Work Text:
The thing about Christmas in the Land without Magic is that people keep explaining the wrong things.
“We get a tree,” Snow says one morning at Granny’s, in full teacher mode with her earnest eyes and her sincere smile. “An evergreen. Last year it was a fir, even though I prefer spruces.” Her smile turns wistful for a moment. “They remind me of home.”
The way she says ‘home’ makes it abundantly clear that she does not mean anything remotely near Storybrooke, and the irony of Snow White referencing the Enchanted Forest while lecturing Killian on the nature of Christmas trees is almost too much for him.
Especially since he asked her out for breakfast to find answers to a whole different set of questions. Questions which are much more important.
“And then we put lights and ornaments on it,” Snow goes on.
“Yes,” Killian says, barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes. “Many of the children in Neverland spoke of Christmas when they first got to the island. Seems Pan delighted in taking them right around that time of year. There was lots of talk of Christmas trees and presents and meals which included geese and pudding. Although they seemed to have widely different opinions on what constitutes a ‘pudding’.”
“Oh,” Snow’s face falls. “Of course.” She falls silent.
“I’m sorry,” he says, because she looks sad now, and he doesn’t want that. “I didn’t mean to cut you off. Please tell me what else you do.”
Snow smiles.
“You’re being kind,” she says. “You probably know more about this realm’s traditions than I do.”
He grins. “ Kind is not usually the first word that comes to mind when one thinks of me.”
Snow laughs out loud.
“Maybe not,” she says, and then her voice gets very quiet. “But you are.”
He can’t speak for almost a minute. Snow doesn’t miss a beat, just pats his arm and then focuses on her waffles until he gets his bearings.
“Thanks,” he mumbles once he finds his voice again, and she just looks up, nods at him briefly, and then says, “We’re baking cookies tonight. Did Emma tell you?”
And that, that is much closer to what he’s actually confused about.
Because the Land without Magic isn’t really all that puzzling. Or at least this portion of it isn’t.
The currency is entirely self explanatory and makes perfect sense. It’s in sensible parts of ten, all of which fit into each other. Anyone who’s ever been forced to accommodate doubloons and cringlets and half-rafters (which aren’t actually half of anything ) could be nothing but pleased at this perfect decimal fractioning.
The food is not so different or unusual and none of it seems to require knowledge of poisons or side effects.
There are shops for everything, labels for everything, warnings for everything.
And there are instruction manuals for everything. A fact which not enough people take advantage of, as far as Killian is concerned. When he reset the oven clock in Snow’s kitchen a few weeks ago, because it was an entire hour ahead and he simply could not bear this gross inaccuracy a moment longer, Emma had looked at him with eyes as big as saucers when she noticed and said, in an incredibly earnest voice, “How did you do that? Nobody sets oven clocks.” She’d shaken her head for good measure. “I’m serious. Nobody.”
So, all in all, in its customs and habits and workings, this land is not nearly as intricate or complicated as many other realms he has been to. Like the Sylvexh Empire, where looking directly at any of the citizens could cost you your head, or Lirsom’bhar, where talking during theater performances carried the death penalty and wearing black clothing was a stoning offense. He’d hated the latter. Pirate captains are not nearly intimidating enough in powder blue.
So the questions he has aren’t with this realm, and certainly not about Christmas.
No, what he has a hard time gauging is where he stands with Emma’s family. Specifically the woman currently sitting in front of him, wiping maple syrup from the corners of her mouth. And her husband.
Also known as Emma’s parents, who may or may not have very firm opinions on whether or not Killian is allowed to join in the various festivities.
That is his problem.
Because if it were up to Killian he would like to spend pretty much every waking moment with Emma. Including those moments she spends at the loft with Snow and David and Henry doing family things. Like baking cookies.
Emma has mentioned the baking plans. But that’s the thing, she only mentioned them. He doesn’t know if he’s invited.
He doesn’t know if he’s welcome.
“Killian?” His face must be mirroring some of his thoughts. Snow looks a little worried. “Are you all right? Do you not like cookies?”
Yes he does. He loves cookies. This land’s prowess in all things chocolate is unparalleled.
He tries to reassure Snow with a grin.
“I do,” he says. “I just didn’t---” The way she looks at him. Open. Inviting. It’s almost painful. “---know what time you wanted to commence the revelry,” he finishes lamely.
“Around five,” Snow says. “Henry’s at Regina’s tonight, so the ‘revelry’ will be all grown up. Just come on down, you don’t need to bring anything.”
Yes, well.
He knows enough about the customs in every realm he’s ever traveled to that when you’re invited to somebody’s house, you bring a present. Even when they tell you not to.
He spends most of the day down by the harbor, just breathing the salty air, listening to the seagulls, and then shows up at the loft at 5 PM on the dot, holding a bottle.
When Emma opens the door he goes to hug her, long and tight, because he hasn’t seen her all day.
“Hey,” she says in that soft voice she only uses with him, and hugs him back just as tightly. “I missed you today.”
So has he.
Missed her terribly.
She kisses him slowly until David behind them clears his throat very loudly, and Emma rolls her eyes and grins.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and he’s so relieved to hear her say that. For tonight at least, he is welcome.
He nods at David who watches him with narrowed eyes and then hands the bottle to Snow, who can roll her eyes better than even her daughter can.
“Killian, I said not to bring any---” Snow’s voice cuts out all at once and her jaw drops. “David,” she whispers. “David, look at this.”
Emma looks at Killian in question, but he just smiles at her and points his chin at Snow. At Snow who is now staring at Killian while holding the bottle out to David.
“Killian,” she says. “How?”
“Had a few bottles left on the Jolly ,” he says. He can feel Emma next to him tense up, just like she always does when he mentions his ship. He wants to tell her not to worry, that he doesn’t regret trading his vessel, not for a moment. He smiles at her instead and says, “I took them to my room at Granny’s back when I---”
He stops himself. There were dark nights full of rum and despair back then, more of them than he cares to admit or remember, and they do not belong in this brightly-lit living room.
“Anyway, I never could bring myself to drink them,” he says instead. Couldn’t bring myself to sever the last line to a life I thought I wanted , he doesn’t say. “And I thought you might like one.”
“Is this what I think it is?” David says, his voice unsteady, and Snow nods.
“It’s our wine,” she says, and--- are there tears in her eyes? She looks at Emma. “It’s our coronation wine. I never--- I----”
A sob cuts her off and David wraps his arms around her and looks at Killian and for this one, brief moment, Killian knows David approves. He’ll take it.
*
Snow looks over David’s shoulder at Killian. Sees how his posture relaxes a bit after David nods at him, sees how it relaxes even more as Emma leans into him and he pulls her close, buries his nose in her hair. Emma smiles, a soft, lovely, contented smile and in that moment Snow can actually see how much they belong together.
See how perfectly they fit.
How genuinely happy he makes her.
With Emma, Killian is not just a pirate and with Killian, Emma is more than the Savior. Even when he still looks so unsure—and he does look unsure. He looks like he’s afraid to breathe wrong.
Snow is going to have to have a very stern word with her husband about making pirates feel welcome in their lives.
Then she wipes her eyes and shakes her head.
“That’s quite enough of that,” she says, as if she weren’t the one crying, and extricates herself from David. Who grins at her and then winks, because he knows her. Damn him.
“Cookies,” Snow says firmly, and then looks at Killian, still holding on to Emma.
“Why don’t you take your jacket off?” She says gently. “Make yourself at home?”
If only she could make him realize how much she means that.
“OK,” she goes on, facing three pairs of expectant eyes across the counter. “Let’s see what we got. It’s not like we really know about Christmas---” she nods at Emma and Killian--- “you guys know much more about it. But we did have Saturnalia back in the Enchanted Forest, and you know---”
Her voice trails off as she watches David’s grin grow wicked.
“What your mother is trying to say,” David says, rolling his eyes, “is that in the last two years she has discovered that in this land, throughout the month of December, there are a lot of movies on television which she’s rather fond of.”
Emma’s jaw drops. “Oh god, Mom.” She actually shudders. “Don’t tell me you’ve discovered Hallmark.”
Snow can feel herself starting to blush. She doesn’t quite know what’s gotten into her either. It’s as if these stories thrum a primal chord deep inside her.
Well, some of them do.
Emma leans forward, her eyes narrow. “You’re a bandit .” Oh, the accusation with which her daughter can front-load a word. For a very brief moment Snow feels exceptionally sorry for Killian for when he makes his first real mistake.
“I am a bandit who can appreciate pretty decorations and a message of hope and good cheer,” she says, and it comes out sounding rather defensive.
Killian smiles and once again pulls Emma close.
“I think your mother deserves to like whatever she chooses,” he whispers into her ear.
Emma shakes her head, but then she grins and Snow raises a stern eyebrow.
“I also like a good reason to eat sweets,” she says. “And this holiday seems to be built on treats. It’s like the official month of sugar and spice.”
She puts her hand on her hips and everyone bursts out laughing.
So far so good.
*
“I don’t really have any traditions,” Emma says with an air of nonchalance so perfect it has to be practised. “Christmas is not exactly a big deal.”
Killian’s heart constricts.
He doesn’t really know that much about this holiday, despite what Snow says, but he remembers the children Pan snatched in December, remembers how they cried more and longer and harder at the thought of what they had lost.
Without fail the December children turned into Pan’s most ruthless minions after they got over their pain and anguish, every last one of them callous and brutal and crueler than the rest of them.
As if their emotional connection to humanity had been severed more completely than any of the others’, as if their heartache had been too great to bear and instead turned on them, burned away every last shred of empathy and compassion and kindness.
Christmas had clearly meant something to them once.
Judging by Emma’s tone, Christmas has never meant anything to her at all, and somehow that seems worse. Not the holiday itself, he couldn’t care less about that. The fact that Emma has never let herself put down enough roots to have traditions.
To make something last.
He remembers his mother making mulled boysenberry wine and sugar buns for the winter solstice, remembers their cabin smelling sweet and wonderful, remembers their father smiling often, at her and at Liam and even at him.
“That’s a shame,” he says softly, trying not to put too much pressure on this point. “It’s nice to have some things you love, that you can remember fondly and share with your own.”
David scoffs. “And what would you know about it? Aren’t your traditions basically just pillage and plunder? ”
It stings.
A lot.
From out of the corner of his eye he can see Snow slap David’s arm, hard. Can see David wince.
“Ignore him,” she says, and smiles warmly at Killian. “We used to have a feast for winter solstice at the palace. My father used to send envoys out every fall, to gather the most exotic, extravagant ingredients. I remember the first time I had oranges.” Her voice grows wistful. “The whole town celebrated - there were tables out in the open everywhere. People used to come from far away, gather in the streets, celebrate together. We had fires going and blankets and mulled wine. It lasted two days.”
“I remember,” David said. “I went once or twice when I was a boy. I loved it. Ate until I dropped.”
“That’s kind of why I like this Christmas thing,” Snow says. “I like the notion of lots of food and the smell of fresh sap and candles and cider. It reminds me of home.”
“That sounds really nice,” Emma says, but it’s perfunctory. Killian looks at her, smiling but not moved, and he walks over and wraps his arms around her.
“Maybe you and I can go look at the stars later,” he says. “Take some hot chocolate and a blanket down to the docks.”
It’s a shot in the dark, but Emma’s arms tighten around his waist and he knows he’s said the right thing. Or at the very least not a wrong thing.
David looks at him sharply. “As long as you don’t spike it with rum and have your wicked---”
“DAVID.” Snow’s voice is pure flint and he actually flinches.
“ Seriously. ” Emma adds and then kisses Killian in full view of her parents. Thoroughly.
He closes his eyes, feels her hand fist into his hair, feels her back arch against him and blocks out everything but the taste of her.
The warmth of her body, the softness of her skin.
He does not want to let go of her, not ever.
When she pulls back he is breathless and she puts her forehead against his, smiles and gently rubs his neck and he no longer cares who’s watching. There’s no one else on the planet at this moment. There are just the two of them.
Killian sighs when Emma finally straightens up, sighs and turns and blushes, walks over to the counter and blindly grabs for his bowl and whisk, just to have something to do. Something useful to do which will avoid David’s steely gaze for the moment.
Emma turns to Snow to ask what temperature the oven should be, and David keeps staring at him, daring him to look up, which he absolutely will not, thankyouverymuch, and then the bowl he’s been holding, barely, with the tip of his hook while he whisks with his right, shoots out from under his grasp and catapults along the counter before slowly somersaulting in a flying leap to the floor. Splattering egg whites and creamed butter and milk everywhere . Most of it on his pants. His black pants.
Fuck.
But then Emma laughs out loud and he’d gladly drop a hundred bowls of batter on himself if that is the reaction.
“That was a solid 10,” she says when she can breathe again, and takes the whisk from him. “It stuck the landing. Literally.” She points at the sticky puddle at their feet. “I got the bowl. Go get cleaned up.”
She takes his hook and starts to push him towards the bathroom and he can see it, can see the moment it happens, the moment her face falls, her smile vanishes, and she looks down at his hook, the hook which couldn’t hold the bowl, and then back up at his face, her eyes large and worried.
“Don’t,” he says before she can open her mouth. “It had nothing to do with this.” He points his chin at his hook. “Trust me when I tell you I’ve done more complicated things than hold dishes in place.”
She takes a deep breath and then exhales and bites her lip.
“Sorry,” she says.
“There is nothing you should be sorry for, love,” he says, and she nods again, and this time he knows she believes him.
“We can take some cookies with us later,” she whispers. “When we go look at the stars.” And then she grins. “Unless you plan on wearing them all.”
*
An hour later the place smells delicious, everyone is covered in flour, and it has started to snow.
“I think you should shovel the walkway,” Snow says to David, and he turns to her, full of righteous indignation at being sent outside, and then he sees her face.
“Am I in trouble?”
Snow looks at Emma and Killian on the couch, Emma curled into his side, and Killian stiff as a board except for the arm around her daughter’s shoulders.
Then she looks back at her husband.
“I think we’ve had enough of the overprotective father for one night,” she says. “Your daughter is an adult. An adult we sent through a wardrobe into an unknown land by herself when she was a newborn, so I don’t think we’re entitled to put the thumb screws to anyone.”
She can see her words hit home when David starts to duck his head, but she remains firm.
“So I think it’s your turn to cool off outside and a bit of exercise is just the thing to do it.” She glares at her husband for good measure. “I strongly suggest you use the time to think.”
David nods, chagrined, and simply goes to grab his jacket, and Snow puts on coffee.
“Hey,” she hears Emma say. “Please relax. He likes you. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
Killian shrugs and Snow walks over to them, sits down in her favorite overstuffed chair and pats Killian’s arm.
“David’s making up for lost time,” she says. “He never got to put the fear of the Evil Queen into teenage boys, and he’s taking it out on you.”
“That’s not Killian’s fault,” Emma says, claws showing a bit, and Snow smiles. Her daughter likes the pirate a lot more than she’s trying to let on.
“Give him time,” she says. “He’s trying. And not everyone can be as naturally cool as I am.”
Emma and Killian look at her for a long beat before they both burst out laughing.
“True,” Emma says, wiping her eyes. “You definitely are the cool parent. Even if you have horrible taste in movies.”
The oven timer dings and Snow gets up. She takes the baking sheet out of the oven and watches Killian once again relax, sink into Emma the same way she melts against him, watches her put her head against his chest and his arm tighten around her. Their body language is in beautiful sync, two pieces working in perfect harmony, and it makes her happy.
She knows the signs of True Love.
“Here,” she says and walks over to them to hand them a small basket.
“What is this?” Emma hardly looks up, sighing into Killian’s chest.
Killian smiles at Snow and then bends down to kiss Emma’s temple.
“It’s our stargazing picnic,” he says softly. “Cookies and--- is that hot chocolate?”
“It is.” Snow nods. “Hot chocolate with cinnamon, to be exact. And rum.” She winks at them. “And a warm blanket.”
Emma sits up and grins.
“Yeah,” she says. “You’re definitely the cool parent.”
*
Two people sit at the end of a wooden pier, wrapped up in each other and a warm blanket, listening to the water and looking at the stars.
The man hands the woman a thermos cup and drops small kisses to her jaw as she drinks and then snuggles into his chest, smiling and warm and so, so content.
“We should do this every year,” she says, and the man nods, his eyes soft and fond and full of love.
“It’ll be our tradition,” he says, and then he kisses her again.