#vague approximation of somewhere comfy fitting both of them

[lavenoon]

"Where's your shut-up switch? I swear I'll find it" "I know one that works on both of us"

Someone made a bird joke too many <3

[welllpthisishappening]

Once Again as in Olden Days

She’s absolutely freezing cold. 

It’s a dumb metaphor, one that only serves to make Emma even more pissed off than she already is. Because two hours ago it was summer. But a few more hours before that, she was also locked in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. And now she’s outside. With her kid. And a pirate that isn’t hers, explicitly, but keeps staring at her like he wouldn’t mind if he was. 

So maybe it’s not the worst. Maybe she’ll be able to get warm eventually. 

-----

Rating: A whole bunch of teen-type canon divergence.  Word Count: 6.4 K to fit in all the ridiculous Meet Me in St. Louis references AN: Back at it again with the Festive Fic Prompt A Thon and two anon prompts today: "you can put your cold feet on me." & "i don't wanna get up-- you're comfy." I started writing this as Lieutenant Duckling the other day, got a thousand words in, was like nah, then came back today and wrote nearly six and a half thousand words of 4x22 canon divergence with a frustrated Emma, enthusiastic Henry and deckhand!Hook who just wants to help. And listen to badly summarized movies. Anyway, they kiss. 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

-----

She can’t stop shivering. 

Every inhale comes with an almost automatic exhale that seems to wobble its way out of Emma, uneven and shaky and neither of those are good adjectives, but none of this has been good and the storm had come out of nowhere. 

She assumes it’s a last-ditch effort to steer them off course, and while he might not be exactly the same man, Killian Jones is still exceptionally good in a crisis. And on his ship. 

She hasn’t told him that the Jolly is his ship yet. 

So, really, she might be the world’s biggest coward. 

Mostly Emma is pissed off. 

Magic storms. In the middle of summer. 

Of course. 

Fuck this reality, honestly. 

She lets out another burst of air, and it’s cold enough now that she can see it linger in the space in front of her. Every inch of Emma feels frozen—muscles tense and skin raw from the shackles she is positive she can still feel and she’s starting to think in metaphors now, anger curling at the base of her spine and threatening to burst out the tips of her fingers, but that may also just be her magic and—

“Mom?” Henry mutters, snow clinging to the edge of his hair. She jumps approximately forty-seven feet in the air. 

It is admittedly a rough estimate. 

Henry’s teeth find his lower lip, far too familiar to be anything except vaguely jarring. Emma huffs, and she’s not sure where her lungs continue to find enough oxygen to keep doing this, pressing the heel of her hand into her cheek, like that will help ground her and her vaguely vertical emotions. 

“Yeah, kid?” He jerks his head behind him, lights Emma hadn’t noticed before glimmering in the not-so-far distance, and maybe this will be ok. At least passably acceptable. Possibly warm. God, she wants to get warm again. 

That’s another metaphor. 

Killian hasn’t said a single word since they anchored the Jolly. Emma hopes that isn’t because she’d teleported them off the Jolly. She was actually surprised she’d been able to do it, but Regina had always told her magic was about emotion and she’s been feeling nothing except emotion, every single thing she hasn’t said yet and wants to say and is hopeful she’ll eventually be courageous enough to actually say. 

She’s started biting her lip at some point too. 

“We could get inside,” Henry suggests, already backpedaling and Emma knows there’s not really another option. The ends of her gown are drenched. She doesn’t want Henry to be out in this snow much longer. 

She’s going to strangle Issac as soon as she sees him. 

And then Rumplestilskin. 

And then Isaac again, for good measure. 

“Maybe get some food,” Henry continues. “That’s how it always works in the stories, right? Roadside taverns and mead and—’ “—You are not getting mead,” Emma cuts in. 

Henry makes a distinctly teenage noise in the back of his throat, a bit of normal that Emma is going to think about for at least the next forty-five minutes if only because she can practically hear the nervous energy rolling off Killian. She wishes he would talk. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he does talk. 

“Alright,” Emma says, inhaling sharply. She’s desperately got to learn how to breathe. And control her magic. 

Killian flinches slightly. 

Henry widens his eyes. “Unless you guys want to break into some barn somewhere. Hay is warm and it’s not like we have any gold, do they use gold in the fake Enchanted Forest?” “No idea,” Emma shrugs. “I could probably just magic it, though. I think that’s possible and—” “—I have gold.”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance, far more fabric around her ankles than she’s used to. Killian’s staring at his shoes by the time she straightens out her knees, lips tugged tightly behind his teeth and impossibly straight shoulders, more nerves and anxiety wafting off him. 

Emma resists the urge to reach her hand forward. 

They’ve got to get out of here. 

She needs to magic herself some new clothes too. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, but that only gets him to furrow his brows, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

Her magic flares, racing up her spine and taking root in the back of her brain and the center of her soul, which also seems impossibly melodramatic. Killian lifts his head. 

“What else am I going to use it on?” he reasons with a shrug, and Emma can’t help the sound that flies out of her. 

It’s not a laugh — there is absolutely nothing funny about any of this — but it’s not quite the sigh she expects, something closer to a scoff and a hint of disbelief and her hand moves. 

She absolutely cannot help it. 

Her fingers brush over his, a quick hitch of his arm, like he’s not sure if he should pull back or push her away and Emma rocks closer, ducking her head into a gaze that can’t seem to hold hers for more than five seconds. 

Those few strands of hair drifting over his forehead may be the death of her. 

“It’s a fair question,” Henry mumbles. He’s smiling. She can tell, hear it in his voice and Emma’s cheeks object to her own lip-type movement, but it’s still snowing and freezing cold and—

Seriously those strands of hair. 

“See,” Killian says, “the lad’s got some sense.” Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Seems to suggest that I don't.” He blushes. It’s absurd and wonderful and entirely awful. All at the same time. She has no idea how she’s going to sleep when her magic is roaring in her veins. 

“No, no, no, that’s not—” Killian stammers, and Henry doesn’t even try to mask his laugh that time. 

“No?” Emma prompts. Killian swallows. The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching and it’s another rush of passably familiar that Emma wants to hold onto with both hands. “No,” he echoes. “I—we have to get out of this storm.” “This is what I’m saying,” Henry groans. “So we’ll use Killian’s money and we’ll get some food and maybe some mead and—” “—Seriously, how is no mead confusing?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder. Henry sneers. Killian is back to being frustratingly silent. 

The color in his cheeks hasn’t disappeared. 

It doesn’t have anything to do with the snow. 

Seriously, the snow has to stop soon. 

“Let’s go,” Emma says. She claps a hand on Henry’s shoulder, trusting that Killian will follow them when they start to move and that’s not quite a metaphor, but it might be the basis of everything else and—

She’s right. 

She can hear the snow crunching under his boots behind her. 

The air is musty and tinged with what smells like a mix of sweat and ale as soon as Emma pushes the door to the inn open, biting back a groan while her stomach does its best to rise up in the back of her throat. 

There are people everywhere, crowded at clearly sticky tables and tucked into dark corners, a surplus of leather and more than a few flashes of steel, the telltale sound of dice rolling on a variety of wooden surfaces. Emma’s eyes scan the space, gaze falling on what looks like the world’s oldest bar and a bald man with a round face and a towel draped over his shoulder. 

She snaps her fingers. 

And the magic that twists across her own face isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s warm, but it also makes it feel as if her skin is melting—like candle wax, shifting and reforming until her nose isn’t quite where it’s supposed to be, her eyes deep set and her forehead a bit wider. 

Her clothes have changed as well, gown replaced by breeches and boots that almost provide some warmth to her otherwise frozen toes, a vest and empty sword belt. 

She’ll have to fix that last part eventually, she’s sure. 

“Whoa,” Henry breathes. “Mom, that was so cool!” Emma can’t help the quick smile she gives him, a flash of pride that disappears almost as soon as her brand-new eyes land on Killian. 

He looks stunned. 

And maybe just a hint terrified. 

Of her. And her magic. 

The witch in the tower, indeed. 

“I’ll, uh—” she starts, but the words scratch at the inside of her throat like they’re not all that interested in being spoken. “I just figured it’d be best if no one saw me. I mean—do people even know what I look like?” “Lily did.” “Yeah, but she was a dragon.” “That we knocked out of the sky,” Henry reasons. “She’s probably got people to report back to. That’s how it always works in the—” “—Stories,” Emma finishes. Her stomach twists again, fear mixing with dread and those are kind of the same words. “We get a room. We eat. We get a few hours of sleep and then we get out of here. Got it?”

Henry nods once, and Emma doesn't bother glancing back at Killian. That’s not great. She’s not—

It doesn’t matter. 

This isn’t real. 

They’re getting out of here. She’s going to save all of them. 

And Killian isn’t freaked out by her magic at home. 

So. 

Emma stalks forward, twisting and turning between tables and half-drunk townsfolk, doing her best to breathe through her mouth while ignoring anyone’s curious gaze. It doesn’t matter. No one casts her a second glance, and it takes a few moments of pointed coughing to get the attention of the barkeep. 

He brings up the crazy weather at least six times. 

Emma keeps nodding. It leaves the muscles in her neck aching, fear tugging on the nerve-endings there because she’s not entirely convinced this is a good idea, but then it’s only a few more minutes for gold to exchange hands, Killian dropping a small pouch of clinking coins on the wood in front of them. 

The key to the one room they have left in this entire godforsaken place is cold in Emma’s hand. 

One room. 

Naturally. 

She might kick Isaac too. Several times. 

“C’mon,” Emma says, nudging at Henry’s back when his eyes widen at the sight of several foaming mugs of...something. “Right, left, kid and up the stairs.” He grumbles as he moves, and part of her is loathe to to be responsible in a moment like this. Part of her wants to down several tankards of ale and a few more rounds of mead, but Emma also isn’t entirely confident in how to mix Enchanted Forest alcohol and—

There are two beds in their one room. 

Naturally. 

Version two point oh. 

She sighs, running a suddenly exhausted hand over her face, which is only a little jarring because it’s not really her face. The string of curses that fall out of her is more than a little surprising, even to herself, but— “I forgot to get food,” Emma hisses, half to herself and half to this version of the world and Henry is already perched on the edge of one of the beds. 

There are only two beds. 

She’s going to scream. She’s trying very hard not to cry. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Killian says, soft enough that Emma barely ears him. Her magic is doing that thing again. 

So is his jaw. 

She’s got to stop staring at his jaw. It’s far too close to his lips. 

“You sure?” she asks. He lowers his eyebrows again, a quick jerk of his head that feels a little placating and a little hers, as if he’s amused every time she lets him do anything for her. 

And Henry. 

For them. 

Collectively. 

“Positive,” Killian promises. “I’m not sure it’ll be very good food, but—" “—We’ll live,” Emma interrupts. 

“Aye, I’m sure we will.” It’s not another promise. She knows. He knows. Henry knows. The goddamn barkeep probably knows. And yet. The words slink under Emma’s skin and find a rhythm with her pulse, a guarantee for a future that she’s only just started allowing herself to dream about. 

Idiot. 

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m going to come downstairs and do something vaguely threatening,” Emma says. 

Killian’s lips twitch. “I’ve no doubt.” “And there aren’t clocks in this realm,” Henry adds. He’s definitely still smiling. 

Killian nods again—although that one has a distinct air of confusion to it, which only serves to make Emma’s stomach do something else she doesn’t have time to think about and she’s honestly got to stop thinking such absurd things. Because then he’s sweeping back into the hall and his boots are heavy on the stairs and she doesn’t have to turn around to see the expectant look on her son’s face. 

She can feel it. Behind her eyelids. 

“So, uh—” Henry starts, but Emma waves both of her hands and she’s not all that surprised he ignored her. It’s a weird thing to be proud of. “He didn’t even argue, you know. When I found him.” Emma licks her lips. She shivers again. 

And Henry isn’t done. “I got rid of Black Beard and then he just...I mean, it’s not right. Anything here, and especially Killian because he’s—” “—Yeah, I know,” Emma whispers. 

“Still didn’t argue, though. He might not remember everything, Mom, but I know he’s—he still cares. About you. About us.” She hums, a noncommittal sound because her tongue appears to be taking up most of the real estate in her mouth and she’s still as much of a coward as advertised. Even more so than the man who’s not quite the man she—

Emma lets out a shuddering breath, stumbling back against the nearest wall. Her knees have started to wobble as well. 

And Henry doesn’t say anything else. 

She’ll thank him for that eventually. When they get home. Let him play video games for an extra hour or something. 

Maybe go sailing. 

She’d like to go sailing. 

She’d like—

The door swings open again, a tray of food in Killian’s hand and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As if he’s worried it’s wrong. 

Until. 

The warmth of something Emma resolutely refuses to name as soon as her gaze meets his is like falling back into blankets and some joke about the tides and a steady rhythm and his smile stretches, settling on his face like he’s just been waiting for her to make sure it lands there. 

Henry snorts. 

Whatever is in the bowls Killian is holding is steaming. 

“Not exactly dinner at the palace,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. Emma feels her eyes widen. “But it’ll at least keep the chill at bay and—” 

He jerks his chin down, a small pile of fabric Emma hadn’t noticed before tucked under his left arm. Blankets. 

Some of her muscles loosen. 

In a nice way. 

“Thank you,” she says, hoping she’s able to infuse as much emotion into two words as possible. Killian hums, another quick nod that isn’t quite as terrified or concerned and— “Can we eat?” Henry asks. 

Emma laughs softly, reaching out to grab bowls and blankets and the food isn’t great, but she’s fairly certain none of them have been poisoned. So, she’ll take what she can get at this point. 

And the whole thing is oddly comfortable—blankets strewn across the floor and Henry’s tugged his boots off at some point, recounting his defeat of Black Beard and Killian’s ability to sail through that storm, as if Emma weren’t there too, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to stop. 

Not when his voice picks up that way, excitement and adventure and he’s so sure they’re going to fix this. 

She’ll regret that later, she’s sure. 

Letting that hope linger. 

God, but she’s the most depressing person in any reality. 

Henry’s eyes start to flutter shut eventually, head lolling towards his shoulder and chin bumping against this chest and Emma makes to move, but then Killian’s mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like I can do it and Emma’s far too busy making sure her heart doesn’t explode to object. 

It might explode anyway. 

She tugs her legs closer to her, resting her chin on her knees and eyes never leaving Killian as he hauls Henry up, moving him towards a bed with, she assumes, slightly scratchy sheets. Every shift of Killian’s arms is slow, almost calculated, like he’s holding something important and a word that’s bigger than that, but Emma’s having enough difficulty coming to terms with any of this that she can hardly be expected to care about syntax. 

It’s still snowing out. 

Henry doesn’t wake up when he rolls over, stuffing a hand under his pillow and twisting one leg across the mattress. 

Exactly the same way Emma sleeps. 

And exactly the way Killian has complained about Emma sleeping. Her mind jumps to memories — weeks of calm and seasonally-appropriate snow, tucked into a different bed with sheets that seemed to drape themselves over her skin and her soul and she’s clearly losing her grip on her sanity. It is, Killian frequently tells her, because Emma’s feet refuse to retain their natural heat. 

It makes him jump every time, a soft gasp that leaves her laughing and giggling just a bit and she’ll never admit to that second one, but he always knows and he’s always known and the tenses don’t matter.

Emma shudders, standing up abruptly and all but sprinting towards the window. 

The snow drifts look unnaturally large. If she didn’t know better, hadn’t spent the morning with sweat dripping down her back and hair plastered to her forehead, Emma would think it was Christmas. And if she didn’t know better, hadn’t watched a dragon try and burn her alive a few hours earlier, she would believe that she could be happy here. 

An Enchanted Forest princess with a son and a man who would go to the ends of the world for her, no matter what he believed or who he remembered and she’s started rocking her weight between her feet. There’s a certain rhythm to it, matching up to a song no one else in this realm has probably heard of from a movie Emma only barely remembers the plot of. 

Maybe she can do something about the snow in the morning as well, still emotional enough that her magic could probably move mountains and that may give up their position, but she’s not a battle strategist either or even a pirate and— “Are you alright ma’am?” It’s probably for the best that her heart has already exploded. Makes it less likely for it to shatter. Dramatically.

Emma doesn’t look behind her, can’t actually bring herself to move at the sound of Killian’s half-mumbled question and she can see his outline in the foggy glass anyway. He’s got his fingers in his hair. 

“Fine,” she bites out, and the lie tastes bitter on her tongue, threatens to scorch away all those other words hanging there. 

He hums, a step towards her. It’s not as cautious as it’s been in the few hours since he and Henry found her. She can’t believe it’s only been a few hours. 

Emma’s perception of time is entirely skewed — and not just because of the goddamn snow, some twisted winter wonderland that leaves her thinking of more possibility and decidedly misplaced wants and there are no goddamn clocks in this realm. She can remember everything and nothing, her real life and her life here, but that’s a generous descriptor for what’s felt like decades chained in a tower. 

She wonders how long it’s really been. 

She wonders if this Killian Jones has ever wanted the same things she does. 

“You may want to practice that a few more times,” he continues, and the floor creaks when he steps that time. “If you’d like me to believe it.”

Emma’s head nearly flies off its neck. “The cheek on you, Captain.” “I’m not a Captain.” “God, that’s so weird. It’s—do you have a sword?” “No.” “Shit. That’s—do you have enough gold for that? I mean...I don’t want to use your life savings or anything here.” The last thing she expects is him to laugh, so, naturally, that is exactly what happens. Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it, Henry mumbling at the noise, and Emma is not entirely prepared for that specific shade of blue. He’s smirking at her. The asshole. 

“None of this is mine,” Killian says, laughter clinging to the words even as he keeps inching closer to Emma. “Black Beard didn’t leave much of his horde on the ship—wanted to spread things around, you see, make sure no one would be able to rob him, but—” “—You’re a pirate?” Emma suggest. “Something like that.” “You’re blushing, though.”

“Aye, that too.”

Emma twists a strand of hair around her fingers, desperate for something to do with all the excess energy she’s suddenly bursting with. And the air around them isn’t quite tension-filled, but there’s a certain charge to it, an electric current that’s always been there. More jokes about tenses. 

“Were you singing just now?” Killian asks. The windows in that room have a distinct draft to them. 

“No.” “No?” “We’re going in circles,” Emma grumbles, and his mouth doesn’t change. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth. 

But it had taken everything in her not to throw her arms around him before, to push her own fingers into his hair and yank him forward, find some kind of steady something in the feel of his mouth against hers and the way he always seems to fall into her. Or the other way around. 

Seriously, syntax is not important right now.

It’s probably best she didn’t. 

Emma would not have been able to cope with it being different. 

“What was the tune?” Killian asks, voice almost steady, and Emma is greedy enough to want the conversation. If only because of the color of his eyes when he looks at her. 

“You wouldn’t know it.” “Try me.”

“No, honestly, it’s—” She has every intention of being stubborn. She does—walls that she can practically establishing themselves around her heart and her soul and it’s incredible that one person can be so consistently idiotic. 

He still cares. About you. About us. 

“When I was a kid,” Emma starts, sliding down the wall and pointing towards the space next to her. Killian sits. “I used to uh—well I never lived anywhere very long. And this time of year—” “Summer?” “Nah, winter. Well, this is fake, but—” “—The snow felt fairly real when it was falling on us. You were shivering quite a bit, ma’am.” “Noticed that, did you? And you’ve got to stop with this ma’am stuff.”

“Ma’am stuff,” he drawls. “God, of course you’d be able to tease me,” Emma grouses, but Killian’s staring at her expectantly. Almost as if he’s waiting for marching orders. That probably doesn’t happen on a boat. Ship. “I just—” “—The last thing I want to do is offend you.” The sincerity in the words rock through Emma, leaving her teeth digging into her lip again until she’s threatening to bite the stupid thing in half and Killian’s eyes flicker towards the movement, like he’s thinking about things too and— “I’m not exactly the most respectable person in the world,” Emma reasons. “A crazy witch with out of control magic.” “That’s not true.” “You didn’t know that until Henry found you.” “Aye,” he agrees. “But I—well, it was easy to believe him.” Her lungs have got to get a grip. 

Or, whatever. 

Work. She needs her lungs to work. 

“Thank you,” Emma breathes. That’s not the working she was hoping for. “I—well, I…thank you. For all of it. Dashing rescues—” “—Did you say dashing?” “If you don’t stop calling me ma’am, I’ll punch you in the face.”

Killian barks out a laugh, the sound leaving him almost looking like him and feeling like him and Emma’s fingers flutter on instinct. With magic. He clenches his jaw. “And, uh—what am I supposed to be calling a magical princess, then?”

“You’re trying to flatter me.” “Is it working?” “Maybe,” Emma admits. “More cheek, though.” “Aye, that’s—unexpected, I suppose. But so are you, Swan, it’s—” Killian cuts himself off, eyes bugging and the veins in his throat are obvious when he jerks back, staring at Emma like she will actually punch him. 

The magic in her vibrates. With want and desire and goddamn normal. 

“That works,” she says. 

He blushes again. He might not have ever stopped. “Has that happened before?” “Hmmm?” “The cold,” Killian says. His voice shifts again, sounding a bit farther away than it had, like he’s trying to place a memory or moment and Emma doesn’t want to hope again. It’s not the best thing to remember, anyway. “You were—we...I was…” “You were?” “Worried. Terrified, even. I can—there was ice or—” “—No, that’s right,” Emma interrupts. “It was a giant wall and it wasn’t really Elsa’s fault, but—” “—Should I know who Elsa is?” “Probably not.” He makes another noise, a slow nod that only serves to shift those pieces of hair clearly designed to ruin Emma’s whole life. “The song, then? It was inspired by the snow?” “No, I don’t—well, I don’t know, really, but the song is kind of depressing, honestly.” “Is it?” Emma nods, and her head is close enough to his that her chin nearly bumps his shoulder. She’d like to put her head on his shoulder. That may freak him out. 

It’s kind of freaking her out, admittedly. 

“I haven’t thought about that movie in forever,” Emma continues, “It was old when I used to watch it. A beat up VHS—” “—What is that?” She clicks her tongue, not sure how to explain now-redundant technology to a pirate who isn’t her pirate in a realm that does not have clocks. The whole thing makes her head hurt. And it’s just absurd enough to make her laugh a bit too. 

Killian’s eyes flash. 

“That’s not the important part,” Emma says. “And it’s not even really a Christmas movie. It’s, um—well, it’s about a family. In this place called St. Louis—” “—Is that in the Enchanted Forest?” “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a rather pitiful listener?” “You’re teasing.” Emma grins. “St. Louis is not in the Enchanted Forest. It’s a city. In the reality—shit that’s so weird to think about. You know what? That doesn’t matter either. The point is that there was a family and they lived there and then they were going to move. And Judy Garland was upset because the guy she loved—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. 

It feels like it’s weighing down on both of them anyway, more metaphors and passing similarities and she wants him to call her Swan at least forty-seven thousand times. 

“She didn’t want to leave this man, then?” Killian asks. “Judy Garland? Was she a princess as well?” Emma shakes her head. “No, but she did get to go to a ball. At Christmas. With a very red gown.” “Red?” “Yuh huh.” Killian swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth, that same thoughtful look Emma’s grown to memorize and maybe covet just a bit. It’s because it always ends with that pinch between his eyebrows. “So, John,” Emma adds, “That’s the guy that she loves. HIs name is John and he...he couldn’t get to the ball at first because he didn’t pick up his tuxedo. He was playing basketball.” “What a strange word.” “It’s a really strange game if you actually think about it, honestly. Henry’s more into soccer, though, so—we’re drifting from the point.” “Are we just?” “You’ll make me think you’re not enjoying my garbage storytelling, Killian.” The pinch disappears. 

At the same exact time his lips part. 

Seriously, his lips. 

“Does John eventually get to this ball?” 

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Romance conquers all. He gets the tuxedo and they dance and it’s—well, Judy Garland wasn’t shy about being in love with him. She sang about it at the start of the movie, but everything kind of comes to light there and, um...when I was a kid, I always thought it was very pretty.” “The dancing?” “The whole thing. Happily ever after.” She can still see the tip of his tongue pressing into the side of his mouth — another tell for her Killian and this is her Killian, just with altered memories and ridiculous allusions to 1940s musicals and—

“What happened after the ball?” “John asked Judy Garland to marry him,” Emma says. Her voice cracks. It’s ridiculous. “She says, yes, of course, but they’re still leaving St. Louis and her sister is there and she’s beats up the snowmen.” “What?” “They’ve got the most ridiculous snowmen in the backyard and Tootie—” “—This child’s name is Tootie?” “I didn’t write the movie.” He chuckles, slumping a bit against the wall. His hand is very close to Emma’s. “And where does your tune factor in?” “Uh—before the snowmen, I think. Freshly engaged Judy Garland sings this song called Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It’s...like I said, it’s kind of depressing if you listen to the words and—” “—What are the words?”

Emma has to swallow as soon as her brain processes that particular tone of voice. Because it’s not nervous. Or anxious. It’s vaguely hopeful and a little greedy as well, an overstep for a cowardly deckhand, but exactly what Killian Jones would do and Killian Jones would come back. 

With his tuxedo. 

Or leather jacket. 

As the case may be. 

“I’m not really a singer,” Emma mutters, ignoring whatever is fluttering in her stomach. Magic, maybe. Emotion, definitely. 

Killian nods, a quiet sound of agreement or acquiesce and that might be what changes everything. The easy way he’s looking at her, like explaining the plot of Meet Me In St. Louis is entirely normal and she can barely herself when she starts to sing under her breath. 

It’s decidedly off-pitch, Emma desperate to keep her voice low and her nerves in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t blink and she shakes slightly when she reaches— “Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.” She blinks, sudden tears on her cheeks that are a misplaced sense of warmth and she hates that she’s crying. She hates that she’s feeling, wisps of hope and shards of her own want and Emma can’t imagine there’s even something like Christmas in the Enchanted Forest. 

And she’s just about to apologize for it—for being anything except the Savior everyone always expects her to be, but then there’s a crack and a shift and her magic practically rumbles out of her chest and— Killian’s thumb brushes across her cheek. 

“Can you—” he stutters, color rising again and tinging the tips of his ears. “The mask. It’s—can you get rid of it?” She’s going to eventually run out of air to dramatically exhale, Emma is sure. 

In the moment, though, she’s got just enough, body surging forward as soon as the thought clicks into place and he wasn’t scared of the magic. 

He wasn’t scared of her. 

“I’d like to see you,” Killian adds, “If that’s—” Emma blinks, nose barley settling back to its appropriate place before she’s leaning forward and that same nose is pressed against Killian’s cheek. He doesn’t kiss exactly the same. 

It's not as horrible as she thought it would be. 

It’s softer now—still a little cautious optimism that’s almost as weird as the rules of basketball, and it takes a moment for him to tilt his head, a quick flicker of his tongue that leaves Emma reeling just a bit. That’s all it really takes, then. She lets her fingers fly into his hair, barely any space between them when she clamors closer, knees bumping his side and his hook finding the small of her back. 

Like always. 

She twists and he tilts his head and it’s not quite hungry, but there’s something about it that’s almost like a low simmer, steady and even and normal. It’s absolutely, totally normal. 

She’s not sure how long they stay there, making out like teenagers on the floor, but it doesn’t matter because Emma is at least ninety-six percent positive she’s just become Killian Jones’ first kiss and the thought leaves her a little dizzy and even more breathless than normal, goosebumps exploding on her skin that don’t have anything to do with the temperature. 

“What happens to them?” Killian asks, pressing the question to the corner of Emma’s mouth. “John and Judy?” “Her name is Esther in the movie.” “Another strange moniker.” She laughs— giggles —and it’s easy to feel Killian’s answering smile against her jaw. “Well, they’re engaged when it ends, and it never really says they get married, but I’d imagine they do after the fair.” “The fair?” “That’s a whole other plot point we don’t have time to go into. It’s—c’mon, we should probably get some sleep.” The smile is gone. “You should sleep, Swan. I can take the watch.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Someone should be awake, this isn’t the safest place.” Emma waves her hand, lock clicking into place and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure in Killian’s stunned expression. Or the position of his tongue. “Impressive.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” “You should at least take the bed, love.”

If he realizes he’s switched endearments, he doesn’t show it, but Emma does — and so does her magic. It roars and soars and some other word that is slightly less positive because the thought of not falling asleep next to him is suddenly the single worst thing she could come up with and—

“There’s enough space,” she reasons. 

Killian wavers for a moment, more than a few quick breaths through gritted teeth. Emma takes her boots off. 

And climbs into the bed. “The sheets suck though,” she says, and it gets the desired laugh out of him. He probably doesn’t understand the idiom. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He follows her anyway — and that’s a multi-fold thing and maybe they’ll be able to find a copy of Meet Me In St. Louis at home. Maybe she can get another red gown. 

Maybe they can— “Bloody hell how are your feet so cold?” Emma buries her face in the pillow to mask her laugh, body shaking despite her best efforts. Killian looks scandalized. 

“Bad circulation, I guess,” Emma reasons. 

“You’ll get frostbite like that, love. That can’t be healthy, I—what?” “Nothing, nothing, just...I’m sorry about my cold feet.”

He narrows his eyes, looking for the double meaning to those words and he’s always been very perceptive. So. It doesn’t take long for him to understand. “It’s alright,” he says. “Here, c’mere. You can...I’m warm, at least.”

“Yeah, I know.”

It takes some twisting to get comfortable, but that’s really more the sheets than anything and Emma’s head manages to find its way to Killian’s chest, an arm around her middle and lips grazing her hair and— “Swan. Swan, c’mon—Emma, love, we’ve got to get up.”

She grumbles, pressing her face further into the fabric under her cheek, but that fabric is also moving and the man wearing it is breathing and laughing in her ear and it takes Emma a moment to get her bearings. 

There’s light streaming in through gauzy curtains, a soft roar coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom. No, that’s not right.

Their bedroom. 

In their house. 

With their family. 

It’s—

“Merry Christmas, love,” Killian says. 

Emma jerks her head up, reality rushing back to her and she’d been dreaming. Of a different reality and a past that had been fixed years before. It’s been years. 

What sounds like several different crashes sound from, what she can only imagine, is the general vicinity of the kitchen. 

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles. Killian ducks his head, catches her lips with hers and he laughs again when she objects to his movement. “No, no, you’re comfortable.”

“And warm, I know. But—” He winces at another crash. “I believe the little sea monster is awake and likely determined to open the the rather alarming large mountain of presents she’s been presented with. Also, your parents will be here soon.” Emma nods, a schedule flitting through her brain that includes breakfast and lunch and dinner that will end with—

“I expect your dance card to be filled tonight, your highness,” Killian adds. He nips at her nose when Emma doesn’t answer immediately, a knowing flash in his gaze and it had been her mother’s idea. 

A ball. 

At Christmas. 

Emma is almost unreasonably excited. If only because those few strands of hair that still fall across Killian’s forehead have started to take on a distinct silver edge and she can’t really think when she notices it. 

She’s anticipating a good deal of making out. In dark corners. 

And dancing. 

“Aye, Captain.”

The flash gets noticeably darker, another kiss they don’t have time for, but that’s also kind of their thing and—

Crash. Several. In quick succession. 

“She might have knocked the tree over,” Emma mutters. “I’ll go and assess damage. Make sure you put socks on, love. It’s probably cold downstairs.” Emma salutes—in tandem with her flipping stomach. 

And the kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as she thought it would be, a living room eventually covered in wrapping paper and laughter hanging in the air and Emma lets her mother pin her hair up later. 

The gold matches the red in her gown. 

And the red on Killian’s cheeks as soon as he sees her, one side of mouth tugging up and that same flash—disarmingly familiar and consistent, no matter the realm or the years or the curses they’ve lived through because—

He takes a step forward, a quick bend of his head and lips brushing her knuckles. 

Emma’s magic flutters. 

He lifts his eyebrows. 

“Your highness, ma’am.” “Captain.” “It’s a very good color.” “No problems with the tuxedo?” Killian shakes his head “I don’t know how to play basketball.”

She can’t help the size of her smile or the force of her magic, memories he probably shouldn’t remember, but they’ve watched the movie enough that he could probably sing the songs by heart now. And he does, humming soft melodies in Emma’s ear all night until she’s dangerously close to swooning. 

In a slightly darkened corner. 

With her husband’s mouth on hers and his hook pressed to the small of her back and happily ever after playing out around them. 

[gabrielxreader]

Nestle In

Request: Hi saw the requests are open for 24 hours! I wanted to ask for a fic with maybe gabexreaderxcas really big fluff. And you can see their wings because yes wings are amazing. Maybe a movie night hunker down. – anonymous

A/N: Alright, so my first thought for this was OMG YES POLYAMORY because, not gonna lie, I’m part of the LGBT+ community, and a lot of forms of our expression (polyamory included) are seriously underrepresented. But, since the anon didn’t specify this and it’s a little controversial, I left that part vague. Hope you like it, anon!

Author: Holly

Warnings: Minor swearing?

Characters: Y/N, Gabriel, Castiel

Word Count: 1,536

Y/N = Your Name

            Witches were evil.

            Dean locked himself in his bedroom for hours as soon as you returned. Sam, looking like he’d seen a ghost (heh), had fallen asleep in the library, reading the same page over and over. You had retired to your bedroom in the lower level of the bunker, cold, soaked through from an involuntary dip in the lake, and feeling lonely. In sad solitude, you took a hot shower and fell asleep on your bed within seconds of hitting the mattress.

            When you next woke up, it was dinnertime, the sun was creeping its way down again, and you could smell something sweet in your room. It only took you a minute to crack your eyes open with a pitiful groan and realize that the sweet smell wasn’t coming from the kitchen, but from a plate of hot, fresh-baked cookies on your bedside table.

            You swore that you were the only person at such a comfortable temperature.

            “Morning,” you mumbled into the arm of whichever angel was in front of you, scooting your legs back to press your feet against the heated calves of the one at your back.

            You could practically hear the head tilt from Cas. “It’s the evening,” he corrected you.

            “I say it’s morning,” Gabe argued, pressed tight to your back and snuggling with his face at the nape of your neck. He patted Cas hard on the chest as if in punishment for disagreeing with you. “Princess says it’s morning. It’s morning.”

            Castiel stiffly held you tighter. His vessel’s heartbeat was in your ear. “But it’s not morning.”

            “Oh, for your father’s sake,” you mumbled into the blue-eyed angel’s chest. “Shut the hell up or I will shove you both out of bed.”

            You, Gabriel, and Castiel were the best of friends, attached at the hips like freakish Sesame twins (according to Dean, who was corrected agitatedly by Sam). You were all very close friends, who would hug and kiss each other’s cheeks and cuddle and sometimes share beds because you were prone to feeling lonely and cold in the isolated rooms of the underground bunker. Gabe and Cas gave you more attention than you needed, and you happily soaked it up. You didn’t want to assume anything, so you didn’t call them your boyfriends, but you loved being their favorite human.

            If Sam wanted to make a joke about Cas coming running when Dean called, then he also had to note that he was usually already there by the time you’d finished saying his name. Gabriel was quick to pull sometimes mean jokes on the boys for his own amusement, but he never made you into a victim of them. And, between the vengeful archangel and the dedicatedly-loyal seraph, no one stood a chance at making you hurt and getting away with it.

            “Was there anything special you wanted to do today, Cupcake?” Gabe offered, rubbing his hand down the side of your body, enticing and comforting. His touch was warm, and with every pass of his hand, you felt yourself relaxing a little bit more. Gabriel was rarely completely still. In contrast to his movements behind you, Cas was supporting most of your weight and letting himself be used as a solid, still, and protective pillow. “Bar hopping in Cali? Swimming off Gold Coast? Don’t stop there – chocolate tasting in Belgium?”

            You sighed, long and quiet, and reminded yourself of the bruising you suspected spotted your ribcage. “I don’t wanna go anywhere,” you mumbled into Cas’s trench coat, reaching blindly for his shoulder. You traced his arm down to his hand and manipulated his limb until his hand was over your temple.

            A moment later, a warm feeling like being doused with warm water ran from the top of your head down to your toes. Since you were laying down, and completely dry, it was a little disconcerting. It swept away the aches and pains of the exhausting week’s hunt and its inevitably violent end. You patted Cas’s hand and mumbled a ‘thanks.’

            Castiel slowly started to pet your hair. It took him a while, but he’d started copying some of the things he saw Gabriel doing to you and you doing to him. The hair stroking was undoubtedly your favorite.

            “You should have called if you were injured,” he scolded quietly, tone level. He was always so concerned. You hummed noncommittally. “You know we would prefer to be called upon than to know you were left in pain.”

            “It wasn’t that bad,” you promised, reaching behind you to drape an arm over the blond. “Thank you though, Cas. You’re awesome. Like, like Captain America. But you’re not blond,” you tiredly added as an afterthought.

            “Right,” Gabe snorted behind you, amused. “Because that’s the only difference.”

            “Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American way?” You sang with a giggle.

            “I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel interrupted. “Who is this Captain? Is he human?”

            “Gabriel,” you decided abruptly, shifting your hips and arms in preparation to sit up. Gabe clung to you like a koala, even as you struggled to move. You grunted and fell down, making him squawk as you landed half on top of him. “Get off. I know what to do with what’s left of the day. We’re having a movie marathon.”

            Gabriel was off of you in an instant. Your head fell to the pillow where he used to be and bounced with an umph. The archangel was standing over by your shelves instantaneously, perusing your DVD collection. “I’ve got the snacks,” he declared seriously, but cheerfully at the same time. “You bring the blankets and the uncultured brat.”

            “Okay,” you agreed. “I have The First Avenger and Winter Soldier on DVD, but we’ll also have to watch Iron Man 2 so he’ll know who Black Widow is. But that means we also have to watch Iron Man so he knows who Tony is in the sequel with Natasha. Let’s do the Iron Man movies between the Captain Americas so that he has the background for the Starks.” You started to pull up your blankets. Castiel stood up from your bed, confused but complacent, and you changed your mind. “Actually, no blankets. We’re gonna pull up the ottomans and make it a nest. Wings, boys.”

            You couldn’t see an angel’s true form without burning your eyes out of your skull. No, thank you. The upside to magic and the supernatural was that there were usually loopholes – while you couldn’t see their real wings (and Gabe boasted that his wouldn’t even fit in the room), they could still manifest physical approximations that wouldn’t turn you into a crispy barbeque.

            You loved when they did it.

            Gabriel’s wings were stunning yellow, just like you had expected, but they changed colors with the lighting. In sunlight, they looked like melted gold. In the dark, when you only had dim lighting or a glowing phone, his feathers appeared like caramel, and in the indoor, slightly-colored overhead lights, his wings seemed to be amber, like finely aged alcohol.

            Castiel’s were less expected. You’d thought the naïve, sweet, comparatively younger angel would have fluffy white wings, soft and smooth like those of a baby bird, lined with down and perfectly pristine. In reality, his wings were dark, somewhere between black-blue and dark purple, and his feathers were long and strong and slim. There was no down, no fluff, and no delicacy to the firm arches. Most surprisingly, while Gabriel preened his wings almost vainly, Castiel usually didn’t realize his were messy until you or Gabe said something. When that happened, you were more than delighted to sit down with him for at least an hour and straighten out his feathers.

            You were wrapped up tight with warm bodies and silkily smooth feathers, so content that you couldn’t even begin to fathom why you might want to move. The movie played in the background, but you were far more focused on the duo keeping you such excellent company. Gabriel was leaned back with his legs spread so that you could lay on his chest in between his thighs, his three pairs of wings out and lain gently over the furniture. The sets on the right were draped over you and Cas both, while your right hand, tucked under Gabe’s wings, were smoothing through a patch of feathers on Castiel’s repeatedly. He laid forward on you, his head on your tummy and turned to watch the TV with fascinated eyes.

            “Please don’t go,” you said without warning, blinking as you surprised even yourself. “I want you both to stay with me tonight.”

            Even as your face turned red, you knew without a doubt that they would say yes.

            The softness of Gabriel’s blanketing wing ruffled and bumped into your cheek. He started to close his legs, squeezing you between his knees. Castiel plastered one wing down over the furniture, showing he had no intention of leaving his comfy position, and the other began to lazily arch up into your touch.

            “You have to ask?” Gabe mumbled, turning his head and pressing his lips to your hair.

            ”There isn’t anywhere we would rather be,” Cas rumbled fondly, hugging your waist closely.