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“So there we were,” Killian said in the middle of one of his Santa stories, “Ol’ Nicholas and I didn’t know what else to do! Did we freeze to death on this absurd island or did we do something about it?”
“You did something about it!” Ginny cheered and offered her father another ornament to add to the tree. Killian graciously accepted and bopped her on the nose with his wooden hand.
“That’s right, little swan. We couldn’t just let the Abominable Snowman win this fight. We had to think, and fast, because the winds were stabbing us right to the bone. All Nicholas could say was ‘We’re gonna die!’ over and over, but I being meself refused to let this beast be my end. I told him we’d make it out alive and he’d give his lass a great big kiss like she deserved.”
“How’d you do it, Papa?” Davey asked around a mouthful of popcorn. Emma nudged him to stop and scooted him off the couch so she could finish stringing the popcorn for their tree. The four-year-old boy skipped over to the ladder Killian was balancing on and climbed up the back of it. “Huh, Papa? How?”
“Pixie dust, of course.” He sounded so matter-of-fact Emma had to remind herself that things like pixie dust and Abominable Snowmen weren’t such common knowledge to people outside of Storybrooke. “We had one pesky reindeer with a nose problem that wouldn’t leave me alone. It followed me everywhere since being deserted on the ice cap and we were going to make use of him.”
“Wait,” Emma interrupted, his story getting too absurd, even for her taste. “Are you trying to tell me Rudolph saved your life? As in the red-nosed reindeer?” He stared at her from the ladder, waited to see what her point was. Emma could only laugh because it was too much. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Rudolph did not save your life, Killian.”
“I don’t know who this Rudolph fellow is, Swan, but a reindeer helped save mine and Nicholas’ life that night. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t laugh.”
She bit her lip and kept quiet. He’d been doing this for awhile now—ever since her parents told them how scared their twin ducklings were of the mere image of Santa Claus. Granted, they were only two at the time, but Killian took his children’s fear to heart and insisted on telling them these adventurous stories that made Santa Claus into this heroic kind of guy. “There are scary things out there, Swan. You and I both know that. But St. Nicholas isn’t one of them, trust me. He helped me and my crew out quite a bit,” Killian told her that night after her parents left. Emma simply nodded and asked if he’d help wrap presents with her. She learned a long time ago to choose her arguments wisely when it came to her pirate and this wasn’t one worth indulging in.
So Killian began his tales with ol’ St. Nick and Ginny and Davey ate it up like candy.
Even the newest member of their family seemed enraptured by Killian’s perilous tale of how him and Santa got off the Island of Misfortune—“Misfit, for short,” he added and that about did her in. Were there talking toys, too? Baby Jack barely moved while she strung popcorn, a strange feeling, indeed, when she was so used to active kids. It wasn’t until the story was nearing its great big conclusion when he gave a quick jab to her bladder that she interrupted the story again for Killian to help her up.
“You’re gonna miss the ending, Swan,” he teased, hoisting her to her feet.
“Let me guess,” she smirked, “You both live.”
“Don’t ruin it, Mommy!” Davey shouted, ever his father’s son. “What does Santa do next, Papa?”
There were only six reindeer lined up in their front yard, she counted. Six wooden reindeer Killian designed himself, all ready to be lifted up to the roof where Killian worked on situating the blue and gold sleigh—“Nicholas’ sleigh isn’t that ghastly red, Swan. The man hates the color; reminds him of fever. The crocodile probably started that rumor, the arse.”
“I thought Santa had nine reindeer,” Emma shouted up to him. The cold nipped at her cheeks and she shifted the weight in her feet to keep herself warm. She didn’t need to be out here like this, standing in their front yard with his boots and PJs on, her red peacoat buttoned twice, large stomach sticking out. He insisted he could handle himself up here, and she knew he could, but he’d almost fallen twice today and even with her magic on the fritz because of the baby, she was prepared to save him from falling to his death.
She just wished he’d hurry it up with the details, the stupid perfectionist. She was cold.
He peaked out from behind the sleigh and she knew he was giving her that look again, the one with the raised eyebrow and a doubtful glint in his eyes that he only used when she said something he found absurd.
Because apparently Santa having nine reindeer was too absurd, even for Captain Hook’s taste.
“Why would Nicholas need so many reindeer, Swan? Do you know how annoying the creatures are? Imagine having to rein in nine of them!” He shuddered at the thought.
“Right, because that would be ridiculous.”
They’d only been standing in line for almost an hour, but to Emma trying to keep her two four-year-olds entertained, it felt like an eternity. Ginny and Davey could hardly stand still in the barely moving line. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to scold them for hanging off the red rope as if they were on the monkey bars. Thank god Henry was there to keep an eye on them when she needed to duck out for impromptu bathroom breaks or to go buy little snacks when she realized twenty minutes into their wait she’d forgotten the Duckling Emergency Care bag at home. It was convenient having an older kid during times like these.
“I don’t see why I couldn’t’ve just worn my own clothes,” Henry complained for the umpteenth time since picking him up from Regina’s. Okay, so maybe having a teenager wasn’t always the greatest thing in the world, but he was still better than most. She was thankful Henry wasn’t like a lot teenagers who wanted nothing to do with his family, especially with his younger siblings. They often joked that Henry was the family’s official babysitter because he was always ready to step in with creative games to entertain the little ones when his moms and stepfathers needed adult time. He took his responsibilities as the oldest brother quite seriously, much to Killian’s sheer delight, and always led by example for Roland, Diana, and the ducklings. But he was still a teenager and even good kids like him were guilty of teenage angst.
“None of my friends have to take dorky Christmas photos like this, Mom, and if they do, they aren’t wearing matching elf sweaters.”
“It’s Christmas, Henry,” Emma sighed, tired of hearing him complain about the stupid sweater. “And Mary Margaret made them. So unless you want to explain to your grandmother why you aren’t wearing the sweater she worked so hard on, I suggest you suck it up and smile. Ginny, Davey, get off the floor. You’re getting your pants all dirty.” Next year she was going to make a photo collage for their damn Christmas card. These cutesy ideas her mother got from Pinterest were obviously meant for single-kid families, and she didn’t have the time or the patience for this crap. Was this line even moving?
“Quit it!” Ginny complained and slapped Davey’s finger away from her face. “Mommy, Davey won’t stop touching me!”
“I’m not touching her!” the little boy said and put his finger back in her face. “See, not touching! Not touching!” Emma yanked him by the collar and moved him away from his sister before Ginny had one of her famous melt downs. If they hadn’t been waiting so long, she would’ve abandoned the whole idea altogether and gone home, but now it was personal. Her kids were going to see Santa and she was going to get the damn photo to shut her mother up.
Ginny screeched when Davey tried touching her with a wet hand and oh, were they going to get it when they get home. Parents around them gave her sympathetic looks, some even giving a slight nod because it didn’t matter the age: waiting in line for Santa sucked. It was loud and the kids always seemed to be on their worst behavior and the line moved at a snail’s pace. It was just bad.
“Do you two really want to do this while we’re in line for Santa?” she asked, desperate for something to work. “He can see everything, you know.”
“No he can’t,” Ginny corrected, wearing the little know-it-all smile that was all Killian. “Santa has lots of things to do, especially around now, and can’t keep track of everything, Mommy. Papa said so.”
“Of course he did,” she muttered. It was hard enough trying to raise twins with magical powers, but now she couldn’t even use Santa Claus as a reason for them to behave. Life wasn’t fair sometimes.
Thankfully, the line started moving and Emma practically wept for joy.
Another thirty minutes later and they were next. The small little hut was so close now Emma could lean over the red rope and kiss it. She’d never been so happy to see a set piece in her life. The ducklings were quiet now, on their best behavior for Santa, and played some hand game they invented during the never-ending wait.
A poor teenage boy dressed in one of those cheap polyester elf costumes shouted “Next!” Ginny and Davey gleefully skipped ahead and she told them not to push, Santa had time for both of them.
“Only one picture,” the teenaged elf told her when he saw her camera, and Emma gave him the dirtiest look she could give because if she had to wait two hours in line for this, she was going to take as many pictures as she damn well pleased.
The inside of the hut wasn’t much. Just a large red velvet throne painted faux gold sat in the middle of the room, a sour-looking Santa Claus sitting in it. Even in the poor lighting it was obvious Sneezy had hired Happy to play Santa, and really, the wait was not worth the cheap red suit rolled up at the legs and scraggly beard hanging limply off Happy’s face, but her ducklings didn’t seem to notice his sad appearance and ran up to him expectantly. Henry stood near the back with her and rolled his eyes at Happy’s stiff “Ho ho ho.”
“You’re not Santa,” Davey accused with squinted eyes when Happy patted his lap for them to sit. “Who are you?”
Oh no.
“Why, of course I am, little boy!” Happy stuttered, pulling nervously at his beard. “I traveled very far just to see you and your sister!”
“Santa hates red,” Ginny pointed at his red suit. “And he doesn’t have a beard.”
“Yeah, and where’s your tattoo? Papa said you had one on your finger.”
“You’re not Santa!” Ginny gasped and looked at her twin brother. “This is just like when Santa and Papa had to sneak past the Winter Warlock and he magicked evil twins to trick the other. You’re the Winter Warlock!”
“What’d you do to the real Santa, Winter Warlock? Did you kill him?”
She was going to strangle Killian. Then bring him back to life. Then kill him some more.
“Ho ho ho! Silly children, I am Santa! Now come on, tell me what you want,” he said as nicely as Happy’s temper allowed, but he glared at Emma overhead. She shrugged, not knowing what to do. How was she supposed to know her four-year-olds would accuse him of murder?
“Henry, go over there and get them on his lap,” she muttered, shoving her oldest son toward them. This needed to be handled and fast. Immediately going into Big Brother mode, Henry plastered on the biggest smile and scooped Ginny up in his arms.
“Hey Santa,” he greeted. “This is my awesome kid-sister Ginny! Ginny, tell Santa what you’ve been wanting for a really long time. Come on, tell him.”
She stared at him for a long minute, like she was deciding whether Henry was mental or not, before plainly stating the obvious: “That’s not Santa. That’s the Winter Warlock.”
Henry looked over at Emma helplessly and she motioned for him to keep going. Her feet were the size of footballs waiting in that line, she was getting her picture. He smiled at his sister. “No, this is Santa. He’s the real deal.”
“Yeah, come here, kid,” Happy grunted and grabbed for her leg. Henry tried backing away; warning that that wasn’t a good idea, but Ginny started screaming before he could.
Lights started flashing all around them, bulbs shattered at the piercing sound. Outside the hut, radios switched stations at rapid speeds, and the volumes on the TVs got louder and louder. Glass exploded from the ceiling and sparks from the power outlets shot all around them. It was just like when Emma was a little girl, and she knew from experience that the only way to calm Ginny down was to get her to focus on something else. But they didn’t have the luxury of time here in the department store like they did at home.
“Come on, sweetie,” Emma soothed, cupping Ginny’s tear-stained face in her hands. “Calm down. Listen to Mommy’s voice. Shh. That’s right, it’s okay.” Everything around them calmed until all was quiet. The lights stopped flickering, the radios stayed on one station, and not a single TV could be heard. She smiled at her little girl and brushed away a tear. “All better.” Ginny hiccuped around the last remaining sobs and clung to Henry.
“I should’ve known,” Sneezy wheezed from behind. “It’s always”—sneeze— “your family that’s”—sneeze sneeze— “messing everything up! I worked hard on this hut, you know! And my store! Look at it!”
“Sneezy, I’m so—”
“Get out! Out! You’re banned, all of you!” Emma tried to explain that these things happened, and that magic was so hard to control, but the dwarf pushed past them to his brother, not listening. “Oh god, Happy, are you all right? Speak to me!” Happy muttered something about how pretty the lights were; his fake beard completely off his face now. Davey walked over and picked the beard off the ground.
“Told ya he was a fake,” he said and was quickly pulled away before Sneezy could get his hands on him.
When Killian later asked how the photos went, Emma narrowed her eyes at him and pointed a finger in accusation. “You,” she seethed, but said nothing more. She couldn’t even look at him she was so mad. He’d probably make it about stupid St. Nicholas, anyway. That seemed to be his go-to topic lately.
Stupid Santa-obsessed pirate.
She didn’t even get her picture.
“How do you do it?” she asked when Killian returned from Monster Patrol. It was a few nights after the department store incident, and while she was still upset about the whole thing and had to call Bashful when legal matters came the next day, she still wanted to know how he came up with these things. The officer in her needed to know.
Killian wriggled himself up to where she sat, surrounded by files her father sent by weeks ago for her to approve, and shoved the papers aside, resting his head on her stomach like he’s done every night since they found out she was pregnant. Her heart warmed at the intimate contact and she combed her fingers through his mussed-up hair, finally relaxed for the first time in months.
“Killian,” she whispered, afraid if she spoke too loud the magic of this moment would be gone forever. “How do you keep thinking of new things to tell our ducklings?”
“What do you mean, Swan?” he muttered, half-asleep. She wriggled underneath him until he lifted his head—a tired frown greeting her concern.
“Those weird details about Santa Claus, how do you keep coming up with so many?”
“You mean Nicholas? Swan, I told you,” he yawned and turned back to listening to her stomach, “I’ve known the man for almost a century.”
She laughed, still carding her fingers through his hair. Sometimes he could be so stubborn, refusing to let her in on his secrets to being the fun parent.
“But really, did you watch it in a movie? One of your books? I won’t tell, I promise.” The baby kicked as hard as it could this late in the pregnancy and Killian rubbed soothing circles where he’d kicked, humming an old sea shanty of his to calm it down. She patiently waited to see if he’d tell her, but he continued to hum to their restless child, no intention of answering her question. She nudged him to get his focus back on her.
“I’m serious because all those stories—or facts, or whatever you call them—they almost got us sued by one of the dwarves. Ginny practically destroyed the place thinking Happy killed Santa Claus, Killian. The poor man probably won’t ever look at red velvet the same ever again.
“They’re not stories. They’re facts.” The quiet moment was gone and he sat up in the bed, agitated now at her persistence. “I told you, Nicholas and I were friends for a very long time. He sailed with me for awhile and we helped save each other from a snow storm. I don’t know what else to say for you to believe me.”
“You don’t need to get all defensive!” she laughed. He was getting all worked up about this fictional character and it was getting a bit ridiculous. “I don’t care where you get your ideas. Just make sure to add in that Santa doesn’t like violence, okay?” She leaned over to kiss him on the lips, but he pulled away.
“You don’t believe me.”
“About how you and Santa Claus are B.F.Fs?” It was meant as a joke, but the intensity of his stare was hard to shake off. A nervous laugh came and she said, “Come on, Killian. Santa’s not real. He’s a story we tell kids when they’re little. You know, to make the holiday more fun and magical.”
“You’re the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming and you’re telling me you don’t believe in St. Nicholas?” Would there ever come a point where he wouldn’t use her parentage against her like this? Yeah, okay. So she was the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming and was dating Captain Hook and lived down the street from the seven dwarves. So what if she shared her son with the former Evil Queen and had girls’ night out with Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty. Or the fact she was abandoned by Pinocchio himself and was childhood friends with Maleficent’s daughter. All this stuff made perfect sense knowing what she knows, but Santa Claus? Really? He expected her to swallow that pill?
Emma snorted and moved to get up and pee. “Santa’s not real, Killian. Not even my parents think he’s real.”
“Well that’s because your parents aren’t as old as I am!” It was still weird that her boyfriend was two centuries older than her parents. “By the time they were born, Nicholas was banished to the North Pole and was only allowed access to this realm. He was a thing of legend by the time Snow and David were born.”
A legend within a legend, how Inception of it all.
“So what, has he been skipping all the houses in Storybrooke, then? How do you explain the presents I signed from Santa to Henry during the missing year? I think parents would notice random presents they didn’t buy appearing under the tree, Killian.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Killian brushed aside. “You of all people should know you magical folk like playing around with memories. It’s exactly what Nicholas does.”
The thought of her memories being messed around with for all these years seemed too surreal, even for Emma. “Are you telling me some old guy’s been screwing with my memories for over thirty years? Just so he can put presents under a tree?”
“I didn’t say it was right. I’m just explaining what he does. And Nicholas isn’t old looking. He doesn’t look a day over twenty.”
This conversation was making her head spin. A young Santa Claus? More memory curses? Sometimes she really didn’t want to know about these things, was perfectly content living in ignorant bliss. Emma shut the bathroom light off and crawled into bed, snapped her fingers for their bedroom lights, and kissed Killian goodnight on the lips.
“On Christmas Eve,” he promised her. “We’ll wait for Nicholas and you’ll see for yourself, Swan.”
“So we, what—sit here and wait?” she asked coming down the stairs.
It was Christmas Eve and she’d had to do a lot of convincing to get Ginny and Davey settled down in their beds with the promise of getting Santa’s autograph and whether he’s vegetarian or not. Kids these days, really. Killian crouched by the fire, stoking the embers, and chuckled.
“Isn’t that what you do with your stake outings, you sit and wait?”
“Stake-outs,” she corrected and relaxed into the squishiest part of the couch. Finding any source of comfort was nearly impossible these days, but here in the warmth of their living room, she could fall asleep right here and only regret it just a little the next morning. “I’m tired, Killian. I want to go to bed.”
“Just a little bit longer, love. Scoot over.” Begrudgingly, Emma made room for him on the couch and he wrapped an arm around her. Okay, this wasn’t so bad. It’d been awhile since they sat in their living room with no sounds of little feet scampering down the halls upstairs or shouts of “she turned my blankie into a toad!” and “he melted my shoes together!” The fire cracked, oranges and reds dancing across the white living room and this was what home felt like.
She’d just dozed off on Killian’s shoulder when they heard the sound: a large crash from the front yard. Startled, Emma sat up and looked back at the window. Nothing from here appeared out of the ordinary, but the sly grin on Killian’s face told her otherwise.
“Is he here?” she asked, not sure what else to ask. “Is that him?” Killian giggled like a little kid and helped her off the couch, ushering them both up the stairs. There they watched as the knob on their front door jiggled and turned a couple of times before a teenaged-looking man in all leather stepped through the door like a ghost. He glanced back at the door and snapped his fingers, a green leather computer bag that matched his leather jacket poofing up in gold smoke. He picked up the bag and gave it a good shake before stomping off to their Christmas tree.
Emma couldn’t believe it.
This was Santa Claus? A teenage kid with a leather problem?
Killian tugged at her hand, finger over his lips to tell her not to say anything, and they tiptoed down the stairs like children trying not to get caught.
The man didn’t notice them. He was busy pulling out blue and gold wrapped presents from his bag, humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath.
“Ahoy!” Killian shouted from right behind and Santa Claus nearly jumped out of his skin. He bolted around and alarm quickly melted into mutual affection.
“Killian!” he greeted and gave her pirate a hug. “So good to see you. I thought I recognized the name when I was getting the kids’ toys together. How’ve you been? Good, I take it?”
“Aye, that I am. And I have the beautiful princess to thank for keeping me on the right path.” He pulled her over and kissed her lightly on the cheek, but Emma took no notice of anything except him. What a strange feeling this was, meeting the Santa Claus. This must be a dream and that explained why this didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like she was here, in her body.
Santa Claus kissed her hand and bowed in greeting. “And so we finally meet, Emma Swan. Or is it Jones now?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at Killian.
Could she talk? Emma didn’t remember how to. She just stared at the kid in front of her, mouth hanging open. This was Santa Clause. He was real. What?
Killian wrapped an arm around her and pulled her toward him, giving her familiar ground to stand on. “We’re engaged, but life gets away from us sometimes. Right, Swan?”
His voice snapped her out of it and she dumbly pointed at Santa. “You’re Santa. Like ho ho ho Santa.”
“I am,” and she swore to god, his eyes twinkled under the firelight. “Except I’m not too fond of the phrase. One bad cold and your cough’s branded for life.”
“But you’re not real! You’re made up!” Words flew out her mouth before she could tell what they were. Santa was standing in her living room. And he wore leather. Who knew. “Those stories…” she said, looking lost.
“Were all true,” Killian finished. “I told you they were.”
“I thought you made them up so the kids wouldn’t be scared!”
Killian’s face darkened for a flicker of a second. “I’d never lie to our children, Emma. All those stories are true. Nicholas and I go way back.”
“A little too far back, if you ask me.” The men laughed and Santa—Nicholas? She wasn’t sure what to call him—motioned back to the tree. “I should probably get back to…”
“Right, right! All right, well. I guess we’ll be seeing you next year?”
“Why wait?” He dug around his pockets and pulled out a business card. Santa had business cards, too? “Here’s my mirror number. Call Jessica tomorrow and we’ll make something happen.”
Killian took the card and flipped it around in his hand a few times, shaking his head in amusement. Emma still didn’t know what to say, and really, shouldn’t she be used to this by now? Her parents were Snow White and Prince Charming, after all. And she was dating Captain Hook. Why was Santa Claus being real such a far-fetched idea?
“It was wonderful to see you again, Killian,” Nicholas/Santa said and turned to Emma. Her eyes widened, unsure what to say, when he reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like a book. He put it in her stiff grip and nodded at the cover. She stared down at it, confused. It was a first edition copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, but why was he giving this to her? “I’ve waited a long time to give this to you,” he explained. “You were always gone before I could. My apologies on how late it’s taken to get here.”
Tears welled up in her eyes and stupid hormones, making her get all weepy like this. Killian’s lips pressed against her hair and she wiped at her eyes, stuttering out a teary thank you. He shrugged and picked up his leather computer bag.
“I best be off. The Mills-Hood house is next and those boys always make it a bit difficult to get past their booby traps. Don’t forget to call, Killian. We have lots to catch up on,” and with a wink, he was gone in a poof of gold smoke.
Emma and Killian stood there—him with a knowing grin so wide his face might crack and her staring dumbly at where the magical man once stood, then down at her book, then back at the empty spot. Santa was real.
“Come on, Swan,” her pirate chuckled and walked her to the stairs. “We best get to bed before the ducklings wake us in a couple hours.”
The ducklings. Santa! Oh. “I forgot to ask if he was a vegetarian.”
“Ask him when we see him next time.” Next time. What a strange thing to say. Next time they talk to Santa. What was her life, really.
“So,” she teased, poking him in the side as they climbed the stairs up to their bedroom, the shock wearing off. “Are you going to tell me you and the Easter bunny are drinking pals?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Swan,” he scoffed. “The Easter bunny isn’t real.”