#except this time its worse in different ways like. he's a rhombus.

[patchyworx]

You can be attracted to gijinka designs of characters that don't previously look very human but. Watch Out

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (4/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: Another 9K or so, but with feelings AN: I had every intention of posting this on actual Christmas, but there was a Doctor Who marathon on and, well—I got distracted by other time travel. Hopefully my timelines are more consistent than River Song’s. Sorry, River Song. Here’s a whole bunch of kissing and feeling feelings. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

“Were you ever actually going to paint?”

No eyebrow movement that time, although Killian’s actual eyes widen ever so slightly and that particular reaction is starting to do dangerous things to Emma's ego. He keeps his coffee mug hovering just above his lips, which she’s certain is a carefully calculated ploy to also keep her staring at his lips, but that’s not all that difficult and she’d spent at least seven full minutes kissing those same lips senseless that morning. 

In bed. 

The one they’ve slept in — for four days straight now, which is probably more time than it should be, but he was right. Falling asleep with his arm around her is far easier than the opposite, and he only occasionally complains about the frost-like tendencies of her feet. Mostly into the back of her neck. That’s just where his mouth ends up. 

So, everything is still going great. Not potentially problematic. Because neither Regina nor Tinker Bell have come up with a working time-travel theory, and Emma’s baking endeavors haven’t gone over all that well either, but she’s discovered Killian’s tendency for stealing batter, and that’s even more ridiculously endearing information that’s only sort of skewing with her sense of reality, and— “Is this you volunteering?”

Startling, Emma almost forgot she’d asked a question. His mouth does something else. Stupid, and distracting and he uses almond milk in his coffee. 

Claims it’s a modern convenience he’s more than willing to take advantage of. 

Great, great, excellent. Possibly falling towards something, in a free-fall sort of way, and Emma shakes her head. Brushes away dangerous thoughts and hard-drawn lines in the much more metaphorical sand, and she wonders if sand ever lingers in their entry way during the summer. 

They must go to the beach. 

Spend time on the Jolly Roger, and she hasn’t seen much of the ship, but she’s starting to think it’d be nice to pass an afternoon on the water, with the sun and the salt and— “Swan,” Killian says, obviously not the first time he’s tried to draw back her attention. Chair legs scrape across their kitchen floor when he stands, and Emma’s brain barely acknowledges that particular pronoun before he’s crowding her space and bumping his hips against hers and nothing like that has happened yet, because that’s not just a line, it’s an entire rhombus or some other geometric shape that’s more like a tangled mess and knotted feelings and she flinches. 

When his hook drifts under the hem of her shirt. 

Floral patterned, and far gauzier than anything Emma would even think about owning now. Or then, she supposes. Tenses continue to be their own specific type of issue, and she’s starting to like the clothes hanging in her questionably large closet. 

They’re soft. 

Which is probably not a commentary, or observation of whatever tense she’s willing to use, but it’s definitely different and possibly better and Killian chuckles in her ear as soon as her head falls to his collarbone. He kisses the top of her hair. 

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Scoffing into his shirt threatens to rumple the fabric, and she doesn’t really miss the billowy fabric of what’s now years past, but she also wonders if he kept them and where he docks the Jolly during the winter, and she can’t start giving pirate ships nicknames. Not now. Not yet. Not when she’s got to leave, and that only makes, like, half her muscles ache, so it’s probably not as bad as it could be. 

“They’re not worth that much,” Emma mumbles, the soft laugh she gets warming her from the inside out. A mix of magic and much more, and she’s back on the alliterative. As a defense mechanism or something. 

For her heart, maybe. 

“Luckily for you, I’ve got something of an eye for undiscovered treasure and—” “—Is this a line?” He laughs again, noses at her temple and the crown of her head and neither one of them mention how tightly Emma’s arms wrap around his middle. “If you can’t decipher when I’m flirting by now, we may have some issues.” “Some is a vast understatement.” “It’s going to be alright,” Killian promises, but it rings a little hollow and part of Emma knows. Still dark and distant, it doesn’t want to acknowledge everything it’s ignoring and a pointed voice echoes between her ears. With the same mantra. 

Magic is emotion. 

And Emma’s emotions are decidedly split. Just like Pan thought they’d be. Maybe she’s not just a coward; she’s selfish and greedy and inching dangerously close to a crying jag in the middle of the kitchen, but then Killian’s fingers drag across her spine and it’s a rhythm she can time her breathing to. 

“We’re running out of time.” “That’s not entirely true. Time travel’s apparently heavily involved, makes deadlines rather defunct, don’t you think?”

Emma scrunches her nose, but the voice is back and it’s sharper and a little angrier and stamping on several different parts of her brain if the growing pain is any indication. All magic comes with a price. “Talk to me about paint instead.” “Not much to talk about,” Killian says, but the caution in his voice makes it obvious they’re both all too aware of what they’re avoiding. Possibly even dreading. Emma is, at least. 

She’s going to strangle Peter Pan when she sees him. 

“But you haven’t done it.” “Some other things have been going on, you see.” “Don’t you want to paint?” “It’s not particularly high on my list of ways to occupy my time,” he admits, one side of his mouth tugging up. Flirting is getting easier. Some joke about practice, Emma is sure. “But, if it’s something you’re willing to help with, and it will get those thoughts of yours to settle for a few moments, then—” “—Who says my thoughts aren’t settled?” Tapping the all-too-noticeable furrow of Emma’s forehead, Killian’s eyes widen again. “Absolutely God awful at masking them, m’dear.” “Maybe that’s just a you thing.” “Aye, my mind-reading talents have been well-documented, but I suppose if we’re going to wait for Her Majesty to come up with yet another pointless—” “—Kinda harsh,” Emma mumbles. He kisses the furrow. Traces the lines of her brows, and hovers just on the edge of her eyes, grazing cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, until Emma's skin is buzzing and her magic threatens to pour out of her, and she’s only just able to contain whatever wave joke is pressing against her lips. Good, since those lips can be put to much better use against Killian’s. “Better plan, anyway,” he mumbles, working his arm back around her waist. So he can tug her up, and pull her closer to him and neither one of those things feel like the multitude of other problems Emma’s overactive brain is dealing with and they do eventually get out of the kitchen. 

Finish the coffee, and figure out where Hope’s favorite hat has disappeared to, because Emma’s rather quickly learned that this hat has legs that quite often move from its spot on the shelf into the hallway, and the overall width of Mary Margaret’s smile when she opens up the farm’s screen door isn’t as jarring as it would have been a week earlier. 

Getting back home takes longer than it probably should — ducking into the alley behind Granny’s for at last forty-two seconds of totally uninterrupted kissing, and Emma’s not entirely sure this is what being a newlywed is like, or was, she supposes, but it’s still pretty fantastic and she doesn’t want to name the sound that works its way out of her. 

Part giggle, a hint of overjoyed, and some sort of lingering fear because this isn’t quite real, but feels like the exact opposite, and they find old drop sheets in one of their half a dozen closets. Right next to the shirts she’d been wondering about before, and that’s probably not serendipity or fate or anything except Killian’s own sentimental tendencies, but she’s got to change her clothes anyway, and she doesn’t drown in the fabric like she worried she would. 

Likely not a metaphor, either. 

“Cheating,” Killian accuses, reaching for Emma anyway and moving the furniture isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Until Emma also remembers she’s got magic, and the ability to be very attracted to the guy who can’t seem to keep his hand off her, and she only has to blink once. 

For the furniture to move into the basement, at least for the time being. 

“Impressive, right?”

“Look who’s fishing for compliments now.” “C’mon, that was a shit ton of—” She doesn’t get the rest out, far too busy gasping and blinking and he’s swiped paint on her nose. “Are you kidding me?” Shrugging, he dances out of her reach before Emma can totally react and the paint’s already starting to dry. And crack. The signs are just getting obnoxious now. Makes much more sense to keep ignoring them. 

“No, no,” she argues, not bothering with the brush stuffed into the top of her leggings. Twisting her wrist, paint soars towards Emma’s fingertips, curling around her wrist and practically vibrating with the energy she’s flush with. 

Killian takes a step back. One more, another. A quick shake of his head makes the strands falling across his forehead shift again, and she’s not counting how often that happens, but she’s also paying fairly close attention to it and—“Revenge is never wise, love,” he advises, not able to keep the laugh out of his voice. 

“Pots and kettles, and all that, right?” “I’m completely reformed now. Ask anyone.” Humming, Emma advances on him. Magic ripples up her arms, power she’s never quite experienced before and it’s oddly intoxicating. Not in an overwhelming, potentially villainous sort of way. It’s far too warm for that. 

Villainy has to be cold, Emma’s sure. 

As it is, she’s not quite sweating, but she’s decidedly comfortable and all of her internal organs are functioning with an ease that belies their situation, or the problems it presents, and none of the paint ever touches her skin. Hovers in the air around it, wholly controlled and that’s not something Emma’s particularly familiar with. 

It’s nice. It’s—much more than nice, but she fell once while trying to do the long jump in that one Minnesota high school she spent a few months in when she was fifteen, and the prospect of something similar makes her wary of leaving the ground again. The line’s still there. Drawn with precision, and possibly permanent marker, and they can’t paint over that. 

Not yet, at least. Not entirely. 

“It does kind of match your eyes,” Emma says, hoping Killian doesn’t notice the shake in her voice. No such luck, she knows. Can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, but he’s able to push away. Not from the wall, and there’s something cyclical and symmetrical about this too, emotion almost visibly hanging between them. Another thing they haven’t talked about, and likely won’t have time for. 

Totally fine. Absolutely great. 

Falling for—

No, no falling. Standing and walking and Emma lifts her chin. Lets her magic twist its way up her spine, and flicker towards her bare feet, and Killian’s mouth twitches again. 

“Care more about the dress, really.” “What’d it look like? And where was Elsa’s—you said it was a wedding, right?”

“Her wife was here, you saw Mulan yesterday.” “No shit!” “Always with the perfect response,” Killian grins, “but yes. Met while Mulan was doing ambassador work for Aurora and Phillip, and love conquers all or so I’ve been told.” “Say it again without making it a joke.” Not shuddering under the force of his ensuing gaze is another victory Emma’s going to relish, even when she’s wherever she’s actually supposed to be, and she hopes she remembers this. In picture-perfect detail. “Conquers all,” Killian repeats, “as far I know.”

“Personally?” “Deeply so.”

Emma licks her lips. Killian stares. Tries not to, but she really is getting better at reading him and he doesn’t put up as much of a fight about information anymore. Seriously, everything’s so fine, the word barely holds any meaning now. But, like, in a positive way. “So, we went to Elsa’s wedding because—” “—You and she are rather good friends. Hope’s godmother, in fact.” “Oh. That’s—wow, that’s kind of nice.” “It is,” Killian agrees, not adding to it. He doesn’t have to. They both hear what they haven’t said — how few and far between friends are for Emma, and she briefly wonders if he knows about Lily or the kids who showed up, only to disappear just as quickly, and it would be second-nature to tell him. Part of her wants to now. 

Rehashing seems silly, though. 

“Anyway,” he adds, “Elsa and Mulan got married, and there was a dress that I will admit to thinking quite a lot about still, and it was blue. With these…” His eyes flutter closed. Magic roars in the very center of Emma. “Little bits of twisted fabric on top, looked like starbursts.” “Like the candy?” Gods, she an idiot. An entertaining one, if Killian’s smirk proves anything, though. So that’s something, at least. “Did we dance?” Nodding, his eyes keep darting back towards Emma’s hand and the paint that’s become some part of a questionably romantic thing, but she’s also starting to get the suspicion he’s using the wall to stay upright. Something thumps into it. 

Light bursts from the end of Emma’s hair. 

“Oh,” Killian groans through clenched teeth, and a jaw that can’t possibly be comfortable, “that’s hardly playing fair, sweetheart.”

Huh. 

The light grows. Flares, even — until it’s casting streaks across the floor and hovering just under Emma’s skin, because apparently she can glow now, and she almost feels like she’s floating. On endearments and sentiment and the air blowing through windows opened solely so they didn’t suffocate on paint fumes suddenly smells a little sweeter. 

“You’ve got your hook embedded in the wall,” Emma points out, none of those words all that even either. She doesn’t sound like herself, but she also didn’t know she was a person who reacted quite like that to one ten-letter word, yet here they. So, whatever really. 

Wider eyes and slightly parted lips meet her somehow still-lifted chin, and Killian’s nod barely warrants the description. Leaves his chest shifting, but Emma’s also admittedly staring at his chest because for as big as the shirt she’s wearing is, his is just as tight and touting a college she figures Henry thought about going to at some point, and she seizes her opportunity. 

Paint flies — literally. Soars across the barley-there space between Emma’s toes and Killian’s socks, and she genuinely cannot cope with how he only ever takes his socks off to sleep. He gasps when color splashes his cheeks and his shoulders, hangs from the ends of his hair, and threatens to find the edges of his lips. “Gotta close your mouth,” Emma advises lightly, getting the exact spark in his eyes that she was hoping for and she yelps all the same. When he ducks his head, nosing at her neck and the line of her collar. Which is technically his color, but she’s been using all those collective pronouns, that it can’t possibly matter at this point and she definitely giggles. While his fingers trace patterns across her stomach and the side of her waist, dragging lines of blue paint over skin and fabric and she’s not sure when they fall over, just that they’re a tangle of limbs and slightly ripped sheets and— “Do you think I could magic the paint on the walls?” Emma asks, flipping her paint-covered head to her side. Without opening his eyes, Killian mumbles an agreement, his fingers fluttering against hers until they lace between them and she’s only like seventy-four percent positive he does it on purpose. 

Concentrating on the twenty-six percent that absolutely knows it’s that same instinct and inherent habit from before, Emma twists her lower lip between her teeth. Feels the first brush of magic, and the small inferno that erupts between her ribs doesn’t actually set her on fire. So, more victories. 

And it only takes about twelve seconds. 

Give or take. 

Blue walls appear around them as if by—well, magic. Not a streak out of place, or mark on the baseboards and Emma’s only a little annoyed that they bothered to move any of the furniture. “Single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen,” Killian mutters. “Your eyes are still closed.” “Aye, but I know it’s happening.” Not letting go of her lip or his hand, Emma’s heart thunders in her chest as soon as she notices the question sitting on her tongue. “When did that start? Because—well, as far as I know you can’t tell in Neverland.” He doesn’t respond. Not immediately, anyway. And that’s only momentarily terrifying, before a slightly different and passably darker shade of blue meets her. “That’s not entirely true. It gets a little confusing, though.” “Don’t offend me like that.”

“I’m not saying you won’t understand,” Killian laughs, “just—the other time travel adventure? Well, that happens rather early in my timeline. And, uh...well, by that point you’re feeling some things and—” “—Kissing as a distraction,” Emma breathes, realization shaking her and this version of the puzzle is equally surprising and wonderful. 

“You’re an eavesdrop.” “Piracy excuse.”

He laughs again, kisses her cheek and pulls her closer to his side until nearly all of him is touching all of her and that’s another word much bigger than nice. “As far as I’ve been able to reason it, that sets off a chain of sorts. Magic exists in you, can be felt by me, I don’t entirely remember it—” “—You don’t entirely remember it?” “Making it difficult to tell the story.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it’s always been this sort of—presence, I suppose. In the back of my mind, a reminder of something. Good and possible, and it makes it rather easy to tell when you’re agitated, actually.” “Seems like cheating.” “Piracy excuse,” he repeats, and Emma’s mind trips over itself. Falling across line and thoughts and leaving here might be one of the hardest things she’s ever done. Part of her wonders if she knows how, though. 

“You know about Neal. Everything that—” Her breath catches, out-of-place tears already threatening to fall, and that’s kind of lame. Killian’s cheek brushes Emma’s. While he nods. “For what it’s worth, your parents do feel bad about the naming legacy one they realize.” “He’s not here.” “No, that would be rather difficult for him. He’s—” “—Dead?” “Honorably,” Killian says, even through the hint of acid and Emma drapes her arm across his stomach. “And he does care about Henry, quite ardently. But...well, I don’t imagine I’ll ever entirely forgive him for everything he did, and it was difficult to rationalize the Bae I knew with he Neal who acted like that.” “Probably weird to be attracted to that, huh?” Chuckling, his lips press against her hair. “Whatever way you’re willing to be attracted to me, is something I wholeheartedly approve of.”

“I’ve got another question.” “Waiting with baited breath.” “You’ve got a ship still, right?” 

Tensing the way he does isn’t really the reaction Emma anticipates, although she should probably be ready for anything now, and Killian mumbles, “aye, I do.”

“Could we—I mean, I’m capable of teleporting, right?” “I’ve got no doubt. But it might be cold.” “Good thing you just radiate heat, huh?” His tongue pokes between his lips. Emma’s staring again. Has a hard time stopping, really. Which makes the magic return all the stronger and all the more suddenly, and Killian’s soft hitch of breath is oddly pleasing, even as the smell of salt replaces half-dried paint. 

Strictly speaking, Emma hadn’t spent much time exploring the Jolly Roger before they got to Neverland. Portal-based travel, and those mermaids and massive rain storms, all made it difficult to notice much else, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s blinked them into the captain’s cabin. 

“Efficient,” Killian observes, already perched on the edge of the room’s lone cot and the bedding looks crisp. Military-grade folds, and pillows that aren’t quite as fluffy as the ones in the house, but Emma’s already glancing at the shelves to her right. Books line them, in what is obviously alphabetical order, while the desk nearby is covered in instruments for navigation, and maps of several different realms, and she knows Killian’s watching her. 

Feels the force of his stare as it tries very hard to read her mind again, baited breath that’s not quite as much of a joke anymore. He's hoping. For the response, and the reaction, and she belatedly realizes what a big deal this is. 

Falling into the deep end of it all is really the only reasonable thing to do now. And appropriately water-based pun. 

“Give me another random fact,” Emma says, failing to keep the demand out of her voice. “Royal decrees are coming much easier for you now, Your Highness.” “Something good.” “I’d hardly give you a bad fact.” “Weird, I’m still waiting for one.”

Stabbing a finger into the space next to him, Emma’s leg bumps Killian’s when she sits down and she’d been right about the body heat. All of the blankets stay exactly where they are. “We go to Boston one weekend, relatively soon after we get married. To—” He clicks his tongue, as if he’s deciding what details to include. “Get some stuff out of your apartment. That’s not the important part. But we bring Henry with us, and drive out there. Spend a few days, and go to all of the tourist spots you say we should avoid, but Hope learned that eye trick from Henry, and it works all the time. So we go to Quincy Market, and that one brewery. Tour guide makes some history jokes, which in turn make you roll your eyes, but we get free samples, and Henry tries very hard to steal one of his own.” “Doesn’t work?” Killian shakes his head. “Not as such, no. I’m rather good at observing, you see.” “All those nights as lookout?” “Something like that,” he agrees, “It’s the first time in a very long time that we don’t have any looming threats. Nothing to worry about, no villains to contend with. We sit and walk and eat, and then eat some more, and it’s not the first time I let myself believe this is real, but it might bet the first time that reality seems to linger.” She’s holding her breath. Lungs burn in Emma’s chest, letting go of a shuddering exhale that also comes with tear-filled eyes, and Killian’s fingers hover near her neck. With the chain around it, and Emma knows it’s important — that ring that hangs just behind her stolen shirt, but she doesn’t ask and she wants to live it, anyway. 

Wants those moments to come of their own accord, at their own pace, until they linger as well. Settle into her and take root, building a foundation for everything else. 

“Can I do something?” she whispers, another imperceptible nod and he doesn’t object. When she unbuckles the leather at his brace, trying very hard to keep her pulse steady and her magic relatively quiet, but neither one of those things work very well and it doesn’t take very long. 

Snaps and pieces of metal give way under Emma’s touch, eventually pulling away from his skin and the scars aren’t worse closer up. Just more obvious, maybe. 

It’s another stupid sign. 

Following the lines with her fingers, Killian’s not much more than a statue. With exceptionally wide eyes and slightly erratic breathing, watching her like he’s bracing himself for impact or the inevitably of her disappearing. Emma sits. Presses her feet into the floor, and there’s no dust on the floor. She has to swallow more than once while she accounts for every mark on him, though — emotion clogging up her throat and her thoughts in equal measure, and it’s not really instinct to bend her neck and kiss the first spot she can reach, but it’s absolutely want and she wants far more than she’s supposed to have. 

Right now, at least. 

“Emma,” Killian exhales, without the regret it should hold, and honestly the goddamn symmetry is as good as it is awful. She smiles. Against his skin. 

“You said, ‘until I met you.’ Did you mean it?”

Glancing up without moving is another hint of cowardice, but Emma’s neck isn’t all that interested in participating in the conversation anymore and it’s easier to notice the state of Killian’s jaw like this. “More than I realized, actually.” “Yeah, me too probably. If I had said—well, I’m the worst liar in the world, y’know?” “At least several different realms.”

Scoffing, Emma’s teeth graze the blunt edge of his wrist and that only gets her a noise she’s never heard before and it’s better than all the other noises, and she loses her shirt eventually. Nothing else happens. 

Still can’t, still won’t. They’re both all too aware of the inability of this to linger, but want’s a funny sort of thing and contentment’s just as strange as ever. Falling asleep with her cheek pressed to his bare chest makes sense, though, the steady rock of the ship lulling Emma until her eyes close and her thoughts silence. 

“So, you’re not even trying anymore, huh?” Emma sighs. “Here I thought we’d get through the afternoon without any pointed opinions.” “Well, that was just foolish of you,” Regina shrugs, sitting on the front steps of the farm with her legs stretched out in front of her and that’s almost strange. She’s wearing jeans. No one else is surprised by that. And Mary Margaret is leaning against the door frame behind her. 

One arm wrapped around her middle, she doesn’t cross her feet at the ankles like Killian would, and that’s probably for the best. Emma’s brain can only cope with so much at one time, and she might not be trying anymore. 

Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. 

“You think the wisdom is our problem?” Mary Margaret asks, barely blinking at the sound that erupts from Regina. Snarl and sneer, and Emma rocks back on her heels. Like that will put some distance between her and the queen, who doesn’t appear all that evil anymore, but could be even more determined than ever and they’re still waiting for that goddamn bird to come back. 

No one’s mentioned the knights in the forest, either. 

Emma’s not sure they’re still there. 

“Can’t steal intelligence from the dead,” Regina reasons, and Emma’s shiver doesn’t have anything to do with the cold. It smells like cookies, even outside. “Should that make sense to me?” she asks. Mary Margaret shakes her head. 

“Not at all. Just—when Zelena did this...she had a bunch of ingredients.” “She has no idea who Zelena is,” Regina mutters, shrugging at Emma’s slack jawed expression. “Don’t bother telling me you’re standing right there, you’re very predictable and I am painfully aware of your continued presence.” 

“Was anyone actually going to tell me who Zelena is?” Emma snaps, a better reaction than the magic she’d like to use. On Regina, and her judgmental face. Tinker Bell went to help in Wonderland. Where magic is failing, more than it was a week earlier. 

“The Wicked Witch of the West," Mary Margaret replies. “Was bad, had strong magic, gave up her magic, got it—no, she never got it back, did she?” Regina makes a contrary noise. 

“How can you possibly keep track of all of this?” 

Mary Margaret’s smile isn’t entirely effective, but there’s still a bit of the friend Emma occasionally worries she’s lost and of all the things breaking the curse did, that’s probably one of her bigger issues. There just hasn’t been time to deal with it. “Living it helps,” she laughs, “but she was holding Rumplestilskin hostage when she built the spell, and that’s—” “—Wait, wait, Gold is dead?” “That’s a little harder to explain, actually.”

“Huh.”

She should be upset. She should mourn...maybe not the jackass who consistently ruined everything, but at least the idea of the person he could have been, or the help he occasionally offered, but Emma’s feeling a little vengeful, and is even more annoyed. By like—the entire state of the world, right now. 

She’s definitely not trying. Magic is emotion, and all of hers are far too scrambled to be effective as part of a time travel spell a witch who—“Was she actually green?” Emma asks, before she can stop herself and Mary Margaret’s smile works better that time. 

“Occasionally,” Regina drawls. “But as your mother pointed out, she’s also lacking any magic now, and with Robyn in the Wish Realm—” “—That can’t possibly be a real place. And who is Robyn, exactly?”

“You met her. She brought you to—” “—That was a witch’s daughter? You realize that none of the ages for any of these kids makes sense? She was an actual adult.” “Don’t think about it too hard,” Mary Margaret advises, “will only make your head hurt.” “That ship sailed, like, two weeks ago,” Emma admits, refusing to look at whatever face Regina is making while also growling softly. Fire dances between her fingers. “Keep interrupting like this,” she warns, “and I will put you under a sleeping curse.” Jaw dropping and air rushing out of her in a wholly undignified huff, Emma’s reactions are so loud that she hardly notices Mary Margaret’s quiet “that might not be all that bad.” But then it clicks and there’s another puzzle, and more words she should not be thinking about right now, and Regina’s eyes thin enough that it’s difficult to notice any color in them. 

“Huh,” she says, echoing Emma and that’s not very comforting, actually. “Well, that’s fascinating isn’t it?  Plus, we don’t have any innocence.” Mary Margaret’s shoulders drop. “Oh, yeah that might be right.” Emma’s mouth is already hanging open, and her jaw physically cannot separate, so she can’t quite react like she wants to. Magic rattles around her all the same, Regina’s eyebrows doing a fairly good job of masquerading as someone else’s because— “Back to the drawing board, it seems,” she says, all but jumping back to her feet and glancing at Mary Margaret on her way back into the house. 

Moving is something of an impossibility for Emma, torn between embarrassment and objections and the second one isn’t entirely possible either, but her mother only looks passably amused and that’s not the right emotion for this situation at all. 

“Sleeping curse could force us into all kinds of realizations,” she reasons. 

“That’s fucked up, Mom.”

More titles. More feelings. Not enough time to deal with any of them. 

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret agrees, “it kind of is. How much batter do you think the rest of your family has stolen?” “At least an entire cookie sheet’s worth.” “Sounds about right, let’s see if we can cop any of our own.”

“Where is everyone going to sleep?” Emma asks, sitting at a dining room table that’s nearly buckling under the weight of food covering it. “And where did they even get all this stuff from?” Fingers drift over her bent knee under the table, Emma’s hands preoccupied with doling out food and Hope’s a very big fan of mashed potatoes. As she should be, really. Less so by the small feast of vegetables her mother has provided, but certainly not cooked because Emma’s spent most of the afternoon with her mother and Regina, trying to figure out if they could replicate Zelena’s time travel spell, and it didn’t work. Like, at all. 

Lack of innocence likely isn’t their biggest problem. “Not everyone stays here,” Killian explains, “although I doubt your mother would mind all that much if they did.”

“Doesn’t explain where they’re going to sleep.” “Are you concerned about privacy, love?” “Pirate,” she accuses, but it lacks any actual vitriol and someone whistles when Killian’s lips brush hers. “I just don’t want to sleep in the hallway, if there’s no more room at the inn.” “Very confident in your own brand of religion-based humor aren’t you?” “Oh, color me impressed with your knowledge.” “Not many of your jokes evolve much over time, that’s why. And I think you’ve proven your ability to relocate us fairly well, don’t you?” Twisting her lips only gets her a flash of amusement and eyebrows that move so quick, there should also be smoke involved. “As far as I know, Her Royal Highness Snow White has concocted a rather extensive and possibly color-coordinated sleeping arrangement, that ensures no one will be forced to sleep in the hallway, while also allowing for maximum comfort and the ability to ransack parents as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

Something drops into the bottom of her stomach. It’s dread. And fear, and what Emma knows is that growing selfish streak and if her hand finds Hope’s back, then that’s neither here nor there.

Plus, Killian can totally tell. 

The overall volume of her magic helps too.

“Mary Margaret’s pretty in her element, huh?” Nodding, he ignores the brussels sprouts in favor of the broccoli casserole, and she’s resolutely not attracted to that. No sane person could be attracted to side dish choices. On Christmas Eve. 

It’s Christmas Eve. 

“She is, indeed,” Killian agrees, “which is why outsourcing made quite a bit of sense.” Emma’s eyes dart towards Granny, and no one’s introduced her to Ruby’s girlfriend yet, but Ruby also hasn’t announced that she quite obviously knows something about this family gathering is off, and that’s nice enough that pushing the issue seems like another asshole move. 

No one can be an asshole on Christmas Eve. 

Emma assumes, at least. Hopes a bit too, just for good measure. “Granny made all of this?”

“Eh, certainly tried. Coerced Ruby and Dorothy—” “—No,” she hisses, drawing a few curious glances and half of Hope’s plate is covered in mashed potatoes. Killian’s fingers tighten. 

“Someone told you about Zelena, didn’t they?” “I met her daughter without realizing, I guess.” Making a sound of understanding, Emma doesn’t miss the length of Killian’s drink. From the wine glass next to his own mostly-filled plate. “Is that another reason they went to that Wish Realm? So she didn’t have to talk to Dorothy Gale?” “I’m sure it was a consideration.” “Keeping track of all these things is a full-time job. Ok, so—Henry’s staying here though, isn’t he?” More noise, another sip of alcohol that Emma’s strangely jealous of. Nearly knocking her own glass over, her drink is closer to a gulp her dad absolutely notices, and whatever this is, it’s not any wine she’s familiar with. 

“Camelot vineyards are enchanted,” David says, answering another question Emma hasn’t actually asked. Ruby’s eyes noticeably flicker towards Henry. 

Who is not very subtle. 

“Something about the soil, right?” Regina asks, although it certainly sounds like she’s perfectly aware of the reason, and Emma’s less sure as to why her mouth immediately dries. Possibly because Killian’s fingers have gone vice-like. 

Glancing at him isn’t very subtle either, but she couldn’t care less and curiosity’s always been a bit of a thing for her. He probably knows that, anyway. “Camelot wasn’t my favorite place,” he explains, like that’s a reasonable string of words, but this isn’t the time for that and the knights are gone. Disappeared entirely, it seems. 

“No Arthur, huh?” Silence descends on the table, silverware clanking on plates and chairs scuffing when they’re pushed away from the table. Emma widens her eyes. 

Challenging that no asshole on Christmas Eve policy. 

“He was kind of a shitty king,” Henry shrugs, Regina glaring in that same maternal sort of way that immediately makes him look far more like a teenager than a grown man with a kid. Emma can’t figure out the timeline of Lucy at all, either. 

“Redeemed himself a bit in the end,” Killian adds. “Had no trouble from that particular area.” There should be more to that sentence. Emma knows, can hear it in the clipped way his voice cuts off and his tongue swipes the front of his teeth, and—“Whatever happened to that girl Henry knew in court?” Ruby asks, and they all lack subtlety it seems. 

Emma tilts her head. “Henry knew a girl in the court of Camelot?” “Very complex story,” he mumbles, dots of pink on his cheek and Ella laughing at his side. 

“Should I be upset I didn’t know about this?” “He used music to woo her,” Mary Margaret adds, some of the tension hovering over them evaporating. Killian’s fingers don’t move. “Although I never entirely understood how the iPod managed to stay charged.” “Magic,” Henry reasons. “And Violet went back to Connecticut, with her dad.”

Groaning, Emma’s reaction to this wine is even stronger than anything she drank in the diner or the buttered rum, and Henry’s face might stay red for the rest of the night. Festive, at least. “A guy from Connecticut?” she asks. “In Camelot?” “Didn’t click for me at first, if that makes you feel better.” “He was too busy flirting, that’s why,” Killian adds. 

Henry scowls. “Reminiscing about any of this is not nearly as fun as you guys think it is. Plus,” he slings an arm around Ella’s shoulders, kissing her temple for good measure, “it all worked out in the end, so—” “—So,” Ruby echoes, “did we decide on snowmen rules, or…”

Voices all but explode around them — shouting over one another, in what is another questionably competitive Christmas tradition, and there are apparently judges involved and boxes of decorations that Mary Margaret keeps stored in the basement. Which Emma assumes is a much better use for the space than hoarding weapons, but any thought about her house quickly gets lost in how delicious this food is and how Henry’s arm rarely leaves Ella, and at some point Hope clamors onto Killian’s lap before Lucy starts demanding snowmen and they’ve all turn into giant pushovers, it seems. 

“The theme,” Granny announces from her spot on the porch, because she’s head judge, and that holds more weight than anyone else, “is whimsy. Delight me, or you’ll lose points.” “What does that even mean?” Ruby challenges. She’s already rolling snow together, Dorothy’s head barely visible while she digs through one of Mary Margaret’s boxes and produces a pair of plastic fairy wings.

“Why do you own these?” she demands. 

It’s difficult to tell if the color on Mary Margaret’s cheeks is a blush, or simply a product of how cold it already is, but none of that matters as much as the inches Henry has on her and how easy it is for his arm to find her shoulders as well. “Like to be prepared for any potential theme, isn’t that right, Gram?” “Not too old for any of the parental figures around here to ground you, you know,” Mary Margaret threatens. As much as she’s able. 

David throws a snowball at both of them. “Build your snowman, kid. You’re going to lose, and it will be something else we can reminisce about for holidays to come.”

“C’mon, love,” Killian says, directing Emma to their own patch of snow and overflowing box and Hope’s already discovered the plastic tub of glitter that’s inexplicably in there. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold.” “Do we win this a lot?” “Don't insult me like that.”

He kisses her to ensure she doesn’t. Emma doesn’t argue that. 

And as promised, Regina magics everyone’s snow creations to ensure they won’t melt for “at least a month, maybe longer” and the dread in Emma’s stomach threatens to rise up her throat. Until there’s a hand tugging at the side of her jacket, and—

“Can you get him to smile, Mama?” Hope asks, what looks like a slightly lopsided snowman’s bottom behind her and Emma might be the biggest pushover of them all. 

Waving her hand is easy, though. And magic’s getting closer to second nature than she’d like to admit, positioning shiny rocks that Mary Margaret inexplicably had into what actually looks like a smile onto another freshly-made mound of snow. 

Hope is overjoyed. 

Emma tries very hard not to cry. 

And fails spectacularly. 

Monopoly is an adults-only game. This takes Emma at least forty-two seconds to come to terms with, but then there’s more wine and it’s a miracle they don’t wake up any of the kids, and Killian really does cheat. 

She just can’t figure out how. 

Bills appear in front of him like he’s the one with magic in this relationship, and Emma’s definitely drunk enough not to care about her word choice. She’s admittedly far more concerned with the houses that keep cropping up on Killian’s properties and how close some of those properties are to forming multiple Monopolys and he grins at her. From across the board. 

David made it very clear that couples weren’t allowed to sit next to each other. 

For fear of collusion, or something — although Emma can’t imagine there are actually many alliances formed in this game, particularly after the snowmen and the judging and it took Lucy nearly an hour to come down from the understandable high of her win. Hope was more interested in getting glitter everywhere than properly constructing a snowman. 

“What was that about revenge?” Emma asks archly, more than a few other alcohol-saturated adults groaning at what is blatantly even more obvious flirting. And he hadn’t been lying about the state of her parent’s tree. 

More candles line the branches, not a fire hazard when the flames have been enchanted and that’s for the best because there’s just—a copious amount of tinsel on those same branches, and a few ornaments that are obviously hand-made by kids and grandkids and it’s nice to know that even descendants of fairy tale characters use popsicle sticks in their arts and crafts. 

Mary Margaret probably has a box of those too. 

“This has nothing to do with the snowmen,” Killian promises, quirking his lips when Ruby lands on Marvin Gardens. He owns Marvin Gardens. “Look at that.” “Are you playing with weighted dice, pirate?” Ruby cries. “Because that is—” “—Cheating,” David finishes. 

Killian shrugs. His eyes don’t leave Emma. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You owe me twenty-four dollars, Lady Lucas.”

She throws the bills at him. 

“How would I even use the weighted dice I don’t own anymore—” “—Anymore,” Henry repeats, and he’s only got a few bills left in front of him. Killian ignores him. Emma is far too charmed by this. 

She got a Monopoly on the green properties, though. And she didn’t cheat to get them, so she’s also in possession of the moral high ground. Gives her free room to be entirely charmed by her husband. Kind of. “To calculate what you’ll land on,” Killian finishes. “That doesn’t even make sense. 

Shaking her head, Ruby’s hair nearly flies into her face, threatening the state of the board and several other player’s pieces. All of whom are very loudly offended by that. “I hate you,” she sneers, and she doesn’t get back to Go before she goes bankrupt. 

In the end, the moral high ground doesn’t help Emma’s ability to turn profits when Killian gets the Monopoly on that yellow corner and immediately starts building hotels and she nearly snarls when she lands on Atlantic Avenue. 

“I think I might have won, Swan.” “Shut up.” “You don’t have to actually give me all your money, I’m more than pleased to simply hear the words from you.” “Shut up,” Emma says, and her mom fell asleep at least an hour earlier. David rolls his eyes. When she leans across the board, knocking over pieces and hotels, and Killian built so many goddamn hotels. He’s smiling when she kisses him. 

Nothing overly magical happens, but Emma swears one of the candles flickers in the corner of her eye. 

They do get a room. Directly next to the one Hope and Lucy are sharing, but Emma’s finding it harder than she expected to walk away from the tree and she never had a Christmas tree when she was a kid. Lights start to blur the longer she stares at it, floorboards creaking in an unnecessary announcement of the hand that finds her and— “I put an ornament on, you know,” Killian says, staring ahead when Emma turns towards him. “Was worried you’d notice, but I’m actually rather good at—” “—Sneaking?” “Covert movements.”

Scoffing out a laugh, her head falls to his shoulder. With the magnets and the feelings, magic fighting against dread and a slew of other feelings that are now as twisted as any family tree they could create. “Is it wrong to ask you what you wished for? Or should we talk about why you hate Camelot?” “They go together, actually.” “Do they just?” He kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s grounding himself or reminding himself of something that may not happen if they don’t somehow fix all of this, and Emma’s tongue is doing that thing again. Taking up way too much space in her mouth. 

She’s not sure what she’d say, anyway. 

“Dying makes it rather easy to shuffle a man’s priorities, and—” “—You die?” Emma shouts, but Killian’s shoulder only bumps her cheek and half the candles flicker. “How is that—God, that’s…” More kisses. A few hand squeezes. Her knees shake all the same. 

“Doesn’t stick any of the times.” “It happens more than once.”

His cheek shifts her hair when he nods, a picture of only passably believable calm, and that wasn’t a question. “Something of a stubborn lass, though. So you don’t accept it very often, and occasionally that doesn’t work very well, but—” Tears fall down Emma’s cheeks, hot in the way a brand is, or she figures it would be, and she swallows as his thumb brushes over her skin. “You save me. Several times over.”

“Does calling me lass ever end well for you?” “Not as such, no.” Sticking her lower lip out is definitely a misplaced attempt to regain control of the situation because Emma’s all too aware of just how quickly Killian’s gaze will drop, and she’s not disappointed. A little nervous, but she figures that’s to be expected and her voice only kind of shakes when she whispers, “That’s not just a you thing, you know that, right?” “A me thing, what?” “The saving. Being stubborn too, I guess, or holding onto this with both hands, and this is an us thing. I’m...well, maybe I’m not totally there yet, but—” Her lips are chapped. Cracking with more emotion than she’s entirely sure she’s capable of, and Emma swallows once. Her tongue doesn’t do anything else. “Is that what you wished for? The saving?” “Awfully selfish, I know, but I—I think I need that.” “No, it’s not,” she objects. “Might be sweepingly romantic, even.” Eyes trace over her face, like he’s memorizing all of it, all over again, and innocence was a long gone ideal when they made out in the jungle, but this feels entirely different and somehow more important and Emma has to push up on her toes. To press her lips to his, and make sure his arm pulls her flush against his chest, and there’s no music or rainbow, but that might have something to do with her greed and her want and neither one of them pull away. 

While a clock chimes down the hall. 

“Merry Christmas, love.” She closes her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

Something taps at their window. Incessantly, until it’s obvious Emma’s not dreaming the sound, and it takes her a few blinks and one grumbling, half-asleep pirate to realize it’s a bird. Without a sense of direction, it seems. 

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, pulling the blankets over her shoulders like that will keep them here and the bird outside and that’s an exercise in futility that lasts less than a full minute. Once the bird realizes he’s at the wrong room. 

She counts. Seconds and breaths, trying not to give into the whimper that’s pressed behind her lips, and Killian’s fingers find hers. The floor creaks. Doors swing open, and David’s voice calls for them and Regina, and there are more squeaking hinges and calls to action because—

Mary Margaret knocks before she comes inside, already dressed with a full quiver of arrows strapped to her back. “Camelot’s gone,” she says, which may actually be the last thing Emma expects to hear at whatever time it is. Late, if the lack of sun is any sign. “Disappeared in a wave of...nothing.” “How can a wave be nothing?” Emma asks. “That—” “—It’s the opposite of magic,” Regina finishes, curled around the door with her hair twisted and there’s no fire in her palm. It’s in her eyes, instead. The end of reality turns Emma into something of a poet, apparently. “Get ready, we’ve got to head this off before it gets to the town and,” her gaze drifts towards Killian and his hand and his hook his on the bedside table, “might want to get your sword out of storage, Captain.”

Nodding silently, Killian doesn’t show any other signs of acknowledging his marching orders, but then he’s looking at Emma, a mix of expectant disappointment and unhinged longing and she blinks. Twice. They’re dressed. 

And his sword hangs from his hip. 

“You alright?” he rasps, which seems like more cheating and entirely unfair and Emma nods too. 

“Let’s fix this.”