#just fyi guys: the likelihood of me posting chirstmas fic every day this week is very high

[welllpthisishappening]

A Few Days Off for Christmas, Part Two

In which Killian Jones isn’t as retired as he originally claimed to be, cute kids continue to be cute, and home ownership is pondered against the backdrop of the world’s most competitive air hockey tournament. 

Or: Christmas at the Vankald brownstone

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Rating: f l u f f Word Count: 8.8 of all that aforementioned fluff AN: Hey, remember when I wrote a bunch of Christmas-themed Blue Line stores and then only posted one of them? Attempts to remedy that are currently being made, so we’ve got the Christmas after Killian retires and just before Chris is born, with almost too much fluff, peak!Vankald feelings, and Elsa accepting none of Killian’s nonsense. Plus kissing, I am who I am. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

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The door was going to fly off its hinges. 

One bump became two, evolving into several kicks before it turned into something astoundingly similar to a hip check and—“Oh my God,” Killian groaned, squeezing his eyes shut while also doing his best to melt into the mattress. Didn't work. 

He hadn’t really expected it to.  

“Your fault,” Emma mumbled, half into the pillow and partially into the mess of hair covering that same pillow. Her hair was everywhere. And she was smiling. Killian didn’t bother double checking 

Maybe smiled himself, actually. Despite whatever was happening on the other side of the door. None of the noises resembled an actual knock. Cracking open one eye, the ends of his mouth tilted up slowly and his hand moved before he even thought about it, reaching out to trace the curve of Emma’s stomach. 

Another noise. 

They were going to have to get out of bed eventually. 

Or the kids in the hallway would resort to drastic measures. 

“How’d you get to that conclusion, exactly?” Killian asked, twisting until he managed to lift his arm up in some unspoken attempt to get Emma closer to him. Getting out of bed could wait five minutes. Possibly six if they were feeling exceptionally greedy. 

It was Christmas Eve, after all. 

Something about the holiday, although that would also suggest the opposite of greed and probably something else about peace on Earth and goodwill amongst men, but the door was not going to stand up to much more of this and if Emma kept biting her lower lip like that Killian wasn’t sure he could be held accountable for his actions. Ten minutes more in bed, at least. 

“Your kid is checking the door, Cap,” Emma said, voice lacking any frustration, “how could this be anyone else’s fault?”

His heart jumped. 

Skipped a beat, and then defied several other biological rules, and none of that should surprise him anymore. Not when they were nearly six months removed from the third Stanley Cup, and the prospect of a full Jones line wasn’t all that intimidating. Even with the limited space in their apartment. They’d figure it out. Had to, really. And all of it was good. Perfect, honestly. Was nice in a way that deserved a far better adjective, because retirement hadn’t really stuck. 

Had rather quickly evolved, actually. Into director of player development for the New York Rangers, a job that came with a fancy office and polo shirts that made Emma’s eyes widen ever so slightly, although Killian wasn’t sure if he was supposed to notice that, and Matt came to practice with him. 

Regularly. 

That was now coming back to haunt Killian. 

And the structural integrity of his and Emma’s bedroom door. 

“Blame Scarlet,” Killian argued, “he’s ancient, so he’s got nothing better to do during practice than prove his worth to Matt. This is all his technique.” “Ah, well now I kind of feel like a jerk.” “No, no, he does not get your pity. The kid’s leading with his shoulder out there.” “Is that not how it’s supposed to work, then?” Making a noise in the back of his throat only served to hurt the back of Killian’s throat, Emma’s expression some sort of flashing neon sign that he was being effectively teased and—

She gasped. 

“Swan?” Far from parenting experts — and closer to apartment-hunting procrastinators than either one of them would like to admit — they had gone through this twice before, so Killian figured there was something to be said for confidence borne of experience, and he wasn’t really nervous at the hitch in Emma’s breath or the overall dexterity of her fingers when she yanked his hand forward. 

No noise on that kick, but it was definitely a kick and his heart must have evolved at some point. Beyond human emotion and into the stratosphere of family-based feelings and if Killian didn’t win the air hockey tournament, he was going to be very disappointed. 

Matt was yelling in the hallway now. 

“Took offense at the technique, I guess,” Emma laughed, “I think he’s trying to show off.” Killian exhaled. That was unexpected. He hadn’t realized he’d decided to hold his breath. Twelve extra minutes in bed, maybe. They were already late, might as well be very late. 

The door swung open. 

“Dad! Dad! Dad,” Matt yelled, leaping onto the edge of the bed and Emma barely moved her feet in time. Killian wasn’t so lucky. 

Groaning when an elbow somehow found its way into his calf, he squeezed his eyes shut again. “What did we talk about with the door, kid?” Killian asked, trying to shift his leg so Matt would realize he needed to move. 

No such luck. 

All he got was the dramatic sigh of a nine-year-old who appeared close to demanding Christmas-type attention, and Matt’s head hung over the side of the bed as several pillows fell on the floor. “I knocked—kind of.” Emma’s snicker was far too loud. 

Killian gaped at her, but that only got him a wider-than-usual smile, and several strands of hair that drifted dangerously close to her eyes when she propped herself up on her elbows. “Nuh uh, don’t look at me like that. It’s Christmas, and that’s my excuse for everything for at least the next seventy-two hours.” “So, the day after Christmas too?” “You heard me.” Killian’s grin threatened the muscles in his cheeks, nosing at the side of Emma’s cheek because he couldn’t get much closer with a kid draped over his stomach. Or while that kid was groaning quite so loud. 

“Gross, gross, gross,” Matt chanted, and the distinct lack of footsteps following him should have been their first clue. Killian was willing to blame Christmas for that too. 

And Will, just on principle. 

“Thanks for the commentary,” Emma grinned, “why were you checking the door?” “I wanted to talk to you guys.” “Did you just?”

“Yuh huh.” Killian’s eyes darted towards Emma’s. Not parenting experts, but at least passably observant and they really should have checked to see where Peggy was. “What about? And for future reference, checking is not the same as knocking. Who’s even teaching you to check like that because if it is actually Scarlet, then—” Matt shook his head. Ducking his gaze, the bedding was suddenly far more interesting than anything Killian could have asked, and Emma shrugged when he glanced up again. “Not Scarlet?” Another head shake. “What’s going on, kid ?” What felt like several hours passed, color rising in Matt’s cheeks — which wasn’t really fair, because watching his own reactions play out on his kid’s face seemed like some form of emotional torture for Killian, who was barely managing to temper his impatience. He rested his hand on Matt’s back. 

“At the Piers?” Killian pressed, only to get a noise that was far too familiar as well. Not quite an agreement, but not an argument either and he briefly wondered how the Vankalds ever dealt with him like this. He knew the answer before he asked—“Dylan, huh?” Shrugging couldn’t have been easy for Matt when Emma’s hand joined Killian’s on his back, but he made the effort all the same. It somehow ended with an elbow in Killian’s ribs. 

“I’s not a big deal,” Matt muttered. “I just—” “—Wanted to beat down our door?” Killian finished, fully prepared for the scowl he got and Emma’s inability to control the sound of her own reactions might have been one of his favorite things in the world. “He’s not going to be there. They went to visit Eric’s parents this year.”

At some point in the last nine years, it seemed the entire New York Rangers roster had collectively fallen into family mode, a decision that, while not entirely planned, left the lot of them with kids in the same age bracket. And Dylan Havfrue, at just eight months older than Matt, was ready-made for rivalry. Already impossibly tall for a nine-year-old, he was a penalty-minutes record waiting to happen and not nearly as fast as Matt. 

It wasn’t that Dylan and Matt didn’t get along. At least when they were off the ice. On the ice, they played the same position on the same team, competing for minutes and stats and, well, at the risk of losing any metaphorical Christmas points, Killian knew Matt was better. Than Dylan. 

And just about everyone else at Chelsea Piers. 

“Oh,” Matt said, head falling back onto Killian’s chest and for half a moment it felt like years before and they weren’t dealing with some kind of first-ever bully situation.

“You getting checked, kid? Is that what’s going on?”

Matt shrugged again, burrowing closer to Killian like that would somehow make the conversation end. It wouldn’t — but the footsteps finally racing down the hall might, and they’d probably have to reconsider that whole parent of the year thing when it was obvious one of their kids was hopped on pre-Christmas sugar. 

Of the stolen variety. 

“Do not jump on this bed, Margaret,” Emma warned, but the smile was back and her voice was soft and Peggy barely slowed enough to flop onto the comforter with a soft thump. 

Frosting lined the corners of her mouth. 

“Why are you guys here?” she asked. “We have to go! We have to go! Aunt Anna said I could—” Pausing to take a deep breath, her shoulders heaved. “I could use her camera this year, and Kris is going to help and—” “—How many cookies, Margaret Jones?” “No cookies!” Scrunching her nose, Emma hummed in disbelief as she leaned forward. To wipe away the frosting. “Next time make sure you get rid of the evidence, huh? How’d you even find the cookies? They’re supposed to be on a shelf.” “Don’t look at me,” Killian balked when Emma stared accusingly at him. “They’re up there. They’ve been up there since last night.” “MD and I got them while you and Dad were asleep,” Peggy explained, as if staging a daring cookie rescue on Christmas Eve was to be expected. 

“Mar!” Pushing his hand into Killian’s stomach when he sat up, Matt’s groan echoed around the room .”You weren’t supposed to tell!”

“I was stuck! You ran away and I had to—” “—Wait, what?” Emma interrupted sharply. Neither kid noticed. 

Killian resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Fifteen extra minutes in bed. Ten of which should be used to talk about the Dylan thing, and proper checking technique, and then three minutes solely for kissing Emma. They’d use the other two minutes to get the kids out of the room. 

Like responsible adults, and successful parents. 

“You were taking too long,” Matt said, “and I wanted to talk to Dad and—” “—I had to jump off the counter!” “Alright, alright, alright,” Killian snapped, voice rising on every repeat and both kids sat up straighter. Emma tried to turn her laugh into a noise that didn’t sound like a laugh and it absolutely didn’t work. “No more cookies. No more plans for cookies. No more leaping off the counter, Margaret. Understood?”

“Hockey voice,” Peggy whispered. Or, at least, tried. She glanced meaningfully at Matt, who just widened his eyes in response, lips ticking down and it all felt so painfully familiar and painfully family that any frustration Killian felt disappeared all too quickly. 

“Hockey captain voice,” Emma corrected softly, pressing a kiss to Peggy’s temple and grinning at her conspiratorially. 

“Swan,” Killian sighed. 

She shrugged. “I kind of want a cookie now.” “We know where they are,” Peggy said, rushing over the words like they weren’t an admission and they hadn’t just been talking about the great Christmas Eve cookie theft. “Yeah, I picked up on that. C’mon, lead me to the cookies, Peg, and then we should pack.” “I packed!” “I’ve heard that before. Last year, we got downtown with three t-shirts and no pants. We’re not doing that again, so—let’s go, feet on the floor.”

Peggy grumbled, but she didn’t argue and Killian tried not to smile too widely. At the scene in front of him, or the memory of last Christmas — two shirts with his number on them and another with a Team USA logo on the front, and Locksley emblazoned across the back. It had made Roland blush. 

“We’ll save you guys some cookies,” Emma promised, following Peggy out the door and Killian waited until he heard the squeak of glass sliding across the counter before he looked at Matt. Who hadn’t so much as blinked yet. 

“You want to talk now?” Killian asked, Matt making an eerily similar noise to the one he’d let out a few minutes earlier. “How come you didn’t say anything about Dylan?” “Wasn’t really a big deal.” “Sure, sure, you’re not supposed to check much at the Piers.” “I’m not the one checking.” “Yeah,” Killian said, tugging on the front of Matt’s shirt. More team-branded merch. That might have been all Matt owned. “He been doing it for long? “Since the start of the season.” “You tell Hopper?” Matt shook his head. “How come you didn’t tell us before, kid? And how come you’re pushing your sister on kitchen counters to steal cookies that we’re supposed to bring downtown?” “I didn’t push Mar on the counter. She got up there on her own. And it was her idea.” Killian narrowed his eyes, filing that particular bit of information away for a day when they weren’t, once again, behind schedule or coping with on-ice issues of a nine-year-old rec league. 

Matt played in more than one league. 

“Not an answer.” “I know,” Matt sighed. “I just...it’s stupid. He’s stupid.” “It’s not stupid if he’s breaking the rules,” Killian countered, and Ariel was going to be upset. Disappointed, too. Which, as everyone knew, was fundamentally worse. “He can’t check you. You guys are way too young for that.” “You tell all the guys at practice that they don’t need to back down from hits!” Taking a deep breath was impossible when his lungs were busy disintegrating in his chest, but Killian figured it also might have had something to do with the kid still sitting on his legs and Matt didn’t object when he hooked his chin over his shoulder. “They’re getting paid to get hit. Not quite there yet, Mattie.”. “He’s really good at checking,” Matt grumbled. “Better than me. Even Uncle Will thinks so.” “Uncle Will’s opinion on this isn’t important. And he shouldn’t be teaching you how to check either. You’ll end up in the box and then you can’t score goals.” “I guess.” “Them’s the facts, kids.” Matt considered that, body shifting with the force of his sigh and distinct inability to argue. Forty-seven thousand parental points, at least. Killian grinned at him. “You tell us stuff from now on, ok? No matter how stupid you think it is. That’s the gig, for me and Mom.” “And you didn’t really check guys.” “Because I wanted to score goals. Not sit in the box for two minutes.” “Scoring goals is cool.” Killian nodded, trying to regain feeling in his legs. “You know, maybe we could go somewhere that isn’t the Piers sometime and you could take some shots. No checking, just —practice.” “Practice?” “On our own.” “With you?” His stomach joined the fray, that time. Flipping and flying directly into the middle of his throat, which didn’t do much to help his breathing. Worth it. For the look on Matt’s face, which was somewhere in the realm of of overjoyed and that was appropriate on Christmas Eve and—

“When? Could we go during the break? Today? While Rol and Henry are home? You think Uncle Liam will skate? Did they bring skates? I told Lizzie she should bring skates.”

Plans spilled out of Matt, hardly any defined syllables, more half-shouted demands and Killian felt the smile spread across his face quickly and easily and immediately. And if he’d never really considered a family in some kind of chaotic, cookie-stealing, perfect way, then he’d definitely never considered a son who wanted to practice his forehand at every available opportunity. 

“Relax,” Killian laughed, a flash of dark hair in the hall as it dashed towards another room and a suitcase that likely had four shirts in it. 

“What about the day after tomorrow?”

Matt nearly trampled Killian in his effort to jump off the bed, a cry that almost sounded like yeah several times over, and he barely stopped before he collided with Emma. And the three cookies in her hand.  

“What did you do, Swan?” 

“With the cookies or—” Wrapping her arm around Matt, she pulled him against her side and he was far too busy announcing roster spots to express any sense of displeasure. The cookie she gave him likely helped too. “Rubes and I might have planned...something.” “As in?” “As in rented out that rink uptown for the day after Christmas because there’s a million and two people coming to the brownstone this year, and we’re going to need something to do after we try to kill each other in air hockey.” “This is a very violent family, we’re always threatening to kill each other.” “Or check,” Matt muttered. 

Emma kissed the top of his head.That got a reaction. “It’s also kind of nice. At least the air hockey. And Uncle Liam will totally have skates, so you can wreck him during faceoffs, Mattie.” Whatever noise he made at that wasn’t so much a human sound, as it was something that made Killian’s ears ring. Which he planned to use as an excuse. For walking forward, crowding into Emma’s space and kissing her. 

In a crashing, not-quite violent, but decidedly emotional sort of way. 

She pushed up on her toes. 

“I love you.” “Weird,” Emma said, but she also hadn’t moved her mouth away from his and that helped lessen any sense of insult. 

Killian hummed, bending his neck again with every intention to keep making out in the middle of the bedroom, and it wasn't how he initially planned to use his extra minutes, since it did involve far too much standing, but there was also kissing and he hadn’t noticed Matt leave. Only that Peggy was back. In surround sound. “We have to go! There are presents at V’s. Presents! And you guys not being gross.”

Clicking her tongue, Emma managed to stay pressed against Killian, even as she zipped up the backpack hanging off Peggy’s shoulder. “Take at least three jerseys out of your bag, Matthew David,” she added on a shout. 

Killian kissed her forehead. 

“But, I—” Matt objected, twisted around his doorframe. Emma widened her eyes. Killian assumed. He didn’t look. He was too busy narrowing his eyes. “Fine, fine, but Mar’s got to bring some socks.”

“Hat might not be a bad idea, either,” Killian added. “What about shirts for under the jerseys?” Silence. Of the resounding variety. 

“Figures,” Emma scoffed, ushering Peggy back and they were only half an hour behind schedule by the time the lock clicked behind them. Better than usual, really. 

The hat, despite assurances that it’s in my bag, I promise never made it to the brownstone —  forgotten in the desperation to get downtown for presents and eggnog and the force that had become Mr. and Mrs. Vankald grandparents. 

Adopting Roland and Henry into the fold was as natural as anything, the Locksley family welcomed with open arms after that initial Christmas spent on the living room floor. Especially once Regina started baking. And Leo Nolan was in the midst of a Christmas obsession to rival any kid on the planet, certain Santa preferred the cookies left in front of Vankald fireplace above any other offerings.  

Liam and Elsa’s twins, far removed from their own obsessions over cookies for Santa, had stepped into key air hockey roles — refereeing and commentating — while Lizzie Vankald-Jones developed a trash-talking talent that left all of them just a bit stunned. 

There were, always, enough baked goods to feed several small countries and enough Chinese food to feed a large army, and enough laughter that it echoed in Killian’s head long after they went back uptown. There weren’t enough rooms for them. 

The kids all camped out in the living room. 

And the front door swung open before Killian could adjust the bags in his hands. 

“Why are you lurking by the door, Banana?” “Waiting for my money.” “Excuse me?” “My money,” she repeated, while failing to elaborate any more and this bit they seemed to do every year had gotten old half a dozen Christmases ago. 

“They bet on when we’d get here,” Emma explained. Killian tugged Peggy towards his side so he didn’t do something he’d regret. Matt was trying to work into the brownstone already, mumbling about cookies. “How much, Anna?”

“Fifty bucks, super serious business.” “Sounds it.” Anna shrugged, leaning against the open door frame like it wasn’t December and starting to snow and the telltale smell of cinnamon wafted out onto the block. “Bah humbug, also you guys have never been on time for anything ever. I’m playing to tradition. But I should thank you, because all this was Scarlet’s idea, and he vastly underestimated you.”

“How so?” Emma asked, ignoring Killian’s huff of frustration. 

Peggy giggled. 

“Thought you’d be late, but only by like twenty minutes and—” “Hey, Banana,” Killian interrupted, and Anna’s eyebrows flew up her forehead when she heard the tone of his voice. She stood up a bit straighter. “In case you also hadn’t noticed, we’ve got some kids out here and Emma’s pregnant, so, uh if you could get out of the way, that’d be fantastic.” Crossing her arms with a huff, it almost looked like Anna was about to stomp her foot as well, and Emma rested her hand on Killian’s chest before he could start arguing. “Did Gina and Reese’s start baking yet? Because I think Killian could use some pie.” “Yeah, I think so,” Anna agreed, making a face at Killian and he hadn’t let go of Peggy yet. She grinned at the kids in front of her, holding out her hands expectantly and tugging them both inside. “You guys want some hot chocolate?” Bags were immediately dropped, forgotten on the steps, as soon as the words were out of Anna’s mouth, leaving Emma and Killian alone with her hand still flat against his jacket. “Maybe you should start checking something,” she suggested. 

Killian sighed, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold onto any tension. He kissed the top of Emma’s head instead. Mrs. Vankald probably had extra hats. “Seasonally inappropriate.” “Proves my point, i think.” “Fifty bucks.” “Just means we’re the hottest ticket in town.” He widened his eyes at her, and almost-three kids later the smirk didn’t really accomplish anything except getting Emma to groan, but it had been a strange day and he probably should have expected her to kiss him in response. “Center ice,” Killian said, grinning against her mouth. 

“Not even clever.” “It’s a work in progress.” “Guess that means I’ll have to stick around. See how it all plays out.” “You think you’re very funny.” Shaking her head, Emma pulled away before they could start making out in a different location, which was probably for the best, but also a little disappointing and he didn’t realize the door was still open. 

“Hook,” Roland said, a note to his voice that made it clear it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get their attention. 

“God, don’t sneak up on us like that. How—Swan, stop that.” She didn’t. Hair brushed his cheek when she kept laughing, body shaking against Killian’s side and the flush of embarrassment on Roland’s face shouldn’t have felt like a victory. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that Ruby won her bet.” “Jeez.” “What was that one, Rol?” Emma asked, twisting towards the teenager. “Also, can you take, at least, four of these bags before Killian has some kind of complete breakdown on the steps?” Roland chuckled, leaning forward to grab five bags in one hand. “Ruby bet David what you guys were doing on the steps and why Matt and Pegs ended up running into the kitchen without any parental supervision in sight. Their words, not mine.” “Jeez,” Killian repeated. “Where’s your dad and why isn’t he telling everyone to grow up?”

“He’s kind of busy.”

Nodding towards the foyer, Killian directed them inside as voices from several rooms made their way into the space and down the stairs that were, as always, covered in ivy and lights and the photos on the wall were different now. The draft night photo was still there, but there other ones too – Stanley Cup finals and second weddings and Roland in a red, white and blue uniform and, right in the middle, that very first Christmas when they’d all fallen asleep in the living room. 

That one hung in the apartment uptown too. 

“Was I right, Rol?” Ruby asked, walking into the foyer sporting a sweater that wasn’t just ugly, was somehow bordering on atrocious and covered in hockey pucks. 

“What are you wearing?” Emma countered. 

Ruby brushed her off, staring expectantly at Roland who shook his head. “I’m still on the kid side. I want no part of this.”

“Was the door still open?” “Ruby.”

She grinned — that slow, slightly intimidating look that had terrorized reporters for the better part of the last decade — and jumped towards Roland, slinging her arms around him and pressing a kiss against his cheek. “You’re a God-awful spy,” she said. “David and I should have taken your loyalty into account.” “Where is David?” Emma asked, glancing towards the living room. “Or Robin and Will, for that matter? Or Henry. He’s supposed to show me what he’s writing.” Rolling her eyes, Ruby leaned back against Roland’s side and he was still holding the bags. “You can put those down, mate,” Killian muttered, grinning when he dropped several tons of presents on the floor. 

“Oh, that’s why we had Rol out for surveillance,” Ruby answered. “All of those adults are sitting at the kitchen table with several different poster boards and, at least, one full cake, trying to bracket out this year’s air hockey competition.” Emma laughed immediately, but Killian wasn’t sure if it was because of the absurdity of the news or because of how he’d reacted to it. Gaping at Ruby, his eyes widened when he looked towards Roland for confirmation. Who shrugged. 

That’s probably where Matt got it from. 

“What the hell, Lucas?” Killian yelled. “They’re supposed to wait until we’re all here. There are rules!”

“This is not my fault,” Ruby argued, backing away from Killian like he’d lost his mind. Emma’s lips had all but disappeared behind her teeth. “This is your crazy, insanely competitive tradition. If you want to have a seat at the literal table, you guys should get here on time. And stop making out on the steps. But I will tell you that Liam has tried to get himself higher up the bracket at least six times. Robin’s the only voice of reason. You owe him, Cap.” “I’m obviously the top seed, I won last year, that’s how it works. That’s science.” “Is there science involved?” Emma asked, Roland dropping onto the bottom step with one arm wrapped around his waist while he threw his head back. Laughing. Loud enough to draw an audience. Matt slid across the wood floor — shoes forgotten somewhere between the foyer and the kitchen and back again — and Killian ducked down out of instinct, grabbing him around the waist and tugging him back up 

“Dad,” he yelled, tugging on Killian’s t-shirt like that would get him to move. “Dad, you’ve got to come to the kitchen. Uncle Liam and Uncle Will are trying to form….”

“Alliances,” David finished, slinging his arm around Emma’s shoulders as soon as he stepped into the foyer. He kissed the top of her hair, looking almost repentant. 

Killian wondered how many alliances he’d made so far. 

“Right, right, alliances,” Matt continued, “you have to come. You’re the top seed. You won last year and you have to be up top. We’ve got to go now, Dad!”

Matt twisted, a mix of energy and excitement and Christmas coming to a boiling point that demanded acknowledgement. He got it from Roland. As per usual.  “C’mon, Matt. Let’s go challenge Henry to...something.” Lifting his suddenly-empty hands, Killian wasn’t sure what to say to any of that, only aware of how abrasive Ruby’s cackle was. “At the risk of repeating myself, Cap, this is your weird, competitive thing. Although Liam really is trying to cheat, so you know, go in there and be morally upstanding, or whatever.”

“Isn’t that David’s schtick? Maybe El.” David clicked his tongue. “I’m not sure if I should be offended by that, or not.” “Nah, that was totally a compliment. Although you were making bets.”

“Oh, what the hell Ruby?” David groaned. “You weren’t supposed to ask them! Rol was supposed to look.” “Yeah, well, we forgot that Roland Locksley thinks Killian is some kind of hero. He wasn’t going to rat no matter what he saw.” “For the record,” David said, “I said you guys weren’t making out on the front steps with the door wide open, so, you know, take that into account. Although Elsa is probably the most moral.” “Not Reese’s?” Emma asked. She took a step back to Killian, sliding underneath his arm like there was a magnet in his side. “I mean, if we’re going to stage moral high ground competition, she’s got to be near the top.” “Is this conversation weird?” Ruby asked, sitting on one of the bags in the middle of the floor despite protests from Emma and Killian. “This conversation seems weird. Especially when Cap’s going to get screwed out of his top seed and anything Mary Margaret bakes is going to get devoured by the ridiculous number of kids in this house.”

As if on cue, a crash echoed from the general vicinity of the dining room and Mrs. Vankald shouted from the second floor, voice carrying as well as it had thirty years before. She leaned over the edge of the bannister, eyes falling on Killian’s immediately and he waved — like he was ten years old and just coming back from practice. 

“Tell Liam he can’t cheat this year,” she shouted. 

“I think you’re picking favorites, Mrs. V.” “I bought three things of creamer this year and Liam’s determination to circumvent the bracket rules means they’ve already been through one. I’m picking the Jones brother who isn’t going to ransack my refrigerator and well-organized food options.”

Killian scoffed, but Mrs. Vankald just tilted her head, staring at him with a fondness that, maybe, left him blushing in the middle of the foyer in front of pictures of his entire family. “We bought a new container of cinnamon for you, Emma,” she added. “If Liam’s even looked at that, I give you full permission to kick him out of the tournament.” “Wow,” Emma breathed. Ruby made a face, mouth tilted down as if kicking Liam out of an air hockey tournament was the worst insult a person could level against another human being. “I’ve never really felt this powerful.” “I trust you. You’ll use your power for good.”

“Maybe Mrs. V is the most moral,” Ruby suggested, but Killian shook his head quickly. 

“Nuh uh,” he objected. “She’s pulling all the strings up there. Who do you think demanded the referee last year?”

“Go claim your number one seed, Killian,” Mrs. Vankald said. She paused for a moment, pressing her lips together tightly and the air in the foyer seemed to shift noticeably, something important about to happen or, maybe, already happening and Emma shuffled closer. “And...uh, come talk to me before dinner.” “A little foreboding, I’ll be honest.”

“Fill out the bracket first.”

Saluting was another child-esque response, but Killian was almost positive he was getting shorter the longer he stood there and something crashed in the kitchen. Mrs. Vanaklad rolled her eyes. 

The crash, it turned out, was a makeshift hockey puck smacking into the baseboard of the dining room, leaving a sizable dent in its wake as the twins argued with Henry over what constituted as the blue line when there was a table and a dozen chairs in the way. 

And Killian wasn’t sure which took longer – figuring out those rules or keeping Peggy from climbing on top of the dining room table in an attempt to keep the game organized or attempting to figure out an air hockey bracket. 

It was definitely the bracket. 

“You can’t do this again, Liam,” Will sighed, perched on the edge of the counter. “I’m actually going to go insane if you do this again.” Liam muttered a string of curses under his breath and Killian’s head fell forward, colliding with Emma’s back. She was balanced on his leg, his arm around her waist and her fingers trailing over his hand, tracing over scars and up towards his wedding ring. It was almost enough to make him relax. Until Liam started complaining about seeding again and the whole process had to start over. 

“Why don’t we keep better records?” Robin asked, not for the first time. They were clearly stuck in a time warp. Of Christmas competition and a dwindling coffee creamer supply. “Can’t El do that? Isn’t that, like, her job?” “Do you know what a state senator does, Locksley?” Elsa asked. She’d collapsed onto Liam’s chair when he started pacing two brackets ago, resting her chin on the top of her pulled-up legs. 

“I’m assuming your tone that I don’t.”

“Ding ding ding.” “The problem,” Liam started,  and Killian didn’t even try to mask his groan. He knew where this was going. The same place it had been going for the last two hours. Absolutely nowhere. “Is that we…” “Have an uneven bracket,” the kitchen finished, and Liam paced louder. Somehow. 

“We just have to figure out who’s going to play-in.” “Liam if you say that one more time, I’m going to strangle you with tinsel,” Killian threatened. 

“That is oddly specific.” “Christmas spirit.” “That’s another Scrooge reference,” Emma shouted, twisting to knock her knuckles against his shoulder and Killian bit his lip tightly so he didn’t actually make any noise. They shouldn’t have kept flirting in the kitchen. While Liam freaked out about traditions and tinsel. “How come we didn’t bet on how many times you’d make Scrooge references?” “Because we’re adults, Swan,” Killian answered. 

Elsa scoffed. 

“Ok, if I offer myself up for a play-in game, would that help?” Robin asked, dragging the poster across the table and writing in his name before Liam could object. 

“Locksley’s going all dad mode,” Will muttered. “Put Mary Margaret in there too. She said she’d play-in to help because she’s a better person than all of us.” The kitchen hummed in agreement, and Robin finished half the bracket by the time Liam stopped pacing. Forty-five minutes, and only three more arguments later, the entire thing was full of mismatched handwriting in several different Sharpie colors. 

Liam taped it to the basement door. 

“You know,” Emma drawled, somehow still sitting on Killian’s leg, “I’m coming for your title.”

“That so? Care to place a wager on that?”

“I thought we were going to be grown up.” “I mean, no one has to know except us. Save face when you lose that way.” “Just diving right into the trash talk, huh?” “You’re the one who started it, love. The real question is…” “Oh my God,” she groaned, but her eyes were bright and he’d probably think about her smile for a questionable amount of time. “If you say, whether or not you’ll finish it, I’m going to punch you in the face.” Laughter flew out of him, any sense of competition forgotten in the rather desperate desire to make out with his wife again. “Maybe you should be teaching checking techniques.” Emma sneered, nails digging into Killian’s shoulder as she tried to stay balanced. On top of him. “Give me some credit, love. I’m not going to let you fall.”

Cliches and vaguely romantic double entendres were acceptable on Christmas Eve. Especially if it guaranteed that particular angle, Emma’s head tilted up and her teeth digging into her lower lip, and he couldn’t think when she did that. 

So. 

Kissing it was. Anything else was overrated. 

Although it did make it difficult to hear the pointed cough from the other side of the kitchen. 

Mr. Vankald rocked back on his heels when Killian finally looked up, amusement coloring his gaze even as the blush on Emma’s cheeks emitted a very specific kind of heat. “Super grown up,” she mumbled. 

“Be glad it wasn’t your brother,” Mr. Vankald reasoned. “Probably steal your number one seed.” “He hung the bracket up,” Killian argued. “That’s Christmas doctrine now. No more changes or the entire house will rise up in revolt.”

“Might keep things interesting.” “There’s a giant dent in the dining room wall and you’re still looking for interesting?” “Depends on how the next few minutes go. C’mon.” 

He walked away before either Killian or Emma could answer, leaving them sitting on one chair with matching looks of confusion on their face. “So, uh, we’re supposed to follow him, I guess?” Emma asked. 

Killian shook his head. “This has been the weirdest day.” “God bless us, every one.” “Something like that, for sure. Let’s go before someone else comes in.”

Mr. Vankald hadn’t waited for them – retreating to the dining room and the, now, multiple dents on the baseboards. Killian barely noticed them. He was more interested in the stack of papers sitting on the edge of the table, just a few inches away from the pile of plates and the almost questionable number of forks.

And whatever it was Mrs. Vankald was doing with her face. 

Like she was half a moment away from a waterfall of tears. If that was possible. It really had been a weird Christmas Eve. 

“What’s going on?” Killian asked cautiously, hooking his foot around one of the empty chairs and nudging Emma towards it. 

“Overprotective weirdo,” she mumbled. He grinned at her. 

“Mrs. V,” Killian continued, trying very hard not to tug on the back of his hair or grip Emma’s shoulder too tightly. “You want to expand on the mandate from before?”

She tilted her head in response, eyebrows lifted slightly and he wasn’t quite prepared for the force of her smile. 

Like he was seventeen and deciding to go to Minnesota. He told them he was going in the dining room. Or like he was seventeen and they’d found out he and Anna had snuck uptown on the one the weekend before. 

“Sit,” Mr. Vankald instructed, pointing at another chair next to Emma and they must have rented chairs. There were too many people in this family. “We’ve got approximately five minutes before Roland announces he’s hungry again.” “Is that the reason for the cloak and dagger?” “There’s neither cloak nor dagger,” Mrs. Vankald chastised, smile shaking ever so slightly when the tears finally fell to her cheeks. “Suggests this is bad.” “I feel like I’m about to get grounded.” 

“Did you get grounded a lot?” Emma asked, glancing over her shoulder and it absolutely would have been wrong to kiss her again. Although maybe Mrs. Vankald would stop crying then. 

Killian shook his head, smirk settling into place with practiced ease, and Emma rolled her eyes. She grabbed his hand. He’d appreciate that eventually. 

“Not grounded,” Mr. Vankald said suddenly and Killian snapped his head up. “We’re giving you the house.” Jaw dropping and shoulders sagging, Killian hadn’t really been holding his breath then either, but it had been a very weird day and his lungs were no longer functioning. Emma’s head moved on a swivel, eyes like saucers as she squeezed his fingers. His knuckles cracked. 

“Wait, what?”

“The house,” Mr. Vankald repeated, grinning and waving his hand through the air. 

“I don’t understand.” “What isn’t there to understand?” “Any of it?” Leaning forward, Mrs. Vankald pushed the pile of papers towards Killian’s free hand and he couldn’t actually make out the words on the page. His vision had gone glossy. 

And maybe he squeezed Emma’s hand that time. 

“But….” Emma started, licking her lips. “Why...we have an apartment.” Neither one of the Vankalds looked impressed. “And how many rooms does that apartment have?” Mr. Vankald challenged. “Also, we’re leaving.” Killian was glad he was sitting because his legs felt like he’d just skated sprints for the last several days. “What?” 

“Leaving. In a couple of months.” “I am….wait,” Killian sputtered, blinking again and staring at the doorway like a camera crew was going to appear and announce that this was all some practical joke. Or Liam was doing it to get in his head before air hockey. That would have made more sense. “You’re moving? From New York?” “Oh, no, no,” Mrs. Vankald said, “we couldn’t...not when you are…” “Super grandparents,” Emma finished, and Mrs. Vankald beamed. 

“Ok,” Killian said, trying to process everything that had happened since they’d walked into the brownstone. Maybe the kids would let him play hockey after dinner. He wanted to shoot at something. “So, let me get this straight. You’re moving out of the brownstone, but staying in New York and you’ve already decided this is all just going to be ours?” Mr. Vankald nodded, humming in the back of his throat. “See. Wasn't confusing, was it?” “You’re making jokes.” “Killian,” Emma whispered, staring at the papers in her hand. “It’s already done. This is...I mean I’m not a lawyer or a real estate agent or anything, but this is notarized.” She looked up at the Vankalds, eyes as glossy as his and Killian wished, not for the first time, that they could have these major life conversations on ice. He’d be able to keep his balance better that way. “When?” 

“When did we decide?” Emma nodded. “As soon as you brought Matthew home,” Mr. Vankald admitted. Killian wasn’t breathing. “And then when you told us you were expecting Christopher and Killian had retired, and it made sense. This is...we want you to have this.”

Mr. Vankald’s smile softened — like gifting the house Killian had grown up in wasn’t some kind of overwhelming type of decision. And on C hristmas Eve, no less. Killian tried to swallow down the bundle of nerves and emotion in the back of his throat, leaning towards Emma before he realized he’d shifted in his chair. She kept moving her fingers, alternating between squeezing his hand and swiping her thumb across the back of his palm, and her eyes hadn’t moved away from the deed sitting in front of them. 

“You’re sure?” Killian asked, voice scratchy and maybe he wasn’t seventeen and going to Minnesota. Maybe he was eight years old and terrified that the Vankalds were going to kick him out of the house. 

Neither one of them answered immediately, but then the floorboards creaked and Mrs. Vankald was next to him, one hand on his cheek and the other on his chest and she stared at him like he was hers in some kind of overwhelmingly emotional way. “There should be kids here and chaos and horsemen,” she whispered. “There should be yelling all the time and even more holes in the wall and maybe Mattie can learn how to properly check someone."

"See, scathing."

Mrs. Vankald scrunched her nose. "You should have that. Both of you. This is your home.”

Emma sniffled, lip between her teeth and head resting on Killian’s shoulder. “The Jones Line,” she muttered. “That’s what we’ve been calling it. You know with three of them.” “That’s perfect.” 

They put another hole in the dining room wall that night — Leo tripping over a hockey stick that somehow ended up propped against the table, and there had been crying and questions about concussions and no one knew how to administer medical assistance when Ariel wasn’t there. Which didn’t make much sense because she wasn’t actually a doctor. 

In the end, Leo opted to eat another egg roll. 

And then scored a goal when the quasi-hockey game resumed. Spread across several rooms and inching dangerously close to the Christmas tree, the game had taken on a life of its own, and Matt and Lizzie eventually had to be separated when they started arguing over the location of the penalty box. 

Mrs. Vankald handed out t-shirts when the game was called a draw, silencing the cries of half a dozen kids as soon as they were gifted brand-new team merch with their names on the back. Matt and Peggy each had a ‘C’ on their shoulder. 

“They tell you?” Elsa asked, knocking her hip against Killian’s where he was leaning against the wall. He nearly jumped a foot in the air. “Jeez, KJ, relax. This isn’t an interview.” “I am retired. I don’t do interviews anymore,.” 

“Please. You’re as retired as….something that makes sense.” “Coming up a little short of cliches, huh?” “I wasn’t looking for a cliche, just an example. Whatever, you’re deflecting. Did they tell you yet? Mom and Dad?” “How did you know?” “KJ.” Killian groaned, glancing back towards Emma. She was sitting on the corner of the couch, Matt in front of her and already tugging on his t-shirt, with Peggy’s head in her lap, eyelids fluttering and feet tucked underneath her. “Yeah,” he said, not sure why it felt like admitting to something. “Called us into the dining room like they wanted to discuss the end of the world and then just…” “Gave you the house.” “Yeah.” “Good.” He hadn’t been expecting that — and that might have been why he couldn't quite shake the nerves or the twist in his gut and why his eyes kept darting towards Emma and their kids, like he was trying to make sure this wasn’t some ridiculous dream he’d come up with a decade before. 

“Good?” Killian asked, and Elsa nodded. 

“Do you not think it is?” “Look who’s deflecting now.”

“No, I’m confused. You guys have to move again anyway. Might as well move here. Put some more holes in the wall.” “That is exactly what Mrs. V said.” “God,” Elsa sighed. “Don’t tell me that. It makes me feel old.” Killian grinned, slinging his arm over her shoulders and Emma met his gaze across the living room —  probably wondering why he kept staring at her like a lunatic. “Oh,” Elsa sighed, rapping her knuckles across the front of his shirt. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” “Merry Christmas.” “Does Emma know she’s married to a total idiot?” “Probably, at this point.” 

Elsa scoffed and the knuckles had taken a decidedly more aggressive approach. “I’m serious, KJ. How come you don’t think you should have the house?” “Get out of my head, witch.” “First of all, that’s rude. Second of all, you’ve been brooding and un-Christmas’y all night. Liam asked me what was wrong with you. He thought it had something to do with the bracket.” “He needs to stop with the bracket stuff,” Killian said, but Elsa narrowed her eyes and it felt exactly like being disciplined by Mrs. Vankald. He didn’t mention that. 

“Third of all,” she continued, “It’s not like we’d take it. All things considered.” “What are the things we’re considering?” Gritting her teeth, Elsa sighed with all the drama of someone who’d been keeping something secret for several months. “You have to promise not to react because I haven’t told Mom and Dad yet.” “Ok.” “The national seat is up for reelection next year.” 

Killian waited for the rest of it, the explanation that would, eventually, hit and when it, finally, did, he felt like he’d been checked over the boards. “Oh, shit,” he yelled, drawing the attention of the entire living room and several reproachful clicked tongues. Emma’s laugh still didn’t sound much like a cough. “Elsa Vankald-Jones takes on the world.” “At least Washington D.C.” “To start.” “You can’t vote, so your support doesn’t count, but I appreciate it,” Elsa smiled. “And this is yours, KJ. Has been forever. This city and this house and you should be here. Your kids should be here. Stop thinking otherwise.” Killian hummed, resting his chin on top of Elsa’s head until she cursed. Not in English She also didn’t move. And maybe that look Mrs. Vankald had given him before — that promise that this whole roster of a family that didn’t share a last name or much more than a ridiculous desire to make each other happy — was real. 

God bless us, every one. 

Or something. 

The kids fell asleep wearing matching t-shirts with the Christmas tree still on, and it only took a few minutes and several glasses of spiked eggnog to get the presents downstairs. 

And Emma was already in bed when he got to his room, pillows kicked on the floor.

“Are the stockings all hung?”  

“At least laid by the chimney with a relative amount of care.” Her eyebrows moved, lips twitching slightly and Killian tried to keep his hand out of his hair. It didn’t work. Appeared to be a trend that day. “You know, it’d be easier to get to the Piers from here,” she said. “More space. You really could teach Mattie how to check.” “I thought we weren’t encouraging the checking.” “Ah, yeah, but then he totally dominated whatever game they were playing and maybe he should have several thousand square feet to fine-tune that. Plus, you know, Ruby mentioned something.” Killian dropped onto the edge of the bed —  knocking off a few more pillows in the process – and Emma scrunched her nose. “Between you, El and the Vankalds, I feel like I’m on the wrong end of all the secrets.” “More like late-breaking news.” “Enlighten me.” “Ariel texted Ruby about whatever Dylan is doing with Mattie and she’s super upset and she thinks you’re going to be pissed after the break because she’s not monitoring her nine-year-old enforcer on skates.”

“I’m not pissed,” Killian promised, ignoring Emma’s immediate scoff. “I’m not, Swan. I just…” “Killian Jones, defender of his kids.” “Exactly that.” “Ruby was mad enough for everyone involved anyway, even Mattie, and I think he was just upset that he couldn’t score twenty times a game when he was worried about getting hit.” “At this point I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he did score twenty goals a game,” Killian muttered. Maybe he’d had more than one glass of spiked eggnog. 

“It’s because he’s trying to be you.”

Twisting wasn’t easy when he was laying on his back — or when Emma’s fingers were in his hair, but he was nothing if not stubborn and there was another joke about magnets to be made. When his hand rested on her stomach again. 

Emma smiled at him. 

“Don’t talk to me about whatever sentiment that entails. I’m super pregnant and it’s Christmas and we’ve been given several thousand square feet of house.” “Super pregnant, huh?” Emma waved her hand, pointing at her stomach and Killian flipped over – head somehow finding its way onto he legs. She didn’t stop moving her fingers through his hair. “At least now we know where Peggy gets it,” she added softly, tapping her thumb on his temple. 

“Are you suggesting she’s inherited an innate desire to have her hair played with?” “Are you?” “Possibly,” Killian admitted, reaching up to tug Emma’s hand back down. He wrapped his fingers around hers, glancing up to make sure she was still smiling before pressing a kiss underneath her wedding ring. “What do you think, Swan?” “About?” “Several thousand feet of check’able living space.” “Overwhelmed, a little,” she admitted, “but not in the way you’re thinking.” “How am I thinking of it, exactly?” “You know Scarlet asked if, and I’m quoting here, Cap is doing that thing with his face because he’s mad about having to face Mary Margaret in the first round of the tournament.” “Jeez,” Killian groaned, hand moving towards her stomach out of instinct. He was met, immediately, with a kick. “Hey, kid,” he mumbled, smiling despite the nerves and the worry and there was a lot of square footage. Room for a whole Jones Line. 

“He’s been doing somersaults all night.” “You think that’s a sign?” “About being able to do somersaults in all the space of a downtown brownstone?” Emma laughed, and Killian’s eyes darted back up towards hers. There were tear tracks on her cheeks, but she didn’t look as worried about the ridiculous amount of family gifting they’d been on the receiving end that afternoon. “Kind of,” she said. “And you already said we.” “That’s true. You didn’t answer my question though.” “I’m not worried about some Vankald family overload or even what happens next Christmas when we inevitably have to order the Chinese food. I am…” 

She trailed off and the sigh was more of an exhale, eyes falling on the pile of pillows and the edge of the bed and it felt symmetrical to be back in that room — where it had started and sustained a desperate middle and watched Emma Swan tell Killian Jones she loved him for the very first time on Christmas Eve. 

“You are…” Killian prompted, grinning when Emma glared. 

“It’s not something I ever thought I could have,” she said quickly, stumbling over the words and refusing to meet his gaze and it was like he’d been pulled into the mattress or maybe through the floor and Killian sat up before his mind had processed the idea of moving. “A house and a hockey line and you...trying to make out all over the place.” Killian barked out a laugh, leaning forward and kissing her — again. His lips slanted over hers, one hand pressed into her hair as he tried to tug her towards him or touch every single inch of her and he could live for the rest of time without ever quite getting over how much he loved Emma Swan right back. 

On Christmas Eve, or any other day. 

“That’s because I;m super attracted to you,” Killian said, and it was the most honest string of words he’d come up with all day. “It’s a struggle not to make out with you all the time.” “Mattie would never forgive us.” “He’d cope.” “I love you a ridiculous amount you giant, vaguely attractive weirdo.” “Vaguely attractive? You wound me, Swan.” “Ah, well, I will admit that becoming a homeowner adds to your overall attractiveness.”

Kissing her again was the only reasonable response —  brushing his lips across her face and down her neck and over her shoulder and she probably would have actually punched him if he tried to kiss her stomach, but he was on some other level of overjoyed and Killian was willing to live on the edge, as it were. 

“El told me I deserve this,” Killian muttered, pressing the words against Emma’s t-shirt. “But at the risk of being a sentimental asshole, I think you do too, love.” “Team Jones,” Emma whispered, tugging on the collar of his t-shirt so he moved back up, falling asleep wrapped up together. 

Until several kids tried to check the door the next morning.