#the prompt i'm working on today may turn into several chapters because i have absolutely no chill whatsoever

[welllpthisishappening]

All These Things and More

Festive nature is not something Emma Swan is particularly familiar with. Even less so after nearly breaking her ankle in the middle of Central Park, and she can’t believe it isn’t someone’s job to de-ice those stairs. 

As it is, her ankle appears to be swelling with every passing moment, and she can’t get her keys off the floor, and she’s pleasantly surprised she doesn’t flinch when the door across the hall from her apartment opens. Or when the guy who presumably lives behind that door offers his help. With her dropped keys, and, it turns out, just about everything else in Emma’s life. 

‘Tis the season, or whatever. 

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Rating: Teen Word Count: 8.8K, let’s all act surprised that these keep getting longer AN: Today’s prompt(s) come from @illicitaffairslongingstares and while she did say “or,” my mind was like LET’S USE ALL OF THEM, so here we have: "people are jerks, but not you.""a thunderstorm is rolling through town and you’re scared of lightening/thunder so i’ll protect you.""this is probably a bad time, but marry me?" Thank you for the prompts, babe. I hope you enjoy this massive pile of fluff. 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam || 

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“Are you alright?” Emma bites her tongue. So as to also bite back the rather immediate and far too snarky response sitting there. Of course she’s not alright. She doesn’t normally walk like this — trying very hard not to bend her knee because somehow that makes everything hurt more, and she can’t quite believe that anything could hurt more than the twelve blocks she essentially dragged herself down, but there are also scrapes on either one of her palms and the lack of any creaking floor behind her means the voice has not left yet. 

That only kind of frustrates her. 

Hopping on the one good foot she has left, Emma nearly falls over more than once. Which is very impressive, actually. Both because she hasn’t moved very much and because the lack of stability in either one of her knees isn’t entirely biological. 

He’s stupid good looking. 

The voice, who she suddenly realizes belongs to that guy across the hall and she knew that guy across the hall had very nice eyes, from the few times she’d allowed herself to acknowledge such a ridiculous thing, but now she’s also got to deal with the knowledge that his hair kind of artfully falls across his forehead when he bends his neck at that very precise angle and—

“How did you manage to get up the stairs?”

Shoulders slumping, Emma lets out a breath she wishes she hadn’t been holding. She’s already running low on functioning body parts, doing any extra damage to her lungs just seems like a bad choice. Although that could be the sub-headline of her night at this point. 

“Sheer force of will,” she replies, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of the words and that almost feels like a vaguely twisted victory when one side of the guy’s mouth tugs up. The one she’s inexcusably staring at. 

So as to distract herself from the overall color of his eyes. 

Maybe she’s concussed. 

That’d make her feel better, honestly. 

“Still not really an answer, though.” “I’ve almost forgotten the question,” Emma mutters, and she’ll use her injury as an excuse. For the continued sarcasm, and what feels suspiciously like a fluttering heart because the guy’s mouth is starting to twist into something that looks suspiciously like a smirk. 

Directed at her. He’s wearing gym shorts, it’s absurd. And no socks. 

“Aren’t your feet cold?” Absolutely smirking. Still at her. There’s no one else in the hallway, it’s two in the goddamn morning. “They are, in fact,” he nods. His hair moves. It looks very soft. So she’s probably insane now. “But you’re very loud, so—” “—Shit, did I wake you up?” “Not really. I was admittedly a little concerned you were being attacked over there, though.” “Were you going to defend my honor from unknown enemies without any socks on?” “I was seriously considering it.” Laughing somehow makes several different muscles and at least half a dozen joints ache, but Emma can’t seem to help it and the overall tightness between her shoulder blades lessens ever so slightly. “Very gallant of you.” “That’s my schtick, for sure,” he agrees, far too charming and far too easy and Emma’s keys are still on the floor. That was her problem, really. 

Getting her keys out of her back pocket was something of a challenge when she was trying to balance all her weight on her right foot, and the lack of feeling in her fingers after spending the last four hours chasing a skip through Central Park made it all but impossible to get the kind of grip she needed and, well—

Cursing every single God she could think of when she dropped those keys and then was apparently unable to bend the right way to pick them back up seemed entirely reasonable. 

She hopes her ankle didn’t swell too much. 

She hopes that skip also trips down some ice-covered stairs in Central Park and twists one of his ankles. Either one, Emma’s not going to be specific. And she hopes every single member of the New York City Department of Public Works gets coal in their stocking. Or whoever is in charge of de-icing Central Park stairs. 

God, she hates Central Park. 

Navigating that place continues to be an insurmountable challenge, no matter how long she lives in this city. 

“So, uh,” sockless, very good looking neighbor guy continues, leaning across his doorway and Emma can’t believe she doesn’t know his name. She can’t ask him his name now. Then he’ll know she’s as insane as she absolutely is. “Should we rehash, then?” “About your question?” “And if you’re ok.” “Oh, right, right, right, I’m uh—”

Lying should be easier. Should be second nature, honestly. Lying’s part of the gig, lulling skips into a false sense of security that makes catching them easier and getting paid inevitable, and Emma would very much like to lie. If only to try and convince herself. 

She shakes her head. 

So, that’s a weird chance of pace. 

Sockless, very good looking neighbor guy whose shirt is actually far tighter than Emma realized, gives her a tight-lipped smile, nods his head once, like that’s that and crosses the space between them. Which also feels much smaller, all of the sudden. 

He picks her keys up on the first try. 

Figures, he’s still in possession of two functioning ankles. 

“Which one is it?” “Hmmm?” “Your keys, love,” he says, as if that’s something he can say and it’s entirely possible Emma simply imagined that. Delirium is admittedly starting to sink in just a bit. Everything hurts. 

“Oh, uh—the uh...the one with the dot. The—the green dot on it.” Humming, he somehow makes sense of her garbled instruction and neither of them try to move closer to each other, but it happens all the same and he’s undeniably solid when Emma slumps against his side. 

She still doesn’t know his name, it’s ridiculous. 

She swats her hand against the wall as soon as her door swings open, finally finding the light and illuminating her apartment. Which is not very welcoming. Now or ever, really — but the inherent loneliness of the place feels as if it reaches out and slaps Emma in the face, while the very good looking sockless guy with questionably jacked arms is standing next to her. 

Her cheeks ache. When she forces herself to smile. 

“Thanks,” Emma says, “for the willingness to defend while not properly clothed and—”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “Do you not think I’m properly clothed?” “You’re not wearing any socks.” “You know more curse words than any sailor I have ever met.” “Have you met a lot?” Lifting a shoulder in what Emma can only assume is a shrug and a wordless brush-off, the glint in his eyes dims ever so slightly, but she also should not be noticing any sort of glint and she’s got to sit down. She’ll fall over otherwise. 

“You should go to the doctor,” he says instead, nodding towards an ankle Emma can’t bring herself to look at. Feels like it’s swelling. To grapefruit-level proportions. “Urgent care, or something. Like—as soon as possible.” “Are you a doctor and a knight in sockless armor?” “You might be obsessed with my feet.” “Nah, there’s a name for those kinds of people and that’s not—” Heat rises in Emma’s cheeks when she notices him smirking again, and it’s disappointing to realize this is the first time a guy has been in her apartment in months. She’s so lame, it’s ridiculous. “If I tell you something will you promise not to laugh?” “Scouts honor.” “You were not a boy scout,” Emma challenges, which is patently unfair when she also doesn’t know his name, so—“Can I insult you if I keep referring to you as sockless guy in my head?” Leaving out very good looking is a victory she will cling to for the foreseeable future. 

As is his answering laugh. 

Not quite boisterous, but loud enough that his shoulders shake and his hair moves and she deserves at least two medals and possibly a plaque for not pushing her fingers into the strands.

“I’d rather you didn’t insult me at all,” he says, “but it does seem rude not to introduce myself when I know your name.” “Less knight-like, honestly.” “One of your friends has a habit of kicking on your door and shouting your full name. It’s exceedingly loud and absolutely impossible to ignore.” “You’re an eavesdrop.” “That’s not the right way to use that as an adjective, but your ankle is closing on pumpkin-type dimensions and—” An arm slips around her waist, directing Emma back towards her couch before she can even begin to object and she doesn’t want to object and he smells like soap. Nice soap. The kind of soap that could help lull her to sleep. As if that’s something a cleaning product is capable of. “Anyway,” he adds, “my name is Killian Jones, we should stop discussing my sock situation and I promise not to make fun of whatever you’ve already forgotten you were going to tell me.” “Rude.” “Your friend is ridiculously loud, do you know that?”

Emma nods. “That’s part of Ruby’s charm. And, uh—I don’t know that I can get back down the stairs. Plus, this isn’t really that bad.”

Liar. 

Lying liar who lies. And Killian’s other eyebrow moved that time. 

“I’d hate to see what could have possibly been worse. So, fine—don’t go down the stairs by yourself, then.” “Do you see a lot of other people in this apartment?” Bitterness replaces the sarcasm, which is far too telling an emotion and quite possibly Emma’s base emotion, but Killian doesn’t blink. He smiles, waving a hand through the air and it’s only then that she notices there’s only one hand and she’s got more questions and vaguely distracting thoughts about his eyes and his face and her lungs are doing that thing again. Not functioning properly. 

“And here I thought we’d gotten past the insults.” Emma’s jaw drops. And pops slightly in the process, which is one of the more embarrassing things that’s happened to her that night. “You don't know me,” she argues, louder than she’d like, but she’s so ridiculously tired and that’s a much more sweeping commentary about her life than she’s willing to admit. “I could—I could be a murderer!” “Can’t be all that good at it if your murders end with broken ankles.” “Ah, shit you think it’s broken?” Killian shrugs. “I’m not a doctor, or a murderer. For the record as it were.” “Saying it makes me more suspicious, quite frankly.” “That is frank,” he chuckles, “and it’s not a trick, or anything except the kindness of relative strangers. Which, as everyone knows, gets accentuated at Christmas.” “Not for another two weeks.”

“Christmas lasts for all of December, don’t you know that, Swan?” Last names probably don’t count as endearments. This one sounds that way, though. As if it’s easy for him to say, and that probably has something to do with the return of the glint and her growing obsession with the various shades of blue in his eyes and Emma’s nodding before she’s totally come to grips with what she’s agreeing to. He gets her Tylenol before he leaves. 

It’s not broken. 

So, that’s something. And about nothing else. Negative else. 

Purple bruises and some other color that almost resembles black swirl across the skin covering Emma’s absolutely worthless ankle, a pair of crutches under either one of her arms that are already starting to chafe her sides, and she took a perverse pleasure in the overall circumference of Killian’s eyes when let out a deluge of curse words in the Urgent Care office. 

Part of him almost looked proud, though. 

Which is just—it’s ridiculous. 

Emma blames his ability to smirk as potently as it does. It’s throwing her off entirely. Although that might have something to do with her inherent lack of balance as well, and this might be Bill de Blasio’s fault. None of the sidewalks in this stupid city are clear. 

And that is why, Emma will eventually argue, it makes entirely perfect sense to hobble up the stairs back towards her locked apartment door, drop her keys in Killian’s upturned palm and say—“Do you want to come in? I have tequila.” “It’s eleven in the morning.” “Ok.” The smirk gains power. Festive-based power, because they walked by at least four stores with garland in their windows and Emma’s always prided herself on her ability to ignore such emotional nonsense, but now this guy who is presumably wearing socks since he’s also wearing boots, keeps looking at her like she’s fascinating and not entirely depressing and there’s this little inkling of hope in the pit of her stomach. 

‘Tis the season, or whatever. 

It just kind of happens, really. 

Over the next five days, Killian Jones doesn’t quite move into Emma’s apartment, but he becomes something of a presence at the end of her couch and he’s very good at dialing for delivery, and reminding her to take the medication the doctor at Urgent Care prescribed, and it’s so goddamn nice she cannot begin to cope with it. 

He makes her laugh with startling regularity — helpful since August had adamantly told her she couldn’t come back to work without another doctor’s note because, as he put it, he wasn’t getting sued, Emma, but that also meant it was very difficult to get a paycheck, and it’s far too easy to fall into this routine. 

Even when she starts to wonder—

“Don’t you have a job?” Emma asks on day six, which also happens to be a Friday and it’s kind of insane he doesn’t have something better to do on his Friday night. Than sit in the corner of her couch and scroll through GrubHub listings. 

She’d do something drastic for some Indian food. 

“Of course.” Widening her eyes, Emma waits for the rest of the explanation. It doesn’t come. Patience has never been one of the virtues she possesses, though. So. “And that job is...”

“Are you worried about my ability to pay rent, Swan?” “In theory. And curious, I guess. About—” “—Me?” Killian quips, but he’s far more accurate than Emma wants him to be and the overall force of his ensuing smirk sends her flying into the metaphorical stratosphere. Of friendship, or whatever. She figures they’re friends now. 

If he orders her extra garlic naan. 

“I teach,” he continues, “some gen-history classes at CUNY. Finished the semester about a week and a half ago, which is why you only sort of woke me up before. Grading is exhausting, and occasionally depressing and I was trying very hard not to fall asleep on top of all the essays like a giant cliche, when you announced your presence to the hallway.” Gritting her teeth, Emma fights off the wholly unacceptable wave of disappointment cresting her consciousness. She’d sort of—well, she’s not really sure what she hoped for, honestly. Maybe something sort of sweeping. 

As if he simply had a sixth sense that she was in need of a quasi-rescue, and woke up to do that. Finding out she’d just interrupted his job is almost a little crushing. 

In a friendship type of way, obviously. 

“How does one become a teacher of gen-history at CUNY, then?” “I’m a professor, technically.” “Shit, that sounds very fancy.” He grins. Wide and honest, and almost like he’s preening a bit under Emma’s less-than-genteel praise. She’s going to eat at least three samosas too. “It’s exceedingly fancy,” Killian agrees, “and care of the United States GI Bill, which—” “—Didn’t stop after World War II?” “You learn something new every day, love.”

Flicking her finger against his arm happens far too easily. As if this has been going on for months, or years and that’s probably not a sign. Emma’s still firmly entrenched in Ebenezer Scrooge territory. 

Although, some soft and distinctly traitorous part of her mind is quick to point out, even Ebenezer Scrooge had a girlfriend. 

God, if she gets visits from obnoxious ghosts any time soon, she’s going to be really annoyed. 

“Is that why you knew sailors?” “Past and present tense,” Killian amends, and the grin is still there but it also looks a little forced and Emma’s leaning forward. When exactly she decided to do that, she’s not entirely sure, and it obviously doesn’t matter when Killian’s hand flips. 

Against hers. 

He’s very warm. 

Not a sign either, she’s positive. 

A million more questions jump to the tip of her tongue, and Emma’s spent way too much time thinking about her tongue in these last six days. She doesn’t voice them. The questions, or the thoughts. Not when she can see the muscle in his clearly clenched jaw jumping with an almost alarming rhythm, and she’s always been very good at reading people. 

It’s what’s made her such a good bail bonds...person. At least when she’s not nursing a high ankle sprain, and she hardly notices Killian’s hand shifting against her calf. To move that same ankle back up onto the pillows piled on top of her exceedingly wobbly coffee table. 

Goosebumps explode everywhere. Possibly in her heart too, just for maximum absurdity. 

“What’s the most random and historic Christmas fact you know?”

Narrowing his eyes makes it difficult to see whatever shade of blue they’ve evolved into, but Emma’s a bit more concerned with the inevitable pink on her cheeks and she desperately needs Killian to move his goddamn hand. To several other places. Across her body. Ebenezer Scrooge probably didn’t want to make out with his girlfriend this much. 

Would have scandalized Bob Cratchit. 

That wasn’t the right timeline for the story at all. 

“Jingle Bells was written as a Thanksgiving song initially,” Killian says, “and was also the first song to be broadcast from space.” “Very different aspects of this fact.” “I like to bring a lot to the table.” “The Thanksgiving one?” “Any holiday,” he shrugs, expression not quite as lined and just a hint easier and Emma’s heart sputters. Like it’s flipping and flopping and possibly expanding, which is a totally different pop culture reference and she’s starting to lose track. “I think Trans Siberian Orchestra is overrated.” “Sounds suspiciously like an opinion.” “That’s also absolutely right,” Emma promises, and she doesn’t get into specifics. For what is very obviously an opinion of the emotion-based variety, and Killian doesn’t press and they order enough Indian food for the entire apartment building. 

She doesn’t know anyone else in the building. 

That’s not as depressing as it once was. 

“Screw Steve Jobs.” “That’s the spirit, for sure.” “What about the other one?” “What other one?” Killian asks, not glancing away from the TV screen or the streaming options that limit their Christmas movie-viewing choices. “Are you just shouting names at me?” Emma tuts, wrestling the remote from his hand. “There’s no shouting involved, I’m just expressing my frustration at whoever is in charge of Apple now, and Steve Jobs and his legacy and how it’s preventing me from watching A Charlie Brown Christmas.” “I’m not sure how those things go together, but I can get behind hating on Apple if that’s actually what we’re doing.” “It is. Do people actually pay for Apple Plus, or whatever it’s called?” “If the overall popularity of that soccer show is any indication. And that one with Reese Witherspoon got a bunch of Emmy nominations, I think.” “Why do you know that?” His shoulder bumps hers when he shrugs. They’re sitting very close. “I know everything, I thought that was obvious.” “Can you get A Charlie Brown Christmas to play on my TV without giving any money to Steve Jobs?” “Technically, I think it’d just be his estate getting the money.” “Don’t get technical.”

He nods once, all confidence and charm and there’s got to be something else he could be doing with his time, but Emma doesn’t want him to be doing anything else and he pulls her laptop across the coffee table. She will never admit to counting the minutes it takes, or the exact way his eyes flit her direction more than once during those minutes, but then the laptop dings and Killian announces “done,” and asks if she “has an HDMI cable?” She doesn’t. 

It takes three minutes for him to jog back to his apartment. And back, hooking up several things that genuinely impress Emma, and the first few notes of the Vince Guaraldi Trio tug on whatever heartstrings she’s still in possession of. 

He calls her out for mouthing along with the lines, laughter clinging to his voice and the crinkles she’s only just realized exist around his eyes and Emma shifts out of habit. When the Peanuts start dancing on stage, all too aware of Killian’s eyes. 

And how they linger. On her, specifically. 

She’s less prepared for his wrist to flip the way it does. “May I?”

Thinking seems stupid in a situation like this, so Emma doesn’t think and the calluses on his fingers are enough to inspire a whole slew of other ideas, and they don’t really dance. Neither do the Peanuts, though — so, there’s something to be said for consistency and lower-body strength and they just kind of bob in time together, content to exist in each other’s space and there’s not that much space and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

Neither are the tears that sting Emma’s eyes nearly twenty minutes later. She always cries during Linus’ speech. 

Going stir crazy is inevitable and happens at precisely two forty-seven on the Tuesday before Christmas. The walls of Emma’s apartment suddenly feel much closer than they were at two forty-six, and she doesn’t bother grabbing her crutches. Before huffing out a frustrated breath, hopping across the hall and effectively falling against Killian’s front door. She resists the very legitimate urge to knock with her head. 

And it doesn’t matter anyway. 

The door swings open, another pair of gym shorts that make Emma’s brain short-circuit just a bit and Killian’s hair is damp. “Were you in the shower?” “No,” he shakes his head. 

Oh. Oh. So, she’ll probably just die in this hallway then. That will inevitably be preferable to the realization that he works out, and she kind of knew that already because there’s absolutely no way people just have biceps like that, but she also cannot deal with even the idea of him doing something as absurd as burpees in his apartment. Not when the walls were already doing that thing before. “Should you be in the shower?”

Leaning against the door frame feels like cheating. On his part. Crossing his feet at the ankles is even worse. “Are you suggesting I should?” Killian drawls, and Emma’s come to realize he’s got this habit of only lifting the left side of his mouth when he’s trying to tease her. It’s very effective. 

“Maybe before we go out.” “You want to go out? Where, exactly?” “I don’t know,” Emma admits, “anywhere. Somewhere. That is not my kitchen, or like—the mailboxes downstairs.” “I’ve gotten your mail.”

That’s true. He figured out which key it was on his own too, which shouldn’t have any lasting effect on Emma’s pulse at all. “Whatever,” she grumbles, “that’s not the point.” “What is, then?” “I want fresh air and—” “—Where are your crutches?” “In my apartment.” “Did you hop over here?” 

Nodding, she’s not entirely prepared for the force of his laugh or the hand that lands on her hip as easily as if there are magnets there. “You’re going to have the most impressive calf muscles of any bail bonds person in the greater Tri-State area.” “Flatter me some more when we’re outside, please.” “I should probably shower first.” Emma hums, biting her tongue until she can taste blood because suggesting anything involving Killian and water and a distinct lack of clothing is only going to get her another smirk she cannot possibly be expected to deal with. He smirks all the same. So, the world hates her apparently. Waving an arm behind him, Killian ushers Emma into the apartment like it’s not the first time she’s hopping inside. “Make yourself at home,” he says, already halfway down a hallway that must lead to the bathroom because that’s what her hallway does and the layout is almost identical. “There’s coffee too.” “Do you drink coffee while you work out?” His eyes goddamn sparkle. “Sit down, Swan. Then we’ll figure out where else you can hop.”

He’s gone before she can even consider an appropriately sarcastic response, leaving her balanced between his living room and kitchen and there are very soft-looking blankets draped over the back of his couch. Music plays softly from a nearby speaker, not quite festive, because it’s 90s rap and Emma can’t decide which part of this is the most endearing. 

Probably the frames. 

Lining nearly every flat surface of the multiple bookcases he has, smiling faces gaze back at Emma from what looks like a dozen different places, and several faces repeat themselves. A woman with soft brown hair and a smile that makes it clear how nice she inevitably is, her shoulders are often covered by another man’s arm and occasionally that man’s in uniform. 

She has to hop to the next frame, another uniform, although it has more medals, and this man’s eyes are familiar. Not blue, but the glint in them is unmistakable. Especially when he’s standing next to Killian. 

Their smiles make something ache in the very center of Emma, the kind of deja vu she doesn’t want to understand. The man’s only in a few of the pictures. He looks happy in all of them. 

Overjoyed, occasionally. 

The water in the bathroom turns off. 

And Emma only just manages to throw herself into the corner of the couch before Killian’s back in the living room, a towel pressed to even more damp hair. “You ok?” he asks, a very symmetrical question she can’t answer. 

With the wad of emotion currently taking root in the middle of her throat. 

Piecing things together is one of her better skills, after all. 

“Fine, fine,” she stammers, “can we go?” “Have you decided where you’re going to hobble?” “Ah, that’s mean.” “Am I going to have to carry you down the stairs?” “Don’t be a dick.” He smirks. The bastard. And doesn’t really carry her down the stairs, per se — even if there’s more leaning involved than Emma would like, but that also means she gets to take full advantage of just how warm he is, and she’s starting to wonder if Killian retains heat solely for her benefit. It’s a very dangerous thought. 

This can’t last forever. Not with modern medicine the way it is, and she’s been taking the medicine and the swelling has gone way down and—

Emma gasps when she puts more weight on her ankle than she’s entirely prepared for. Spinning on the spot, Killian’s center of gravity must be better than hers and that probably has something to do with sea legs, and waves, and his hands are back on her hips. 

She’d very much like them to stay there. 

First kisses aren’t supposed to happen in the middle of the sidewalk. 

Outside a Duane Reade.  

If she doesn’t kiss him soon, she might scream. 

“C’mon,” Killian says, tilting his head towards the automatic doors and this wasn’t quite what Emma had planned. She had no plan, but it did not involve Duane Reade carpet or the holiday aisle, and Killian’s hands don’t move. They direct her. Towards that aisle, and the gingerbread houses on its shelves and he grabs one that has deluxe in the name. 

“Makes it fancier,” he explains, presumably when he notices the overall height of Emma’s eyebrows. She doesn’t argue. Inflating his ego anymore isn’t part of her unplanned plan, either. 

And there’s not really much of a discussion, but they somehow end up back at his apartment, pieces of gingerbread strewn across his kitchen counter while he changes the music, and—

Emma tosses a sugar plum in the air. So she can catch it with her mouth. “Color me impressed,” Killian says, and it’s her imagination. There’s no allusion. Nothing passably secret or unspoken in those words, and Emma refuses to let herself consider the possibility. Not with Bing Crosby in the background. 

He was kind of a jerk in real life. 

“Although,” he adds, “you’re using up all our decoration.” “They give you so many sugar plums! Who would need this many?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread.” “I’m sorry, what?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread,” Killian repeats, “who live in this deluxe, undeniably fancy gingerbread house.”

“Why would their last name be Gingerbread when that’s what their house is called? It’s like someone being named—” “—Wood?”

Emma sneers. “I’ll throw sugar plums at your face.” “Then we’ll really run out, and the peppermint swirls aren’t as decorative.” “Because peppermint is the inferior Christmas flavor,” Emma announces. “Tastes like you’re eating toothpaste, also they don’t make houses out of wood anymore. Learn about the industrial revolution, please.” He’s already started positioning gingerbread walls. “Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread met by happenstance. Had passed each other in the Sugar Forest before, but—” “—These are absolutely horrendous names.” “You’re ruining the flow of the story, love.” Emma mimes zipping her mouth shut. “Anyway, they’d noticed each other before, but hadn’t ever spoken, until fate and festivity intervened, and they realized they had more in common than they expected and got along very well, and eventually they got married and lived happily ever after.” “Just like that?”

Her voice likely does not crack the way she imagines it does. That would be impossible. It’s because of the sugar plum, and all that extra sugar. Caking the inside of Emma’s throat, or something and that’s a kind of disgusting idea, but Killian’s staring at her with enough intensity that her cheeks are starting to heat on their own and it’s a crime she hasn’t gotten her fingers in his hair yet. 

“Just like that,” Killian echoes. 

He’s moving. Emma’s positive he’s moving. Maybe that’s her. Or the entire goddamn Universe. Flying off kilter and possibly right into the sun and it’s so stupid when she opens her mouth. 

“How’d they get engaged?” The left side of his mouth tugs up. “They went ice skating.” “Did that not dissolve their legs?” “It was magic ice.” “Oh, right, right, yeah of course.” Definitely getting closer. “And the future Mrs. Gingerbread had fallen over. Wasn’t used to the skates, which Mr. Gingerbread found oddly enchanting, and while she was sitting there on the ice, cursing every one of Santa’s elves, he bent down and said, ‘This is probably a bad time, but marry me?’”

“What’d she say?” “She swatted at the sugar plums on his chest, but she was also swooning a bit and—” “—Losing frosting from sitting on the ice?” “That’s not how frosting works at all.” “They don’t give you much here,” Emma says, not a perfect change of course, but she wasn’t the sailor in this relationship and she's so stupid it's painful. “Can you make more?” Killian nods. It makes his hair move. And Emma’s pulse trip over itself. “Absolutely.” They make several batches of frosting, because deluxe gingerbread houses are apparently thicker than usual and require more, and at least half of it gets wasted when Emma keeps eating it. And swiping some across the bridge of Killian’s nose. 

Neither one of them mention Mr. or Mrs. Gingerbread again. 

Their house turns out very nice, though.

She blames the medication. 

For telling him about the one high school she went to in Minnesota where they decorated their lockers for spirit week, and how the foster house she’d been living in gave her exactly one roll of dollar store wrapping paper and a box of ancient tinsel, and Killian barely flinches at the words foster home in that particular order. 

He’s a rapt audience, like this is fascinating information, and not decidedly Scrooge-like, and “we didn’t have that at my high school,” he tells her. Which just about seals the deal, as it were. 

Emma nearly kills herself more than once, burrowing through her closet and calling in favors from Ruby who only furrows her brows slightly when she shows up on a Thursday morning with a bag of Christmas decorations that—

“What are we doing, exactly?” “Decorating,” Emma says, and to her credit Ruby doesn’t object. Or kick on Killian’s door. Which is in fact, what they’re decorating. Lining the frame with garland, and lights that require an extension cord and are probably breaking their lease somehow, but he doesn’t wake up and no one tells them to stop, and the whole thing turns out pretty fantastic. If Emma does say so herself. 

They opt not to hang ornaments off the door. For fear that they’ll shatter. But there are window clings taped to the imitation wood now, in addition to the garland, and Emma can’t imagine where Ruby found tinsel, but it’s appropriately festive and she uses her crutch to knock. 

Killian only needs five seconds to answer. 

Blinking at the scene in front of him — and an almost overjoyed-looking Ruby, who still mercifully hasn’t expressed the opinions Emma can practically hear vibrating around her skull, but then Killian’s turning and exhaling softly and the press of his lips to Emma’s cheek is jarring and sudden and absolutely perfect. 

“You’re blushing,” Ruby drawls, soft enough that it can’t be heard over Killian’s praise of what may be lower Manhattan’s most obnoxiously decorated door. 

Emma’s crutch collides with her shin. 

“Thank you, love,” Killian says. Sincerity colors every letter, that particular shade of blue like the sky and the ocean and it’s not exactly a holiday color, but it might be Emma’s favorite color now and her mouth is very dry. 

“That should be the other way around,” she objects, “for everything you’ve done and—” “I wanted to.” Ruby’s still standing there. With that specific wolf-like smile on her face. “Well,” she proclaims, “I’m going to go, eventually we’ll get officially introduced across-the-hall guy who’s very cute and—” The tips of Killian’s ears go red. More festive. “Take care of Emma on Christmas, will you?”

She leaves almost as soon as the question’s out of her mouth, Killian staring expectantly at Emma because she hadn’t admitted to the inevitable singularity of her Christmas in three days, but she just kind of figured he’d have other things to do and she didn’t want to be depressing. 

They’d progressed past depressing by now. 

And even the thought of going back to Storybrooke made her ankle ache. 

Because well...what if he didn’t have actually anything else to do? What if he was home alone too? What if she left and there wasn’t anyone here and—no, Emma’s not doing that. She hasn't asked. She’s willing to risk the answer. 

Or admit it to anything. At least not completely. 

“You’re not going home for Christmas?” Killian asks lightly, but Emma can hear the rest. She shakes her head. “Ruby wants me to, and I’m friends with her friends, but—” Her shoulders don’t move very easily on that shrug. “My ankles still kind of messed up, and they’ve got families and traditions and it always feels like I’m—” “—Overstepping?” “Something like that, yeah.” “You want to order Chinese food on Christmas Eve or Thai?” “Both?” Killian beams. Emma’s cheek is on fire, she’s positive. “Deal.”

“Lift with your legs!” “Would you like to come down here and help?” “Not really, no,” Emma laughs, leaning over the railing at the top of the second-floor landing, and the Christmas tree guy at the end of the block had been understandably concerned that they weren’t going to get the tree back to their apartment in one piece. 

Neither one of them mentioned that they live in different apartments. And aren’t a couple. Or dating. Whatever, Emma’s too worried about Killian straining something to care about other adjectives. 

“Invalid,” he calls back. Her smile’s going to stretch her face muscles. 

“Put those arm muscles to good use!” “Are you ogling me, Swan?” “You show them off.” “Little of column A, little of column B.”

She clicks her tongue, the smile obvious in his voice even when there’s a tree blocking his face and they put the tree in her apartment. After getting a blanket out of Killian’s closet to put underneath it, and the guy had taken pity on them earlier, adding in the star as part of the tree cost because it was Christmas Eve and no one else was buying trees and Emma honestly does not mean to fall asleep with her head on Killian’s shoulder. 

Waking with a start, Emma has to blink. More than once. To make sure she’s not still dreaming, but if she were there’d still be a shoulder under her cheek and preferably an arm around her waist, or maybe less clothing, and none of that is happening, so this has to be real. 

“Are you ok? 

Her voice doesn’t entirely sound like hers — still tinged with sleep and Emma’s only marginally worried there’s bits of tinsel in her hair, because obviously she’d had an extra box of tinsel from the door decorating and they’d thrown that, quite literally, at the tree. The one that almost appears to be shimmering in the bit of moonlight creeping through her curtains, Killian staring out the window at the—

“Is it thundering out?”

He nods without glancing at her. “Happens sometimes. Not often in the winter, but—” Another clap echoes around them, and that must have been what woke Emma up. Not the lack of shoulder, or her recently-acquired ability to read the exact angle of Killian’s shoulders and what that means and he flinches. 

“Hey,” Emma says, almost able to walk towards him without wincing, “what’s going on?”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” “That’s not a big deal, what’s happening with your shoulders?”

Turning slower than any human should be able to, Killian levels Emma with an incredulous stare. She juts her chin out. In something akin to almost romantic defiance. “Staring at my arms, now my shoulders. You’ll give a man a complex.” “Stop being an idiot, then.” “Huh.” Lightning joins the fray, snow swirling just outside that window and Emma’s not sure she’s ever been so grateful to be inside. Warm and maybe not entirely content, at least not yet, but definitely safe and even more happy, all of which seems as good a reason as any for everything that happens next. 

“What happened to your brother?” Killian’s eyes widen, surprise mixing with something that’s almost dangerously close to anger. Only to disappear just as quickly, morphing into what Emma’s sleep-addled brain can only describe as disappointment. “He’s dead.”

“And?” “That’s usually the end of things.”

“Nuh uh,” Emma objects, which isn’t the worst thing she’s done, but Killian flinches again when she rests a hand on his tension-filled shoulder. “It’s depressing.” “Why’d you wake up?” He tells her. Only after forcing her back onto the couch, because “your ankle’s going to start swelling up again, Swan,” but then the story is as depressing as advertised, with storms and ships and the dead brother who has since achieved hero status in Killian’s brain. And the tears clouding his eyes don’t ever actually fall—which is probably for the best, because Emma isn’t convinced she’d be able to do anything except kiss them away, but he doesn’t look away from her either, and at some point her fingers start tracing over the blunt edge of his left arm. 

He doesn’t move. 

Doesn’t tell her to stop, or pull away. Just lets her trace over scars that are equal parts metaphorical and literal, and that’s enough. To help ease the cracks in her, swallowing once and meeting his depressing with equally atrocious, and to Killian’s credit there’s no interruption. 

Not through foster home explanations, or the whole thing with Neal, meeting Mary Margaret and Ruby, and how it’s never felt like that life could be totally Emma’s, even when she wants it so much she’s certain it’ll explode out of her. 

Minutes turn into hours and evolve into the middle of the night, and the snow doesn’t stop and the thunder doesn’t stop and there’s enough light lingering around them that Emma’s able to notice the flickers of blue in Killian’s eyes and the quirk of his lips and—

It was about time, honestly. 

Her fingers curl into his t-shirt, all but yanking him closer because not kissing him is the dumbest thing she could possibly do right now. And she’s not dumb. So, that’s her only option, really. 

And it takes him a second to respond. 

Like he hasn’t also been counting down to this one, exact moment. It’s that moment that almost gives Emma pause, ancient worries rising up in the back of her throat and threatening to spill out her mouth, but then Killian’s mouth is moving and there’s more tongue than she’s entirely prepared for and fingers pushed into her hair, and she genuinely has no idea how she ends up in his lap. 

Not that she’s complaining. 

Makes it easier to find a rhythm, anyway. Rocking against each other with a sudden burst of friction that’s somehow not nearly enough, roaming hands and lips that trail across the side of Emma’s neck and underneath her chin, and it takes all her willpower not to groan too loudly when Killian laughs. 

As soon as he notices the goosebumps on her skin. 

“A complex,” he mutters, but it sounds like a compliment and something close to a promise and Emma’s rolling her hips before she can think of all the reasons she shouldn’t. 

The groan she gets sends her flying. Metaphorically, literally. Some other adverb that doesn’t matter when there’s an arm around her waist and her legs wrap around Killian on instinct. 

They don’t stumble once — although Emma’s feet never touch the ground, so she’s not sure she should be part of the equation, and her laugh bubbles out of her as soon as her back bounces against her bed. 

Strictly speaking, the rest is a bit of a blur. Clothes are thrown with abandon, tossed this way and that, and Emma’s teeth find her lower lip when Killian pulls his shirt off, but then his eyes noticeably widen as soon as her leggings are gone and that’s a rather large boon to her confidence. And his hair is somehow softer than she expected it to be. 

They’re also very good at kissing. 

She considers both things very important. 

And Emma’s got no idea what time it is by the time she’s flopped back to her side of the bed, only that there was no discussion about sides and that leaves her feeling warmer and safer and—

“Don’t leave, ok?” Killian flips his head. To smile at her. Like he could—no, not yet. They’ll get to that eventually, maybe. “I don’t really want to.” “Good, thunder kind of freaks me out anyway.” Sheets twist underneath them when he inches closer, and for half a second Emma wonders if he’s going to kiss her again, eyes already fluttering in anticipation. He does, just not where she expects. Not her lips. Everywhere else. The bridge of her nose, either one of her cheekbones and the edges of her eyes, across her brows and the tiny wrinkles in her forehead, each one feeling as if it stamps something onto her soul and her heart and she’s such a goddamn sap at whatever time it might be.

“I like you,” he whispers. “Yeah?” “Yeah. “Good.”

Snow covers the street when Emma blinks awake on Christmas morning, the scene looking like some idyllic version of a city that only a few weeks earlier left her with an abnormally large ankle. Now she can’t feel much except how much she loves this place, and this slightly drafty apartment and—

The noticeably empty right side of her bed. 

Huh. 

Flopping onto her back, Emma tries very hard not to let her mind wander, but her mind is already in the hallway and there’s talking in the hallway. The loud kind, not totally annoyed, but sounding genuinely confused and that cannot be the first time Killian has grumbled “this is not a big deal” in that exact tone.

Not thinking is really Emma’s greatest talent. 

She doesn’t bother putting on shoes before she opens her front door, hair still a tangled mess and there may very well be hickeys on her neck if the look on the face of the guy standing outside Killian’s apartment is any indication. 

“Oh,” the woman breathes, and there are apparently two people in the hallway. Emma’s admittedly staring pretty intently at Killian. 

Who is not wearing anything on his feet either, and the whole thing is symmetrical and confusing and it takes her way too long to recognize the hallway people. From the frames. Ones that also included uniforms and wide smiles and the guy sticks his hand out like this isn’t the weirdest thing in the history of New York City. 

“Will Scarlet,” he says, “and this is my fiancée, Belle. You must be the ankle girl.” Killian pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“He did tell us your name,” Belle adds, and Emma’s breathing very loudly. Out of her mouth. Which is hanging open. 

She can’t believe she’s not wearing socks. 

“Were you stalking me?” she asks Killian, who immediately flushes and grits his teeth and it would be very easy to fall in love with him. Potential felonies not withstanding. 

“No, no, no, that’s not what’s happening here.” “And what is happening?” “We’re inviting you both to Christmas,” Belle explains, “because Killian said he couldn’t come if you were here and—” “—You’re certainly here, aren’t you?” Will adds. Killian punches his arm. 

Emma’s frozen. Stuck, and still breathing abnormally, eyes like pinballs as they try to figure out who exactly she should be glaring at, but none of the emotions currently churning in between her ribs resemble anger. Confusion, definitely. Possible attraction to the exact way Killian squeezes one of his eyes shut. But nothing even in the realm of frustration. 

Huh, again. 

“Explain what’s going on,” she demands. Both Belle and Killian’s arms move when Will opens his mouth, a soft grunt of pain that should not be as gratifying to hear from a stranger. 

“Can you walk?” Killian asks. 

“Are you kidding me?” “No, we kind of forgot about the medicine last night, so—” Hands flying to her mouth, Belle barely manages to contain her response, and Will doesn’t seem to bother, noise bouncing off the hallway and its ugly carpet and Killian’s hand finds the small of Emma’s back when they move. Away from his door and her door and he hisses in a breath through his teeth. “There’s no stalking involved, I swear.” “What is it, then?” “Pining, maybe?” “Pining?” Emma echoes, and the noise Will makes is way closer to a guffaw now. 

Killian grimaces. “Not—I mean, not in a totally creepy way. I just...I wasn’t kidding about Ruby being very loud when she kicks on your door. So I’d seen you, and heard like...of you and—” Flustered is admittedly a good look on him. They all are, but Emma hasn’t had any coffee yet and there’s a peanut gallery watching this entire conversation, which is more accidental symmetry and Killian visibly exhales when her hand finds his chest. Still questionably solid. “Anyway, uh—you know how you’re aware of people and think they’re good looking?” “You think I’m good looking?” “Did I not make that obvious enough yet? That’s disappointing.” It’s her turn to blush apparently, ducking her gaze to stare at her bare feet so she doesn’t do something ridiculous like jump him. Emma’s ankle isn’t capable of doing that yet. “And then I heard you cursing Poseidon or whatever Gods you were beseeching that night—” “Ok, Poseidon was not involved,” Emma argues. 

Killian’s thumb taps the side of her jaw. She doesn’t snap her teeth. Points. Christmas points, even. “So I opened the door, and found you there. Not being attacked, like I was legitimately worried about, and it all just—” “—Happened?” “Kind of. You kept inviting me inside.” “Well as far as I know you’re not a vampire, so that wasn’t a requirement to come inside, but—” “—I wasn’t just going to barrel into your apartment, Swan.” “No, no, I know,” she promises, waving her hands because she’s suddenly kind of flustered and she never responded last night and she’d like to respond with some emotions, but that’s never really been her thing, so all Emma can do is mumble, “most people I know are jerks, not including Ruby or Mary Margaret, who you don’t know, but—” Killian catches both her wrists in one hand. It’s patently absurd. “That’s not the point.” “What’s the point?” “You’re not.” “A jerk?” “No,” Emma says, trying very hard to smile without crying and it doesn’t really work. Tears land on her cheeks, throat apparently collapsing, and only one of those things seems like the end of the world. Until there are lips on her cheek again, following a pattern that can’t possibly be the one he traced last night. 

Or this morning, she supposes. 

That’s not the point, either. 

“Why?” “Why?” Killian repeats softly. “Because you’re very easy to like.” “That’s not true, at all. I’m—prickly, and angry and I hate Bill de Blasio.” “Everyone does, that doesn’t make you special.”

Exhaling the way she does only ensures she sags against Killian’s chest, and he doesn’t mind all that much. If the way he smirks at her is any indication. “I didn’t want to go to Mary Margaret and David’s for a gazillion reasons, but it wasn’t just my ankle and I—” Her fingers tighten in his shirt. That helps, honestly. Makes her a bit braver and bit surer and kissing him once is more than enough to make Emma’s lungs function normally. “I like you too,” she says, loud enough that she kind of sounds like she’s announcing it and she supposes she almost is. “With or without all the Christmas stuff, but the Christmas stuff was really fun.” “That’s the first time I’ve cared about Christmas in a very long time.”

“Rude,” Will shouts, but Killian’s eyes don’t leave Emma and at some point these imaginary Christmas points became very important to her internal dialogue. He’s got, like, forty billion now.

At least. 

“I would have wallowed,” Emma admits, “sat on the couch and hated on everything festive, but...well, I kept calling you good looking in my head.” “When? Before the cursing?” “Yeah, but especially during the cursing and like...now. Were you going to blow off your friends to spend Christmas Day with me?” “Yes,” he says, easy as anything and that’s absolutely, one-hundred percent a sign. One Emma is very willing to read. For as long as she possibly can. “Because he’s only a jerk to us,” Will yells. “You can come too, Emma. We weren’t going to leave you here by your lonesome!” “Except we wouldn’t call it that,” Belle adds, “because this isn’t a Dickenson’ian novel.” “She’s a librarian,” Killian explains when Emma glances questioningly at him, and his fingers are very close to the hem of her shirt. 

“Oh yeah, yeah, that makes sense. I should probably shower before we go though.” Eyebrows jumping and smirk settling onto the mouth Emma is totally staring at makes it all but impossible to do anything except ignore the slight twinge in her ankle when she pushes up on her toes and kisses the ever-living daylights out of the good looking guy she hopes is her boyfriend now. They’ll get to that, eventually. 

“What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?” she asks, not bothering to move away from him even as Will and Belle jeer from the other end of the hall. 

“Whatever you want, Swan,” Killian says. They probably lose some Christmas-type points when he flips off his friends. 

They don’t go out for New Year’s Eve. 

It’s snowing again, and while Emma's ankle is the right color, it’s easier to claim sitting on the couch is a relationship-tradition when they’re both very eager to use that particular qualifier, and it’s more fun to make out that way. They'll go ice skating eventually.

[sapphicscholar]

Adored your post w/head scratching as a fight ender. Could you do a short with this idea for one of your pairings/groupings? Maybe Supercorp (thought I'm not sure what they'd fight about?) Maybe Kara tells Alex it works and she tries it with Director Sanvers on one of her gfs is just like o_O wat are you doing?

Hi, dear, I posted your chapter on AO3 here!

[Refers to this post: https://sapphicscholarwrites.tumblr.com/post/165150100055/catanacomics-times-i-want-you-to-scratch-my]

A/N: Because last time T on AO3 pointed out that I should let my girlfriend’s prompts skip the line (and she admitted that this anonymous prompt was actually hers submitted while I was down in the gym)…you get this fluffy fic faster than usual bc apparently I’m whipped (and may or may not have been promised head scratches in return for a fast turnaround)

So…the promised smutty chapter is coming in just a day or two, but that one required rewatching JDT’s “Pony” dance a few times…for research, obviously for research (very professional and such)

Chapter Text

“Your feet are so cold,” Kara huffed as Alex wriggled her toes under Kara’s legs. The cold didn’t affect her, but she wouldn’t be a good little sister if she didn’t complain.

“Shh, you’re a human furnace. Just warm them up for one minute?”

“Ugh, fine,” Kara relented, stealing back the carton of ice cream from Alex in retaliation. Now that they were caught up on Homeland she could devote all of her attention to finding the brownie bites still left in the carton. “So how are the girlfriends?” she asked between mouthfuls of chewy brownie.

“Good, good. All the performance evaluations at the DEO are due next week, so Lucy’s been a little…snippy recently. But it’s fine; we know it’ll be over soon enough.”

“Oh gosh, you know what is, like, a guaranteed way to end fights with your girlfriend?”

“Wait, are you admitting that you and Lena fight?” Alex gasped. Kara always gave her such shit for how much she and Maggie and Lucy bickered. It was, for the most part, fairly good-natured, their own way of showing each other that they cared without being overly sentimental about it. But next to Kara and Lena, who seemed to play the part of the perfect, well-mannered couple…well, the contrast became a bit obvious.

“I wouldn’t call it fighting…”

“But you just did.”

“Hmm, I’m choosing to remove myself from this narrative.”

Rolling her eyes, Alex figured she might as well forge ahead: “Did you fight about kale? Did you tell her you got her a green juice and then hand her a mint chocolate chip ice cream shake again?”

“That was one time!” Kara huffed. “How was I supposed to know someone would be excited about drinking something made of kale and broccoli and cucumbers?” She shuddered at the memory of being forced to try one. Lena might have been able to get her to enjoy sweet potato fries, but the rest was a step too far.

“Yes, yes, so are you going to tell me about this miracle cure for fighting or will I only learn after three easy payments of $29.99?”

“You’re so funny,” Kara deadpanned. “But since you’re my sister…I guess I can tell you even though you’re rude.”

“You love me.”

“Despite the rudeness.”

“Definitely because of it.”

“This is why you bicker so much with your girlfriends.”

“Eh,” Alex shrugged. “We work.”

“Yes, yes, you’re all very cute together, even with the sarcastic comments and short jokes.”

“Thank you. Now tell me your magic trick.”

“Head scratches.”

“Excuse me? They’re not dogs.”

“I’m not suggesting you scratch their ears, Alex,” Kara huffed. “C’mon, remember when I was first getting used to being close to people and you would tickle my back?”

“Yeah, I’m not saying it’s not nice! I’m just saying, it’s something you do when you’re already all in a good mood together, like if you’re cuddling to watch a movie or go to bed or something.” Alex shook her head at just how far she’d come. If someone asked her a year or two ago where her life might be today, her answer would probably have involved a lot about the DEO, a few references to time spent with Kara, maybe some of Kara’s friends too. But to think that she’d have a girlfriend? That she’d have two girlfriends? That she would have learned to not simply tolerate intimacy but to crave it, even in the most banal of circumstances—a simple touch of hands while walking down the street, an arm looped around her waist while she poured her coffee, two quick kisses before they all headed out each morning for dangerous jobs—well, that would have been simply unthinkable.

“No, I get it, but trust me, it works! It was like a pause button or something. We were sitting next to each other, and she was a bit annoyed because I maybe…well, it doesn’t matter.”

“What’d you do?” Alex asked, narrowing her eyes as she tried to figure out exactly which of Kara’s guilty looks was playing about her face today. It didn’t look like the “I forgot my strength and broke something expensive look,” especially since Lena was rarely mad about things that were replaceable. It was sort of close to her “I ate the last of something delicious and feel bad because someone was mad but not bad enough to regret my choices” look, but something was…off about it.

“Um, I ripped her bra in half…for the third day in a row.”

“Ah,” Alex sighed, rolling her eyes and feeling rather lucky that the only time she’d had to repair any clothing after sex was once when Maggie had overenthusiastically ripped at a silk blouse, popping off half the buttons. “So she was mad but not that mad.”

“Oh…no, she was pretty mad. Did you know she only wears La Perla? And holy cow, Alex, have you seen how much they charge for a pair of underwear? It’s like…like, they better be made of gold or something! Or bulletproof. Or really comfortable…”

“Okay, okay, so moderately mad,” Alex conceded.

“Anyway, we were sitting next to each other on the couch, and she was venting, and I just leaned over and started running my fingers through her hair because I know she likes it. And suddenly…poof, the conversation just stopped! She sort of closed her eyes and relaxed and it was like she couldn’t even remember why she was mad.”

“And you don’t think that’s…bad for your relationship do you?”

“No, I mean, it’s not like with Mon-El, if that’s what you’re asking. Because I still remember why she was mad, and I know to be better going forward. But I didn’t have to hear the lecture, and I made her happy, so win-win!”

“Huh…I don’t know.”

“Trust me!”

—

And Alex figured it wouldn’t hurt to try Kara’s advice. After all, this was hardly a fight worth having. Lucy was just in a bad mood because several departments were late about turning in their performance reviews, so she’d been stuck at the office far too long after skipping her lunch break for a meeting, and she’d taken it out on her girlfriends, snapping at them for being distracting when she needed to work from home because there “aren’t enough hours in the day, and you two don’t have to be so loud when you make out!”

So Alex slipped in behind Lucy at her desk and apologized in a soft whisper, careful not to disturb her anymore. But while Lucy continued ranting about incompetence and no one letting her get any work done in the office or at home, Alex leaned forward and ran her fingers through Lucy’s hair, scratching lightly the way she knew Lucy liked when she curled up on the couch, her head in Alex’s lap and her hands resting on Maggie’s thighs.

“What the fuck?” Lucy asked, admittedly getting sufficiently distracted to stop muttering about how loud her girlfriends were.

“Um…is this not helping?”

“Helping what? You’re just messing up my hair.”

“Oh, I, uh, I thought it would help you relax…”

“Why would that be?”

“Ooh do mine instead!” Maggie yelled from across the apartment, bouncing slightly on their bed as she grinned at Alex. “If she doesn’t appreciate it, she shouldn’t get to enjoy your magic hands.”

“I didn’t say I don’t enjoy Alex’s hands,” Lucy huffed, “but they were a surprise.”

“Yeah, right, sorry,” Alex mumbled, quickly extracting her hands and going back over to the bedroom where Maggie had now sprawled across the bed face-down, her shirt hiked up so that Alex could tickle her back. “One sec, okay?” Alex whispered to Maggie, pulling out her phone and sending a quick text to Kara: “Your trick does NOT work!”

She was too frustrated to reply when Kara sent back: “Works like a charm whenever Lena is mad. I’m sticking by it. Maybe you did it wrong?”

—

The following Sunday, after the performance reviews had finally all been submitted and Lucy had gotten to sleep in late two days in a row, things felt like they were finally back to normal—at least close enough to normal that Alex was looking forward to having Kara and Lena over for brunch, rather than dreading how much time Lucy would lose with it.

But, of course, she should have suspected that things were going too well. And she absolutely should have recognized the mischievous glint in Lena’s eyes when she turned to look at the Danvers sisters sitting side-by-side on one side of the table. “So,” she began, a smirk playing about her lips, “I hear you two have some trick for soothing your girlfriends. Care to share with the class?”

“What’s this, Danvers?” Maggie asked, not even bothering to hide her grin.

“I don’t have any tricks,” Alex huffed. “Kara does.”

“Way to throw me under the bus!” Kara pouted.

“It’d hurt the bus more than it’d hurt you,” Alex countered.

“So what is it the great Kara Danvers does to put Lena in a good mood?” Maggie asked, looking at the blushing blonde.

“I mean, I think we all know the answer to that one…” Lucy trailed off, figuring she would stay on her best manners and not point out the obvious today.

“It’s not that! No, I just…first of all, how do you know?” Kara asked, turning to look at Lena.

“You literally texted Alex about a magic trick that you do whenever I’m angry.”

“Oh.” Kara fidgeted, playing with her glasses and trying to look innocent. “It’s nothing really…it’s just, you know, when you’re mad, sometimes it helps if I scratch your head.”

“Oh my god, is that what you were doing?” Lucy asked with a laugh, thinking back to how startled Alex had been when she called her out on it.

“Maybe…”

“Ooh, try it on me next!” Maggie called out, raising her hand up and volunteering.

“You’re not mad?” Alex checked. She’d worried a bit that it might sound deceitful. “Any of you?” She turned to look at Lena.

“No,” Lena assured her. “It’s part of being in a relationship. You figure out the little, easy ways to put your partner in a better mood, and they end up being the easiest ways to end the fights that don’t matter as much.”

“Wait…what do you do for me?” Kara asked suddenly looking curious.

Lena just laughed and shook her head. “A good magician never reveals her tricks.”

While they were cleaning up, though, Maggie sidled up to Lena at the sink. “It’s food, right?”

“Duh.”