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It’s the high, electric squealing Emma hears first.
She is upstairs, rifling through their dirty laundry for one of Henry’s tees, when the living room on the floor beneath her comes to life. She knows full well that Killian is downstairs with their daughter, and so she decides the squealing is nothing of concern. She throws everything back into the laundry basket, hoists it up and takes her time descending the stairs, smile spread.
Step, step, step.
She hears chuckling, then, as she is halfway down.
Step, step.
The chuckling and giggles fuse together, in a harmony of glee. It becomes louder the closer Emma gets.
Step, step, step, step.
Smile in place, Emma reaches the bottom of the stairs and turns into the front room, biting her lip. “What’s going on here?” She asks, amused, sweeping towards the couch where her husband resides.
He lies on the couch, legs outstretched and arms out in front. Inside his wrapped up arms is tiny Aislin Jones, who is sat on her father’s chest in fits of giggles. She is six months old now, and Killian and Emma are completely and utterly infatuated with her.
Killian sings to her after crying fits in the night. Emma pretends she understands her innocent babbling when she is sat on the rug, pushing her blocks around and clapping her hands over the squeaky toys. They both give her baths, feed her, change her. They go for dinner with the whole family each Tuesday at Granny’s, or once the next villain has been dealt with. Snow and Charming take her when they need an evening to themselves. Henry is the protective big brother, and Regina makes cynical comments about her magic. Zelena gifts her with tiny green hats and socks, while Belle takes her for play dates with Gideon.
They could swear that parenthood has been ingrained in them, as with each passing day, their instincts strengthen. Despite initial terror, creating her was the most wonderful thing that could have happened, a part of their lives they were not aware was missing.
Truthfully, the entire family is stunned she hasn’t been dropped on her head yet.
“Emma… look at this,” he chortles, grin still in place. He nods his head towards Aislin, as a gesture to join him and take in the sight he is beholding.
Emma places down the basket on the floor, then rounds the couch and crouches beside his head. The baby has remained fixated on her father during this, as her pink stubby fingers tap away and shake the coloured block in her grip.
Emma is entranced, gaze deep and in awe of her pair. She watches eagerly, eyes moving between each. She looks on Killian, and he looks back, winking.
“Aislin, poppet?” He says, ensuring he has her full attention. Once her deep baby blues are tracking him intently, he lifts one eyebrow.
The baby loses it. Squeals of piercing joy barrel into their ears. Emma flinches at the crack of sound, but Killian inches closer in delight, his grin igniting.
“Wait, what?” Emma asks, voice rising in incredulity as she suddenly shakes her head.
“I have no clue! She finds it hysterical,” he chuckles, and Emma sees the rumble in his chest. It shakes their daughter, which only makes her laugh harder.
Emma laughs with her. “Aislin?” She coos, hand reaching forwards.
Aislin’s giggles subside momentarily as she watches her mother. Emma lifts her own brows.
Nothing. If anything, it ceases her joy entirely.
Emma then sees the smirk coming from her right.
“I could cut your smugness with a knife,” she says, feigning a glum tone.
“What can I say, Swan? She can only have one favourite,” he grins, that shit-eating one. Emma swats his arm.
He lifts the other brow. Their daughter breaks out into a gummy smile. Aislin throws her head away from them, tumbling back, and Killian has to put his hand on her back to stop her from taking a bad fall. She shrieks as she falls back, and as this happens, there is a crack, smash and buzz. They both jump.
“Again?” Emma sighs, looking to the television that has been knocked out of signal, the light bulb that’s fuse has burst and the mug that has been thrown from the coffee table.
“’Tis your own doing, love – giving her magic,” he sniggers, rubbing the baby’s back.
~
They hadn’t anticipated it to go for so long. In fact, they are beginning to be concerned for their daughter and her strange fascination with her father’s face.
Emma walks into the house a few nights later, carrying the winter wind with her. It cuts into the snug warmth of their home, but is soon eradicated by the fire that has just begun to die down in the living room. The television is mute in the corner, and the only other light to grant Emma a safe path into the room is the light in the kitchen. She sees Killian’s sock adorned feet and steps over.
She finds her little family in the same position she discovered them only days ago, except Killian has them wrapped up in a blanket, his head thrown back over the arm of the couch, and Aislin on her tummy, on his chest. Killian’s face is morphed by sleep, deep and welcoming. He rumbles, divulging snorts from his throat. Aislin lies fully awake, but peaceful. Her small chunky hand is on her father’s face, who is far too exhausted to be roused by it. She taps gently and strokes her little fist along his chin, over his jawline. Soft baby skin against prickly stubble. She appears fascinated, in a trance, staring up and intrigued by all the individual hairs and creases.
~
Mere months later, she has caught a bug – something about Neal hanging over her just after recovering from a cold from preschool. Eyes watery, nose dribbling, her flesh warm and sticky with a temperature, they realise quickly that she favours her daddy’s comfort and cuddles when she isn’t feeling her usual firecracker self. Though, she prefers him most of the time, anyway. The favourite parent thing stuck, and Emma doesn’t mind one bit.
Off duty for the day, he remains indoors with his little pirate wrapped in his arms. He brings medicine on the dot. Aislin sucks on her pacifier in fixed and timely motions, the plastic rubbery device popping in and out past her lips. She sniffles and her red rim eyes spew tears.
He finds that her ministrations to his face, circular and barely there, sooth and distract her. They lower her distress further than the work of the pacifier. Whenever he is accessible to her small outstretched arm, she lifts her curious fingers and pets his beard, then hair, then sideburns. When he is away, she becomes more distressed, and so Killian makes a new home for the medicine upon the coffee table, to prevent long periods of parting from her.
Emma comes home to them, drained and aching, but the sight lifts her spirits. She leaves them to it. She can’t match the comfort her husband’s face brings.