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Chapter Text

The cheerful chimes from her physician phone are anything but to Emma as she cracks opens a bleary eye and grapples blindly at her bedside table, hand flailing until it lands on the offending device. She flicks her thumb across the screen without looking and presses the phone haphazardly to her ear. “Captain Swan,” she grinds out, clearing her throat.

“Emma, it’s Elsa.” The tone of her intern’s voice is strained and gets Emma’s attention immediately. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a patient with respiratory distress in 2102. Can you come?”

Emma sits up in bed as she processes the information, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes . “Yeah. Do you need the acute care team?”

“O2 sat is 92% on 2 liters, respiratory rate’s 26, heart rate 110.” Elsa rattles off the vital signs rapidly. “He looks okay for now.”

“’Kay.” Emma rolls herself out of bed, stumbling over to the light switch in the dark. She winces as she flicks it on, the harsh fluorescent glare forcing her to close her eyes momentarily. “Turn him up to 4 liters and draw a blood gas. I’ll be there in a sec.” She hangs up and glances at her phone, sighing at what she sees. It’s 0432. The phone gets shoved into the back pocket of her scrub pants, and she takes a moment for a deep breath before heading out into the into the hallway, once more unto the breach.

She finds Elsa in the aforementioned patient’s room hunched at his bedside, frowning in concentration as she draws blood out of the man’s upturned right wrist. A nurse stands next to a portable vitals monitor, hastily jotting down the latest set of readings on a scrap of paper.

“How we doing?” Emma asks them as she enters.

“O2’s up to 96% on 4 liters,” the nurse reports. “Blood pressure’s stable, 148 over 92.”

“Lieutenant, this is Captain Swan,” Elsa tells the patient. “Captain, this is Lt. Navarro.”

“Ma’am.” The lieutenant is a 45 year-old man with an olive complexion who smiles weakly. His left leg is set in a cast after a recent surgery and propped up on a pillow, and his graying bed head is rumpled to match his faded blue hospital gown.

Emma acknowledges him with a friendly nod, practiced eyes giving him the once over for signs of obvious distress and thankfully finding none. “’Morning, Lieutenant. How do you feel?”

“A little short of breath, Ma’am.”

“When did it start?”

“Woke me up around 0400.”

She watches as Elsa caps the blood sample and drops it into a waiting plastic baggie filled with ice to be sent to the lab. “Any chest pain?”

“Just when I breathe.” He points toward his left armpit and hisses as he inhales deeply to demonstrate. “Right there. Like a poker.”

Elsa catches Emma’s eye. “Chest CT?”

“Definitely.” She gives the younger physician a small approving grin and gestures for a tech who’s standing in the doorway with an EKG machine to come in and get set up. “Lieutenant, we’re going to check your heart rhythms and then arrange for a CT scan of your chest to see if you have a blood clot in your lung.”

The man’s brown eyes widen at her words, but he simply swallows and nods as the tech begins unbuttoning his gown in order to affix the EKG leads to his chest.

Their suspicions prove correct when the radiologist calls Elsa at 0540. The lieutenant does indeed have a new pulmonary embolism in his left lung, and Elsa texts her the news as Emma perches at a nursing station computer, a giant cup of coffee at her fingertips, glancing over lab results and vital signs for all of the patients on their orthopedic surgery service. She texts back the go-ahead to start blood thinners for the clot, and returns to her review of patient charts. Thankfully their patient list is not as long as it has been in recent weeks, and, barring any emergencies, the optimist in her estimates she can be done with morning rounds and have her progress notes completed by 10. After a couple years of doing this, she knows it’s tempting fate to plan on being out of the hospital at any specific time, but she’s been in this place on-call for almost 26 hours now, and she needs to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

When she and Elsa meet back up for rounds, she smiles. “Nice call on that CT.”

Elsa absently brushes her icy blonde braid forward over her shoulder. “Thanks, and thanks for your help.” Her smile is rueful. “Sorry to call you out of bed. I know you were in on that emergency surgery until 1.”

Emma shrugs and shakes her head dismissively. “ You’re supposed to call me for stuff like that. You did great.” She pulls out her folded patient list and raps it impatiently against her other hand, craning her head for signs of their boss. “I hope Mills gets here soon. I just want to get done and go home.”

As much as she wishes for rounds with their faculty surgeon to be blessedly efficient, they are not. Major Mills, typically a brusque, no-nonsense taskmaster who’s both bark and a fair amount of bite, is uncharacteristically chatty and sociable with their patients today. It’s nice to see the Major showing her softer side, but it slows their workflow. Emma suspects the phenomenon has to do with the fact that the Major’s boyfriend has just returned to D.C. from his latest tour of duty abroad; the woman is practically glowing as they follow her around the ward. Emma can feel her desire to go home growing exponentially with every tick of the minute hand on her watch, but she understands her place at the beck and call of her superior, so she hides her exhaustion and emotionally buckles down.

It’s almost 1130 when she signs her last progress note and logs out of the electronic medical record system. “Huzzah,” she says flatly under her breath, her voice cracking as she raises her arms skyward in a stretch, the euphoric sensation of sinew pulling and joints popping causing her to groan. Elsa’s already signed out their patient list to the residents covering the day shift, and now all Emma needs is a stop in the cafeteria for more coffee to help keep her eyes open on the drive home. She feels almost sore with fatigue and incredibly grubby, and she wants nothing more at this moment than to clean off yesterday’s make-up, wash her hair, and fall into her own bed for a few more hours of sleep.

Traffic in the cafeteria at Walter Reed Medical Center is fairly light for a Saturday morning. Standing signs advertise the upcoming Christmas hours and holiday menu items, and ornaments hang from the ceiling on ropes of silver tinsel. She drags herself straight toward the coffee machines as though their little red lights are homing beacons calling to her soul and plunks the largest paper cup available beneath the dispenser of the nearest machine. Before medical school, she preferred hot chocolate to coffee, but over the last few years she’s converted out of sheer necessity, and her finger jabs the button for espresso, even though she knows what she’s going to get isn’t anything like the real thing. The machine begins to hum promisingly, but instead of coffee, plain hot water sputters into the cup.

Emma grimaces, her nose wrinkling. “Ugh. Really?” She’s sorely tempted to let her head fall forward on the uncooperative machine in exhaustion and defeat. She’s so close, so damn close to going home. She just needs enough caffeine so her sleep-deprived brain can operate her car with some semblance of safety. Come on, Universe, she pleads. Just give me this.

“Not what you ordered, love?”

The male voice with a British accent coming from the officer at the next machine over makes her look up - look up and stop breathing. Holy hell. He’s tall and gorgeous, with a mop of artfully mussed inky brown hair, piercing steel blue eyes, and a few days’-worth of stubble lining his mouth and jaw line. Being in the military, Emma immediately surveys his dress (once she can tear her gaze off his dangerously appealing face). He wears a white dress shirt with a neat black tie and black dress pants. There is an unfamiliar rank insignia on his shoulders, and the strap of a time-worn brown leather messenger bag is slung over his subtly-sculpted chest. Her physician’s eye picks up on the stump that peeks out of his left shirt sleeve, well-healed scars where the hand used to be.

She’ll give herself points later for only staring at this beautiful person with her mouth open like a fish for two full seconds (maybe it was three) before she gives herself a mental shake and her brain revs back to life like a computer in safe mode. “Um, no. Unless that water is infused with concentrated caffeine, very much no.”

He chuckles and steps back, gesturing toward his machine with his right hand. “Perhaps you should try this one.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Four years of college, four years of medical school, and two years of residency under her belt, and her verbal skills are reduced to this by a pretty face, she thinks woefully. But it is a very pretty face. She’s fairly sure she’s having palpitations. God, get a grip, Swan. She tosses her cup of not-coffee into the trash. “After you.”

The man gestures again. “Please. Ladies first. I’m sure you’ve had a long night.”

She suddenly considers how she must look in her blue scrubs, stained sneakers, partially-zipped red puffer coat, and slept-in ponytail, and she feels more self-conscious than she ever has in her life. “A little bit,” she admits weakly, summoning the courage to look back up into his dancing eyes. “It was a 30-hour shift.” Her knees are so wobbly she wonders if her ligaments have vanished, but she manages to move in front of his machine without falling over (win!) and tries again to get her coffee. This time, the imitation espresso she’s hoping for actually starts pouring into the cup. “Oh, thank God,” she exhales, her head falling back dramatically.

He laughs and shakes his head in awe. “How often do they make you do that?”

Emma shifts the tote bag that’s hanging on her shoulder. “Call shifts? This month it’s every fourth night. I’m counting down the days until January.”

“I would imagine. You’re a doctor, then?”

She confirms with a nod, allowing herself a proud little smile. She’s been able to call herself “Doctor” for over two years, but the thought still gives her a little thrill from time to time, especially when she thinks about how far she’s come to be here. The machine stops filling her cup with the espresso precariously close to the rim, and she tears her eyes off him and tries to focus on snapping a plastic lid on it without scalding herself. “I’m in orthopedics.”

His dark eyebrows rise in a manner that tells her he is suitably impressed. When she steps back from the machine, cradling her precious beverage and ready to be on her way, he clears his throat, scratching behind his right ear in a way that’s kind of adorable. “You know, when I was in hospital with this,” he says, raising his stump a fraction, “I remember the surgeons being there before dawn and well past dark.” He starts the machine on a cup of French roast, turning back to her with a soft expression. “I guess it didn’t really occur to me that sometimes you’re there all night, too.”

Handsome As Hell is being sincere (she has a pretty accurate feel for these things). Despite the fact that this is a place of food preparation, there is a disappointing lack of shiny metal surfaces nearby in which she can covertly check her reflection to see how badly her day-old eyeliner has run all over the place and whether her hair has migrated into an 80′s-style side-pony, but he’s gazing at her as though she doesn’t look like a major disaster. “Comes with the territory,” she manages with a small shrug, trying not to color under his attention. “We all pay our dues during residency.”

“Well, you deserve a lot of credit, uh… Captain, is it?” The look of uncertainty on his features as he tries to remember the rank of military physicians-in-training is endearing, and now she blushes fully, really not comprehending how it is this man is still talking to her.

“Yes, technically.” She summons her courage and sticks out her hand, praying her palms aren’t clammy. “Emma. Emma Swan. Navy.”

His return grip is warm and solid, and the sensation of her palm in contact with his sends tingles up her arm and down to the base of her spine, like some strange reflex in slow motion. “Captain Swan,” he says, grinning slowly from ear-to-ear. “I like the sound of that.” He executes a small bow at the waist. “Killian Jones, at your service, Ma’am.”

Killian. Unusual, but it totally works for him, she thinks. Although, she’s pretty sure his name could be Leroy and her heart would still be racing. She’s sad when he finally releases her hand in order to retrieve his coffee. Emma takes a tentative step toward the cashier to gauge whether he’s going to come with her. He does. Her finger traces circles in the air as she points vaguely at his rank insignias. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize…”

“British Royal Navy,” he supplies. “Technically, Rear Admiral.”

Now it’s her eyebrows that go to her hairline, though she’s not intimidated so much as intrigued. He seems young for two stars. He’s either an outstanding officer or he’s not as young as he looks. “Rear Admiral Jones,” she says deferentially, “Sir.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head at her. “Killian will do.”

She smiles slyly. “Okay, Killian.” It’s her turn at the cashier, but he sets his coffee on the check-out counter at her elbow and is holding a credit card out to the cafeteria worker before she has a chance to reach for her wallet. Emma opens her mouth in protest. “You don’t have to…”

“Of course not, Swan,” he says, “It’s my pleasure. I owe you surgeons a lot. This is the least I can do.”

The female cashier looks expectantly at Emma, the bored look on her face making it clear that she doesn’t have time for crazy women who have to think twice about letting a gorgeous man buy them coffee.

Emma glances at him with a raised eyebrow. “Are you going to pull rank on me?”

He blinks, as though he hadn’t considered it. “Is that really what it would take?”

She finds she likes his answer. “No.” She gives the cashier permission to take Killian’s card with a tilt of her head. “Thanks.”

They continue to walk in step together as they exit the cafeteria and move toward the hospital lobby, and while Emma is still exhausted, spending a few minutes more in this place doesn’t seem like an awful proposition anymore. She sips her drink, humming softly with ecstasy as the hot liquid descends toward her core and she imagines that she can feel the caffeine flooding her bloodstream. “So you’re an exchange officer,” she observes, cup still hovering at her lips. What’s your assignment?”

“I teach at the Academy,” he replies, holding his coffee cup to his body with his left arm while he tugs the strap of his bag straight.

She takes another long sip, brow wrinkling. “Are you here visiting someone then?”

“Um, a lot of someones actually.” He pulls back the flap of his messenger bag to reveal stacks of navy blue greeting card envelopes, neatly rubber-banded together. “A group of students prepared cards for the patients for the holidays. I volunteered to deliver them. It gives me an excuse to visit with the new amputees. I don’t get many opportunities to do it with health privacy laws, but I keep hoping it’ll help one or two people who’ve lost a limb to chat with a bloke who’s been there.” He gives her a sad little smile.

She can’t be sure whether it’s the espresso or him, but her chest feels warm as she stares at him, lips slightly parted in awe. Okay, so it’s totally him. “That’s… really sweet.”

A muffled chorus of Barenaked Ladies’ “Who Needs Sleep?” suddenly disrupts the air between them, and Emma silently curses as she fumbles her personal phone out of her coat pocket and silences the call with the barest glance at the caller ID. “Sorry.”

Killian appears openly amused by her ringtone, then shakes his head sheepishly. “No, it’s my fault; I shouldn’t be keeping you. You need to rest.” He holds out his hand again. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Swan.”

The tingles return as she gives him a quick goodbye shake and reluctantly pulls away. “You too. Thank you again for the caffeine.”

He gives a gentlemanly bow of his head, flashing her one last smile before backing up and moving off toward the elevators.

Emma watches him retreat and sighs, deciding the jumble of emotions rising up in her is just a little too much for her tired brain to process right now. Fine, Universe, she thinks wryly, as she heads out to her car, I guess we can call it even.

* * *

It’s late afternoon when Killian settles himself into his SUV and deposits his bag on the passenger’s seat next to him with a heavy sigh, tilting his head all the way back on the headrest so his eyes are studying the gray fabric-covered roof above him. These visits to the hospital, while infrequent, are always draining, forcing him to unearth horrific memories of the IED that took his hand and so much more. He started coming because his psychiatrist thought it would be therapeutic for him to talk with other amputees in a role-model capacity. He keeps coming back because of the grateful looks he gets from the patients and their family members when he takes the time to show them, if by nothing other than his presence, that a new normal is not the end of all things, that life and career are possible in the aftermath of such darkness. Killian snorts – he has the career, he supposes, but the life part is questionable.

He brings his chin back down to his chest and rubs the back of his neck as his mind drifts away from the darker thoughts to the stunning blonde he met earlier in the cafeteria. Captain Emma Swan. He can still see her brilliant smile. He’d have to be an idiot not to have been impressed by her – the lovely young surgeon with dry wit and huge mossy green eyes that a man could get lost in. Her sleep-deprived state did nothing to hide her graceful cheekbones or her dimpled cheeks or the golden tendrils that flowed over her shoulder as she moved or the absence of a ring on her finger. Killian makes a fist and thumps his thigh with it. He wishes he could find a way to run into her again. That part is obvious to him. Whether it’s a good idea is another matter entirely.

Chapter Text

Killian returns to his office after his latest class and checks his cell phone for messages. There is one from the receptionist at his psychiatrist’s office reminding him that he’s due for his quarterly appointment. He obediently dials back.

“D.C. Psychiatric Associates.” She picks up on the third ring.

“Hi Tink, it’s Killian.” Phone pressed to his ear, he wanders over to his office window and looks out over the snow-covered field two stories below that, come spring, will be overrun with students engaging in various training exercises. The afternoon sky is gray, clouds diffusing the sunlight evenly over the city.

“Oh hello!” Dr. Hopper’s receptionist, Christina – Tink, to her friends – sounds cheerful on the other end. “How are you doing?”

His mouth quirks up at her ever-spritely demeanor. “Well enough, love. You?”

“Oh fine, same as ever. Are you calling to schedule?”

“Yeah.”

He has Tink make him a January appointment in his preferred Tuesday afternoon slot, and they exchange brief pleasantries and wish each other happy holidays before he hangs up and moves to enter the appointment into his phone. The date saved, he pauses, staring at the calendar beneath his thumb. Every fourth night. Swan had mentioned working 30-hour shifts every fourth night for the rest of the month. He finds himself counting out the days before he can stop himself. 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4… She’s working overnight again this coming Saturday.

With a frown, he abruptly turns his phone screen off, tossing it lightly on the desk. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be looking for an excuse to run into her again. Even if she were willing, he isn’t ready to pursue a relationship. Four years after his devastating loss, he’s still broken, still having the occasional nightmare and phantom pain, and she deserves better – a man who is whole and can give as much as he takes. That isn’t Killian. He rumbles in frustration, hauls a rubber-tipped dart out of a desk drawer, and whips it angrily across the room at a dart board that hangs opposite. It sinks into the bullseye (after four years of angry, frustrated throws, it usually does), and he shoves the drawer shut with more force than necessary, the metallic bang echoing between his four walls. He is so tired of being this way, of having no guaranteed date of recovery on his horizon. Killian leans forward, elbows on the desk, and runs his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. Emma isn’t the only one who’s exhausted.

* * *

Emma snaps on a pair of pale blue nitrile gloves and gently hoists their patient’s leg off the bed at the thigh so Elsa can unwind the layers of ACE wraps and white fluffy gauze that encase the stump from his below-the-knee amputation.

“How’s the pain today?” Elsa asks, leaning over his leg. Ensign Stephens is a gangly twenty-something year-old with strikingly red hair and freckles who seems a little enamored with her. The tiny amused smirk on Elsa’s face that only Emma can see from this angle is the sole indication that her intern notices the interested looks he’s giving her.

“A little better, Ma’am.” He fails to suppress a wince as she peels back the last layer of the dressing that lies against his skin.

“Sorry,” Elsa murmurs soothingly, her long lashes shielding her eyes from view as she looks down at her work. She tosses the used bandages out and examines the wound, gingerly prodding at the stitches holding the edges of the incision together.

Emma watches, keeping the leg steady. There is no unexpected redness or swelling or other sign of infection. “Looks pretty good,” she declares, satisfied. As Elsa begins to re-wrap the stump with clean supplies, Emma lets her eyes wander around the room. The Ensign has some paperback books and an iPad strewn on his bedside table and an open box of candy canes and a couple of Christmas cards in a pile next to the window. The navy blue envelope on top of the card pile catches her eye. “Did you have any visitors yesterday?” she asks him conversationally.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” He takes his eyes off Elsa for a moment and follows Emma’s gaze. “There was someone from the Naval Academy delivering Christmas cards. Jones. Cool guy. He hung out a while.”

Emma smiles, trying to appear only politely interested. “Sounds nice. It’s good to have some company.”

The Ensign nods, though his attention has drifted back to Elsa, who’s finished her task and is now stripping the gloves off her slender hands. “Don’t suppose you’d want to come keep me company later, would you, Captain?”

This time Elsa openly smiles and narrows her eyes in rebuke. “As you were, Ensign.”

Stephens sits back in the bed, shrugging good-naturedly, zero regret in the boyish grin on his face. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Once they’ve excused themselves and are in the hallway and out of earshot, Elsa finally allows herself a giggle. “It’s nice to see him in a good mood. He seemed pretty down yesterday. Guess he’s feeling better.”

Emma nods, wondering whether the Ensign’s improved outlook today has as much if not more to do with his visit from a certain rear admiral than it does with physical healing.

* * *

Killian stops by The Stacks on the way home from work. It’s an aged but well-kept drinking establishment in Mitchellville, 10 minutes from his apartment, that’s run by his friend, Belle, a petite lady whose two interests are slinging booze and reading. He arrives at the tail end of happy hour, settling himself on his usual seat at the end of the counter. She doesn’t keep him waiting long, waving at him when he sets foot in the door and heading in his direction a couple minutes later, drying her hands on a towel.

“Killian!”

“’Evening, Belle.” He reaches into his bag, setting a hardcover book on the polished oak bar top which bears many dings and dents, a testimony to its heavy use and history. “I wanted to bring this back to you.”

The pretty brunette snags it, stowing it away behind the counter. “What did you think?” she asks, watching him out of the corner of her eye, brow arched.

“It was quite good.” His verdict renders a look of triumph on her face. “But then, your recommendations usually are.”

“About time someone noticed,” she sniffs primly, winking as she reaches toward a bottle of her best dark rum reflexively. “Can I get you your usual, or do you have to run?”

He considers the level of activity around him. He hates crowded bars, but the place is relatively quiet, it being a Wednesday night and all. He shifts his weight restlessly on the stool. To hell with it. “Make it a double.”

Belle pauses, a knowing look crossing over her face. “I see. What happened?” She sets an empty tumbler on the counter in front of him and splashes in three ounces.

Pointedly avoiding eye contact, he studies the amber liquid apathetically before lifting the rim of the glass to his lips. “What makes you think anything happened?” It’s a rhetorical question. They both know that Belle can read him as well as she can any book. He sets his jaw and tips the glass back, relishing the burn of the alcohol as it slides down his throat.

His friend plants a hand on her hip. “Killian Jones, don’t make me to beat it out of you with my thesaurus.”

“Oh come now, love.” He swipes a drop of rum from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and tsks. “You wear shoes like that, and a reference book is your weapon of choice?” He shoots a glance at the impractical 4-inch spike heels she somehow manages to teeter around in all day. “That’s just lack of creative thinking.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I will consider stabbing you in the neck with my shoe rather than clubbing you with Roget’s. Happy?”

He points a finger at her half-heartedly. “Better.”

She opens her mouth to retort, but her attention is drawn away by another customer, and she gives Killian a chiding look before she stalks off. They both know he’s not off the hook. This has become their pattern – she picks up on a disruption in his life, and he doesn’t run away just because she’s on to him. They both know she will coax something out of him eventually, usually greasing the wheels with a few libations, and he’ll let her. Maybe it’s because his brother Liam used to spend summers bartending before he joined the navy, and this reminds Killian of him; maybe it’s because Belle shares his knowledge of what it’s like to tragically lose love; or maybe it’s her combination of patient nurturing and sisterly honesty; but Killian has learned that her presence can be a comfort when he wants to sort out his thoughts. So he remains in his seat bowed over his empty tumbler, fingertip tracing slow circles around the rim, rather than throwing down some bills and disappearing.

Belle returns 15 minutes later, wandering back down his way with a half dozen lemons and limes in a large wooden bowl. Setting a small cutting board and a knife on a stainless steel workbench behind the bar, she sets to work prepping citrus slices for cocktails. She’s silent at first, but then she speaks, her voice low and just loud enough for him to hear over the din. “Alright then?”

A bitter smile ghosts briefly at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still fixed downward. “Aye.” He can feel her eyes flickering over him, studying his expression with deep sympathy.

“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t have to know what’s bothering him to show him she understands how miserable he is.

Killian nods. Just as he always does in these situations, he debates opening up, how much he should say, afraid to reveal himself. Finally, he swallows. “I met someone.”

Belle looks up, appearing pleasantly surprised. “Oh?”

He nods again.

“Someone nice?”

Emma’s face dances through his memory. “Brilliant,” he answers somberly.

His friend runs her blade across the cutting board to corral lemon slices, scooping them up and dropping them into a waiting plastic container. “I’m still waiting for the bad news.”

“She deserves better than the likes of me.”

Belle frowns and cocks her head critically. “Uh huh. She said that, did she?” she asks dryly.

Killian gives her a sullen side-eye.

“Of course she didn’t. This is your assessment.” She continues to slice. “Does she even know you like her?” She allows him a while to answer, his silence telling. “Ah. Safer to play your cards close to the vest,” she observes at last. Sighing, Belle chews on her lip. Reading words is easy, but producing the right words, the words he needs when he’s like this, can be a lot less so. “We’re all a little broken in some way, Killian. It’s scary that people may run away once they see what we are, but…” she lays her palms on the table on either side of her, leaning forward, “Maybe it’s unfair to hold someone at arm’s length and never give them option to stay.”

* * *

A nurse grabs Emma and Elsa as they pass by the nursing station Thursday, just as they’re preparing to sign out and take off for the evening. “Sorry. Captain? Lieutenant Scarlet in Bed 5 says he’s still having really bad pain, and he hasn’t eaten anything all day.”

The girls share a look. Scarlet is a new transfer in from the U.S. military hospital in Landstuhl who arrived yesterday. The victim of a roadside bomb in Iraq two weeks ago, he lost a leg below the knee, and his recovery in Germany became complicated by a very aggressive skin infection in his stump. They’d had to take him back to the OR first thing that morning to open the incisions back up, clean out the site, and assess whether the infection had reached the bone, and while the bone had been spared, the infection was extensive enough that they’d made the decision to leave the wound open until it clears; they’ll close it up when the tissue is healthier and better able to heal. It’s been obvious since his arrival that the unfortunate lieutenant is devastated by the loss of his leg, increasingly frustrated by the setbacks in his recovery, and not handling any of this well.

“I’ll go,” Elsa says.

Emma gives her a small grin. Elsa is capable, hard-working, and gutsy when the chips are down, and Emma admires her willingness to try to handle this situation on her own, but an angry guy like Scarlet can be tough for any physician to deal with, let alone a first-year like her. “We’ll go together,” she says. “But you can take the lead.”

When they enter the patient’s room, the shades are drawn and the TV and the lights are off. The quiet whir of the IV and pain medicine pumps and the hum of the heating system are predominant sounds.

“Lieutenant?” Elsa calls softly as she slips in first. When he doesn’t answer, she clears her throat and tries again a little louder. “Lieutenant Scarlet?” She switches on a small overhead bulb that throws a pale, isolated light over just the doorway of the room.

“What?” The voice is a growl.

“It’s Arendelle and Swan,” she tells him as they approach the bed. “Your surgeons. Your nurse said you were having pain.”

“You’re fucking right I am,” he answers. “This morphine isn’t doing shit for me.”

Emma can see Elsa bristle at his language, the tension evident in her shoulders. They’re hardly strangers to swearing, but most of the patients know better than to run their mouths off at the medical staff. To her credit, Elsa doesn’t shy away. “How bad is your pain?” she asks. “Scale of 1 to 10?”

He looks up at her, sunken dull brown eyes incredulous and red-rimmed. “Fucking 25, what do you think?” he says, sneering, the pitch and volume of his voice rising. “You people are Goddamn idiots.” He gestures disgustedly toward his bandaged stump. “You know what’s under there. My leg is fucking split open like Frankenstein’s monster. What the hell kind of number do you think I’m going to say?”

Now Elsa looks rattled. She drops her eyes away from his face, and Emma can hear her quiet shudder as she tries to collect herself. “I’m very sorry, Lieutenant. I’ll go increase your pain medication.” Her voice is edged with distress and restrained tears, and Emma steps aside as Elsa spins around and makes haste out of the room.

Emma is grim as she watches her intern leave, taking a deep breath before turning back toward their patient. He’s young and pale, brown hair in a typical Army buzz cut, with heavy eyebrows, a straight nose, and smallish ears that stick out. Dark circles underline his eyes, and he cradles a plastic basin on his lap. He looks miserable. She approaches his bed slowly, fixing a calm, unyielding stare on his face.

He watches her come indignantly, though the hard look she’s giving him causes his demeanor to shift just slightly toward intimidated and sulky. “What else do you want?” he asks, petulant.

Emma frowns and licks her lips. “Lieutenant, I get that all of this has been a nightmare for you beyond what a lot of us can imagine,” she says in a soft voice, “You’re in a lot of pain, you’ve been in the hospital a long time, you’re probably worried your leg isn’t going to heal well, you’re not sleeping, and I’m going to guess by the way you’re hugging that bucket that the morphine is making you nauseated.” She sighs. “So we’re going to do everything we can to take care of you, but when all this is over, I strongly suggest you apologize to Captain Arendelle for your behavior just now.” She raises her eyebrows in challenge. “Am I clear?”

Scarlet still looks pissed, but she can see the muscles in his neck move as he swallows. She doesn’t wait for his reply as she turns on her foot and goes to see about Elsa.

Emma finds her at a computer at the nurses’ station, slumped back in a chair, the computer untouched. Her intern’s hands are steepled and pressed against the bridge of her nose, eyes closed.

“Hey.”

Elsa quickly sits up and looks at her, big blue eyes a little wet. “Hey. Sorry. I was just about to adjust the morphine order for him.”

“Yeah. You okay?” Emma settles into the seat next to her.

Elsa manages a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and logs herself into the computer system. “I’m fine.”

“You can’t take it personally, you know that.” Emma gives her shoulder a squeeze. “What happened in there is not about you.”

Elsa sighs and gives her a nod. “I know.”

Emma has learned from experience that knowing and believing are not always the same thing, but making the transition can take time. Content to leave it be, she rises. “Give him 4 mg of morphine now, and change his pain pump settings to 1 mg every 15 minutes as needed. Oh, and schedule his nausea meds for every six hours. The narcotics are making him queasy. I’ll take care of signing out to the night team.”

Elsa flashes her a grateful smile as she clicks away with her mouse. “Aye aye, Captain,” she says wearily.

As Emma heads to hand off their patient list, she catches a glimpse of Ensign Stephens, his red hair visible even far down the hall, rolling himself around in a wheelchair on the other end of the ward. It’s good to see him out of his room and getting around, she thinks. An idea occurs to her, and she presses her lips together in thought as she hurries off.

***

A knock comes on Killian’s office door over his Friday lunch hour.

“Yeah.” He continues to look over the paper he’s grading as the department secretary, Bill Smee, cracks his door partway open, his head and one arm leaning in. “Sir, you’ve got a phone call. Do you want me to put it through?”

“Who is it?” He continues to read, the tip of his red pen sweeping back and forth half an inch above the words as he scans them.

“It’s a woman. Emma Swan?”

The pen pauses in midair as Killian freezes. He looks up. The woman he’s been thinking about all week – torturing himself about, really – has taken the time to track him down. His mouth suddenly feels dry.

He must stare too long, because Smee gives him a concerned look. “Sir?”

He coughs weakly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, put her through.”

His pen hits the desk, and he leans back in his chair as the portly man disappears, pulling the door shut behind him. Killian runs a hand through his hair anxiously. He’s been vacillating for the last few days about whether to try to cross paths with her again. This morning on his drive to work, he’d convinced his reflection in the rear-view mirror (for the fourth time) that the whole thing was a silly notion and resigned himself to the idea that emotionally he cannot afford to have her be more than a one-time acquaintance. Apparently his opinion means squat to the powers that be though, because here he is, waiting for his phone to ring with her on the other end.

As though the thought triggers it to happen, the desk phone blares to life.

He clears his throat and falters as he reaches for it, nervous as a schoolboy talking to a girl for the first time. For Heaven’s sake, you big sod, he thinks, panicking as it rings for the third time and snatching up the handset. “Captain Swan.” He’s stunned by how normal his voice sounds.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Rear Admiral.” The universe isn’t playing tricks; it is, in fact, her voice in his ear, as pleasant as he remembers.

“Killian,” he gently corrects her.

“Emma,” she returns.

He chuckles. “Emma,” he agrees, the act of saying her name aloud giving him a happy rush. Lord, he’s in trouble when it comes to this woman. “What a nice surprise. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I, um, I hope you don’t mind me calling you like this,” she says. It’s reassuring that she sounds as nervous as he feels. “I know I already owe you for the coffee, but I wanted to ask another favor.”

He can hear the distant sounds of traffic in the background. Killian glances at his desk phone and suddenly scrambles for a sticky note and the pen when he realizes that if she’s outdoors, the digits on his display are probably her cell number. “Oh?” He scribbles it down and underlines it twice.

“Is there a chance you might have a reason to visit patients here again soon?”

Killian raises an eyebrow, his pulse starting to race as he wonders what she’s up to. “Perhaps.”

“One of the guys you visited on Saturday, Stephens, enjoyed talking to you, and he seems to be in a better headspace since then,” she says. “Look, I know you’re not like a fairy godmother or something, but I’ve got a new patient on my service who’s having a really rough time, and I thought it might be good for him to meet you too.”

Wow. He finds himself touched, gratified, and humbled by her rambling little speech, a wide smile breaking across his face. “You flatter me, Emma.”

Her laugh is an amazing sound. “Well, it’s the truth, but a little buttering up might be in order if you say yes.” Her voice turns serious. “Full disclosure, Killian. This poor guy’s angry and hurting and lashing out. He’s uncooperative and yelling and swearing at the staff. He almost made my intern cry yesterday.” She sighs heavily. There’s a pause. “You know what?” she starts again, now sounding embarrassed, “You shouldn’t feel obligated. He might not even talk to you. I just… had to ask. I don’t know how else to help him.”

The sadness in her voice tugs at him, not just because he completely understands the situation, but because her desire to help a patient, even a spiteful one, cope with his injury says a lot about her. Emma Swan is something special. He feels a pang in his chest. He’s in it now; there’s no way he can bring himself to say no to her. “You want to try, Swan. That’s what matters,” he says gently, imagining those green eyes looking discouraged and wishing he could crook a finger under her chin. “I would be happy to try to speak to your patient.”

“Really?” She sounds hopeful now, a hint of wonder in her tone, and he’ll never doubt helping her is the right thing to do.

“Of course.” He taps the end of his pen thoughtfully on the sticky pad. “I just need to find an excuse to run into him.”

“Oh. Right. Huh.” She’s silent for a half a moment. “I can’t tell you his name or anything about his condition, so you either need another reason to stop in on every patient on the floor, or we have to arrange for you to run into each other outside his room.”

“Exactly.” Killian begins to doodle on the note just above her phone number. The outlines of a swan’s neck, head, and body take shape.

Emma hums. “I don’t suppose your students are planning on sending any more greeting cards? You don’t have, like, a knitting club that wants to make socks for everyone or something?”

He laughs as he suddenly envisions the Naval Academy football team sitting in a circle knitting socks and jumpers and tea cozies. “That sounds delightful,” he says, regaining his composure, “But no, I don’t think we have that.”

“Well what if…” she trails off, “What if you came back to visit some of the other patients you met last weekend again? Then you’d have a reason to be there, and maybe we can get him out of his room for a bit so you can try to start a conversation with him.”

“Sounds promising,” Killian agrees, adding folded wings and a beak to his drawing.

“Ensign Stephens would enjoy seeing you again,” she reminds him.

He smiles, sketching a tail and feathers. He remembers the young man she speaks of. “He’s a good lad.”

“Yes, he is,” she says, sounding amused. “Except that now that his mood is better, he’s proving himself to be an awfully big flirt.”

Killian’s brow furrows a touch. “Why Swan,” he says, careful to sound teasing, “Does the Ensign have his sights on you?”

“Oh, not me,” she replies airily, “My intern, Elsa.”

“Ah.” The lines on his forehead fade, and he tries to ignore the fact that the tiny niggling uneasiness in the back of his mind that’s just been alleviated may have been jealousy. He instead focuses on the fact that the Ensign seems to find another woman more appealing than Emma Swan. Apparently the lad’s injuries also extend to his head, he thinks. “Well, it sounds like a fine plan, Swan. When shall I come by?”

“Is tomorrow too soon?”

Saturday. Her call day. He finishes his doodle and studies the precious sticky note reverently like a pirate with a treasure map. “I think I can manage. How will you get the lad out of his room?”

“I don’t know. I’ll come up with something,” she says, cheerfully undeterred. “What time can you be there?”

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing he would not have immediately taken Emma Swan for, it’s conniving, but it turns out that there’s a bit of that in her too.

When he arrives on the surgery ward toting a box of Krispy Kremes, he walks past a janitor with a large floor buffer who’s methodically setting up “wet floor” signs with arrows pointing to one half of the long hallway. Killian slows his pace and looks around, eyes peeled for anyone he knows.

“Donuts. I like your style.”

He whirls around to see Emma coming toward him. Unlike during their first meeting last weekend, she looks fresher and better-rested today. She wears scrubs and the same sneakers, but today her face is framed on each side with a medium-sized braid which starts at her crown and wraps down around the back to entwine with its counterpart in an intricate, slightly messy knot holding together a bun at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks are rosy, lips pink, and her eyes gleam conspiratorially. Frankly, she’s glorious.

He forces himself to drop his gaze to the green and white box. “Well, I thought it might help draw our quarry out in case my shining personality wasn’t enough.”

She smirks. “I love a man with a back-up plan.” She suddenly blushes, her face and lovely throat suddenly awash in a deeper shade of salmon, and ducks her head childishly. “Uh… Wait here.”

He watches as she all-but bolts away, hurrying down toward the janitor he passed on the way in. He observes them greet each other fondly, and Emma’s attitude to the wiry, balding man is a mixture of playful entreaty and open appreciation as she says a few words to him and the man nods enthusiastically. He picks up the hanging loops of the floor buffer’s cord and begins unwinding them like a fisherman with a net while Emma trots back over to Killian, a satisfied grin on her face. “That’s it. We’re a go.”

He tilts his head, peering at her curiously. “What are you up to, Swan?”

“Oh, Marco’s going to wax some of the floors today,” she explains serenely. “The floor wax he uses is kind of pungent, so normally he only does patient rooms when they’re empty, but he’s going to make an exception for me and start in on our guy’s room now while he’s downstairs getting an MRI.” She shakes her head shamelessly. “Pity he won’t quite be done by the time the patient gets back.”

Killian feels a quiet laugh bubble up from his chest as he nods appreciatively at her little scheme. “Quite devious, Swan.”

She allows herself an indulgent self-satisfied smirk, her cheeks glowing in a way that’s mesmerizing, but she’s only allowed to preen for a moment as a ding emanates from her rear pants pocket. Emma pulls out two phones – the personal one he recognizes from before and another that he assumes is for work – and unlocks the work phone, pouting a little. “Ugh, sorry. I’ve got to go review some bone scans with Elsa and then see a consult in the ER.” She sighs and stows the phones away.

He waves away the apology. “Duty calls. I understand. Go. I’ve got this.”

She takes a step toward the hallway behind him, pausing to touch his left forearm. “No matter how it goes, I can’t thank you enough for this,” she says quietly, dipping her head toward his ear. “Really. I owe you one.”

Her touch and proximity and the lowness of her voice are giving him shivers, but it’s the sincerity in her voice that overwhelms him. Killian swallows, his heart in his throat. “Think nothing of it, Swan,” he says, trying not to croak, “Happy to help.” He wants to pull her into a hug out of pure appreciation for making him feel more useful than he has in a long time, but instead he remains frozen on the spot as she flashes him one more grateful smile and hurries off.

Ensign Stephens is in his room, playing Candy Crush on his iPad and looking bored, the TV playing “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” at half-volume in the background. The young man lights up when Killian knocks on the open door.

“Hey! Jones!”

“Hi.” Killian smiles. “I was back in the neighborhood and though you lads might enjoy a distraction.”

The Ensign sets the tablet aside, eyes zeroing in on the pastry box excitedly. “Dude, are those Krispy Kremes?”

He chuckles. “They are, in fact. Care to try to earn one?”

The Ensign’s face falls a little. “Earn one?”

Killian snorts reproachfully. “You’re in the military, lad. Doesn’t matter if you’re in hospital. Privileges are earned.”

Stephens rolls his eyes but straightens his back as best he can in the bed. “Fine. What do I have to do, Sir?”

“You mean for three-and-a-half inches of soft, melt-in-your-mouth, sugary goodness?” He fixes the patient with a grin, one eyebrow curved upward devilishly, shifts the box over to his left arm, and pulls a deck of cards out of the pocket of his long black wool coat. “You play poker?”

It doesn’t take long for Killian to recruit a couple other patients he met last week – Rothschild, a diminutive middle-aged army guy who’s lost an arm, and Davis, a leanly muscled black marine who’s lost a foot – to play too. They set themselves up in a visitor waiting area across from the elevators. Seated in a combination of waiting room chairs and wheelchairs, they pull up around an end table that they relocate from the corner, the lamp that sat on top left behind on the floor. Davis, who, along with Stephens, still has both hands, volunteers to deal.

Not long after they’ve started the first hand, the distant sound of a raised voice is heard back in the ward hallway. Killian manages to withhold his smirk as he recognizes Emma’s plan in action. He glances up from his cards, tipping his chin in the direction of the commotion. “What’s that?”

Stephens gives a disinterested hum. “Sounds like the guy two doors down from me. He’s always pissed about something.”

“Raise.” Killian frowns, tossing a couple of the sweetener packets they’re using as chips into the center of the table. “Anyone know anything about him?”

Head shakes and shrugs abound. When Rothschild, the only one still in the current hand with him, decides to fold, Killian sweeps the small smattering of blue paper packets into a lopsided little pile in front of his seat and stands up. “Well perhaps we should do something about that. Play a hand without me, mates. I’ll be back.” He points at his winnings. “And no sticky fingers, eh?”

He studies the man Emma told him about as he walks up the hall, keeping his pace relaxed, hand on his belt. The lad is young, with brown hair and a rectangular head, and he looks severely put-out as he sits in a wheelchair in the hallway, his right leg foreshortened and wrapped in snug bandages, his IV pole next to him. The door to his hospital room is closed, and the harsh chemical smell of floor wax that emanates from behind it is unpleasant, even out in the hall.

“Forced out of your room?” Killian asks as he approaches.

The man glances at him resentfully. “They tell me I need to rest and get well, and they make my room smell like a fucking chemical spill so I don’t have any choice but to sit out in the hall like a jackass. It’s so typical.”

Killian nods slowly. “Yeah, I can smell that stuff from here. Sorry, mate.” He purposely gestures with his stump toward the waiting area, waving it a couple feet in front of the soldier’s nose. “If you want something to do while you’re waiting, we’ve got 5-card draw going on down there. You’re welcome to come.” He sticks his hand out. “Jones. Navy.”

The man glances at his hand and ignores it, staring forward moodily. His only movement is the tightening of his jaw and the squeeze of his thumb on the trigger button of his pain pump.

Killian runs his hand over the back of his head with a shrug and angles to go. “Well, if you change your mind, we’ve got donuts. Kripsy Kremes, not that cakey, dry nonsense. Winner gets them, though I’m not sure they’ll actually last that long. The lads act like they haven’t seen real food in ages.” Unsure what else he can say, he starts to walk away. The afternoon’s not over, and damned if he won’t try to engage this guy again once he figures out how, but a sense of defeat at the idea that he may have just let Emma down begins fall over him.

“They haven’t. Food’s like cardboard here.”

Killian pauses and turns back toward him, keeping his expression as bland as he can. “I’ve done my fair share of time in hospital. In bloody England,” he says dryly. “Enough mushy peas to turn a bloke green. Believe me, I remember.” He raises an eyebrow, reading the glimmer of indecision he now sees in the soldier’s face. It takes him a split second to recognize it for what it is. Jackpot. “I’ll get your IV if you want to roll.”

* * *

Emma almost plows into Elsa as she follows her off the elevator, the younger woman halting in her tracks at the sight that greets them. “Whoa, what-?” She steps around and follows Elsa’s gaze.

Killian is sitting around a table engaged in what looks like a makeshift poker game with Stephens, Rothschild, Davis, and… Scarlet. Scarlet is there. He’s sitting in his wheelchair to Killian’s left, expression gruff, but he has cards in his hand, and his posture is less tense than usual. The box of donuts sits open on a chair within Killian’s reach, and a few are missing.

“What on earth…?” Elsa starts, but Emma hurriedly shushes her and grabs her arm, pulling her along.

“Whatever it is, it’s good. Let’s not ruin it,” she urges quietly. She glances over her shoulder as they pass, catching Killian’s eye and throwing him a breathless smile before hustling Elsa away.

“Am I hallucinating?” Elsa asks as they make it to the nurses’ station and Emma finally allows her to turn around and gawk at the men incredulously. “Because it looks like Scarlet is out of his room. And socializing.”

“Amazing, right?” One of the nurses, Ruby, joins them, leaning forward on the counter and craning her head in the same direction, her long chocolate locks falling over one shoulder and brushing the Formica. “None of us can believe it either.”

Elsa frowns, squinting. “Who’s that with them? In the black shirt?”

Ruby hums appreciatively. “We’re calling him Dreamy McDreamboat.” Her gray-green eyes are laughing. “He was here last weekend handing out Christmas cards from the Naval Academy, and I guess he decided to come back. I think they said his name is James.”

“Jones.” The correction is out of Emma’s mouth before she realizes what she’s doing. She winces almost comically as the two women fix her with laser-like stares. Damn it. She was always horrible at keeping secrets, and her relationship with Killian – if you could call three brief conversations a relationship – was kind of something she’d intended to keep to herself.

Elsa leans toward her with a slowly widening smile. “Emma?”

Emma sighs with resignation and meets her gaze, looking a tad guilty. “His name is Killian Jones. I met him here last weekend.” Elsa’s interested look begins to grow mischievous, and Emma holds her palms up helplessly, her voice inching undesirably higher. “He seems really good at mentoring amputees, so I might have invited him back to try to talk to Scarlet.”

Elsa’s face softens abruptly as she darts a glance back at the guys. “Wait. He’s here because of you?”

“What? No.” Emma frowns. “He’s here for them.”

“But you called him,” Ruby interjects. “You lit the Bat Signal.”

“Oh for God’s sake, he’s not Batman,” Emma protests weakly, “He’s just a good role model for the amputees.” Her eyes are pleading as she looks back and forth between the two women. “Can we keep it hush-hush? For Scarlet. I don’t want it to get back to him that this whole intervention was staged.” Relief rushes through her as Elsa and Ruby share a look but then nod reluctantly.

“Fine,” Elsa says, giving her a spontaneous hug. “But I can’t believe you thought to do this for him. You’re amazing.”

“Yes,” Ruby says with amusement, still watching the card game over their shoulders, “And also incredibly lucky, judging by the way Dreamy McDreamboat is looking at you.” She sighs melodramatically and pouts. “The other nurses are going to be so disappointed.” Her words are offset by the wolfish grin that follows.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You see a romance everywhere you look. It’s not like that.”

“So I like a good ship.” The lithe brunette shrugs unrepentantly as she straightens and heads off to answer a patient call light that has begun to ding repetitively. “Doesn’t mean I’m always wrong,” she calls in a sing-song voice.

Emma looks back to see Elsa also watching her with a serene, faraway little smile. “Don’t start.”

Elsa blinks innocuously, redirecting her eyes toward the ceiling in a way that makes her appear rather angelic. “I didn’t say anything.”

* * *

Killian prides himself on being an excellent poker player, but while he’d started out willing to throw a few hands to Lieutenant Scarlet to help cheer the lad up, it turns out that, even hopped up on narcotic pain medication, the soldier doesn’t need the extra help. Scarlet gives him a definite run for his money, his flat countenance largely unreadable, though he does appear grimly satisfied every time he rakes in his winnings. He doesn’t say much beyond what he has to to play, refusing to contribute more than a few comments as Killian and the others shoot the breeze about their previous tours of duty, their hometowns, and the latest sports chatter.

Killian is grateful for the unspoken understanding that seems to pass between himself and the other men not to ask Scarlet about his injuries or press him about anything else; indeed, he’s grateful for their willingness to let him include the notoriously angry man in their game at all. They seem to understand and appreciate what Killian is trying to do for him, particularly since they all can relate to one another as military men who’ve seen combat and paid a great price. He desperately hopes that Scarlet will also recognize this connection and begin to understand that he is not as alone as he thinks. Killian specifically avoids any discussion of injury, phantom pains, nightmares, panic attacks, or coping skills. This isn’t formal therapy, just a taste of normalcy. The lads ultimately decide to just split the donuts evenly and play for bragging rights instead, and Killian smiles inwardly as he watches Scarlet consume his first one, the soldier’s reaction to the sugary confection the closest thing to happiness anyone has probably seen on his face in weeks.

When Emma and another woman with white blonde hair step off the elevator and see them, Killian does his best to only dart Emma the most fleeting of glances, not wanting to betray any hint of their little plot. He can’t help himself, though, from giving her one little exultant smile when Scarlet is not looking. The delighted gleam in her eye as she meets his gaze makes his chest swell.

“Admiring the view, Jones?”

He snaps his attention back to Stephens who is eyeing him knowingly.

“Nice, huh?”

Killian scratches behind his ear. “It seems you lads have lucked out when it comes to pretty doctors.”

Stephens laughs. “Don’t we know it. A couple of the nurses too. Makes the hospital stay a little more bearable at least.”

Killian tosses two of his cards into the slough pile as Davis gathers them up and redistributes. “No doubt.” He allows himself another glance at Emma and the woman he presumes is her intern, Elsa, as they chat with a nurse, the three pretty heads bowed together as though in cahoots. “Do you have a favorite?”

Stephens cheeks turn slightly ruddy as he says, “Um, Arendelle, the shorter one, is really sweet. She’s quiet, almost… regal, you know?”

Davis snorts. “What he means is that he’s got it bad for her.” He blithely ignores the indignant look the Ensign shoots him as he examines his cards, fingering his pile of sweetener packets thoughtfully.

Killian chuckles. He catches a fleeting look of guilt that crosses Scarlet’s face as they discuss Elsa and recalls Emma telling him that Scarlet had nearly made her intern cry. Perhaps the Lieutenant feels some remorse? “No shame in that, mate,” he assures the Ensign. “It’d be sad if a beautiful, intelligent lass couldn’t catch anyone’s attention.” He surveys the women again casually. “What about the other one?”

“Swan?” Stephens folds his hand. “She’s nice too. She’s… I don’t know… scrappier?”

“Streetsmart,” Rothschild suggests, with Stephens nodding agreement. “She seems a little tougher, more experienced, sharp as a tack.” He tosses in another pair of sweeteners to raise. “Arendelle’s a good doc, but let’s put it this way: Between the two of them, if I had to serve with someone or go drinking with someone, it’d be Swan. I’ve seen the way she looks after Arendelle. If she has a mind to take care of you, you’re covered. She’ll always have your six.”

Killian notes that Scarlet now seems overly focused on studying the cards in his hand. He looks from the soldier back to Emma, who is appearing adorably sheepish as Elsa impulsively hugs her. “Sounds like a good person to have in your corner,” he agrees.

They play for a couple hours, with Killian and Scarlet ultimately calling it a draw, the donuts polished off long ago.

“Excellent game, mate,” Killian says, holding out his hand tentatively. There’s a moment’s hesitation, but he is gratified when Scarlet ultimately shakes his hand this time.

“Not bad, Jones,” he says.

Killian nods, recognizing the significance of a compliment like this from someone like Scarlet, and he stands to help clean up. Davis packs up the cards, Rothschild collects the sweeteners in his lap and rolls over to the waiting area coffee machine to dump them back into their container, and Killian hauls the end table back into the corner. In a minute, the men have the room as they found it.

Killian rubs the back of his head with his stump as he digs into his pocket for his wallet. “I don’t know when you blokes are going to be discharged, but if you need anything, give me a call.” He pulls some business cards out and hands them around.

“Thanks for coming by again,” Stephens tells him as they all proceed back to the ward in a strange little caravan, Scarlet bringing up the rear with Killian pushing his IV pole beside him.

“Sure thing, mate.”

The others wish him happy holidays as they break off, heading back to their respective rooms to get ready for the dinner trays that are just starting to come around, the savory smell of nondescript meat and mixed vegetables hanging in the air. Killian sees Scarlet into his room. It’s been tidied in his absence, the trash emptied and the sheets changed, and Marco has left the floor shining, the scent of the wax largely dissipated by now.

Killian pauses, looking around, unsure. “Shall I call your nurse?”

Scarlet waves him off. “It’s fine.” He groans with effort, but he manages to push himself out of his chair, balancing on his remaining leg and pivoting to sit at the side of his bed with a few labored hops. He watches as Killian rolls the IV pole around, tucking it as unobtrusively next to the head of the bed as he can, and then pushes the wheelchair out of the way.

Killian looks around to make sure everything is in order before awkwardly running his hand through his hair. “It was nice to meet you, mate. Best of luck with your recovery.” He lifts his hand in a half-wave and heads for the door.

“Jones.”

He turns, hand on the door handle.

“Thanks for the donuts.”

Killian blinks, then gives the other man a bow of his head and a small, somber smile as he ducks out.

* * *

“Emma.”

Emma holds up a finger to Ruby as she finishes dictating the last few sentences of a hospital admission note on a new patient and presses a number on the desk phone keypad to save it to the system. She replaces the handset in the cradle and looks up. “What’s up?”

“He’s leaving.” Ruby tilts her head in the direction of the elevators.

Emma’s eyes widen. “Oh. Thanks.” She snatches up her cell phones and jumps up, trying not to look overeager as she heads down the hall at something between her usual gait and her best full-tilt power walk. Killian is ahead of her, but thankfully the elevator takes its time arriving, and she manages to catch up to him just as the doors are opening. His coat is draped over his arm, the sleeves of his black button-up casually rolled to the elbow, and she tries not to notice the nice definition in his forearms or the way his ass looks in his dark jeans. She fails miserably.

He turns at the sound of her footsteps and gives her a small smile. “Swan.”

“Hi.” She does her best not to sound breathless. “Mind if I ride down with you?”

He holds the elevator door back with his left arm and gestures with his right. “After you.”

The elevator is blissfully empty save for the two of them. She turns to him as the doors shut and they start to descend. “I don’t know how you did it.”

He ducks his head with a small laugh. “I don’t know if I did anything, lass. Though I am fairly sure those donuts have magical properties.”

She’s not having any of his modesty. “You got him to spend time out of his room,” she says firmly, refusing to look away until he lifts his eyes to hers. God, his eyes are so blue. “Trust me, this is a big mark in the win column.” Her ecstatic expression fades as she studies his face. He’s smiling softly, but something about him strikes her as tired. Maybe it’s his posture, a subtle slump in his shoulders, maybe it’s the fact that those eyes don’t seem as lit from within as she’s seen them before. Her eyebrows form a slight peak toward her forehead. “Killian? Is everything okay?” She licks her lips nervously.

He seems momentarily surprised at her question, and he quickly puts on a dashing smile and nods. “Of course, Swan.”

Emma raises an eyebrow but tries to look comforted, redirecting her attention to the floor numbers above the elevator door as they glow in reverse succession. Something about being here has taken a toll on him. As they reach the ground floor and walk out into the lobby, it finally strikes her that hospitals are probably full of bad memories for him. Lord, she’s an idiot. “Is it hard for you?” she asks, her expression filled with concern, “To come back to the hospital and have to think about… about what happened?”

Again, he appears slightly taken aback at her question, and now she’s pretty sure her suspicions are correct. “It is, isn’t it? Oh, Killian, I’m sorry.” She silently chastises herself and shakes her head apologetically as the words start to tumble out. “I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have asked you to-”

“Swan. Emma!”

She freezes as he rolls his eyes and reaches out, his hand and stump applying gentle pressure to her shoulders. Emma clamps her lips shut, staring into his face with wide eyes and noting the sadness underlying his exasperated expression.

He sighs. “Emma, I said I was happy to help, and I meant it. I’m alright.”

She peers at him skeptically, taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the shivers that are running up her spine from his hold on her. “Really?”

“Really.” He nods reassuringly, smiling ruefully this time. Something in his expression looks a little touched, and he gives her a small squeeze before dropping his arms away, a tiny flush in his cheeks.

She’s pretty sure he’s still not being entirely truthful with her, but she decides not to push. Much to her chagrin, she has to admit that she barely knows him, much less what kind of demons he keeps at bay, and she doesn’t want to tramp all over his pride either. “Okay. Well,” she folds her arms around herself a little self-consciously, “I really can’t thank you enough.” She clears her throat. “If you think of something I can do for you, you know where to find me.”

He grins. “That I do.” He scratches behind his ear. “It was lovely seeing you again, Emma.”

She can feel her cheeks grow warm at the intensity of his gaze and the way her name sounds on his lips over and over. Ugh, down girl. “Likewise, Killian.” The realization that he’s leaving colors her with melancholy. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”

Killian nods, his sad little smile re-emerging as he turns and takes his leave.

She feels forlorn watching him go, like he’s a wonderful story that she’ll never get the chance to read. She can feel her back slump a little as she again takes a deep breath in and blows it out slowly through pursed lips, trying to clear her head. Why would she ever for a minute entertain what Ruby said about Killian being interested in her? She had needed him, not the other way around. He was just a nice guy doing a good deed. Emma forces herself to turn about-face and go back to the elevators. She needs to get back to work. That, at least, is one fact about her life she knows with certainty.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks are busy as Killian administers end-of-semester exams for his classes and grades final projects. He is always ambivalent about this time of year as it means a lot more work than usual for him but is a prelude to the two-and-a-half-week winter vacation. This year the workload is a welcome distraction, something to draw his attention away from his thoughts of Emma Swan.

She caught him off guard during their last encounter when she picked up on the emotional toll of his hospital visits. He’s had a lot of practice disguising his feelings over his lifetime, and only a handful of people, all of whom he’s known for years, are able to deduce his emotions with such accuracy, and yet she did it with seemingly little effort. That of itself is remarkable, but the concern she showed for his emotions also touched him deeply. He’s reminded himself countless times since then that caring about the well-being of others is second nature for her – it is, after all, a large part of what she does for a living – and that he cannot infer that he is unique in any way. Still, the worry in her eyes when he gripped her shoulders to calm her down - the idea that the state of his heart genuinely mattered to this woman – made him feel exceptionally special.

He’s had a couple of dreams about her. He hasn’t been able to recall any of the details upon waking each time, but the image of her beautiful face is always clear in his mind as sits up in bed and runs his palm from his forehead to his chin. It’s a mixed blessing really, not to remember the imagery of her generated by his subconscious – he can’t relive his fantasy encounters with her, but neither can he dwell on them. The fact that he has had any dreams about her at all gives him disquiet. He hasn’t had recurring dreams about anyone else except for his mother, his brother, and his first love, Milah, but they were all pivotal people whose lives and deaths have impacted him dramatically. Emma Swan is just an acquaintance, a friend at best. Why does his brain seem to think she deserves the privilege of haunting him?

“Good morning, Sir.” Smee greets him as Killian pushes open the door to his department offices and passes by the secretary’s desk, which is festooned with a string of glowing chunky Christmas bulbs. Smee has always been in love with this holiday; carols are always playing softly from a iPod dock on his desk from Thanksgiving to New Years’, and he wears a red Santa hat the last three weeks of December without fail. He’d probably wear the full Santa suit too, if he wasn’t required to wear his uniform to work.

Killian gives him a congenial nod as he goes.

“Oh, Sir?”

He pauses and turns. “Yes?”

“A delivery came for you this morning. I put it on your desk.”

Killian blinks, trying to recall if he was expecting anything; nothing comes to mind. “Thanks.”

The box he finds is about two feet square, a foot high, and nondescript brown cardboard, but he stops in his tracks when he locates the mailing label. It’s from Emma. The return address lists her name and an apartment in Chevy Chase, and both it and his address at the Academy are written in thin black Sharpie in a slightly messy hand.

His breathing is shallow as he slices the box open, unsure of what he hopes to find. A gray gift box tied with a wide red ribbon is nestled inside beneath layers of crumpled brown packing paper. He’s actually holding his breath by the time he pulls it out and releases the ribbon with a tug. His lips part and warmth floods his chest as he lifts the lid.

The box is packed neatly with a couple packs of gourmet coffee grounds and several disposable plastic food containers full of cookies that look homemade. A slip of paper sits on top, emblazoned with a note in the same scrawl as on the box:

Killian,
I owed you for more than coffee. These cookies don’t have magical properties, but I hope you enjoy them anyway. Have a Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.
Sincerely yours,
Emma
PS – All your poker buddies made it home for the holidays.

He reads the note half a dozen times before he can bring himself to put it down and examine the cookie boxes. Prying up the lid of one, the delicious aroma of chocolate chip hits his nose, and his mouth starts to water. It turns out that she’s included both chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin in her gift pack, and the gourmet coffee blends are two varieties of French roast, his favorite. His shakes his head with wonder as he realizes that she must have been paying close attention the first time they met. Upon further inspection, he also finds a prepackaged bag of high-quality hot cocoa mix with a little sticky note affixed to it on which she’s scribbled: Try with cinnamon!

He reaches for his phone, popping a cookie in his mouth absently. It’s exquisitely soft, chewy, and chocolaty, and he almost moans with his first bite. Good heavens, this woman knows her way around a cookie. He brushes the crumbs from his fingers off on his pants and opens his top desk drawer, hunting out the sticky note he tucked away in one corner after the last time he saw her. It takes a moment for him to gather the courage to enter the number into his phone, and he begins to contemplate what to say to her. At last he settles on a text which he is painfully slow to compose:

Thank you for the grand gift. Pretty sure these cookies DO have magical properties. They’re bloody brilliant. -K

He re-reads his three sentences over and over, thumb hovering over the "send" button, before steeling his nerves and tapping the screen. It swishes away into the ether, and his stomach flops as he prays his life isn’t about to get more complicated because of cookies and a "thank you" text.

Come lunchtime, she texts him back:

Sorry, was in surgery! Glad you like them. Guess everything’s magical with enough butter and sugar. It was the least I could do. You really made a difference.

After a minute, another text appears:

Hope you have happy holidays, Killian.

He smiles softly, yet again finding himself overwhelmed with a sense of deep-seated contentment and… He furrows his brow as he considers how to describe it. Happiness? Peace? Optimism? It’s not an emotion he can recall feeling much in years, and yet he’s losing track of the number of times she’s already made him feel this way in less than half a dozen encounters.

He texts back:

And you, Emma.

* * *

“Incoming!”

Various voices call approval, and Emma leans out of the way as Ruby maneuvers a tray of beverages onto their long table in the back of The Rabbit Hole. The pub is half a mile from the hospital and a favorite hive for its employees off-the-clock. She scans the tray for her Rum and Coke, spots the glass with its lime wedge garnish, and claims it happily.

Across from her, Elsa stirs her Tom Collins with the straw and laughs as Ruby’s girlfriend, Dorothy, an OR nurse, steals Ruby’s drink and helps herself to a healthy sip before passing it to its owner. Ruby tries to look annoyed, but ends up simply wrinkling her nose and shooting Dorothy a look that promises reprisal later.

Emma glances to her left where Mary Margaret, one of her oldest college friends, a school teacher, is snuggling up to David, Emma’s best friend from medical school and another Navy doctor who’s a few years older and doing his cardiology fellowship. After introducing them to one another three years ago, Emma had a front row seat to the fairytale romance that led to them tying the knot this past summer. Most people would write off their current lovey-doveyness as a honeymoon period, but Emma sips her drink and watches them, thinking that she’s fairly sure this is just how Mary Margaret and David are (and will always be). She hides her smile behind the rim of her glass. Two more deserving people in the world there aren’t.

“Emma?”

Emma turns her attention to Elsa.

“Did you ever find out if Killian got that package?”

Emma blushes as the chatter drops in volume and eyes turn to her. Gee, thanks Elsa. “Uh, yeah, he did,” she answers in a nonchalant tone she hopes will not invite follow-up questions.

“Killian? Killian Jones?” Ruby asks with a knowing grin. “You sent him a package?”

Ugh. Here we go. Emma nods, shrugging. “Yeah, you know, just a little something to say thanks, seeing as how what he did with our guy was a near miracle.”

“What guy?” David asks, reaching forward to grab a french fry off an appetizer plate.

Emma turns her head to him. “You remember that belligerent patient I told you about who yelled and swore at her?” she asks, pointing at Elsa.

His eyes light up with recognition. “Sure.”

“Emma had her friend Killian spend some time with him,” Ruby says, eyes glinting gleefully. “Got him to socialize with other patients, helped settle him down. I mean, he didn’t become super pleasant or anything, but he was a lot more cooperative after that.”

“He even apologized to me the day after Killian was there,” Elsa adds. “He actually seemed really sorry.”

Mary Margaret sets her gin and tonic down and cozies up to Emma. “And who’s Killian?” she asks, drawing out his name playfully.

Emma’s never had a real mother to grill her about a boy, but Mary Margaret’s intense, long-standing obsession with her (largely non-existent) love life has always struck her as a fair substitute for the experience. She rolls her eyes. “He’s just a guy I met at the hospital. He lost his hand, and he visits with the new amputees sometimes. End of story.”

“Oh whatever,” Ruby snorts, tapping away at her phone. She starts reading aloud. “Rear Admiral Killian Jones, on permanent exchange from the British Royal Navy; Associate Professor in the Naval Architecture and Ocean Engineering Department at the US Naval Academy; PhD from King’s College, London.” She looks innocently at Emma, who is gaping at her. “What? I can Google him, same as you.” She looks at Mary Margaret and David slyly. “Also, he looks like a runway model.”

Mary Margaret whirls around in her seat as though she’s spring-loaded at the waist and smacks Emma’s arm. “You met a handsome British officer with a PhD and you didn’t think to mention it?” she scolds.

“Okay, okay, everyone just calm the hell down.” Emma props her elbows on the table and braces her forehead on the heels of her hands for a second. “He’s just a friend. I don’t know if you can even call it that. We’ve only spoken a few times. He’s a nice guy, and he did me a favor. We are not a thing.”

“Well why not?” Mary Margaret asks. “Is he taken?”

“Not based on the way he looks at Emma.”

“Ruby…” Emma tosses her head back and whines.

Ruby sips her Bloody Mary and shifts in her seat, shaking her head emphatically. “Okay, seriously, Emma. You did not see the way he was looking at you. It was like you’re all he wants for Christmas.”

Emma gives a harassed sigh and pulls out her phone. “Okay. Look. The guy has my number, my address, and he knows where I work. If he wanted to make a move, he could have, but he hasn’t, and I’m not going to chase after him like a puppy dog.”

“You gave him your number and your home address?” David asks, surprised. He knows how private Emma prefers to be.

“Well, I called his office with my cell phone when I asked him to help us,” Emma admits sheepishly. “He must have seen it, because he texted me the other day to say thank you.”

“Thank you for the cookies,” Elsa clarifies.

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen as she grows even more excited. “You made him cookies?”

Emma decides she needs booze to continue this torturous conversation, and she downs a significant portion of her drink. “Yes, Mary Margaret,” she says, “The man did me a big favor, and I owed him one, so I sent him a little care package.”

“And you put your home address on the box?” Ruby says, looking impressed. She turns to Dorothy, almost nose-to-nose, with a grin, “I told you she was smart.”

“The post office likes a return address,” Emma says weakly. “It’s not like I’m expecting him to show up outside my apartment with a boombox.”

Mary Margaret swipes Emma’s phone off the table and unlocks it with the pass-code she knows as well as her own. “So what did the text say?”

“Hey!” Emma reaches, but Mary Margaret lightly slaps her hand away, eyes intent on the screen. Looking around at her other friends for back-up, knowing she’ll find none, Emma leans back in her seat and drains the rest of her drink with a grumble.

Mary Margaret reads the texts aloud to the table as the others listen raptly. She sighs. “Oh, he sounds so British!” She puts a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Did you use my recipes?”

Emma reaches to pull their group’s giant plate of nachos toward her as if it’s hers alone, having given up this fight and deciding to seek solace in junk food. “I don’t know any other cookie recipes,” she points out.

“Oh, he likes my cookies!” Mary Margaret tells David, looking delighted.

David nods with a patient smile. “Yes, Dear.” He fixes Emma with a sympathetic expression as he watches her nosh on tortilla chips and liquid cheese. “Look, Emma, maybe he’s just shy or something. Maybe he just got out of a relationship and doesn’t want to rebound. Who knows? Give him time.” He looks at Mary Margaret with adoration. “If it’s meant to be, you’ll find each other.” He grins as she kisses his cheek and the rest of the table gives a collective “aw.” Then he shrugs. “And when you do, I’ll be there to give him hell for making you wait.”

Emma chuckles. “Thanks, Dad.”

* * *

Killian spends Christmas Eve alone in his apartment, the way he has for the last four years. Belle always invites him to spend time at the bar on Christmas Eve, at least until she closes up early, but he’s yet to take her up on it, preferring a quiet night tucked into his favorite club chair with a book and a glass of rum, trying to ignore the fact that people everywhere are gathering with friends and family. Dr. Hopper has pointed out that doing this just perpetuates his isolation, but the memories of the people Killian wishes he could be with at Christmas have always made other company feel hollow to him.

He looks up from the biography in his lap and stares distantly into the flames that snap and pop in his small gas fireplace. There’s only one person alive that he wishes he could be with right now, but that’s not possible for several reasons. He pulls out his phone and brings up the calendar, silently counting out Emma’s call days again, though he already knows that she’s on-call overnight tonight. It saddens him to think that she can’t spend Christmas the way she probably wants to, but selfishly, it makes him feel better to know that there was no point in asking if she had plans. A small voice nags him that he doesn’t have the same excuse for New Year’s Eve, but Killian quickly reminds himself that if he’s determined to maintain a platonic relationship with Emma, the last place he should be is next to her at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

He studies the phone in his hand and brings up his texting app. The device vibrates in his hand with haptic feedback as his thumb taps out the words:

Happy Christmas, Emma Swan.

The second hand on his mantel clock ticks by slowly as he gazes at the screen with sad eyes. Finally, he backspaces the whole message and puts the phone away. Killian slams his book shut and pushes himself out of the chair. He needs more rum.

* * *

Emma’s head bobs back and forth, eyes peeled for the proper signage to direct her to the sports complexes as she guides her vintage yellow Beetle along the roads on the grounds of the US Naval Academy. She chews on her lip as she drives, looking around at the various campus buildings. She’s never actually been here before, having attended college and medical school at Columbia and only being required, as a physician, to do five weeks of officer’s training at the base in Rhode Island, rather than here. The grounds are grand and well-maintained. Impressive white, cream, and gray stone monolithic buildings surround her, accented with green copper-patina highlights. Melting snow is everywhere, but she can imagine how lovely the various yards and quads must look when covered in green grass during the warmer months. So this is where Killian works. She makes a face and scolds herself for still thinking so readily of him despite not having heard from him since their short text exchange the week before Christmas, which was three weeks ago.

She huffs and tries to focus on where she’s going. Now that it’s January, she’s on an outpatient sports medicine rotation, which is a welcome change of pace from the intense work schedule she had in December. It means mostly 8-to-5 clinic days and no weekends and and a lot more time to work on the research project she’s spent many months setting up under Major Mills’ guidance. She wants to study the effects of repetitive movement on certain stress injuries, and a sports team is a good way to do that. How convenient that the Navy happens to have quite of few of those here at the Academy, and Major Mills has pulled some strings to get her an in with the Division I men’s basketball team.

She pulls the car up to a wide wrought-iron security gate and rolls down the window for the approaching guard. They swap salutes as he greets her.

“Afternoon, Ma’am.”

“Hi. Captain Emma Swan,” she says, handing over her credentials, including her temporary Department of Defense ID. “I’m with the Orthopedics Department at Walter Reed. I’m here to work with the basketball team on a research project.”

The lieutenant takes a moment to check her information before waving to his partner to open the gate for her. “Yes, Captain, we’ve got you on the list. Everything looks good.” He points ahead. “You’ll need to go to the visitor center to pick up your photo ID before going to practice. Parking’s right there. Halsey Field House is the building adjoining; the team’ll be there.” He grins at her. “Nice car.”

“Thanks. She’s my baby,” Emma says fondly as she puts the Bug back into drive, giving him a little wave as she pulls through.

* * *

The rhythmic thuds of his trainers against the pavement mingle with the sound of OneRepublic’s latest album in his earbuds as Killian jogs his usual path around the Academy’s campus, the waterfront on his left. There are other places to run here - namely, the track at Ingram Field - but he finds it calming and much more satisfying to run a circuit around the campus, the whole second half of which is seaside, rather than in mind-numbing laps around the boring orange track.

The air is cold but mild here, much less frigid than it tends to be farther inland, and even in winter he generally enjoys running outdoors when conditions permit. He’s always been drawn to the ocean, its vastness and beauty inspiring a sense of peace in him regardless of whether the waves are placid or tempestuous. There’s something steadying about watching the horizon, about being near something so much larger than himself and his worries and his sadness, and about being reminded that something new and unknown may lie just beyond.

He’s done with teaching for the day, and his plan is to finish his run, grab a quick shower at the field house, and then head home – just his average Friday. He slows his pace as he approaches Halsey, starting his cool down, when his eyes set upon a lemon yellow vintage Beetle in the field house parking lot. He smiles a little at the juxtaposition of the cheerful, playful-looking little car with the majestic, hallowed architecture that surrounds them and the much more utilitarian vehicles that mostly dot the campus. There’s something else curious about the Bug though - he’s seen one just like it somewhere else recently. He frowns, trying to think.

His expression becomes stunned surprise when the vehicle’s owner emerges from the visitor center and returns to it. Bloody hell. The black uniform pea coat, black beanie, and service khakis are unfamiliar on her, but he has no difficulty recognizing the subtle sway of her walk or Emma’s face as she opens the door of her car. She ducks down and begins rummaging around in her back seat, not appearing to have seen him. His pace shudders to a halt, his pulse revving up when it should be slowing down. What is she doing here? Should he say hello? Wait, what kind of question is that? He sighs. Of course he should say hello. She’s a friend, you git, he reminds himself. Just because he likes her too much doesn’t mean he gets to be rude and ignore her. And he has to admit he’s curious as to what brings her here to Annapolis.

He brushes his thumb along his bottom lip, taking a second to get up his nerve, and breaks back into a slow jog toward her. As he approaches, he calls, “Swan?”

The beanie stops moving at the sound of his voice, then her head pops up to peek at him over the top of her car. “Killian?” Her green eyes are wide, equally surprised to see him.

He trots up, hoping he doesn’t look or smell too sweaty after his run. They stare at each other for a moment before he remembers himself and grins nervously. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

He’s enchanted by her shy little smile and the slightly pink tinge developing on her cheeks and at the tip of her nose from the cold air. Killian struggles to find his tongue. “What brings you so far from the hospital, love?”

She chuckles and gestures at the back seat of her car. “I, uh, I’m working on a research project. The basketball team is helping me study stress injuries related to repetitive movement.”

He blinks and cocks his head, his brow wrinkling and an intrigued smile illuminating his face. How is it that everything he learns about Emma Swan manages to fascinate him? “Really?”

“Yeah.” She holds her head a little higher, her shoulders relaxing, and turns back to her car to pull out a folded tripod, leaning it against her rear wheel before pulling out a second and a third. “The guys are letting me film a couple of their practices while they wear anatomic markers which will help me analyze their movements.”

“That sounds rather brilliant,” he says truthfully. Killian eyes the tripods and the pair of over-sized file boxes she still has in the back of her car. “Can I help you carry something?”

Her eyebrows lift in a grateful expression that makes him feel like he would be happy to carry many somethings (even ridiculous, heavy somethings) for her if she asked. “Would you? That would be amazing. I’m running a little behind getting set up, and I don’t want to delay the guys from starting practice.” She points to the tripods. “Can you grab those please? I’ll get these.” She stacks one file box atop the other and hauls them out of the car carefully as Killian easily hoists all three tripods up under his left arm and helps her shut her car door.

They walk side-by-side into the field house, navigating the wide, echoing halls that lead back toward the basketball court.

“I hope I’m not keeping you from something,” she starts.

“Uh, no,” he admits with an encouraging smile. “I just finished a run. I was just about to have a shower and head home.”

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” she asks.

“Um, yeah.” His forehead crinkles a little as he tries to figure out how not to reveal that he spent it alone drinking too much rum and drowning in maudlin thoughts about her. “It was quiet.” He clears his throat. “You?” He opens the door to the gymnasium for them.

She chuffs. “I was at work, what else? Nothing like eating cafeteria turkey and mashed potatoes out of a Styrofoam box between surgeries.” She rolls her eyes at him fetchingly as they stride across the polished wood floor to the benches she points at with her elbow. “Although I did get to play Santa and give a guy a shiny new metal rod in his ankle.”

Killian laughs. “Well, many men do like getting hardware,” he says, “I find it's much more useful than a tie or an ugly jumper.” His heart leaps as the corners of her eyes crinkle with amusement. God, he’s really missed talking to her.

They reach the benches, and she sets her boxes down and motions for him to leave her tripods there too. He watches as she begins to unpack three specialty video cameras in protective cases – infrared, she explains – and plastic cases filled with 1-inch spherical gray markers that light up on infrared and will be attached to the players to mark major joints and bony landmarks so their positions are more visible on video. She’s enthusiastic as she talks about her project, chattering on as they set up her tripods and cameras and unpack study participation consent forms in a way that reminds him how bloody brilliant she is. It’s delightful to glimpse her intellect like this, but he also takes genuine interest in her project, realizing as she talks that she thinks about the human skeleton the way he thinks about the structure of ships and submarines.

The cadets start arriving not long after, outfitted in practice jerseys and eyeing Killian and Emma curiously as they begin warming up and and taking practice shots. One comes over, a raven-haired lad with light blue eyes that Killian easily recognizes from one of his upper-level engineering courses. “Admiral Jones?”

“Midshipman.” Killian acknowledges him cordially. He gestures. “Swan, this is Midshipman Eric Prince. Prince, Captain Emma Swan.”

The young man man nods politely, hand out. “Ma’am.”

Emma flashes him a smile as they shake. “Hi.”

“Coach mentioned a surgeon was coming for a research project today. We had orders to be here a little early. That you?” he asks.

“That’s me,” she confirms.

Killian turns to her. “Prince is one of my engineering students.”

Understanding registers on her face. “Ah.” She looks back at Prince. “Is he tough?” she asks teasingly.

Prince bobs his head without hesitation. “Tough but fair, Ma’am. The best.”

“Suck-up,” Killian jokes as they grin at one another.

“And you, Sir?” The cadet surveys Killian’s black track pants and Navy logo Under Armour shirt. “What brings you here?”

Killian tries not to blush as his student looks between himself and Emma, clearly making some assumptions. “The Captain and I are friends who just ran into each other. I’m only here to lift and carry and pester her with my curiosity.”

Prince chuckles. “Yes, Sir.”

One of coaches arrives and bellows at the players to gather, and Prince gives them a hasty bow of his head. “Sir. Ma’am.” He excuses himself to join the herd.

Killian turns to Emma feeling a little embarrassed. “I suppose that’s my cue to leave you to it, Swan.” He really wants to stay, to spend time with her and watch her work, but he’s a third wheel here, and he can’t just follow her around for the whole three-hour practice without giving her and everyone else an obvious clue as to how he feels about her. He fears he may have crossed the line as it is. He scratches the back of his head. “You’ll have to let me know how it goes.”

She nods, looking a little disappointed. “Sure. Well,” she gives him a warm smile that tempts him to stay all the more, “Thank you so much for your help… again.” She laughs sheepishly, folding her arms and running one hand over her bicep as though cold. “If you keep this up, I may have to send you more cookies.”

“I would not object to that,” he tells her with all seriousness. “Those were the best bloody things I’ve eaten in a long time.”

Emma blushes beautifully. How can she be so perfect? “They’re my friend’s recipes. She was really happy that you liked them.”

She’s told her friend about him. He realizes he’s grinning broadly, heart rate picking up again. “Well, my compliments to you and your friend, then.” He looks at her, tracing the delicate lines of her face, not wanting to bid her farewell again so soon, but there’s nothing for it. He shouldn’t stay. He can’t stay. He rubs the back of his neck with his stump and clears his throat, grabbing the windbreaker he shed when they came in and dipping his head to her. “Bye Emma.”

She reaches for the pile of study consent forms and a handful of pens and hugs them to her chest, giving him a soft smile. “Bye Killian.”

He tries his best to walk out of the gym at a casual pace when he really wants to run like the coward he is. Once through the doors and out of sight, he jogs to the men’s locker room and hastily preps for a shower. He is glad that no one else is around at the moment to see him slam his locker door open and then shut with the self-loathing that simmers in his chest.

He steps under the shower head of the first available stall before the water is fully heated, resting his forearms against the tile wall and leaning his face on them as the lukewarm water sluices over his skin. The humid air fills his lungs as he breathes heavily. Lord help him, he wants so much to be with her. He’s so happy when he’s with her. And he wonders if she wouldn’t be receptive to his advances. She might be. But she’d figure it out pretty quickly - figure out that his damage goes far beyond what she can see. He opens his eyes, water droplets falling from his lashes into his field of vision, and glares at the long puckered scar that runs along the end of his stump. She’ll figure out what an emotional mess he is, how needy he is, how terrified he’ll be that he’ll somehow lose her. The first time he has a nightmare when she’s there, he’ll frighten her when he sits bolt upright shouting after a ghost. The first time phantom pain, the horrific burning sensation he feels in the hand he lost, sours his mood, she’ll wonder what she did wrong. Swan is a brilliant woman who may understand in theory what he goes through, but to live it with him? She’ll either stay and suffer with him, a fate she doesn’t deserve, or she’ll leave after helping him fall completely in love with her, a fate he can’t survive.

He stands up, closing his eyes, hand pushing his hair backward over the top of his head, the water hitting his face full on. He prays again. Lord help him.

Chapter Text

Emma sits at the sidelines staring absently at the players as they run basketball drills up and down the court. It was relatively straightforward to explain to the team what she needed for her research, get consent forms signed, outfit the cadets one-by-one with anatomic markers, and set cameras rolling. The whole process took about half an hour, and the work kept her mind off Killian’s departure. Now, however, she has nothing to do but sit and bide the hours until practice is over, and her emotions bubble to the surface, no longer held at bay by distractions.

Of course he left. Did she really think he was just going to spontaneously sacrifice his Friday afternoon to sit here with her? Clearly, he didn’t see a reason to stay. And the disappointment she feels at this is a little suffocating.

She abruptly stands, grabbing her coat. She tells the coach she’s just stepping out for a bit and passes him her number in case there are issues with the equipment. Then she pushes her way through the heavy doors out of the gymnasium. She needs some air. She needs to be somewhere where people aren’t watching her.

It’s a little before four in the afternoon, and the sun is still going to be up for another hour. She buttons her coat and tugs on her beanie as she steps outside, the cool air a welcome balm to her flushed skin. She sucks in a lungful until she can’t anymore, blowing it out slowly, her heart hammering in her chest as she glances around. She heads toward the water. There’s a bench on a little grassy area sandwiched between the visitor center and the ocean, and she’s grateful she’s the only one there as she sits, hands shoved deep into her pockets, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

She looks out over the water, brow furrowed, a cold breeze biting her cheeks. The waves lap at the shore softly, the waters a deep, dark blue at this time of day. It’s beautiful. She grew up in Minnesota surrounded by lakes, but as a child, she’d never been lucky enough to see the seemingly infinite expanse of the ocean. None of the foster families she’d ever landed with had the time or money to travel, but when she’d been awarded a hard-earned college scholarship to Columbia and arrived in New York, she’d discovered the Atlantic and fallen in love. And when she’d decided to join the military as a means to afford medical school, she hadn’t hesitated to pick the navy, not just because people told her the lifestyle would be a better fit for her, but also because it would keep her near the sea.

Emma savors the salty air. She shouldn’t be so upset, she tells herself rationally. He’s just a guy. Sure, he’s outrageously good-looking and kind and generous and smart, but in the end, he’s one man, and apparently he’s not the man for her, since he doesn’t seem to be interested in that possibility. She doesn’t know his back-story. She shouldn’t judge. She shouldn’t resent him for not wanting what she wants, for not wanting her. She’s a big girl. So why can’t she just get over it and move on?

It’s not like she’s new to feeling unwanted. She spent her whole childhood unwanted, shuttled in and out of houses that never felt like homes, doing her best to play the good kid only to find out that no one found her performance convincing enough to want to claim her as their own permanently.

It’d happened again to her in medical school. She’d met Neal Cassidy, a classmate, a scruffy, disillusioned charmer who’d convinced her they were cut from the same cloth, that it was them against the world. They’d been inseparable those first two years, which pretty much consisted of endless hours of lectures and studying and a fair amount of screwing in between. Emma feels her jaw tense as she remembers those days. She’d been sure that they would be together forever, that she’d finally found the home she had always wanted in Neal. She’d been extremely successful in her classes, consistently earning honors, and, with a lot of coaching, she’d seen to it that he’d also done well. And then third year had rolled around, and they’d gone off on their individual clinical rotation schedules, and it had become obvious after about three months that if he couldn’t use her to help him study or get laid, Neal didn’t think she was worth keeping around either. He’d moved on without so much as a look back, leaving her behind to salvage what was left of her heart, emotionally homeless once again.

Emma studies the horizon, brushing a strand of hair that’s escaped her twisted bun out of her face. She has to stop this. She has to stop wallowing in both her past and her present, has to stop letting her old scars make her more prone to new ones. That isn’t how scars are supposed to work. Scars are supposed to be protective – tissue that’s tougher and thicker than what was there before, tissue that doesn’t have nerve endings and can’t feel the same pain.

She’s wasted enough of her life wishing for things that she can’t have. When Neal broke her heart, she became distracted and disorganized, and her performance as a medical student had suffered. That was actually when she had befriended David, who’d been an intern on her internal medicine rotation. During the busiest year of his residency training, he’d taken her under his wing and patiently helped her rebuild her confidence and her focus. Emma has promised herself she’ll never fall apart like that again over anything, especially over a guy. She supposes that should go double for a guy she’s never actually been in a relationship with. Killian Jones may seem like the most incredible man she’s met, well, ever, but if he’s not interested, then she can’t afford to be either.

It’s as simple as that.

* * *

“So how have you been?” Dr. Hopper closes his office door and circles around to the cream Mid-Century-style chair opposite Killian. He removes his tweed suit coat and sets it aside as he sits. Afternoon sun beats at the drawn window shades, casting a pale yellow hue over everything in the room.

“Well enough,” Killian answers, shifting from side to side in his seat, trying to get comfortable, studying the muted brown office carpet.

“Uh-huh. Care to try again?”

He looks up at his psychiatrist, trying to look offended. “Excuse me?”

Hopper smiles gently, pushing his orange horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and leans forward, rubbing his open palms together thoughtfully. “I’ve known you for three years, Killian. I can tell when something’s up. You’re fidgeting more than usual, and you haven’t made eye contact with me since the second you walked in here.”

Killian meets his gaze, face guilty. “Sorry.”

Dr. Hopper nods his cheerful acceptance of the apology and sits straighter. “So what’s going on? What’d you do for the holidays?”

Killian shoots him a dry glare, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Okay, you spent them alone again. Fine.” Hopper tries a different tack. “How about you just cut to the chase and tell me what it is that’s eating you so I don’t end up billing for an hour’s worth of awkward silence?”

Killian grumbles and hangs his head momentarily. He knows from experience that Hopper will make good on the threat. The man is unfailingly nice but has the tenacity of a bull dog. He gives a long-suffering sigh. “There’s a woman.”

The doctor tips his head back, mouth opening in understanding. “Ah.” He lifts a mug of coffee off a side table and takes a sip. “And what kind of a relationship do you have with this woman…?”

“Emma.”

Hopper nods encouragingly. “What kind of a relationship do you have with Emma?”

Killian sits back in his seat, arms sliding backward on the armrests. “She’s a friend. I mean,” he grimaces as he tries to figure out what to say, “We’re friendly. We’ve only run into each other a few times, but I bought her coffee and then did her a favor, she sent me cookies, I helped her carry some things…” His hand moves back and forth as he speaks.

Hopper juts his lower lip out a bit, looking impressed. “You bought her coffee?”

He shrugs. “She’d had a long night. It seemed like the nice thing to do.”

The other man nods in agreement, his eyes smiling in approval. “And the favor you did for her?”

“I, um…” Killian, scratches behind his ear, “She’s an orthopedic surgeon at Walter Reed. She asked me to visit with one of her patients who lost his leg.”

“Really.” Hopper sits forward. “You’re still going to the hospital?”

Killian nods. “When I have occasion.”

“That’s great. How did that visit with her patient go?”

“Well enough, I suppose.” Killian shrugs again, a modest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She seemed to think it was good. She sent cookies to my office to thank me.”

Hopper grins. “That sounds really nice.”

Killian nods. “They were pretty bloody amazing.” He sighs and pushes his hair back from his face. “She’s pretty bloody amazing,” he mutters glumly.

“Is she single?” Hopper asks. “Maybe I should ask her out.”

Killian responds to his psychiatrist’s impish teasing with an unamused glower and thrums his fingers on the armrest. “I suppose I don’t know for sure. I think so.”

Hopper lets silence fall, just the hum of the ventilation system between them. They sit that way for a long minute.

Killian shifts in his seat. “She deserves better than this,” he mumbles, throwing a cold stare at his stump.

Hopper hums in contemplation. “She may not see it that way.”

“She wouldn’t know,” he shoots back.

Hopper tilts his head, acknowledging Killian’s point. “Maybe, maybe not. She’s a surgeon who works with amputees. She might know more than you give her credit for.” He lets that thought hang in the air for a moment. “How are the symptoms these days?”

Killian considers the question. “The cold is always hard,” he says, gesturing toward the stump. They both know winter temperatures make his pain episodes more frequent and more intense.

“And the dreams?”

He frowns, realizing that having more dreams about Emma has meant having fewer nightmares. His cheeks warm. “A little better at the moment,” he admits.

Hopper camouflages a small triumphant smile. He lets a few more seconds tic by. “What would your brother say about this thing with Emma?”

Liam. He doesn’t want to talk about Liam. Killian gives Hopper a warning look.

The man remains unfazed. “Humor me. You always speak so highly of him. Share with me who he was. What would he say about this?”

Killian frowns and slumps back in his chair, the answer coming to him immediately. He takes a deep breath. “He’d cuff me on the head and say what he always said.” He eyes Hopper warily. “‘A man who refuses to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.’”

Hopper nods in approval, looking thoughtful. “Fighting is not without risk,” he points out at length.

“Yes, and look where it got him,” Killian snaps, eyes flashing angrily. “An honorable death fighting for King and country.” The memory of Liam’s coffin, draped in the Union Jack as it was borne off the airplane that brought him home, burns in Killian’s mind and makes his chest ache.

Hopper studies the pain on Killian’s face with empathy. “You think he would have lived his life differently if he’d known what was going to happen?” he asks quietly.

Killian sits forward, leaning his forearms on his knees, and runs his hand over his face. He knows the answer to that, too. “No.”

“You were also serving out in the field when he died. Did it make you want to back out?”

He grits his teeth. “No.”

“So you both decided some risks are worth it,” Hopper concludes simply, “And the risks are different, but now you have to decide if Emma is worth it.” His expression softens. “Look, Killian,” he says gently, “My job is not to tell you what to do. I’m just going to summarize what I see. You want more of Emma in your life. You’re afraid she won’t know what she’s getting into, but it sounds like you won’t tell her enough – about what you want, about what to expect – to let her make her own educated decision because you’re afraid that decision will hurt you.”

“Or hurt her,” Killian adds grimly. “I’m not well.”

“Eh,” Hopper leans his head side to side, squinting at the ceiling, nose scrunched. “Take it from a psychiatrist. There aren’t as many people who are ‘well’ as you think. For all you know, the next guy she dates may have major commitment issues or an unhealthy attachment to his mother.” He gives a dry chuckle. “You’re making progress. Who knows? Having her in your life may be good for your recovery.” Hopper smiles kindly. “Emma’s military and an orthopedic surgeon. No offense, but she’s probably tough enough to handle you. She’s made quite an impression on you; maybe she’ll impress you again.”

Killian remains silent.

Hopper shrugs. “Or not.” He pauses. “Would Liam have liked her?”

Killian imagines his brother’s response to Emma’s smile, to her cleverness, to her kind heart. He nods with a hint of a bittersweet smile. “Yeah. He would have loved her.”

* * *

Emma glances at her phone for messages as Major Mills wraps up their noontime lecture. There’s a random “smiley-face and hug” text from Mary Margaret, but nothing else. Not that Emma was hoping for anything.

“Are there any questions?” the Major asks, advancing her PowerPoint to the list of references. When no one volunteers any, she closes the slideshow and turns off the projector. “One more thing before everyone runs out the door, then. This year the Wounded Warrior Project is having its annual benefit and awards dinner here in D.C. in March at the Kennedy Center. That’s in six weeks. As caregivers for the wounded, the entire department has been invited to attend. It’ll be a nice evening and a good chance to hear more about the impact of combat injuries on patients' lives. It may even be an opportunity to network. This is a major charity that attracts the attention of top brass, big donors, and some celebrities.” She arches an eyebrow imperiously. “Attendance will be expected for all of you who are not assigned to work that night on-call.”

One of the other residents calls out from the back. “Dress uniforms, Ma’am?”

“No, Walsh.” Mills shakes her head. “We are attending first and foremost as physicians, not as representatives of the military. This will be black tie. Tuxes for the gentlemen, tasteful gowns for the ladies.” She ignores the small chorus of groans from some of the men. “Emails will be sent out with the details. You’re dismissed.”

Emma glances at Elsa. “Do you have something to wear to this thing?”

Elsa shakes her head. “I haven’t worn a fancy dress since high school prom.”

“Same.” Emma gives a sheepish smile. “Guess it’s just as well then that Mary Margaret is going to drag us shopping the minute she gets wind of this.”

Elsa chuckles.

* * *

“’Morning, Sir. Mail.” Smee drops by Killian’s office with a handful of assorted envelopes, loose paper fliers, and a couple of glossy trade journals.

“Thanks.” Killian glances up from entering grades on his computer as Smee sets the pile on the desk at his elbow. He sits up a little and starts sorting through it with minimal interest. A red card-sized envelope in heavy paper peeks out from under a couple pieces of junk mail and catches his eye. Swan? He pulls it out, feeling disappointed as he realizes it’s not from her. It’s from the Wounded Warrior Project, a charity he started donating to three years ago. It looks like an invitation. He briefly considers tossing it, but the stationery is high-quality and the silver calligraphy done with a flourish, and he decides to at least survey the contents. He runs his letter opener through it and pulls out what is indeed a formal invitation to a big benefit gala. He gives the details a once-over, and sets the whole thing aside for his recycle bin.

A notification sound alerts him to a new email, and Killian does a double-take when he sees the sender’s name. It’s from Will Scarlet. He clicks it open.

Jones,
I survived the hospital and rehab. Thanks for that day you came by. First good day I’d had in a long time. Want to go for a beer? I owe you one.
Scarlet

A smile graces his face as he sits back and reads it again. It was one thing for Emma to tell him he’d made a difference, but now he actually has proof, and he finds it so rewarding that his heart feels like it’s grown a size. He clicks open a reply.

Great to hear from you, mate. Would like that. When and where? I know a place.
Jones

He sits back after sending the email, still feeling energized by this turn of events. He wants to share it with someone. Well, he wants to share it with Emma. She’s really the only person with whom he should anyway. This all started with her interest in helping Scarlet; she would want to know.

He pulls out his phone and sends her a message.
Thought you’d like to know that I heard from Will Scarlet today. Sounds like he’s doing better.

Ten minutes later, she replies.
That’s amazing! I’m really happy to hear it. I told you you’d made a difference.

He grins.
I can’t take all the credit. It was your idea.

Her next message pops up a few minutes later.
I guess we made quite the team.

Killian reads this last message over and over again. There’s something about getting praise like this from her that thrills him to his core, but it also makes it so much harder for him to stay away. Ten years ago he would have seen a line like this as an invitation to flirt like a scoundrel, but he reminds himself that he doesn’t have that luxury now, not if he doesn’t want to risk revealing his feelings. He clears his throat, feeling guilty as he texts:
How goes your research project?

After a few long minutes, she comes back.
Great. The footage turned out really well. Lots to go through. Wish I cared more about basketball though. College practices are not exactly riveting viewing.

He smirks in spite of himself at her words and bites his lip. He never gets tired of talking to her. He can chat with her a little longer without being flirtatious, can’t he?
What would you rather be watching?

Her response is swift, coming in a series of successive pings.
PBS.
Cooking shows.
Late nights on Comedy Central.
That one channel that’s just a log burning.
Literally almost anything else.
Except reality TV that involves ridiculous people trying to become famous.
And medical or science dramas that don’t bear any resemblance to reality. ‘Cause I just can’t.

He chuckles.
Well, hang in there, Swan. I’m sure your project will turn out worthwhile. I’ve yet to see you have a bad idea.

A few more minutes go by.
Thanks, Killian. I guess we all need a little encouragement sometimes.

* * *

He and Scarlet end up meeting at The Stacks a few nights later, the soldier showing up on a crutch looking tired, but much better than he had in the hospital. The bags under his eyes are less dramatic, his complexion less sallow. He’s moving around fairly well, and his countenance is still fairly serious, but the flippant smartass underneath is increasingly obvious.

He agrees to sit at Killian’s usual end of the bar, his eyes taking in the old world setting and the scattered shelves of books that Belle keeps for her customers to peruse during their visits. “Interesting place.”

“Killian!”

The men look up to see Belle coming over, looking pretty in a black and white print sweater and black pencil skirt. Killian holds his hand up in greeting and gives her a smile. “Hello Belle.”

She beams. “It’s been a little while. How are you?” She gives him a look that silently questions whether he’s okay.

He responds with a grateful nod. “Alright, love.” He gestures to Scarlet. “Belle, this is Will. Will, Belle.” He does a double-take as he glances at Will.

The soldier’s eyes are brighter than Killian has ever seen them, and his smile is genuine as he reaches his hand out to her. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Belle winks. “Killian doesn’t bring friends by much. You must be pretty special.”

Killian grins with amusement as Scarlet actually blushes.

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head with surprising modesty, “I’m just a guy who owes him a drink.”

The three of them chat for the next hour with Belle only popping away when summoned by other patrons. Scarlet, it turns out, is a reformed scamp who has many amusing stories of escapades from the misspent youth that preceded his decision to join the army. At one point Belle and Will try to one-up each other with increasingly outrageous tales of the alcohol-fueled hijinks that they’ve witnessed, which is something, considering that Belle owns a bar. Killian laughs harder than he has in quite some time, and it feels good to be sitting in this familiar place swapping funny stories instead of brooding.

When Will gets up to hit the head, Killian eyes Belle knowingly. “What do you think?”

She flushes a rosy hue and shrugs coyly. “He’s really nice.”

Killian sips his rum. “It’s impressive how much more open he is compared to the first time we met.” He meets her gaze out of the corner of his eye. “He was pretty angry about what happened. You could barely get two words out of him.”

“As was the case with you, as I recall.”

He concedes this with a bow of his head, setting his glass down. “He likes you,” he says. “But you don’t know him. Just be… careful.”

Belle’s smile fades as a stern frown crosses her lips. “I can take care of myself, Killian.”

He winces. “I know. It’s just-”

“Hey.” Belle leans forward and places her hand over his as it grasps his glass. “I get it. He’s up against a lot. That doesn’t mean he’s not worthwhile.” She gives Killian a hard look that kills any additional protest he wants to make. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but it’s up to me, okay?”

He swallows thickly and nods as Belle stretches forward to give him a comforting peck on the cheek.

Later, when she and Will exchange phone numbers, she shoots Killian a grin. He manages to nod back at her with a feeble smile.

As they head out for the night, Killian notices Will giving her one last look over his shoulder. They walk to the parking lot around the back, Killian politely slowing his step to keep pace with Will on his crutch.

“So what’s her story?” Will asks, panting, his breath visible in the chilly night air.

Killian arches an eyebrow, his eyes on the ground. “Belle?” he asks innocently.

“Did I miss another pretty girl with a killer smile in there?” Will deadpans. His face grows curious. “Did the two of you ever…” They reach his black sedan in a handicapped spot, and he leans up against it with a relieved grunt.

Killian shakes his head. “We’re just good friends, mate.” He clears his throat, looking him straight in the eye. “She’s like my sister.”

Will seems to pick up on his unspoken posturing and nods respectfully, but he doesn’t appear to want to back down.

Killian grudgingly continues. He knows Belle’s history, of course – knows how her husband had issues with gambling and drug addiction, and, how, after years of his roller-coastering between brief brushes with reform and relapses down into darkness, she’d finally had the courage to leave him, and he’d died from an overdose a few months later. “She’s divorced, mate; a number of years ago. Beyond that, it’s not my story to tell.”

Will nods solemnly at this. “There’s um, there’s this big benefit dinner for the Wounded Warrior Project,” he says, fiddling with his car keys. “It sounds like a pretty fancy party – celebrities, musical guests, good food…” He tips his head back toward the bar. “I was thinking I might ask her to go with me.”

Killian sighs and rubs the back of his head, imagining Belle’s reaction. “She’d probably love that,” he admits.

The other man’s face brightens, the excited optimism making him look a few years younger and much less dour. “Okay.” He unlocks his car and opens the door, falling into the driver’s seat. “Are you going? A bunch of the guys from the ward are. We see each other at physical therapy,” he explains as he slides his crutch into the passenger’s seat.

Killian studies him, weighing whether he’d rather spend an evening keeping an eye on Belle and Will or bury his head in the sand when it comes to what appears to be their impending relationship. He smiles magnanimously. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Chapter Text

“It’s like she got a second Christmas,” Emma murmurs to Elsa as Mary Margaret leads them through the department store like an enthusiastic tour guide. As predicted, the slender brunette had all but vibrated with excitement when she’d heard that the girls were attending the Wounded Warrior benefit (“You’re invited to a ball?! Ooh!”) and offered to help them find dresses. It was an offer they couldn’t really refuse without causing her great disappointment, so they’d gamely agreed to shop the after-Valentine’s Day sales with her today, three weeks before the event. Now, as Mary Margaret leads the charge past the cosmetics counters toward the formal wear, Emma wonders what she’s gotten herself into.

Elsa giggles beside her and grabs her arm. “Come on, Captain. We’re on a mission.”

It turns out to be a less harrowing experience than Emma predicted, and she finds that she actually enjoys herself a little as she and Elsa leisurely peruse the racks of gowns while Mary Margaret flits about the department like a hyperactive butterfly bringing back more options for each of them to consider.

“Have you heard from Killian lately?” Elsa asks casually as she methodically walks her fingers through a set of hangers.

“Um,” Emma frowns as she pushes aside another dress, “Not for a couple weeks.” She does her best to keep her tone nonchalant. “Not since he texted me about Scarlet.”

Elsa eyes her sympathetically. “He’ll come around, Emma.”

Emma gives her an appreciative smile and shakes her head. “Please. It’s been two months since we met. I’m not holding my breath.” She pulls a dress from the rack and pretends to consider it, fighting off the melancholy that recurs every time she thinks of Killian Jones and what will never be.

Elsa comes over and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Well, who knows,” she says, “Maybe you’ll find a handsome prince at the ball.”

Emma chuffs with a pained expression and rolls her eyes. “It’s not a Disney movie, Elsa,” she chides.

“Maybe not,” Mary Margaret sings, sailing back to them with a long swath of deep indigo fabric in her outstretched arms. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t look like a princess.” She lifts the hanger higher and lets the gown hang free so they can see it, grinning smugly.

“Ohhh…” Elsa breathes, glancing at Emma with an elated expression.

Emma reaches forward and delicately grasps the dress with her fingertips, her face slowly transforming into a soft, pensive smile.

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want to ride with us?” Belle’s tinny, disembodied voice floats up from where Killian’s phone sits on his dresser.

Killian snorts. “And be a third wheel? Hardly.” He pops his buttoning tool into his mouth and proceeds to finesse the buttons on his right sleeve cuff into their holes. He pulls the tool back out from between his teeth. “Unless you need my help. Is Will bringing his wheelchair?”

“No,” she answers. “He didn’t say anything about that.”

“He seems to do well enough with that crutch,” Killian comments, doing up the buttons on his shirt, “But he might end up quite tired. It’s a big venue.”

Belle sighs. “I know, but I think it’s pretty important to him to be on his feet. So to speak.”

He nods, though she can’t see him. “Well, I’m sure there will be plenty of seating.”

“And valet parking,” she adds. “I think we’ll be alright.”

Killian hums and tucks in his shirt methodically.

“Thanks for being so supportive, Killian.”

He sighs and reaches for his black bow-tie, dipping his head to arrange it under his shirt collar and then tilting his chin up as he works on the knot. “You’re welcome,” he says grumpily. “Just keep the public snogging to a minimum for me, yeah?” Her girlish giggle brings a small smile to his face. He can’t remember the last time he heard this shade of excitement in her voice.

“I promise.”

“You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

“I will,” she says. “See you there.”

He ends the call and shrugs into his dark blue waistcoat. Killian takes a deep breath and retrieves the velvet-lined box that holds his military medals from the bottom of one of his dresser drawers. As always, his heart feels heavy as he snaps it open and his eyes take in the colorful ribbons in shades of blue, red, purple, and cream that lie inside.

He never looks upon his Distinguished Service Order medal or his Military Cross with anything but sadness, having won them for gallantry during the incident in his final Middle East campaign that resulted in the loss of his Milah and his hand. His engineering division had been trying to oversee reconstruction in an area of Iraq that had been decimated by the ongoing conflict when his command vehicle had been struck by an IED and then ambushed by enemy gunfire. He’d managed to get himself and several other members of his unit out of the wreckage and to safety, but Milah had been killed on impact. They’d only been together six months in a relationship that they’d been forced to keep secret for professional reasons, but he’d been in love with her, and her death had crushed him.

He can feel his heart start to race as the sounds of shouting and gunfire ring inside his head, the smell of smoke and burning gasoline almost real in his nostrils again. He closes his eyes as he involuntarily remembers his last look upon Milah’s lifeless form as he struggled to haul the last of the survivors out of the car. It’s an image that has always featured heavily in his nightmares, and he can never seem to will it away. He grits his teeth and tries to focus on his breathing, forcing himself to open his eyes and look at something, anything that will help bring him back to the present day. His eyes fall upon his cell phone, and he snatches it up, thumbing through his various screens. He opens his texts and finds his last set of messages from Emma, reading through them again. Gradually his pulse slows and his breathing evens out, and he heaves a huge sigh. He knows he shouldn’t indulge in thoughts of Emma, but interacting with her is one of the few things that reliably makes him smile, even if he doesn’t let himself do it that often, and he discovers that thinking about her is a decent antidote for his terrifying flashbacks.

He imagines her curled up on a couch somewhere with a laptop, hair in a ponytail like it was the morning he met her, watching her basketball research footage, hands cupping a mug of hot cocoa covered in whipped cream with a liberal dash of cinnamon. The thought provides a calming distraction as he pins his miniature medals on to his dark blue double-breasted jacket and hurriedly buries the medals box back in the drawer.

He slips the jacket on, picking a stray piece of lint off the gold sleeve rank lace, and laces up his polished black dress shoes. His white peaked cap comes out of a box in his closet, and he gives it a whap against his thigh to fill out the crown before settling it on his head. Killian fastidiously studies his reflection in the mirror, making sure nothing it out of place. Satisfied, he straightens his shoulders and clears his throat. Very well, Jones, he thinks. Let’s get this over with.

* * *

“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” David asks, arms crossed as he leans in the doorway of his and Mary Margaret’s master bedroom, surveying the scene in front of him with amusement and, to his credit, only mild bewilderment. His wife is busy fussing over Emma and Elsa while they finish prepping for the benefit dinner. Mary Margaret had proposed the girls come over so she could help them get ready, and they’ve humored her yet again. As she always has, Emma finds Mary Margaret’s mothering nature to be both entertaining (most of the time) and comforting, a steadying force that always appears when she seems to need it. Elsa also seems to have taken to it, and they’ve both consented to be swept up in the tide of their friend’s enthusiasm.

“We’ll be fine,” Elsa assures him, craning her head from side to side to inspect her sophisticated braided bun in Mary Margaret’s dressing mirror as Mary Margaret stands back to admire her handiwork. “We’ll take my car; parking fees for one car weren’t bad, and I already got us a pre-paid garage pass. Besides, if you’d dropped us off, you’d have had to fight traffic both ways and it would cost us more to get a cab home than to park.”

Finishing up in the master bathroom, Emma pushes the door the rest of the way open and comes through. “Okay.” She holds up a long gracefully curving gold dangle earring up to her right ear. “I want honest opinions. What do we think?” She waves her left hand beneath the earring like a game show model.

Elsa, Mary Margaret, and David stare at her.

“Wow,” whispers Mary Margaret, looking a little teary.

“What she said,” David adds dumbly.

“Oh Emma, you look fantastic,” Elsa gushes, clasping her hands.

Emma’s cheeks flush at all the attention, and she lets out a nervous chuckle as her eyes look down over her dress. “You guys are so sweet. Thanks.” She clears her throat and gestures again. “The earrings?”

Elsa and Mary Margaret share a look before turning back to her. “Yes,” they chime in unison.

“Okay then.”

“How many people are supposed to be at this thing?” Mary Margaret asks, helping Elsa locate her heels.

Emma works to get her second earring in place. “A lot. The website said last year’s count was around a thousand between all the donors and the vets and their families and everyone.”

David gives a low whistle. “The place is going to be packed. How are you going to find the rest of your group?”

“We have orders to report to the south end of the grand foyer at 1730,” Emma informs him, checking the contents of her wide rectangular gold clutch. “Mills doesn’t leave things to chance.”

He laughs. “Well, she’s a commanding officer first and an attending physician second, I guess.”

Emma chuckles dryly. “That woman could order paint to dry faster and it would.” She slips on pair of gold bangles and reaches for her shoes.

“I wonder if we’ll see any of our old patients,” Elsa says, checking driving directions on her phone. “Maybe we’ll meet someone famous.”

Emma shrugs. “A party this big, who knows who we’ll run into?”

* * *

The Kennedy Center looks like an elegant white jewel pressed up against the blue waters of the Potomac as Killian walks toward it from the parking garage, fiddling with his left shirt cuff. In three years living in D.C., he’s never had occasion to be here before, and he surveys the clean modern lines of the massive building appreciatively. Slender yellow pillars and a striking overhanging roof echo the style of the great Greek temples. Killian is more of an engineer than an architect, but he can appreciate the design elements of this stately building as he follows the crowd of well-dressed guests toward the main entrance.

The grand foyer has soaring ceilings, and impressive heavy-looking modern crystal chandeliers resembling giant glowing sugar cubes accent the air high above and draw the eyes up. Smaller hanging wall sconces in the same style are scattered along the walls. Large-scale vertical banners mark the various theaters and lounges, and a mammoth-sized bust of JFK sits just inside the main doors looking out over the assembly. The space is full of light, with full-length windows along the entrance wall facing off against floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the opposing wall, and plush bright red carpet runs the entire length of the foyer, a distinct contrast to the pristine white everywhere else. The overall effect is grand and quite lovely.

Killian checks his coat, stops to get a glass of rum from the bar, and begins to meander around, searching the throngs of people for signs of Will and Belle. There are a lot of service members in attendance in various dress uniforms, and his eyes scan for a tall man on a forearm crutch.

“Jones?”

He turns at the sound of the familiar voice, and he grins as he sees Ensign Stephens, red hair hidden under a white peaked cap, coming toward him on a crutch, looking very nice in navy dress whites. The leg of his trousers hangs loose on the one side. His smile is boyish as ever, and he’s gotten some sun since Killian saw him last, his freckles appearing darker and more numerous.

“Ensign! Very good to see you.” He shifts his drink to the crook of his left arm, and the men shake hands. Killian nods approvingly. “You clean up well.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Stephens chuckles, re-positioning his crutch to shift his weight a little.

“How have you been?”

“Pretty good.” The lad shrugs as best he can. “PT’s going well, and I got fitted for my prosthetic last week, so I hope to be running around and causing trouble again soon.”

Killian laughs. “Excellent.”

“Are you here with anyone, Sir? It looked like you were looking for someone.”

“As a matter of fact, I was looking for Will Scarlet,” Killian tells him, gazing out into the crowd again. “He’s here with a friend of mine.”

“Oh, the lady from the bar, right?” Stephens meets Killian’s surprised look with a grin. “Will told me about her the other day at PT. He’s pretty excited about her. Never thought I’d see him excited about anything, but he’s come around a lot since you kicked our asses at poker.”

Killian looks down and rubs the back of his head, a broad smile spreading across his face. “I’m glad he’s doing better. And you as well.” He clears his throat. “What are you plans?”

Stephens nods. “I, uh, I think I’m going to try to stay in the service.” He wrinkles his forehead. “I know it’s not always easy, but more and more guys with prosthetic legs are staying. I figure if I’m able to serve but I let what happened to me end my career here, then the bad guys win. I don’t want to have regrets, you know?” He sighs. “We’ll see. My mom’s not too crazy about the idea.”

“That’s understandable,” Killian says, smiling gently. He puts a hand on the Ensign’s shoulder. “You’re a brave man,” he says. “The Navy will be lucky to have you if you decide to stay. It owes you a lot as it is.”

“Thanks, Sir.” The Ensign looks bashful. His face lights up as he looks behind Killian. “Oh, hey. Scarlet! There he is.” He points.

Killian follows his outstretched arm, and his eyes land upon Will and Belle approaching them at a modest clip. Will is wearing the dark blue army service uniform complete with a black beret and actually looks respectable. Belle glows beside him in a long grass green sleeveless gown with a simple scoop neck, her auburn hair half up, half down.

She sees Killian and waves cheerfully. “There you are!”

Killian doffs his cap and executes a teasing bow as she smirks at him. “Lady Belle.” He gives Will a nod hello. “Will. Brought the loveliest girl in the room, I see.”

“Don’t I know it.” He smiles at Belle as she blushes. “Although if you and Stephens here are looking for pretty girls, you might try your luck over there,” he adds, throwing a glance over his shoulder and then turning back to Stephens with a meaningful look. “You might find a certain doctor you were crushing on.”

Killian’s heart stammers in his chest, his fingers tightening around his glass as the Ensign’s eyes go wide.

“Arendelle’s here?” the young man asks incredulously, an excited expression on his face. “Where?”

Will points toward the south end of the foyer knowingly. “They were hanging around the far end. I saw Swan and some of the other docs too. I think they’re all here.” He shakes his head. “And they’re not in uniform either. Those girls are dressed to the nines.”

“Holy crap,” Stephens mutters. He straightens his cap eagerly. “Excuse me, Sir,” he tells Killian with a wink. “I think I need to go say hello.”

Killian does his best to keep his face indifferent as he nods, his heart racing. Emma is here.

Belle laughs as she watches the Ensign amble away, but her laughter trails off when she looks at Killian, his expression apparently not neutral enough to fool her. “Killian?” She narrows one eye at him in appraisal. “Are you alright?”

He shakes out of his thoughts and looks at her, going for his best carefree grin. “Of course, love.”

But she knows too much – the fact that he began mooning over a woman in December around the time he met Will and Stephens in the hospital, the look of trepidation on his face now as Will mentions that some pretty doctors who took care of them back then are here tonight… Killian holds his breath as he can see her putting the pieces of the puzzle together, his heart sinking at the mischievous look of realization that comes over her face.

“Perhaps you’d like to go with him to say hello,” she suggests archly. “Keep him out of trouble.” Her smile is sweet, but the look in her eyes brokers no room for argument.

“Um, yeah.” He looks between her and Will and Stephens, trying not to let Will in on his apprehension. “I suppose I’ll, uh, catch up to you later,” he says lamely, turning to follow the Ensign.

“Play nice,” she calls after him, her voice ringing with amusement.

Killian inwardly grouses as he goes to close the distance between himself and the Ensign, trying to keep his cool. When did his life become complicated with all these frighteningly intelligent women?

* * *

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Elsa asks, looking enchanted as they take in the splendor of the Kennedy Center's grand foyer. “I’ve always loved this place.”

“It’s pretty awesome,” Emma agrees, smiling and glancing down at the carpet, taking care not to trip on her skirt. “How many times have you been here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Elsa scrunches up her face in thought, “Maybe eight or ten? My parents used to bring my sister, Anna, and I to shows here when we were growing up.” Her face turns dreamily nostalgic. “We loved coming to the ballet.”

Emma can picture a younger Elsa and the little sister she’s seen in photographs skipping and prancing around this space on their way to see The Nutcracker. “That sounds really nice,” she says.

Elsa hums agreeably. “My favorite was The Snow Queen. Anna and I used to re-enact that one at home all the time in our little tutus.” She laughs. “The dog did not appreciate us trying to dress him up like a reindeer though.”

Emma snickers. “I bet. Was he a big dog?”

“Mm, chow hound. He looked more like a bear than a reindeer.” Elsa spots some of their fellow residents and taps Emma’s arm. “There’s a few of the guys. They look like they’ve started the party without us.”

Emma cranes her head and nods as she spies Walsh and Booth (Ozzie and Auggie) and a few of their other colleagues gathered near the cash bar. “Hope they’re not too far in,” she says warily, “If they get drunk in public, Mills will kill them. We should probably get over there.”

* * *

Killian reaches Stephens just before the Ensign disappears into another thick crowd. “Wait up, lad.”

Stephens pauses and turns. “Decided to come along, Sir?” he says grinning.

Killian scratches behind his ear. “Why not?” he says, giving what he hopes is a believable smile. “I think I remember how to play wing-man.”

The Ensign gives a laugh and strains to see over the gaggle of heads, unable to stand up straight. “Do you see them?”

They scout through the cluster of people as they progress toward the south end of the foyer, the masses thankfully thinning out the farther they go. The air is thick with background conversations and electric blues that is being piped into the foyer from the live group playing in the main opera house.

Suddenly he hears it; Killian’s heart seizes up as he recognizes her voice. He turns his head slowly, shoulders following. When he sees her, his breath catches.

Emma is at his two o’clock, and she is an absolute vision. Her long hair is down in a cascade of relaxed golden curls that are swept forward gracefully over her right shoulder. She is draped in a simple, floor-length dress of deep indigo blue. Spaghetti straps and a modest V-neck show off acres of creamy skin. His eye follows her graceful throat down to her collarbones, taking in a hint of cleavage, her bare sculpted arms, and the tantalizing expanse of her leanly muscled back as she turns. A thin gold belt defines her narrow waist, and a knife-pleated skirt flows as she moves, giving rare glimpses of her long legs. Delicate strappy gold heels encase her feet. Killian swallows with difficulty. She’s bloody gorgeous.

He watches as she gathers with a group of other young people, including Elsa, who also looks nice in an off-the-shoulder pale blue gown, her white-blonde hair wound into an elegant bun. Emma smiles and laughs as they congregate, forming a crowd in front of a photographer, their backs to him.

Transfixed, Killian bumps Stephens on the shoulder with the back of his hand and gestures.

The young man turns, his face lighting up when he sees them. "Damn, they look good,” he says in awe under his breath. The Ensign glances at a nearby men’s room as Emma calls out to someone far off, curling her outstretched arm as she motions for them to come over for the picture. “Uh, I’ll be right back,” he says. “Can you make sure they don’t get away, Sir?”

He shuttles away as Killian acknowledges him with a brief nod, eyes still locked on Emma and her colleagues. The young surgeons start to arrange themselves in an acceptable formation for the camera. She ends up in the back of the group, one arm draped around Elsa’s shoulders. A man with longish medium brown hair slides in on Emma’s other side and says something in her ear, and she collegially places her hand behind his back as they prepare for the picture. That’s when the man’s hand slides down and palms her ass.

Indignant anger flares in Killian’s chest, especially when he sees the muscles of Emma’s back tense in response, but she doesn’t turn her head, so he can’t see her face. It occurs to him that perhaps they’re together and the man has simply taken her by surprise, but by the continued tension in her shoulders and neck, he doubts it. The flash of the camera goes off almost ten times as the physicians struggle to keep smiling with each successive shot, ultimately groaning with relief when they’re finally dismissed by an austerely elegant woman with a short dark brown bob in a maroon gown. They break position and begin to disperse. Emma mutters something to Elsa, earning a befuddled look from her friend, and then steps over to the man, grabbing his upper arm and marching away with him without a word.

After a split-second’s hesitation, Killian tosses back the rest of his rum, abandons his glass to a passing waiter, and goes after them.

* * *

“Where are we going?” Walsh asks her as Emma hauls him away from the rest of their group, sounding curious and cheerful and not at all like he understands the hell she is about to give him.

Emma doesn’t answer, thinking quickly as she weaves them through the crowd, out of the foyer, and down one of the two large halls that branch off it. She doesn’t want to wander too far from the group, but she needs to get him out of sight and earshot so she can threaten him with bodily harm if she needs to (and she’s pretty sure she needs to). She spots a small service hallway and drags him deep into it.

“Emma?”

She yanks him around to face her as she releases the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “What the hell was that?” she hisses, staring him down with a hand on her hip.

The way Walsh’s expression morphs from dazed happiness to disbelief makes it clear he thought she was absconding with him for a more pleasant rendezvous. “What?”

Emma lets out a frustrated huff. “Your hand on my ass, Ozzie. What the hell was up with that?”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Emma. I was just showing a little appreciation for how great you look tonight.”

Oh for heaven’s sake. “You don’t get to touch, Walsh,” she snaps. “We’re not that friendly.”

“Maybe we could be.” He shrugs. “Rumor is you haven’t been involved with anyone for a long time.” He straightens to his full height and steps forward into her personal space. “It’s a shame that someone as hot as you isn’t getting some.” He grins lasciviously. “Maybe that’s why you’re so wound up.”

Rage burns in her gut, and she suppresses the impulse to throw a hard right hook to his jaw. “Dream on, Walsh,” she bites out. “Back off before I decide to file a harassment complaint with the Major.”

He takes another step forward, and she backs up until her shoulder presses against the wall behind her. She can feel her heart bounding in her chest, even as he pouts, looking hurt, the smell of alcohol rolling off his breath. “Really, Emma? You’d make a big to-do over a little pat on the butt?”

“Back. Up.”

“Listen to the lady, lad.”

Emma gasps at the sound of the voice that joins them, relief flooding through her. Killian. Killian is here. She turns her head and sees him there, a dark silhouette standing against the light that shines from the main hall. She glances back to see Walsh also looking at him, one hand outstretched toward her but frozen in surprise. Emma seizes her opportunity while Walsh is distracted and rushes him, wrapping his arm around his back and whirling him like a dervish face-first to the floor. She drops with him, her left knee pressing firmly into his flank. He barely has time to yelp before she’s hovering over him, mouth near his ear. “You’re drunk, Ozzie. Go sober up before someone else notices. You so much as look at any of the women we work with in an unwelcome way again, and I’ll file a complaint so fast you won’t know what hit you,” she promises through her clenched teeth.

He groans, but she doesn’t wait to hear whether he responds further. Emma gathers her skirts and climbs to her feet, cursing the fact that she’s in heels. She turns and finds herself face-to-face with Killian. He’s as handsome as she remembers, but now his face is lined with concern, blue eyes dangerously stormy, the darkness of his expression captivating and primal. He’s also wearing his Royal Navy evening dress uniform with his white peaked cap tucked under his arm and medals on his chest and thick gold rank lace at his wrists, and, damn it, he looks phenomenal.

“Are you alright, love?”

A rush of conflicting emotions wells up in her – anger and frustration at what has just happened with Walsh, relief at Killian’s miraculous appearance, the overwhelming desire to fling herself into his arms, and despair that she doesn’t have the kind of relationship with him where she can probably get away with something like that. Emma nods hastily, her stomach churning and her head starting to spin. “Uh, yeah. Thanks. Can…” she stammers, “Can you excuse me? I need some air.”

And she runs.

Chapter Text

Killian feels lost as he watches Emma hurry away, unsure whether he should try to follow given her distressed reaction to seeing him. He stands there perplexed as she vanishes from sight. The man behind him gives a loud groan.

Killian turns to see Walsh climbing to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. “I hope that was a lesson on respecting women, lad,” he says coolly.

Walsh shoots him a glare as he works to smooth out his rumpled tuxedo. “It’s none of your business.”

Killian narrows his eyes. “An attack on Emma Swan is my business,” he returns in a threateningly low voice.

The younger man lets out an acerbic laugh as he adjusts his bow tie. “Yeah? What’s she to you?”

Something in him clicks as he considers his answer, and Killian turns to leave. “More than you know.” He sets off in the direction she fled. The hall is set with large round dining tables, and while it was relatively empty when she passed amongst them a moment ago, a barrage of guests is coming in now to be seated, and Killian curses under his breath as he tries to navigate through this new obstacle course of tables and chairs and people without making a scene. At last he reaches the end of the hall and arrives back in the grand foyer. His breath is heavy in his chest as his eyes sweep the crowds, searching for a hint of her gold hair or the deep blue of her dress.

“Killian!”

He spins around at the unfamiliar female voice, eyes darting back and forth until they settle on Elsa, seated on a bench by the entrance to the concert hall, legs crossed, hands folded gracefully in her lap. Ensign Stephens sits next to her; he looks back and forth between them curiously.

Elsa tips chin toward the far end of the foyer. “She went that way, down the other hall. She said she was going to the roof. What’s going on?”

He frowns and takes a few steps toward her. “I’ll explain later. Is she alright?”

Elsa fixes him with an appraising stare, a miniscule wrinkle in her brow. “Perhaps you’d better go find out.”

He gives them a nod and spins away. It takes him a frustrating handful of minutes to make his way down to the Hall of States and then wind through more tables and guests until he locates the stairs, which he takes two at a time. On the upper level he negotiates a path through an atrium and finds himself in a gallery laden with more tables. The roof, the roof... He spies glass walls at either end of the gallery with exits out to the terrace. The roof. Killian strides for the exit closer to him as quickly as he can, pushing the door open, and charging out into the open air.

The sun is still over the horizon, but the sky is aflame with pink and orange twilight hues. It’s about ten degrees colder outside than it was inside, and the temperature is starting to fall, the evening air already cool, bordering on crisp. He looks in both directions down the long span of the east terrace, unsure of which way she would have gone. Impulsively, he goes right and then jogs around the corner to the south side, grimacing as the crimson sun comes into view and momentarily blinds him. Killian squints as he adjusts to the glare, hand shielding his eyes. For a moment, he thinks it’s just a trick of the light, but a few blinks and a second more, and he recognizes the profile of the slim figure heading toward the sunset at the far end of the south terrace. Her hair looks like liquid gold in the light, and the thin fabric of her skirt billows at her ankles. His breath gets lodged in his throat. “Emma?” he calls.

Her feet stop, but she doesn’t turn around, tipping her face toward the clouds, her tensed shoulders rising just enough for him to tell that she’s taking a deep breath. His dress shoes pound the cement and he can hear his pulse in his ears as he trots up to the spot where she remains rooted. Emma turns as he approaches, her arms wrapped around her middle, face in a carefully schooled little smile that doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes. The glow of the sunset behind her makes her look otherworldly, like a downtrodden goddess.

Killian swallows. “Emma? Are you alright?”

She bows her head to study her toes, which are peeking out from under her hem, puffing out a dry laugh. “I’m fine.”

He angles his head, skeptical. “Forgive me for not believing you, love.”

Emma gives a harder, more sardonic chuckle and turns away, resuming her walk over to the wall of the west terrace. The river stretches out before them, the sunbeams dancing and flashing on the water, and she fixes her eyes upon it with a visible shiver, a breeze playing with her curls. Killian follows her, setting his hat down on the wall and shrugging off his jacket.

“Here. It’s getting cold.”

“Don’t.”

He halts at the sudden change in the tone of her voice. It’s flat and harsh, and her nose sounds congested, as though she’s about to cry. He frowns helplessly. “Emma?”

She tries to disguise a sniffle. “It’s nothing, Killian. It’s silly. I’m fine. Go inside.”

His countenance growing dark, he drapes his jacket over his arm and gives her shoulder a gentle nudge so she faces him, still refusing to meet his gaze. “It’s not silly. You’re clearly upset.” Her averted eyes are wet, and his heart aches. “Have I done something?”

She lets out a feeble laugh, shaking her head. “God, you can’t keep doing this,” she moans impatiently.

He can feel his heart drop into his stomach. It is him. “Doing what, Emma?”

“The knight in shining armor routine!” she cries, her voice loud and insistent now as she dabs the moisture at the corner of her eye away with her finger. She pauses for a few steadying breaths and finally looks back up into his eyes, embarrassed. “Look,” she starts again quietly, “You’re a good friend. But you’re handsome, and you’re charming, and you’re- you’re amazing,” she stammers, waving a hand vaguely in his direction, “And if you keep finding ways to act like my dashing hero, I’m going to start… I don’t know… pining after you or something, and I can’t afford to do that. Not when we both know you’re not interested.” She takes a step back from him as he stares at her, dumbfounded. “I just… I can’t.” She sniffles again and pivots back to look out over the wall. A weary groan escapes her as she struggles to regain her composure. She closes her eyes, forehead creasing with mortification. “Sorry. God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I’m just so wound up right now.” She wipes away a tear and turns her head to give him a watery smile. “I didn’t mean to make this awkward. Can you…” she laughs bitterly, “Can you just do me one more favor and promise me you’ll forget all about this so we can still be friends?”

He’s been a complete ass. A right and total prat, and after months of being unsure about what to do about Emma Swan, he finally has a moment of pure, terrifying clarity. He sets his jaw defiantly. “No.”

Her face turns crestfallen. “No?” she repeats softly.

“Not bloody likely,” he murmurs, taking a step forward. He gingerly takes her hand in his, a little fearful that she’ll pull away, but she doesn’t, and he looks upon their clasped hands reverently as he takes a deep breath. “Because it’s too late for me.” He raises his eyes to meet hers with the faintest of smiles, his face shy and solemn. “I’m already pining, Emma,” he admits quietly, a small wrinkle of contrition in the spot between his eyes. “I have been since the day we met.”

The way her expression transforms from sadness to confusion to revelation and awe, the way her mouth falls open, and the way the light changes in those intelligent, gorgeous green eyes as she stands there and blinks at him are things he’ll never forget as long as he lives. Her breathing is fast and shallow, and she shivers with energy like a hummingbird, her eyes shimmering as she stares at him with wonder.

He glances down at her lips and back up to her eyes. “Permission to-”

“Uh-huh.” Her sob is half laugh as she pulls at his hand, and in one smooth movement, he closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her, and crushing his mouth to hers. They remain pressed impossibly close together for a moment before her lips part for him, the hands on his chest grasping for his shirt collar, and her body melting into his embrace. His brow is deeply furrowed as he inhales her, breathing in her subtle perfume and tasting her lips, which are soft and strong and sweet. His nose nuzzles her cheek as he slants his mouth over hers again and again, trying to communicate his pent-up longing, and his hand slides up her spine to the spot between her shoulder blades in order to pull her even tighter to him as they gently sway together. He is astounded by the passion with which she kisses him back, her hands moving up from his chest to wind around his neck like vines, her fingers carding through his hair as they cradle the back of his head, as though she is welcoming him into her life with her whole soul and offering him the immeasurable comfort of her presence. In that moment, Killian’s world becomes right, the ghosts and regrets and fears that have haunted him these many years temporarily banished at her feet. Emma Swan is like a warm light purging him of his darkness, all warmth and radiance and joy, and he is blissfully happy. He had forgotten what it was like to feel this way.

When they finally break apart, she buries her face in the crook of his neck, and he can feel her ribs expand as she breathes deeply. He lets go just long enough to wrap her in his jacket, his arms settling around her once more as he sighs regretfully into her hair. He really has been a fool. Liam would have been right to pummel him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, love.”

She shudders and gives a little nod. “Explain it to me later?”

He rubs his hand along the small of her back, grateful that she’s giving him time to figure out how. Perfect woman. “I will.”

“Good.” She lifts her head and looks at him with big wet eyes, smiling and kissing him again softly. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I am too.” He touches the side of her face, his thumb brushing her chin as he pulls back a fraction to study her with concern. “Are you really alright?”

Emma sighs and nods, a hint of her cool determination resurfacing. “I’m fine. I can handle Ozzie.”

He smirks. “Clearly. You were bloody brilliant, Swan.”

She basks in his compliment, her eyes fluttering closed as he plants another lingering kiss on her lips, reveling in his new freedom to do so.

“So what now?” she asks when he releases her mouth, sounding satisfyingly breathless.

“Hmm.” He considers this. The sun has just set, and the sky grows increasingly deeper shades of purple. The lights of the city have come on, thousands of dots of light illuminating the landscape across the Potomac. “I suppose we should go inside. It’s getting colder, and I imagine your friend Elsa is probably wondering what’s become of us.”

Emma hums in agreement, admiring the view contently. She chuckles and pulls out a tissue from her clutch to wipe lip gloss off his upturned mouth for him. “My friends are going to have fits when they find out about this.” She rolls her eyes as she folds the tissue and uses it to dab at her own eyes, wiping away any tear-stained make-up smudges. “They kept telling me you’d come around. They’ve been haranguing me about you since the day you came to talk to Scarlet at the hospital.”

Killian laughs. “Then I suppose I ought to thank them for having faith in me.” He presses his lips to her forehead in another apology. “Shall we go? Scarlet and my friend Belle will also be eager to see you.” He gives her a chagrined smile. “He was the one who told me you were here. I owe him a drink.”

* * *

Emma’s heart continues to beat rapid time in her chest as Killian escorts her inside from the terrace. She can still feel his lips on hers and the burn of his stubble along her cheeks. Part of her can’t fathom that this is happening, that he actually wants her (and has wanted her this whole time), but he’s there at her side with his arm snug against her back as living proof, throwing her endearingly shy glances that make her insides melt.

She pauses after they step inside to pull his uniform jacket off her shoulders. She holds it out for him to shrug into. “Here. You look better in this than I do,” she says with a chuckle.

He shakes his head. “I seriously doubt that.” He tugs his hat on and slips into the jacket, grinning indulgently as he allows her to brush off his shoulders and smooth his collar and straighten his medals and pick off imaginary hairs and anything else she can think of that will let her run her hands over him one more second. He surveys her outfit appreciatively. “I haven’t yet told you - you look stunning, Swan.”

She blushes and arches her brow, her hands stilling on his shoulders. “Yeah, well, you look pretty amazing yourself.” She delicately reaches under the visor of his hat to brush a lock of his hair out of his eyes. “I’m kind of surprised I don’t have to beat off other women with a stick right now.” She smiles at the humble little laugh he makes.

They saunter back through the gallery, which is now crowded with guests preparing for dinner. Killian gives Emma the lead, clutching the hand she holds out behind her. The way he runs his thumb across her knuckles makes her shiver. They return to the main level and locate Elsa and Stephens still chatting on the bench where they were before. The foyer is much more open now that most of the guests are moving off the dining areas, and Emma inwardly admits that she does feel a little like a princess as she walks down the red carpet in this glamorous space while wearing a flowing gown and being escorted by Killian Jones in his British military uniform. She dips her head and feels her cheeks flush as Elsa spots them, her thrilled smile colored with a note of coy “I-told-you-so.”

“You found her, I see,” she tells Killian, sounding pleased.

He executes a small bow. “Thanks to you,” he says. He reaches out. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Elsa.”

Elsa gives him her hand. “You too.”

Stephens looks to Killian. “Everything alright, Sir?”

Killian looks at Emma, and her heart flutters as they share a private smile. “I think so, Ensign. My apologies for having to leave earlier.”

The Ensign shakes his head, tipping the visor of his hat at Emma. “Pretty sure you had a good reason. Good to see you, Captain.”

“Good to see you, Ensign,” Emma beams. “Although you can dispense with formalities. It’s Emma.”

Stephens grins from ear to ear. “Yes, Ma’am- Emma. Charlie.”

Killian’s phone chimes in his pants pocket, and he brings it out. “Ah. Belle is wondering where we are. She and Will have found a table and want to know if we’d like to join.”

The foursome make their way to the Hall of Nations and locate their friends. Killian introduces them to his friend Belle, who gives him a gratified smile as she graciously shakes Emma’s hand. Will also greets them politely, conducting himself somewhat stiffly until it becomes clear that Emma and Elsa have forgiven him for his earlier behavior as their patient.

Dinner is a pleasant affair with three excellent courses. The cheesecake dessert is sweet and rich and creamy and drizzled with strawberry sauce, and Emma’s heart melts yet again when she comments on how wonderful it is and Killian offers her the last bit of his.

“Hey now,” Will protests, “You’re going to make me look bad.” He seems mollified when Belle pats his arm and assures him if he feels that bad about it, he can find another way to make it up to her. Killian coughs into his water glass. Emma giggles at him, and a wry smile sneaks on to his face as he gives her a fond sideways glance.

After dinner the guests move into the main opera house for a silent auction, awards, and performances from Maroon 5 and Tori Kelly. In between acts, Elsa snaps a photo of Emma and Killian with her phone and shows it to them. Emma has to admit it’s a pretty great picture, her stomach doing flip-flops as she looks at the image of Killian Jones smiling with his arm curled around her. She asks Elsa to send it to her.

Elsa nods happily. “Can I send it to Mary Margaret and Ruby too?” she asks playfully.

Emma bites her lip and glances at Killian. The way his eyes are dancing makes her smile. “Sure,” she agrees, reaching into her clutch for her own phone. “Just wait a minute.”

“What are you doing?” Killian asks as she unlocks it.

Emma snorts. “Making sure my phone is on ‘vibrate’. The minute she sends that photo, this thing is going to blow up.”

Her phone doesn’t stop vibrating for the next 30 minutes.

* * *

He hasn’t had so much fun in years. The evening with Emma at his side passes like a dream, and his heart leaps with every smile she gives him and every soft touch of her hand. He’s hardly old, barely closer to 40 than 30, but something about being here with her and their friends this evening makes him feel like a carefree 20 year-old again, the way he was before his life became beset with so much hard experience and tragedy.

It’s eleven o’clock when the festivities draw to a close, and he is loathe to see it end. He knows their relationship is different now, that he’ll probably see her again soon, but he doesn’t want to let her go. Not yet. He leans in to her. “Did you drive that charming car of yours, Swan, or can I offer you a ride home?”

She gives him a soft smile. “I came with Elsa,” she says demurely, “But a ride would be nice.”

They bid their friends goodnight, Emma giving Elsa a hug and promising to call tomorrow, and Belle hanging on Will’s arm and giving Killian yet another encouraging nod as she glances at Emma. Elsa and Charlie Stephens exchange phone numbers and promise to stay in touch.

Killian offers to bring the car around, but she prefers to walk with him, and they hold hands as they walk quickly out to the parking garage, their teeth chattering in the cold night air by the time they reach his SUV. When he pulls the passenger door open for her, she smiles, charmed. “Such a gentleman.”

“Always.” He grins and shuts the door after she’s in, hustling around to climb into the driver’s seat where he starts the engine and switches the heat on.

“I live in Chevy Chase,” she tells him, blowing warm air into her balled-up hands.

He blushes. “I know where you live, Swan,” he admits.

She raises an eyebrow. “You saw it on the package I sent you?”

“I may have taken note.” He smiles, backing the car out and getting into line for the exit from the garage.

It’s about 30 minutes’ drive north to Emma’s apartment, and they spend it sharing stories about their friends while Emma inspects his radio presets and declares her approval. Killian marvels at how easy it is to talk to her; he enjoyed talking to her during their previous exchanges, but this evening is by far the longest he’s ever had the opportunity to enjoy her company, and even five hours in, they’re nowhere near bored. It amazes him, and it scares him. If he loses her, he’s not just going to lose a love interest, he’s going to lose a woman who has the potential to be a dear friend, maybe his best friend. He swallows and tries to push the thought away as he attempts to focus again on what she’s saying.

He manages to find her apartment with only minimal instructions from her. Emma lives in a quaint two-story colonial-style complex nestled in a wooded area not far off a main road in her D.C. suburb. Killian pulls into a visitor’s parking spot, noting with a smile that her yellow Bug is parked a little ways away in front of what he assumes is her building. He puts the SUV into park.

“I know it’s really late,” Emma says, sounding shy, “But I’m off work tomorrow, and you’re welcome to come in for some coffee or cocoa if you want.” She bites her lip. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

Killian grabs her hand before she can say anything else. “I’d love that.”

The way she smiles and blushes makes his heart pound thunderously.

Her second-floor apartment is small, but clean and well-appointed. It’s warm and neutral, with cream walls, white trim, and beige carpet. A brown tweed couch sits in the living room immediately to the right of the door, accessorized with a soft white knit blanket and a couple seersucker throw pillows. The square coffee table has clean lines with a black steel frame and a wood top and holds a few thick medical reference books, a laptop, and a legal pad scribbled with notes. A matching end table holds a simple white urn-shaped lamp and some photo frames, and a TV sits on a media stand across from them, more photo frames scattered about on either side.

Emma leaves their coats on hooks by the door and welcomes him in as she switches on the lamp and heads for the small kitchen around the corner on his left. It’s filled with clean white cabinets and a linoleum tile floor.

“Decaf or cocoa?” she asks. She smiles broadly when he chooses the latter, pulling a large metal tin and a cinnamon shaker from the bottom shelf of a cabinet and setting a kettle of water to boil.

He can’t resist coming up close behind her as she pulls out a couple of mugs, and she turns to him, her back to the counter, giving him an inviting smile as he presses a slow, gentle kiss to her mouth. His arms settle on her hips, and he can feel her smile even wider as their lips continue to softly explore. She inhales deeply and lets out a little mewling sound that sends a tingle straight to the base of his spine. There’s a part of him that wants to be aggressive, wants to be more forceful and demanding, wants to touch all that gorgeous skin and press himself up against her and give her no doubt of his desire for her, but there’s something about this slow burn that seems more fitting for him, for her, for them.

His hand comes up to cup the angle of her jaw and slide beneath her hair to the back of her neck, and he gives a contented rumble when her tongue grazes his lips and she nips at the corner of his mouth playfully. A soft giggle escapes her when they pause, foreheads still touching, and he grins from ear to ear as he savors the sensation of being close to her like this. She places her hands on either side of his face, caressing his cheek with her thumb. “I could get used to this.”

“I’m rather hoping you will, Swan.” His heart swells when she chuckles and nods in agreement.

The kettle whistles, and she reluctantly pulls away to see to it. “Go make yourself comfortable in the living room,” she tells him. “I’ll bring these over. Cinnamon?”

He smiles, stepping back and loosening his bow-tie. “Is there any other way?”

She laughs under her breath, shaking her head as she begins spooning cocoa mix into the mugs. “Nope.”

Killian pulls his tie off and goes to stow it in the pocket of his jacket by the door. After a moment of thought, he decides to shuck his waistcoat and leave it there too. He pulls off his dress shoes and leaves them by the door and unbuttons the collar of his shirt as he wanders into the living room. Emma intercepts him, carrying two mugs, one of which she holds out to him.

“Thank you, love.” He admires the neat spiral of whipped cream covered in a lovely dash of cinnamon. “It looks amazing.”

Emma shrugs, pleased. “Whipped cream skills. I’ve had a lot of practice.” She flushes a little and clears her throat, setting her own mug on the coffee table. “I, um, I’m going to get out of these shoes. My feet are starting to hate me right now. Be right back.” She disappears into her bedroom and shuts the door behind her.

Killian wanders around her living room, sipping the cocoa, the warmth running down to his toes, the chocolate silky on his tongue. It’s delicious. He continues to drink as he picks up a photo from her end table and studies it. It shows Emma posing with a group of friends at a restaurant. He recognizes one woman as the nurse from the hospital ward who had been talking to Emma and Elsa during his poker game. There’s also another pretty woman with long brown hair standing next to the nurse and a shorter woman with a lovely round face and a dark pixie cut in the arms of and a handsome man with a chiseled chin, short light brown hair, and light blue eyes. Killian smiles and picks up another photo, this one of the short-haired woman in a wedding gown and Emma, looking radiant in a lavender strapless bridesmaid dress, her blonde hair up in a loose chignon, her wrist held in front of her mouth trying to hide her laughter. Killian wonders if the woman with short hair is her sister.

As he moves to inspect the photos on her media stand, he realizes there are none of Emma with anyone who looks like a parent or an older relative. He frowns, curious, as he examines another picture of Emma with the same young couple as before.

“That’s David and Mary Margaret.”

He turns to see her padding back into the living room. She’s changed her clothes completely, now dressed in a soft-looking gray T-shirt, matching yoga pants, and an unzipped lightweight blue Navy-logo hoodie. Her bare feet are silent across the carpet. He’s a little disappointed that the dress is gone, but even with less skin showing, the way her lounge clothes cling to her curves still sends his imagination in all sorts of interesting directions. He has to make a concerted effort not to stare. “Uh, what, love?”

She points at the frame he’s holding. “My friends. David and Mary Margaret.” She comes up beside him and taps the glass. “She’s the cookie lady.”

“Ah.” He grins in recognition. “I thought she might be your sister.”

She shakes her head. “No. No sisters.” She moves to pick her mug up off the coffee table and curls up on one corner of her couch, raising the cocoa to her lips.

“Brothers?”

Again, she shakes her head. “Nope.”

He sets the frame down and comes to join her. “Only child then.”

“As far as I know.” She takes another sip and clears her throat. “Not that I really know.”

Her tone is breezy, but Killian frowns as he sits to face her, noting the lost look in her eyes, dread filling him that he’s touched upon a topic she doesn’t want to discuss.

She reads his concerned expression before he knows what to say and gives him a small smile. “Orphan. I grew up in the foster system.” She reaches out and touches his hand to stay his pity. “It’s okay. It is what it is.”

He nods numbly, but he's overcome with the urge to hold her. Killian gets to his feet and approaches her end of the couch. “Scoot over, Swan.”

Emma complies, looking slightly confused until she realizes what he’s doing. She takes one last drink and puts her cup aside. He settles into the corner of the couch at an angle and draws her to him so she lies against his chest, nestled under his chin. He plants a kiss on the top of her head as she sighs.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asks.

His brow wrinkles sadly. “I did. My older brother, Liam.”

She lifts her head a fraction. “What happened?”

He smoothes his hand over her hair. “Died in the service almost ten years ago. Afghanistan.”

Emma shifts, nuzzling his chest and draping her arm across his middle. “I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man.” Killian says quietly. He smiles, remembering his last conversation with Dr. Hopper. “He would have liked you.”

She rolls a bit and props herself up to look at him with hopeful eyes. “You really think so?”

He nods. “Aye. I might have even had to fight him for you.”

She chuckles and leans in to kiss him. He closes his eyes and savors the touch of her soft lips and the taste of chocolate in her mouth. It starts out gently but gradually grows more intense this time as they shift together on the couch. Eventually he’s under her, his hand and stump starting to roam beneath her hoodie, carefully mapping out her form – the small of her back, the rise of her hip, the slope of her ribs as they curve around her sides and under her breasts. As Emma’s lips grow more insistent, he allows himself to run his hand further down to the curve of her ass, which, like every other part of her, is perfect, and down the backs of her thighs.

She lifts her leg to straddle him, humming as she feels the evidence of his arousal beneath her and grinding down a little on him with a tiny gasp and a moan before she pulls back. “Killian,” she breathes.

“Emma?”

Her lips are kiss-swollen, her face flushed, her hair tousled, and her eyes bright, and if he thought she looked beautiful earlier this evening, she is far more magnificent now. She blushes an even darker shade of pink as she bites her lip. “I am all for doing this right now,” she says apologetically, “But unless you brought something with you, I think we may need to hold up.” She bows her head with a nervous laugh. “I wasn’t really prepared for this.”

He processes what she’s saying, and he, too, chuckles regretfully. “Sadly, love, I did not.” He brushes a stray lock of hair away from her face. “It’s been a while for me.”

“Me too.”

They consider each other for a second, coming to a silent agreement as he kisses her again quickly and they sit up. She takes in their disheveled state and giggles, running her fingers through her hair and clutching a handful of it at the nape of her neck self-consciously. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles genuinely, still enchanted by her even in his current state. “It’s alright, Swan. It’s my fault for not giving you any idea how I felt about you sooner.” He shifts in his seat to get a little more comfortable. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait until next time.”

“And when will that be?” she asks, pouting hopefully.

Killian thinks. “Tomorrow? Unless you had plans.”

Her face lights up. “No plans.” She gives an enthusiastic little shake of her head.

He chuckles and reaches for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Then, how about,” he proposes thoughtfully, “I go home, we get some sleep, and I’ll be back in time for lunch? I can bring something over or we can go out, if you’d rather.”

She tilts her head coquettishly. “Chinese food and classic movie marathon?”

Killian smiles. She’s wonderful. “Sounds perfect.”

Chapter Text

Emma leans her back against her apartment door after Killian leaves, staring off into space. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, and it’s been a physically and emotionally exhausting day, but her mind is racing, and her excitement over today’s developments threatens to burst from her chest. He actually wants her. A lot, it would seem, she thinks wryly, cheeks burning at the memory of what they were doing on her couch not 20 minutes ago. Not only that, he’s wanted her since they met three months ago, maintaining his interest despite having no payoff up until now. He’s not Neal, she can hear Mary Margaret’s voice say patiently in her head. You can’t assume the worst.

She collects the mugs from the coffee table and puts them in the sink, trying her best not to mentally replay the experience of getting hot and heavy with Killian Jones lest she should spontaneously combust. She’s never considered herself to be the kind of girl who takes a man to bed on a first date (not that she’s had a lot of first dates to test that theory), but she’s not sure she wouldn’t have made an exception for Killian tonight had they not been so woefully unprepared. Something about their relationship makes it so that even an intense look from him causes her skin to hum; she’s never known anything like it before, and it both thrills and scares her. It’s not just the overwhelming physical attraction, it’s the unspoken kinship they seem to have. Prior to today they may have only danced around each other in a handful of brief encounters, but it feels like she’s known him for ages.

She gives her head a little shake and tries to focus on hastily straightening her throw pillows and refolding the blanket which they’d unceremoniously pushed over the back of the couch. Emma glances at the clock on her microwave, trying to remind herself of the late hour and the fact that she needs to get some rest if she wants to be fresh for whatever her afternoon with Killian will bring.

Ten minutes later, she lies awake in bed, still feeling very unsettled. She wishes he were here, that he was lying next to her so she could curl into his side. It’s not about the gratification of sex (though the thought sends ripples of anticipation down her spine), it’s about just having him here with her. She misses him. She realizes now that she has missed him a little every day since they met, but now that she knows she can have him, the ache is magnified a hundredfold. Emma sighs and rolls over on her side. He’ll be back soon, she tells herself. The quicker she falls asleep, the sooner she’ll see morning and Killian will be back on her doorstep. The thought is with her as she drifts off.

* * *

Killian sets his alarm, turns off his bedside lamp, and falls into his bed with a deep sigh. He stares upwards in the darkness as he lays his arm above his head, the back of his hand smoothing his hair back from his forehead. Emma. She’s bloody incredible - smart, witty, charmingly sarcastic, caring, protective, forceful, and drop-dead bloody beautiful. And she wants to be with him. His brow wrinkles. He still worries that it’s only a matter of time until she figures out how unworthy he is of her, but he’s noticed something interesting this evening – being with Emma Swan gives him courage, a sense of increased control. The way she touches him and looks at him makes him feel valuable and cherished, and he’s less afraid of the future when he holds her hand or gazes into her eyes or wraps her in his arms. Maybe… maybe they do have a chance.

He’s not sure what on earth he’s ever done to deserve this shot with her, but Liam’s voice rings in his head:
Don’t bugger this up.

He closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath.
I’ll do my best, Brother. I promise.

* * *

“Oh my god, Emma, that all sounds amazing. I’m so happy it finally happened!” Mary Margaret is overjoyed, her words a rapid jumble in Emma’s ear. Emma had responded to her slew of messages last night with the promise of an update today, and Mary Margaret had texted her promptly at eight o’clock this morning demanding the play-by-play.

“It still feels kind of surreal.” Emma smiles to herself as she unpacks a shopping bag on the kitchen counter, having just made a necessary run to the store before dutifully starting to call her small collective of excited friends back one by one. She pulls out a six-pack of craft beer in glass bottles, another of sodas, and a carton of juice and sets them aside to go into the fridge.

“So he’s coming back today?”

“Soon.” She glances at the clock and simultaneously panics and rejoices as she realizes it’s already almost eleven. “Maybe very soon. He said he’d be back for lunch, but we didn’t set a time. He’s bringing take-out.” She hustles to pull out the eggs and raisins and a bunch of bananas.

“What are you wearing?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “My birthday suit.”

“Emma…”

“What?” Emma laughs, looking down at her clothes. “Jeans and a top.”

“Which top?”

Emma sighs. “The white cami with the lace trim,” she admits.

Mary Margaret gives a little squeal. “Oh you really do like this guy.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Emma chuckles dryly.

“So what are you two going to do today?”

She swings open her refrigerator door and begins filing items away inside. “I don’t know. We talked about watching some movies. Probably just play it by ear. Maybe we’ll go out for dinner if he wants to stay late.”

Mary Margaret sighs. “Oh honey, you guys looked so happy together in that photo, I bet he wants to stay forever.”

Emma’s heart leaps at the idea, but she quickly shoves her optimism down. “Let’s not oversell this just yet, okay?” she asks, slightly pleading. “This thing is really new and different, and I’m still trying to figure it all out. I don’t even know how long it’ll last.” She bites her lip, the idea that she might one day lose her relationship with Killian Jones causing an icy pang in her chest.

“Emma Swan,” Mary Margaret’s voice turns stern, “You are not meant to be alone forever.” Her tone softens. “I know things have been rough for you before, but please don’t over-think this. Just keep focused on the simple truths.”

Emma sighs as she puts items away in her tiny closet pantry. “Such as?”

“You two care about each other, and you want to be together,” Mary Margaret replies, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“And?”

“And nothing. That’s it.”

Emma chuckles bitterly. “Relationship aren’t always that simple, Mary Margaret. Not everyone gets to be like you and David. If true love was easy, we’d all have it.”

“It’s only complicated if you let details distract you from you goal,” her friend says. “I’m not saying stuff doesn’t happen, but if you keep your eye on what’s important, you can’t stray too far. Just promise me you’ll give yourself a chance to be happy with him? Elsa says you seem like you could really be happy with him.”

Emma smirks, not at all surprised that her friends have already been swapping details this morning behind her back. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. And when you guys have time, maybe the four of us can get together. David wants to size him up.”

“I’m sure.” Emma pulls her cell phone away from her ear at the sound of her text alert and looks at the screen. “Killian just texted. I should go.”

“You two crazy kids have fun. I expect a full report later,” Mary Margaret says cheerfully. “Bye!”

Emma smiles, shaking her head as she ends her call. She checks her text from Killian.

Good morning, Swan. Sleep well?

Just the sound of his words in her head makes her giddy.
Eventually. You?

I had a lovely dream about a bloody brilliant princess in a blue dress who really knows how to kiss.

Emma blushes hard.
Sounds like a really good dream.

Yes, it was. I shall have to tell you all about it. Certain bits may require re-enactment.

Emma’s toes curl at the thought.
What time were you thinking?

I’m leaving my place now. Still in the mood for Chinese?

Yes, please. Beef stir fry, lo mein, and lots of crab rangoon?

As you wish. See you soon.

Emma can feel her heart fluttering as she sets her phone on the counter. The knowledge that he’s on his way fills her with nervous energy. She folds up the empty shopping bag and hangs it on the side of her fridge, glancing around her apartment, unable to think of anything else that needs straightening before he arrives. She chews on her lip. She needs to relax and keep her mind occupied while she’s waiting. Her eyes fall on her laptop. Perhaps she’s got a little time for some work today after all.

It’s a quarter ‘til noon when there’s a knock on her door. She pops up from the couch and hurries to open it, heart leaping when she finds Killian is indeed standing on the other side. He looks unfairly handsome as always, wearing a charcoal button-up with the sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, and casual oxfords. A heavy-looking white plastic bag filled with take-out is slung over his left forearm, and his face lights up when he sees her. “Swan.”

The smile he’s giving her re-awakens the butterflies in her stomach. Was he only gone for ten hours? She’s so happy to see him again that she feels compelled to jump him, but he beats her to it, reaching for the back of her neck to draw her to him for a sweet and satisfying kiss. Emma licks her lips and gives him a shy smile as they pull back, noses inches apart. “Hi.”

“Hi.” His eyes are bright.

She steps back and holds the door open. “Come on in.” She watches with amusement as Killian loosens his laces and toes his shoes off at the door, sliding them carefully out of the way with his foot. It’s hardly unusual for a military officer to be disciplined and orderly, but there’s still something about how meticulous he is that she finds adorable.

He holds up the bag. “Where shall I put this?”

She gestures toward the living room, hurrying ahead of him to save the work she was doing on her laptop and move it to the far corner of the coffee table. The bag rustles and gives off mouth-watering smells as he sets it down.

He eyes her computer and written notes as he sits. “Working on your research?”

“Yeah, I had a little time this morning. I’ve almost got all the footage logged.” She goes to the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He’s got most of the take-out cartons unloaded when she returns with two open beer bottles. Emma sniffs appreciatively. “What did you bring?”

“Beef stir-fry, lo-mein, General Tso’s chicken, cashew shrimp,” he points to the boxes one by one, “Pork and vegetables, plain rice, fried rice, and…” he flourishes a medium-sized waxed paper bag like a trophy, “A dozen crab rangoon.”

She takes it from him with a grin, peeking inside. “This is really great. Thank you.”

“Of course, love.” He smiles back at her and fishes out chopsticks and napkins. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving.”

They sit next to one another, knee-to-knee, digging in and swapping boxes back and forth as they chat. When he asks about her research, Emma pulls her laptop back over and brings up the basketball footage, showing him how she’s been cataloguing and categorizing relevant player movements and logging their timestamps on various spreadsheets. She pulls an anatomy textbook out and points out the bones, ligaments, and muscles of the back, legs, ankles, and feet that are involved in the particular movements she’s studying and explains how certain movements shift stress from one part to another.

Killian listens to her intently, asking educated questions. He’s not faking his interest in her project, and that kind of floors her. She stares at him as he studies an illustration in her anatomy book, and he glances up, blinking blankly, his mouth curving upward. “What?”

She sets an empty carton on the table and shakes her head lightly, an embarrassed smile playing on her lips. “Nothing. I just can’t believe you let me babble on about this for so long.”

“This,” he says, setting her book down and turning to face her, “Is actually very interesting, and you,” he says taking her hand, “Could probably read me the tax code and maintain my undivided attention, Swan.”

She blushes. “Flatterer.”

Killian shrugs, unapologetic. “Just the truth, love.” He grins devilishly. “But then, I quite fancy you.”

This earns him another languid kiss. Emma sighs contentedly as she pulls away, enjoying the heavy-lidded expression of bliss she leaves on his face. “So what would you like to do this afternoon?” she asks, getting up and gathering empty cartons for the trash. “I have a bunch of movies we can watch. And I was thinking about making more of those cookies you like so much.” She flashes him an enticing smirk.

Killian grins. “You spoil a man, Swan.” He packs away the remaining food, helping her carry it to the kitchen.

“Is that a yes?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow beguilingly as she stuffs the leftovers in her refrigerator and reaches for the eggs. She flushes as she realizes he’s unabashedly admiring her backside while she hunches over.

His eyes return to her face. “Yes,” he says, smiling cheekily.

She sets the eggs and a pack of butter on her counter and throws him an arch look as she moves to gather the rest of the ingredients from her pantry. “Then make yourself useful, Sailor. Cookie sheets are above the fridge and the hand mixer is in there.” She gestures toward a cabinet.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

They move about the kitchen together comfortably, Emma giving him additional instructions as she measures and mixes. They decide to make oatmeal raisin this time, Killian helping himself to an extra handful of raisins before putting the lid back on the container. He smiles when Emma wordlessly steals a few from the palm of his hand as she passes by, popping them into her mouth without a look back. The mixture is ready in under half an hour. She beams at him when he takes it upon himself to put leftover ingredients away and begin the clean-up while she’s occupied rolling out balls of dough and lining them up neatly on the lined cookie sheet.

When the batch is in the oven, she washes and dries her hands. “That’s it. T-minus ten minutes. Should we put in a movie?”

Killian insists she pick the DVD, and after a minute of perusing her collection, Emma pulls out Singing in the Rain. They snuggle together on her couch as she hits ‘play,’ Emma burrowing into his side as he drapes his arm around her and kisses the crown of her head.

By the time Gene Kelly as Don Lockwood is fleeing his adoring fans, the heavenly aroma of cookies has completely saturated the apartment and Emma is back up to pull them from the oven. She leaves them to cool and returns to the couch, tucking her feet up under her again. A happy sigh escapes her as she wraps an arm around his middle, laying her head on his chest and breathing him in. This is what she had been wanting as she lay awake in bed, she thinks. “I missed you last night,” she confesses.

Killian looks down at her, arching an eyebrow with delight. “Did you, now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He runs his hand up her arm and gently pulls her hair away from the side of her face. The softness in his expression fills her with joy. “I missed you too, love. I was sad to have to drive home.” He chuckles, drifting his fingertips back down her shoulder, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “Being with you is rather addictive.”

She shifts against him a little, hanging her hand on his shoulder, arm draping across his chest. “I wish I could see you more often. With my schedule it might be hard.”

He frowns. “What’s your schedule this week?”

“Mmph.” They watch as Debbie Reynolds pops out of a cake. “I’m doing elective outpatient surgeries for now, and then I’m back on q4 call next month,” she says with a sigh.

“q4?”

“Sorry. Doctor-speak.” Emma smiles ruefully. “Call every fourth night. Like I was when we met.”

He rumbles thoughtfully. “Well, that’s next month. What time will you be getting home this week?”

“Maybe seven?”

Killian does the math. “So we can have a few hours together in the evenings, then, yeah? And we’ll figure out what to do next month as we go.” He smiles solemnly as she tips her head up to look at him. “Trust me, Swan. I’ll find a way to be here as often as I can if you’ll have me.”

She gazes at him with shining eyes, his sincerity gripping her heart. “Really?”

He gives her an encouraging nod. “Really.”

He leans in, and Emma gives an elated hum at the pull of his lips on hers and the gentle scratch of his scruff. She runs her tongue along the corner of his mouth and pulls herself closer to him as he tightens his arm around her and proceeds to kiss her breathless. They remain entwined as her right hand fumbles for the remote control, and she holds it aloft blindly, pausing the movie and tossing the thing away just before he leans sideways to recline on a throw pillow, pulling her over onto him with a satisfied chuckle.

His wandering touch sears paths of tingling electricity across her skin, and heat builds low in her belly as she climbs atop him again, burying her fingers in his hair as she continues to engage his mouth with hers. She rocks forward on his hard length with a satisfied whimper at the friction it generates and enjoys the groan that a second, deeper rock tears from his throat. He wraps his arms around her, left arm at her shoulders and right arm lower, his hand snaking under her cami to smooth a path across her low back before his fingers start to stroke her right side deliciously. Killian turns his head to direct his kisses to the curve of her jaw and the side of her throat, and she relishes the movement of his lips against her skin as she grows more frantic with each subsequent roll of her hips down onto his. Her nimble fingers find the buttons of his shirt and undo them in record time, and his hand comes back around to cup her left breast under her shirt, his thumb caressing the nipple through the fabric of her bra. The moan this pulls from her triggers him to smile viciously against her lips, and he redoubles his efforts to drive her mad with want.

Emma finally collects her faculties enough to tear herself away and stand up, tugging on his arm. “Let’s go.”

Her bedroom is dim with the shades drawn, but she doesn’t bother to turn a light on. She spins on him as soon as they cross the threshold, cups his face in her hands, and again plies him with deep, fierce kisses. Killian’s fingers glide across the small of her back and toy with the hem of her shirt, inching it higher and higher until she reaches down and helps him pull it off. Her skin feels alight under his gaze as he drinks in the sight of her, and she shoves his open shirt off his shoulders, eager to even the score. He ditches the button-up and hastily yanks his undershirt up over his head before he comes back at her. She barely has time to admire his toned chest with its perfect layer of dark hair before his hand and stump are bracing her shoulders possessively and he’s kissing a long searing line down the column of her neck. Emma slips a hand down and tugs his belt free of the buckle while he nips and suckles his way down to the tops of her breasts, which are still encased in a nude lace strapless push-up bra. She reaches behind her to pull it free, and he moans appreciatively as it hits the carpet. The light in his eyes is predatory as he cups her left breast, weighing it softly in his hand, his thumb rolling fervently over one nipple while his lips and tongue descend to favor the other. Her head falls back and she keens, his attentions sending sparks pulsing through her.

They stumble backward to her queen-size bed, shedding their jeans and socks before she drops to the white cotton sheets and he crawls in after her, maneuvering himself in between her legs as she rests her head on a pillow. She trembles deliriously at the sight of him coming toward her in nothing but his black boxer briefs, his blue eyes hungrily locked on to her, the outlines of his muscles visible throughout his trim torso as he looms over her and cradles her head tenderly between his forearms.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers, and the way he looks at her – like she’s precious and irreplaceable – makes her heart rise to her throat. He seals his mouth over hers again with a sharp intake of breath, thumb stroking her cheek as his tongue dances with hers. Emma shudders when he begins to work his way down her body, taking time to suckle and tease her breasts again before continuing on his path toward her legs. She knows her panties are soaked, and a soft growl vibrates in his chest as he presses kisses to the olive green lace and breathes in the scent of her. In a few seconds he’s rid her of her underwear and spread her legs wider, dragging his fingertips maddeningly along the insides of her thighs. She wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to do what he’s about to do, but her body is singing for him, and she cries out as he dips his tongue gently into her folds and tastes her for the first time. He smiles wickedly as a quiet curse escapes her and ducks his dark head again, alternately working her with the flat of his tongue and flicking her with the tip of it. All coherent thought suddenly eludes her as Emma arches her back, cursing again, her pants and whimpers growing steadily louder, her whole body threatening to come undone under the crescendoing onslaught of sensations. When he slips one, then two fingers inside her, she finally shatters with a ragged cry, bucking against him, her vision going white, her hands fisted in the sheets as she falls.

She lies there awash in euphoria and catching her breath as he crawls back up to hover over her again, managing to look both enthralled and a little smug. She hums and purses her lips for a lazy kiss as he gently nuzzles her mouth, a remnant of her still on his lips. “That was…”

“A satisfactory first effort?” he asks against her cheek, trailing soft, slow kisses.

She chuckles. “Ask me when I can feel my limbs again.” She runs her fingers through his hair as his mouth continues its leisurely exploration of her face and ears. “Though I wouldn’t object to Round Two.”

Killian lifts his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She glances sideways. “Nightstand drawer.”

He flushes and nods, placing a kiss on the tip of her nose before he rolls away. She hears the drawer open and close and the rip of foil, and then he’s back, smoothing her hair back from her face as he nudges up against her entrance. “Are you sure, love?”

Emma looks up into his eyes, seeing excitement and affection and a tinge of worry in them. She touches his face and nods, almost begging. “Please.”

Killian goes slowly, and she bites her lip and hums at the sting of the stretch, grabbing his head between her hands and absently stroking his neck as he pushes into her. She rolls her hips up, letting him go deeper until he’s fully seated, and he groans, touching his forehead to hers, breathing her name in a worshipful tone. As the initial discomfort dissipates, she revels in the fullness of him and in the sense of being joined. Killian quivers as he gives her a minute, and then he starts to move, his small motions growing progressively bolder as Emma begins to move with him. They work in tandem, their hearts racing as they soon find a rhythm that has them calling to one another. Emma whines as her body thrums with increasing tension, desperate to find her release. He holds them back for a little while, trying to draw out his pleasure and hers, but when she can bear it no longer, she wraps her legs around his waist and whispers something filthy in his ear.

His pupils are blown. “Bloody hell, woman.” He kisses her roughly and slips his hand between them, his fingers finding their slick target and applying the perfect amount of pressure. More profanity spills from her mouth as she goes over the edge a second time, her body ripped with spasms. Killian grinds his teeth against a roar, his thrusts becoming erratic and he soon follows her.

He remains propped up on his forearms in the aftermath, trembling with fatigue but trying not to crush her. Emma smiles and wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down, the weight of him not unwelcome as they lie together in a heap. He’s still breathing heavily as he tucks his face into her neck. “Bloody hell,” he mutters again, his voice gravelly and muffled.

She chuffs with amusement, combing her fingers through his hair. “You alright there?”

“Mmm.” He kisses the side of her neck. “A far sight better than alright, I’d say.” He lifts his head up just enough to meet her gaze out of the corner of his eye. “You’re a bloody marvel, Swan.” He smiles as she blushes and heaves himself up off the bed.

Emma directs him to the bathroom next door so he can clean up, and he returns momentarily with a damp washcloth for her. He slips back into bed, tugging her duvet up over them. Killian lies on his side and pulls her to him, his left arm wrapped around her middle. His breath is warm against the back of her neck as he sighs. She snuggles tighter up against him, her left arm overlying his. Her hand rests on his stump, and she rubs her fingertips back and forth over the end of it thoughtfully, familiarizing herself with the landscape of his arm. She can feel his breathing hitch, and she pauses. “Sorry. Does this bother you?”

He seems at a loss for a second before he shakes his head. “No. It’s just… I’m not used to being touched there.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

He considers it and shakes his head again. “No. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

She frowns. “Of course I don’t mind.” She runs her fingers lightly over the lengthy scar that mars his flesh. “How old is this? I mean…” she clears her throat, “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. I’m just curious.”

“Four years.”

She’s eager to know more about what happened, but she decides not to question him further. It was obviously traumatic, and he’ll tell her if or when he wants to. “Does it ever hurt?”

“Hmm?”

“Phantom pain is pretty common,” she says gently. “Do you ever hurt?”

He hesitates a moment. “Yes,” he answers softly, “Not as much as I used to, but yes.”

Silence reigns between them for a few long minutes.

“Killian?”

“Yes, love?”

Her voice is small. “Will you tell me when you’re hurting?” He’s quiet for so long that she rotates to look at him over her shoulder. Her lips part at the wonderment and pain she finds in his expression. He swallows, his eyes searching her face for something, before he nods mutely. She delicately touches his cheek. “It’s just…” she says, rolling to face him, trying to find the right words, “I want to be here for you too.”

His eyes grow wet, and he draws her to him so her head is under his chin, her ear pressed to his chest so she can hear the quickening of his heartbeat. He shudders. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs.

Emma frowns at the unexpected amount of anguish in his tone. She strokes his bicep. “You really think that?”

He draws a stuttering breath, and his only reply is to hug her tighter. There’s fear in the way he clings to her, and her heart breaks. She squeezes him back with everything she has, letting out a grim sigh as she rests her forehead against his sternum. She thinks hard, reviewing their previous interactions going back to the day they met. “Is that why you didn’t tell me how you felt before?”

He nods eventually, and she closes her eyes as she starts to understand his pain. There’s a lot more to his story than she knows yet, but she’s been broken before, and she recognizes it when she sees it. Emma stares blankly at his chest as she searches for what she wants to say. Simple truths. “Look,” she says solemnly, “I’ve spent a lot of time feeling unwanted. I moved foster families a lot. No one ever decided to keep me, and no one ever came looking for me. And the only guy I ever loved left me behind when I wasn’t useful to him anymore.” She lifts her head and meets his troubled eyes with a look of entreaty. “I don’t know what I deserve, but here’s what I need: I need someone who wants me. For who I am. I need someone who wants me to stay.” She raises her eyebrows in a grim question. “Can you be what I need, Killian Jones? Do you want me to stay?”

His eyes are swimming in emotion as he nods.

Emma relaxes, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her eyes fall to his lips. “Okay then,” she says resolutely, tilting her chin up to meet him. Relief and joy fill her as he kisses her ardently, pouring his intense emotions into a hoarse groan and the earnest way he works his mouth hard against hers in an unspoken promise. They come up for air, and she smiles into his chest as he presses more kisses into her hair. “I guess you’ll do.”

Chapter Text

The next few days pass in a happy blur. Emma texts him when she finishes at the hospital each evening to let him know when she’ll be home, and he leaves from his place accordingly in order to meet her at her apartment when she arrives. A couple of the nights he picks food up on the way, the others they throw something simple together in her kitchen. They spend the last hours of the evening before he has to leave sitting together on the couch, him grading assignments or updating lecture slides, her working on her research project or reading assigned medical journal articles for her lunch conferences. And inevitably, at some point, their hands start to wander and their work materials get shoved aside in lieu of more enjoyable activities on the couch or in her bed.

It’s almost eleven on Thursday when he rolls over and studies the clock on her nightstand with regret. “I should be going, love.”

Emma makes a small unhappy sound. “Is it that late already?”

Killian rolls back toward her, running his hand down her bare arm and pressing his lips to her shoulder. “I’m afraid so.”

“Mmph.” Emma cranes her head to fix him with a pout. He leans down and attempts to kiss her frown away, lightly dragging his lips over hers in a silent request for her to open her mouth and let him plunder it again. She happily complies, and the satisfied little mewling noise that escapes her is almost enough to convince him to stay.

At last though, he pulls away and thumbs her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth, and she nods.

“Chin up, love,” he tells her gently, sitting up and locating his clothes on the floor, “Tomorrow’s Friday, which means I won’t have anywhere to be again until I have to go home Sunday night.” He begins to dress.

Emma’s face lights up as she pushes herself up to a sit and reaches for her white terry robe. She is still flushed from his most recent attentions from the apples of her cheeks down to the perfect breasts that he will never not stare at, and her hair is in pleasing disarray. “You would really stay all weekend?” she asks, slipping her arms into the sleeves.

“If I may have the honor.” He smiles indulgently at her over his shoulder as he sits at the edge of her bed and threads his legs into his jeans. “I can pack a bag.” His heart swells at the happiness on her face as she considers the prospect.

Emma rises and belts her robe, coming around the bed to steal a quick kiss. “Deal.” She goes to ready herself for bed, the sound of running water coming from the bathroom while he finishes dressing and heads out to collects his things from her living room. They meet back at the door to her apartment as he’s crouching to tie his shoes. No sooner has he jerked the last lace tight when she hauls him up by his shirt collar and gives him a blazing “forget-me-not” kiss that temporarily disorients him, giggling at the dazed way he blinks at her when she releases him.

Killian licks his lips, the taste of her toothpaste on his tongue, fighting the enormous urge to throw her over his shoulder, cart her back to bed, and call in sick tomorrow. “Goodnight, Swan.” He slings his messenger bag over his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She narrows her eyes playfully. “You’d better.”

* * *

The following evening she texts him around seven to apologize for running late and to confirm that she’ll meet him back at her place in about an hour. She asks him to pick up a pizza for dinner, and he’s happy to oblige.

Killian hums a tune under his breath as he packs a few changes of clothes and his toiletries into a small overnight bag and makes sure he has his usual work-from-home items in his messenger. The idea of two nights and days with Emma has had him in a good mood since he woke up. At one point this morning, Smee caught him staring dreamily off into the space. “Are you alright, Sir? You seem… different,” he’d said, apparently confounded by this odd, jovial version of Killian Jones. Killian’s small laugh followed by a smiling statement of reassurance only seemed to disturb his secretary further.

The 25-minute drive to her apartment is all too familiar now. Killian stops by his favorite pizza place on the way for a couple of large pies. He orders two different kinds to make sure they both get something they like, but it occurs to him as he waits for his order that bringing so much pizza also means having leftovers that could come in handy at some point if they get too distracted to leave her apartment. The tips of his ears go pink at as he muses what kind of distractions they might think up, and he forces himself to focus on the 24-hour news channel on the TV in the corner before it becomes too obvious to the staff and the other customers that he’s not thinking about pizza.

She greets him at her door with a tired smile, still in her scrubs. He holds the boxes up like an offering. “For my lady.”

Emma gasps as though her fondest wish has just been granted. “Oh, you’re my hero.” She reels him in for an appreciative kiss and breathes in the aromas of bread and sauce and cheese and meat when she takes the pizzas from his hand. “Smells great.”

He follows her into the kitchen, noting the way she’s carrying herself with a small frown. Her shoulders are slumped more than usual, and her head is at a slightly funny angle. “All you alright, Swan?”

“Hmm?” She deposits their dinner on the kitchen counter.

He drags his hand around her waist as he circles behind her. “Long day?”

“Very.” Emma’s face turns a hint rosy, and she looks impressed that’s he’s read her so well. “They wanted to squeeze in a handful of last-minute add-on cases before the weekend, so we were insanely busy all day. Scrub in, scrub out, scrub in, scrub out.” She rolls her eyes. “We worked through lunch, and even then we ended up staying late.” She pops open both pizza boxes and gives him a weary grin. “I just want to get a slice down now so that my stomach will stop trying to eat itself while I’m in the shower and then come back for more later.”

Killian gives her a peck on the cheek and brings her a plate. He eats pizza at the breakfast bar and watches, entertained, as she doesn’t bother sitting down to eat, instead scarfing down a large slice of supreme while standing at the counter.

She makes a sated noise in the back of her throat as she swallows the last bite and wipes her mouth with a paper napkin, a sheepish smile on her face. “Ugh, so good. Thank you.” She sighs. “Now at least I can clean up without having hunger pains. Be back in a bit.”

Emma retreats her bedroom to grab some clean clothes before disappearing into the bathroom. The fatigue in her walk and the slight sway of her ponytail hearken back to the morning he met her, when she’d walked through the hospital lobby with him sleep deprived and running on caffeine fumes. He finishes his pizza while reflecting on how much has changed between them since then, and he drops his napkin on his plate as it occurs to him that unlike that day, he can probably do what he really wants to do right now. He follows her.

Killian knocks on the bathroom door and cracks it open. The shower is already running, and her shower curtain, printed with an abstract green and white jungle foliage motif, shields her from view. Steam has started to curl in the air like a tropical haze.

“Emma?”

“Yeah?” She pulls back the curtain and peeks her head out at him curiously, wet hair slicked back on her head, make-up gone, water droplets covering every visible inch of her.

He’s not sure why he suddenly feels a bit shy. Scratching the back of his head with his stump, hand shoved into his pants pocket, he wanders in and doesn’t halt until they’re inches apart, separated only by the edge of the tub and the curtain. “Could I offer you some company?” he asks hopefully. “Someone to rub your back, perhaps?”

Her pupils dilate a little, a deep pink flush washing prettily up her neck to her cheeks and ears. Any nervousness he feels dissolves as she ducks her head shyly and gives him a coy smile. “Sounds nice.” She vanishes back behind the curtain.

Killian divests himself of his clothes as quickly as possible, tossing everything haphazardly over the closed toilet lid, and pulling back the curtain on the side away from the showerhead. Though he’s done his utmost this past week to memorize every aspect of Emma Swan’s body, the sight of her standing here in the shower, innumerous rivulets of water pouring over her, her skin reddened by the heat, is almost enough to stop his heart. His gaze rakes ravenously over her exposed curves before settling on her face and those sparkling green eyes, the latter holding his attention as he steps into the tub and pulls the curtain closed behind him. God, he’s so smitten.

He steps closer, absently pushing his hair back out of his face as it becomes saturated with the spray, and extends his arms, gesturing with a slow smile. “Come here.”

She’s in his embrace then, miles of wet skin on wet skin, hands gripping the sides of his neck as she kisses him hot and heavy and deep. She writhes restlessly against him as he cradles the back of her head with his fingertips and yields to her, never so happy to be captive to anyone in his life. She’s panting when she finally pulls back, still close enough to breathe his air. She gives a throaty chuckle, eyes closed, and leans her head forward to rest on his shoulder. “This was a truly inspired idea.”

His hand smoothes over the back of her head and slips beneath her dripping hair to settle at the base of her skull, thumb and fingers applying gentle pressure to the skin and muscles on either side of her spinal column and starting to move in small, firm circles. “I thought you might enjoy it.” He smiles as she all but purrs under his touch, content to just rest against him as he continues his ministrations. Gradually his hand works its way down, methodically seeking out the knotted muscles in her shoulders and back and coaxing them out one by one. Now and then she lets out a delicious low-throated moan of satisfaction that goes straight to his groin, but he presses on, determined not to try to address his body’s response to a having a naked, wet Emma in his arms until he’s tended to her completely. As he kneads the muscles of her low back, however, she decides to jump the gun, running her fingertips lightly up and down his back, his ass, and the tops of his thighs. He tries not to squirm. “You’re distracting me from my work, love,” he growls in her ear.

She chuckles. “That’s the idea.” She finally lifts her head away from him, mischief etched all over her pretty features. “You won’t mind if I pay you back for that amazing backrub, will you?”

He shivers at the thought. “I suppose I could allow it.”

“Good.” She continues to let her hands wander over him, moving up and forward under his arms to his chest, dancing across his collar bones and lightly scratching through the hair dusting his pecs as he hums in approval and leans down to capture her lips with his. She smiles against him as she swipes her tongue across his teeth, left hand cupping his jaw as he flexes it against her, right hand purposefully traveling south along the solid, flat wall of his abdomen to grip him firmly, her thumb swiping circles around his tip.

He groans into her mouth, eyes rolling back in his head beneath closed lids. “Emma.” He can barely hear her quiet laugh over the rush of the water as her hand starts to move in slow, firm, rotating strokes. As her speed increases, his heart rate follows accordingly, and he leans into her, his most primitive instincts driving him to thrust his hips into her grasp. She reaches her left arm back to retrieve her body wash from the wall caddy behind her, flicking the cap open one-handed and drizzling a white pearlescent ribbon down over his front. The smell of fresh citrus fills his nose, and the sudden decrease in friction as the soap drips between him and her hand amplifies the pleasure rolling over him until it’s cresting like a tidal wave. He buries his face in her hair, his features in a tight mask of wonderful agony as his bellow echoes around them and he allows himself to spill over.

Emma presses damp kisses to the side of his face as she releases him, humming with satisfaction, his breath still heaving in his chest. “This is going to be a good weekend,” she says.

Laughter wells up inside of him at the understatement.

* * *

She likes sleeping with Killian Jones. Scratch that, she loves it. And by “sleeping,” she means actually sleeping, not the other stuff. Not that the other stuff isn’t completely mind-blowing. Emma fights back a girlish smile as she savors this moment, lying chest-to-chest with him, her face buried in his skin, their arms thrown over one another, legs a tangled mess. She does her best to be still so as not to disturb their perfect serenity. There’s something incredibly calming about being with him like this, she thinks, a fathomless freedom in being able to watch him, to listen to his breathing, to touch and be touched, and to drift back to sleep whenever she wants, secure in the knowledge that he’s here. For all the crappy experiences she’s had in her life, she supposes that they were all worth it if they led her here to him.

She wonders what time it is. They’d gone to bed, or rather, fallen into bed, quite early yesterday evening, eager to finish what they’d started in the shower. Three times. She closes her eyes as the memories stir that familiar pulling sensation in her belly, and moisture starts to pool between her thighs as she thinks about how she’d ridden him hard and fast the second time and how he’d bitten out her name in desperation while driving into her from behind the third. God. Considering that neither of them had had sex for quite a while before last weekend, they seem to be making up for time lost quite efficiently, she muses, the back of her neck growing warm. She remembers it being a little before midnight when they finally collapsed and snuggled up with one another. Now the light of early dawn is just starting to cast its colors across her bedroom ceiling. That makes it… sometime after six? No, seven, with daylight saving having just started. She bites her lip as she suddenly realizes that the pizza is still out on the counter and the lights in the kitchen have probably been on all night. Oh well.

He stirs unbidden against her, his foot gliding against her calf, his left arm sliding further over her waist and drawing her even tighter against him. His chest rises and falls with a deep sigh. Lower down, she can feel other parts of him rouse to life, and she shifts her head ever so slightly as she rolls her eyes with amusement, starting to trace lazy shapes on his breastbone with a fingertip.

“Good morning, love,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“’Morning,” she whispers back. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “No. I’ve actually been awake for a few minutes.”

She reaches down and grazes her fingers over his erection, grinning at his hiss. “I can see that. And here I thought you’d gotten your fill last night,” she teases.

Killian rumbles his dissent, cracking one eye open, and abruptly rolls them so he’s halfway on top of her, his hand starting to wander as he peppers her with kisses. “Not possible, Swan,” he says, smiling as she giggles.

“Hmm,” she says, swallowing a moan as the attention his palm is paying to her breasts sends tingles radiating through her. “Well, in that case…” She throws a leg up over his hip.

Now both his eyes are open, and he looks down at her with a cocked eyebrow. “Really?”

They don’t make it out to the kitchen to turn the light off until nine.

* * *

Late March brings another record-setting blizzard for the D.C. area, and they miss a few days of seeing one another because of awful road conditions. Both of them end up holed up in their respective apartments for three days when her elective outpatient surgeries are all canceled and so are classes at the naval academy. They spend those days talking on the phone or texting while catching up on things like work or laundry, but Emma is struck by how used she’s gotten to having Killian in her apartment over the last several weeks and how lonely it now feels being stuck by herself with little to do to fill the hours but work or putter around. She starts leaving the TV on in the background, both to have some background noise as company and to keep close tabs on the latest local weather coverage, anxiously awaiting news on when the roads will be clear and things will be back to normal. Thankfully, on her third evening alone, the forecast turns promising.

Shortly before bed, her phone rings. Emma snatches it up, feeling slightly disappointed when she sees that it’s not Killian. “Hey Ruby.”

“Hi,” her friend says cheerfully, “Are you surviving Snowmaggedon?”

Emma snorts. “Wasn’t Snowmaggedon two years ago? I think they’re calling this one Snowpocalypse or something like that.”

“I tried calling it the Blizzard of Oz, but Dorothy didn’t appreciate having to deal with another reference to that movie.” Ruby laughs. “Anyway, I’ve got serious cabin fever being stuck in this house. What do you say to a night out at the Rabbit Hole on Saturday? Sounds like roads should be back to normal by then.”

Emma smiles to herself. While Dorothy is more of a homebody, Ruby has always had a wild streak that needs to run free now and then, and Emma can imagine what several days being involuntarily trapped in the house she lives in with her grandmother is doing to her friend. “Sure. I think I can manage that. Who else is coming?”

“I’ll call Elsa if you want to call Mary Margaret and David,” Ruby says. “That way we’ll have seven.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Seven?”

“With Killian, of course,” Ruby says breezily. “Come on, Emma, it’s been three weeks since you guys got together. We want to meet him! He has to come.” Emma can practically hear Ruby giving her puppy-dog eyes. “Please? I promise we’ll behave.”

Emma sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll ask him.”

“Make him say yes. I’m sure you can be very persuasive,” Ruby says, drawing out the last word in a way that is delightfully naughty.

“Bye, Ruby.” Emma chuckles as she hangs up. She glances at the clock to make sure it isn’t too late and dials Killian.

“Hello, love.” He’s happy to hear from her, as always.

“Hi. Going to bed soon?” she asks. She switches off the TV and goes to straighten up the kitchen.

“Aye. I was just about to call to say goodnight.”

“Great minds,” she says with a grin. “Hey, one of my friends called. They want to get together this weekend, and they want you to come so they can meet you.” She bites her lip. “Is that okay?”

“Are your friends ax murderers or obnoxious TV pundits?”

She laughs. “Not the last time I checked.”

“Yes, of course I’ll come, Swan.” He chuckles. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”

“’Lovely’ may not be the right word. ‘Survivable,’ maybe,” she says, rolling her eyes. She finishes wiping down the kitchen counter and tosses the dishrag in the sink. “My friends can get kind of… excited.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage, Swan.” She can hear the smile on his lips. “When is this gathering?”

“Saturday night at this bar we like called The Rabbit Hole. It’s near the hospital.”

“Very well. Are you off to bed now?” he asks.

Emma switches off the lights in the kitchen and living room and heads for the bedroom. “Yeah. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I certainly hope so,” he says. “I believe the roads are supposed to be better.”

“Good. I miss you.” She pouts as she pulls off her sweatpants, having long ago developed a preference for sleeping without pants.

“And I you. Patience, love. Go have sweet dreams.”

She smiles softly. “You too.”

“Always, when they’re of you.”

* * *

Saturday evening the roads are in decent shape, but the air is still bone-chillingly cold. Killian and Emma take his SUV down to the The Rabbit Hole to meet her friends around eight. She plants a quick, deep kiss on him before they leave the car. “Ready?”

He nods with a smile, admiring how adorable she looks in her long puffer jacket, white beanie pulled down over her free-flowing hair, eyes bright beneath her long dark lashes.

They’re walking toward the front door, gloved hands laced together, when a sudden bolt of pain shoots up his left arm, as though he had his left hand back and it were gripping the business end of a fire brand. He winces, his step faltering a second as it catches him off guard. Emma notices his misstep and the way his hand clenches hers like a vise grip momentarily. She glances at him. “What was that? Are you okay?”

He’s tempted to wave it off, to tell her it’s nothing. He doesn’t want to have to explain to her friends that he’s going to be poor company because his brain has chosen an inopportune time to trick his body into thinking something grisly is happening to a limb that isn’t there anymore. But when she rounds on him and forces him to look into her eyes, he knows he has to tell her. He promised to tell her. And the idea of how sad she’ll be if he breaks that promise makes up his mind for him. He takes a deep breath and smiles weakly. “My arm.”

It’s all he needs to say. Emma’s eyes widen and dart down to his stump, filling with concern. “You’re having pain?”

Another pang shoots through him, and he controls his flinch better this time, but the muscles around his eyes contract enough that she sees it. He nods, trying to take a deep breath. “The cold…”

She hurries him inside, not stopping until they’re safely ensconced inside the second set of wide varnished double doors, and she forces him to sit in the corner on a wood bench in the hostess area, setting herself down on his left. The pub is busy this Saturday night, even with the recent snowstorm, but that works to their advantage as the hostesses are too busy dealing with other customers to notice them, and, seated, they’re pretty effectively buried in the mostly-standing crowd.

Emma’s hand rests gingerly at his left elbow. “Can I do anything?” she asks in his ear over the loud ambient noise.

Killian hisses as another bolt tears through him. He digs into his pocket for his wallet and hands it to her. “I’ve got meds.”

Emma shucks her gloves and thumbs through the black leather billfold quickly until she spies the single-use foil packets of acetaminophen and ibuprofen he’s talking about, each containing two flat tablets by the feel of it. “You want both?” When he nods, she tears them open, double-checking the dosages, and deposits all four pills in his hand. “Do you need some water?”

He grimaces again and shakes his head. “I’ve kind of learned to do without.” He takes a breath, pops the first two into his mouth, and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the medicine goes down. He repeats this with the second set of pills and forces himself to take a few more deep breaths, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. Frustration and self-loathing at the circumstances roil through him, and he grinds his teeth. He had thought he was doing better, but this sharp reminder that he’s still plagued by revenants of his past makes him want to scream.

Emma frowns as she surveys him. There’s a little anxiety in her eyes, but otherwise she’s in doctor mode now, calm and controlled. “Do you want to go home?” she asks quietly.

He looks at her, and he can tell by her expression that she doesn’t care a whit about staying here, she only cares about him, and the anger seizing his chest lessens as he cups her face in his hand. “I think I’ll be alright, love,” he manages, wincing as another round hits him. “Just give me a minute, yeah?”

She nods solemnly, letting him take the lead. “Okay. But promise me – no heroics tonight.”

He chuckles bitterly, recalling the time she berated him on the terrace of the Kennedy Center for heroics, albeit in a very different situation. “I promise.”

Emma appears satisfied, sliding back in her bench seat. She glances down at his arm several times before she tentatively reaches her hand forward. “Will it make it worse if I touch it?” She bites her lip.

His heart rises in this throat at the thought of what she wants to do. His brave, wonderful Swan. He’s the luckiest bastard in history. He nods his consent and she covers the end of his stump with her hand as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to her, her touch warm to his cold skin. Her fingers remain together as she brushes them over his flesh, gently at first, melting the chill as she works in gradually larger and larger circles. When he doesn’t give any outward signs of pain, she starts to apply pressure gradually, first massaging the entire head of his stump, then seeking out the muscles specifically. He feels a jolt shoot up his arm as she does this, but it’s significantly less intense than the previous ones, and he lets a slow breath out and nods at her to keep going. After two minutes without any more pain, he finally relaxes, resting his head against the back of the bench.

Emma stops rubbing his arm, though her hand remains over his scar. “Better?”

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye before sitting forward and reaching for her, his eyes threatening to tear. “Much.” He pulls her in for a long, quiet kiss and breathes out with a shudder as he releases her lips. “Thank you.”

The relieved smile she gives him makes his heart happy. “You sure you feel up to being harassed by my friends for a few hours?” she asks.

Killian smiles softly. “I think so.”

They find the gang back at their favorite table. Killian recognizes all the players from Emma’s photographs, and he’s welcomed warmly, momentarily taken aback as Mary Margaret actually gets up and puts her arms around him in a quick hug, her pretty face a ray of sunshine. Her husband, David, gives him an overly firm handshake and a polite smile but is either much more sedate than his wife or reserving judgment. Dorothy is good-natured and laid back, but the way her partner, the sassy nurse, Ruby, ogles him and winks at Emma while shaking his hand makes the tips of his ears turn red.

As expected, he gets a little ribbing very early on about how long it took him to pursue Emma, with David raising his eyebrow ever so minutely at him while the women tease.

“What can I say? I was a little intimidated,” Killian tells them, forcing a humble grin and a casual shrug that belies his actual struggle. “Or have none of you noticed how bloody fantastic this woman is? I wasn’t sure I’d be able to survive the rejection.” He presses a kiss to Emma’s brow as she blushes. Her friends share big doe eyes and wistful smiles, and his explanation seems to appease David, who tips his head a fraction in acceptance and grins more openly at him after that.

Emma’s friends ask him a number of other questions about his background, but they’re very nice about not asking too much about his service record, and they avoid direct discussion of his injury. When their food and drinks arrive, the topic of conversation finally shifts away from him, and Emma sneaks him a grateful smile as she lifts his left arm into her lap and gives his stump an affectionate squeeze beneath the table. It becomes a recurring thing for them throughout the evening; sometimes he sets his arm across her leg, other times she pulls it over to her. They spend half the night that way, with her fingertips drifting fondly over his scars and him listening to her friends banter while he reflects on how foolish he’d be to ever let this woman get away again.

He studies David and Mary Margaret while he and David debate the merits of American football versus soccer. Emma has been telling him that they’re like something out of a storybook, a true love for the ages, and he can see what she means in the way the two of them sit next to one another, trading sweet subconscious touches and secret shared smiles and the occasional innocent kiss. The large green peridot in the setting of Mary Margaret’s wedding ring winks at him, and he catches himself wondering what kind of jewelry Emma likes. He makes a note to start paying closer attention.

They call it a night around ten-thirty, when their bellies are full of good greasy food and the buzz from the alcohol has worn off. Killian and David agree to get together sometime for a D.C. United match so Killian can explain the finer points of soccer, and Emma hugs her friends goodnight, blushing as they whisper encouragements of various sorts in her ear.

He and Emma leave the pub hand-in-hand, and when he gets her home, he whirls around on her, pressing her back to the door as soon as it shuts behind them and kissing her soundly.

Emma laughs as he continues to press his face to hers, even while he strips off his winter coat and begins to help with hers. The temperature rises between them as they flounder to get their gloves and hats and shoes off, hands and lips everywhere. “Guess you really didn’t mind going out tonight, huh?” she mutters. She squeals into his mouth as he wraps his arms around her hips, hoists her half a foot off the floor, and walks them both off to her bedroom.

Chapter Text

Killian settles into his chair in Dr. Hopper’s office. It’s a rainy Tuesday afternoon in April, and he’s returned for his quarterly appointment.

Hopper sips his coffee as he shuts the door and sits. He studies Killian while taking another long drink before he sets the mug down on the table. “Okay. Spill,” he says with an eager smile. “What’s up? You look great.”

Killian narrows his eyes, preparing a friendly retort, when Hopper asks, “That surgeon you told me about… uh, Emma.” The psychiatrist waves his hand up and down in Killian’s general direction. “Is this Emma?”

Killian watches Hopper sit back and silently crow as the warmth that rises in his cheeks gives him away. He scratches behind his ear, his eyes falling to the carpet, a small smile creeping across his lips. “I suppose it is.”

Dr. Hopper grins from ear to ear. “So you two are together now?”

Killian looks up. Together. With Emma. It’s like music to his ears, and he blushes even deeper as he nods. “Aye.”

“That’s fantastic,” Hopper enthuses. “How long?”

“About six weeks,” he replies.

“Six weeks,” Hopper repeats. “Well, that’s great, Killian. Is it going well? You look really happy.”

He nods again, almost shy. “I am.”

Hopper leans forward, forearms on his knees. “And what happened to all those issues you were worried about before?”

He thinks back, trying to remember their last conversation. “We haven’t discussed everything yet,” he admits at length, “But we’ve talked about a lot of it. She’s been amazing.” He shakes his head with disbelief and chuffs. “I was right about not deserving her,” he adds, though there’s almost no bitterness in his voice this time.

“Well, it sounds like the two of you can agree to disagree on that point,” Hopper suggests cheerfully. He settles back in his seat. “Are you still having nightmares?”

Killian’s eyes drop to the floor as he tries to recall his last one. The crease in his brow disappears, and his expression softens. “None since Emma.” Six weeks without a nightmare. Six weeks without… Guilt washes over him as he realizes he hasn’t had a single thought about Milah since he started seeing Emma. He swallows, grimacing as he’s wracked with conflicting emotions.

Hopper notes his expression shrewdly. “That’s okay, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s okay to move on.”

Killian hangs his head and runs a hand through his hair restlessly. “I know,” he says, sounding unconvinced.

“Moving on is not the same as forgetting,” Hopper reminds him. “For better or worse, you’re never going to forget. But it sounds like, for the first time since I’ve known you, you’re not letting those memories interfere with the way you want to live your life.”

Killian raises his head and stares blankly in the direction of the window, fingers falling across his mouth in contemplation.

“Look at it this way,” Hopper adds. “Would any of those people you lost want you to keep living in the shadow of what happened to them?”

Killian’s eyebrows form a peak, and he looks pained as he rolls both lips inward for a second. He shakes his head. Images of his mother and Liam and Milah, alive and in happier times, flash through his mind. “No.”

Hopper bobs his head, examining his hands thoughtfully. “Then living the way they’d want you to could be seen as a way of honoring them,” he offers.

The thought drifts down over Killian like a blanket, and while he’s not completely sure he agrees, he decides to try to hang on to it. Eventually, he clears his throat and nods. “So, what? You think I’m cured then?” he asks dryly.

Hopper laughs, not unkindly. “You know better than that. It’s not like your brain just flips a switch and one day you’re magically restored. There’s no ‘cure.’ But there’s worse, and there’s better.” He leans back in his seat, eyeing Killian with a knowing smile. “And I’d say that you’re definitely getting better.” He lifts his mug to his mouth. “And if you doubt me, you know what you can do now?”

“Take a flying leap?”

Hopper grins indulgently. “Talk it over with Emma.”

* * *

Emma finishes throwing the last few stitches to close the incision in front of her, her arms arcing gracefully around and back and forth in a well-practiced dance as she manipulates the thick black suture thread into a series of solid knots and snips the loose ends with her scissors. “There we go.”

She steps away to let Booth pull back the sterile drape and manage the wound dressing and clean-up. Her muscles protest having been locked in the same position for the majority of the last two hours when she angles her head upward and rolls her shoulders. Emma pulls off her plastic face shield and tears away her weighty disposable surgical gown and gloves, balling them up and tossing them in the trash. One hand removes the head rig with the fan that keeps her from melting under all the stuffy layers of sterile surgical gear, while the other hand disconnects the fan’s cord from the corresponding battery pack clipped to her waist. She hands the equipment off to a tech with a grateful smile and shivers in the cool air of the OR now that she’s damp from sweat and no longer wrapped in her surgical gown. She frowns as she realizes that she’s actually aching all over and feeling colder than usual, but she heads toward the small computer workstation on the other side of the room to collect her phones and finish entering electronic orders for the patient’s post-op care.

A wave of dizziness hits her mid-stride, and she freezes in her tracks, doing her best not to black out.

“Emma?” Dorothy, who’s in on this case, hangs up the phone from calling report on the patient to the recovery unit. “Are you okay?” she asks.

Emma takes a deep breath as the black spots fade from her field of vision. “Um, yeah. Just a little woozy.” She clears her throat and gives her friend what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “Probably just dehydrated and sleep-deprived.”

Dorothy’s eyebrows pinch a tiny bit together with concern. “Are you sure? You’re white as a sheet. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

Emma sighs and collects her phones. “I better not be,” she says flatly, shaking her head. She checks for unanswered messages and slips the phones into her back pocket. “I’ve still got one more call day tomorrow.” Another chill runs through her, accompanied by a sense of foreboding. April’s been rather brutal on the inpatient orthopedics trauma service, much busier than usual, and the last thing she wants is to have to suffer through her last overnight call shift of the month feeling under the weather. Working 30 hours is unpleasant. Working 30 hours sick is a form of limited torture.

Dorothy is still looking at her skeptically, but her eyes flick to the wall clock. “Well, it’s almost five. Are you going home soon?”

Emma nods, eyes on the workstation computer screen as she logs herself in. “Hopefully. I still have to get back to the ward and make sure everyone else is doing okay before sign-out.” She manages to give Dorothy only a pale facsimile of a cheeky smile. “I’ll be okay, Kansas.”

Dorothy snorts. “Just because you’re not feeling well does not mean I’ll let you get away with calling me that.”

Emma chuckles.

An hour later, back on the ward, and much to her utter misery, she admits to herself that Dorothy is right. She is coming down with something. She forced herself to drink an entire 20-ounce soda after coming out of the OR in the hopes that her symptoms were due to dehydration and maybe low blood sugar, but she has only succeeded in feeling steadily worse. The chills and body aches are growing more intense, and now the inklings of nausea are starting to settle in. She closes her eyes for a second and tries to focus on deep breaths, willing all the nasty feelings to go away.

“Emma.”

She looks up to see Ruby coming toward her rolling a portable vitals monitor, a no-nonsense expression on her face. “Ruby.”

Ruby grabs the temperature probe off the monitor. “Open up,” she orders, sliding a disposable cover over it and holding it up.

“Ruby…” Emma wishes she had the energy to sound more forceful.

“Dorothy called to say that you weren’t feeling well, and frankly, you look like crap,” Ruby says pleasantly but firmly. “Open up.”

Emma eyes the temperature probe and shakes her head. “I’ll be okay. I’m about to go home.”

Ruby rolls her blue eyes. “Emma, open up or I’ll pin you down and take your temperature the hard way, and I’m pretty sure people will talk about that. And maybe take pictures.”

Emma crooks an eyebrow at her even as she tries not to laugh at how ridiculous and frighteningly convincing her friend’s threats can be. She sighs and swivels around in her chair, tipping her chip up and opening her mouth obediently. “I’m not febrile,” she says in a muffled voice once the thermometer is between her lips.

They watch the monitor screen expectantly. It registers 38.5 degrees Celsius in bright red with an angry beep. Ruby looks at her dryly. “You were saying?”

Emma winces. “I can’t be sick,” she protests weakly as Ruby removes the thermometer and pops the cover off into the nearest trash can with a sharp snapping sound. “I’m on call tomorrow.”

“No, you’re not.” Ruby’s ponytail swishes in the air as she shakes her head. “You know the rules. No work until you’re fever-free for at least 24 hours.” She crosses her arms in challenge. “Now are you going to call in your back-up, or should I go tattle on you to the chief residents?”

* * *

Killian arrives at Emma’s apartment and enters with the spare key she gave him at the beginning of April so that he could let himself in even when she was napping in the afternoons after her overnight shifts. “Emma?” he calls, shutting the door behind him and taking his shoes off.

She doesn’t answer, and he looks up, frowning when he doesn’t see her in either the living room or the kitchen, which is usually where she is this time of day after work. He knows she’s home; the lights are on, and the Bug is outside. He walks in, dropping his messenger bag over the back of the couch, when the distinct sound of retching gets his attention. He glances up sharply in the direction of the noise, his eyes falling upon the closed bathroom door. His face is grim with worry as he knocks. “Love? Are you alright?”

He hears the toilet flush and then running water, followed by the sound of her spitting in the sink. The door swings wide, and his mouth falls open as Emma shuffles out in lounge clothes and a messy ponytail looking miserable, her eyes watery and complexion pale. “Oh Swan,” he says with sympathy, “Are you ill?”

“Looks that way,” she replies petulantly. “Feels that way too.” She gives him an apologetic smile. “I would kiss you hello, but I don’t want to give you whatever I’ve got, assuming you don’t have it already.”

He follows her into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

She sets the kettle on the stove and pulls out her supplies for tea. “Fever, chills, body aches, dizziness, headache, and now,” she gestures resentfully at the bathroom, “Nausea and vomiting.” She sniffles. “Started this afternoon.”

She’s so sad and cutely pathetic like a newborn kitten, and he opens his arms. “I’m sorry, love. Come here.”

She shakes her head emphatically. “I don’t want to get you sick, Killian.”

He ignores her protests and walks forward, enveloping her in a warm hug. “I promise I won’t blame you,” he chuckles, cradling her head against him with his hand, left arm stroking her back. He frowns at how hot she feels to the touch, but the corner of his mouth quirks up as she wraps her arms around his neck and relaxes with a sigh, nuzzling her head against his chest. “Now,” he tells her, “Would you prefer bed or the couch?”

“Couch,” she mutters into his shirt. “But I was going to make tea.” She makes a small noise of surprise when he reaches down, sweeps her legs up in his left arm, and carries her into the living room.

“I’m British, Swan. I think I can manage the tea,” he says, sounding amused.

She gives him that point with elevated eyebrows and a tilt of her head, and she allows him to settle her in the corner of the couch with her feet up. Killian moves his messenger bag to the floor and tucks her white throw blanket around her. “I don’t suppose you’re hungry?” he asks.

Emma shakes her head half-heartedly. “I’m kind of afraid to try anything right now,” she admits. “You go ahead and have dinner.”

He hands her the TV remote. “You’re not going to try to go to work tomorrow, are you?” he asks sternly. He’s relieved when she shakes her head again.

“No.” She pouts. “They pulled Ozzie to cover my last call shift.”

Killian’s eyes darken at the mention of Walsh’s name. Emma tells him that there haven’t been any issues since she put her colleague in his place at the benefit dinner, but that doesn’t mean Killian has any higher opinion of the man. “Serves him right,” he grumbles.

“I feel bad missing it,” she says.

Killian places a kiss on the top of her head as he moves off to the kitchen to get the steaming kettle. “You’re running a fever and throwing up, Emma. I think that justifies a day or two off work.”

“I know,” she says, her tone still frustrated, “But physicians hate to miss work because of illness. We’re kind of messed up that way, but that’s what happens when your job is to take care of people who are sicker than you. Most of the time we just work through it.” She peeks at him over the back of the couch. “Wash your hands.”

“Yes, Doctor.” He smiles as he follows her order and then goes about spooning her favorite tea leaves into a ball infuser and preparing her mug. “I wish I didn’t have to work tomorrow. I’d rather stay here to look after you.”

She hums, slouching and burrowing a little deeper into the corner of the couch. “I’d like that too,” she agrees, “But I’ll be okay.”

He leaves her tea to steep and returns to sit on the coffee table, taking her hand. “Well, I’ll come over as soon as my last class is out at two, alright? And if you need anything, you can text me, and I’ll pick it up on the way.”

She grins. “I like having you as my nurse.”

“And I like having you as my doctor,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows at her, his smile widening as she giggles. He presses another kiss to her clammy forehead. “Find something on TV for us to watch, love. I’m going to heat some leftovers. Your tea will be ready soon.”

The evening passes quietly, with Emma settling on the latest Marvel movie she finds on cable. When Killian finishes eating and comes to join her, she wiggles her way over to rest her head against his side. She passes out around nine-thirty just before the credits roll, her breathing becoming deep and even beneath the arm he has draped around her shoulders. He quietly shuts the TV off, scoops her off the couch, and totes her off to bed. He makes sure her phone and a glass of water are within reach on her nightstand before he drops a kiss on her head and returns to the living room. He stays there another hour in case she needs him before he packs up his laptop, checks on her one more time, and heads home, locking the door behind him.

He sighs as he makes the drive, his headlights blazing a trail ahead of him and the sickly orange street lights zooming by while he speeds along the interstate. He hates leaving her. He’s always hated it, but tonight, when she needs him there (or at least when he feels like she needs him there), the fact that he has to irks him ceaselessly. They’d decided that it's necessary for him to sleep at his own place Sunday through Thursday so that he can ready himself in the morning and make his usual 30-minute commute out to the naval academy without getting up at an ungodly hour, but now he’s starting to think they need a better solution, because he’s tired of having to leave her in order to go sleep in his bed alone. He frowns. They’ve only been together two months. He wonders if she’ll think it’s too soon to broach the idea of sharing a place in a location that works for both of them. Killian chews on his lip. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for him to start looking at listings on his own at least. Just in case.

The next day is Friday. He makes a point of not texting her until mid-morning in case she sleeps late, though his fingers itch to every time he pulls out his phone. At last, at ten-thirty, he sends her a message.

‘Morning. How are you feeling?

She must be awake, because her reply comes swiftly.

A little better. Not awesome, but I’ve graduated up to crackers. Yay me.

He smiles, finding her humor a little reassuring.

Thanks for putting me to bed last night.

Of course. I’m sorry I had to leave.

It’s OK. I wish I didn’t live an hour away from your work.

He raises an eyebrow. Is it possible she’s on the same page with him after all?

Me too. Perhaps we can discuss it later. Would you like me to bring you anything this afternoon?

A 2-liter of Sprite. And a stomach that works.

He laughs.

Your nurse will try to deliver. Get some rest. See you soon.

* * *

Emma flicks through channels aimlessly as she lies sprawled on the couch with her laptop. She’s confirmed that daytime TV remains largely a disappointment. She ultimately leaves it on Food Network and turns the volume way down, trying to refocus on the graphics she’s making for a poster presentation on her basketball research. 20 minutes later, a call interrupts her stunning lack of productivity. It’s Mary Margaret.

“How are you feeling?” her friend asks. “Ruby texted that you were home sick today.”

“Not great,” Emma croaks, “But a little better than yesterday. Yesterday I was running a fever, and I took one look at the leftover onion rings in the fridge and ended up hugging the toilet bowl.”

Mary Margaret laughs, her voice sounding slightly strained. “That sounds pretty awful.”

“No kidding.” Emma sets her laptop aside. “I hate throwing up. I don’t know what’s worse – that horrible feeling you get right before you do it or that awful sour taste in your mouth afterward.”

“Emma? Can you excuse me for a second?”

Emma frowns at the distressed edge in her friend’s voice. “Are you okay?”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

Her eyebrows shoot skyward. “Mary Margaret?” There’s silence on the other end as the call is ended. Emma stares at her phone with a frown.

Five minutes later, Mary Margaret calls her back, sounding embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“What happened?” Emma asks. “Are you sick too?”

Mary Margaret hesitates too long. “Kind of?” she ekes out.

Emma blinks. “Wait. Are you…?” A huge smile blooms across her face at the sound of her friend sniffling happily on the other end of the line.

“Yeah.” Mary Margaret's voice cracks with a happy sob.

“You’re pregnant?!” Emma shrieks, exerting the effort to sit up a little.

Mary Margaret sniffles again. “Uh-huh.”

Emma can imagine her friend with joyful tears, and she’s overwhelmed with jubilation. “That’s amazing! When did you find out?”

“January,” Mary Margaret admits. “I’m eleven weeks. We were going to tell you all soon.”

Emma thinks furiously. “You didn’t have any drinks the last time we got together,” she realizes aloud, suddenly feeling like an idiot for not suspecting then. “You said it was because you were driving.”

Mary Margaret laughs. “Technically, that was true.”

Emma chuckles and adjusts a throw pillow behind her before flopping back down. “So when are you due?” She does the math in her head. “November?” she guesses, one eye narrowed.

“First week of November.”

Emma smiles. November. Right before the holidays. “That’s so great,” she says. “I can’t believe it. Is David happy?”

“Over the moon,” Mary Margaret says, sniffling again. She clears her throat. “Sorry. I cry at everything now.”

Emma feels wetness in the corner of her own eye as she imagines David and Mary Margaret becoming parents. She knows they’re going to be incredible at it; if anyone was made to nurture, it’s them. “It’s okay,” she says, swallowing the thickness in her throat. “I haven’t done OB since med school. When do you find out the gender? Are you going to find out?”

Mary Margaret hums her affirmation. “In about six weeks.”

“What are you hoping for?”

“Oh, I don’t care.”

Emma heaves an exhilarated sigh. “I feel like I’m going to be an aunt. Sort of.”

Mary Margaret clears her throat. “Actually, we were kind of hoping you’d be the godmother.” She sounds a little nervous. “I know it’s still really early,” she adds hurriedly, “But we were talking about it the other day, and we didn’t want anyone else but you.”

The sting of tears overtakes Emma’s eyes and nose. “Me? Are you sure?” she asks in a tiny voice. She bites her lip. Years in foster care have not left her feeling like she has any clue what true child-rearing is about, and she’s never really considered herself cut out for it. For Mary Margaret and David to have so much faith in her that they’d ask… Now she’s sniffling.

“Are you kidding? Of course you,” Mary Margaret says, half-scolding, as though it’s perfectly obvious. “You’re going to be a great godmother, Emma. You’ll see. Just think about it?”

Emma swipes a tear away from her eye with the heel of her hand. “Okay,” she promises with a small smile.

“So how’s Killian?”

* * *

It’s half-past three when Killian keys open the door to Emma’s apartment. He hastily replaces his key ring in his pocket and picks up the grocery sack at his feet. A garment bag is slung over his left arm, and his overnight bag and his messenger are both hanging off his shoulders. He maneuvers himself through the doorway carefully and deposits everything on the floor of her front hall. “Swan?”

Her hand waves at him over the back of the couch, and he can see the top of her blonde head. “Here,” she calls back.

He leaves his things at the door and comes over to kiss her forehead. “How are you feeling, love?” She’s showered and in different lounge clothes than she was yesterday. She still looks rumpled and tired, but he’s gratified to see her color is a little better.

She hums at the touch of his lips to her skin. “Okay. I haven’t run a fever since this morning,” she reports. “And everything’s stayed down so far today.”

He nods with satisfaction. “That’s good news.”

She studies him curiously. “You’re still in uniform,” she observes, cocking her head.

“Aye,” he says, acknowledging his dress shirt, pants, tie, and rank insignias with a shrug. “I left the Academy right after class.” His eyes crinkle as he notices the approving and slightly hungry way she's looking at him.

“No run? It’s Friday.”

He nods. “Ah, but I had a sick lass that I was rather motivated to get home to.” He places another kiss on her, this time on the tip of her nose as she blushes, and turns to retrieve the grocery sack, carrying it to the kitchen. “I’ve got that soda you wanted,” he says, pulling out the hefty plastic bottle, “And I picked up a few other things – soup, bread, some fruit, and, if you’re a very good girl,” he adds, raising his eyebrows and brandishing a cardboard carton coated with a sheen of frost, “I’ve got some raspberry sorbet.”

Emma glows at him from the couch, leaning her cheek against the cushion and watching him unload the bag, her expression gooey. “That’s really sweet. Thanks.”

He returns her smile and busies himself with putting things away. He’s spent much more time in her kitchen than he has in his own recently, and it’s second nature to him now to organize things the way she likes them.

“Mary Margaret called,” she tells him as he works. “She’s pregnant.”

He pauses and turns around to meet her shining eyes with a broad grin. “Really? That’s wonderful. She’ll make an excellent mum,” he remarks.

“Right?” Emma sighs happily. “She’s due in November.”

He finishes stowing the food and flattens the paper grocery sack. “She and David must be very excited.”

“Yeah.” Emma is quiet for a second. Her eyes fall to her lap, and she fidgets. “They, um, they want me to be godmother.”

Killian’s smile grows further, even as he registers her slightly unsure expression. “Well, why wouldn’t they?” he asks, coming to join her on the couch, pulling her feet into his lap. “Who would be better than you?”

Her eyebrows arc incredulously. “Um, someone who actually had a family growing up?” she suggests dryly.

His expression softens as he runs his hand up and down her shins affectionately. “You, Swan,” he says thoughtfully, “Are smart, loving, and fiercely protective of those in your charge.” He sets his hand on her knee. “And David and Mary Margaret are practically your family. You sound like excellent godmother material to me.”

She bites her lip, her expression sentimental. “Think so?”

“I do. You’re going to be brilliant.” He leans sideways to nudge the apple of her cheek with a kiss before climbing to his feet. “I’m going to get changed.” He grabs his bags and moves off into the bedroom.

When he returns to her, now in his white undershirt and a pair of jeans, she scoots over so he can wedge himself into the corner of the couch and she can lie on his chest. She’s switched from the cooking shows that were on before to Jeopardy!. He smiles as she murmurs answers ahead of the contestants. Between the two of them, they get most of the questions correct.

When the show goes to commercial, she looks up at him quizzically. “You remember when you talked about skipping your run?” she asks slowly.

He tilts his head toward her. “Aye?”

“You said it was to get home to me.”

Killian nods. “I recall.”

She pulls herself up a little so she can look at him more directly. Her face is a mask of uncertainty, and she appears nervous about what she’s going to say next. “Home,” she repeats.

He opens his mouth, the significance of it finally dawning on him. “Ah.”

“Just out of curiosity, did you mean that as a figure of speech or…” She trails off.

He clears his throat. “Do you have a preference?”

She smiles weakly. “I… I don’t… know.”

He takes her hand in his and interweaves their fingers. “Look, Swan. I don’t know about you, but I’m happier when I’m with you than when I’m not.” His gaze rakes up from their hands back to her face, his expression questioning.

Emma nods readily. “And I’m happier when you’re here.”

He smiles, relaxing. “Well then, I suppose I said it because ‘home,’” he looks her straight in the eye, “is starting to feel like wherever you are.”

He knows this declaration is a big one, but he’s still a little overwhelmed when she wells up with silent tears. She nods solemnly and lays back down without a word, just a few sniffles, and he can feel the moisture from a few of her tears seep through the thin cotton of his shirt. He gives her shoulder a squeeze, running his hand up and down her arm to comfort her. “Are you alright, love?”

She nods against him again.

The game show comes back on, and they watch the Double Jeopardy! round in silence. She lets out a ragged breath now and then, but she’s not crying any longer, seeming content to just lay there with him and absorb the moment, her head and hand lying still on his chest. He can tell when she mutters the answer to the Final Jeopardy! question, however, that she’s managed to collect herself. She swipes a hand across her eyes and touches the wet spot she left on his shirt. “Sorry.”

He chuckles, dragging his fingers through the end of her ponytail. “It’s fine, Swan. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t.” She looks up at him earnestly. “I just… It’s been a long time since I felt like I really had a home anywhere – a home home, I mean.” She huffs cynically. “And the last time I did was with the guy I dated in med school, and I turned out to be dead wrong.” She touches his face, her eyes searching it. “I just don’t want to lose this feeling again.”

Killian nods slowly with understanding, savoring the feather-light glide of her touch along his cheek, his heart swelling and breaking at the same time at how lost she seems. “I don’t know anything about that other bloke, love,” he says, “but he sounds like a piss poor excuse for a man if he let you go and broke your heart.” He turns his head to press a kiss to her fingertips. “I don’t intend to let you down.”

She smiles softly and closes her hand as if to keep his kiss in her palm, returning it to his chest. “I know.”

They watch the Final Jeopardy! round, and he chews on his lip, debating whether this is the right time, but he decides to go with his gut. He clears his throat. “There was something I was going to ask you.”

“Hmm?”

He steels his nerves. “It’s alright if you think it’s too soon…”

She turns her head toward him again, her eyes growing big.

Killian chuckles. “Calm down, Swan, I’m not proposing.” He smiles as her tension lessens a fraction and she fails to disguise the slightly sheepish look on her face. “I was just thinking about the fact that I spend more of my free time here with you than I do in my own place, and I’m a bit tired of having to leave you at night,” he explains.

She swallows and nods, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He traces circles on her shoulder absently as he selects his words. “There’s no hurry, but I was wondering if you’d object to us trying to find a new place… together.” He holds his breath and gives a preliminary wince. “Too much?”

The way her eyes light up and her cheeks flush with happiness makes her reply unnecessary, but he relishes it nonetheless when she licks her lips and murmurs, “I think that’s a great idea.”

Joy and excitement wash over him and he starts to bend his head down toward her before he catches himself. “I don’t suppose you’d lift the moratorium on kissing now?” he says, giving her his most appealing smile and slowly dipping his nose to barely brush hers.

Emma blushes fetchingly, but she remains firm and makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat at his attempt to break her resolve. “I’m not getting you sick, Killian,” she says stubbornly, giggling as she turns her head away from where he’s waiting playfully with his lips parted inches from her own. Her eyes dance as she sits up and pushes herself off the couch. Despite her refusal of his advances, Killian's face remains plastered with a dopey smile over the fact that she's just agreed to move in with him. He sucks in a breath though when she innocently moves behind the couch and suddenly bends over to place her lips at the shell of his ear. Her warm breath tickles, and shivers ripple through him when she says in a seductive tone, “But I bet you and I can probably come up with one hell of a rain check.”

Chapter Text

The first half of May is hectic for Killian as he deals with end-of-term exams, projects, and final grades again, but come the second half, they begin to peruse rental listings in their spare time. Their timing is good as it coincides with the close of the academic year, when many students and faculty are moving out of the area and on to new endeavors, and there are plenty of options to choose from.

They focus their search on neighborhoods near the Beltway that are closer to Annapolis than Emma’s current apartment, but still not too far from the hospital at Bethesda. They settle on the area around Adelphi, just off the University of Maryland campus.

“New listings today,” Emma announces as he arrives at her place one Tuesday evening. He’s spent the afternoon in productive meetings at the underwater engineering firm he consults for in the summer months when he has fewer responsibilities at the Academy, but his stomach has been growling for the last hour, and he’s glad to be done for the day.

“Anything good?” he asks, carefully leaving his wet umbrella to drip dry on the doormat and running a hand through his damp hair as he comes inside.

“Maybe.” She greets him with a smile as he comes over to where she’s perched at the breakfast bar with her laptop and gives her a quick kiss. She nods toward the oven. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Oh?” He rubs her back and takes note of the savory smell wafting through the air. “Chicken?” he guesses hopefully, one eyebrow crooked.

“Mm-hmm.”

His grins. “You’re brilliant. I’m famished.” He hunches to look over her shoulder at her computer screen. “So what do we have?”

She brings up an open browser window. “There were four new ones today, but I like this one the best.” She shows him a listing for a two-bedroom condo in a large, newer-looking complex with manicured landscaping, clean cream paint with crisp green trim, and lots of windows. Emma slowly clicks through pictures of a 1000 square-foot space with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, an open-concept main living area with high ceilings, and a generous balcony. “It’s even gated and comes with attached parking,” she points out enthusiastically.

Killian enjoys the way her face is lit up and nods his approval. “It looks very nice, love. Shall we see it?”

She points to one corner of the screen. “It’s open for showing Saturday morning. Do you want to try to see it and then get some lunch before we head downtown for the Memorial Day stuff?” she asks. It’s become tradition for her, David, and Mary Margaret to attend the National Memorial Day Concert every year, and naturally, Killian is now included.

“That sounds like a fine plan,” he agrees amiably. He plants a kiss on her cheek before going to get cleaned up for dinner.

It’s remarkable, he thinks, as he hangs up his business clothes in the corner of her closet that’s become his and grabs a pair of jeans from his pile on her shelf, how starkly different his life is from what it was just three months ago, back when he came home to an empty apartment, ate too many frozen dinners and take-away meals, spent his evenings quietly alone, and carried on from day to day robotically, never expecting anything to change despite yearning for it constantly. Now he’s in the process of integrating his life with that of the most marvelous woman he’s ever met. He’s coming home to her apartment to find her looking for a new place they can share while she cooks him her mouth-watering roast chicken with vegetables because she knows he loves it. Honestly, there are days he thinks he must be dreaming; if he is, he has no interest in waking. He doesn’t attempt to suppress the smile that splits his face as he returns to the kitchen to see Emma outfitted in a pair of yellow oven mitts and pulling the glass baking dish from her oven while humming to herself. No, this is one dream he’ll never stop fighting for.

* * *

The condo is fantastic. Emma is almost in awe and has to do her best to keep from grinning like a fool from the moment she and Killian enter the complex. She had suspected that nothing would be quite as nice as the listing photos suggested, but she’s pleasantly surprised to find that the setting is, in fact, pretty idyllic. She periodically notices Killian watching her with amusement etched on his handsome face as she leads him around by the hand, but she can tell that he likes this place as much as she does and is quite happy to be along for the ride.

She could live here, she thinks over and over as they look around. She could live here with Killian. She could come home to him here, cook with him in this kitchen, linger over meals with him in this dining area, lounge with him in front of that gas fireplace in the winter, make love to him and fall asleep with him and wake up with him in a bed – their bed – in that master bedroom. She’s never been romantic about anywhere she’s ever lived, having spent her childhood moving every few months and viewing a place to live as a necessity that was not always easy to come by – a place to sleep, a place to keep her historically few belongings, and a place to retreat from the world when she needed to. This, though, this is different. She sees this place as the setting for her future, a future with him, and it makes her so happy she wants to cry and laugh at the same time.

After a few minutes poking around in the bed- and bathrooms, they return to the main living space, and the renter’s agent directs them out to the balcony to check out the view.

She takes a deep breath and tries to keep her tone casual. “What do you think?” she asks as they stand at the railing, looking down over the condominium complex’s central courtyard and pool three stories below. The pool is a gorgeous shade of aqua blue and looks very inviting despite the fact that temperatures are still a little too cool for swimming and the lounge chairs are unoccupied at the moment.

Killian squeezes her hand. “I can tell you love it, Swan,” he says, rolling his eyes and giving her an indulgent smile. He draws her toward him, settling his left arm on her hip, his expression doting. “It’s lovely. If it’s what you want, I would be happy to call it home.”

Her grin feels almost impossibly wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

She flings her arms around his neck and kisses him gleefully, her momentum rocking him back on his heels a little. He laughs deep in his chest as his hand clasps her shoulder to steady them, and she’s taken by the light-hearted look on his face when they pull apart. She’s never seen him look so boyish or carefree before, and there’s something about it that suits him.

“Shall we go talk to the agent?” he asks, holding out his palm.

She slides her hand back into his, their fingers lacing together, and their arms swing playfully before she tugs him back toward the sliding door. “Yeah.”

* * *

The Washington Mall is predictably crowded for the holiday, but Killian and Emma nevertheless decide to spend the afternoon wandering from the Lincoln Memorial to Capitol Hill where they will meet Mary Margaret and David when the concert gates open at five. The sky is dotted with fluffy white clouds, and a cool breeze keeps them from feeling over-warm in the sunshine. The landscape is fun and festive, transformed with no end of miniature flags and buntings in the stars and stripes and children scampering about with balloons and pinwheels.

Like many others in the service, they’ve elected to forgo their uniforms and just enjoy the holiday informally, and Killian admires the way the white linen pants Emma has chosen hug her hips and give her walk an even more fluid grace. She’s paired it with a simple three-quarter sleeve top with horizontal navy stripes that hints at her maritime predisposition and a pair of comfortable wedges, and her hair is up in his favorite high ponytail; she’s the picture of casual elegance today. Killian notes with an inward smirk that other men are eyeing her with interest and him with jealousy as he and Emma stroll across the weathered marble of the Lincoln Memorial, fingers intertwined and bodies close together to avoid being jostled by the myriad of other visitors.

They’ve both been here before, of course, but seeing these iconic landmarks with one another for the first time makes them feel new again to some degree. She convinces him to take a handful of selfies of them on the steps of the Memorial to mark the occasion. One of the photos is of them smiling with their faces pressed together, the Reflecting Pool and the Washington Monument and the Capitol off in the background; she loves it so much, she makes it the new home screen wallpaper on her phone.

They meander along the south side of the Reflecting Pool as they work their way east, passing the Korean War Memorial to their right. Killian stares at the steel statues of servicemen frozen permanently on patrol, a host of larger-than-life ghosts of the fallen, and he feels his chest tighten. This city is filled with nameless faces like these and even more faceless names etched in steel and stone. But Liam isn’t here and neither is Milah, not just because they weren’t American citizens, but because they aren’t yet honored anywhere. He knows (or hopes) that one day that will change, but for now it feels like there is no one to remember them but him, and that doesn’t feel right or fair.

“Killian?”

He realizes that he’s significantly slowed his step, lost in his thoughts, and she’s drawn up beside him.

Emma squeezes his hand and follows his line of sight to the statues with a questioning look on her face. “Do you want to go over there?” she asks tentatively, trying to read his expression.

He shakes his head with the shadow of an unfelt smile. “No, love. Sorry. Just got distracted.”

He knows she’ll see right through that, so he’s not surprised when she gently asks, “Are you sure?”

Killian swallows and nods, setting them off down the path once more. She remains quiet at his side and allows him to retreat back into his head. As accustomed as he’s grown to inner turmoil, it’s lessened now by the fact that he trusts her, and he knows that however much he ultimately chooses to tell her, it’ll be okay – that they’ll be okay. They pass by the relatively small D.C. War Memorial, and he suddenly decides to lead her down a path tracking further south toward the Tidal Basin. If she wonders at their new heading, she doesn’t say anything, allowing him to guide her to the walkways that run the perimeter of the water.

They walk for a bit, partly shaded by the famed cherry trees here which bloomed a couple months ago and are now covered in thick, green leaves. When he finds a less busy section of the walkway, he stops and leads her to the white metal railing overlooking the picturesque reservoir, his gaze casting out across the water to the Jefferson Memorial on the other side. He wants someone else to know about Liam and about Milah, someone to help keep their memories. They deserve that much, and Emma deserves to know more about them. It’s time.

He licks his lips. “I haven’t told you about what happened when I lost my hand,” he says, releasing her hand and draping his forearms over the railing.

She only looks a little surprised that this is where his mind has gone. She leans on the railing with him, head turned to watch his face, squinting slightly in the sun as she patiently waits for him to continue.

Killian stares blankly ahead. “We were in Iraq doing reconstruction,” he starts. “My command vehicle was hit by an IED and then ambushed.” His eyelashes flutter as his gaze drops down to the water’s edge, his countenance twisting into a tortured grimace. “The thing is,” he continues slowly, “I didn’t just lose my hand. I lost someone.”

Emma’s eyebrows twitch upward as horror creeps over her face.

Killian swallows hard again. “Her name was Milah.” He glances at Emma with a sad smile. “She was a member of my unit, one of my support officers. We’d been together six months.” He chuffs sadly. “No one else knew about us, of course.”

Emma eliminates the space between them, pressing up into his side and leaning her head into his shoulder, her arm hugging his waist. “You really loved her,” she says softly.

“Aye,” he whispers.

A slow, sad sigh escapes her. “I’m so sorry.”

He turns his head and places a kiss on her crown, and he finds that doing it brings him enormous comfort. He gently guides her to stand in front of him, his arms encircling her waist, and he tucks his head over her left shoulder as they watch the steady line of visitors filtering to and from the Jefferson Memorial off in the distance. “For years I had nightmares about it,” he says in her ear, his voice on the verge of cracking. “I couldn’t save her. She died on impact.” He blinks away the tears that burn his eyes. “I had to leave her to get the others to safety. I never saw her again.”

“Oh, Killian…” Emma shudders. Her hand reaches up to caress the left side of his face, her thumb brushing along the stubble lining his jaw.

He leans into her touch. “The truth is, I… I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of Milah. To believe that I could find someone else…” He trails off and turns his head slightly so he can meet her mournful gaze. “That is, until I met you.”

She blinks, eyes growing wet, a tearful little smile finding its way on to her lips.

“When we were passing those statues, I started thinking about the fact that there isn’t a memorial with her name on it. Or Liam’s for that matter,” he says grimly. “Perhaps one day there will be, but for now, for today, it feels like there’s no one to remember them except me.”

Emma nods and is quiet for a long minute. Finally, she speaks up. “You could tell me about them,” she offers hesitantly, as though she’s unsure how he’ll feel about her suggestion. “Then both of us would remember.”

Her words make his heart soar, not only because she’s managed to reach the same solution to the problem that he has, but mainly because she’s so willing to help him honor the memory of these people she’s never met, one of whom was the last woman he loved. He squeezes her tightly and buries his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply before heaving a relieved sigh. “You’re bloody amazing, Swan,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “I’d like that.”

She turns herself around in his arms and cups his face in her hands, swiping her thumbs gently across the thin lines of moisture under his lower lashes. Her mouth is upturned in a loving smile before she kisses him softly. “I’m all ears.”

They wander all the way around the Tidal Basin, briefly stopping at the Jefferson Memorial, and he tells her first about Milah, and then about Liam. He focuses on the happier stories, like how he and Milah used to play soccer with Iraqi school children in their off-duty hours, or how Liam used to read him adventure books late into the night when they were young, long after their mother thought they’d fallen asleep. He sifts through memories he hasn’t allowed himself to go near in years, determined to preserve all that was good and right about Milah and Liam in Emma’s mind, and she listens attentively, soaking it all in, alternately laughing during his funny tales and squeezing his hand tighter during the bittersweet ones. She also seems intensely fascinated with the glimpses his stories give her of him during merrier times, back when he was brash and filled with youthful optimism.

“Trouble-maker,” she teases, pretending to sound scandalized when he tells her about the time he stole Liam’s clothes and forced his brother, the classic straight man, to streak across a crowded university locker room after rugby practice.

He chuckles. “I prefer ‘dashing rapscallion.’” The Tidal Basin is behind them now, and he looks down at their joined hands as they stroll northeast toward the Washington Monument. “Thank you,” he says, his voice turning serious.

She draws closer and runs her free hand up and down his arm. “Feel better?”

“I always feel better when I’m with you, Swan,” he admits. He turns to face her, his eyes soft. “Do you know that I stopped having nightmares when I started seeing you?”

She wrinkles her nose adorably. “Seriously?”

“Mmm.” He lifts their hands and presses his lips to her knuckles, admiring the gorgeous color that appears in her cheeks. “Honestly,” he admits quietly, “I’m happier now than I ever thought I’d be again.” He bites his lip nervously when she turns her head away from him and sniffles. “Too much?”

She laughs, and there are happy tears in her eyes when she looks back at him. “No.”

And when she yanks him toward her and kisses him with a joyful little hum, Killian knows that, for all his doubts, having faith in Emma Swan is the best decision he’s ever made.

* * *

They find Mary Margaret and David at the concert gates without too much difficulty. Mary Margaret looks unbearably cute in a pale blue denim maternity dress and a lightweight white cardigan, and Emma laughs as they pause to figure out how to hug one another with Mary Margaret’s burgeoning baby bump in between them. Like Killian, David is wearing a simple button-up with the sleeves rolled back and the collar undone, khakis, and loafers. He’s hauling the picnic dinner Mary Margaret packed for them all in a large soft-sided cooler as well as a knapsack of assorted supplies. Killian insists on hoisting the former over his shoulder, and the foursome hikes past the enormous concert stage on the west end of the Capitol lawn toward the phalanx of black folding chairs that have been set out in straight, wide rows. Even with their early arrival, the lawn is busy, and seats are filling up quickly. Killian and David forge ahead aggressively, determined to snag a spot with the best view of the concert stage they can get, while Emma and Mary Margaret remain content to stroll behind.

“How was the condo?” Mary Margaret asks.

“Pretty perfect,” Emma reports. She gives a nervous smile. “We kind of already jumped on it.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes are huge with excitement, her mouth forming a red “O.” “Really?” she squeals. “That’s great! When do you move in?”

“A few weeks. My lease is up at the end of June. Should be plenty of time to get packed, especially with Killian’s summer schedule.” Emma blushes a little as she notices her friend’s ecstatic expression.

Mary Margaret winds a hand around Emma’s elbow. “I’m so happy for you guys,” she says with a contented sigh. “You’re so good together.”

“I think so too.” Emma watches as Killian and David find a suitable row of seats, agreeing upon it with vigorous nods to one another, and turn to wave them over. She worries sometimes that things with Killian are happening kind of fast – after all, she was with Neal for two years before that fell apart, and she’s only been with Killian for three months – but the fact that her oldest friends, who also know her history, support this move forward with him eases her doubts.

She smiles as Killian unshoulders the cooler on one of their seats and he and David begin to unpack their dinner. It makes her feel all mushy inside to see the two most important men in her life getting along so well. Despite coming from very different backgrounds, they appear to have found enough common ground to grow on each other rather quickly. She knows David, who has always been endearingly protective of her, was wary of Killian early on and prepared to put him through the ringer, but his fears seem to have been laid to rest by Killian’s sincerity, and the two have developed a healthy amount of mutual respect (and not a small sense of friendly competition).

Mary Margaret follows her eye and chuckles as they observe their men laughing over some private joke. “David also approves, you know,” she says with amusement, echoing Emma’s thoughts. “We may have the beginnings of quite a bromance.”

Emma shrugs. “As long as they don’t leave us and run away together,” she replies, not bothering to hide her goofy smile.

The concert is star-studded and glamorous as always and includes moving tributes to U.S. servicemen and women. As has become their habit, Emma sits on Killian’s left with her arm curled around his for most of the night. When General Colin Powell gives an especially moving tribute to troops returning from Iraq and Afghanistan and acknowledges the sacrifice of those who have fallen there, Emma leans her head on his shoulder and squeezes his stump, and she smiles as she feels him dip his mouth and nose into her hair and breathe deeply for a few long seconds. She knows he’s thinking about Liam and Milah. Now she hopes he can at least take some comfort in knowing that she’s thinking about them too.

As part of the rousing show finale, they all stand, and Killian snakes his arm snugly around her waist and flashes her an affectionate grin as she, Mary Margaret, and David enthusiastically belt the National Anthem with the crowd. They cheer and applaud after the last refrain, and Killian laughs, surprised and dazzled, when Emma sticks her fingers in her mouth and lets loose a ear-piercing whistle.

After the concert, the two couples walk to the nearest Metro station and ride out to the stop near their parking garage.

“Let us know how we can help with the move,” David says as Killian hands the cooler back to him to load into his pickup.

Killian grins. “Thanks, mate. We’ll call you. I’ll owe you a good bottle of scotch.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” David nods jovially and slaps him on the shoulder while Mary Margaret and Emma share knowing smiles and Mary Margaret silently mouths the word “bromance” again and rolls her eyes. Emma snickers.

Killian and Emma stand back while David helps Mary Margaret step up into the passenger seat and then climbs in on his side. They wave as the pickup pulls away and then walk, arms wrapped around one another, to where Killian’s SUV is parked farther down ramp.

“Did you have a nice time, love?” Killian asks her as they approach his car.

Emma ducks her head demurely. “Um, yeah.” She looks up at him, her eyes sparkling. “This was a really good day.”

“I’m glad.” His shy smile melts her heart.

She rounds on him and seizes the front of his shirt, pulling him playfully to her and backing up until she’s pressed up against the rear passenger door. She laughs softly into his mouth as she kisses him. “Me too.”

The way he kisses her back lights her blood on fire, and a growl emanates from the depths of his chest as the gentleman gives way to the ravaging scoundrel within him. His hand slides firmly into place along the angle of her jaw, his tongue lashes against hers, and his hips pin hers to the car, and she wants nothing more than to let this rakish fiend have his way with her. She gives a little moan with his lip between hers. “Take me home, Killian.”

He pulls back and smiles wickedly. “As you wish.”

* * *

He drives them back to her apartment as fast as he reasonably can, darting heated glances at her from time to time. To the average observer she probably looks serene, her legs crossed, one hand tucked between her thighs, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, but he knows her well enough by now to know that she’s ready to pounce on him, her smoldering glances making his heart race, the way she licks and chews on her lip reminding him of all the other lovely things she can do with that mouth, and the way she shifts uncomfortably in her seat and sighs now and then telling him how desperate she is to relieve the ache between her thighs.

They’re largely silent the entire trip, somehow having gotten accustomed to the amount of tension and anticipation that can exist between them like this. They communicate in shared glances and smiles and fleeting touches, but they manage to keep things reigned in until they step inside her front door. Then the doorknob latches shut, and Emma turns the deadbolt, and it’s total bedlam as they come together like two magnets, caught up in a cyclone of fiery kisses and needy caresses and urgent whispers. The hallway becomes littered with their clothes as they work their way to their bedroom, their shoes, then her shirt and bra, then both of his shirts, and finally their pants hitting the wood floor in their wake. When he reaches his arms down low around her hips, she takes his cue and wraps her legs around his waist as gracefully as if she were climbing him like a tree. Emma squeezes her thighs and ankles together and presses him tight to her so his bulge digs deliciously into her center. She whimpers impatiently. “Killian…”

“Hang on, love,” he murmurs. He walks her into the bedroom and sets her on the her low dresser, freeing his hand to tug aside the damp crotch of her panties, his fingers stroking her silky wet folds with just enough pressure to make her keen with both relief and worsening desperation.

“Please,” she pants, shuddering into his neck.

Killian hums patiently and continues to stroke her until he elicits a series of increasingly tantalizing moans that spur him to kneel. He shoulders her knees apart while he helps her pull the panties away, and he plunges forward to devour her like a man starved. A litany of curses falls from her lips, her voice growing louder and more shrill, and her knuckles are white as she grips the edge of the dresser. One of her hands finds purchase in his hair and firmly urges him on, and when he hums again, this time with his mouth against her, her face contorts in delectable anguish, every nerve in her body firing and drawing her tight like a bow string, and it is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. He’s never been so grateful for alternative forms of birth control in his life as he stands, hurriedly frees himself from the confines of his boxer briefs, lines himself up, and slides home swiftly. Their voices ring out together when he groans at the sudden sensation of being buried in her slick heat and she cries out as the tight slide of him inside her slams her forcefully into oblivion. Emma sobs in ecstasy, every part of her holding on to him for dear life, and he is covered in a thin film of sweat as he rides her through her orgasm. There are some days when he focuses hard on maintaining a controlled rhythm, on drawing out his pleasure. Today is not one of those days. Feeling her fading aftershocks, he clutches her to him and races to his finish with abandon, yelling through clenched teeth as a blinding nova fills his vision and he’s overcome.

As he comes down from his high, he clings to her to help himself remain upright. Her hands drift leisurely up and down his back as an added reward for his exertions. He chuckles when he has the breath, capturing her lips again in a lazy kiss. “Bloody hell,” he whispers with a grin.

She giggles, nosing his cheek. “No kidding.”

He heaves her off the dresser, and they fall into the bed with delirious laughter, finding their way under the covers and continuing to share sleepy, sated kisses. Killian rolls up on his left side so he’s above her, his hand gently cupping the side of her face as his lips continue to play languidly with hers. “I love you, Swan,” he breathes against her.

He can feel her mouth widen into a smile, and the dimple in her cheek appears beneath his thumb. “I know,” she replies softly. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

“This is the last of it,” Killian calls into the condo, propping the door open with the toe of his shoe. David and Will pass through, both hauling large cardboard boxes marked “Kitchen” before Killian follows with a box of cleaning supplies, letting the door swing shut behind them.

He goes to drop the cleaning supplies off in the guest bathroom while David and Will trudge to the kitchen where the girls are working. David grunts as he hefts his heavy burden onto the kitchen counter. “There you go.”

“Oh thank you!” Mary Margaret replies, and Killian emerges from the hallway to see her share a warm smile with her husband over the top of a box of dishes. She pulls a piece of crumpled newspaper paper off of the last dish in the box, inserting the dish into the dishwasher rack along with the others from the same set. Brushing her hands off, she turns to pass David and Will glasses of frosty lemonade which she has waiting on the counter. She holds up a third in his direction as he walks across the living room to join them. “Killian?”

Killian accept it with a gracious nod. “Milady,” he says, using the nickname he knows gives her a thrill without fail. Sure enough, her jade green eyes are dancing as he raises the glass in thanks before taking a sip. The drink is blessedly cold and sweet and the perfect refreshment after their long day. He’s not surprised – Mary Margaret seems to have a knack for anticipating what his taste buds are craving.

Emma finishes wiping down the inside of one of the cherry-stained kitchen cabinets and shuts it, moving to the sink in the center island to rinse her rag and wring it out. She pauses to let Mary Margaret shut the dishwasher and drapes the rag over the appliance handle. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she meets Killian’s eye with a smile as they survey the room together.

It’s taken all of Saturday and Sunday and multiple trips back and forth, first from Killian’s old place and then from Emma’s, but with help from David, Mary Margaret, and Will, they’ve managed to move everything from both apartments into the new condo. Emma’s couch is now in the main living space flanked by his club chair and her coffee and end tables. Her books have found a new home with his on his tall standing bookshelf in the corner. His vintage ship’s bell clock sits on their new mantle, and his framed prints of 18th century oil paintings of British naval vessels now adorn the café au lait walls. They’ve temporarily set a card table and some folding chairs up in the dining area to use until he and Emma can find a proper furniture set, and his nicer bedroom furniture is in their new master bedroom, while hers is in the guestroom. Seeing their belongings integrated together like this and realizing that he never has to leave her late at night again has him glowing with satisfaction. This is his life now, though he’s still not sure how.

“It looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” Mary Margaret asks brightly, her voice breaking through their thoughts.

Emma nods first, her expression soft. “Yeah. You guys have done an amazing job. Thank you.”

“Aye,” Killian adds. “We owe you lot a great deal.”

Will shrugs. “No worries. Thanks for not having an over-sized couch or a giant TV.”

“Can you stay for dinner?” Emma asks him.

Will shakes his head. “Sorry. I’ve got to get back to the bar to help Belle. I promised to get her new sound system wired up tonight.”

“Ah. Well, another time then.” Killian retrieves a book off his shelf and hands it wordlessly to Emma, who slips it into a little paper gift bag that she’s pulled out from a lower kitchen cabinet. “There’s a book of hers I’ve been meaning to give back,” he explains as Emma holds the bag out to Will with an appreciative smile. “And a little something to say thank you.”

Will pulls the bottle of 18 year-old Johnnie Walker from the bag by the neck and admires it with a low whistle. “Nice. Thanks.” He tucks the bottle carefully back into the bag, shakes David’s hand, and gives Mary Margaret a polite nod. “Good to meet you two.”

They call their goodbyes to him as he sees himself out with a wave, Killian noting that Will’s limp on his prosthetic leg is barely noticeable these days. The young soldier has come a long way, he thinks. Now that he’s discharged from the Army, working as an electrician for a large residential contractor, and seeing Belle, Will’s demeanor is still mercurial and guarded at times, but he’s a far cry from the despondent, resentful man that Emma called about six months ago. Belle maintains a close eye on him and keeps Killian apprised; she says Will has good days and bad days, but he’s making progress, and it’s nothing she thinks they can’t handle together.

“Well, what should we order for dinner?” Emma asks. She looks at Mary Margaret with a knowing grin. “Does the baby have any requests?”

Mary Margaret’s eyes pinch a little, her eyebrows pointing upward as she runs a hand over her belly. “Mexican?” she asks hopefully.

Killian chuckles as Emma glances to him and David for objections before pulling out her phone and searching for a nearby Mexican restaurant that can satisfy Baby Nolan’s yearning for taquitos.

* * *

“Goodnight!” Emma waves at her friends’ backs as they head down the hallway toward the elevator, grinning at the way Mary Margaret’s pregnant waddle is becoming more and more pronounced. She closes the door quietly, eyes casting a sly sideways glance as she feels Killian’s hand slide across her low back. When she turns toward him, the look of weary contentment on his face makes her melt inside. She glances around the condo – their condo – again and then back to him. “We did it.”

That wide, slow smile she loves so much appears, and he steps closer, guiding her with his hand on her left hip until her back is to the door. “We did indeed,” he agrees, capturing her lips.

Their soft, elated kisses give way to hungry ones, and they both forget how tired the move has left them as she winds her hands around his neck and he presses his weight against her. She hums with pleasure when his kisses wander across her face and to her pulse point, that talented mouth of his lavishing the best kind of attention on her earlobe and the skin of her throat. Her breathing becomes ragged. She can feel him stiffen through his jeans, and he moans when she snakes one hand down to palm him with just the right amount of pressure to rev him up from second gear to third. Emma gives a muffled oomph as he sweeps her up into his arms and marches over to lay her out on the couch. She giggles and shifts her weight to get more comfortable as he pulls his belt free and pops the button on his jeans with a few flicks of his wrist, his gaze gliding appreciatively over her as if she’s done up in lingerie and not instead dressed in a worn ribbed tank top and capri pants with her hair in a messy bun on the top of her head.

Emma darts her eyes toward the large unadorned windows and the pink-tinged sky. “Do you think anyone can see us?”

Killian lifts an eyebrow dryly as he yanks his T-shirt over his head and slides his jeans off. The contours of the muscles in his chest and shoulders are highlighted by the afternoon shadows as he does this, and if it’s not be the sexiest thing she’s ever seen, it definitely makes the top three. “If someone figures out how to see up into our fourth-floor windows from the tennis courts, I’d say they they’ve earned themselves a bloody good show,” he replies, the low timbre of his voice sending shivers from the spot between her shoulders to the spot between her thighs. He crawls on to the couch, parting her legs, and supports his weight on his left forearm while he unfastens her pants, giving the fabric near her knee a little tug. “You’re overdressed,” he informs her.

Emma lifts her chin and meets his cheeky grin with a devious glint in her eye. She hooks the waistbands of both her panties and her capris beneath her thumbs, abruptly rocking her legs up and backward so they’re above her head when she slips it all off in one smooth movement. The maneuver offers him such an alluring view of certain parts of her that when her legs come back down and she can see his face again, his irises are reduced to thin blue rings surrounding his enormous black pupils. She squeals as he launches himself at her, and he silences her laughter by kissing her well and hard and rough while they rid themselves of the clothing that remains between them.

He pulls himself back to tease her nipples with his teeth and tongue, swirling and sucking while his hand dips between her legs, and she moans, her hands restless in his hair. His fingers brush through her wetness, unerringly honing in on the bundle of nerves that makes her suck in a sharp breath and start to writhe. She catches a glimpse of him grinning smugly while he continues to torture her on two fronts. Emma swears in between gasps as his fingers work her expertly, creating a steady stream of devastating bliss that increasingly threatens to undo her as the seconds tick by. Her hips start to buck under him as she chases her nirvana, and she whimpers and trembles when she’s close enough to toe the line, torn between stretching this moment out as long as her body can take it and barreling straight into her climax.

Killian slows the steady strum of his fingers momentarily, crawling back up her body to once again ply her with deep, searing kisses. He rumbles palpably, and his fingers again pick up the frenetic pace as he murmurs into her mouth. “Let go, love.” Then he presses down. Hard. And like that, she breaks, her stuttering cry rising to the twenty-foot ceiling. Killian slips two fingers into her and pistons them gently in time to the involuntary rocking of her hips, slowing with her as she gradually spirals down. She finally collapses to the cushions, still quivering. He withdraws his hand and wipes the traces of her on his leg before he reaches up to smooth wayward hairs back from her face, dropping kisses on her forehead and looking rather pleased with himself.

Emma chuckles as she savors the coarse drag of his scruff over her damp skin. “Is this your idea of a housewarming present?” she pants.

“Works for me,” he says with a cheerful shrug in his voice, his lips finding their way back to hers, “And for you too, I gather.”

She hums her agreement as she runs her foot up the back of his calf. “And how should I return the favor?”

He smiles against her cheek, eyes still closed. “Lady’s choice.”

* * *

As seems to be par for them, they settle into a new morning routine with relative ease. Emma and the coffeemaker both wake around five, and the brew is ready by the time she’s showered and dressed. Killian finds himself waking at five-thirty to the smell of fresh coffee in the air and the taste of it on Emma’s lips as she kisses him goodbye for the day. He grins at her sleepily that first Monday morning after the move, memorizing her knowing smile and giving her an unspoken request for another quick kiss which she happily accommodates. “See you tonight,” he says, gazing after her fondly as she slips out the door in her blue scrubs.

The new commute to the Academy is about ten minutes longer than it was before, but he revels in the change, knowing it’s a small price to pay for the joy of living with the woman he loves.

He loves her. It wasn’t hard to admit, honestly. The thought comes to him as naturally as breathing. She’s brilliant and caring and courageous and stunningly in tune with him, as though she was made for him. She makes him feel safe, like a welcoming harbor for a ship that had been tossed on angry seas so long it had lost hope of finding refuge. And just as importantly, she makes him feel worthwhile.

This morning when pulling clothes out of the closet (their closet) he took note of a little framed linen board she’s hung on the wall which holds her jewelry. She’s doesn’t have much, as it turns out, just a couple necklaces, the gold bangle bracelets she wore that night at the Kennedy Center, and half a dozen pairs of earrings. Almost everything she owns is minimalist and characterized by simple shapes, clean lines, and graceful curves. There are no rings, and he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised by this, seeing as how extraneous rings are probably impractical for a woman who spends most of the day wearing surgical gloves and scrubbing in and out of the OR. He purses his lips and squints in the face of the rising sun from behind his sunglasses as he drives. He wonders if this train of thought is a simple musing, an innocent set of observations, or if he actually wants to do something with the information. He knows he loves her, they’ve just moved in together, and he feels fairly certain that at no point in his life will he ever not want Emma to be at his side. But they’ve only been together four months. It’s too bloody soon to start thinking about what kind of ring she’d want to wear. Isn’t it?

* * *

Emma slips into an open spot toward the back of the small fifty-seat auditorium for Thursday’s weekly Grand Rounds lecture, setting her tote bag in the seat next to her and sliding her stainless steel travel mug into the cup holder. She looks up and smiles as Elsa approaches and sets her own bag down with Emma’s in the seat between them. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” Elsa replies, a little yawn disrupting her sweet smile. She wiggles out of her hooded sweatshirt and digs her cell phone out of her bag to silence the ringer. “How was the move?”

“It was fine.” Emma grins and pulls her own phone out to follow suit.

“I’m sorry I had to work,” Elsa says regretfully, “I’m dying to see your new place. How is it?” She winks. “How do you like living with Killian?”

Emma’s cheeks flush, her eyes demurely downward. “Um, it’s pretty great.” An alert comes in, and she taps open her email.

“Yeah?” Elsa beams. “You look so happy.”

Emma stares at her phone. The email is from the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons.

Dear Dr. Swan,
The AAOS Program Committee is pleased to inform you that your abstract has been accepted for presentation as a poster during the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons (AAOS) Annual Meeting in New York, NY, August 1-5.

“Emma?”

Emma blinks excitedly and holds it out for her friend to see. “This is what I think it is, right?”

Elsa frowns and reads the screen, her expression transforming into one of sheer delight. “Your research poster was accepted to AAOS?”

Emma nods anxiously. “I get to present at the conference in New York,” she says, her eyes wide.

Elsa jumps up and comes over to hug her in her seat. “That’s fantastic!” she exclaims. “I told you they were going to like it.”

“I really wish you could come this year,” Emma laments. “You could keep me from freaking out when people interrogate me about my project.”

Elsa chuckles as she goes back to her seat. “You won’t need me. I’m sure the Major will be happy to hover at your elbow and hobnob with all the big-name surgeons who come to the poster session. Besides,” she adds airily, “Someone has to hold down the fort while you fourth years are away.”

Emma acknowledges her point with a resigned smile. “I suppose.”

“Can Killian go with you?” Elsa asks.

“To New York?” Emma allows herself a wistful sigh as she imagines sightseeing in New York with her hand in his. “I’d love that, but he’ll probably still be tied up with summer classes.” She shrugs. “I guess it’s just as well. He’d be stuck all by himself during the day while I’m at the conference.”

The lights dim as the faculty surgeon giving today’s talk harrumphs and adjusts his microphone, getting ready to start.

Elsa leans her head in Emma’s direction. “Well, you went to school there,” she says, her voice lowered. “You’ll probably want to spend your free time catching up with old friends or something anyway.”

Emma gives her a wan smile and doesn’t bother to correct her as the lecture begins.

* * *

The sound of a key in the lock causes Killian to raise his head as he sits on the couch checking emails on his laptop while watching today’s D.C. United match on the TV. He breaks out in a broad smile as Emma appears, dropping her keys in a little wooden catchall bowl they’ve set on a short console table by the door.

“Hey,” she calls.

“Hello, love.”

Emma leaves her shoes in the front closet and comes over to greet him with a quick smooch. She eyes the TV from behind the couch just as it goes to commercial. “Is this that big match you’ve been excited about?”

“Aye.”

“Who are they playing?” she asks, reaching over to drop her tote bag on the floor next to the armrest.

“Vancouver,” he answers, muting the sound before turning back to her. “How was your day?”

Her face lights up beautifully as she ducks her head and smiles. “Pretty awesome, actually.” She holds her phone out to him. “’It’s a boy.’”

“Yeah?” He peers with great interest at the picture of a fetal ultrasound that Mary Margaret texted her just over an hour ago. Even on the grainy image, the profile of a baby is obvious, and he studies the globe-shaped head with the hint of a tiny nose and mouth and the oval body ending in folded up legs, trying to wrap his brain around the fact that this little creature is growing inside Mary Margaret’s rotund middle. He grins. “That’s brilliant.”

“Isn’t it?” Emma gazes at the image again raptly. “I wonder what they’ll name him.”

“David likes Bruce.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know he does, but Mary Margaret is not going to let him name their kid after Bruce Springsteen.” They share a chuckle, and she licks her lips. “Um, I got some other good news today,” she says, her shy expression doing little to disguise her excitement. “My poster was accepted for presentation at that medical conference I’m going to in August.”

Killian shifts sideways in his seat so he can see her better, his face splitting into an exuberant smile. “Well, of course it was; it’s a great project.” He winks. “That’s wonderful, love. Congratulations.”

She’s radiant as she blushes. “Thanks. It’s only a poster presentation, so it just means they’ll give me space to display it, and there will be a session where people can come around and ask me about my research,” she adds hurriedly, “But…” She bites her lip, “We’re talking about one of the biggest orthopedics conferences in the country.”

He nods indulgently, entertained by how she’s torn between modesty and triumph. “Aye, and I imagine they have to be very selective about who gets a spot.” He grasps her hand and lifts her knuckles to his mouth. “I’m proud of you, Swan. You deserve it.” He loves the way her green eyes gleam when she leans down and lays a grateful, lingering kiss on his lips. “We should celebrate,” he tells her when she straightens. “Dinner out tonight?”

Her dimples flash, but she throws a look at the TV. “What about the match?”

He hits the “record” button on the DVR. “Sorted.” He grins back at her, eyebrows raised in encouragement.

The slow, sexy smile she gives him is reward enough for not getting to watch his highly-anticipated football match in real time. “What did you have in mind?” she asks coyly.

“It’s for you, love,” he chuckles. “What are you in the mood for?”

When she gives him a suggestive look, raising an eyebrow and looking him up and down, he feels his face flush and his heart rate pick up. He has no words for how much he loves it when she’s playful or for when she makes it clear how much she wants him. “That seems more like dessert,” he chides, “What do you want for dinner?”

She giggles and glances out the window, eyes distant as she thinks. “Um… Tony’s?” she asks, referring to the cozy little Italian place they’ve heard about that’s a few miles away. “You want to try it tonight?”

“Done.” He reaches for his phone. “I’ll call ahead.”

Emma flashes him one more pleased smile before she turns and goes to change clothes, a little bounce in her step. Twenty minutes later, she emerges from the bedroom with her hair down and make-up refreshed. She’s wearing a flirty, belted, blush-colored shirt dress with the top buttons open to create a plunging neckline and a hem that hits mid-thigh and strappy leather sandals with three-inch heels that do amazing things for her legs, and Killian has to admit that he’s sorely tempted to let her have dessert before dinner.

* * *

Emma books her hotel room for the medical conference a few evenings later. The click of her laptop keys is the only sound in the room as she sits on the couch with her legs folded under her, Killian in his club chair absorbed in his latest book. She winces as she sees the total estimated prices for four nights at any of the hotels near the convention center on Manhattan’s west side. “Ugh. It’s a good thing the residency program is covering our registration fees for the conference,” she shudders, “Because between the train tickets and the hotel and food, this trip is going to sucker punch my monthly budget.”

He looks up. “Could you share the room with someone?” he suggests. “You said all of the residents in your year are required to go.”

“Uh… sure,” she says with a little laugh, “If you don’t mind me bunking with one of the guys.” She smiles, amused by the indignance that instantly appears on his face. He’s so cute when he’s jealous. “I’m the only female in my class.”

“Sod that then.”

“Yup.” She sighs. “It’s okay. I suppose I should get used to it. Professional expenses are one of the banes of a doctor’s existence. And I guess I can’t complain. Since the Navy paid for med school, it’s not like I have any debt, unlike a lot of people out there.” She clicks several times on her track pad and reaches down to retrieve her wallet from her bag, which is slumped at her feet. “Let’s just give them my credit card number and get this over with.” Her fingers begin to fly as she enters all the required personal information for the hotel reservation. “Oh, I meant to ask you,”she says as she works.

“Yes, love?”

“I ran into one of our neighbors when I went to get the mail,” she says, her eyes fixed on her screen, “Nice old lady. She said they do a big fireworks show on the Fourth of July in College Park on the UM campus. Do you want to go?” She glances up when he doesn’t immediately answer. “Killian?”

His face is what many would call unreadable, eyebrows neutral, eyes a tiny bit glassy, lips ever so slightly flattened, but she’s learned by now that this particular expression usually means something’s up. He’s debating what to say.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

The corner of his mouth curls upward as he meets her eye, becoming fully present once more. “Yes,” he answers ruefully, “Sorry.”

Emma blinks as it hits her. “Fireworks are bad, huh?”

He looks embarrassed and guilty as he manages a little nod. “I could do without them.”

She should have guessed, she thinks, mildly scolding herself. As deeply as Killian was affected by his combat experience in Iraq, she should have known he would not relish the idea of being surrounded by the sights and sounds of pyrotechnics. She frowns. Even if they don’t go, College Park is close enough that they’ll likely be able to hear the fireworks from their condo. Frankly, she realizes, Washington, D.C., on the Fourth sounds like the last place a combat veteran like Killian might care to be. “I’ve got a better idea then,” she announces.

He looks up at her with curiosity in his eyes, though his expression is still glum.

Emma finalizes her hotel reservation and clicks open a new browser window. “What about the beach?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’m back in clinic next month; I’ll have the whole holiday weekend free. Let’s get out of the city and find someplace where we can swim or maybe get out on the water.”

She knows she’s hit upon the right solution when his face lights up and all traces of melancholy vanish. “That sounds amazing, Swan,” he says, looking touched.

Emma grins back. “Good. Now get over here and help me figure out where we should go.”

He chuckles and obliges, leveraging himself out of his chair and leaving his book on the coffee table as he comes to sit next to her on the couch. “Have I mentioned that I love you?” he asks, angling his body to press himself right up against her, his nose close enough to tickle her ear.

She laughs and turns her head toward him, grinning as her eyes fall on his mouth. “Once or twice,” she says coquettishly, “But feel free to say it again.”

He gives a happy rumble as he leans in. “I love you,” he murmurs before catching her mouth with his, giving her one of those agonizingly slow, soft, toe-curling kisses that make her so happy she could cry.

“Mmm.” She hums against him when they eventually pause for air, nose still pressed to his cheek. “I noticed.”

* * *

When the holiday weekend rolls around, they pack up his car early on Saturday and make the 90-mile drive to Point Lookout State Park at the southern tip of Maryland on the Chesapeake Bay. They decide to hit the beach right away to try to beat any holiday crowds, and the air is deliciously warm without being oppressive when they arrive and stake out a spot in the fine sand.

Killian studies Emma appreciatively as she lays out a couple of beach towels beneath their rented umbrella, her hair piled loosely on top of her head, stray tendrils bobbing next to her face as she moves. The soft-looking bohemian gray wrap dress she’s wearing shows off her bare arms and legs and a giant swath of her upper chest and gives him tantalizing peeks at the bright white bikini beneath when she ducks down to crawl into the shady little nest they’ve created.

She toes her flip flops off in the sand next to her towel and reaches into her tote bag. “Sunscreen?”

He grins down at her from behind his sunglasses and nods, carefully pulling his T-shirt over his head and crouching down to join her. Intimately familiar as he is with every inch of her skin, his mouth still runs dry when she unties her wrap dress and he gets his first look at her in her itty bitty string bikini. For all his failings, surely he’s done something right in his life for her to be his, he thinks as his eyes roam over the swell of her breasts and the gracefully sculpted muscles of her torso and the way the bikini bottom covers only just enough of her to be decent. He reclines on his towel, propped up on his forearms, and enjoys the show as she works to cover herself with sunscreen, her skin taking on a glistening sheen as her hands smooth the lotion methodically over as much of her bare skin as she can reach. He smirks when he realizes her bikini has laces and eyelets that are reminiscent of a ship’s sail, and he reaches out with his fingers to flip the knotted end of one of the laces that secures her bottoms in place.

She smiles at him. “You like it?”

“I do,” he says, shifting closer to her, lowering his voice. “Very user-friendly.”

“Hey now,” she warns, her eyes smiling, “This is a family beach.”

“Pity, that.”

She laughs and thrusts the bottle of sunscreen at him. “Help me get my back.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, catching the bottle against his chest. “You’re not really discouraging this line of thinking, Swan,” he points out with a smirk.

Emma giggles and leans down to kiss him. “Do my back,” she says huskily in between kisses, “And maybe… I’ll do your front… when we get to the hotel.”

He struggles not to grow hard at the tone of her voice and the mental image of what she’s offering. A little groan escapes him as she sits back and fixes him with an appraising look. “I suppose that’s fair.” He sits up, inwardly groaning again as she rolls onto her belly and stretches out lazily on her towel like a housecat, her head resting on folded arms, her perfect ass now prominently displayed. He gives a relinquishing smile, pretty sure that she’s either trying to kill him or that she secretly hates the beach and wants him to haul her off to their hotel right now.

Her skin is molten under his touch when he drizzles a generous amount of sunscreen on her and begins to massage it in, his hand sweeping in wandering circles across her back, fingers slipping beneath the straps of her bikini top. She heaves a contented sigh followed by the odd hum or purr as he works his way up to her neck and shoulders and then down to the edge of her bikini bottoms. She giggles again when he does her upper thighs, fingertips brushing over the lower curve of her butt where he knows she’s ticklish. “No fair,” she gripes.

He chuckles. “Come now, Swan. I’m a fan of every part of part of you, especially this lovely arse. It won’t do to let it burn.”

Emma narrows her eyes at him mischievously. “Right,” she says dryly. She raises herself up and snatches the sunscreen bottle. “Your turn.”

He has to bite his lip when she seeks her revenge, her hands skimming too lightly over the more sensitive spots on his back, and though he succeeds in not squirming too much or laughing out loud, the strained grunts he makes under his breath as she tests his self-control seem to satisfy her. He closes his eyes as her touch becomes more sensuous, her palms sliding heavily up and down the planes of his muscles, passing over the handful of shrapnel scars scattered across his flanks and shoulder blades that she mapped and committed to memory long ago. She takes her time on his back before moving on to coat the tips of his ears and the back of his neck, pushing her fingers over the tops of his shoulders down to his collarbones, covering his arms, and then doing his legs. And then, when he’s so relaxed he’s almost dozed off, she viciously tickles the spot beneath his ribs she knows is his Achilles’ heel. She squeals when he hollers and sits bolt upright, nearly crushing the sunglasses he had set aside. “Swan!”

She darts away with a hysterical shriek, her hair shaking loose as she flees, and she kicks up sand as she sprints toward the bay. He pursues her into the water, adrenaline pumping as he chases her like they’re children in the school yard. Salt water spray flies in every direction as she evades him, floundering out to where the water is up to her chest, and he bellows victoriously when he finally catches her, hugging her fiercely to him and promptly dunking them both under the rippling waves.

Chapter Text

July flies by, and Emma spends the last two weeks of it trying to make sure she’s got every detail covered for her trip to New York. She invests in some new business casual pants, blouses, and blazers. She reviews every aspect of her research project again and memorizes details of any related studies that have been published to-date. She gets her poster printed in duplicate and delicately unrolls both copies out on the floor of their living room to inspect them carefully before rolling them back up and packing them into a long black plastic document storage tube that she plans to guard with her life. She double-checks her Amtrak tickets and her hotel reservation and forwards all of her travel information to Killian in case of emergency. And she packs most of her suitcase three days ahead of time.

The Saturday evening before the conference, Killian eyes her from the bed, the book in his lap temporarily forgotten, as she crouches on the floor and reviews the contents of her suitcase again in preparation for her departure tomorrow afternoon. “You’re going to be fine, Swan,” he says patiently. “There’s no need to be antsy.”

“I’m not antsy,” she replies reflexively, her tone disproportionately relaxed considering the tension he can see in between her shoulders.

“The poster session is only two hours, and you’re going to be brilliant,” he points out gently. “You said the rest of the time is just sitting through educational conferences and workshops.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Emma.”

She looks up at him, blinking owlishly. “Hmm?”

Killian closes his book and tilts his head, his dimples showing. “Come to bed, love.”

Her expression softens, and he can see her shoulder blades wing out and in as she sighs, looking sheepish. “Yeah. Okay.”

He sets his book on his nightstand and tugs the chain on the bedside lamp, plunging their room into near-darkness while she slides her lounge pants off and slips between the sheets. He scoots over to meet her halfway, adjusting the pillows and letting himself drift down the dark wood headboard until he’s propped up just enough that his chin rests on the top of her head when she cuddles up to him, rubbing her cheek against his bare chest. Killian kisses her hair. “Is there something else bothering you?” he asks quietly. “I know you want to do well at the conference, but you seem… on edge.”

Her hand finds its way up his torso, her fingertips delving into the medium dusting of hair that covers his heart. She exhales deeply and holds silent for a few long moments. “I just kind of wish it wasn’t in New York,” she finally admits.

This surprises him a little, and he looks down at her. “Oh?”

“I was there for eight years,” she says, shifting against him restlessly. “A lot happened.”

He frowns, brushing a strand of hair away from her temple. “Would this have anything to do with that wanker you dated in medical school?”

She chuffs with a hint of amusement at his words but remains quiet for a little bit longer. “The last couple years were rough,” she says in a small voice. She clears her throat, and he can practically feel her steeling herself the way she does when her head battles her heart for supremacy. “It’s silly. It was years ago.”

He tilts his head noncommittally, nuzzling her with his jaw. “Perhaps,” he agrees, “But wounds can linger.” The corner of his mouth quirks up solemnly. “No one knows that better than I do.”

Emma burrows deeper into his side. “I’ll be alright,” she says, her voice heavy with fatigue. Her fingers flex against his chest. “I’m going to miss you.”

He presses his lips to her head again. “And I you. It’s only a few days, love. It’ll go quickly. We'll talk and text as usual, yeah?”

She nods and lifts up a little so she can look at him. “Count on it.”

Killian’s eyelids fall closed as she kisses him – quiet, longing kisses filled with the desire for closeness and comfort. She scratches lightly at the hair on his chest, and he shivers. They take their time as they come together tonight, rolling so she’s on her back and he’s shielding her body from the rest of the world as he endeavors to show her how much he loves her with every caress and every brush of his mouth on her skin. Often in their relationship it feels like she’s the one taking care of him, but he’s a warrior at heart too, no matter how long he spent feeling like there was nothing much to fight for. Now that he has something – someone – to see to and defend, he intends to rise to the occasion. His job is to protect her heart, and tonight, it’s also to try to soothe her anguish and to reassure her of her own strength before she sets off to brave her demons.

Her vocalizations are much more muted but no less passionate than usual, her gasps sharp as he drags his teeth across the flesh near her collarbone, thumbs her nipple through her cami, and lines himself up so that his arousal is pressed firmly right where she needs him when he begins to rut his hips against her gently. She lets him tend to her, giving herself over and reveling in his attention and in the friction he creates for her. Her hands glide up and down his back, long, hushed sighs sneaking past her lips. She mewls as wetness builds between her legs, huffs in frustration when he pauses to strip off his pajama bottoms and her underwear, and moans happily when he comes back to her upright on his knees, hoisting her pelvis off the bed so he can enter her. He growls when she readily wraps her legs around his waist to pull him to her and grunts as she envelops him, all other thoughts nearly abolished by the sensation of being buried tight in her core. When his senses partially recover, he reaches around, unwinding her legs and folding them back so that her bent knees are pointed toward the ceiling. He wraps an arm around each knee for extra leverage as he begins to rock slowly, hearing her suck in a breath as she savors the delicious feel of him at this angle.

He’s deliberately unhurried in the way he paces them, letting the pressure mount steadily, taking his cues from the degree of urgency in her weak cries as he guides her higher and higher. Killian’s self-control gives out when she’s nearly there and trembling violently, her breathy entreaties breaking his will, and he plunges in harder and deeper and faster until she finally comes. He grits his teeth, the feel of her muscles contracting against him enough to bring on the last big rush that makes him see stars, and he follows her, throwing his head back, her name sacrosanct on his tongue.

Afterward, he cradles her in his arms as they settle back into the pillows, stroking her shoulder beneath his thumb, their legs a jumble beneath the sheets. Only after her breathing evens out and he can tell she’s asleep does he allow himself to be lulled to rest by the way her chest wall steadily rises and falls against him like waves lapping the shore.

* * *

Killian drives her to Union Station the next afternoon. He pulls the SUV up to the curb at the drop-off and grabs her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want me to park and come inside, love?”

She shakes her head, giving him a squeeze and a smile. “It’s okay. You know how crowded and crazy it’ll be in there. My train leaves in less than an hour. I’ll be fine.” She leans over and kisses him with conviction, feeling his fingers trace the line of her jaw. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against his for a moment, gazing into his eyes. “I love you.”

He smiles warmly, thumbing the cleft of her chin. “And I love you. Have a safe trip.” He places one last kiss on her forehead before she slips away, climbing out of the car and pulling her suitcase, purse, and poster tube out of the back seat.

“I’ll text you,” she tells him through the rear passenger door. “Bye.”

“Bye, love.”

She shuts the door and steps back from the curb, waving at him as he pulls away. Five days, she thinks. She’ll be home in five days. She’s ecstatic about the opportunity she’s been given to share her work on a national stage, but while the rest of her classmates are treating this trip to New York as something of a vacation – a chance to get away from work and from D.C., to see the sights, and to party with each other in the evenings – she just wants to do what she needs to do and come home. New York is a potential minefield of sour memories for her, and the only parts of it she intends to see are the train station, the convention center, her hotel, and maybe the side of a hot dog stand or a food truck. She knows no one who still lives in the City and is worth extending that perimeter for. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, pivoting and heading into the station with her bags in tow. In five days Killian will pick her back up from this spot and take her home. Until then, she’s got a job to do.

The trip is long, but thankfully free of complications. She texts Killian periodically to keep him up-to-speed on her progress. Penn Station is bustling as is to be expected on a Sunday afternoon, and the feel of New York, the atmosphere of the City, is something she recognizes within minutes of stepping off the train like the fit of an old pair of shoes. She sighs as she navigates the crowds and follows signage toward her exit. She’s definitely back.

It’s as she remembers, she thinks as she walks the handful of blocks to her hotel – New York manages to somehow be gray and colorful at the same time, cacophonous, congested, simultaneously gritty and refined, and so… human. Her hotel is small, sandwiched between two other narrow buildings, but it’s clean and serviceable, the furnishings generic and modern, everything done in neutral tones punched up with accents in muted primary colors. Her room is a hint claustrophobic, and the only thing she can see out the window is nearby dingy brick buildings with streaky water stains overlain by rows of rectangular windows overlain with zig-zagging fire escapes. She pulls the curtains. She leaves her luggage and makes a quick run to a chain restaurant a couple blocks south for a sandwich before she returns to her little haven to settle in for the evening.

Killian answers almost immediately when she Skypes him, his visage a welcome sight on her laptop screen. They’ve been together five months, but her stomach still flips at how happy he appears to see her, especially now when they’re separated by 200 miles. Never mind that she just saw him five hours ago.

“Hello, Beautiful.”

She smiles softly. “Hey.”

He’s seated on the couch with his computer on the coffee table. “Your trip went well?”

“Everything was fine. I’m settled at the hotel now,” she says, picking up her laptop and giving him a slow pan around the small room. “Ta-da. Welcome to New York.”

“It looks very nice, Swan.”

She snorts. “It’s not fancy, but it’s the closest thing to the convention center and under $200 a night. It’ll do.”

“What’s out the window?”

Emma shrugs. “Nothing worth seeing. This isn’t a flashy part of town.”

He nods. “Well, what are your plans for the evening?”

She sets him down on the small desk and reaches for her suitcase, hauling it up on to the bed and pulling back the zipper. “Um, I’ve got to unpack and eat, and I want to review the conference itinerary before tomorrow. Riveting stuff,” she deadpans. She glances up at him, eyebrows peaking near the center of her forehead. “Are you busy? Wanna keep me company?”

He chuckles. “Of course, love. Always.”

They stay online with one another for the rest of the night, sometimes in long periods of distracted silence while they each attend to their own tasks, but always one word away, and even his disembodied voice is comforting. She’s a little sad when it comes time for her to turn in.

“I should get some sleep,” she sighs, sitting down on the edge of the bed to look into the camera. “I’m supposed to meet Mills at 0730 to get registered and get my poster set up in one of the exhibition halls before the first talks start.”

“Alright. Sweet dreams, Swan. Try to have a good time tomorrow.” He gives her an encouraging smile.

Emma’s face is dopey as she admires the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the dimple in his cheek and the little scar that the graces the skin to the right of his nose that she knows came from a boyhood bicycle accident with Liam. She loves his face, not just for how ridiculously handsome he is, but for the way she can see his heart in it. “I will,” she promises. “But I apologize in advance for bombarding you with texts when things get boring.”

He laughs. “Noted.”

* * *

The entrance hall of Javits Convention Center is a boxy behemoth of glass and towering steel supports that lets sunlight in from every cardinal direction. The remainder of the sprawling industrial-style complex extends beyond; wide, expansive concourses running every which way to meeting spaces and auditoriums and exhibit halls; and it provides plenty of room for the thousands of surgeons, other medical personnel, and industry exhibitors who converge upon it. The conference is better than she expected, with (mostly) engaging speakers and enough new information to keep her interested, but it still has its moments of vapid dullness when all she can do is shift in her seat to try to regain feeling in her butt or excuse herself to the restroom in order to stretch her legs and shake clear of the mind-numbing mental haze she’s found herself in. She’s spent countless hours in lectures over the last ten years, but none of it changes that fact that she’s always been more of a doer, preferring to learn with her hands than with reams of unending PowerPoint slides.

This presenter has a voice like oatmeal, she texts Killian during a particularly painful session on Tuesday given by a younger faculty member from a research university who wears a mousey gray suit and drones on in a bland, sleep-inducing monotone. She bites her lip to keep from giggling when he replies.

Sweet? Lumpy? Warm?

She glances around to make sure she hasn’t drawn any attention to herself before schooling her features into the most business-like expression she can muster and texting back.

Yes, that’s it. His voice is lumpy.

What is Dr. Lumpy Voice talking about, pray tell?

Perioperative antibiotics and bacteria susceptibility profiles.

I don’t know exactly what that means, love, but it sounds thrilling.

At least he didn’t include any random slides of his family on vacation.

Points to Dr. Lumpy Voice, then.

They have a dozen conversations like this over the first three days, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from snickering like a fool when she thinks of something particularly funny that’s passed between them at random times, like when she’s in line at the coffee kiosk or walking from one presentation hall to the next. At one point she fails to suppress a laugh while washing her hands in the restroom, and she endures a curious and somewhat startled look from the middle-aged woman at the next sink over and gets stuck making an awkward apology.

Her poster presentation is scheduled for the end of the day on Wednesday, and he texts her half an hour before it starts.

Good luck, Emma. You can do this. Love you.

Her heart melts, and she texts him back.

I love you too. Call you later.

She’s not as nervous as she thought she’d be once the session starts, especially after she fields her first few questions from other physicians about her project and Major Mills, who hovers nearby as predicted, appears satisfied with how she handles them. She’s thankful for the Major’s presence when a couple of surgeons with thick Georgian drawls ask to take them out for drinks after the session and her mentor politely but definitively shuts them down before she has to think of how to do it herself.

“Thanks,” Emma breathes to her as the men move on down the aisle.

“We’re professionals, Emma,” the Major says, a saccharine, generic smile fixed on her features even as she watches the pair retreat like a hawk. “We’re here to network, not to fraternize.” The corner of her crimson lips twitches upward. “A fact our boyfriends would likely appreciate.”

Emma blinks. “You know I have a boyfriend?”

The Major snorts, her keen dark eyes still surveying the activity throughout their exhibit hall. “Everyone knows, Swan,” she says, though her tone is not as snarky as it could be. “We all hear the nurses gossip about you and your rear admiral.” She raises a cool, immaculately groomed eyebrow as she throws Emma a split-second glance over her shoulder. “Not to mention the eyes you keep making with your phone.”

Emma feels her cheeks grow warm. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

Major Mills cracks a genuine smile, her thick lashes fluttering as she looks downward. “Just keep it to a minimum,” she says, clearing her throat.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The rest of the session passes quickly, with Emma entertaining a steady stream of interested colleagues from all over the country who come to read her poster and engage her about her project. The feedback is quite positive, and she swells with gratification at having her work recognized and complimented. She makes some good contacts, a handful of business cards from potential research collaborators and private groups looking to recruit her once she’s completed her service finding their way into her pocket.

Five minutes before the session is set to conclude, the Major glances at her watch. “I’ll leave you to wrap up,” she says. “I have a conference call. Nice work.”

Emma nods gratefully. “Thank you, Ma’am. See you tomorrow.”

The exhibit hall is almost clear save for presenters like herself, though most of them are on their way out too. Emma steps back and looks at her poster one more time with a sigh of relief and satisfaction. The Major made sure to get some photos of the two of them in front of her board, the AAOS logo prominently displayed on their name badges, but Emma pulls out her phone to grab a few more shots for herself. Feeling a little giddy that her session is done, she impulsively grabs a selfie for Killian in front of her poster with a goofy smile and a thumbs up.

“That’s going to be a great photo.”

She almost jumps at the voice that comes around the corner at her four o’clock, fingers instinctively tightening around her phone to keep it from clattering to the floor while the rest of her freezes. No. She turns her head to see a familiar figure walking up, hands shoved into the pockets of his brown slacks, a matching brown suit coat hanging on his shoulders. Emma blinks dumbly at him, her eyes taking in his gelled hair, the symmetric arcing creases running from his eyes to his chin on both sides of his face as he smiles, and the hint of a moustache and goatee that he’s always favored. Her stomach clenches and her jaw is slack as her respirations become shallow.

He dips his head a little, big brown eyes shining. “Hi Ems.”

“Neal,” she whispers. She takes a step back and turns her head slightly with uncertainty, her alarmed eyes still fixed on him. “What are you doing here?” She glances down at the name badge that hangs around his neck.

He shrugs, and his casual bearing at this, their first meeting since med school graduation, starts to piss her off big time. “Presenting a poster, same as you.”

She narrows her eyes. “At an orthopedics conference?” Neal had gone into anesthesia. Of that she was absolutely certain.

He scratches the back of his neck with a finger. “I did a project on using epidurals and regional nerve blocks as an alternative to general anesthesia for certain orthopedic surgeries,” he says. He jerks his thumb toward the aisle to her right. “My poster’s down that way.” When she’s silent in response, he nods in her direction. “You look really great.”

There was a time when a little compliment like that from him would have given her butterflies, but now all she wants to do is run away. “Thanks,” she says flatly. She sets off in the other direction, intent on finding the quickest way out of the hall that doesn’t involve going through Neal Cassidy.

“Emma…” He hastens after her, and since she refuses to make a scene and actually run, he’s at her heels in moments. “Ems, come on. Hold up a second.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she says simply, struggling to keep her voice calm and low.

“Ems, I came to say I’m sorry.”

She keeps walking, though her pace slows a touch.

“Look,” he says, “Can we just go somewhere and talk for a little bit?”

She gives him a disbelieving side-eye. “You want to go somewhere,” she repeats.

“To talk,” he reiterates. “I didn’t know you were going to be here, but there’s a lot I’ve wanted to say since graduation.” He gets a couple steps ahead and spins to face her, putting his hands up as she draws to an abrupt halt. “Just let me say it, and I promise I’ll never bother you again if you don’t want me to.”

She studies him, her lips pressed into a thin line, her brow furrowed in consternation. She’s heard promises from him before, but she reads unusual earnestness on his face now. She sighs. Maybe whatever he has to say will help her find some closure too. “Thirty minutes,” she grinds out.

She acquiesces to follow him to a coffee shop a block east of the convention center that she’s passed each morning on her walk from the hotel, electing to remain largely silent until they get there. The interior is brick-walled but contemporary and filled with a variety of pleasant smells, her nose picking up notes of coffee, grilled chicken, and melted cheese. He gestures for her to pick a table, and she selects one near the door in case she wants to make a quick exit. She appreciates the fact that it’s just after five and there aren’t many people in the shop at this time of day. He takes a minute to grab them two coffees, and she bristles when he delivers hers with exactly the amount of cream and sugar he knows she likes.

He takes a sip from his cup. “How’s D.C.?”

She sighs. “It’s great,” she says, doing her best to be civil. She smiles without feeling it. “I’m great.”

He smiles at her in that bashful way that she used to adore. “I bet.” He hesitates. “You seeing anybody?”

“Neal…”

He holds a hand up, looking contrite. “It’s just a question, Ems.”

She considers him and finally sighs. “Yeah. We just moved in together.” She allows herself a tiny, real smile. “It’s been a good summer.”

“Yeah?” Neal asks, looking pleasantly surprised. “That’s great.”

She nods and sips her coffee, wondering if maybe they can handle this conversation like adults after all. “And you?”

He colors a little, eyes fixed on his drink. “I’m good.” He gives another signature Neal grin. “I’m getting married, actually.”

Her eyes widen, her breath catching. Married. “Wow,” she manages. “That’s amazing.” She doesn’t know why, but even though she’s wanted nothing to do with Neal for years, the idea of him getting married to someone else makes her… Sad? Jealous? She’s not sure what she expected. Perhaps she hoped that he’d be single and miserable without her for the rest of his life.

He ducks his head shyly. “Yeah.” His brow wrinkles, and he draws imaginary shapes on the wood tabletop with his finger. “Look, Ems, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the way things ended between us.”

She takes a sip. “You mean how you left?” she asks, trying not to sound bitter.

Neal grimaces. “I’m not proud of how I handled it,” he says grimly. “You deserved better.”

Emma blinks at his frank admission, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes. She forces herself to take a slow breath and tries to harden herself against her emotions, lest she dissolve into a blubbering mess in the middle of the coffee shop. Honestly, this is not at all how she ever thought a reunion with Neal might go. She’d always imagined that he’d be smarmy and remorseless, always fantasized that she’d be able to face him with righteous anger and leave him with an epic one-liner and maybe a black eye. But this? She doesn’t know what to do with this. She hides behind her coffee cup. “What happened?” she asks, lifting the ceramic to her lips.

His face looks pained. “My dad didn’t want me to be with you.”

Her eyes flash. “What?” She remembers Neal’s father, having met him a couple times when the emotionally-distant old man had occasion to come to New York on business. Their interactions had always been excessively polite and as brief as possible, and Emma had contented herself that at least they hadn’t been negative per se. It seemed pretty obvious to her, though, that Neal’s impulsive independence and rebelliousness was how he’d adapted to having a father who was more of a temperamental benefactor than a parent. As much as the man said he wanted Neal to be happy and successful, he seemed unwilling to expend anything other than money to see it happen, and his business always seemed to take priority over Neal.

Neal squirms. “You’re in the Navy, Ems. He didn’t want me tied down with your service obligations.”

She gapes at him. “You never said anything.”

“I…” He rubs the back of his neck, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I was supposed to break up with you second year, once he realized how close we were, but I just… I couldn’t do it. I tried to buy us time so that I could change his mind…”

“How?” she demands, keeping her voice a lot softer than she wants to.

His eyes pinch, clearly anticipating that she will not like what he’s about to say. “I told him I needed you to help me study so that I could earn honors in our second-year classes. Obviously that excuse only worked for so long, and when we started our clinical rotations, I figured the break-up would be easier since we weren’t seeing much of each other anyway.”

Emma’s jaw clenches. “What did he threaten you with?” she asks knowingly.

“Emma…”

“What was it, Neal? Did he threaten to cut you off if you stayed with me?”

The guilty expression on his face is all the answer she needs, and her heart drops like a stone.

“It’s a lot of money, Emma.”

She averts her eyes out the window. “You could have gotten a loan,” she says softly. “Just like almost everybody else. You’re a doctor, for God’s sake. You might have been in debt for a while, but you weren’t ever going to be poor.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says again quietly.

She doesn’t want to be here anymore. The more she looks at him, the more she sees his father – a man ultimately motivated by the bottom line. She’s still not completely sure what makes true love True Love, but she’s pretty sure it can’t be traded for money. She’s been coming to terms all these years with the idea that Neal never really loved her, that’d he’d only been using her to get ahead. Now she knows that he might have cared, just not enough. She’s not sure if this makes her feel better or worse. Emma forces a smile. “It’s okay,” she lies, reaching for her purse. “I understand. He found your price, Neal. It’s just business.”

“Emma…” He gulps as if she’s just hit him in the gut.

“Time’s up, and I gotta go.” She points at her watch and stands up. “I’m happy you found someone,” she says, trying to sound genuine and disguise the waver she can feel in her voice. “Really. I am. I hope you two are very happy. Good luck, Neal. Take care of yourself.”

She shoots out the door without a look back.

* * *

Killian leans over a set of blueprints from the engineering firm which he’s laid out on the coffee table, his eyes sailing back and forth shrewdly as he searches for errors and new issues with this latest draft. He’s been consulting this summer on underwater devices designed to use ocean waves to generate energy, and while this is the tenth draft of the prints they’ve been through, he knows they’re close to being ready to move forward with a prototype.

When his computer begins to chime with an incoming Skype request, however, he immediately leans over and clicks on the call. It’s over an hour since Emma’s poster session finished, and he’s eager to hear how it went.

When her image appears on his screen, he pauses, stunned. Her eyes are red-rimmed and a little puffy, and she looks utterly defeated. He frowns helplessly. “Love?”

“Hi.” She tries half-heartedly to put on a brave face for him.

“What happened?” he asks. “Did something go wrong at the poster session?”

She shakes her head. “No, no, the session went great,” she says with a tiny smile.

“Then why have you been crying, Swan?”

“I…” She clears her throat, gathering her composure. “I, uh, ran into Neal.”

He racks his brain to try to remember who that is; the name doesn’t ring a bell. “Neal?”

“My ex.”

His jaw drops as understanding registers on his face. Bloody hell. “He’s at the conference?”

She nods. “Apparently,” she says with resentment.

Killian watches as she dabs at her nose with a tissue. He's suddenly overcome with the desire to find this sod and punch him. “What happened?” he inquires.

She’s sitting on her hotel bed, and she grabs a pillow and hugs it to her. “He wanted to apologize for everything, so I agreed to get coffee with him after the poster session.” She shakes her head. “You know, for a second, he had me thinking we were going to have a decent talk,” she chortles. “Ugh. I was wrong.”

Killian listens intently as she tells him more about her conversation with Neal, how she had been wrong about his reason for leaving her, what his true motives had been, how she’d walked away when she’d heard enough. His face is a stern mask, his hand clenched into a fist pressed against his thigh, and he is split between heartbreak at the sight of her suffering and anger at this weasel of a man who’s somehow managed to hurt her again.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he says sadly. “What a bloody awful mess.”

She sniffles and gives him a watery smile. “It’s not how I expected today to go.”

He desperately wishes he could pull her into his arms. “What would you like to do now?” he asks.

She sighs wearily. “I’d love to keep you online, but I kind of want to call Mary Margaret,” she admits. “And order a pizza. I’ll probably go to sleep early after that. I’m so tired.”

He nods. “Of course. I’ll speak to you tomorrow then, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Emma pouts, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I miss you.”

“And I you,” he answers somberly. “I love you, Emma.”

More tears appear in her eyes as she smiles. “I love you.” She sniffles again. “I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

He runs his palm over his face after she hangs up, his hand lingering on his chin, a finger across his lips thoughtfully. In less than a minute, he makes up his mind and pulls his computer into his lap.

* * *

By the time she gets her pizza and finishes commiserating with Mary Margaret (who’s appropriately horrified by this latest chapter in the Neal Debacle and then soothingly sympathetic as always), it’s a little after nine. Emma sets the pizza box containing her leftovers on the corner of the desk and checks to make sure her laptop and cell phone are both charging before she drags herself off to the bathroom to prep for bed.

It feels good to wash the dried tears off her face with cold water, and she brushes her teeth quickly, trying to avoid looking in the mirror so she won’t see how red and puffy her eyes are. She hopes that a good night’s sleep will be enough to make the swelling fade by morning; she doesn’t want to have to explain herself to Major Mills or anyone else.

Stripping down to her usual sleep clothes, Emma falls into bed with a groan, summoning just enough energy to roll over and switch off the light before she allows herself to be swallowed up by the pillows and passes out.

Her cell phone rings a little before one in the morning, her ringtone splitting the silence and jarring her awake. She gives a low groan and fumbles for it, wincing at the dull pounding in her temples. She frowns, sleepy brain suddenly gripped with fear when she sees that it’s Killian calling. Is he in trouble?

“Killian?”

“Sorry to wake you, love,” he says apologetically. “But I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to let me in.”

Her head whips around and her mouth falls open at the sound of a gentle knock on her hotel room door. Emma gives a little cry of surprise and joy as she scrambles off the bed, undoes the metal security guard, and yanks the door back.

Killian stands on the other side, his messenger slung across his chest, a small rolling suitcase at his side. He looks a little travel-worn, but that fades into the background when he smiles brilliantly. “Did you miss me?”

Chapter Text

Emma’s delighted yelp is one of the best sounds ever to grace his ears. Killian laughs uncontrollably as she flings herself at him before he can even step into her room, happily ignoring the fact they’re in the middle of the hallway and she’s only clad in her underwear, her hair a diaphanous mess. He catches her in his arms, and her lips are on his in less than a second. Her kisses are filled with joy and relief as she presses them to his mouth and then to his cheek and his jaw with childlike abandon. He revels in her excitement, his mad dash to pack and get to the station for the first available train and his subsequent three-and-a-half hour journey completely forgotten.

“You’re here!” she sobs happily, cradling his face in her hands, “I can’t believe you’re here!”

He chuckles as she kisses him again. “Of course I’m here, Swan.”

Her wide eyes blink with confusion as she tugs him into her hotel room at last, flicking on the light. “But what about your classes and appointments? Don’t you have a meeting tomorrow?” She steps back so he can wheel his suitcase in and shut the door.

“Technically, it’s today. I think we can manage with a conference call,” he says, unconcerned. “And I’ll figure something out for my class on Friday; perhaps I can Skype in, or perhaps we’ll call it a personal day and I’ll catch everyone up next week.”

He smiles as she runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it when she realizes how wild it is. Her top is a little askew with one strap threatening to droop off on her shoulder, and her eyes still show traces of too much crying and not enough sleep. He reaches forward and cups her jaw in his hand, affectionately running his thumb over the pillow crease marring her cheek. Even disheveled like this, she’s still far and away the loveliest thing in his universe.

“We can talk more about it in the morning, love,” he says. “You should get back to sleep. I imagine you have to be up early.” When she hesitates, he tips his chin forward and lifts his eyebrow reassuringly. “Just give me a few minutes to clean up, and I’ll join you.”

To his relief, she assents without protest and tucks herself back beneath the blanket while he locates a vacant spot on the floor to lay open his suitcase and retrieve the bare essentials. He plugs in his phone and strips out of his clothes, hanging them up in the standing wardrobe next to her things, before he slips into pajama pants and ducks into the bathroom to prepare for bed. Five minutes later the lights are back off and he’s shifting himself across the sheets toward her, any residual stress from his journey dissipating when he pulls her to him, her back warm and solid against his chest. Contented sighs escape them both, and there’s no need for further words as the quiet drone of the air conditioning sings them to sleep.

Morning arrives too soon, with Emma’s phone alarming at six-thirty. She manages to silence it and rolls onto her back so she can look at him, dragging the knuckle of her index finger down his cheek fondly, her expression still full of gratitude and disbelief that he’s here.

He grins, drowsy eyes only partly open. “’Morning,” he rumbles.

“Good morning,” she murmurs back. She sighs, clamping her eyes shut and scrunching her nose. “I wish I didn’t have to get up.”

“What time do you have to be there?” he asks, repositioning his head slightly so he can press his lips to her temple.

“First session’s at eight. When’s your meeting?”

“Not until the afternoon.”

“Good,” she says approvingly. “You can sleep a few more hours at least.”

He grunts agreeably. A lie-in sounds very appealing after his late-night trip. “If you insist.”

Emma chuckles and leaves a chaste kiss on his lips before she pulls away and goes to shower. Her warmth fading from the bed, he grabs her pillow and hugs it to his chest. He rouses briefly just before she heads out the door. Even half-asleep, he admires how stunning she looks in a loose cream blouse, navy boyfriend blazer, dark skinny pants, and heels, her hair down around her shoulders in golden waves today. His mouth quirks upward. “Woe to the presenter who has to try to hold a man’s attention when you’re in the room, love.”

She blushes like a rose and bends forward to answer his compliment with a tender, lazy kiss. “I’ll text you later,” she promises, her lips still feather-light over his as she smiles.

Killian sleeps until eight-thirty, finally forcing himself to sit up around nine. He reaches for his phone and begins making calls to address his prior commitments at home, like the meeting at the engineering firm he was supposed to attend at two. Fortunately, he’s asked a minimum of questions about the nature of his urgent trip out of town, and his support staff at the firm agree that participation by phone will be adequate for today’s purposes. With a few more calls to his people at the Naval Academy, including Smee and the T.A. for the summer course he’s teaching, he arranges to give tomorrow’s lecture remotely. Thank goodness for modern technology. Throwing on some clothes, he snags the extra keycard Emma left him and runs downstairs to grab a bagel from the breakfast area before returning to the room to take a shower.

He’s pulling a clean shirt out of his suitcase when she calls him.

“Hello, love.”

“Hi,” she says, the mild roar of a crowd audible in the background. “I’m in between sessions.”

“Anything interesting this morning?” he asks, putting her on speaker so he can tug the shirt over his head.

“Mm, pretty good. The 8 AM session was an update on blood conservation strategies,” she replies cheerfully. “What are you up to?”

“Just had a shower.” He pulls on a pair of jeans and starts threading his belt through the loops.

“Did you figure out what you’re going to do about your meeting and your class?” she asks anxiously.

He chuckles, enamored with how she likes to fret over him. “Aye, it’s all sorted. No worries, Swan.”

“Good.” He can hear her relieved smile. “Do you want to come meet me for lunch? I have a free hour at 12:30. We don’t have enough time for a restaurant, but if you don’t mind picking something up for us, I could meet you at Hudson Yards Park.”

Killian grins. “Of course. Where shall I find you?”

“Ummm…” She pauses, presumably consulting her phone. “Corner of 35th and Hudson Boulevard West?

He flips open his laptop and enters the address to pull up the map, peering at the location in question. “Very well. And what shall I bring you?”

She hums thoughtfully. “Surprise me,” she says.

He laughs. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“See you then. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

* * *

Emma sneaks glances at her watch much more often than usual during the 10:30 talk, eager to finish learning about the latest strategies to treat rotator cuff tears and be on her way. She’s still reeling from the idea that Killian is here in New York with her, that he came to be with her, and when the session is finally over and she runs into Booth, she can’t help but grin like a idiot when she hastily explains that she’s skipping lunch with him and the other residents in the convention center food court in favor of eating with her boyfriend, who’s arrived in town. Booth smirks knowingly and waves her off as she hoists her tote over her shoulder and slips away into the crowd.

Despite her heels, she makes pretty good time navigating her way outside and down to the corner where they’d agreed to meet, and she beams when she spots him approaching from the east, a carryout bag in tow. He’s dressed casually in his favorite light blue button-up and dark jeans, sunglasses accenting his face, and she takes a moment to admire for the thousandth time the graceful yet masculine lines of his trim torso, the way his jeans cling to him, and the way the breeze flirts with his dark hair just above his forehead.

“There’s my lovely lunch date,” he crows, reaching his arm out toward her. He kisses her sweetly in the middle of the sidewalk before gamely offering her his elbow. “Shall we?”

They enter the tiny city park, a little oasis of tall greenery and clean beige concrete filled with modern water features and inviting benches, and they settle on a bench across from a fountain spraying parallel arcs of water skyward. He lifts the bag onto his lap.

“So what did you get me?” she teases, leaning to peek inside.

He grins as he lifts out a large rectangular take-out box and hands it over. “Grilled cheese with bacon.”

Emma’s eyes grow round, and she pulls the flaps of the box open, shoulders slumping in bliss as she looks upon the buttery grilled bread, the smell of caramelized onions, bacon, and melted white cheddar and Gruyere wafting up to her in a heavenly cloud. “Oh my God, that looks amazing,” she groans. She straightens and gives him a grateful peck on the cheek. “You’ve done well, Grasshopper.”

“Did you expect anything less?” Killian chuckles.

“Never.” She peers into his box. “What did you get?”

“Lamb burger – the house specialty. And yes,” he says indulgently, rolling his eyes at what he knows she’s about to say, “You may have a bite.”

The gourmet grilled cheese is by far the best thing she’s eaten in a long time, and she is so caught up in the taste of her first mouthful that she almost misses the way Killian’s ears turn pink when she lets out a quiet moan that borders on obscene.

“Bloody hell, love,” he mutters appreciatively, “You keep making sounds like that, and they’ll lock you up for public indecency.”

“It would be worth it.”

He watches her take a few more bites with amusement. “So what would you like to do tonight?”

Emma suppresses another happy sound as she continues to work on her lunch. “I could start by rewarding you for introducing me to this sandwich,” she says from behind her hand, a morsel still in her mouth. Her eyes glint mischievously. She silently laughs at the way he flushes again. She’d pay good money to see all the interesting images she’s just conjured in his mind.

“That is an excellent idea, and I will support it,” he agrees, face still ruddy but blue eyes laughing. “But I mean other than that. Before that. Would you like to go do something in the city?”

Mention of sightseeing, the thing she’d specifically decided to avoid, causes her to freeze momentarily. She resumes chewing slowly and takes a beat longer than necessary to swallow. “Would you?”

“Well, this is my first time in New York,” he points out. “I would enjoy seeing some of it.” He glances at her face questioningly. “But if you’d rather not…”

She tries to think of New York landmarks that don’t remind her of her time with Neal, and it’s difficult, consider that she’d been here for four years before he arrived for med school, and she’d been the one to introduce him to all of those wonderful places when they’d first started dating. But when she looks at Killian, sees the way he’s trying to read her and the way his hopeful expression is faltering, she sucks it up and shakes her head. “No, no, we should definitely do something.” She cleans her greasy hand on a napkin and squeezes his forearm, giving him a encouraging smile. “You can help me make some good memories in this town for once.”

The way his face lights up strengthens her resolve. “Aye. Let’s do that.”

She spends the afternoon contemplating where they should go, subtly browsing ticket prices and visiting hours for various attractions on her phone while enduring a rather uninspiring talk on career development. Finally, she settles on a professional nighttime tour of the city that conveniently leaves from another nearby park. It strikes her as a good way to show Killian a lot of the major sights in a short period and satisfy his intellectual curiosity (honestly, it’s not like she remembers anything useful to tell him about any of those places), and she likes the idea of getting to lean her head on his shoulder and just watch his reactions as they cruise past the Statue of Liberty or drive through Chinatown. She texts him the link to the tour website.

4-hour boat and bus tour of NYC by night sound okay?

He’s back to her in a few minutes.

Sounds lovely, Swan. Shall I reserve the tickets?

If you don’t mind. I’m in session until 5. Can you meet me at the same corner? 5:15?

I don’t know if I should make a habit of getting picked up on street corners by beautiful women, Swan. People might get the wrong idea.

She bites her lip to suppress her giggle.

* * *

Killian fidgets with excited energy as he leans against the cement half-wall that separates the sidewalk from the park garden at the corner where he’s meeting Emma for the second time today. His afternoon phone meeting, though a bit long, went smoothly, and he’s spent the last few hours watching sports highlights and reading about things to do in New York. The options are vast and dizzying, and while these days he’s perfectly content to while away an evening with a good book, a part of him has and will always enjoy exploring new corners of the world. It seems a terrible shame to him that Emma recalls this wondrous city with heartbreak, but her expressed desire to try to make some new memories here with him gives him hope that they can find a way to change that.

He looks up and sees her approaching, and his face splits into a grin. “There you are.”

“Hi.” She gives him a quick peck. “Hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Not at all. Shall we go?”

Emma sets her tote down on the half-wall next to him and starts digging around. “Just a minute.” Killian watches with fascination as she pulls out what turns out to be a folded up pair of ballet flats. “There’s no way I’m spending four more hours in these heels,” she explains with a wry smile as she swaps out her footwear, gripping his shoulder for balance. She fishes a rolled-up rectangular neoprene bag out of her purse, slips her pumps inside, snaps it shut, and loops the strap of the shoe bag over one handle of her tote.

“Good Lord,” he chuckles. “Women think of everything.”

She pokes him playfully in the chest before shrugging out of her blazer and folding it with surgical precision. “Hey, if you knew what it was like to wear shoes like this, you’d get creative too, buddy.” Emma coaxes the blazer into her tote bag, sandwiching it between two large glossy folders from her conference. “Done.” She dons a pair of sunglasses and reaches for his hand, squeezing a little tighter than usual and giving him a slightly anxious smile. “Let’s go see the City.”

They hurry south to meet up with their tour at The High Line, a charming public park built on the remnants of an old freight railway track along the Hudson River. The group numbers twelve, and Killian keeps his fingers intertwined with Emma’s as they stroll down the long stretch of urban beautification, listening to their animated young guide narrate a history of the park and the surrounding area. They polish off hot dogs from a cart vendor before taking a tour bus to the seaport where they board a boat for a cruise around the waterways surrounding Manhattan.

Emma puts her hair into a ponytail when the boat begins to gain speed, giving a little laugh at the way her wayward tresses are being tossed about by the air currents. They stand together along the fore starboard railing, Killian looping an arm around her and enjoying the warm press of her body into his while they feel the gentle rocking of the boat and the vibration of the engine beneath their feet.

He hums, savoring the sensation of the wind on his face. “I’ve missed being out on the water,” he says.

Emma nods. “It’s nice. I’ve never actually served aboard a ship, but I’ve always liked boats.”

He brushes his thumb back and forth across her flank as his hand rests on her hip. “When Liam and I were young, our mum used to tell us that we came from a long line of seafarers,” he recalls. “We never had the opportunity, but we always talked about learning to sail one day.” His words are sad and wistful, but he smiles when she sidles up a little closer to him. Consciously or not, Emma has made it a habit of drawing nearer to him whenever he talks about his family, and though lately the sting related to his memories has lessened in general, her proximity always brings him comfort. He gives her crown a grateful kiss.

“When was the last time you were on a boat?” she asks.

He thinks. “My last post aboard ship was with the HMS Jewel. That was…” He squints, trying to recall. “Nine years ago?” Killian shakes his head regretfully. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

“When we were in college, Mary Margaret and I used to ride the Staten Island Ferry sometimes just to sail the harbor for free,” Emma says with a dry chuckle. Her expression turns a little somber. “Neal didn’t like the water, but after he left, she and I started going out there again, especially when things were really hard. She says the ocean calms me.”

He moves to hug her from behind, sweeping her fluttering ponytail out of the way so he can press the side of his face to hers. “And does it?”

“Seems to.” He can feel her cheeks tug into a tiny smile, and her hand settles over one of his forearms.

While the tour guide continues her narration over a set of speakers, the boat cuts cleanly through the murky waters of the Hudson, speeding them south along the west side of Manhattan and slowing as it approaches Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and the other notable features of New York Harbor. They get some selfies together in front of these landmarks as they pass by, and when a generous woman from Ohio offers to help them take more photos, Killian seizes the opportunity to dramatically sweep Emma into his arms and dip her, sending her into a fit of giggles while the people around them cheer. He gives her his most winning smile and kisses her soundly for the camera.

When the cruise concludes, they return to shore, and the bus takes them on a meandering tour of Lower Manhattan and Midtown. Killian sits next to the window, gazing out at Soho and then Tribeca and then Greenwich Village as they pass through the neighborhoods in succession. Emma leans into him, her hands resting on his thigh, eyes fixed on him as frequently as they are on the scenery. He glances at her slyly a few times, but she smiles serenely, unconcerned that he’s caught her staring. Washington Square Park zooms by, and later the lights of Rockefeller Center, which illuminate the statue of Prometheus in the famed plaza as if he were aflame.

Emma gives a tiny sigh, and Killian glances at her, raising an eyebrow when he recognizes some moroseness in her expression. “Love?”

She appears to shake out of her thoughts and does her best at an innocent smile. “Hmm?”

Killian drapes an arm around her, the sights temporarily forgotten. “Unpleasant memories?” he asks quietly.

She shrugs and closes her eyes as he presses a kiss to her cheek. “A few,” she admits.

“Care to talk about it?”

She gazes at the buildings streaming past them. “Maybe later.”

They go back to listening to the tour guide’s chatter, but he continues to hold her protectively, as if his touch and the sheer force of his will can stave off the dark thoughts rattling around in her head. He is glad when he feels her shoulders relax over the next few blocks, and her mood seems light again by the time they arrive at Grand Central Terminal.

They are given a brief walking tour of the historic train station, the sounds of people coming and going echoing around them in a dull roar. Killian admires the massive scale of the main concourse and the contrast of the classical balustrades and the intricate carvings accenting the enormous windows with the thick, rectangular, utilitarian pillars that surround the room on all sides. The light of hundreds of bare bulbs, arranged in spherical chandeliers and in rows bordering the ceiling, reflects off the creamy stone that composes the walls and the floor, and the warm glow stands in gorgeous contrast to the blue-green plaster above them that depicts the night sky. Killian has known the stars like the back of his hand since Liam taught them to him as a child, and he frowns, craning his upturned head this way and that as he studies the artistically rendered constellations.

“Killian?” Emma’s voice is amused.

“It’s not right,” he mutters. He feels her link her arm through his while he continues to stare critically at the artwork. “They’ve got it all wrong.”

She pats his bicep consolingly. “I know,” she croons. “The guide just mentioned that the constellations are incorrectly positioned.”

“And some are backwards,” he grumbles. “And they’ve neglected to include my favorite.”

“Oh?” She seems surprised and impressed by his interest in astronomy. “Which one’s that?”

He acts exasperated, though a smile gives him away. “Cygnus, love. The Swan.” His allows his expression to soften. “Nothing is complete without it.”

Her forehead wrinkles in awe, and as she buries herself beneath his arm, gazing up at the ceiling with new wonder shining in her wet green eyes, he’s a little glad for the artist’s disregard for scientific accuracy.

* * *

The tour leaves them in Times Square, surrounded on all sides by enormous video screens and flashing billboards and lit storefront signs that render the few streetlights here completely unnecessary. Musty heat emanates from underground, from the pavement itself, and from and the exhaust from the cars that clutter these streets; and the noise level remains unchanged from the height of day.

Emma glances at her watch and turns to Killian. “It’s almost ten. Ready to head back?”

They ride the subway to the stop nearest the hotel, managing to find a pair of open seats in the rear corner of their car. She lays her head on his shoulder while the train speeds them along beneath the city, gently jostling them as it veers this way and that. It feels so good, she thinks, to be back in New York and to not resent it the way she thought she would. She remembers how fascinated she was by the City in her college days, how much she loved all the possibility it held, and she smiles as she realizes that her passion for this place, long-thought dead and dried up, is being renewed by Killian’s presence here with her. It’s like he’s giving New York back to her.

She clears her throat. “About before,” she says.

He looks down at her.

“I used to love Rockefeller Center,” she tells him. “The view from the top of the building is amazing, and Mary Margaret and I used to go ice skating in the plaza in the winter. Then Neal and I started going there together.” She pauses, biting her lip. “The skating rink was where he told me he loved me for the first time.” She fingers Killian’s stump absently. “I haven’t been back there since we split up.” She can feel him swallow and knows without looking that his expression is grim. Emma takes a deep breath and raises her eyes to him imploringly. “Can we go there tomorrow?” she asks, “The next time I think of it, I want to remember being there with you.”

Killian raises his eyebrows at her words, and it’s like the sun emerging from behind a cloud when the corner of his mouth twitches upward. He cups her face in his hand, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, his gaze adoring. “Of course, love. Anything you want.”

“And do you think we could stay the weekend instead of going home tomorrow night?” she asks nervously. “I don’t have to be back at the hospital until Monday. It’s pretty expensive--"

“It’s a grand idea, Swan,” he cuts in. “Don’t worry about the money. I’ve got more than enough hoarded away for a rainy day.”

Her heart leaps at his widening smile. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” He cuddles her close and presses a kiss on her forehead. “We’ll stay the weekend. How shall we spend it?”

* * *

It’s a little piece of Heaven, Killian thinks, this thing he and Emma are doing – taking advantage of their circumstances and changing their plans on the spur of the moment so that they can spend the weekend exploring New York together. So much of his life has been about plans – plans his mother made to try to keep their family afloat financially, plans Liam made to look after him when she passed, plans they’d made together to seek out lives in the Royal Navy full of honor and duty and maybe even glory. Between his education, his work as an engineer, and his military service, he feels as though most of his life has required him to be able to set goals, plot strategies to achieve them, and then execute. But he finds that since meeting Emma, life has become just as much about individual moments as it is about timelines, and the freedom to just do what he wants – what they want – in those little moments makes him feel alive.

They’d stopped at the hotel’s front desk on their return from Times Square in order to add two extra nights to their original stay. Now she sits on the bed with her laptop, modifying her Amtrak reservation and buying his return ticket, and he grins as he watches her from the doorway of the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth. It’s funny to him how a woman as disciplined and detail-oriented as she is can make him feel so spontaneous, but he finds himself dreaming that perhaps someday they can find more time to travel the world together like this, seeking out new adventures and just going where the winds take them.

He finishes up in the bathroom just as she closes her computer and climbs off the mattress, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She leaves the laptop to charge on the desk. “We’re all set,” she says.

“Excellent.” His hand and stump find the small of her back, and he draws her near, humming amorously as he meets her lips. Neither the firm press of his hips to hers nor the depth and heat of his kisses leaves any doubt of his want. “Come to bed?” he asks playfully, running a finger beneath the waistband of her pants.

Emma makes a sexy noise low in her throat and rotates them so she’s closer to the bathroom before she backs away, the unspoken promises in her eyes making his heart race. “Be right there.”

She’s as naked as Eve in the Garden when she emerges from the bathroom, the lower half of her breasts visible beneath the thick gold swirls of her hair, and he chuckles with delight, his eyes feasting upon her athletic curves and the small patch of gold curls she has lower down. “Cutting to the chase, love?” he teases as she joins him between the sheets.

“You don’t approve?” she asks innocently, leaning over him and helping him tug his pajama bottoms and boxer briefs off at the same time.

“Oh, I approve,” he growls. His fingers toy with one of her nipples, and the hiss of pleasure that escapes her goes straight to his groin. “Though there’s something to be said for getting to peel your clothes off myself.”

She hums. “Next time,” she promises. Emma climbs astride him and rolls her hips a few times, voicing an overly loud moan of satisfaction before she catches herself and blushes a deep red.

“Not interested in sharing with the other guests?” Killian asks, entertained.

“No.” Emma begins to grind down on him again, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth to keep herself quiet, her eyes fluttering closed as she focuses on her pleasure, and the sight of her doing this is so erotic it’s almost enough to make him come on the spot. When a soft, wrecked groan escapes him, she opens her eyes and leans forward, seizing his mouth with hers greedily, her hands smoothing back his hair and stroking his stubble. Killian wraps his arms around her, hand cradling the back of her head and neck while he relishes the experience of lying back and letting Emma take what she wants from him. Her hair is a silky veil whispering around them, and the way her lips and tongue play with his makes him burn to know what else she intends to take.

She doesn’t leave him wondering long. He shudders when she pulls her mouth away from his with a final light catch of his bottom lip between her teeth, and she gives him a sinful smile before she begins to kiss her way down his body, nipping and laving an indecent course across his chest and belly until she reaches his proud length. He watches through heavy-lidded eyes as she runs her tongue along his head, still toying with him, her more-than-willing subject. His breathing is punctuated by short gasps that give way to a tumble of curses that mark him for the sailor he is when she lowers her mouth and takes him deeper and deeper until his eyes roll back in his head. In moments she has him on the brink, and he grits his teeth as he feels the familiar frenzy begin to overtake him. “Swan,” he pants.

She releases him, though not before giving a little hum that nearly ends him, and she tosses her hair away from her face. “Are you sure?” she chuckles slyly. “You seemed to be having fun.”

“Aye,” he breathes with a little laugh, taking a second to recover enough to sit up on his elbows. He flashes her a grin and climbs out from under her. “And I don’t intend to stop.”

He stands and moves around to the foot of the bed, earning a low moan of approval from her as he comes up behind her while she remains on her hands and knees. His stump rests on her hip, and his hand reaches down to rub her between her legs.

Emma lets out a broken cry as his fingers slide through her wetness with increasing pressure, whimpering and rocking her hips with growing insistence. “Please.”

He nods, speechless as he takes in the golden tumble of her hair cascading down the long lines of her back and her superbly smooth ass and the way she throws him a look over her shoulder that demands that he ruin her. He props one knee up on the edge of the bed, leaning down over her back to kiss her shoulder blade and trail his damp fingertips from her breast down her stomach and back to her slippery core. “I love you,” he murmurs in her ear. “Hold on.”

They groan together as he enters her, burying himself to the hilt, more curses falling from his lips as the sensation of being surrounded by her almost makes him lose himself. His hand is restless as it brushes across her lower belly and hugs her to him, and he starts to move, driven by raw instinct. She rocks back to meet him stroke for stroke and shudders when his fingers find their way back to her sweet spot and start to give her the friction she needs. She explodes seconds later, falling to her elbows, hands twisted in the bed sheets, and when her inner walls clamp down on him, he’s gone too. He is conscious of nothing but her in that singular moment – no pain, no memories, no awareness of anything except unadulterated, blinding ecstasy. He grips her hip as he gives his last few thrusts and they both fall forward onto the bed, chests heaving like shipwreck survivors washing up on the shore. Emma is the first to be able to move, rolling over and situating herself face-to-face in his arms, pressing languid kisses to his chest and humming with gratification. His endorphin high fading, Killian nuzzles her and pulls loose strands of hair out of her face.

“Thank you,” she mutters against him, her voice throaty.

“Mm. For the sandwich?” he teases.

Her shoulders quake against him as she bursts out laughing. “Yes. For the sandwich. For everything.”

Chapter Text

Friday is the last day of the AAOS conference, and it wraps up early at three. Killian meets Emma at the convention center for lunch this time in order to see her display and to bring her the poster tube so that she can pack things up after the final session.

Her heart flutters when she sees him dutifully waiting for her just inside the convention center’s main entrance at twelve-thirty as they’d agreed, another take-out bag from the same restaurant as yesterday in his hand and the tube slung over his shoulder. His eyes are scanning the swarm of moving bodies for signs of her, and she melts a little when she realizes that he’s even put on a pair of nice slacks and one of his crisper shirts so as not to look out of place amongst all the suits. She hurries across the main hall to claim him, calling his name and reveling in how his eyes light up when they land on her, and she can’t help but to press a quick kiss to his mouth in front of the other conference attendees as they pass by.

He grins at her open affection and offers her his hand. “Lead on, Swan.”

As she escorts him into the convention center and they head for the poster exhibition hall, it occurs to her that they could run into Neal here, and her stomach clenches. She has to admit that since Killian arrived in New York, she’s fantasized briefly about what might happen if the two men ever crossed paths. Part of her wants to see it – a face-off between her gallant gentleman and the selfish coward, the way Killian would respond if Neal was foolish enough to say anything hurtful to her in his presence, the look on Neal’s face if he learned that the man who loves her now is a war hero with a doctorate and a face and an accent that would make own his fiancé swoon. But part of her – the part of her that channels Mary Margaret, to be honest – realizes that all of these just boil down to a thirst for vengeance – a need to feel better about herself or a desire to see Neal suffer. She realizes, in truth, there’s nothing really left to say, and for the first time in her life she actually wants Neal to do what he’s proven good at – slink away and disappear.

She holds her breath a little when they enter the exhibit hall, but thankfully, he’s nowhere to be seen as they make their way to her board. Killian vocally admires her display, pride written all over his face, and insists on taking a few more photos of her in front of it. Emma grabs a few shots of the both of them there too, for good measure.

They eat their lunch at a table in the food court, today’s grilled cheese just as fantastic as yesterday’s, and she walks him back to the main door just before the last session begins, giving him another kiss and telling him to have fun with the engineering lecture he’s jumping online for as soon as he returns to their hotel.

Her final session is forgettable and longer for the fact that she can’t text with Killian because he’s tied up teaching. She uses the time, however, to make arrangements for their activities tomorrow, having hatched some ideas in the morning that she’s decided to surprise him with. As she books their reservations on her phone, a wave of exhilaration runs through her at the prospect of seeing his reaction to what she has in store. When the session finally ends, she hurries to the exhibit hall to collect her poster, grateful again that she is able to duck in and out without running into Neal, and her footsteps are light as she leaves the convention center and heads back to the hotel. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, a sense of relief washing over her. It's finally over.

Killian's voice reaches her ears the moment she cracks open the hotel room door, and she comes in as quietly as she can, realizing that he’s still wrapping up his lecture on Skype. Emma depresses the handle so the latch doesn’t click when she gingerly pulls the door shut. He’s sitting at the desk in front of his computer, hunched forward so his image takes up most of his camera angle, and she leans silently on the wall and watches him interact with his students, something she’s almost never gotten the chance to do, since the naval academy’s strict security and policy about authorizing visitors mean she can’t just crash one of his classes on a whim. Her lips curve upward in a fond smile as she watches him talk animatedly, gesturing with his hand. He appears to be answering a question about utilizing alternative materials in some unspecified scenario, and he briefly segues into talking about the benefits of taking advantage of some physics principle she knows nothing about. Emma has heard him discuss his work over the phone with the engineering firm before and discovered that she’s fascinated by this side of him, by these moments when he’s Dr. Killian Jones, Professor of Ocean Engineering. As he leans into the glow of his computer screen, patiently outlining his thoughts to his remote audience, scribbling a diagram on a piece of hotel stationery and holding it up to the camera to illustrate his point, he’s a man in his element. It’s a delight to watch, she thinks. And frankly, quite the turn-on.

“Alright, you lot,” he says at last. “That’s all for today. Apologies again for not being there, but I shall endeavor to return Monday in time for your quiz on the weekend reading.” He grins. “Be prepared. I’m not taking any prisoners with this one. Dismissed.”

His teaching assistant’s face pops into view a moment later and confirms with Killian that papers collected from today’s class will be left with Smee for him to grade when he returns. Killian thanks the young man again and disconnects, pushing his wheeled chair back a few inches from the desk. He turns his head and fixes Emma with a sheepish smile, scratching behind his ear as he rolls his stiff shoulders. “Sorry, love. We ran a bit over.”

Emma bends down to pick her heels up from where she’s toed them off on the carpet and saunters over, dropping them in the corner next to her other shoes. “No problem.” She lays her hand on the back of his chair and leans over, and what she intends to be a quick smooch turns into a scorching kiss that makes him groan and brace her hips with his hand and stump.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, gazing up at her with amusement. “What’s the occasion?”

She clears her throat and gives him an enigmatic grin. “I never get to watch you teach. I like it,” she admits with a little shrug.

His arches an eyebrow and licks his lips as they twist into a devilish smirk. “Oh do you now?”

“Mm-hmm.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, her eyes turning coyly skyward. “The phrase ‘Hot for Teacher’ comes to mind.”

“Minx,” he breathes, rising to his feet and pulling her close. “I thought we were going to try to leave as soon as you got back.”

She tries to put the lid on the rising heat between them, tries to focus on their plan to go sightseeing. “We are. I just need to change my clothes,” she mutters against his lips, knowing full well that the latter statement is to be the key to her epic failure.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

She smiles at how predictable he is, readily sucking on his lip as he unbuttons her blouse with alarming efficiency and somehow manages to get the side zipper of her slacks – the troublesome zipper she can barely manage with two hands – undone with minimal difficulty. Her pants fall to the floor with a muffled whump, and she kicks them away as he pulls her toward him and then backs her up into the empty wall space between the desk and the wardrobe. Emma lets out a needy whine when she realizes what he has in mind. Her hands fly over his belt and his jeans with practiced ease despite the fact that her eyes are shut and the assault of his mouth on hers has the back of her head pressed to the drywall. She shoves his pants down just far enough that she can reach through the fly in his underwear and give him a couple of good hard strokes, swallowing his eager groans with a satisfied smile. Killian hastily lifts her left leg, propping her foot up on the desk, and shoves the crotch of her panties aside with questing fingers. He growls softly when he finds her hot and wet and ready for him already, and there’s no preamble this time when he lines himself up and presses into her swiftly.

She curses as he takes her fast and dirty, murmuring praises in his ear when he really lets loose and begins to drive into her harder, his rhythm bordering on punishing. She relishes it, and she’s perfectly happy to have him finish first this time, so she’s caught off-guard when he maintains the presence of mind to slip his hand between them and apply his thumb to her swollen nub in firm circles. The unexpected stimulation brings her to peak, and Emma shudders violently, her lips parting in a voiceless cry. Her legs buckle, and she grips his shoulders tightly to keep herself from sliding to the floor, barely registering the relieved groan he makes as he finds his own release. Only after his movements slow does she start to breathe normally again, the corners of her lips curling upward as a sigh passes between them. “Mmm.”

Killian props himself up with his forearms positioned on either side of her head, still panting a little as he drags his lips across her collarbone. “Perhaps I should find excuses to teach from home more often,” he muses.

* * *

The chill of the air conditioning gives way to the humid August evening as Killian and Emma emerge onto the observation deck at Rockefeller Center later that afternoon.

“This way.” Emma’s knuckles are wedged between his as she gently pulls him past the other visitors toward the north side of the building.

They find a spot along the roof’s edge, which is lined by a wall of thick rectangular glass panes, and she releases his hand in order to snake her arm around his back, her head turned toward him to gauge his reaction. Killian’s arm mirrors hers subconsciously as he takes in the awe-inspiring view. The isle of Manhattan stretches out before them, the blue Hudson running down from the horizon along their left. The enormous expanse of green that is Central Park is nestled in the center of the city, looking for all the world like a magical land kept pristine by a sorcerer’s spell in the midst of the heterogeneous jumble of towers that surrounds it. The sun still hangs in the sky high enough that the shadows are short, not yet obscured by the scattering of plump clouds moving in, and he and Emma are sandwiched between the mess of street noise far below and the whapping of an unseen helicopter somewhere nearby. Having spent many of his formative years in London, Killian is no stranger to sprawling city views, but he has to admit that this is one of the finest and most picturesque he’s ever seen.

“What do you think?” Emma asks.

He hugs her closer to him with a peaceful smile. “It’s remarkable, Swan. I understand why you used to come here so often.”

She nods, her eyes casting out over the city, her expression bittersweet. “Yeah,” she says softly. “It’s my favorite view in New York. I’d forgotten how much I missed it.” She sniffles and runs her hand up and down his side. “I’m really glad I got to show it to you.”

“As am I, love,” he agrees, touching his lips to her cheek tenderly. “Come,” he urges, eager to lighten her mood, “Tell me what we’re looking at.”

He listens with a smile as she clears her throat and begins pointing out the various neighborhoods that are laid out before them –West New York on the far shore of the Hudson, the Upper West and East Sides to either side of them, Harlem in the far distance, Lenox Hill at their two o’clock, and Astoria to the east. As she speaks, the traces of sadness in her voice vanish, and her affection for the city shines through when she chooses to lead him away from their spot and off into a winding in a circuit around the rest of observation deck. She continues to point out places and landmarks as they go – Long Island, the Chrysler Building, Midtown, Gramercy Park, the Empire State Building, Lower Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge, the East and West Village, Chelsea, the Garment District.

She highlights her narrative here and there with more anecdotes about her adventures with Mary Margaret – brief mentions about running marathons, hunting for designer knock-offs on Canal Street, camping out for Elton John tickets, and deleting the photographic evidence of booze-fueled karaoke nights. Killian knows their friendship runs deep, but it’s only now, with these little tales about their first years together, that he begins to truly appreciate just how central their relationship has been in Emma’s life. He finds himself feeling increasingly grateful for Mary Margaret Nolan and the role her endless love and optimism played in helping his Emma rise above her rough start in life to become a confident, open, and empowered woman.

When they circle back around to where they started, he squeezes her hip. “So what now, Swan? What do you recommend for a Friday night in New York?”

Emma narrows her eyes at him appraisingly before she gazes back out over the northern half of Manhattan, chewing on one corner of her lip. “You love museums,” she says. “A night at The Met?”

He nods enthusiastically. “An excellent plan.” Killian casts a wary eye at the clouds. “We’d best hurry though. There are thunderheads afoot.”

She laughs. “Spoken like a true sailor.”

Killian shrugs and shoots her a wry grin. “After almost twenty years in the service, a man picks up on a few things.”

The sky does indeed open up on their walk from the 77th Street subway station to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Emma gives a little yelp as the first big fat drops start to pelt them. They share a knowing glance and begin to hurry, first trotting, then jogging, then outright scrambling the last couple blocks to the imposing front entrance, swearing and shrieking and hollering as the pop-up shower escalates from a sprinkle to a full-on downpour in a matter of minutes. By the time they fly up the steps to the museum and find sanctuary under a pillared overhang, they are both sodden, the ankles of their pants particularly soaked through.

Killian mops raindrops out of his eyes with his shirt sleeve and laughs, attempting to finger-comb back the locks of wet hair that are plastered to his forehead. “Alright, love?”

“Yeah.” Emma smiles ear-to-ear and cups her face in her hands, gently swiping away the droplets on her cheeks, her expression glowing. Her wet blouse clings to her revealingly, but she delicately pulls the fabric loose from her damp skin and smoothes down some stray hairs that are curling in the humidity.

He holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

She chuckles at how the wet soles of his shoes squeak a little on the museum’s stone floors for the first thirty minutes while they wander through the Greek and Roman art wing. He just smiles and squeezes her hand tighter. They spend the next three hours wandering the incredibly vast and varied halls of the Met, passing through room after room filled with antiquities – paintings, sculptures, jewelry, pottery, and other relics from the museum’s famed collection. Marble sculptures and Renaissance portraits give way to Medieval tapestries and triptychs, which are followed by American landscapes, and as the museum grows emptier later into the evening, they enjoy the relative quiet and the increasing illusion of having the place to themselves.

While passing through an exhibit of Art Nouveau glass and jewelry, Killian catches Emma admiring a Louis Comfort Tiffany bracelet and ring set in dazzling jeweled peacock tones. “Fancy something for your birthday, Swan?” he teases.

She laughs and shakes her head. “Somehow I don’t think even rear admirals get perks like that.” She moves on to examine a golden pendant necklace with detailed inlay and a large center stone in celery green. “Mary Margaret might like that to match her wedding ring though.”

He nods. “Lovely. Is it a birthstone, or does she just favor the color?”

“No, it was David’s mother’s wedding ring,” Emma replies, continuing down the glass case. “When she died, we were helping him sort through her things, and Mary Margaret thought it was pretty and tried it on before she knew what it was.” She smiles dreamily. “David says he knew she was the one when he saw it on her finger.”

He gives a small smile. “Utterly romantic. That’s--”

“David and Mary Margaret,” Emma says cheerfully.

Killian falls quiet as they link hands again and move on to the next gallery. He doesn’t want to tell her what he’s thinking right now – that he’s wishing he, too, had a family heirloom or a ring of some meaning to give her someday. He doesn’t want to share with her the weight that has suddenly settled on his heart as he remembers how his own mother, in a move of sorrow and bitterness, chose to sell her wedding ring after his father abandoned their family, deciding the money it provided to support her boys was far preferable to the memories and the false promise that lingered within it.

For once, he catches himself before she can pick up on his change in mood. “So what would you like for your birthday, love?” he asks, trying to sound upbeat. “It’s only two months off.”

Emma hums with mock thoughtfulness as they wander into the first room of the Egyptian wing, their voices an intimate murmur in the gigantic echoing space. “I don’t know,” she admits lightly, swinging their clasped hands between them. “Maybe something that reminds me of you.”

Killian feels his face flush with pleasure at her words.

The rain has long passed when the museum closes at nine. Emma hails a cab, and he gamely allows her to take him to a gelatería near Columbus Circle. This Friday night in the last half of summer, the shop is pretty well packed. When he sees the generous helpings of creamy gelato being piled precariously high into cones and paper cups, he understands why, and he does a double-take when Emma orders a large hot chocolate from this virtual paradise of frozen treats. Her only response to his quizzical gaze is a wordless Cheshire grin. After their order is delivered and they carefully squeeze their way back outside to the sidewalk, she firmly pulls his gelato out of his hand and holds her hot chocolate below his nose. “Try this.”

Killian shrugs and leans forward to take the rim of her cup into his mouth for a sip, having developed a healthy respect for Emma’s discerning sweet tooth early on. His eyebrows spring upward at the flavor that strikes his tongue. The chocolate is almost impossibly decadent, velvety smooth, and complex, and the bite of cinnamon is unmistakable. A fascinated smile steals over his face as the tip of his tongue collects chocolate and whipped cream residue from his upper lip. “Is that…?”

“The original,” she confirms with a nod. She hands back his oversized cone. “This,” she gestures theatrically to storefront, “Is where the cinnamon obsession began.”

They make for the subway station on the other side of Columbus Circle, trading their desserts back and forth. His caramel gelato is a symphony of salty and sweet, and though he enjoys it immensely, there’s even greater pleasure in watching Emma eat her fair share of it, the occasional dab of cream left behind on her nose or cheek as she helps him tackle the enormous serving. When she fails to completely wipe away a smudge at the corner of her mouth, he allows himself to provide the assist, pulling her out of the sidewalk traffic and kissing it off in the most innocent way he can manage. “You missed a spot, love,” he says right before his lips make contact.

Emma giggles at the gentle grate of his scruff across her nose. “Why thank you.” She beams up at him and loops her arm through his, and they step over to a crosswalk. “David introduced me to that gelato place,” she tells him. “He took me there to celebrate after I finished my internal medicine rotation. It was kind of a rough month, right after Neal…” Her forehead wrinkles, and she clears her throat hurriedly. “Anyway. David and I were assigned to the same inpatient team,” she soldiers on, keeping close to him and sipping her chocolate. “He was an intern then, fresh out of med school, which is like, one of the scariest times in a doctor’s career.” She chuffs, her expression nostalgic. “But he saw I was struggling, and he stepped up – helped me pull my act together by the end of the rotation and saved my grade.”

Killian smiles, not at all surprised that David Nolan would do something so altruistic. The man is something of a prince. “That does sound like him.”

Emma nods in the periphery of his vision as he checks for oncoming cars before they step out into the intersection. “I owe him a lot,” she says somberly.

He chuckles. “Well, you did introduce him to the love of his life, Swan. Even if David cared about debts, I’d wager yours is paid in full.”

She ducks her head with a humble smile and hugs his arm closer to her in response.

They descend into the warm, humid, slightly musty air of the subway station and follow the signs for the correct train that will shuttle them back to the hotel, becoming immersed in the reverberating sounds of braking trains, human voices, rolling suitcases, and a strummed melody from an unseen busker with a guitar.

“So what would you like to do tomorrow, love?” he asks as they wait on the platform, holding out the final bite of his cone to her.

Though offering her the last of his dessert has become a habit, she still blushes when he does it, which he finds endlessly charming. He watches with a smile as she accepts with the demure smile of a medieval courtier accepting a flower from a suitor, humming happily as she pops the last of the sweet treat into her mouth. “Tomorrow,” she says, swallowing, “Is a surprise.”

He cocks his head, intrigued. “Oh?”

“Mm-hmm.” She tosses her head in a self-congratulatory fashion and teases him with a mischievous sideways glance.

Killian pulls his left arm out from hers and winds it around her, his stump resting on her hip and urging her close. “And am I to try to convince you to reveal your plans?” he asks huskily.

She laughs under her breath as he noses her hair. “If you like.”

He makes an arduous (and intensely satisfying) effort to persuade her to give up her secrets when they get back to the hotel, but her resolve not to tell him seems to redouble, and he falls asleep with her in his arms and an exhausted grin on his face feeling a bit like a child waiting for Christmas morning.

* * *

On Saturday, Emma hauls him out of bed at seven-thirty and gleefully nudges him in the direction of the shower while she takes it upon herself to go through his suitcase and find him something appropriate to wear for today’s activities, leaving his aged pale gray chambray shirt and a pair of his well-loved dark stone washed jeans on the bathroom counter along with his usual undershirt and boxer briefs. She notes how his face lights with interest when sees her outfit, which consists of the same navy striped top she wore on Memorial Day paired, this time, with light-colored khaki shorts and Vans.

His eyes sweep appreciatively over her long, exposed legs. “Might we be looking at more time on the water today, love?” he guesses while watching her weave her hair into a complicated-looking side-braid.

Emma manages to keep her eyes fixed on her reflection in the bathroom mirror and does her utmost to keep her features neutral, trying for an enigmatic little smile. “That’s one possibility,” she acknowledges, inwardly congratulating herself when he narrows his eyes shrewdly but still appears less than satisfied as he moves off to collect his shoes.

She is eventually forced to confirm his suspicion when they hop into a cab after breakfast and she directs the driver to Chelsea Piers, but when Killian shoots her a triumphant smirk, she just smiles serenely and keeps quiet, confident that he still doesn’t have any idea exactly what they’ll be doing when they get there and determined to make him speculate a few minutes longer. To her amusement, he covers her hand with his, his thumb rubbing her knuckles anxiously, and sits forward to look out the window, as though waiting to spy another clue. When they approach their destination on the Hudson, she pulls out her phone to confirm the exact pier number and then offers it to him at last. “Alright. This,” she announces, suddenly a little nervous about whether he’ll like what she’s planned, “Is what we’ve got lined up for the morning.”

She watches his face anxiously as he takes her phone and studies the screen. “The American Institute of Architects Manhattan Bridge and Infrastructure Tour,” he reads. He blinks, and his heart is in his eyes when he looks at her, his brows raised in excitement. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods, beaming with relief that he seems so happy and touched by this choice of hers. “Almost three hours aboard a 1920’s yacht talking nerdy with a professor of Architecture and City Planning about all the engineering behind the bridges, tunnels, and mass transit in the city.” She reaches into her wallet for her credit card as the cab pulls to a stop. “It seems like something you might enjoy.”

“Yes it does,” Killian confirms, squeezing her hand, “But what about you?” His forehead wrinkles slightly. “Is this something you want to do?”

“Cruise around the city on a vintage yacht and sip champagne while we learn new stuff about New York and I get to watch you geek out?” Emma grins as she swipes her card through the reader and completes the transaction. “Sounds pretty great to me.”

He follows her out of the car and rounds on her as soon as the cab door slams shut, pulling her into his arms and silencing her giggles by kissing her breathless. “You’re amazing, Swan. Thank you.”

Emma tries to memorize the look of open affection on his face, the way his eyes shine with adulation, and she runs her palm down the side of his neck, her heart singing with joy that this man is hers. “I try.” She pulls back and winds her fingers through his. “Let’s go catch a boat.”

The tour turns out to be much more interesting than she anticipated, even for someone like her who has never thought or cared much about infrastructure or engineering. They circumnavigate Manhattan over the course of the morning, learning about the planning and construction of Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, Governor’s Island, Roosevelt Island, the UN Building, almost twenty different bridges, and even several neighborhoods, like the Financial District and the Upper West Side. The professor giving their tour is personable and a good story teller, and Emma hides her dopey smile behind her champagne flute more than once while she watches Killian enthusiastically chat with the him in between the man’s bursts of narration. After she’d booked the tickets, part of her had begun to worry she’d been presumptuous in thinking Killian would enjoy a tour like this (after all, being a physician doesn’t mean she wants to spend part of her vacation touring hospitals), and she’s relieved now that it’s obvious her concerns were unnecessary; the excellent reviews of this tour she read were well-earned, and he seems to be having a great time.

The morning is a bit overcast, but it’s warm without being hot, and the breeze on the waterways is gentle. They take a break from chatting to go wander along the rail and take photographs of passing sights, with Killian’s phone filling up with dozens of zoomed-in pictures of obscure structural features of buildings and bridges that satisfy his professional interest.

When the yacht pulls back into the pier, they shake hands with the professor and snag a photo with him to commemorate the experience. Killian leaves a generous gratuity and slings his arm around Emma’s shoulders as their feet thunk down the gangplank, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Thank you, love. That was a wonderful morning.”

Emma grins and flashes a brilliant smile. “It was fun,” she agrees. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“So what’s on the docket now?”

“Mm. Now,” she consults the clock on her phone, “We head to Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn?” He looks pleasantly surprised. “And what adventure awaits us there?” he asks, clearly aware she won’t divulge the plan to him just yet.

Emma reaches behind him and spurs him to start walking with her with a soft press of her hand to his back. “A good one, I hope.”

The sound of his chuckle sends warmth radiating from her chest to her toes. “With you, love? Always.”

It’s a little bit of a walk to the nearest subway station and then a twenty-minute trip out of Manhattan across town to the neighborhood of Red Hook, just across the way from Governor’s Island. Emma takes him to an old, Italian, family-run sandwich shop one of the kids she tutored in college turned her on to ages ago, and they feast on hot heroes stuffed with spicy meats, juicy peppers, and grilled onions. It’s a challenge not to get grease stains on their clothes as they wolf lunch down, and Emma smiles when a dribble escapes down Killian’s chin and she’s quicker on the draw with a paper napkin, lovingly dabbing at his scruff while he allows her to fuss.

At one-thirty, they hail another cab, and she sees the grin on his face when she asks for the Brooklyn Bridge Park Pier. She’s knows he’s still curious, but he seems content to let her reveal her plans at the last second now, or else he’s just lulled by the sensation of a stomach full of good food as he sits back with his hand on her knee and watches the classic brownstones of Cobble Hill pass by out the window.

When they step out of the cab, Emma adjusts her tote on her shoulder and threads her arm through his elbow, leading him down the marina toward their pier. She takes a deep breath and clears her throat. “You told me the other day that you and Liam dreamed of learning how to sail,” she says shyly. “I thought maybe you’d like to start to learn. With me.”

Killian comes to a sudden stop and looks down at her, his features reflecting his stunned awe.

Her eyes crinkle happily at the expression on his face, and the corner of her mouth quirks upward. “Is that okay?”

“You bloody angel,” he mutters, embracing her abruptly and actually swinging her off the ground in a circle with a laugh. He sets her back down and kisses her, his lips effectively conveying his delight and gratitude. “It’s perfect.”

His gorgeous eyes are wet when he pulls back, and hers are threatening to follow suit, so she grabs his hand and hauls him eagerly away before they can get all sniffly on each other in the middle of the walkway. “Come on, Rear Admiral,” she says, “Time to go hoist a sail.”

He chuckles. “Are you to be my first mate, then, Swan?”

She raises a brow and throws him an arch look. “What makes you think you won’t be mine?”

His eyes dance, and his grin widens further. “Of course. Apologies, Ma’am.”

Their instructor at the Brooklyn Bridge Sailing School is a perky redhead named Ariel who has her hair in loosely braided pigtails and wears a company T-shirt, crisp black shorts, and white boat shoes. Their class consists of Killian, Emma, and one other young couple from New Jersey, and when Ariel discovers that Killian and Emma are both in the navy, she chortles at the idea of naval officers who have never sailed but kindly assures them that she can rectify that situation.

They spend half an hour at the pier reviewing boating terminology and discussing the basic mechanics of sailing before she guides them aboard a small keelboat and takes them out into the harbor. For the remainder of the afternoon, Ariel patiently instructs them in the ways of hoisting and trimming a sail and teaches them how to jib and tack in order to maneuver the boat in a desired direction. She shows them how to adjust the boom and tells them stories about less-than-vigilant would-be sailors who hit their heads or were knocked overboard when they forgot to keep track of its position, one of whom panicked so badly she’d had to dive in and fish him out of the drink herself.

Whether it’s from his deployment aboard the Jewel or his comprehension of physics or the blood of his seafaring forefathers in his veins, Killian seems to have an innate understanding of how to use the wind to his advantage, and he takes to sailing like he was born to it. Emma beams as she watches him reel in the sheet, the line that controls the sail, by pulling on it with his right arm and keeping it from slipping by pinning it to his body with his left. She’s grown accustomed to seeing him manage his day-to-day activities without the use of a left hand, but seeing him adapt to new skills with so little hesitation makes her heart swell with pride. Plus, she thinks with a shiver, there’s something about how he looks right now, forearms exposed, strong arms flexing as he yanks the taut line toward him, the muscles in his neck visible as he tracks the movement of the sail above, hair ruffled by the harbor wind, that convinces her that she’d agree to be his first mate any day of the week.

Ariel concludes the lesson by teaching them how to return to dock, and she has special praise for Killian when they say goodbye, urging them to return to New York sometime for a more advanced lesson if they find the opportunity.

Killian rubs the back of his head with his stump modestly, looking pleased, but glances at Emma, unsure how she feels about another trip to New York.

Emma smiles, her face warm and genuine, and nods. “We'll definitely do that.”

Chapter Text

Sunday they get up early to go for a run together in Central Park, returning to Columbus Circle in order to enter at the southwest corner. Emma leads him on a full six-mile loop, which includes a couple challenging hills that help them work up a nice sweat, and she points out sights as they go. They pause at the Sheep Meadow to snap some selfies with the beautiful New York City skyline in the background before continuing on, and once they finish their rotation around the park, she convinces him to cool down by backtracking a mile and a half north and west to a little establishment called the Birdbath Bakery.

“It was Mary Margaret’s favorite,” she explains as he cheerfully allows her to haul him across the street at Central Park West and back into the urban jungle. “If you think her cookies are good, you should try the ones there. I thought maybe we could bring a box home for her and drop it off on the way back from the train station.”

As usual, Emma proves right about the quality of the sweets, and it takes a lot of willpower not to completely negate the productivity of their run by going overboard gorging on the freshly-baked muffins and scones on display behind the glass. They leave licking buttery crumbs off their fingers and with a large paper box of cookies for the mommy- and baby-to-be in tow, and they catch the subway back to the hotel. By the time they get back to their room, there are only 30 minutes left before check-out time for them both to shower and pack. Emma’s solution to this is to pull Killian into the shower with her, and while this does not actually result in any time (or water) saved, it leaves them both clean and glowing, albeit with very hastily packed bags.

The train ride home is quiet. Killian works on his laptop, and Emma reads medical literature on hers until her eyelids become heavy. He nudges her, amused, as her head begins to loll forward, and she rouses, smiling sheepishly, and decides to give up on her journal articles, stowing her computer and turning into his side with her head on his shoulder and her hand curled around his left bicep before she dozes off.

Killian casts a look at her as she sleeps, his mouth pulling into a soft smile. He came to New York with the sole intention of supporting Emma, of making this trip about her, but these last few days have been a gift for the both of them. She doesn’t know it, but when she decided to help him realize the lifelong dream he and Liam had of learning to sail, she helped him finally draw the conclusion he’s been dancing around for weeks now: He’s ready, and he thinks she is too. She asked for a birthday present that will remind her of him. He thinks an engagement ring will fit the bill perfectly. Killian grins, closing his eyes as he touches his lips to her still-damp hair and inhales the scent of her shampoo. Now if only he knew where he wanted to start looking.

* * *

They stop by David and Mary Margaret’s on the drive home, and Mary Margaret’s jaw drops when she opens the door and Emma presents her with a sly smile and the box of cookies, the name of the bakery printed boldly across the front.

“Baked fresh this morning,” Emma tells her.

Mary Margaret clutches the box to her chest with obvious delight and gives Emma a side-hug. “You’re the best friend ever.”

Emma shrugs modestly, looking nonetheless pleased. “We were in the neighborhood, and I thought the baby would like a taste of New York.”

“These days it feels like he’s happy to have a taste of anything,” Mary Margaret laughs, smoothing her hand over the slope of her baby bump affectionately, “But I’m sure we’ll get some extra kicks out of these cookies.”

“I’ve been telling you,” Killian says with an approving nod, “The lad’s a footballer in the making.”

Mary Margaret chuckles and shares a quick look David. “I know you guys are probably tired from your trip, but do you want to stay for an early dinner?” she asks, eyes crinkled hopefully. “I was just going to get started on something.”

Emma notes Killian’s subtle nod to her and smiles. “That sounds great.”

They file inside and head for the kitchen. David offers to help with dinner, but Mary Margaret waves him off the way she does when she wants to have girl time with Emma, and he and Killian grab beers out of the fridge and point themselves toward the TV in the living room.

Emma watches, enormously entertained, as Mary Margaret tries her best to bustle about despite being slowed by her sizable girth, sidling up to counters out of necessity and asking Emma to grab things for her that are both high and low so that she can avoid having to climb the stepstool or bend over. Emma eyes Mary Margaret’s legs, noting the rounded contours of her bare feet and the absence of the normal visible bony prominences around her ankles. “How’s the swelling?” she asks sympathetically.

“Oh, terrible,” Mary Margaret replies lightly, hefting over a large bag of red potatoes for Emma to wash. “Thank goodness it’s summer, because the only shoes that fit me now are flip flops. I’m glad I can’t really see my feet these days; they look so awful. Honestly, everything’s puffy.” She pouts and holds up her sausage fingers to illustrate her point. Her wedding ring is noticeably missing from her left hand now, having been moved to a chain around her neck.

Emma begins scrubbing the potatoes in the sink with a vegetable brush and passing them off to the cutting board to go under the knife. “Well, you’ve always been so tiny,” she points out, “This is a big change for you.”

“And I think it’s getting worse,” Mary Margaret grumbles as she begins chopping. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when the school year starts and I have to be on my feet all day.”

“Compression stockings?”

Mary Margaret makes a face. “I guess. Although that’s not going to be much fun if the weather doesn’t cool down.” She sighs and gives a small smile, straightening her back as if to reassure herself. “It’s just twelve more weeks. I can do this for twelve more weeks,” she huffs, trying to sound confident, her chef’s knife striking the wood of the cutting board with a little more force than necessary.

Emma does her best not to smile too much at the frustrated vehemence behind her friend’s slicing technique tonight. “Do you have a name?” she finally asks, hoping to distract Mary Margaret with a happier subject.

Mary Margaret’s expression softens. “We have a short list. We thought we’d wait until we actually meet him to decide.”

“What’s on the list?” Emma hands over the last potato, shuts off the water, and reaches for a dish towel.

Mary Margaret makes short work of the remaining spuds, tossing the cubed pieces into a big mixing bowl and reaching for the olive oil. “There’s Leo, after my dad,” she says, pouring a generous drizzle. “That’s my personal favorite, but we also like Lance and Henry.”

Emma smiles. “Those are good names.”

“I think so too.” Mary Margaret beams, the sun returning to her expression.

“When’s your next OB appointment?”

“This week.” Mary Margaret gestures toward the spice rack. “Hand me the salt, pepper, paprika, and garlic powder, would you? And tell me all about your trip.”

* * *

“So how was New York?” David asks as he sits on the couch and reaches for the remote. He clicks on the TV and starts searching for something watchable, selecting a world news program.

“Brilliant,” Killian answers with a smile, settling back on the love seat and lifting the beer bottle to his mouth. “Bloody fantastic.” He takes a sip, his tongue darting out to catch a drop on his upper lip. “It was nice to see Emma having fun there again; I know she didn’t leave New York with the fondest of memories last time.”

David gives a minute shake of his head and heaves a sigh. “No. No she didn’t. But you guys had fun?”

“Well, she went out of her way to show me an amazing time,” Killian says, scratching behind his ear and grinning, “But I think she enjoyed it too. She says she wants to go back.”

David looks impressed. “Well good. That’s definitely progress.” He curiously eyes the way Killian’s knee is lightly bouncing and follows his friend’s gaze in the direction of the kitchen. “Did something else happen?” he asks after a few moments.

Killian looks back at him, cheeks coloring under David’s calm, discerning, pale blue stare. He clears his throat and glances again toward the kitchen to make sure there’s no sign of either woman nearby. He doesn’t really need anyone’s approval to marry Emma (save Emma herself), but having the support of her closest friends would mean a lot to him. “I’ve made a decision when it comes to Emma,” he says, only just loud enough that David can hear him. “I should like to speak to you about it.” The way David straightens and squares his broad shoulders nervously is not lost on him, but he forges ahead. “Her birthday’s in October,” he continues. “I’m going to ask her to marry me then.” His stomach does a flip at this, the first time he’s ever voiced his intent out loud. The words feel so foreign in his mouth, but once he’s said them, he finds that the whole idea seems slightly less scary.

To his credit, David doesn’t look overly surprised, but he does cross his arms and sit back, his expression skeptical. “Are you sure you guys are ready for that?” he asks sternly, also careful to keep his voice down. “That’s a big step. You’ve only been together, what, six months?”

Killian nods solemnly. After learning more about her history in New York, he understands a little better why David is so protective of Emma, and he knows the other man has a point. “How long did it take you to figure out that Mary Margaret was the one?” he asks, remembering what Emma told him about David’s mother’s ring and arching a subtle eyebrow.

David sighs, the hard edge disappearing from his expression as his eyes betray him, glinting with the contentment of a happily married man. “Less than a month,” he admits, unable to begrudge his answer. “I think part of me knew on Day One.” He grunts and leans forward, elbows on his knees, using his right hand to turn his gold wedding band around on his finger thoughtfully. “You’re my friend,” he says at length, “You’re a good guy, and I like you a lot. But Emma is basically family to me and Mary Margaret.” He points a finger at Killian, eyebrows raised, though his attempt to sound grim falls slightly short. “I know it’s cliché, but I’m obligated to make this clear. If you hurt her, we’re coming after you.”

Killian nods again, inwardly rejoicing at his friend’s unspoken consent but only allowing himself a small conciliatory smile. “Understood. I’ve no desire to get on your bad side, mate.”

David snorts and takes a swig from his beer bottle. “Have you ever made a pregnant woman angry? It’s terrifying. Mary Margaret’s the one you should worry about.” He shrugs. “All I have to do is not hold her back.”

* * *

As much fun as seeing New York with Killian was, Emma is glad to return home to their condo, to their space and their bed and their things. She’s even a little chipper about the prospect of being useful at work again instead of spending another day creating a pressure ulcer over her tailbone in a lecture hall. She’s assigned to do consults at the hospital this month, which has decent hours and gives her some flexibility in her workflow during the day, as opposed to the unforgiving go-go-go schedule of a busy clinic, and it makes for an easy transition back from her time away. She and Killian settle back into their routines, and the week goes by uneventfully.

Her cell phone rings late in the afternoon on Thursday as Emma sits in an otherwise empty physician workroom at the hospital, entering notes from her consultations into the computer system. She raises an eyebrow when she sees the name and picture on the phone display. Mary Margaret usually doesn’t call when she knows Emma is working.

“Hi, Mary Margaret,” she says, cradling the phone between her head and shoulder as she signs the note she’s just completed and cues up the next one.

“Hi, Emma.” The relatively calm tone of her friend’s voice is reassuring. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Um… no. You’re good.” Emma clicks a few check boxes and begins typing up a description of a physical exam on a patient she saw earlier in the day with an infection in the bones of his foot. “What’s up?”

“I just got home from my latest doctor’s appointment. They said my blood pressure was a little higher than usual. They even rechecked it to make sure they read it right,” Mary Margaret says. “My OB didn’t mention it, but I wanted to know if it meant anything. I’d ask David, but he’s got his hands full in the cardiac cath lab all day today, and I don’t want to worry him if it’s nothing.”

Emma frowns and stops typing. “How high was it?”

“132 over 84, I think? I usually run lower than that. I asked the nurse about it, but she said it was still in normal range.”

Emma opens a web browser window on her computer and does a quick search in a physician’s medical database, acutely aware of the fact that she hasn’t had to remember the ins and outs of caring for a pregnant woman since her third year of medical school. She alights on the article she’s looking for and skims it for the pertinent information she wants. “It’s on the high side,” she agrees, reading quickly, “But yes, still technically nothing to do anything about. Did they get a urine sample today?”

“Yes. Why?” A bit of apprehension seeps into Mary Margaret’s voice.

“They’re screening you for a condition called preeclampsia, where your blood pressure runs too high and you leak too much protein into your urine,” Emma explains. “It can lead to other problems, so OBs are pretty vigilant about watching for it.”

“Oh.” Mary Margaret only sounds marginally reassured. “What kind of blood pressure is too high?”

“They have to get a reading of at least 140 over 90 and find a certain amount of protein in your urine or some other abnormality on your blood work to make a diagnosis,” Emma says soothingly. “There are other reasons your blood pressure may have been higher. Were you stressed about something?”

Mary Margaret chuffs. “Oh, the usual. Traffic downtown was a bear, and I was already running late for the appointment because I got lunch all over my favorite maternity blouse earlier and had to change.” She sighs disgustedly. “What is it about pregnancy that makes me unable to eat anything without spilling it on myself?”

Emma chuckles. “We can get you one of those giant bibs the next time we go out for seafood.”

“Hey, don’t joke,” Mary Margaret chides. “This might be you one day.”

Emma blinks and smiles weakly, her gaze falling to the desk in front of her. “Uh-huh.”

“I know you, Emma,” her friend says, clearly rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. “Now that you and Killian are serious, I bet you’re going to start dreaming about a white picket fence life.”

Emma sits back from her computer and bites her lip. She doesn’t doubt her love for Killian or his love for her, but she hasn’t let herself think that far ahead, she realizes. She supposes that part of her is still afraid that what they have is too good to be true. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”

There’s a pause. “Would you marry him?”

The answer is instantaneous in her mind, but it takes a while for it to make it to her lips. “Yes,” she answers softly. “I would.”

Mary Margaret hums triumphantly. “Well, give it time. That man loves you -really loves you. Maybe someday you guys will decide to tie the knot. And then maybe you’ll decide to start a family.” She laughs. “And then, when you’re pregnant, you’ll be the one who needs a bib.”

Emma chuckles in spite of herself. “We’ll see,” she manages. She clears her throat. “When does the OB want to see you back?” She scoots back up to the computer and clicks over to her patient note to resume her work before the system times out.

To her relief, Mary Margaret allows her to return to their original topic of conversation. “Two to three weeks,” she tells her. “So I shouldn’t worry about this?”

“Not right now. You can get a blood pressure monitor to check your readings at home if it makes you feel better, though.”

“I’ll talk to David about it.” There’s a grin in Mary Margaret’s voice. “Thanks for your help. I was worried.”

Emma’s lips tug into a smile. “Mm-hmm. Anytime.”

* * *

Killian returns to his office after his Friday class, lifting his messenger bag over his head with his left forearm and lowering it down onto a chair next to his desk while he pulls his phone out to check his messages. There’s a new text from Elsa waiting for him, and he opens it eagerly. It’s been two weeks since their return from New York, and his hunt for Emma’s ring is in full swing now, with Mary Margaret, Elsa, and Belle quietly recruited to help. They’ve been group-texting him photos and web links, scouring jewelry store catalogs and the internet for the perfect ring that will suit Emma’s taste and which has a shallow-enough profile that she’ll be able to wear her surgical gloves over it if she wishes without too much risk of snagging or tearing. The women have sent him a couple dozen ideas, with Killian’s feedback helping to steadily narrow the scope of their search. He’s incredibly grateful for their enthusiastic help, and they’ve made good progress, but he’s becoming more and more convinced that the ring he wants for Emma will need to be custom made. He’s already been in touch with Elsa’s Aunt Ingrid, an amazing local jeweler whose graceful custom designs and penchant for working with diamonds has earned her the nickname “Ice Queen," and Ingrid tells him that, while she can prioritize a ring for Emma, she still needs four to eight weeks depending on the design, leaving Killian painfully aware that his window for having a ring created and ready in time for Emma’s birthday grows smaller with each passing day.

When he opens the text from Elsa, however, and examines through the photos she’s sent him, he sucks in a breath, and it’s as if his anxieties never existed. This is it. Emma’s friend has done it – she’s taken Killian’s input on all the previous suggestions and figured out exactly what he wants. He flips back and forth between photos of two separate rings, Elsa’s text suggesting he combine the designs into one. An enormous smile pulls his cheeks up to his ears. Her idea is surprisingly simple, gorgeous but understated, and incorporates a special element that he thinks will touch Emma’s heart the way it does his. He blinks away the moisture in the corner of his eye and proceeds to text back.

Bloody brilliant, lass. Just perfect. I’ll see what Ingrid can do with this. I owe all you ladies a debt of thanks.

As an slew of excited return texts beginning popping in from all three friends, he brings up the phone number for Ingrid’s shop and makes an appointment for the first available time she has the following Monday, when Emma will be at work. A gratified sigh escapes him when he hangs up the phone. This is real, he thinks. The first step toward a life with Emma Swan.

His joy is colored by a bolt of bittersweet melancholy as he suddenly finds himself missing Liam in this moment and wishing that his brother could be here to watch him take this journey. He knows how happy Liam would be for him, how he’d approve of Emma, but it doesn’t change the fact that Liam cannot actually be there to share in his happiness or to meet the woman he loves, the woman who saved him from his life of self-imposed isolation and sorrow. Killian folds his lips regretfully as he collects some folders he needs to review and shoves them into his bag. Pulling the bag strap over his head, he locks the office door behind him as he trudges out. Perhaps his Friday afternoon run will help quiet his heart. If it doesn’t, having Emma come home to him tonight will.

His run does indeed help clear his head and ease his mood, and, as an added bonus, it gives him time to decide how he’s going to determine Emma’s ring size. He hustles to get cleaned up afterward, realizing that his plan requires he make an extra stop on his way out and that he beat Emma home, but he’s fueled now by excitement and adrenaline from his little covert operation. He always did love a good caper.

* * *

“I’m home!” Emma calls, setting her keys down and slipping off her sneakers. She looks around. “Killian?”

“Here, love.” Killian emerges from the bedroom in his lounge clothes. He pauses in the hallway as she comes to meet him, laying her hand on his chest and kissing him sweetly. His face is still lit up when she pulls back, and he beams at her warmly. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” she says simply. “You?” She passes him and heads for the bedroom to change out of her scrubs, knowing he’ll tail her.

“Uh, productive,” he answers, rubbing the back of his head with his stump. He leans against the door jamb.

“Yeah?” Emma sheds her pants, scrub top, and socks, tossing them in the hamper. “Good class?” She enjoys the appreciative way he eyes her as she stands in front of the dresser in her underwear, fishing a T-shirt and lounge pants out of the drawers.

He grins. “Yeah.”

“Good.” She smiles and hastily throws her clothes on, pulling her ponytail through the neck of her shirt. “Pasta for dinner? I have a new recipe I want to try.”

He approaches and pulls her to him for a quick peck on the cheek. “Sounds lovely, Swan. Do you require the services of your one-handed sous-chef?”

She chuckles knowingly. “Is the gold medal match for men’s soccer still on tonight?”

He tsks. “Football, love. Football. And yes.”

Emma hums. “Go turn it on. I’ll let you know if I need help. Though,” she grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him forward into an aggressive kiss that leaves her with a pleasant tingle low in her belly and him with a goofy smile on his face, “I may require other services of yours later.”

Dinner turns out rather well, though not before Emma, in a moment of distraction when the match between Brazil and Germany gets intense and she and Killian are both hollering at the TV, sustains a steam burn to her right wrist from the pasta water. Killian somehow hears her hiss despite the roar of the Olympic stadium crowds on the television, and he cranes his neck around to look at her. “Love?”

“It’s okay,” she calls, glaring at her forearm and moving to the sink to run cool water over her scalded skin. “It’s just a burn.”

He frowns. “Are you sure?”

Emma gives him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

When they settle down at the table for dinner, however, Killian gently goads her into showing him her burn. “Let me see,” he insists firmly. Emma allows him to pull her right arm toward him, and he examines her wrist with a look of consternation, inspecting the two-inch expanse of flesh which has now turned a dusky pink. “That looks painful, love,” he says sympathetically. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“It stings pretty bad,” she admits, touched by the concerned expression on his face. She won’t deny that she loves it when he dotes on her; Killian is constantly disproving the notion she entertained most of her childhood that no one would ever put her first. “I’ve got some numbing cream and aloe I can put on it on it after dinner.”

This seems to satisfy him for the moment, and he doesn’t mention it for the rest of their meal, but when the dishes are cleared and leftovers put away, he pauses the Olympic track event she wants to watch and instructs her to go get her creams. Her heart melts when she flops down onto the couch next to him and he unpauses the TV for her, steals the medication tubes from her hand, and carefully pulls her arm, wrist facing upward, across his lap.

“Lidocaine first, yeah?” he asks, holding up the numbing medication.

Emma grins and gives him a nod, the corner of her lip between her teeth as he unscrews the cap and dabs the cream over her burn with the cautious whisper of a touch. As amazingly gentle as he is, she still has to make an effort not to wince. She's thankful when the medication takes effect and the pain rapidly fades a minute later, and she indicates for him go ahead with the aloe.

Now temporarily numbed against the pain, the burning she starts to feel when he slathers her skin with the aloe vera gel is of a different nature entirely. Though she can’t actually feel his touch over the surface of the burn, the brush of his fingertips around it, the excessive focus he shows in this simple task, and the thoughtful hum he makes as he works oh-so-slowly makes her stomach flutter. She has no idea what’s happening on the television screen at this point, to be honest, nor does she really care.

He seems gleeful about how much he’s distracting her when he sets the medicines aside and lifts her wrist toward his mouth. “All better, love?”

Used as she should be by now to being seduced by Killian Jones, she still gulps a little when he gives her a wily grin and presses his lips to the heel of her hand just beyond the burn. He doesn’t stop there, dropping more soft kisses around the burn, careful to avoid her injury, and lifting her arm steadily higher as he works his way with excruciating delicacy down toward the crook of her elbow. God.

“Now,” he says between kisses, “You mentioned something about having need of my other services this evening?”

She whimpers and nods, licking her lips, her breathing now completely beyond her control.

He lowers her arm and leans in, pausing when his lips are less than an inch from her own. “Or did you want to watch the races first?”

“What races?” she mutters, and she barely registers the way he smiles right before she seizes his lips with her own and winds her hands in the front of his T-shirt, collapsing sideways and pulling him down on top of her.

They make out frantically like teenagers, groping and sighing and breaking apart just long enough to strip out of their clothes. Killian swears under his breath as he grinds against her, his nose buried in the valley of her breasts, dragging his lips back and forth between the pale freckles she has there like he’s connecting the dots while he plucks at her nipple with his fingers. Emma mewls and writhes beneath him, every atom in her body focused on her desire for him. She braces his hips with her thighs and presses a heel into his ass in a not-so-subtle hint to get on with it, and his amused rumble only makes her want him more, if such a thing is possible. “I need you,” she murmurs.

“And I you,” he answers, and the singular moment when his teasing smile falls away and his face is eerily solemn is nearly lost on her once he finds her entrance and pushes himself home.

He makes love to her three times before the evening is over, once on the couch and twice more in their bed, and he finally rolls off her after their third climax, panting hard, smoothing the damp hair back from his forehead, and looking beautifully devastated. Emma scoots to close the gap of inches that separates them and rests her hand over his fluttering heart, allowing herself to fall asleep dreaming, for the first time, about spending the rest of her life next to him.

* * *

Sated and pleasantly exhausted, Killian forces himself to stay awake as Emma drifts off at his side, her peaceful hint of a smile fading when sleep overtakes her. Their room is dark, but there’s enough moonlight shining through the window on his side of the bed to allow him to study her without difficulty. He’s sure she’s unconscious, but he allows his eyes to linger over her face for a few extra minutes, soaking up the way her long lashes rest on the tops of her cheeks, the subtle shadows cast by her cheekbones, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the wild spill of her sex-tousled hair over her shoulder. He holds his breath as she moves a little, thankful for once that she rolls slightly away from him, her left hand dragging from the edge of his chest to his left bicep. Killian reaches over and eases his fingers beneath hers, delicately moving her hand even further over so that it rests instead on the swell of her pillow with her fingers a bit spread. When she fails to stir at this, he rotates back toward his nightstand, maneuvering the drawer open as silently as he can manage and gingerly reaching inside for the small set of digital calipers he swiped from one of his engineering labs this afternoon following his run and which he'd managed to stow away mere seconds before Emma came home. The stainless steel is cool against his skin, and after a split-second of inspiration, he warms the jaws of the calipers in his palm before switching the display dial on and reaching his arm back over his chest, ever-so-slowly stretching toward Emma’s hand. He’s always been cool under pressure, but despite this, his wrist trembles a little, and he pauses to take a steadying breath before he lowers the caliper jaws so they span the large joint of her ring finger. He inches the jaws together with his thumb, holding his breath again as they press lightly to her skin. To his great relief, she remains still, the steady pace of her breathing undisturbed. Killian smirks with satisfaction, noting the number on the dial, and carefully removes the device, stealthily returning it to the drawer with Emma none the wiser. Mission accomplished.

He takes the calipers with him to his appointment with the Ingrid the following Monday. Elegant, soft-spoken, and bearing the same white-blonde hair as her niece, she puts him at ease almost immediately and patiently sets about sketching out various aspects of the ring right before his eyes. It’s a longer process than he anticipated, settling on the details of the design and choosing the stones from a glittering array of loose gems, but seeing her drawings on paper and the diamonds they set aside makes him giddy, this beautiful creation for Emma another step closer to becoming reality. When they’ve got most of the other details settled, Ingrid asks him if he knows Emma’s ring size, and Killian grins and asks if knowing the diameter of her finger will be enough, pulling out the calipers and giving them a little jiggle as he holds them up. Ingrid laughs at how engineer-like his approach to this problem was and nods, assuring him that she can probably work with that.

* * *

It’s the first of September when David calls Emma in the late evening, long after she’s returned home from her next-to-last day on the consult service.

“Emma,” he says, sounding calm but concerned, “Mary Margaret had another OB appointment today.”

Emma freezes. “What happened?” Her sharp tone of voice causes Killian, who’s seated beside her on the couch, to frown and mute the television.

“Her pressures have been borderline, but they went high today, and there’s new protein in her urine,” David says soberly.

Emma swallows. “Preeclampsia.”

“Yeah.” There’s a tired-sounding sigh on the other end. “It’s borderline, but yeah. She says her BP was 145 over 93 in clinic today. Her OB thought about admitting her overnight to the hospital for further evaluation, but he figures we’re reliable enough to manage at home for now. He’s okay with frequent home BP monitoring and watchful waiting for now unless anything shows up on today’s blood draw. They’re going to call with the results first thing in the morning.”

Emma thinks quickly. “She’s only, what, 29 weeks right now?”

David clears his throat. “30 come Monday. Most women get it after 34 weeks, but ten percent of cases are early-onset like this. It makes her higher risk for complications. She’ll have blood work every week from now on, and she’s got another ultrasound tomorrow to recheck the baby’s growth and make sure she’s got enough amniotic fluid.”

“Okay.” Emma bites her lip and rubs a hand on Killian’s thigh, as if trying to reassure both herself and him. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s worried of course,” David answers. “She freaked out a little in the beginning, but she’s doing what she always does now – taking charge, holding on to hope, doing what needs to be done.”

Emma smiles a little at the pride that finds its way into his voice. “And you?”

“I’ll be alright as long as she and the baby get through this okay.”

Emma nods. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Will you keep me up to speed and let me know if there’s anything we can do?”

“Of course.”

When she hangs up, she feels Killian’s stump slide across her shoulder blades, and she sighs heavily as she drops her phone on couch beside her and presses herself into his side. “Mary Margaret’s got preeclampsia.”

He nods. “I heard. What’s it mean for her and the baby?”

“Just closer monitoring for now,” she answers. “But there are all sorts of potential complications, and things can get ugly pretty fast. They’re both at risk.” She shivers involuntarily as she remembers reading about all the organ systems that could be damaged when Mary Margaret called her two weeks ago, and her eyes grow a little wet.

Whether he can feel her stuttering breath or hear the anxiety in her voice, Killian seems attuned to the fear that is suddenly wrapping itself around her heart, and he puts his other arm around her and shifts back on the couch cushion, pulling her with him so her head is resting on his chest.

Emma hums grimly. “The only cure is to deliver the baby. If she were farther along, they’d just deliver him now, but it’s still really early. Technically, with the right care, babies as early as 22 weeks can survive, but the more premature the baby, the higher the risk of complications that could threaten his life.” She closes her eyes as she feels Killian run his fingers through her hair and kiss her temple. “They ran some lab tests today to see if there are any signs of early organ damage or blood cell abnormalities. If there are, she’ll probably have to be hospitalized for more tests and closer monitoring. If there aren’t, she’ll be okay to just watch her blood pressure at home and have repeat blood tests and doctor’s appointments once or twice a week to watch for the first signs of trouble.”

Killian nods slowly. “Well, we shall hope for the latter then.”

Chapter Text

Their short-term prayers are answered the following day, first when David texts in the morning to let Emma know that Mary Margaret’s blood tests are okay, and later in the afternoon, when Mary Margaret texts that everything looks alright on the ultrasound.

At her OB’s (and David’s) insistence, Mary Margaret reluctantly agrees to take sick leave until the baby is born, which, when combined with maternity leave, effectively puts her out for the entire first half of the school year. Though she’s now tied up one afternoon a week at the doctor’s office to have the baby’s heart rate evaluated, measure his growth, and get her lab tests done, the combination of all the extra free time and her inability to do anything strenuous that might exacerbate her blood pressure causes her to go stir-crazy within the first two weeks.

“I feel like I’ve been benched,” she grouses to Emma one evening in late September on speakerphone. “All I do is hang around the house and try to keep my feet up and drink fluids and pee and drink fluids and pee some more.”

Emma smiles as she sorts laundry. “I know. Just remember this the next time you’re counting down the days until summer vacation.”

“I’ve already watched everything in my Netflix queue,” Mary Margaret adds with a grumble, “And David’s never eaten so well in his life with all the cooking I’ve been doing.”

Emma allows herself to laugh. “Maybe you need a new hobby. Knitting?”

There’s a snort. “I already started. I’m still getting the hang of it, but you all are probably getting ugly scarves from me for Christmas.”

Emma tosses panties in her underwear drawer with a snicker. “Trashy romance novels?”

“I thought you said I was supposed to keep my blood pressure down.”

“I don’t know! Crafts? Decoupage? Legos?” She adds another folded T-shirt to a neat pile.

“Legos?” Mary Margaret repeats incredulously.

“Hey, don’t knock it. I saw a Lego model of Hogwarts the other day on YouTube, and it was amazing.”

“Right,” her friend says, laughing. “Well, maybe I’ll consider it around week 35.”

“Is there anything left to do for the nursery?” Emma asks.

Mary Margaret actually pauses to consider. “We’ve got a rocking chair and the changing table, but the crib and bassinet are on back-order and won’t here until next month. David painted last week. I was thinking I might get some cute appliqués for the walls though. You know, trees, birds, woodland creatures.”

“Hey, there you go,” Emma replies cheerfully, making a mental note to get some stuffed animals that match the nursery’s forest theme. “That sounds great.”

“I guess,” Mary Margaret agrees. “I just can’t wait until my body is my own again and I don’t have to be an invalid anymore.”

Emma smiles sympathetically. “Yeah. Do they still want to deliver you a week early?”

Mary Margaret hums the affirmative. “They said the risks to the baby will be minimal then.”

“So only six weeks to go,” Emma points out.

“Five weeks, three days.” Mary Margaret shoots back. “Not that I’m counting.”

* * *

The text from Ingrid notifying Killian that Emma’s ring is ready (and phrased cryptically in case Emma should somehow see it on his phone) arrives a week into October. He goes to pick it up on Tuesday afternoon after his classes are out, eagerly fidgeting in the car on the drive to the shop. There are a few other patrons browsing the jewelry cases when the bell announces his entrance, but it’s only a moment before Ingrid comes to greet him and gestures for him to follow her to the main counter.

“It’s spectacular,” she says demurely, sounding quite pleased. “I think Emma’s going to love it.”

He watches with bated breath as Ingrid unlocks the sliding door of a cabinet next to the cash register and retrieves a black velvet ring box. She snaps in open and presents it to him, and he completely misses the delighted smile on her face as his eyes lock on to the contents.

The gorgeous one-carat round diamond they had selected back in August is now encircled by a bevy of smaller diamonds in a modern halo setting, the stones sparkling so brilliantly under the light from the overhead halogen fixtures that it’s almost magical. The polished gold shank of the ring is designed to look like it consists of two fine ropes running next to one another, the ropes separating only on either side of the diamond setting, as if they’re cradling it. It’s simple and mesmerizingly beautiful, and his lips part in awe as he takes in this small treasure that is to adorn the finger of his beloved. He swallows thickly. “Were you able to…”

“Of course.” Ingrid gently pries the ring out of the box and holds it upside down for his inspection.

At the bottom of the shank, opposite the diamond, the ropes appear to intertwine in a true lover’s knot, the kind often seen historically in sailors’ wedding rings. He thinks about the fact that Emma will see this knot every time she looks at her palm, hopefully to be reminded that he has bound his heart and soul to hers. Tears sting Killian’s eyes, and he blinks several times to clear them as Ingrid motions for him to take the ring. He grasps it carefully between his fingers and contemplates it silently for a few more moments, turning it this way and that to admire it from every angle.

“You like it?” Ingrid says. It’s more of an observation than a question.

He manages to nod. “It’s perfect, lass,” he croaks, “Incredible.”

Ingrid smiles softly. “I can tell that you love her. People don’t get emotional over a piece of jewelry unless they associate it with something very meaningful to them.”

Killian nods again, glancing at the true lover’s knot one more time before returning the ring to the box. “Aye.”

“Do you know how you’re going to ask her?” She pulls out a silver striped gift bag and tucks some tissue paper and an envelope containing the diamond certificates and other associated paperwork into it, subsequently holding the bag open so he can settle the ring box inside.

“Our first kiss was overlooking the Potomac,” he explains. “I thought I’d treat her to dinner at a restaurant by the river for her birthday and then take her on a walk by the water afterward.” He shivers at the idea that he’s only weeks away from offering Emma this token and asking her to be his forever.

Ingrid beams. “That sounds wonderful. Elsa speaks so highly of her; it’s nice to know she has someone who loves her like you do.” She lifts the bag by its little braided cord handles and hands it over. “Good luck with everything, Killian.”

He hides the ring overnight in the emergency kit he keeps in his SUV, buried beneath a folded survival blanket, granola bars, and his small first-aid kit. This strikes him as being less risky than attempting to find a place in their condo where Emma won’t accidentally happen upon it. The following day, however, he grows anxious about the idea of leaving it in the car, frequently unattended, for over two weeks, and, feeling a bit like a paranoid squirrel with a nut, he moves it again, smuggling it into his office at the Academy.

He holes it up in the back of his desk drawer right next to the sticky note he still keeps with Emma’s cell phone number on it, the one he made during their first phone conversation nearly a year ago. The sight of the ring box sitting next to the sticky note gives him a lopsided grin. He’d never have dreamt back when he wrote down her phone number and doodled the swan next to it that he’d be preparing to propose to her ten months later – not because he couldn’t have anticipated falling in love with her, but because he would not have believed she would or should love him back the way she does. He’s still not sure whether he can ever truly be worthy of her, but she’s given him the courage to devote the rest of his life to trying to find out.

* * *

“I need a favor,” Emma announces after emerging from their bedroom, having just wrapped up another call with Mary Margaret. Still grasping her phone, she plunges her hands into the pockets of her US Navy hoodie. The warm nights of summer are just beginning to abandon them, and there’s a relative chill in the air this evening.

Killian, seated in his club chair with his laptop balanced on his knees, looks up from the screen. “Love?”

She plants a solid smooch on his cheek as she passes, moving to the couch. “What are your plans for Saturday?” She grabs her own laptop from the coffee table and folds a leg under her as she sits.

He shrugs. “Nothing that can’t be moved. Why?”

“I may have volunteered you to help assemble baby stuff for Mary Margaret.” She knows he’ll be fine with it, but she still bites her lip and gives a contrite wince as an apology. “It’s just that David is terrible at it,” she explains hurriedly. “She says he’s got pieces of stuff scattered all over the place, and she really doesn’t want a replay of The Great IKEA Disaster of 2012.” Emma makes a show of shuddering at the memory of David’s epic battle against the cursed media cabinet that ended up functioning only as a monument to broken dreams and bad directions. “And it kind of occurred to us that deciphering schematics and building stuff is more your thing.”

Killian’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “That’s fine, love. I can lend David a hand.”

“Oh, no,” Emma clarifies. “David won’t be there. Trust me, it’d be very entertaining, but it’ll go faster without him. That’s why we’re going over there Saturday, when he’s on-call in the ICU.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “And he won’t be put out knowing that Mary Margaret called for back-up?”

Emma grins at how concerned Killian is with David’s feelings. Bromance. “Honestly? He’ll probably be more relieved that it’s all done and he doesn’t have to spend another minute looking at diagrams or figuring out the difference between ‘washer F’ and ‘washer G’.” She shrugs. “If he’s upset, Mary Margaret will just tell him that we came by to bring stuff for the baby and you offered to help and she couldn’t tell you no.” She blinks when she sees the slow smile that illuminates Killian’s face. “What?” she laughs.

“It’s nothing, love,” he says with a little shake of his head, setting his computer aside and coming over to join her on the couch, leaning in for a kiss. “It’s just that some days I forget how devious you can be.”

* * *

Killian and Emma head for David and Mary Margaret’s after lunch on Saturday. Emma brings along an over-sized paper gift bag loaded with three stuffed toys – a raccoon, a bunny, and an owl – and a throw pillow that looks like a toadstool for the nursery. Killian brings a small toolkit, just in case.

Mary Margaret greets them both with side-hugs and makes a special point to thank him for his help.

“It’s no trouble, Milady,” he says with a wink. “Where would you like me to start?”

She points them upstairs to the nursery, a nice-sized bedroom down the hall from her and David’s. It’s painted a calming shade of pale pistachio green, and decals on the walls suggest a tranquil forest scene, with stylized white silhouettes of trees, flying birds, and even a deer artistically positioned around the room. Thick white curtains are pulled back on either side of the picture window to let in the afternoon sun, and a wooden rocking chair with a cushioned pad tied to it sits in the corner, draped with a white knit baby blanket edged in green ribbon. The tranquility of all these decorative elements is offset, however, by the relative chaos of partly-assembled furniture that sits in the middle of the thick-pile rug. Killian raises an eyebrow as he discerns two distinct messes in the jumble of honey-colored wood pieces, one presumably the bassinet and the other the crib, and he scratches the back of his head with his stump.

“See?” is all Mary Margaret has to say as she brings up the rear of their trio.

Killian nods. “Aye, lass. You were right to call.” He locates the assembly instructions for each piece in separate corners of the floor, and seats himself in the rocking chair to study them, pulling off his leather jacket and setting it aside.

It doesn’t take him long to assess the little progress David has already made, and he soon moves to the floor to organize the remaining parts, while Emma shows Mary Margaret the gifts she’s brought for the baby. There’s a fair amount of cooing at how cute everything is before they decide to leave Killian in peace and head down to the kitchen where Mary Margaret has a batch of cookies ready to go into the oven.

The crib is fully constructed and he’s started in on the bassinet by the time Emma climbs back up the stairs and appears in the nursery doorway bearing a small plate of chocolate chip cookies, a little over half-an-hour later.

Her eyebrows leap upward as she surveys his progress. “Wow. You’re fast,” she says, openly impressed.

He looks up from where he’s kneeling on the rug, hunched over the bassinet instructions, and flashes her a smile. “These aren’t exactly complicated, Swan.” He grabs an L-wrench and secures another bolt in what will be the base of the bassinet. “Between you and me, I’m not sure how it is that a man as intelligent as David can’t figure these instructions out.”

“He thinks he’s smarter than the instructions,” she replies, holding the plate out to him.

“Ah.” Killian gratefully grabs a cookie and takes a bite, enjoying the familiar chocolaty chew before hastily swallowing. “Well, no worries, love,” he says, gesturing with cookie in-hand to the rest of the bassinet components that he has spread out and organized on the rug. “I should be done here shortly and on to the next thing.”

“Things,” Emma corrects him, leaning on the “s”. “There’s a motorized swing and a stroller. Babies need a lot of stuff.”

He chuckles. “Of course. Very well.”

Emma sets the plate down next to him. “I’m going to grab Mary Margaret’s blood pressure cuff. She got dizzy for a second right before we put the cookies in the oven, and it went away pretty quick, but I want to check her anyway.” She gives him a quick kiss and slips back out the door, heading for the master bedroom.

Smiling after her, Killian pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth and resumes his work.

Mere moments later, a cry comes from downstairs. Killian pauses, unsure of what he just heard, but then Mary Margaret’s voice is more distinct as she yells for Emma with such raw panic that his blood runs cold.

Clearly, Emma hears it too, because the next sound is the muffled thumping of her feet as she hurries out of the master bedroom and flies past the door to the nursery on her way down the stairs. Killian jumps to his feet and follows.

He chases her to the kitchen, where they find Mary Margaret sitting on the floor with her back against the refrigerator, her hands cradling her belly and her face contorted in a mixture of alarm and anguish.

“Mary Margaret!” Emma kneels at her side, eyes wide and fearful, the pink disappearing from her cheeks as she velcroes the blood pressure monitor hastily around Mary Margaret’s wrist and hits the button.

“What’s wrong, lass?” he asks.

Mary Margaret hisses, her shoulders trembling. “My back,” she chokes out. “And my belly. The baby…”

“Pain?” Emma asks sharply, laying a hand across her friend’s stomach.

Mary Margaret manages a nod.

“Could be a contraction or something else,” Emma says to him grimly, while Mary Margaret whimpers and tries to breathe, a tear slipping down her cheek as she closes her eyes. “We need to get her to the hospital.” Emma turns back to Mary Margaret, her voice dropping and becoming a little gentler. “Which hospital are you supposed to deliver at?”

Mary Margaret breathes through pursed lips. “Sibley Memorial.”

“How long does it take to get there?” Emma glances at the blood pressure reading, and Killian can see her jaw clench a little tighter.

“A-a-about 20 minutes.” She looks at Emma with enormous red-rimmed eyes and gives little guppy gasps. “What’s happening? Is the baby okay?”

If the panic bordering on hysteria on Mary Margaret’s face doesn’t already break Killian’s heart, the helpless look on Emma’s does. She leans in and cups her friend’s cheek in her hand, placing a fierce kiss on the top of her head. “I don’t know,” she answers honestly, her own voice cracking. “We’re going to do everything we can take care of you both.” Emma takes a deep breath, and the way she looks back up at Killian, her brow creased and her gaze a little distant, he can tell that she’s thinking furiously. A second later, she answers her private conundrum aloud. “We should get an ambulance,” she decides, pulling out her cell phone and calling 9-1-1. “With the baby and all the water weight from her swelling, she’s probably too heavy to easily carry to the car, and they’ll be able to at least get some oxygen on her and place an IV en route.” She presses the phone to her ear. “Killian, can you call David?”

“Aye.” Killian pulls out his own phone and dials, stepping a few feet out of the kitchen as Emma starts talking to the dispatch operator in a calm but no-nonsense tone. In his ear, the phone rings four times before going to David’s voicemail, and he sighs impatiently. “Mate, it’s Killian. Emma and I are with Mary Margaret, and she’s having bad pain. We’re getting an ambulance to take her to Sibley Memorial. Call us.” He hangs up and sends David a quick text for good measure.

When he returns to the kitchen, Emma is off the phone and rechecking Mary Margaret’s blood pressure. Mary Margaret appears slightly more comfortable at the moment but is still panting. Emma instructs him to turn the porch light on so the ambulance can locate the house quickly and then to find the “go” bag that Mary Margaret has had packed and standing by for the day when she would have to rush to the hospital. He hustles to follow her orders, finding the switch for the porch light and flicking it on before bolting upstairs to find the bag. The little periwinkle duffle is easily spotted next to the master bedroom door, and he has the forethought to duck into the nursery to grab his coat with his car keys in the pocket before he thunders back downstairs.

Emma is doing her best to keep Mary Margaret calm, the both of them still on the floor when he returns. When he holds up the bag, she gives him a grateful nod and gestures for him to hand her Mary Margaret’s purse off the kitchen desk. Emma digs out her friend’s keys, wallet, and phone, tossing him the keys and setting the rest of the purse aside. “When the ambulance comes, I’ll ride with her. Can you lock up and follow us? And bring her bag with you.”

Mary Margaret is in the throes of another jolt of abdominal pain when the EMTs arrive a few minutes later, and Killian greets them on the porch and directs them to the kitchen, trailing behind them as they maneuver their wheeled stretcher through the house.

Emma stands to meet them when she hears the thunk of thick-soled shoes and the rattle of the stretcher approaching. She squares her shoulders and sticks out her hand. “Dr. Emma Swan,” she says quickly, grasping the first EMT’s hand brusquely. “I’m a surgeon at Walter Reed. This is my friend, Mary Margaret Nolan.”

The mention of her title and the way she takes charge of the situation secures their attention immediately. The first EMT, a burly middle-aged man with a graying moustache, crouches down to Mary Margaret’s eye level and starts to assess her. “What’s going on?”

“She’s 34 weeks with pre-eclampsia,” Emma tells them. “She’s been stable for the last month and feeling well, and her last check-up was Thursday. She started having severe back and abdominal pain about 15 minutes ago. BP’s 190 over 110, heart rate 130s. She needs to go to Sibley.”

The EMT nods his understanding as he double-checks Mary Margaret’s vitals with his own equipment. “How’s the pain, Ma’am?”

Mary Margaret tries to smile before her features twist in another round of agony and she moans. “Not good.”

The EMT looks up at Emma. “What was she doing when it happened?”

“We were sitting and chatting over cookies,” Emma tells him. “I ran upstairs for a minute, and when I came down, she was here.”

“I was trying to go to the toilet,” Mary Margaret ekes out.

Emma and Killian step back as the EMTs lower the stretcher to the floor and lift their friend onto it. Emma gasps, and Killian follows her eye to the spot where their Mary Margaret was just sitting. His heart rears up into his throat at what he sees.

“Blood,” Emma barks, the calm tone of voice that she’s managed to maintain up until now all but shattering. She points. “She’s bleeding.”

“What?” Mary Margaret cries, trying to sit up. “Where?”

Emma goes to inspect the dark red smears on the tile floor more closely. She swallows. “I think you’re spotting,” she tells Mary Margaret, unable to hide the heartbreak in her eyes. She comes over to squeeze her hand as the EMTs finish strapping her to the stretcher. As Mary Margaret begins to sob quietly, Emma blinks, the sadness and worry on her face morphing into angry, zealous determination. She glances at the EMTs. “Ready to go?” she asks with the authority of a commanding officer.

Killian is thankful when they nod, and Emma releases Mary Margaret’s hand so they can wheel her out. “I’m riding with you,” she calls after them, her tone of voice not inviting any contradiction. Killian grabs Emma’s purse off the counter in order to hand it to her, incredulous when he turns back to see her hauling disinfectant cleaner and a roll of paper towels out of the cabinet beneath the sink and rushing to clean the floor. Her resolute mask slips for a second, and she shudders as she wipes away the blood, trying to avoid getting it in the grout or on her hands.

“Just go, love,” he urges her softly. “We can clean it up later.”

“I’m not letting David see this,” she grits out, a new tremor in her voice now betraying how close to tears she is. She deposits the wad of paper towels in the trash and crumples a few more unused ones into the bin to hide the bloody ones below. “He can’t…” She swipes at her nose with the back of her hand.

Killian comes forward, wraps her in his arms, smoothing her hair against the back of her head, and squeezes her tight, feeling her suck in a ragged breath as she clings to him. He doesn’t want to tell her it’s going to be alright – doesn’t want to insult her intelligence or try to make promises the Universe might not keep. “Okay,” he says simply. “Okay.” He pulls back, hand and stump on her shoulders, and looks her in the eye. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

* * *

The ride to the hospital is relatively quick, but enough time for the EMTs to place an IV in Mary Margaret’s arm and call ahead to the ER to alert them of her blood pressure, which remains sky high. Emma tucks herself as unobtrustively into an unoccupied side seat in the back of the ambulance as she can and holds Mary Margaret’s hand whenever it doesn’t interfere with the EMT’s care.

I’m scared, Mary Margaret mouths to her after another episode of severe belly pain subsides.

Emma wills herself not to cry, folding her lips together and nodding. Yeah, she mouths back as they rock and sway with the movement of the vehicle.

They’re nearly there when David calls Emma’s phone.

“What’s happening?” he demands.

Emma relays the pertinent details to him, grateful that she can do so using clinical terms, which helps her regain some of her calm. While the situation is terrifying however she describes it, the familiarity of medical terminology, which has become her first language in situations like this, helps her feel like she has some control of the situation despite her awareness that she truly has very little. David’s voice is similarly calm as they discuss the situation, but she can hear the worry lacing his words. He asks her a couple of relevant questions before requesting to speak to Mary Margaret. Emma hands her phone over, and stares out the back windows of the ambulance to where Killian’s SUV is tracking them a few cars back, hoping to catch a glimpse of him while she listens to her best friend speak tearfully to her husband. Mary Margaret sniffles as she tries to reassure David that she’ll be alright, that Emma is with her, and that she knows he’ll join them as soon as he can. Her voice cracks when she tells him she loves him and says goodbye, closing her eyes as she hands Emma’s phone back.

“He’ll meet us at the hospital soon,” Emma reiterates, “He’s calling in one of the other cardiology fellows to cover him in the ICU.”

Mary Margaret nods numbly. “Am I going to lose the baby, Emma?”

Emma swallows hard. “Not if we can help it,” she promises, trying to manage a reassuring smile. “Let’s get your blood pressure down and figure out what’s going on, okay? How do you feel? Are you still having pain?”

“Yeah.”

“In your back and abdomen still?”

“And my head,” Mary Margaret says, her forehead furrowed. “My head is killing me.”

Emma shares a worried look with the EMT. “When did that start?”

“When I was talking to David just now.” Mary Margaret hisses, her eyes still clamped shut, and says something very unladylike under her breath.

In any other circumstance, Emma would be amused by the less obvious aspects of her friend’s vocabulary, but the weight of her dread grows heavier now with this new development. “Are you having chest pain?”

Mary Margaret takes a moment before she says, “I don’t think so.”

“Shortness of breath?”

“It’s kind of hard to tell right now,” she answers, still breathing rather quickly. “Maybe.”

The EMT holds up a clear plastic oxygen mask. “Let’s slip this on, Mrs. Nolan,” he says calmly, and Emma notices Mary Margaret’s oxygen level on the portable monitor has dropped to 91%. Mary Margaret gives Emma a questioning glance while she allows him to fit the mask over her nose and mouth and secure it with the elastic strap over the back of her head. The mask immediately fogs up with the moisture from her breath. Emma gives her hand another squeeze and an encouraging nod, even though it feels as though her stomach has turned to lead.

* * *

Killian is unsure how easily he’ll be able to meet up with Emma and Mary Margaret once he arrives at the hospital, but despite everything that she has to deal with at the moment, Emma anticipates his need and texts him to stay in the waiting room until someone comes to get him. He lowers himself into a squat chair in a geometric print, Mary Margaret’s blue bag resting at his feet, and texts to let Emma know that he’s arrived. A heavy sigh escapes him as he glances around the spacious and airy waiting area that is so pleasant and generic that it could pass for an office reception area or an airline executive lounge, and his eyes quickly fall to his shoes and the bag as he shifts restlessly in his seat.

Ten minutes later, a young male medical technician emerges through the motorized double doors leading into the emergency department and calls his name, gesturing for him to follow. He’s led back through a series of hallways into the main treatment area, a wide open space of pale neutral tones and glass walls and fluorescent lighting. The tech stops outside a patient room where the heavy sliding glass door is pulled shut, as is the curtain behind it, and knocks for him before smiling kindly and hurrying off to another task. Emma’s head pokes around the edge of the curtain, her haggard expression brightening a bit as she sees him standing outside the door. She tells him through the sound-dampening glass to give them just a second and disappears once more, presumably waiting until Mary Margaret is decent before she pulls the curtain part-way back and drags the glass door far enough open for him to come inside.

Mary Margaret lies in the bed in the center of the room, now attired in a patient gown. A blood pressure cuff is on her arm, multi-colored wires that monitor her heart rhythms peek out from under her gown, and plastic oxygen tubing runs beneath her nose. Her eyes are closed, her brow still pinched in discomfort. An electronic screen with her vital signs hangs on the wall above her head, squiggly lines in different colors tracing their way across the black background. Emma is stuffing Mary Margaret’s clothes into a couple of clear drawstring bags designed for patient belongings, but she gives him something akin to her usual warm “hello” smile when he enters and drops what she’s doing to give him a quick kiss. He’s encouraged by the familiar affection, drawing her close for a hug and wishing they had the time and privacy for him to offer her a longer period of quiet in the comfort of his arms.

“How is she?” he asks Emma softly, unsure if Mary Margaret is asleep.

Emma pulls back and grasps his hand, glancing at the vital signs. “Not great,” she murmurs back to him. “Her blood pressure is still way too high, she’s breathing pretty fast, and her oxygen levels have dropped. She’s still having contractions, and she developed a severe headache in the ambulance that worries me.”

“Has the doctor seen her?”

“They said someone would be with us in a minute, and they’re getting the OB on-call. We need to get her pressures down and figure out what’s going on with the baby. With the pre-eclampsia and all these symptoms, I think they’re going to have to deliver her.” She looks weary as she reaches down for a clipboard on one of the two visitor chairs situated against the wall next to them. “I should probably try to start the registration paperwork,” she says, “David will get here when he can, but it still might be a little bit.”

He releases her hand to let her fall into one chair, and she pulls Mary Margaret’s wallet out of her purse and starts searching for insurance information.

“Can I get you something, love?” he offers, feeling a painful desire to do something, anything, that will help alleviate Emma’s burden or help Mary Margaret and the baby. “Coffee?” he suggests. “Is there anyone else we should call?”

Emma pauses, and her grateful smile, though brief, lessens the guilt he feels about his uselessness in this situation. “Coffee would be good,” she says, giving his hand another squeeze. “And maybe you could text our friends and let them know she’s in the hospital? Just tell them we’ll be in touch when we know more.”

He leans over and drops a kiss on her forehead before heading back out the door. “Consider it done.”

* * *

The ER doctor manages to get Mary Margaret’s blood pressure under control with IV medication, and her headache begins to subside. Half a dozen tubes of blood get sent to the lab, and an x-ray reveals fluid in her lungs, which explains her low oxygen levels. When the on-call obstetrician, Dr. Meyer, a woman with short auburn hair in her late 30s, arrives and performs a detailed ultrasound, they discover the source of Mary Margaret’s bleeding.

Dr. Meyer straps a fetal monitor to Mary Margaret’s belly and starts it recording, the sound of the baby’s rapid, whooshing heartbeat filling the room while she draws Mary Margaret a picture on a piece of paper.

“This is your uterus,” she explains, drawing a circle, “And this,” she draws a little crescent along the inner wall of the circle on one side, “Is your placenta, which is attached to the wall of the uterus and connects your blood supply to the baby’s so that he can get oxygen and nutrients from you.” She draws a line representing the umbilical cord running from the placenta to a little stick figure representing the baby. “In other words, your blood goes from you to the placenta, through the umbilical cord, and to your baby.” When Mary Margaret nods her understanding, the OB continues. “You’re bleeding here,” she says, tapping the tip of her pen at a spot where the crescent and the circle touch. “Between your placenta and your uterus, and the blood that’s collecting there is taking up space and pushing them apart from each other in at least this one spot. That decreases your baby’s access to the oxygen in your blood supply.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes go wide with fear, her hands closing protectively over her belly. “Is he okay?”

Dr. Meyer puts the paper aside and examines the tracing being printed out by the fetal monitor. “For the moment,” she says with a nod, “But if the bleeding continues and more of the placenta separates from the uterus, he could end up in trouble.”

“What?” They look up to see David walk into the room still in scrubs, having been met at the ER doors and escorted back by Killian, who follows close behind.

“David!” Mary Margaret’s voice rings with relief. She reaches a hand out for him, and he’s at her side in an instant, giving her a hug as best as he can while she’s reclined in the bed.

“Sorry to be late,” he tells her soberly, kissing her cheek and stroking a tender hand down the side of her face. He turns to Emma and Dr. Meyer. “Can you catch me up?”

“Placental abruption,” Emma tells him, knowing that, like her, he’s re-familiarized himself with the potential complications of pre-eclampsia since Mary Margaret’s diagnosis. She pushes herself off the wall in the corner where she’s been leaning since she moved there to get a better look at the ultrasound images during Dr. Meyer’s exam. Killian is back in one of the visitor’s chairs, and she slips into the one next to him with a sigh.

The diagnosis causes David’s eyes to grow round, but he looks to the OB expectantly. “Fetal distress?”

Dr. Meyer shakes her head reassuringly. “Not yet.” She logs in to the computer workstation next to Emma and begins to review Mary Margaret’s test results.

For a moment they all listen to the sound of the baby's ongoing heartbeat as it continues to come through the fetal monitor. It's a hopeful sound. Mary Margaret clutches her husband’s hand, but Emma recognizes the subtle change in her expression, the look her friend gets when she’s decided she’s done being scared. “So he’s okay. For now,” Mary Margaret repeats. “What do we do?”

Dr. Meyer gives her a sympathetic smile. “I think we should get to your baby before something bad happens.”

“Induce labor?” David asks.

Emma frowns in thought. Triggering a potentially drawn-out labor doesn’t strike her as the best idea. She needs to finish getting David up to speed. “She has pulmonary edema and is on oxygen,” she says gently, referring to the fluid on Mary Margaret’s lungs. “She’s requiring medication to keep her blood pressure down, and her heart rate is still on the high side. She might not tolerate a prolonged labor.” She narrows her eyes at Dr. Meyer’s computer screen, where she can see the results of Mary Margaret’s blood work over the woman’s shoulder. “And her platelet count is low; even with a platelet transfusion to boost her numbers, she could bleed excessively during delivery.” She meets Dr. Meyer’s eye. “Would a c-section be safer?”

“I think so,” the OB agrees. “Her platelet count is low, but still high enough that we can safely do an epidural and avoid having to sedate her. And it will allow us to get the baby out quickly and have more control over any bleeding.”

David looks increasingly worried as he processes all this new information about Mary Margaret’s condition, but he shares a look with Mary Margaret and nods in agreement. Emma feels Killian silently lace his fingers through hers, and she glances at him. There’s a spark of pride in his eye despite the worry hanging heavy on his brow – pride in her – and she smiles weakly in thanks.

“Tonight?” David asks Dr. Meyer.

“Tonight.”

Chapter Text

They’re allowed to accompany Mary Margaret as she’s wheeled to surgery; David remains at her elbow with his hand encasing hers while Killian and Emma trail behind the hospital bed. Only David is allowed to go with Mary Margaret to the operating room, so the nurses escorting them pause outside the surgical suite doors for a moment to let Emma give her friend another hug. Killian watches as the two women embrace, their deep friendship worn openly on their faces, hours of worry etched in the lines on Emma’s forehead.

“It’s going to be okay,” Mary Margaret murmurs in Emma’s ear, almost as if she isn’t the one about to go under the knife. When Emma pulls back, Mary Margaret fixes her with a confident little smile, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Right?”

Emma smiles back. “Right.

Mary Margaret nods and pats her belly, eyes growing wet. “Just think, the next time I see you, I’ll be a mommy.”

Emma chuckles and covers Mary Margaret’s hand with her own. “You’re already a mommy,” she points out. “And this one’s already a trouble-maker. Time for the two of you to meet face-to-face.”

Her friend beams. “One godson, coming up.”

Emma glances at Killian, who gives her an encouraging nod, and she manages an anxious grin. “Yeah. Okay.” She steps back from the bed and tucks herself under him arm. “We’ll see you soon.”

One of the nurses hits a trigger plate on the wall, and there’s a mechanical whir as doors to the surgical suite swing slowly open. Killian gives Emma’s shoulders a squeeze as they watch Mary Margaret being wheeled away down the wide, sterile, harshly lit corridor with David striding along beside her. They stand there until the automated doors close once more, leaving them alone in the hallway.

Killian presses a kiss to Emma’s forehead, and she heaves a sigh against him, her hand still resting on his chest. He strokes her back soothingly. “What now, love? Shall we go to the waiting room?” He eyes the overhead sign for the surgical waiting area.

Emma considers this and quickly shakes her head, interested in more of a distraction than a television and some magazines. “No, we might as well go get some food. There’s no point in waiting here. The OB said the baby will probably go straight to the Special Care Nursery, and Mary Margaret’s probably going to end up in Recovery for a while before they move her to a hospital room. David can let us know where to find them once they’re settled.”

They find their way to the hospital cafeteria and grab sandwiches and a giant paper boat of french fries to share.

“Do you think she’ll be in hospital long?” Killian asks as they seat themselves at a table for two by a window overlooking the hospital parking lot.

Emma sighs and snatches up a fry before she even makes a move on her sandwich. “Three or four days minimum,” she guesses. “She’s pretty sick. She’s got the fluid on her lungs to deal with, and I saw her blood work – her kidney function took a hit too. Everything should start to improve once the baby’s out, but it might take a little time. Plus there’s the normal recovery from the c-section itself,” she adds. She pops the fry into her mouth and reaches for another as she chews thoughtfully. “It’s probably just as well,” she admits wearily, “The baby’s four weeks premature. He’ll probably also need to stay here a little while, and Mary Margaret will feel better knowing she’s at least in the same building.”

He nods, studying her. He’s seen her exhausted dozens upon dozens of times, but the emotional toll the day has taken is also written in the tension in her neck and the pallor of her complexion and the slight hauntedness of her gaze. He reaches out and takes her free hand, dragging his thumb across her knuckles. “She’s lucky to have you for a friend, love,” he says quietly. “You were wonderful today.”

Warmth returns to Emma's cheeks and to her eyes as she looks up at him. “Thanks.” Her fingers tighten their grasp on his. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

He smiles. “I’m with you, Swan,” he says. “Where else would I be?”

* * *

They’re still in the cafeteria when, forty-five minutes later, David texts a photo of a small, flushed, wrinkly baby curled up on a digital scale with an oxygen monitor clipped to his foot.

He’s here! 4 lbs, 6 oz. Born 8:16PM. On oxygen and going to Special Care Nursery now. MM doing okay; heading to Recovery soon.

Emma feels the prickle of tears as she stares at her phone. “He’s here,” she tells Killian.

“Yeah?” Killian hops up and comes around to peer over her shoulder at the picture, his hand resting on her back. “He’s such a tiny lad,” he says in awe.

Emma nods, a relieved sniffle escaping her as she looks upon this precious little human being that her friends have created. She jumps a little as her phone begins to ring, hastily answering it while Killian resumes his seat. “David?”

“Did you get the text?” he asks eagerly, a electronic monitor beeping steadily somewhere in the background. For the first time today, he sounds happy.

Emma meets Killian’s eye with a smile. “Yes, we just got it. Congratulations, Dad. Where are you?”

“Mary Margaret wanted me to go with him to the Special Care Nursery, so we’re heading there now. She’s being taken to Recovery.”

“How is she?”

“Holding up. Still on 4 liters of oxygen, and she had some bleeding with the c-section, so they’re going to transfuse her more platelets.”

Emma nods her understanding. “Did she get to hold him?” she asks.

“Uh, briefly,” David reports regretfully. “His oxygen levels were tenuous, so they only let her have him for a minute.”

The thought of Mary Margaret having to give her baby back only moments after holding him for the first time breaks Emma’s heart, and she nods sadly. “Yeah.”

“Where are you guys?” David asks.

“In the cafeteria grabbing dinner. Should we come meet you somewhere?”

He sighs. “Well, Mary Margaret won’t be moved to a hospital room for at least another hour, and only parents are allowed in the nursery. It’s getting late. Why don’t you two head home and get some rest? It’s been a long day.”

Emma returns his sigh, knowing he’s right. “Okay. Alright if we drop by tomorrow?”

“Of course.” David clears his throat. “Thanks for everything you guys did today. If you hadn’t been there…”

“She would have managed,” Emma reassures him, hearing the fear rising into his voice and trying to quash the “what ifs” running through both their minds. “She can hold her own. She would have gotten to her phone between contractions and called the ambulance herself.” She’s thankful for how sure of this she manages to sound. “But I’m glad we were there too.” Weepiness threatens to rear its head, and she clears her throat. “We’ll see you guys in the morning.”

As they walk through the emergency department parking lot toward the SUV, Killian lifts their clasped hands and presses his lips against her skin. “You alright, love?”

She favors him with a small smile. “I’m fine. I’ll just feel better when they’re both home.”

They collapse into bed earlier than usual that night, Emma drawing herself up against Killian’s chest as he hugs her to him. Emotionally and physically spent, she rests her hand over his heart and tries to meditate on the slow, steady thrum against her palm. They’re going to be okay, she tells herself. She knows Mary Margaret’s condition is expected to improve now that the baby is out, but she remembers the diffuse fluffy white appearance on the x-ray of all that fluid on Mary Margaret’s lungs and the worrisome numbers she saw on Dr. Meyer’s computer screen, a scattering of abnormal values all highlighted by the software in bright yellow. Her friend isn’t out of the woods quite yet, but there’s nothing Emma can do at this point except let Mary Margaret’s medical team do their job and wait for signs of improvement.

“Try to sleep, love,” Killian rumbles against her, as though he can hear her thoughts racing. “We’ll go back tomorrow and find out what kind of progress she and the baby have made, yeah?”

She feels his fingertips softly carding through the ends of her hair along her back, and she nods against him, overwhelmingly grateful for his presence. “I love you,” she murmurs.

She can hear the smile in his voice as he kisses her head. “I love you, too.”

* * *

When they return to the hospital the following morning, the news from David is mixed. His hair is slightly messy and the hint of a five o’clock shadow is visible along his jaw as he rises from the convertible couch in Mary Margaret’s hospital room where he’s been camped out and silently gestures for them to come in.

The room is fairly spacious and recently renovated with vinyl wood flooring, clean off-white paint, privacy curtains in a green and blue leaf print, and fresh stainless steel accents. Mary Margaret is sleeping with the head of her bed raised, supplemental oxygen tubing still beneath her nose and telemetry wires still tracking her heart rhythms. A bladder catheter drains urine into a small bag at the foot of her bed, and new plum-colored bruises have blossomed in a few spots on her arms since they last saw her. Her cheeks are a bit pale, her lips a lighter shade than the typical near-red she comes by naturally, and her long lashes do not completely hide the dark circles beneath her eyes.

Killian looks around for a place to set the large vase of cheerful pink, yellow, and white flowers they’ve brought along, selecting a spot on the windowsill while Emma and David begin to confer.

“Her platelet count is a little better, and her hemoglobin is stable despite the bleeding she had in surgery,” David tells Emma quietly. “She’s breathing better; she’s only requiring 2 liters of oxygen now.” He rubs the back of his neck as he glances over at his wife.

Emma follows his gaze, recognizing his subtle anxiety. “What’s the bad news?” she asks apprehensively.

“Her kidney function is worse today.” He sighs. “Fortunately it hasn’t affected her potassium or phosphorus levels yet, but they’re keeping a close eye on it for now.”

Emma frowns. “What’s going on with her kidneys?”

“We think it’s just injury from the uncontrolled blood pressures she had yesterday,” David reminds her.

“But her pressures are down now. Shouldn’t she be improving?”

“Yeah.” He rubs the residual sleep out of his eyes. “They’ve ordered an ultrasound of her kidneys to make sure we’re not missing something else. Personally, I think she’s just slow to turn around; hopefully the numbers look better tomorrow.”

Emma hums softly. “And the baby?”

David smiles a little at the mention of his son. “Doing okay. They used a positive pressure machine overnight to give him a little extra breathing support, but the neonatologist seems pretty confident that he’ll be breathing fine on his own in the next few days.” He reaches for his phone and brings up photos of the baby from overnight. Emma and Killian huddle together to admire the images of the infant in his special heated incubator, covered in an oversized kit hat and an even more oversized diaper.

Emma squints and enlarges one of the photos to zoom in on a small yellow tube running into the baby’s nose. “Is that an NG?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a nasogastric tube,” she explains to Killian, “It runs into his nose and down his throat to his stomach.” She shakes her head in wonder. “Look how tiny that thing is.”

“They’re having to feed him through it, since he’s not strong enough to suckle yet,” David says. “They said that’ll probably be the thing that determines how long he stays in the hospital; they’d like him to be gaining weight and feeding well without the tube by the time he goes home.”

“Any idea how long that’ll be, mate?” Killian asks as Emma hands the phone back to David.

David shakes his head soberly. “They said a week, maybe two.”

“Does the lad have a name yet?”

David shakes his head again. “No, we wanted to be able to spend some time with him before we picked a name. We’ll just have to see how soon Mary Margaret is up to a trip the nursery. It might be a day or two yet.”

Emma snorts. “Five bucks she forces someone to take her there by the end of the day today.”

The corners of David’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “You really think so?”

Emma grins back. “You don’t?”

David glances at Mary Margaret, and Killian can’t tell if he’s considering whether Emma is right or whether his wife is awake enough to hear his reply. Ultimately, he smiles and shrugs. “I think it’s a little soon,” he admits, “But I know better than to bet against her.”

Killian chuckles under his breath and reminds himself to take husband lessons sometime from David Nolan.

After lots of reassurance from Emma, David agrees to seize the opportunity while they’re here with Mary Margaret to run home, take a shower, and collect some essentials, including his laptop and extra snacks. Killian and Emma stretch out on the couch together and turn the flat screen TV to the Discovery Channel, keeping the volume down so as not to wake Mary Margaret.

During the second commercial break of a nature documentary, Emma yawns and stretches. “I’m going to go find us some coffee.”

“Would you like me to go, love?” Killian moves to stand, but she stays him with her hand and a smile and climbs to her feet.

“Nah. You did coffee duty yesterday. I can get it this time.” She snags her purse and leans down to kiss him softly. “Be back in a bit.”

Emma’s gone no more than a few minutes when there’s a knock at the door, and a nurse in dark blue scrubs enters to check Mary Margaret’s vital signs. The young woman smiles at Killian curiously but doesn’t say anything as she slips to the bedside and unstraps a blood pressure cuff from the bed railing. As quiet as she tries to be, the sound of the ripping Velcro causes Mary Margaret to stir.

“Sorry, hon,” the nurse tells her apologetically, wrapping the cuff over Mary Margaret’s upper arm and hooking it up to the monitor. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Mary Margaret looks at her with a bleary side-eye but manages a forgiving smile. “S’okay,” she mutters. “What time is it?”

The nurse starts the blood pressure cuff cycling. “It’s almost ten thirty. Your friends are here.”

At this, Mary Margaret’s eyes open wider and she turns her head to look around. Killian approaches the bed, scratching behind his ear.

“Killian,” she says with a small grin, her voice still gravelly.

“’Morning, Milady,” he says warmly.

Her brows knit together. “How long have you been here?”

“About an hour.” He leans with his back against the windowsill next to her bed and tips his head toward the door. “Emma’s getting coffee. She’ll be back shortly. I hope you don’t mind, but we sent David home to clean up and pick up some things.”

Her eyes soften, and she nods approvingly. “Thank you for being here,” she says, licking her dry lips, “And for yesterday.”

He bows his head solemnly. “Of course. We’re glad we were there to help.”

“Me too.” Mary Margaret’s features grow sentimental. She clears her throat and looks over at the nurse, who is pulling the blood pressure cuff off her arm. “What was it?”

“127 over 73,” the nurse tells her, sounding satisfied. “Just fine.” She takes Mary Margaret’s temperature, makes note of her oxygen settings, and then excuses herself, promising to return in a little while. They watch as the door closes behind her.

As he turns back to her, Killian suddenly realizes that he’s never really been alone with Emma’s friend or had much of a one-on-one conversation with her beyond the texts they exchanged in August about the ring. “How do you feel?” he asks, fidgeting.

Mary Margaret hums, pausing a moment to take stock. “Just tired, mostly. I thought I would have more pain, but I suppose the epidural hasn’t worn off,” she answers. “They said it might take a day or so.” She eyes her belly, which is buried beneath a thick hospital blanket, and Killian feels silly that it took him this long to notice that her bump is conspicuously absent. Mary Margaret wrinkles her forehead. “It’s so strange to think that I have this big incision down there and it isn’t bothering me at all.” She laughs at the absurdity. “I guess whatever they gave me was pretty good stuff, huh?”

His lips twitch at the corners. “I suppose so.” His shoulders loosen as he shifts his weight against the sill.

She wiggles a bit in the bed, trying to sit up straighter. “Did David say anything about my test results or the baby before he left?”

Killian nods, the prospect of trying to remember and relay it all to her rather daunting. “Perhaps it would be better if Emma explains it to you when she gets back,” he suggests apologetically. “She understands it much better than I.”

Mary Margaret gives him a sympathetic smile. “I know. They have their own language, doctors. I’ve picked up some terms here and there, but when David and Emma really get to talking shop, I can barely understand a word.”

He chuckles. “Aye.”

“Have you—” Mary Margaret’s eyes flick over to the door, and her voice drops a little lower. “Have you gotten Emma’s ring yet?”

He follows her lead and glances toward the door to make sure there’s no sign of Emma’s return. “A couple weeks ago,” he confirms with a nod.

Mary Margaret’s face lights up, a happy flush erasing some of the fatigue from her countenance. “Really? How does it look?” she asks conspiratorially.

He grins. “It’s perfect. I wish I could show you, but it seemed unwise to take a picture.”

“Of course. You have it stashed somewhere safe, I imagine.”

“My office at the Academy.” He crosses his arms. “Guarded by the US Navy, as it were.”

She smirks. “No place is too secure.”

“None,” he laughs quietly.

“Are you still planning on asking her on her birthday?” Mary Margaret freezes as she counts. “Wait. That’s six days from now!”

He nods, heart leaping at the notion that it’s less than a week away. “That’s the plan.”

Mary Margaret steeples her fingers and presses them to her mouth, her eyes shining with anticipation. “Are you still taking her to dinner?”

“Aye.” He rubs the back of his head shyly with his stump, giddiness at the thought of it starting to flutter in his stomach for the hundredth time.

She beams at him. “Are you excited?”

“Perhaps more so than I’ve ever been,” he admits. It strikes him as odd that he’s making such a personal confession to Mary Margaret during this, their first real conversation, but there’s something about her that makes him feel comfortable sharing. He can easily see how this woman befriended Emma, even back when the latter was, by her own admission, a cautious and jaded teenager, fresh out of years of ping-ponging around the foster system. He supposes Mary Margaret’s ability to draw people out is part of what makes her a good school teacher as well.

“Nervous?” she asks.

He chuckles. “To put it mildly.”

Mary Margaret gives him a motherly smile. “You don’t have to be, you know.” She bites her lip. “She loves you, Killian. I’ve known Emma for a long time. She’s never been happier. She’ll say yes.”

He raises an eyebrow at the confidence in her voice, swallowing the lump that rises in his throat. “Can you be so sure?”

Her eyes twinkle. “I can.”

“What are you sure about?”

They startle as they realize the hospital door has cracked open and Emma is stepping back into the room with two large to-go cups of coffee in tow.

“Oh, um, that the baby and I are going to be fine,” Mary Margaret manages. Her answer, while slightly halting, seems to be adequate; Emma doesn’t bat an eyelash as she joins Killian at the bedside and hands him his coffee.

“Thank you, love.” Killian intentionally avoids meeting Mary Margaret’s eye as he lifts the plastic lid to his lips, praying that nothing in his expression betrays their subterfuge.

“Sorry it took so long,” Emma says. “The coffee they keep on this floor is kind of lousy, so I ran down to the cafeteria instead.”

He takes a long pull from the cup, feeling reassured the she remains in the dark. “No worries,” he tells her. “Mary Margaret just woke a few minutes ago.”

“Emma, what did David say about my lab tests and the baby?” Mary Margaret prompts.

As Emma begins to outline things for her, Mary Margaret dares a glance at Killian, and he gives her a barely perceptible nod of thanks.

* * *

Mary Margaret proves Emma right when she insists on being taken to the Special Care Nursery to spend time with the baby that evening after dinner. Having long since left the hospital for the day, Emma receives a text from David late in the evening with a picture of his wife, seated in a wheelchair, still on oxygen but free of the bladder catheter, with their son swaddled in her arms.

You called it.

Emma gives a little laugh, holding up her phone for Killian to see as they cuddle on the couch watching TV. She texts back.

Was there bribery?

No. She just threatened to try to make it on her own. This was safer.

Emma hums triumphantly.
How is it going?

Amazing.

Ten minutes later, another photo comes through of the baby, back in his incubator. His blankets removed once more, his miniature body is a jumble of wires and monitors and tubes and identification bracelets, but his little eyes are now cracked open, and his tiny fist is wrapped around with Mary Margaret’s pinky.

Henry David Nolan says goodnight to his Auntie Emma and Uncle Killian.

“Henry,” Emma breathes, her eyes shining as she looks up at Killian. “They named him Henry.”

A long, plodding week begins as Emma and Killian return to work the following morning. Though Emma knows that she can do nothing to hasten Mary Margaret’s recovery or Henry’s growth, it still doesn’t feel right to return to her normal schedule while they remain in the hospital. Nevertheless, responsibilities await, and she and Killian resume their lives while eagerly awaiting updates from David and Mary Margaret each day.

Monday, the news is not encouraging. Mary Margaret’s oxygen levels and platelet count continue to slowly improve, but her kidney function grows worse still, and her kidneys’ inability to properly filter her blood causes her potassium level to creep too high. She’s given medications to try to remove the excess potassium from her system, but the side effects keep her running to the toilet all afternoon, and between that, the more frequent blood draws to closely monitor her potassium levels, and the fact that the pain control from her epidural finally wears off, she has a pretty lousy day.

“Worst case of the Mondays ever,” she half-jokes when Emma and Killian stop by in the evening after work.

Emma and Killian smile and try to distract her with some new knitting supplies, but Emma catches David’s eye, and they exchange worried looks.

Tuesday is marginally better. Mary Margaret’s potassium levels stabilize, and her kidney function, while no better, is at least no worse. David sounds a little more confident as he gives them the news, expressing increasing optimism that his wife is finally about to turn the corner.

He’s proven correct on Wednesday, when Mary Margaret’s numbers are finally all heading in the right direction. Baby Henry also makes some progress, becoming able to breathe well enough on his own that he no longer requires extra respiratory support.

For once, Emma is hopeful when they return home from the hospital late that evening, and an idea forms. She goes to the kitchen and pulls out a recipe binder, flipping through it while standing at the counter.

Killian comes over to investigate. “Planning something for tomorrow, Swan?” He taps a kiss to her cheek.

“Not for us,” she mutters thoughtfully. “For Mary Margaret. I want to make a bunch of freezer meals that she and David can use once they’re home with the baby. They say being a new mom is exhausting and a little help with food prep and chores goes a long way.” She reaches for a slip of paper and a pen and begins making a grocery list.

He raises his eyebrows and nods. “That sounds like lovely idea,” he agrees, looking at the recipe in front of her for a Dijon pork roast. “I’m sure she and David will appreciate that very much.”

“What if…” Emma chews on her lip, pausing to look up at him speculatively. “What if we throw her and the baby a little welcome home party? We can have everyone bring something for dinner so she won’t have to do a thing, and we can surprise her with these.”

She smiles as Killian curls his arms around her torso and hauls her close. “You’re so bloody good to all of us,” he murmurs, nosing her cheek as he moves in for a kiss.

She rotates a little in his arms to face him fully and sighs, feeling some of the tension she’s been harboring in her back and shoulders since Saturday finally start to melt away in response to the tender movement of his lips against hers. It’s the first time she’s felt like unwinding all week, and it hits her that as much comfort as she’s drawn from Killian’s emotional support and his nearness and his hugs the past few days, she really missed this – her ability to lose herself in him, even for just a little while. When he starts to pull back, she encircles his neck with her arms and urges him to stay, her brow furrowed as she pours her heart into her kisses – her anguish, her relief, her gratitude, her desire for closeness, her need for respite.

Killian mirrors her passion seamlessly, his mouth moving firmly with hers, his fingers entangling themselves in her hair. He seems to understand what she needs; at the very least, he doesn’t question her motivations beyond pausing to ask, “Do you want to…?”

She nods wordlessly.

He breaks away from her and takes her hand, leading her away to their bedroom. They’re silent as they tug their clothes off and fall to the sheets together, the air between them hallowed and reverent as they seek each other out with hands and lips and tongues. Killian rolls her onto her back and braces himself above her, cradling her face in his palm and covering her face in gentle kisses before he works his way down her throat, sucking and nipping at her skin with increasing urgency.

Emma closes her eyes, focused on the sensation of his touch and the sounds of their breathing. Treasured. Safe. Loved. This is how he makes her feel. After so much time and energy spent worrying about her friends, the illusion he creates that she’s the only person in the world who matters is a welcome one. A blissful sigh escapes her as he directs his attention to her breasts, kneading her flesh and circling her nipples with his tongue, and her hands find his hair, her fingers combing restlessly through the dark brown strands.

Killian pulls lower, kissing his way down the plain of her belly, dipping his tongue into her navel, and pulling away her panties as he forges a trail down toward the valley between her legs. The butterfly soft presses of his lips to the inside of her thighs stokes the fire burning under Emma’s skin, and she spreads her knees wider for him, whimpering as he moves closer and closer to where she needs him the most. She keens when at last his nose disappears beneath her mound and she feels his tongue make contact with her sex, her back arching luxuriantly as gratification ripples through her. The heat builds as he pleasures her unhurriedly, and she gives herself over to the familiar rush, the high that is somehow both intense with emotion and beyond it entirely. She breathes his name as it grows, tossing her head on the pillow and grasping at the sheets, and he growls in reply and begins to amp up his efforts, pushing her to the crest where she alternately cries in joy and pleads with him for release. She props herself up on her elbows as she begs to be broken, and when she curses at the sight of his dark head between her legs and his hand braced possessively on her thigh, he meets her half-lidded gaze with those laughing gray-blue eyes of his and arches an eyebrow fiendishly, and that’s her undoing. Emma’s eyes screw shut and her head falls back as she tumbles off the edge, coming hard and long, and his hand anchors her pelvis while she bucks in order to torture her with his ministrations for a few moments more, not relenting until they’re both completely satisfied.

Killian chuckles as she throws an arm over her face, her chest heaving. “I think you needed that.” He crawls back up her body to hover over her on his forearms and knees.

She hums in agreement, her skin still tingling. “I guess I did,” she admits with a small smile. She drops her arm from her eyes and looks up at him. “Now what about what you need?”

He shrugs smugly. “I thought perhaps you’d like a moment to catch your breath, Swan.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

He bends down. “Mm-hmm.” His lips pull at hers softly. “And you love me for it?” He smiles even wider when she giggles and buries her fingers in his hair again, pulling him down for deeper kisses.

“I do.”

* * *

Mary Margaret continues to show steady improvement, and, while her doctors want to keep her in the hospital for a bit longer to monitor her during the recovery of her kidney function, chances look good that she will be home by early the following week.

Emma and Killian go on a massive grocery run Thursday night, and Emma stays up late to try to get a head start on some of the vegetable prep for Mary Margaret’s freezer meals. Strapped for time, she puts Killian in charge of texting their friends about the welcome home party.

As the weekend draws closer, Killian's anxiety about the proposal grows. The restaurant reservation is made for Saturday night, and the weather report is promising for their after-dinner riverside walk. Friday afternoon, just before leaving the Academy for the day, he retrieves Emma’s ring from his desk. He takes a moment to open the box again and admire the way the diamonds gleam in the afternoon sunlight that streams through his office window. Tomorrow, he thinks with a nervous smile, closing the box and tucking it into his messenger bag.

They visit Mary Margaret in the hospital again that evening, and while the swelling from her pregnancy has significantly improved, the fluid on her lungs is completely gone, and her blood work is steadily normalizing, she appears a little morose, preoccupied with the fact that the baby still needs tube feeding.

“They said they expect him to be able to suckle soon. He still might be ready to go home by the end of next week,” she says with a sad smile, showing them some updated pictures from the nursery.

Emma successfully manages to distract her for a bit by asking about the status of the bassinet and the other projects that Killian had intended to finish for them.

“We’ll be okay,” David harrumphs, waving them off good-naturedly. “I appreciate your help, but you don’t have to trouble yourself.”

Killian shrugs collegially but shares a look of almost comic uneasiness with Emma and Mary Margaret the second David becomes distracted by the television show they have on in the background.

Thankfully, Emma intervenes. “I was actually thinking, if you guys don’t mind, that after Henry comes home, a bunch of us could bring a potluck over to your house to welcome him,” she says brightly. “It’d save you a night of cooking,” she tells Mary Margaret. She turns to David innocently. “And if you don’t feel like finishing the baby stuff before then, you and Killian would have something interesting to go do while the rest of us obsess over Henry and flood your house with estrogen.”

David chuckles at this, but Killian knows his friend well enough by now that he can tell Emma’s point has hit home. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from beaming proudly at his brilliant, wily Swan.

When it’s time for them to leave, Emma squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. “A couple more days,” she tells her. “Then you’ll be home in your own bed and far away from anything that looks like hospital food.”

Mary Margaret nods. “Oh I know,” she sighs resignedly. “I just hate the idea of going home before the baby does.”

Emma’s eyes her sympathetically. “I know. At least it’ll give you a chance to finish getting the house ready for him. And with any luck, it’ll only be a few days more.”

“Yeah.” Mary Margaret clears her throat and plasters on a smile. “Do you have special plans for tomorrow?”

Emma blinks blankly. “Tomorrow?”

Mary Margaret glances at Killian before looking back at Emma with an incredulous laugh. “Your birthday, dear.”

“Oh!” Emma’s eyes widen. She flushes and grins sheepishly. “I guess it is tomorrow, isn’t it? With everything else going on, I lost track of the days.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Um, I think we have dinner plans.” She looks to Killian to confirm.

He nods back at her with a patient smile, doing his utmost to disguise how deflated it makes him feel to learn that she hasn’t even been looking forward to her birthday dinner. It’s not her fault, he knows, but considering what he has planned for tomorrow night, he’d have been happier if she had gotten to enjoy some anticipation leading up to her birthday, rather than had it come up as an afterthought.

“That’s so sweet – a romantic dinner out,” Mary Margaret croons, smoothing over the awkwardness of the moment, “I’m sure it’ll be wonderful. You’ll have to tell me all about it later.” She throws Killian a look over Emma’s shoulder that is equal parts sympathetic and encouraging as the two women hug goodbye.

When they return home from the hospital, Emma rushes to change her clothes and then beelines for the kitchen to resume prepping ingredients for the freezer meals. She works for over an hour before she reaches some sort of stopping point and packages everything up. Once the kitchen is clean, she joins Killian in the living room to watch some late-night television, collapsing on the couch and pulling out her laptop to answer emails and check social media.

Twenty minutes later, Killian glances over from his club chair to see Emma nestled in the corner of the couch fast asleep, her computer lying forgotten on her lap. He shakes his head affectionately. Little wonder that she nearly forgot her birthday, he thinks, rising out of his chair. Between work, visits to the hospital, and now all the effort she’s putting into the freezer meals, she’s stretched herself thin these past few days. Carefully setting her laptop out of the way, he leans down and brushes his lips across her brow. “Emma.”

Her eyes flutter open, blinking dazedly for a second before looking up at him. “Mmph. Sorry.”

“Bedtime, love,” he orders with mock sternness. “You’re exhausted.”

She hangs her head, embarrassed, and rubs her eyes. “Yeah. It’s been a long week.” Emma sits up and stretches, swinging her legs off the couch. She perches on the edge of the cushion a moment and looks up at him guiltily. “I hate to ask, since I know you’ve been planning this really nice dinner for tomorrow,” she says meekly, “But would it be alright if we put off celebrating my birthday until everyone’s home from the hospital and things have settled down a little?” Her eyebrows lift imploringly. “We don’t have to celebrate it at all, honestly, but if we’re going someplace nice, I really want to be able to enjoy it, you know? I don’t want to feel guilty that we’re having fun while they’re still in the hospital.”

The idea of postponing his plans rakes him with vicious disappointment, but it’s somewhat tempered by the way her pleading expression tugs at his heart. He could never deny her. He sighs inwardly. She’s right, he supposes. He wants her to be able to be look forward to their night out and to enjoy herself without worrying about her friends. If that means having to wait for the right time, he’ll wait. He does his best to appear nonchalant as he gives her a gentle smile and nods. “Of course. When did you have in mind?”

The relief on her face mollifies him a bit more. She stands and tucks her hair behind her ear, her hands falling on her hips. “Well, if Henry is released from the hospital next week, we could do the homecoming party that weekend, so…” she squints hesitantly, “The weekend after that?”

He reaches out and draws her close. “Two weeks then?”

She glances down at his mouth with sleepy eyes, and her dimples appear. “Yeah.” Her hands press up against his chest as she kisses him slow and sweet. “It’s a date.” She hums contentedly as he sneaks in a kiss on her forehead before she breaks away and heads for the bedroom. “You coming?”

“Be right with you, love,” he calls. He allows himself to sigh more audibly as he stares after her retreating form, his shoulders falling. Two weeks. He’d go to the end of the world for her. He supposes he can wait two more weeks to give her the proposal she deserves.

Chapter Text

Mary Margaret is released from the hospital on Monday. Much to everyone’s relief, the baby gains strength and finally begins to suckle well by Wednesday, and on Thursday evening, Mary Margaret texts a photo of Henry nursing contentedly on a bottle while dwarfed in the crook of David’s arm.

We’re coming home tomorrow!

With some assistance from Killian, Emma preps meals until their freezer is brimming with carefully labeled plastic bags full of dishes ready to heat-and-eat, a colorful riot of red, yellow, orange, green, and brown packets in neat stacks. Wednesday after work, Killian finds her standing at the kitchen counter digging into their quarter-full carton of rocky road with a spoon, and she pulls a second spoon out of the silverware drawer with her free hand and matter-of-factly holds it out to him.

“We need more freezer space. Help me out.”

He laughs, cheerful to oblige.

In all, she manages to make three weeks’ worth of food for her friends, in addition to the giant pot of chili that she plans to contribute to the homecoming party potluck.

“It’s very impressive, Swan,” Killian tells her late Friday evening as she finagles the final bag into the last free cranny of the freezer and stands back to admire her cache. He turns his attention back to the sink where he’s washing her pans and cooking utensils. “They’re going to love it.”

She shoots him a proud grin over her shoulder and swings the door shut. “Thanks for your help,” she says, coming over to give him an appreciative peck on the cheek. “My compliments to the sous-chef.”

He chuckles and shuts off the water, drying his hand and stump on a towel and turning to face her, his nose deliciously close to hers.

Emma inches a hair closer, her face glowing with a knowing smile. “You were a big help.”

He shrugs playfully, his eyes on her mouth. “I like being in the kitchen with you, love. Gives me more chances to kiss the cook.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and she hums with gratification when Killian leans forward to hungrily capture her lips with his. He tosses the dish towel aside and groans as she backs him up against the counter, her hands snaking up his chest to wind around his neck. Emma makes that sinful little mewling sound that always drives him mad, and he halts his ravishing of her mouth, face still pressed to hers, just long enough catch his breath and grind out, “Ready for bed?”

“Mm-hmm.” She reengages him eagerly, swiping her tongue against his and teasing his lips with her teeth. She issues a pleasantly surprised squeak when he hoists her up, and she folds her legs around his waist and fumbles with the kitchen light switch in passing as he carries her off to their room.

With Emma fortuitously free of weekend work responsibilities both this month and the next, they’re allowed to sleep in the following morning, and it’s the first night of unlimited rest she’s been able to enjoy in several weeks. Killian is the first to wake, drifting into consciousness a little after eight. He blinks groggily, taking a moment to recognize that he’s lying on his side with Emma’s back to his chest, and he does his best not to stir too much lest he disturb her. Even with the bedroom shades pulled, he can tell the sun has been up for almost an hour by the brassiness of the light and the angle at which it tries to pierce its way into their shadowy haven. He inhales deeply, slowly, savoring the faint scent of her perfume from the day before, and his eyes meander down over her skin. The creamy smooth surface is dotted here and there with tiny freckles. He’s mapped them all with his fingers and his lips before, of course, but he feels like doing it again – like laying her out on her stomach in the warmth of the Saturday morning sun and cataloging her scattering of freckles meticulously and lovingly like a navigator charting his favorite ocean. Perhaps after she wakes, he thinks. For now, he wants to let her sleep as much as she needs – she’s been so busy and under so much emotional strain recently, and opportunities for lie-ins are rare for her, as residency requires her to work on the weekend more often than not.

Emma shifts in her sleep, and he takes the opportunity to pull her a little closer to him with the arm he has flung over her hipbone and to softly touch his lips to her shoulder before she stills again. Killian closes his eyes and lets his mind wander to his proposal plans. He’s worked out what he wants to say, what he wants to tell her about how she’s changed him, about how she’s given him back his once-abandoned hope for his own happy ending, about how the only happy ending he wants is the one that lets him stay next to her for the rest of his life. He imagines them walking arm-in-arm along the Potomac after sunset, the lights from the city glimmering in the watery flow. If they’re lucky, the moon will be out, and he’ll be able to see how it shines in her eyes when he tells her the thoughts on his heart and especially when he pauses their stroll to pull the ring out of his pocket and get down on one knee. He swallows. The only thing he wants in the world right now is one word from Emma’s lips. He knows she loves him, he even has Mary Margaret’s assurances that she’ll say yes, but he’s resigned himself to the fact that he’s not going to be at ease until he hears it from her with his own ears.

He’s unsure whether he slips back to sleep for a bit, but the sun is higher in the sky when he becomes aware of Emma finally beginning to move in his arms, her back rising against him as she yawns deeply.

She's sluggish as she rotates her shoulders, her green eyes still filled with sleep as she peeks up at him and finds him surveying her with a lazy smile on his face. “Hi.”

“’Morning, love.”

She finishes rolling so that she’s facing him and wriggles up on the sheets so her face is level with his. “What time is it?” she sighs.

“Sometime after nine, I imagine,” Killian guesses. He caresses the small of her back with his stump, relishing the sensation of his skin gliding across hers and the naked press of her body to his. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah.” Emma redirects a lock of hair away from her face absently. “Great. I can’t remember the last time I slept so late,” she says, the corner of her mouth quirking.

He nods. “I know. You needed the rest, Swan. It’s been a trying few weeks.”

She murmurs agreement, her gaze falling to his collarbones where her finger starts to trace their contours aimlessly, the delicateness of her touch making him shiver as much as the sight of her bare breasts braced up against his chest.

“What time do you need to get up?” he asks.

“Mm…” She thinks. “I should probably start making chili around two.”

“And before then?”

Emma beams up at him, the apples of her cheeks pinking. “Well, that’s the best part about today,” she says smugly, finger wandering down to draw a curlicue over his chest. “Not a thing. What about you?”

He takes great pleasure in shaking his head. “Only what you desire of me.”

“Oo, good answer,” she purrs, closing the distance between them for a few soft kisses. She hums happily, her forehead still touching his. “Quiet weekend mornings might be one of my favorite things in the world,” she admits.

Killian smirks. “Better than grilled cheese or hot chocolate?” he teases.

She chuckles. “I can have those any day. Mornings like this are hard to come by. Just the two of us and no plans.” She lets out a relaxed sigh. "It’s perfect.”

“Aye,” he agrees, settling his stump against her back and squeezing her even more snugly to him. He eyes the upturned corner of her mouth as he bends his neck to slant his lips over hers. “It is.”

They spend the morning lounging in bed, teasing and talking and satisfying one another, letting the heat ebb and flow between them for a while. There are drawn out periods where the only sounds in the room are the whisper of skin or sheets on skin, languid sighs, and quiet kisses. A little after eleven, things grow considerably louder when they lose interest in lounging and shift their focus to determinedly bringing each other to peak, the walls of their bedroom resounding with throaty moans, gasps, and then desperate cries when Killian thrusts his way to their mutual climax.

They finally emerge from the bedroom before noon and throw together breakfast-for-lunch – coffee, bacon, eggs, and mushrooms – while watching Top Gear reruns on the BBC. By the time they finish and enjoy another lovely liaison in the shower, it’s time to start prepping Emma’s chili for the potluck. Emma chops onions and peppers and sets Killian about measuring and mixing spices into hot oil before throwing in the ground beef to brown. Tomatoes, sauce, and beans complete the pot, and once it’s vigorously simmering, Emma leaves him to on intermittent stirring duty and goes to ready herself for the party.

Killian settles into his club chair and checks the weather for the week with an eye trained on Saturday evening’s forecast, hoping for a clear night. He is pleased to see nothing ominous predicted, and, satisfied, he checks the headlines. The American President is attending a summit in China, and there’s been some ridiculous kerfuffle over which staircase he used to disembark his plane. Interest rates remain low, and economists are optimistic at the continued recovery of the U.S. housing market. What is hoped to be the last hurricane in a busy storm season, this one dubbed Zelena, is pounding the Caribbean and is expected to bring some grief to Florida and the Carolinas before moving further out to sea. Two celebrities he’s only vaguely familiar with are engaged in some childish spat on Twitter. And organizers are gearing up for the annual New York City Marathon.

“Anything interesting?” Emma asks, emerging from the bedroom.

“Just the usual things,” he answers, looking up. His mouth curls upward as he surveys the whimsical, flowy, floral blouse she’s picked to go with skinny jeans and a loose weave cardigan sweater. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and she looks relaxed and radiant. “Very nice, love.” He sets his computer aside and rises to meet her, his hand lightly resting on her waist as she gives him a quick kiss.

“Thanks,” she says with a grin. She gives him a nudge toward the bedroom and playfully smacks his butt. “Your turn.”

Killian chuckles and obediently heads off to get dressed. “Aye, Captain.”

* * *

Mary Margaret greets them with an open-mouthed smile as she pushes the door ajar for them. “Hi!” Emma’s friend looks exhausted but happy, and much more comfortable than they’ve seen her in ages. Her knee-length frock is still loose-fitting, but her swelling is but a memory, and her face is less full now that she is no longer pregnant. She eyes the hefty cast iron pot in Emma’s hands with obvious excitement. “Oh, you brought chili!”

Emma chuckles as Mary Margaret and David jump back to allow her a clear path to the kitchen. “I thought you might like some fall comfort food,” Emma calls over her shoulder. Mary Margaret trails after her, and Emma sets the pot on the kitchen counter with a satisfied grunt. The two share a quick hug.

“It smells fantastic,” Mary Margaret says, “Thank you.”

Emma smiles and pulls back. “How do you feel?”

Mary Margaret beams and shrugs. “Tired,” she admits. “But good.” She takes Emma’s hand and pulls. “Come meet your godson.”

Baby Henry is in a portable rocking bassinet in one corner of the living room, looking a tad perplexed as his little blue-green eyes stare, unfocused, at the slow-moving ceiling fan above his head. He has a thin layer of glossy brown hair, and his hands are indescribably tiny and wrinkled and held as if he’s not yet sure what to do with them. His small size is emphasized by the slightly large onesie he wears which is embroidered with a Dr. Seuss quote.

“‘A person’s a person, no matter how small’,” Emma murmurs, openly enamored as she crouches next to the rocker. She runs a fingertip gingerly over Henry’s cheek, and he blinks and looks at her.

“Indeed,” Killian agrees, as he and David come to join them.

Mary Margaret glows with motherly affection as she scoops Henry out of the rocker and turns to Emma expectantly. “Here.”

Emma’s eyes widen, and she glances questioningly at her friend, who gives her a reassuring smile and steps closer, laying the tiny newborn in her arms. She’s struck by how light he is. It’s been years since she held a baby as a medical student, so perhaps her memory is just poor, but she’s fairly certain she’s never held a child so small and fragile-appearing as David and Mary Margaret’s son. Nor has she ever been so taken with one. Her heart is reduced to a puddle almost instantly as Henry wiggles his little legs and coos a bit before erupting into a yawn. “Hey, Kid,” she says with an emotional smile, “We meet at last.”

Mary Margaret pats Emma’s arm proudly and glances at the clock. “He’s due for a feeding. I’ll go warm a bottle.” She disappears back into the kitchen.

“I don’t know, Emma,” David says with amusement, his arms crossed. “I’d say godmotherhood looks pretty good on you.”

“Aye, love,” Killian says with a sly smile, coming closer.

Emma finds she’s too busy falling in love with the baby to feel self-conscious. “He’s so beautiful,” she croons.

“That he is.” Killian takes the baby’s right hand between his thumb and forefinger and levers it up and down. “Pleased to meet you, Young Master Henry.” He arches an eyebrow reproachfully. “Now, try not to steal your godmother’s heart, if you please. I’ve worked hard to win it.” He winks at Emma as she laughs, and he plants a kiss on her blushing cheek.

They elect to present the freezer meals to David and Mary Margaret before any of the other guests arrive. Leaving Emma to keep cuddling the baby, Killian hauls the large cooler they’ve brought into the kitchen, and the Nolans, Mary Margaret in particular, gasp when the four of them congregate around it and Killian lifts the lid for them.

“Oh, Emma…” Mary Margaret says, one hand flying to her chest. She stares with wide eyes at the piles of packaged food before her as though the cooler is a treasure chest. “This is amazing.”

Emma grins, tearing her gaze away from the bend of her arm where Henry is busy sucking down the contents of his bottle. “I thought it might make things a little easier,” she says modestly. She chuckles as Mary Margaret throws her arms around her shoulders and hugs her from the side.

* * *

Ruby and Dorothy arrive soon after with a bounty of appetizers from Ruby’s granny, including french fries, onion rings, garlic cheese bread, and fried pickles. Elsa shows up a little while later after finishing up at work, still wearing her scrubs and toting a heaping platter of bite-sized chocolate desserts.

Everyone eats their fill, and, as Emma had predicted, the living room transforms into a hive of somewhat girlish activity as she and her friends simultaneously fawn over the baby, indulge in more chocolate, and update each other on the latest social chatter. Killian does his best to keep a straight face when someone finds Pride and Prejudice playing on TV and David takes the opportunity to hop up and suggest he and Killian go finish assembling the baby stuff.

Upon entering the nursery for the first time since the day Henry was born, Killian is entertained to note that, whether out of laziness or reason or simply under threat from his wife, David hasn’t attempted any further progress on the bassinet, though the pieces have been temporarily relegated to the corner in order to be out of the way. Unsure how well they’re going to work together doing something his friend is reputed to be so terrible at, Killian is relieved when it becomes apparent that David is content to let him interpret the instructions and direct their activities accordingly.

“I heard your proposal got postponed,” David says as he sits on the floor of the nursery next to the unfinished bassinet.

“Aye.” Killian perches on the rocking chair, leaning forward over the assembly instructions which are laid at his feet. He sighs, pointing David to a pile of screws and then to a pile of washers. “There was a lot going on. Emma felt it would be best not to celebrate her birthday until the dust settled.”

David nods sympathetically as he threads the screw through the washer. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Killian gives a wan smile. “Nothing to be sorry for, mate,” he says with a shrug, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Did you reschedule then?”

“Next Saturday.” He double-checks the instructions and nods confirmation as David holds up two wood pieces and attempts to fit them together. “Your wife is convinced that Emma will say yes.”

David smirks. “Well, if anyone would know, she would.” He narrows his eyes as he attempts to finesse wooden tabs A, B, and C into their corresponding slots. “Doesn’t mean you’ll be any less nervous though.” He glances up at Killian with a knowing grin.

Killian’s lips tug upward ruefully, even as his eyes fall to his feet.

“But…” David continues sagely, “When it’s right, it’s right. Not asking just won’t feel like an option anymore.” He chuckles, looking nostalgic. “At some point, you just want to grab them and say, ‘Come on. Let’s go live the rest of our lives together.’”

Killian shoots him a look of amusement. “Is that really how you asked Mary Margaret to marry you?”

His friend laughs quietly and shakes his head. “I wish I’d have been so original.” He chuffs, moving on the next section of the bassinet assembly. “But, in the end, it doesn’t matter what you say.” He glances up at Killian with a broad grin across his face. “All that matters is what they say back.”

* * *

The following week seems to crawl by for Killian, though he tries to keep himself occupied with work and with keeping Emma happy and relaxed (which, admittedly, is his favorite responsibility). Friday afternoon is déjà vu when he again pulls the ring box out from his office desk drawer and rushes home to hide it someplace reasonably safe before Emma returns from her day in clinic. He’s in high spirits that evening, and when he takes her to bed and makes love to her, he feels extra giddy knowing that his massive secret resides but a few feet away from them.

His good mood ends abruptly the following morning as he’s awakened by the boom of thunder and the sound of harsh rain slapping loudly against their bedroom window. Killian’s body tenses as he comes to, and he lifts his head, glaring at the closed blinds and the absolute absence of sunshine. His heart falls like a stone, and he rolls out of bed and hastily pulls on his pajama pants.

Emma groans at his abrupt movement, craning her neck to eye him over her shoulder. “What is it?” she asks sleepily. Another enormous crash of thunder makes the walls quake, and she grimaces, her eyes popping open. “Wow.”

“Aye,” he says grimly, peeking out the window from between the blinds.

“Crazy storm,” she comments. She frowns. “Wait. Is this that hurricane? Wasn’t that supposed to miss us?”

Killian doesn’t immediately reply, the truth already obvious to him. He clenches his jaw and turns, stalking toward the door. “I’m going to go check the weather reports.”

He hustles to the living room and locates the remote, switching the television on, grabbing his laptop, and flinging himself down on to the couch in frustration. News coverage of now-Tropical Storm Zelena’s unanticipated arrival in the D.C. metro area fills the screen, the satellite picture pixelating and cutting out now and then due to the severe weather while an unfortunate young meteorologist tries to file a field report from Capitol Hill while being battered by 50 mile-per-hour winds and horizontal rain.

Emma joins Killian on the couch, having thrown on his red flannel pajama top in lieu of her own clothes. They sit together in silence for several minutes as the news cuts to an animated map of the storm’s path, showing the unexpected veer inland it made in the wee hours of the morning.

“So much for dinner out tonight,” Emma sighs regretfully.

“Bollocks.” Killian shuts the lid on his laptop and shoves it aside with a growl. The weather outside seems to reflect his anger, gusts moaning in their fireplace and sheets of rain pounding the window panes.

Emma turns her head at his outburst and studies the look of anger and frustration carved out on his face. She mutes the TV. “Hey,” she says consolingly. She grasps his hand, drawing his attention to her. “It’s okay. It was just a dinner date.” She brushes his knuckles with her thumb the way he so often does hers, her large eyes sympathetic and reassuring as she turns herself to face him on the couch and scoots closer. “I know you worked hard to plan it and everything, but all I really want for my birthday is time with you. You know that, right?” She smiles gently. “It doesn’t have to be a fancy night out.”

Killian’s expression softens, though he still feels crushed beneath the weight of his enormous disappointment. “I know, love,” he says with a heavy sigh. “But I…” He chooses his words carefully. “I wanted you to have a really special evening. You deserve it.”

She chuckles. “And I love you for that,” she says earnestly, fixing him with one of those adoring stares of hers that, at this moment, only makes him feel more guilty about not being able to follow through on his plans. Emma draws even closer and strokes her free hand down his jaw fondly. “But do you remember how you spent three months not asking me out because you were hung up on what you thought I deserved?”

Her words bring every thought in his mind to a sudden halt, and he stares at her, his breath catching in his throat. Prompted by his dumbfounded expression or simply by the length of his silence, she raises her eyebrows encouragingly, and he finds it in himself to nod.

Emma bites her lip momentarily, and there’s a warmth to her gaze that makes him feel whole. “I think we established back then that what you think I deserve and what I really want are not always the same thing,” she says quietly. “I don’t care how we celebrate my birthday, or if we celebrate it.” She shakes her head. “I don’t need some grand gesture to know that you love me.” She pulls his arm around her hip and cups his face with her hands, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks and studying his face. “Just keep looking at me like that,” she says with a smile. “You’re all I need. Just let me be with you.”

Wetness rushes to his eyes as he blinks at her, folding his lips together to stave off the tears and nodding one more time.

Emma gives a little laugh. “This is the part where you kiss me, you big idiot.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he murmurs solemnly, plunging forward and sealing his mouth over hers. He puts everything he is, everything he wants to be, into this kiss, into the way he lets her steal his breath and steals hers in return, into the way his lips move against her while she meets him with equal resolve. She drapes her arms over his bare shoulders and links her hands behind him. Killian smiles, his eyes still clamped shut, as he hears her happy little sniffle, and his heart tries to burst from his chest. Sod the dinner. She’s right, of course. She usually is. He’s in love with Emma Swan, and no act of Mother Nature is going to change this indescribable magic that exists between them. He’s been given the most precious gift in the world; he’s been a bloody fool to despair so much about the details.

When they finally pull apart, she lays her head on his shoulder and clings to him. Killian cradles the back of her head, his fingers weaving into her hair, and heaves a deep sigh of relief. He’s losing track of the number of times she’s alleviated a great weight from his heart like this. He clears his throat, hoping his voice won’t crack as he asks, “So what would you like to do today?”

Another bolt of lightning flashes, and they can again feel the roll of thunder than follows. Emma shivers and hums thoughtfully. “Hmm,” she says, dragging her fingernails lightly through his chest hair, “A cozy Saturday stranded at home with you – so many possibilities.” Her stomach suddenly growls, and she gives a sheepish grin. “Breakfast. Let’s start there.”

Killian sets the coffee to brew while Emma goes about making a loaded omelet, which, she informs him, is the perfect breakfast food for a cold, rainy day. It takes her a little time to chop the veggies and fry up the bacon, and he ducks away while she works and heads back to the bedroom. He throws a glance over his shoulder, smiling at the sight of her humming to herself as she mans her skillet draped in his pajama top with the floppy sleeves rolled to her forearms, her golden hair spilling down her back in a glorious tangle.

He heads straight for their bedroom closet. He throws on a plain white T-shirt and pulls down the box on the top shelf where he keeps his dress uniform cap, lifting the lid and then the cap itself to reveal Emma’s ring box hidden beneath. Perhaps it’s simply the adrenaline, but he realizes, as he retrieves it and puts the cap away, that he’s not as nervous as he thought he would be. It shouldn’t surprise him, he supposes. Her presence has always given him courage. She gives him faith in himself and his future. He smiles to himself as he pops the little box open and pulls the ring out of the cushioned inset, weighing it carefully in the palm of his hand. He wanted a picture perfect setting for this moment between them, but he understands now that the thing that makes it picture perfect isn’t the dinner or the moon or the river. It’s her. And he’s done waiting.

Emma’s plating a gigantic open-faced omelet for two and cutting the burner on the stove when he returns. “Perfect timing,” she tells him, leaving the plate to cool on the counter a moment while she pours two cups of coffee and stirs cream and sugar into hers. “Can you grab the forks?” she asks, carrying the mugs to the dining table and returning for the omelet.

Killian obliges, following her to the table. He sets the cutlery down and takes a deep breath while she settles herself in her chair. Do it, you ninny. “I, uh, I was going to give you your birthday present at dinner tonight, love,” he begins, “But given the change of plans, would you care to have it now?”

She glances up at him, her eyes shining with interest, and smiles coyly. “Okay.”

He angles his body as if turning to step away, slipping his hand into the pocket of his pajama pants as subtly as he can. His fingertips find the ring, and his fist closes around it, his heart beginning to race. “Very well,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “Before I fetch it, though, there is something I’d like to ask you to do with it.” He clears his throat. “A favor.”

She nods amiably and sips her coffee. “Sure.”

His legs feel leaden as he turns a bit back toward her, his hand now grasping the ring in his pocket so tightly it’s sure to leave an impression in his palm. He scratches the back of his head with his stump. “It’s a rather large favor, I’m afraid.”

Emma arches a brow, her eyes dancing in amusement at the idea that he would think any favor too much to ask of her. She sees through his nonchalant mask in a second though, her instincts honing in on his underlying seriousness, and her forehead wrinkles a touch, a confused smile playing on her lips. “Okay…”

Killian swallows and pulls his hand out, unfurling his fingers to reveal the ring, the diamonds winking under the dining table light. “Be my wife?”

It’s as if time slows down. Emma’s jaw goes slack, lips parted in helpless awe as she gapes at the ring. Her huge eyes dart back up to his face and begin to flood, and she raises a trembling hand to cover her mouth, blinking in disbelief.

Killian, too, feels the prickle of tears as he kneels next to her chair and offers the ring to her. He gazes up at her ardently, a watery smile on his face. “Stay with me forever?”

Emma bursts into sobs, and big, fat drops roll down her cheeks when she squeezes her eyes shut for a brief second. She shudders as she looks down at him again, glowing with happiness, and she nods emphatically, completely beyond words.

Overwhelmed with joy, Killian leaps to his feet. He bends down, and Emma flings her arms over his shoulders just before he lifts her out of her chair, shrieking wildly as her toes leave the ground and he whirls her around. When he sets her back down, he braces her face between his fist and stump and accosts her with enthusiastic, tear-stained kisses. She giggles and sniffles as she kisses him back, trying to keep up.

Killian suddenly remembers himself and pulls back, laughing as he realizes he still has her ring, and Emma follows his eyes back to his hand. He rolls his wrist to transfer Ingrid’s little creation from his palm to his fingers and holds it out to for her with a shy smile. They both chuckle at their tremulousness as he guides the jewel onto her outstretched finger. It’s a perfect fit. Emma shudders again, her other hand delicately pressed beneath her nose, her eyes shimmering like gems in their own right.

Killian grasps her hand in his and momentarily admires the sight of his ring finally resting where it belongs. He touches his lips to it with the reverence of a knight swearing fealty to his princess. “Emma,” he breathes, gathering her back into his arms and burrowing his nose in her hair. “My Emma.”

She nods against him, her head tucked under his chin and her hands pressed to his chest. “Yours,” she murmurs back to him. “Always.”

* * *

Carols play softly in the vicinity of the nurses’ station as Emma double-checks the medication list for the patient she’s just admitted to the hospital. She absently spins her engagement ring around on her finger with her thumb and pauses to look for perhaps the thousandth time in less than two months at the true lover’s knot as it slides back into place at the edge of her palm. A sailor’s word to his beloved, Killian had called it the day he’d asked her to marry him – a reminder that even when apart he was irrevocably bound to her. Emma smiles dopily. The sight of it still melts her heart after sixty days, and she’s fairly certain it still will after sixty years.

Her personal phone chimes with an incoming text.

When you have a free moment, your piercing-eyed, smoldering fiancé awaits you in the cafeteria with Christmas dinner.

She grins and logs out of the computer system as fast as she can.

The hospital cafeteria is decorated the same way it is every year for the holiday season – the same way it was the day she met Killian, she realizes as she makes her way to the dining area. At 9 P.M. on Christmas Eve, almost no one is about, and he’s easily spotted at a table in the corner. She laughs as she sees the bright red Santa hat that sits jauntily on his head in stark contrast to his long black wool coat and the sedate gray fisherman's sweater beneath it. A large paper shopping bag rests on the table in front of him.

His face lights up and he jumps to his feet when he spots her coming toward him, arms stretched outward to give her a hug and a chaste kiss. “Imagine meeting you here,” he quips, his blue eyes glinting.

She chuckles, leaning back in his grasp. “I was just thinking about that, too. This is the first time we’ve been back here together since that day.” She glances at the bag. “This is so sweet. You didn’t have to come.”

He smiles gently. “Emma,” he says, “Christmas is about spending time with the ones you love, and this is the first time in years that I’ve had the opportunity to actually do that. I wasn’t going to miss it.”

His blatant honesty catches her a little off-guard, but any heartache she begins to feel at the idea of his lonely Christmases past vanishes as she sees the obvious joy in his face now. She thumbs his cheek affectionately. “Okay.”

Killian grins boyishly and releases her so he can begin unloading the shopping bag, pulling out various Tupperware containers and a couple of forks and knives. “Mary Margaret sent David by with some extra Christmas dinner for us this evening,” he explains. “She thought you might appreciate something other than cafeteria fare tonight.”

Emma eyes the spread – carved turkey, sage stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and pecan pie – and chuckles. “This is fantastic. Thank you.”

They dig in to their feast, and it’s a small Christmas miracle that they actually manage to finish eating before her work phone rings and she’s summoned away. She lets Killian wrap her in his arms for an extra long hug and another quick kiss before she departs. “I love you,” she tells him, cupping his face in her hands. “Thank you for coming. I’ll see you at home.”

When she does finally make it home at a little past noon the following day, Killian is waiting for her at the door with a sprig of mistletoe, the Santa hat still on his head. Emma laughs as he wordlessly sweeps her into his arms and silences her with a kiss that leaves her breathless, his tongue dancing with hers, a deeply satisfied rumble emanating from his chest when she whimpers with desire. She sways for a moment when he finally releases her, pleasantly dizzy, and the enthusiastic grin plastered on his face, complete with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, is ridiculously endearing.

“Happy Christmas, Swan.”

“Happy Christmas,” she echoes with a giggle.

The condo is warm and inviting and completely decked out for the season. The mantel drips with garland and ribbon accents and houses coordinating monogrammed knit stockings from Mary Margaret. A large green wreath accented with berries and pinecones hangs above the fireplace, and a handsome seven-foot Christmas tree, festooned with silver and gold glass baubles and white twinkly lights, stands in the corner. More strings of white lights hang in every window and from the underside of the kitchen counter on the serving side of the center island, giving the whole place an enchanted glow.

“How was your evening?” He allows her to shed her coat and shoes before leading her to the kitchen and placing a warm mug of hot chocolate in her hands.

She hums happily at the sight of it and indulges her first sip right away. “Quiet. I actually managed to sleep about five hours.”

Killian beams. “You’re not rushing off to bed then?”

Emma gives her head a little shake. “Not immediately.” She grins wickedly over the top of her cup. “Not unless you had some more plans for that mistletoe.”

He chuckles. “All in due time, love.” He waggles his eyebrows. “How should you like to spend Christmas Day, then?”

“Hmm…” She narrows her eyes as she considers the possibilities. “Shower. Food. Presents. Christmas movies. Mistletoe.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and Killian leans forward and seizes her lips with a devilish smile. “Excellent.”

He’s got plates of more holiday leftovers heated by the time she’s finished washing away the dregs from her call shift, and after eating, they seat themselves at the foot of their tree. They had decided at Thanksgiving to place both real and decoy presents beneath the tree to keep one another guessing, and they laugh as they simultaneously bypass the larger, shinier packages in favor of one small box each.

Emma hands him his gift, a five-inch square box in gold paper topped with a red bow. Inside he finds a handsome silvery paperweight shaped like a sailboat and a small envelope containing a photo Ariel took them at the pier in Brooklyn as well as the printout of an email confirming membership in a boat timeshare in Annapolis.

“We should finish our sailing lessons and find more time this year to get out on the water,” she tells him as he looks over the email with delight written on his face. “I thought it might be nice to be able to take a boat out on the Chesapeake whenever we wanted, so– Oo!” She squeals when he sets his gift aside and fairly tackles her, bowling her over and covering her face with kisses as she lies on the tree skirt and laughs.

Killian pulls back with a grin, brushing the tip of his nose over hers. “I love it, darling. It’s a brilliant idea.”

He lets her up and reaches for her gift, a six-inch tall rectangular box in red and white candy cane paper. Emma makes short work of the packaging and finds herself looking at a fitted T-shirt with a Union Jack motif wrapped around a heavy brass model of the clock tower at Westminster. Her eyes grow round. “London?”

Killian nods. “And elsewhere in the U.K., if you like. We could enjoy a nice bed and breakfast in the Cotswolds or hike Northern Wales or explore Edinburgh…” He caresses her face, his expression soft. “I want to show you more of my beginnings.” He swallows. “And I want to pay my respects to my mother and brother.”

She bites her lips and blinks wetly as he looks down and fingers her engagement ring thoughtfully.

“I want to introduce them to the woman who’s helped me become the man I think they would have wanted me to be,” he adds quietly.

Emma’s response is to sniffle and shift herself over on the rug so she can reach her arms around him and pull him close.

They retire to the couch, snuggling up together to watch White Christmas. The sun begins to set outside their windows, washing the walls and ceiling in a reddish-gold hue, and as she listens to Rosemary Clooney and Bing Crosby sing in dulcet tones to one another about counting their blessings, Emma’s increasingly sleepy gaze floats over to the glimmer of the Christmas lights and their stockings hanging side-by-side on the mantel. She smiles as she feels Killian's fingers running through her hair and the gentle press of his lips to the top of her head, and she nuzzles his neck and hugs his middle. “I love you, Killian Jones.”

She can feel his chuckle reverberate in his chest and the rise and fall of his contented sigh as she drifts off to sleep.

“I love you, Emma Swan,” he murmurs. “Now and forever.”

Chapter Text

“Where to?” the silver-haired cabbie booms at them in a deep and jovial voice.

Killian shuttles Emma into the back of the black taxi and hops in after her. He sighs with relief as he yanks the door shunt behind him against the late May shower. “Belgravia, please, mate,” he replies. “Ebury Street.” As the cabbie nods and pulls them away from the curb, Killian runs his hand through his wet hair and looks to Emma with a grin. “Alright there, darling?”

Emma rubs her hands together fervently, stringy blonde locks framing her face and water beading on the collar of her dark red trench coat. She shivers, but nevertheless smiles back at him brilliantly. “Yeah. I’m good.” She throws a glance out her window as the cab heads south toward Newington, the dark streets flying past them, the lights of London reflecting in the raindrops that smatter against the glass. “Good thing the rain didn’t start sooner. It would have been a soggy second act.”

The cabbie chuckles. “It’s London, Ma’am,” he says, meeting her eye in his rearview mirror. “They’re rather used to playing in the rain at The Globe.” He refocuses his attention back on the road. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Emma nods at him enthusiastically. “Yeah, it was really great. The actors were wonderful.”

“What did you see?”

“Much Ado About Nothing,” she answers, shifting closer to Killian and draping her forearm over his. She smoothes her hand back and forth over his stump in order to try to warm it up, though there’s only marginally more heat in her skin than his.

Killian gives her a grateful smile and leans over to press his lips to her temple.

“Are you local or just visiting?”

Emma meets Killian’s eye and grins triumphantly. “Visiting. We’re on our honeymoon.”

“Ahh…” The cabbie’s hazel eyes crinkle at the corners. “Newlyweds. Well, well done, lad,” he tells Killian. “Seems as though you’ve found yourself a lovely girl.”

Killian nods, unable to agree more.

Twenty minutes later, the cab pulls up outside their B&B on a well-kept lane southwest of Buckingham Palace, the cheerful glow from large carriage-light sconces beckoning them into the white stucco house. Killian settles up, and Emma thanks the cabbie and pushes her door open, fleeing over the curb and yelping at the cold downpour that manages to get her before she can make it past the black, wrought-iron gate and up the brick steps to the limited shelter of the terrace overhanging the front door.

Killian takes a deep breath as he follows her, slamming the car door behind him and covering the distance in five large steps in order to huddle with her in the doorway between the manicured boxwoods. Emma addresses the security keypad to the right of the door and taps in the four-digit code they were given on check-in. Her chilled fingers tremble a bit, but she still gets the combination right in one, and she sighs with satisfaction as the lock clicks open.

They hastily duck inside, and Killian ushers Emma through the second set of doors in the entryway, shaking out his left arm stiffly in an attempt to get the blood to circulate.

The thin, forty-something year-old man behind the front desk looks up from his computer as they enter and beams. “’Evening, Admiral! Missus!”

Emma rolls her head to toss her wet hair over her shoulder as she works to undo the fastenings on her coat, her face widening into a smile for the B&B’s owner. “Hi, Martin,” she replies, a bit breathless.

“Getting nasty out there,” he observes.

“Uh, yeah.” She shrugs out of her coat and holds it at arm's length, letting it drip on to the storm mat. “Sorry, we’re a little soggy,” she says apologetically.

He waves it off. “No worries. Your coats can stay down here to dry if you like.” He gestures at a partially-occupied row of hooks on the wall hanging above an umbrella stand and a wide copper boot tray holding a couple pairs of Wellies.

“Here, love.” Killian sheds his pea coat and hangs it from his stump, gesturing for Emma to give him her trench. “I’ve got it.”

Emma nods appreciatively and hands over the coat and her cashmere scarf, still shaking a bit from cold. She wraps her arms around herself, her hands flying up and down to try to work some heat into her biceps. “You know what sounds really good right now?” she says, eyes brightening as she straightens her back, “A hot shower.”

Martin smiles sympathetically. “Would you two like a cuppa to warm up? I can bring a pot up to your room.”

Emma pauses with one foot on the white-spindled staircase. “That would be amazing,” she says, looking touched. “Thank you.”

Martin chuckles. “You’re welcome, my dear. Now, up you go.” He smiles after her as she ascends before turning back to Killian. “Nothing like a chilly spring rain to freeze you to the bone,” he comments cheerfully.

Killian gives a little laugh, hanging their outerwear up to dry. “There are a few things I don’t miss about this country,” he admits. He pauses. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he says hopefully, “Would it be possible to get hot chocolate instead of tea? My wife is a rather obsessed with hot chocolate with a bit of cinnamon.” He feels the happy flush rise up his face as the words leave his mouth. His wife. Five whole days he’s gotten to call Emma that, and he’s certain he grins like an idiot every time.

Martin chuckles. “I can do that. No trouble at all. Go on up. I’ll bring it shortly.”

“That’s very kind. Cheers, mate.” With a tiny bow of his head to convey his gratitude, Killian tracks Emma up the carpeted stairs.

The sound of the shower greets him as he enters their suite on the second floor. It’s a generously-sized room, especially for London, done in silvery blue with a bold accent wall covered in steel blue damask wallpaper. Emma has pulled the luxuriously thick taupe drapes closed over the tall, street-facing windows, and the room feels cozy, intimately lit by a lamp on the bedside table and another on a small side table squeezed between the windows.

Killian feels a tinge of disappointment when the shower handle squeaks and the sound of the water cuts out just as he finishes emptying his pockets and undressing. He’d entertained the notion of joining Emma in the bathroom and really heating things up, but he knows from the past three nights that the king bed they have is a perfectly delightful setting for such things as well. Mindful that Martin will be stopping by soon anyway, he slips on a pair of pajama pants and settles onto the bed with his laptop as Emma emerges from the bathroom in a robe, working at her wet hair with a towel.

“Feeling better, Swan?” he asks, logging into the B&B’s wi-fi.

“Much.” She grins and steps back into the bathroom to hang up the towel and turn off the light and then proceeds to sit on the duvet cover, shifting toward the center of the bed to join him. “I should probably leave this robe on until Martin shows up, huh?” she asks teasingly, tucking her legs under her.

He smirks. “I suppose that would be good form.” He nudges her face with a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m sure he’ll be along presently.” He drops his voice as his lips remain near her ear. “And then you can show me what you had planned.”

She chuffs and blushes prettily. “I don’t know if there was a plan, really.” She looks at his computer screen, and her eyes grow big. “Oh! The photographer emailed!” She scoots right up against him and clutches at his upper arm eagerly as he opens the email. “Are the proofs in?” They read the email together, and she gives a little cheer.

Killian chuckles as he clicks the enclosed link to their photographer’s web site and enters the log-in information provided. The site begins to play soft instrumental music as “Emma & Killian” and the date of their wedding appears on the white screen in flowy gold script. A scrollable parade of colorful thumbnails slides into place below. Emma points for him to start the photos rolling on automatic slideshow, and they watch as, one by one, beautiful images from their nuptial celebration are displayed on the screen.

Their wedding invitation (swirling calligraphy in navy blue ink and contrasting formal black typeface on creamy woven cardstock), the venue details card, and the RSVP postcard, all laid out artfully over the navy envelope with metallic gold lining.

Emma, her hair in a romantic, loosely braided up-do with relaxed stray curls, glancing over her shoulder as Mary Margaret zips her into her stunning, fitted, A-line lace wedding dress with cap sleeves and illusion back.

Emma gazing into a mirror as she puts on the antique tear-drop sapphire earrings she borrowed from Ingrid, the mirror’s reflection catching Mary Margaret, Elsa, Ruby, Dorothy, and Belle in the background, the bridesmaids clad in dresses in varying styles and complimentary shades of light blue.

Mary Margaret outfitting a squealing seven month-old Henry in an adorable miniature dove gray suit complete with vest, blue clip-on necktie, and tiny black shoes.

Killian suited up in his military dress uniform and surveying his appearance in a mirror as he fastens his sword belt, his peaked cap resting on the dresser in front of him.

Killian, David, and Will standing on the driveway of the Virginia resort while David steers his son around in the white, child-sized BMW ride-on SUV that Will and Killian modified to operate by remote control.

Killian, David, Will, and Charlie Stephens in dress uniform and play-acting out sword fights on a picturesque golf course, their faces drawn into comically dramatic expressions.

Dr. Hopper hovering over a table on a flagstone patio, scribbling a congratulatory message for the happy couple into the guestbook.

A little wooden arrow sign which reads “I Do” pointing down a paved stone aisle that leads through a grassy field set with white folding chairs to a distant stone dais with a gray pergola draped in streaming white fabric, the Potomac visible just beyond.

The wedding party walking down the aisle in pairs, the women excited and effortlessly pretty, and the gentlemen looking cheerful but stern from under the visors of their caps.

The seated guests all craning for a glimpse of a smiley, drooly Henry, who appears to be having the time of his life as he rumbles down the aisle in his little SUV, the wedding rings securely tied to a ring bearer’s pillow on the seat beside him and rose petals scattering through the bottom of a wide-mesh basket strapped to the back.

Emma starting her walk down the aisle, a bundle of white and yellow flowers spilling over in her hands, the hint of her strappy white jeweled shoes peeking out from under her hem, her face glowing with excitement in the afternoon light.

Killian standing at the altar looking entranced, eyes shining with pride and love and lips barely parted in an awed smile as he watches his bride coming toward him.

Killian and Emma standing arm-in-arm before the Navy chaplain during the wedding ceremony.

Killian and Emma face-to-face as they exchange vows and rings with tear-lined expressions of joy.

Mary Margaret, the Maid of Honor, cradling her son during the ceremony, her eyes brimming.

Killian and Emma embracing, his arms around her waist, her hands cupping his face as they share the kiss to end all kisses while their friends cheer raucously in the background.

Emma tugging Killian’s cap onto his head with a laugh as the wedding party prepares for the recession back up the aisle.

Killian and Emma with wild smiles on their faces as he leads her under the Arch of Sabers formed by the groomsmen and the ushers at David’s command.

The rings, stacked together in the sandy riverbank, the reflection of Killian and Emma holding hands beneath the sparkling late-afternoon sun visible in the wide, polished gold surface of Killian’s wedding band.

The wedding party striking various formal and informal poses on a grassy embankment with deep pink roses in the foreground.

Emma wearing Killian’s cap and laughing hysterically as he scoops her up and spins her beneath the boughs of a grand willow tree, her fluttering skirts draped over his arm.

A reception hall with a tall peaked ceiling and large windows looking out on the dusk, bronze chandeliers throwing light over gold bamboo banquet chairs and round dining tables dressed with navy linens and white floral centerpieces.

A round, three-tiered wedding cake in simple white buttercream with navy pinstripe fondant ribbon around the base of each tier and a spray of white flowers piled on top.

Killian and Emma, eyes humorously narrowed in concentration, using the tip of his cutlass to slice into the cake with as much calculated precision as a surgeon and an engineer can muster.

David standing at the head table, lifting a flute of champagne, and beaming as he toasts the happy couple.

Killian and Emma nose-to-nose and grinning like fools as they murmur things to one another over dinner.

Henry giving a toothless grin as his parents sandwich him between them, each kissing one of his chubby cheeks.

Major Mills looking smug, the bride’s bouquet in her hands as she tugs her ruggedly handsome boyfriend into a sexy kiss.

Stephens flushed almost as red as his hair, Emma’s garter having just landed squarely in his face and fallen into his upturned palm.

Killian and Emma wrapped in each other’s arms, eyes closed and foreheads pressed together as they share their first dance to “For Once In My Life,”** the lighting intimate and everything behind them a blur.

Ruby and Dorothy enthusiastically doing the electric slide.

Belle and Will sharing a slow dance and an affectionate gaze.

Elsa sitting with Stephens, her head tossed back in laughter as they eat wedding cake.

Emma disappearing through the door of the reception hall, only her arm still visible as she hauls her giddy new husband away from the festivities to enjoy a private moment.

Emma sniffs happily and she and Killian laugh now and then as the photos flash by in succession.

A knock comes at the door, and Killian hands Emma the laptop so she can continue to enjoy the pictures while he gets up.

As promised, Martin stands in the hallway with a small tray loaded with two mugs of hot chocolate capped in froth, each garnished with a cinnamon stick. He gives Killian a wink as he hands it over. “Here we are. Have a good evening.” He responds to Killian’s thanks with a gracious nod before heading back down the stairs.

Killian presses the door closed quietly with his stump as he balances the tray in his hand. “Here you go, love.” He sets the tray down on the desk and brings a mug over to Emma. He revels in the way her face brightens as she realizes that what’s in the cup isn’t tea.

“How ever did he know?” she asks flashing him a playful grin.

Killian smiles as he helps himself to the other mug and carefully resumes his place beside her on the bed. “Perhaps someone tipped him off,” he replies lightly, sinking into the mattress.

Emma chuckles and takes a sip, giving a little hum of delight as her eyes fall to her drink. “Wow. That’s good. Different, but good.”

“Aye, it’s different here.” He watches with amusement as she licks a little remnant of froth from the top of her lip and raises the cup to her mouth for more. He samples his own and then proceeds to drain half of it in one slow draught. The heat trickles down to his belly, the sharpness of the cinnamon helping to build the sensation of warmth that soothes any remaining chill. It’s lovely. This whole thing is lovely, he thinks – enjoying a delicious warm drink on a cold night while holed up in a beautiful bed-and-breakfast in London with his new bride. If someone had told him that this could be his life back when he first met Emma, he’d have declared them mad. And yet here he is, almost in spite of himself, really. He’s such a lucky sod.

Emma’s eyes remain fixed on the computer screen as she finishes nursing her chocolate, her diamond ring flashing in the light of the bedside lamp and casting tiny, dancing white dots on to the bed. “It was a really good day,” she sighs dreamily as the slide show finally loops back to the beginning.

“It was,” he agrees, taking her cup and getting up to set them both aside on the desk. He crawls up to her from the foot of the bed, and Emma chuckles and shuts the lid of his laptop, setting it aside in order to welcome him into her arms. “Today was also a good day,” he murmurs, planting a knee between her thighs and exhaling contentedly as they sink heavily together into the perfectly downy pillows and his lips find hers.

“And tomorrow?” she asks in between kisses, her fingers gliding over his scruff and into his hair.

He thumbs her cheek as he brushes his mouth over hers. “And all our tomorrows, Swan,” he answers, eyes closed, savoring her warm breath on his skin and the soft pull of her lips on his. “No matter what comes. Every day with you at my side shall be a very good day.”