just any I can round up?
Specific. Henry’s day camp.
Anything to help the lad… Emma begins counting to ten — one, two, three, four — …and his lovely mother. ;)
Right on time.
She types out a thank you with the details, before begging off to prepare for her meetings.
He’ll be back in after, she’s sure of it, and her meetings should only go until five-ish, which means she’ll see him, fresh on the heels of helping her out in a bind.
Well.
She’ll just have to cross that bridge when she gets to it.
&&.
He finds her in the break room just after closing. Almost everyone cleared out quickly today — a combination of summertime barbecue crowds and Mary Margaret’s smiling insistence that even the most belligerent of customers be handled with warm, fuzzy kindness.
It’s a tactic that keeps them well-stoked with returning customers, but can be maddening in the moment.
Killian, though, seems as unruffled as ever, smoldering and swaggering and…other “S”-ing words around the break room until they end up lingering by the lockers.
“Thank you for what you did for Henry today,” Emma says, thinking of the barrage of texts she’d gotten during her meetings, capital letters and exclamation points and even a selfie of Henry and Killian grinning that she’d quickly and carefully saved to her camera roll. “We really appreciated it — David, too, I know he was worried about letting Henry down.”
“It was my pleasure, of course, Swan, but…perhaps gratitude is in order now.”
The way his voice drops, and his finger moves, behind his ear, to his lips, oh, christ, she was — is — one thin excuse away from making out with him like the world’s ending, and here it is, being presented on a sexy, accented platter.
But still…she’s her. “Yeah, that’s — what the thank you was for.”
“Is that all that was worth to you? A room of 11-year-olds? I’d sooner face a sea full of crocodiles.” He steps closer, not caging her in against the lockers, but keeping their bodies parallel to them, leaving her an out.
It’s sort of a tipping point.
“Please,” she says, and he watches her fall with something like triumph in his eyes. “You couldn’t handle it.”
“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”
It’s one unbroken action, her hands grabbing him by the shoulders, fingers fisting in the material of his t-shirt as she pulls him into a kiss, before immediately moving one hand to the back of his head, nails scraping against his scalp through soft, thick hair.
She’s not sure how he does it, but he manages to slow her down, slow the kiss down, just enough, just until it’s less like the answer to a challenge and more like…well, kissing.
Kissing deep and passionate and his lips are so soft and his hand is so gentle and, fuck, fuck, fuck, she wants so much more than this, so much more than just one kiss, the breathy sound he makes against her mouth, the feel of him solid and warm and, goddamn it, this is exactly why she has to stop this.
She only makes it as far as separating their lips, literally every other part of her still involved in the kiss, their noses pressed together and Killian speaking between them.
“That was, uh —”
“A one time thing,” she says, and her voice is — fuck — trembling.
He doesn’t say a word — not one single word with his mouth, but his entire body is radiating an answer.
A one time thing?
Clearly not.
&&.
There's a clap of thunder in the background when he tells her about Milah.
Not a literal, weather one, but the echo of ten bowling pins clattering loudly to the alley right in time to the end of the story.
Mary Margaret had finally wrangled them all into a team bonding activity — bowling, achieved only by the promise of free beer.
Killian comes with her for a pitcher refill, the bartender comments on his tattoo, and when the guy leaves, Killian just...talks.
It's the same way she told him about Neal, the same straightforward, resigned recitation, and when it's over: the thunder.
But then, when she turns around, the pins are being swept away, new ones set in their place, and it's not very glamorous to have an epiphany in a bowling alley, but she's had a hundred of them in a grocery store, so what's another on the pile?
(Killian doesn't hit his stride until the third game, finally learning to compensate for the mean hook he's been throwing the ball with.
She wonders what else he'd be able to adapt to.)
&&.
At 18, she slept on a futon in David's den, a one-year-old Henry across the room in a crib she'd bought secondhand with her first paycheck from Nolan's.
She was scared and grateful and so completely in love, Henry's soft hair and tiny hands and reassuring, steady breaths, that she'd find herself picking him up, cradling him, draping him across her chest while she laid on that thin mattress, just to feel the weight of him, the wonderful, perfect realness of him.
Being around Killian isn't like that — that would be a disservice to Henry and a way-too-hasty service to Killian, but there's...something.
The same feeling at the base of her neck, behind her ears, in her heart and her fingertips and her gut — the one that tells her to pay attention, that something special and new and fleeting is happening, and it's up to her to figure out where to go from here.
With Henry, it led her to her entire world, to a family and a sense of purpose and love like she couldn't imagine.
With Killian, when he grins at her across the seafood counter, it feels like he's giving her a map.
So maybe, really, it's just up to her to follow it.
&&.
What she does instead is try to start a fight.
Several fights.
It’s a cross-train day, everybody taking a shift where they wouldn’t normally be, and since Emma’s worked every inch of the store at one time or another, that leaves her where nobody else wants to be — cashier.
Killian ends up as a bagger, and though she knows there’s more to that than just random assignment, she can’t quite figure out where it’s from — did Killian request it? Did Mary Margaret orchestrate it? Did Henry get into the scheduling?
That there are so many potential outside forces at work makes her feel like she’s not in control, something she’s never been good with, not in control of her parents, not in control of her (non) adoption, not in control of foster homes or Neal or Walsh or apparently now even the fucking store she assistant manages.
Which is why, when Killian seemingly puts canned fruit on a loaf of bread, she, well…she exerts some control.
“You’ll smush it like that,” she snaps.
“Smush?” Killian’s accent wrapped around the word sounds more than a little hilarious, but she’s lost her patience for it.
“The bread, it’ll get smashed by the fruit.”
“What?”
The customer is looking at her curiously from the other side of the check-out, something that should be a clue — customers are usually the first to critique bagging technique, not stand idly by looking perplexed.
“You did it wrong,” she says again, voice low through gritted teeth. “There’s an order to this stuff.”
Killian’s still looking at her, all innocent and confused, and instead of yelling like she wants to, she takes the money from the customer, making change gruffly and tearing off the receipt.
When the customer moves down the lane and Killian hands over the bags, it’s clear there’s two of them, the bread all separate and protected, and she feels herself deflate.
Which, frankly, makes her even more mad, until it becomes a challenge — a fucking quest — to find him screwing up in some way.
Paper or plastic or reusable, carrying the milk separate, retrieving bags of ice from the freezer, time after time she looks for Killian to let her down in some way, and time after time, he delivers.
It’s not until the very end of the day that she catches him, returning from a trip to help an old woman to her car, she sees Killian with a five dollar bill in his hand when store policy is not to accept tips.
As she launches into him, placing the impending failure of the entire Nolan’s Grocery empire squarely on his shoulders, he smiles softly (sadly?), folding the bill until it fits right into the animal shelter donation jar next to her register.
“Mrs. O’Leary said she’d forgot to put that in,” he says, not a trace of heat in his words.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Killian rock on his heels, clearly waiting for her to make the next move.
“Right, well, that’s me sorted for the day, love, unless…”
She resolutely straightens the gum lining the check-out.
“Right,” he says again, quieter.
&&.
All this time, literal months now, months of dinners and sailing lessons and work and flirting and she never thought to ask where he lived.
They’d always met places, and occasionally he’d taken her home, but she…she had no idea about him.
Did he live on his ship? Did he live with Smee? What — exactly — was she going to do when she figured it out?
She drives home on auto-pilot, stopping at traffic lights and for pedestrians and to pick up a pizza, everything habitual and routine except for the loop of all the ways she was awful to Killian today playing in her head.
As soon as she steps through the doorway, the clock in the hall striking 9 o’clock, Henry puts it into words.
“You were mean to him, weren’t you?”
“What?” Her hackles go back up, because if Killian had talked to Henry, that’s — that’s — it’s so far over the line.
“You look…guilty. And not ‘only got pepperoni on the pizza’ guilty,” Henry says, scooping the box from her hands to lift the lid and confirm his toppings assessment.
“So? Maybe I clocked out early or ran a red or something.”
“You never clock out early.”
“Shouldn’t you be in bed, kid?”
Henry skips down the hall with the pizza, depositing it on the kitchen table. “Summer vacation.”
“Right — and that’s over…when again?”
“Mom.”
She snags a slice of pizza, biting off the end instead of responding.
“You know those apartments near the dock?” Henry starts up again, talking around a mouthful of pizza.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“They’re painted blue, you know the ones?” His voice sounds a little urgent.
“Yeah, like I said, I guess.”
“But do you?”
“Yeah. I do,” she says firmly.
“Okay, well, Mary Margaret and David are home, I’m gonna put myself to bed, maybe you should go check them out.”
“Wait, what? Do you wanna move or something? I thought you were happy here…?”
“Mom.”
“Oh.”
Henry grins, pointing at her with a pizza crust, chewed right down to the edge to remove any trace of cheese. “Top floor, corner facing the water.”
And then he shovels a couple more slices onto a paper plate, before disappearing into the living room.
She’s got her keys in her hand before she even realizes he’d stolen a soda, too.
&&.
Now that she knows where he lives, it’s back to that whole ‘what’s she gonna do about it?’ thing.
It’s easy enough to make the turn for work, she does some of her best thinking there and there’s definitely a stack of paperwork to go through — might as well get some work done while she waits for inspiration — or sunrise — to strike.
The walk back to the office is dimly lit, just the overnight lights on, and she finds herself walking slowly, enjoying the stillness of the store when it’s not packed with customers and coworkers and whatever music they’re being force-fed this week.
(It’s Ruby’s week actually, and Salt‘N’Pepa’s ‘Whatta Man’ has played no less than four times. Everybody has an agenda.)
It’s when her wandering takes her down the cereal aisle that she gets an idea. It’s half-formed and inelegant and probably more than a little cheesy, but once it’s taken hold, she can’t shake it.
Hopefully Killian will see it for what it is.
Or at least have breakfast for a week.
&&.
Clutching a box of cereal, knocking on a man’s door at ten at night is a…new experience.
And when Killian opens the door, standing in front of her in a white t-shirt and black Adidas pants, and she practically throws the cereal at him, that, too, is a new experience.
He doesn’t look surprised to see her and — not for the first time — she figures she’s let him get to know her better than she tells herself she has.
Or something.
He does, however, look surprised to have caught a box of —
“Lucky Charms,” he says, smiling brightly.
“Sorry, I, uh. Sorry I tried to take your marshmallows away today.”
“Come in, Swan.” He swings the door wider, ushering her in to a surprisingly clean apartment.
She follows him over to the couch — black leather, naturally — and sits down next to him, forcing herself not to cling to the armrest like she wants.
“So,” he says, holding up the box of cereal. “What’s this?”
“It’s an apology, like I said.”
“Yeah, but…” He scratches behind his ear.
“What does it mean?” she supplies.
“Yes.”
“It means — ” and she finds herself unable to explain it, because he’s sitting so close, they’re sitting so close, and she feels out of control in a welcome way now, a way where she knows what she wants, is tired of fighting it, and so she…kisses him.
Again.
Killian falls into it easily, his mouth meeting hers like he’d been expecting it, hoping for it, and she hears the soft thump as the cereal box falls to the coffee table, his hands coming up to cup her face, fingers tangling in her hair.
She swipes her tongue against his bottom lip, trying to show him she means this as something different, as the start of something, and he doesn’t hesitate to accept it, opening his mouth to return the gesture, until they’re kissing deep and wet, his tongue sliding against hers he leans her back against the couch cushions.
Her hands land on his back, the thin cotton of his t-shirt doing nothing to mask the warmth of him, the firm muscles under her fingertips as she skates one hand up into his hair and one lower, grabbing the curve of his ass as she pulls him into her.
“Emma,” he breathes, pulling his mouth from hers, burying his lips against the skin of her neck.
She arches her hips in response.
“Emma — are you sure, love?”
She tries, she really does, to talk herself out of it, it’s too soon, they’ve only kissed once, she won’t even say ‘dating’ out loud, for fuck’s sake, but it doesn’t work, any of it, she wants this, she wants him, and she’s known it for a while now.
“Yeah,” she says. “Yes.”
He nods against her, his shuddering breath hot and — oh, fuck, hot against her throat. Then he’s kissing a wet trail back up to her mouth, his tongue and his teeth alternating on a detour to her earlobe, his hips grinding and jesus christ, she’s going to come in her fucking jeans, she really is.
Hands flying to the back of his head, she yanks him toward her mouth, kissing him hard and sloppy trying to regain some control as her fingers tighten in his hair. The angle is awkward, the leather of the couch squeaking in the background, and when his hand maneuvers between their bodies to cup her breast, her next word comes out on a moan.
“Bedroom?”
Instead of responding, he levers himself up and off of her, his track pants tented in a way that barrels straight between her legs. Maybe they can get Adidas to sponsor the store — at least the seafood department — make those fucking pants mandatory.
He reaches down a hand to help her up and then they’re walking, determined and quiet to his room, his bedroom, his room that has a bed where she’s gonna, oh, god, she’s gonna sleep with him, fuck him, she wants to.
There’s moonlight streaming in through the windows through the slats in the blinds, illuminating everything enough that she can see him, see the way he’s hesitating to restart things, not for himself, but for her, and she yanks him to her once more, idly wondering if they’ll reach a point where they can kiss like normal people, without all of her…aggression.
(When he backs up to the bed, nudging her onto it, she figures aggression does have its upside though.)
He follows her down, coming to rest on top of her with his weight on one of his elbows, the lower half of his body resting between her legs. He uses his free hand to inch up her shirt, smoothing his palm against the skin of stomach, her hip, her rib cage, tracing and scratching and rubbing and she’s immediately back to ready to come with her clothes still on.
It’s almost like he senses it, because his movements change, turn to tugging her shirt up in suggestion, until she gets the hint, leaning up to squirm it off, before his fingers find the button of her jeans.
She plucks meaningfully at the sleeve of his t-shirt and he strips it off in turn.
“Turnabout’s fair play, Swan?”
“Something like that,” she says, scraping her nails through the thatch of hair covering his chest.
He shudders, literally fucking shudders against her, and then it’s a blur of movement, the act of pants-removal, clumsy and unsexy at the best of times, now becomes a race to the finish, Killian springing off the bed to hop around on the floor while she shimmies and shakes and bucks and flops against the comforter until they finally come back together in the same position, only…naked.
Blissfully, wonderfully, couldn’t-have-happened-sooner naked.
She’d seen him rummaging in the bedside table before returning to the bed, and she figures there’s a condom waiting somewhere nearby, but instead of going for it, he begins kissing down her body, stopping at her breasts, sucking and licking and biting and worshiping them until she’s half-keening underneath him, trying to get friction between her legs, where he’s resolutely keeping his body separate.
As she lets out a frustrated noise, she’s surprised to feel a finger circling her entrance, the very tip dipping inside of her as he grins around a nipple.
He pumps his finger deeper, in and out, in and out, slow and…nice, but not nearly enough, and she’s about to give another frustrated noise when his lips skate down her stomach, a filthy grin crossing them as he shimmies farther down the bed, until his mouth rests —
oh, fuck
— right on her clit.
He keeps his finger pumping inside of her as his mouth begins working in tandem with it, his tongue and his lips and suction, everything a wonderful building rhythm that has her arching her hips, pleading, there, there, there, more-more-more, fuck, fuck, fuck, and he’s going so much faster, the pressure so much better, that she only has time to realize she’s on the edge before spilling over it, her entire body lighting up with the feel of her orgasm bolting through her in pulsing, incredible waves.
It’s a long, drawn-out moment, Killian working her down until she’s squirming away from him, hands gracelessly pushing and tugging at his hair and shoulders, too clumsy and too sensitive to convey anything more coherently.
He gets the hint though, moving back with a few wet, swiping kisses along her inner thigh, before pulling away to run his palm over his mouth.
His tongue slips out to lick his bottom lip and it’s practically pornographic, the lewdness in the movement, but it’s the look in his eye, the devilish little twinkle that finally gets her to string together a sentence.
“Killian Jones, if you make a ‘magically delicious’ joke, I will feed you to one of those evil movie leprechauns myself.”
He shrugs, but taps his index finger against each one of her breasts and then between her legs. “Hearts, stars, and clovers.”
She rolls her eyes, but her hand finds his cock, squeezing gently. “Is this the red balloon?”
The noise he makes is something like a grunt and a moan, and she pumps him a few time in reward, trying to draw it out again.
“Are you — can I —” He seems genuinely flustered, for the first time since she’s known him, and when he fumbles behind her and produces the condom, she takes pity on him, grabbing the packet from him and carefully ripping it open.
Killian nudges forward on his knees until his erection’s in reach of her hands, which also puts it in reach of her mouth, and she can’t resist giving him a long, slow lick with her tongue, earning her a groan for her troubles.
Then she’s rolling the condom down, checking the tip, the base, maybe, slightly, just a tiny bit…stalling.
“How do you want…?” he trails off, gesturing like he’s happy to lie down or stay where he is or stop or, well, anything she wants really.
“Like this is fine,” she says and maneuvers him between her legs. There’s no way he can know exactly what that means, her giving up control this way, but when he angles himself above her, his weight braced on his hands as he looks down at her, she thinks maybe he might have an idea.
He drops a kiss on her forehead before freeing one of his hands, using it to line himself up at her entrance. The moment before he pushes in seems to stretch between them, and then, on a breath, he’s there, inside of her, in one smooth stroke.
“Oh, fuck, you’re so wet,” he moans, and she can only grunt in agreement, trying to get him to move, hips arching against his to take him deeper and then pull back.
“Please move,” she says. “Please.”
And he does, god, fuck, he does, a steady rhythm, driving into her over and over and over, his cock, fuck, his cock, hard and thick and she is so out of practice, and this feels so good.
Her hands are grappling for purchase on his skin, the rounds of his shoulders, the muscles in his back, pulling and keening and scratching, and he smells amazing, all spicy and warm and when she nips at his throat, there’s the taste of salt and him on her tongue.
He’s panting above her, mumbling encouragements, yes and beautiful and fuck, and when he braces himself on an elbow, she grabs his free hand, lacing their fingers together and moaning when he pins their hands to the mattress above her head.
She’s so close, the friction almost enough, everything almost perfect, and she’s matching his rambling, there and like that and harder and when he changes the angle just the slightest bit, tightens his fingers around hers, and goes rigid above her, she topples just a split-second behind him, both of them coming noisy and incoherent, rutting against each other, stretching their orgasms like taffy as they pant and tremble.
When it’s over, the final aftershocks trickling out as he drops kisses to her neck, he goes to move off of her, and it’s on reflex that she tightens her limbs around him.
“Stay,” she says. “Just…stay there for a second.”
He nods, dropping his face to the pillow behind her head, and letting more of his weight rest on her.
They only stay like that for a few minutes more, but it’s long enough for that feeling to creep back up — pay attention, this is important — and she listens.
&&.
It’s five in the morning when she gets back home, creeping in before the sun rises, only to be greeted by the sight of Henry sleepily packing his tackle box.
“Did you forget about fishing?” he mumbles, and then his eyes focus on her, on her clothes, the black Nolan’s t-shirt that could be hers except they both know it’s not.
“Did Killian forget about fishing?” he amends.
“I — I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mom,” he rolls his eyes. “I know you had a sleepover.”
“…right.”
“Come on, I’m almost ready, you can drive me and then take a nap in the car.”
This kid, she thinks, this kid.
&&.
When they get to the dock, Killian’s there, flagging them both down from the deck where he’s built a little makeshift table out of crates.
“Thought we’d eat breakfast first,” he says, and gestures to the little plastic bowls, the carton of milk…the box of Lucky Charms.
“Oh, those are my favorite,” Henry crows, bounding onto the boat after a nod from Killian, and pouring himself a bowl.
“Yeah,” Emma says. “Mine, too.”
&&.
Elsa comes back two weeks later, and assumes all the extra time Emma is spending in frozen foods is about her.
And it is.
Mostly.
(Besides, turns out produce has a better view of seafood anyway.)