A/N: A fic I wrote after listening to the song Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros.

On one late but predominantly normal Sunday night Emma comes to the calculated conclusion that Killian Jones is one of the most decidedly useless people on the face of the earth.

It's not an entirely correct statement, given that he's useful for many things – dropping innuendos, making her laugh, hanging with Henry, failing graciously with the difficult task of manoeuvring modern instruments – but in her irritated, tired, hormone induced state of mind Emma fails to see those aspects of his charming utility, focussing mainly on the fact that so far, in what is proving an extremely challenging task, he has done absolutely nothing.

It's not as if she hasn't emphasised the importance of it; she has reminded him on more than one occasion that she's pregnant for god's sake, and that finding a new house is pretty goddamn important unless he wishes to be living in a two bedroom apartment with a family of four because she certainly doesn't.

And yet , upon showing him pictures and webpages of the various suitable houses around Storybrooke he shows a fundamental lack of inspiration and or opinion.

The solution Ruby had given – buy whatever house you fucking want if he doesn't seem to mind – is an entirely logical one, and yet, she doesn't follow through, wanting for some deranged reason for it to be a decision they make together.

It's a feat that is proving exceptionally difficult and after three months of unwavering procrastination and very little progress Emma muses that if she hears one more it's nice the lessons Regina supplied her on controlling her magic will be of little use and she might just spontaneously combust through un-exerted frustration at her wayward husband.

Emma jabs at the arrow key on her laptop with her finger, flickering through the various shots of this particular house like she's done countless times, again trying to muster any detective skills she may have to pinpoint some previously un-noticed factor as to why it might be uninhabitable for her, Killian, Henry and the baby.

Once again – because it is, after all, a regularly performed task – she finds nothing and decides the time has come for her to attempt to ask Killian's opinion on the place, an undertaking which holds an impressive success rate of zero percent.

"This one?" She says with a tone of faint desperation and he looks up from the book he's reading – a recommendation of Belle's, because apparently despite previous attempts at murder they are actually friends – to where she's holding her laptop out to him from the other side of the sofa. "Mm…it's – "

"If you say nice I swear to god I will kick your pirate ass." She interrupts in a warning tone and a guilty smile flirts at the corners of his lips.

"Pleasant?" He says and – using one the legs that's already stationed between his – she kicks him sharply on the side of his thigh and he lets out and indignant ow.

"What is with you?" She demands, taking back her computer and reaching over to put it on the coffee table. He has a muted expression on his face when her eyes flick back to his and he cocks his head in what she can register – through practiced skill – as mock innocence.

"What do you mean?" He asks slowly, folding over the page of his book and placing it by her laptop. Her lack of amusement must play on her expression because his immediately sobers.

"I mean why are you being so…" She struggles to find the right word. Annoying? Infuriating? A pain in the ass? "…reluctant about all of this."

To her annoyance, the mischievous glint in his eye returns and he runs his tongue along his top set of teeth. "Or maybe…" He picks up her foot, running his hand along the underside of her calf "…there are activities I find to be more interesting than house-hunting."

She resists the urge to slap him, choosing instead to sharply withdraw both her legs from in between his and somewhat glare at him as she shakes her head. "Nuh – uh. You are not flirting your way out of this. Not today." If this experience has taught her anything it's that it is quite a favoured method of his, distracting her from pursuing the topic of whether a back yard was big enough with soft lips and persistent – but nevertheless eventually welcome – touches.

He sighs, rubbing at the scruff that lines his jaw in that way that he always does when he's nervous or awkward – two states you wouldn't necessarily expect from a flirtatious and overconfident pirate, but there you have it – "I'm just…not that…bothered." He says.

"Bothered?" She repeats in an incredulous tone because this has been stressing her out – as much as he, and her mother, and pretty much everyone under the sun insists she needs not to stress – and he says he isn't bothered? "You don't care which place becomes our goddamn home?"

He reaches out, taking her hand in his and stroking the top of it with his thumb, toying briefly in a fond manner with the ring that sparkles happily on her finger. He looks up at her, biting his lip slightly. "You are my home."

At that moment Emma can't decide if she wants to cry or facepalm because why, why does he have to be so stupidly adorable when she's trying to mad at him? Because that's who he is. That's the person you fell in love with.

"I said no flirting your way out of this." She says in a tone that lacks conviction.

"You wanted answers." He counters. "That's mine. I don't really mind which house we choose because home…is wherever I'm with you."

A reluctant smile passes her lips – he always seems that manage that – and she nods to where her computer is sitting. "Should we get that one then? The pleasant one?"

"Do you like it?" He asks and she nods, thinking to the large yard and peaceful location and view of the jagged coastline she's indivertibly become quite fond of. He raises her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Wherever you go, darling, I will follow."

"Good." She says quietly and when he tugs on her hand, she obliges, turning around to tuck herself in between his legs. His hand comes down to rub at her swollen belly and she feels the gentle press of his lips against the back of her head.

Okay. So maybe he's not completely useless.

.

.

Years in the foster system can do a strange thing to one's perception of the word home.

Emma had always had a roof over her head and a bed to sleep on, and had used the word home when referring to her current residence, but it was really for want of a better one, and it's only until years later, sitting on the window seat at her house that she realises what it really is.

Home is in the little things – the markers – the one's which her foster homes held a fundamental lacking.

It's in Henry's shoes, the ones that are permanently everywhere because he never puts them away and in Liam's stuffed toys, littered around the floor and doubling as a health hazard to all non-five-year old visitors and residents of the house.

It's in the notes – the one's she leaves and he leaves, one's that say gone to the docks and are sighed with K x or that say gone to the station, signed with an S x because even though her surname is Jones his use of her previous one still stands. (She doesn't mind. It's what he calls her – what only he calls her.)

Home is in the little black marks they have on the wall in the kitchen, marking Liam and Henry's growth every now and then. (Emma likes to look at them sometimes, leaning her head on Killian's shoulder when she feels his presence beside her, feeling a twinge of sadness because they're growing up. She'll feel his lips on her forehead and be reminded that she'll always have him.)

It's in the flowers he brings home because he's a sap like that, thedeputy sheriff's badge that sits beside her sheriff one because he finally agreed to wear it. It's in the X-box controllers that seem to live on the sofa, just waiting to be sat on, the wooded swords that seem to suffer from the same fate.

It's messy, constantly breaking (if it's not the shower it's the sink or the television and remotes are always disappearing) but at the same time, it's perfect, swimming with memories of lazy Sundays spent on the window seat and thanksgiving with Killian throwing bread at David to get his attention because she swears sometimes he is a five year old – it's beautiful and broken and perfectly imperfect.

And it's theirs.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed, reviews are always lovely xx