that fine fine line (let's cross it one day)

chapstick

Emma keeps one Chapstick in the bug, another in her jacket pocket, and a third in the top drawer of her desk. People have made fun of her for it before – mostly co-workers and bosses but Graham even made a comment once about the multiple tubes in yellow and green and white, but she always ignored him. She's already admitted that she has a problem, right, so what's the big deal?

She just really needs her lip balm.

Which is why it's okay to find it super-weird when Hook picks up the yellow tube of peppermint lipbalm and studies it, taking the top off and holding it up to his nose to take a sniff.

"What is this?" he asks, flinching when she reaches for it and puts it back in her desk drawer.

"Why are you going through my desk?" she asks, deflecting.

"Pirate," he says, gesturing with his hook. Emma rolls her eyes.

"It's lip balm," she tells him. "To keep your lips from getting chapped."

Emma regrets elaborating on the concept when Hook smirks, licks his lips, and raises an eyebrow.

"Any particular reason you're worrying about the condition of your lips, love?" he asks with a wicked grin, and she sighs dramatically before firing back with a smug smile, "None concerning you."

He has to know by now that any reference to lips is going to bring her back to Neverland (she can still feel the leather of his jacket against the palms of her hands and why were his lips so soft it's just criminal how good they felt against hers) and so she takes a step closer, hand on her hip.

"You wound me," he feints, hand dramatically over his heart, "and here I thought we were getting along."

"Not enough for you to be worrying about my lips," she tells him, close enough to feel his slow short exhale as he laughs softly.

"Love," he says, taking a step closer and closing the distance, "you'll find that I am always interested in you, including your lips."

Her eyes flutter shut as she takes in his close proximity and at first she thinks he's going to kiss her – in the sheriff's office of all places – but she hears his hook catch on the metal of the drawer and before she knows it, he's taking out the chapstick and applying it to his own lips. He smacks them together and raises an eyebrow, no doubt taking in her utter shock and horror at his actions.

"It occurred to me that perhaps I should apply this balm to my own lips as well," he tells her, pocketing the yellow tube with a knowing smile. "Should you ever be in the mood to indulge in a little fun."

There is a tension between them as she glances from his lips back to his face (eyebrows cocked, eyes wide open, she can see his very heart through his eyes and she knows it beats for her and it is terrifying) and she swallows, debating what to do, when the door slams and David enters the room, fresh from his errand to bring them coffee and bear claws.

The tension dissipates with the arrival of her father (who pretends not to notice, thank god) but she can't help but feel a little worked up over the course of the day. It doesn't help that they've decided that Hook, since he is staying, can be part of their merry band of law enforcement since he is the only one of them with actual experience in upholding law and order – before he defied it all, at least.

This means that Hook spends the rest of the afternoon with her, reapplying the lip balm at least once an hour, in a slow effort to drive her mad.

It works: she spends the better part of the afternoon drifting into thoughts about just what his lips might feel like now that they've been conditioned with the finest mint-scented beeswax, and it takes all of her willpower not to act impulsively. There's a fine fine line between love and lust and while she wonders if she's straddling it right now with the way she glances at him from underneath her eyelashes as he talks with David about his military experience, there's something warm and fuzzy in her chest at the congenial way that her father interacts with him that makes her wonder if she's tipping over from one side to the other.

And then he turns and winks at her.

Emma can't be blamed for throwing a pencil at his head.

mints.

She convinces David that it would be a perfectly good use of working hours to make sure that the newest deputy of Storybrooke gets a new wardrobe.

"No one is going to respond favorably to a pirate handling a distress call," she tells him, and her father agrees. Hook is wary ("I happen to think I look downright respectable" he complains) but he complies all the same, probably out of deference to her than any other reason.

They take him to the local department store (which hardly qualifies as one in Emma's book) and make him try on jeans and sweaters and shirts in a variety of colors even though he strongly shies away from navy and wants to stay closer to the red-and-black end of the spectrum (she doesn't object). He even wears his fake hand, not his hook, so that the entire experience goes easier.

When he exits the dressing room, though – well, Emma's not prepared for that.

He is an entirely different person sans leather, and it's not a bad look whatsoever. But this person, in his black sweater and dark jeans, she can't call Hook because it doesn't work. This person is someone else entirely – a nervous-looking man in unfamiliar clothes looking to her with big blue eyes for approval.

Emma takes a step forward, studies him from every angle. "Are you sure you're okay with this shirt? I mean, I can't see half of your chest."

"I would make a remark, Swan, but it would be inappropriate in the company of your father," he tells her with a wicked gleam in his eye, but there it is replaced a moment later by that same nervousness from earlier.

"I like it," she says. "I'm going to have to start calling you Killian now instead of your more colorful moniker," she teases.

There is a rush of color to his face – he's so pale that any color shows, she remembers this after she kissed him and his cheeks were rosy and his lips red – and he turns to the mirror, not meeting her eyes.

"I would like that," he says, fingering the sweater material with his hand. "I think I would like that very much."

David coughs, and they step away from each other like naughty children even though there was space between them.

They finish shopping and Ho – Killian – wears some of his new clothing out of the store, paid for with his new salary. They load the bags into David's truck and head towards Granny's for lunch, which David insists will be his treat.

Killian has been a good asset for their meager department. There is a surprising orderliness to him that Emma thinks shouldn't be surprising, since he managed to become a captain of a ship and kept a crew with him for years, but it is all the same and she thinks about how they needed it, since Graham was more intimidated of Regina than orderly, and David doing his best to fill in for his daughter who is always less about order and more about justice.

They make easy conversation, and she is grateful at the friendship that seems to be forming between her father and Killian, because it means he's invited over for dinner and she doesn't need to come up with more excuses to see him.

As they leave, she grabs a few mints from the bowl in the front, handing one to David and the other to Killian, who struggles with the cellophane wrapper so much that she eventually takes it from him, opens it, and pops it in his mouth without a second thought.

It is when her thumb brushes against his bottom lip that she realizes what an absolutely horrible idea that may have been.

David is already in his truck when she turns back to look at Killian, who is staring at her with wide eyes and one raised eyebrow, so she shoves her hands in her pockets and takes a step back (there's a fine fine line between friendship and something more and she's in danger of crossing over).

"I'm going for a walk," she tells him, shoving her hands in her pockets.

"Emma," is all he says but she steps back, trying to ignore the smell of mint on his breath, trying to focus instead on walking off all the feelings that grow inside her and threaten to overwhelm her with their urgency.

There's a big difference between wanting to be with someone and wanting someone to be with you and while she's no longer ignoring the way that Killian's looks make her stomach somersault and how she dreams about kissing him (and more) in the hours before she falls asleep and before she's fully awake, but it's the easiness in being with him – in how easily he's fit into her life to the point where she needs him there in a way she's never let herself need anyone before – that scares the ever-loving shit out of her.

cocoa.

It is frigid cold outside and so, there is hot chocolate.

Not that there needs to be a reason – not in this loft, not with Mary Margaret and Henry and Emma all downing sugar in large enough quantities year-round – but this is a bit different. It is cold enough that Emma feels like she needs to be warmed from the inside out, but it's also that time of year where mint replaces pumpkin as the additive in everything, including hot cocoa.

She crushes some mints and sprinkles it onto Killian's cocoa (she knows he's going to raise his eyebrow as a question by now, she's so used to his movements that nothing comes as a surprise).

"Trust me," she says.

"When have I not?" he asks, taking a tentative sip of the concoction.

They have the loft to themselves – David and Mary Margaret are out to dinner and a movie, and Henry is with Regina – and this is not the first time that they have been alone to eat and drink or watch TV. He is becoming a regular fixture on their couch, and she wonders if he knows how much it means to her that he always comes when she asks him, that she can rely on him to be there for her.

But with the way that he looks at her, she knows he does, and he is grateful for every invitation and every moment.

"Verdict?" she asks, and he smiles over the rim of the mug, eyes lighting up.

"Delicious," he tells her, the word sounding absolutely sinful when it comes from his lips.

It flusters her, much like the growing tension that always seems to linger in the air when they're together these days. Things are still easy between them but that line between love and lust and friendship and something else is becoming more and more blurred in Emma's mind until she's not entirely sure what's stopping her from erasing it completely.

Killian likes modern movies –specifically ones involving comic book heroes, which amuses her to no end – and he lets her take liberties during the actual viewing, from resting her head on a pillow in his lap (he has taken to stroking her hair which she really likes) to tucking her feet under his thigh to snuggling with him under a blanket, hip to hip.

Really, it's completely insane to her that they haven't made out yet, the way that they're acting like nervous teenagers unsure of what to do with themselves now that her parents are gone.

She takes a deep breath, puts her cocoa down on the coffee table, and decides to stop being such a freaking wuss.

She sits on the couch, and he does as well, and over the course of the movie she adjust their seating position deliberately with a move here or there until they are spooning, his good hand resting against her stomach, his breathing shallow and forced, blanket covering the both of them.

She likes this, being wrapped up in him, his breath mint-sweet and ghosting across her cheek. She likes this probably as much as he does, which is to say this is a really nice way to be.

At least, he's not complaining.

Emma feels heat in her belly, spreading lower, and it is just before the epic final battle that she decides to take measures into her own hands.

Or, rather, hips.

She moves them once, slowly. Then again, pushing back further into Killian so that their hips are flush and she can feel the gasp that he makes as he leans his head against her shoulder. "Emma" he says, voice jagged, and he presses his hips forward into hers.

"Is there a problem?" she asks, voice light, "I thought we were having fun" and he laughs – a strong vibration against her neck.

"I am," he says, hand pressed flat against her stomach, pressing her back into him. "I just – "

"Just go with it," she says, moving his hand upwards towards her breast. This earns her a mouth against her neck, hips pressing forward into hers – she presses back – as he caresses her, fingers dancing under her shirt and skirting along the edge of her bra.

"We have about thirty minutes until Mary-Margaret and David get home," she says, turning her head and her words are captured by his mouth. She licks the taste of peppermint and chocolate from his tongue and the groan he makes is delicious in and of itself. His hand leaves her breast, fingers trailing down her stomach to the button of her jeans.

Killian breaks the kiss and she shifts, finding herself under him while he props himself up over her. His eyes meet hers and ask for permission.

She pulls him down for another kiss in response.

He makes quick work of her button while she makes quick work of his own, reaching for him just as he touches her, making her hips buck in response. His fingers are cold against the heat down there (she is sure her own are not entirely warm either) but he presses his fingers down while she trails her hand up, setting a complimentary pace that seems to work for both of them.

They're still kissing, fingers and hands working at each other, and it's not long before her back arches and she moans her release into his mouth, causing his hips to jerk but he keeps moving his fingers against her most sensitive place (she loses track of anything but the feeling, keeps working her hands to get him there with her) and soon enough he's sighing into her neck, tension releasing from his body.

There's a moment afterwards where she looks at him, brushing the hair off of his face, cupping his chin with her hand. His pupils are wide and she is absolutely sure that the look in his eyes mirrors her own – happy but still a little fearful, entirely unsure of what this means for them both.

She decides to kiss it away.

She presses a kiss against his mouth before pulling away, eyes glancing over at the clock. Ten minutes to spare.

"So are you going to stay over?" Emma asks, feeling like she's a teenager again and about to get caught doing something absolutely illicit by her parents but she fucking loves it, loves the way that he smiles and kisses her, the way that she has to push him up and away so they can clean up and fake like they didn't just make out on the couch in her parent's living room.

"I can't refuse a lady such as yourself," he tells her as they nervously tug at their clothing. "I think I quite like your definition of 'fun'."

But the way that his hand lingers on her hips as they rinse out their cocoa mugs – or the way that neither Mary Margaret or David comment on their obviously guilty looks and tousled hair – or the way that he gratefully accepts the oversized pair of sweatpants and t-shirt – or the way that he slips into her bed and pulls her to him, now comfortable in this position – makes all that line-crossing absolutely worth it.