Work Text:
“Alright, my love, here we go,” Killian explains while lifting up his 5-year-old daughter to carry her on his shoulders.
He's making sure she finds a comfortable position before they embark on the journey from the kitchen to the living room area, where the object of their quest is waiting for them. Bare and still a little covered in what's left of the powdered snow that had buried it underneath overnight — several small puddles of meltwater have started to form around it on the wooden floor already, though — it guides them to their destination with its distinctive smell.
His spirits are high; he's been looking forward to this particular tradition ever since he got introduced to it. So when he finally starts to move, he can't resist initiating a little playful scenario…
“You're swaying like the Roger,” Hope says, giggling loudly when her father is dramatically imitating a ship's movement, leaning his body from one side to the other with every step he takes, making an extra round or two around the kitchen table before he changes his course.
“Apologies, but there's bumpy waters ahead, my little first mate,” he calls out to her before he stops next to the stairs that lead to the second floor of their house. “Now, should we head “port” or “starboard” to reach our destination?”
“Starboard!!! Starboard!!”
“Aye aye!” He exclaims, turns to the right, and heads for the bay-window corner where his enchanted telescope is usually located at…
And there it finally was in all its glory — the Christmas tree Hope had been holding a topper for in one of her small hands the entire time.
After they reach the bottom branches, Killian tightens his grip around her legs and leans forward to give his daughter better access to reach the top to add the star-shaped ornament to the tree.
“Steady… steady now.” He advises, watching her fumbling to complete her task, some of the needles lightly piercing the skin of his hands, neck and face, a small twig of the fir nearly snapping into his right eye when he adjusts his position a little.
“Done, Papa,” she proudly states, and they're finally able to retreat a little from the needle-leaved plant to check the position of the tree topper.
“Perfectly even, well done.” Her father praises, secretly happy that he doesn't need to get too close to it again and risk any more irritations to his skin, let alone losing an eye.
“After all these years of experience in decorating the tree, you're still starting with the finishing touch?” Emma suddenly quips from behind with a smug grin on her face.
She had been busy searching for the rest of the decorations in the basement but was drawn to the scene by the laughter filling their house. So she snuck back up and watched them quietly, leaning at the wall next to the stairs, arms crossed with a smile on her lips.
“So you'd rather want to see us keel over into that thing after all the decorations are done?” Her husband responds jokingly with a raised brow.
“I'd rather have you not crash into it at all…but you have a point there.”
Killian sets Hope down, and she runs off to rummage through the few boxes her mother had already brought upstairs, looking for her favorite decorations.
“What brought you here, love?” He asks in a genuine tone, wondering if she needs help with the boxes.
“Oh, you know, just that “second star to the right” thing,” she explains, pointing at the top of the fir where the star-shaped ornament is glistening in the reflection of the light shining through the windows.
The way she said this wasn't casual; it definitely carried a tint of a flirty undertone — at least to him. For all the ones he never understands, he at least gets this reference. Neverland. The place he truly fell in love with her. He had never thought there'd be a single chance that he'd one day possess a good memory of that cursed island, but here he is now, looking at his wife in front of him, remembering their shared moments and first instance of real intimacy.
So he tilts his head a little, a small cocky smile appearing on his lips, and convicts suspiciously, “Of course.”
A small laugh escapes her at his reaction, knowing that he understood. Then she pushes herself off the wall and ventures to the kitchen, leaving him wondering what she's up to.
Killian’s gaze briefly wanders to where Hope had been checking the content of the boxes, realizing that she's not there anymore. She must have gone searching for her favorite ornaments because they haven't yet been included in the boxes Emma had brought.
It's the same every single year — the order in which the tree needs to be decorated is extremely important to their daughter, and he won't bloody mess with that by continuing the task alone. Not that he would want to without her present anyway…
“You know,” he calls out to his wife while cleaning up the puddles underneath the tree before they ruin the floor, breathing in the aroma of the freshly cut fir. ”As much as I didn't know anything about this,” he gets up, straightens his clothes, and gestures at it with his hand, “prickly tree tradition, I must admit it is my favorite now.”
“You mean after the one that allows you to drink as much as you like once a year?” She cheekily inquires while presenting an eggnog to him.
He briefly looks at the creamy, yellowish beverage before his face falls and he retorts with a raised brow, "Joke’s on you, Swan. You know I wouldn't touch that thing made of raw eggs ever again…”
Whatever went down the first year he tried it, they swore to never talk about it again. Yet, it became somewhat of an insider joke, and she wouldn't miss a single year to make it…
“Just a bit of a reminder.” Her eyes smile in a challenging fashion when she says this over the rim of her glass, taking a sip.
She wants flirty banter? He had mastered this particular skill centuries before she was even born…
“More like teasing, I'd say…” He steps closer, his face coming to a halt next to the left side of her face, breathing a whispered, “There are certain places I'd rather want you to, though,” in her ear, which sends a pleasant shiver down her spine.
“Can we put these on first?” The married couple gets suddenly interrupted by their daughter, who presents a small box of assorted ornaments to them both.
Emma is caught a little off guard at the sight, a tint of disappointment present in her voice, “Oh, sweetie, I thought those were supposed to be much more of a surprise?”
Her husband, on the other hand, gasps when the choice of said ornaments dawns on him…
“You didn't,” he whispers, stunned.
“What? Did you expect us to bury this like treasure first?” His wife retorts a little cheekily after having taken his hand in hers.
But she'd already seen it; already acknowledged that for once he's at a loss for most of his words, eyes glassy from being moved to the brink of tears.
Killian feels their love and appreciation for him every day, but this early present now is somewhat of an added physical proof of it. He carefully takes out one ornament after the other and aligns them on his hook, analyzing all details of the four small objects dangling slightly in front of his face.
The tiny steering wheel, ship and compass are made of wood and beautifully painted to resemble the Jolly Roger and the compass Emma and he went to get during their first shared adventure. A literal compass led him to his true love? Kind of poetic, he briefly thinks, remembering their quest.
The fourth item is a small replica of his hook and — like its bigger counterpart — made of metal, reflecting his face on its polished surface.
“We thought it's about time you get your own set, too.” Emma explains in a soft voice, her head resting on his right shoulder, and left arm slung around his waist.
His own set. Four ornaments to represent him. Four items to join the ones that they'd been using for years… There are the glass unicorns of Emma's crib’s mobile Snow was always wary about ever since that ghastly premonition she received all those years ago. Her daughter, though, wanted them for Hope's nursery, refusing to let the past dictate their current lives and wanting to break the curse of generational trauma. And when Hope outgrew her crib, they ended up as decorations for their trees and were joined by a bunch of red, glass, swan-shaped ones two years ago, when Emma received them as a present from her mother. One set of decorations for Hope and one for Emma. And now one for him, too.
“Merry Christmas.” She says while planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Merry Christmas!” Their daughter chimes in happily. “Can I hang them on the tree, Papa?” She asks, pulling lightly at the cuff of his hooked-arms dress shirt.
“Of course, my love.” He beams at her joyfully, lowering his arm to give her access to his hook. "You pick the spots and tell me if I need to lift you up again.” He adds while she slides the first ornament from the bent metal substitute for her father's missing hand.
“Okay, you two get to this,” Emma states, adding in a whisper to his ear with a wink, “And I go get you a glass of spiced grog to atone for earlier.”
“Mmmhhh, this will truly forever remain my favorite tradition.” He remarks contentedly before she makes her way to the kitchen, and Hope is about to get the next item from his hook to add to the fir.
And who knows, maybe they'll get ornaments representing the rest of their family members and add them to the trees in the future, too? Because for them a Christmas tree isn't just that; it’s a family tree — literally.