She knows where the door to the pet shelter is. Because ever since he was four Henry has had a weakness for gluing his little nose to any glass surface behind which could be found kittens. And maybe she has always had a weakness for places like that… temporary homes for those still looking for one – maybe she has identified with a fish or two. Mostly because, in the last couple of weeks – despite her firm and repetitive pronouncements that no, they are not getting a pet – Henry has called her to pick him up from the shelter at least 4 times.
Point is she knows where the freaking door is, which is why she is not really looking for it but rather staring at her Instagram feed and Killian's #planesunrise photo from a few hours ago and trying to figure out (and convince herself that she is not mad or anything) why he didn't tell her where he was going.
Point is she is not looking where she is going. Which is how she ends up in one of those run smackdab into a solid, decisively manly, chest scenarios, with them steady you from falling over and breaking a phone or an ankle and all that jazz.
And usually Emma wouldn't give such a romcom cliché a second thought but then again she has been softening towards romcom clichés lately. Which of course comes part and parcel with the reason to not really care about such "meet cutes" – her having a boyfriend or whatever.
And as she looks up she knows few meets can top the cute of her own meet cute with a certain author slash self-proclaimed "dashing man of letters". Except she looks up into the laughing blue eyes of said dashing man.
"You probably get this line all the time, lass, but I really feel like I've seen you somewhere before."
She blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Killian just stands there – smirk undiminishing, hand warm and firm on her bicep, eyes bluer than she remembers.
Taller than he remembers as well, Emma thinks as she lifts up on her toes and kisses him for all she is worth. There's a sound of surprise somewhere in the back of his throat but his hand slips into her hair and he winds his left arm around her waist to draw her closer so she thinks he got the hint.
You know those things you remember but you don't really remember them that clearly but you know they were good so you just kinda keep building them up in your head until you remember them being much better than they could've possibly been? Yeah, kissing Killian Jones was not one of those things.
Kissing Killian Jones was just as good as she remembered. Perhaps even a bit better, seeing as she wasn't freezing her ass off this time around.
There's a throat clearing from somewhere in their general vicinity after what Emma thinks cannot have been more than a minute. And she really needs more than a minute to reacquaint herself with Killian's lips and make up for not feeling them for over two months.
But if he thinks the same (and the little displeased sigh against her mouth seems to indicate that he does), he has better control over himself because he actually manages to pull back and give her an almost embarrassed smile.
Which is ridiculous. She is the one who kissed him. And it was far from embarrassing in her subjective opinion. And he is her boyfriend so people could mind their business.
"Hey!"
Three pairs of eyes turn on her simultaneously and she takes in Henry and David standing just a few feet from them – one looking victorious as all hell and the other balancing the line between amused and willing to call them in for public indecency – and restrains herself from turning on Killian and yelling 'I can finally call you my "boyfriend" without adding "or whatever"!' in his face.
"Hi. I mean… hi."
Good cover, Emma.
David gives her a smile that tops Killian's embarrassment about a dozen times and waves.
"I'll… ummm, see you inside? For the papers and stuff?"
Everyone else seems to know what is going on and Killian just gives David a firm nod while Henry beams with what looks like yet another check in his victory column.
"So… not that I mind. In the least. But… any particular reason you are here?"
Her. She wants the reason to be her. But she has officially gotten a hold on her inner monologue.
"Ah, yes. Hello, love."
To his credit, Killian leans over and gives her a little peck in the corner of her mouth as if she didn't just attack him with her mouth a few seconds ago and proceeds to steer her towards the pet shelter's door that she was so convinced she could find without looking up from her phone with a hand on the small of her back as if they walked side by side all day every day.
It feels nice.
Feels more than nice if she is gonna be honest with herself here.
"I seem to have woken up convinced that I am in desperate need of a pet. Something about the unfriendly image that "a brooding author living with nothing but his books" projects."
She glares at Henry and gives him a little shove to go into the store before them.
"And there are no pet stores in Storybrooke?"
"None, I'm afraid. Plus you hear so much about the quality and friendliness of pet shelters in New York."
"Oh, I have no doubt you do," she adds with another pointed look at her son.
"And with good reason as well," David finds it necessary to chip in.
Killian exits the pet shelter one 3-year-old cat heavier. Emma exits just a little bit more in love.
/
He has three days before he has to fly to LA. Has to go give his blessing to the actors being cast in the main roles in New Tales from the Old Forest Volume 1.
Emma still forgets (shockingly often) exactly how famous and successful and rich her boyfriend is. Which is why the very mention of the movie is enough to make her a bit anxious about what they can possibly do in 3 days that won't be completely erased in minutes by the glamour of Hollywood.
For his part Killian seems mainly anxious about "not imposing on their hospitality". Which is… once again – ridiculous. She tells him so.
They both seem a lot less anxious after that.
/
When Henry has been in bed for over two hours and Scrawny has been asleep ever since they made him a bed of more pillows than he has probably seen in his life, and between the two of them they have gone through 2 cups of tea and 2 ½ cups of hot cocoa, 3 episodes of Modern Family and almost a dozen childhood stories of varying degrees of playfulness or sadness, he watches Emma Swan try to hide a yawn into the shoulder that's not pressed into his.
"Bedtime, Swan?"
"Mmmno," she mumbles rebelliously. "You're here."
It tugs at his heart in ways and places he had forgotten existed and in a few that he maybe never knew to begin with. Her voice, her breath on the side of his neck, the little pop of her jaw as she yawns yet again, her soft words, the very sentiment behind them.
The fact that she doesn't want to fall asleep because she doesn't want to waste any of their time together.
"And I'll be here tomorrow."
"And the day after that and then the day after you'll be off sunbathing in California."
Conscious as he is of the boy sleeping down the hall, he can't help the deep laugh that escapes him at her grumbling.
"I will be in my hotel room, clutching my laptop and ruining the moment I got on a plane that was bound to take me so far from you."
He feels her breath hitch and squeezes his eyes shut.
Bloody buggering fuck. Too much, Jones.
Still, he doesn't expect her to pull away completely and get up, doesn't know if he should ask for a pillow or offer to take himself to a hotel now that he has gone and buggered it up the way only he can.
"Bedtime, Jones?"
He opens his eyes and she is there, standing in front of him, one hand extended and an almost bashful smile on her lovely face.
It is probably not the best moment for him to realize exactly how many years in has been since he last took a woman to bed in any capacity. But he doesn't have much time to dwell on this or on exactly how presumptuous he wants to allow himself to be, how presumptuous Emma might want him to be.
From the moment he gathers the courage to place his hand in hers, he doesn't need to do any gathering for much else. Everything with Emma is just so so easy. Shockingly, almost frighteningly, easy.
She shows him the way to her bedroom, shows him which side she sleeps on, shows him how to take his bloody shirt off when she is already in her PJs and he seems to have forgotten how to move, shows him how it feels to have someone touch parts of him – missing parts – in ways that make him forgot what he lacks, make him so very aware of what he has.
She doesn't have to show him how to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her and make them both unaware that there's anything else to be done in life beside breathing against each other and touching lips, doesn't have to show him how to nudge the fabric of her top off her shoulder, she doesn't have to show him where she keeps the condoms because he feels like a night of learning the contours of her mouth is still not time enough.
She shows him how she wants to fall asleep – with his front pressed to her back and his nose in her shoulder and his stump around her waist. But she doesn't have to show him how easy it is to drift off with her in his arms.
/
They get coffee from Granny's. She actually, honest-to-God pinches Killian's cheeks and mutters something about them not being in Storybrooke and her not Irishing up his coffee and he blushes something fierce, mutters about not doing that anymore and glances at Emma with a heartbreaking combination of embarrassment and fear and she just glues herself to his side and kisses his rose cheek and asks for another of whatever he is having.
And when she picks up their to-go cups, just because she has been thinking about it ever since she talked to Ruby and decided to do it only to never actually work up the courage to ask, Emma lifts herself up over the counter and grabs one of Granny's Sharpies.
She tries to think of something witty, then she tries to think of something sweet, then she realizes she is dealing with a freaking bestselling author and just draws a little swan.
Then she thinks 'in for a penny, in for a pound' and draws a couple of hearts around the poor bird's head for good measure.
/
He doesn't know why he is nervous.
Killian likes him. He is convinced that is the case. And he more than likes his mom. And he did plan a 3-day layover just to help him convince David to finally ask Ms Blanchard out (operation success: pending…)
And he seems to smile a lot. And laugh. And not just around his mom but around him as well. And generally seems to enjoy his company.
But then… Henry knows he must have books to write and movies to make now. Though Killian did point out that he'd actually have very little to do with the actual making of the movie now that he's handed in his reworked script.
Still. He is a busy guy. A famous guy. A guy who maybe doesn't have kids because he doesn't wanna deal with kids and having to go to their birthday parties and buy them presents. Not that he has to get him a present.
Henry makes sure to point that out as he transfers the invitation in his other hand for the sixth time since he took it out on the table. In the restaurant Killian took them to. The very nice restaurant. The colourful piece of paper stands out against the white tablecloth in a way that makes Henry even more nervous.
"And what self-respected guest is going to show up to a birthday party without a present for the guest of honour? A little more faith, lad?"
He looks up at Killian grinning at him like he invited him to Christmas in summer and not just to have cake in their apartment with a bunch of other kids and thinks, yup, Killian definitely likes him.
He decides that is the right moment to point out that Scrawny needs to stay with them while Killian comes back from LA as well.
His mom takes surprisingly little persuading. He thinks that might have something to do with the fact that Killian will have to stop by NY again to collect the cat. But what does he know, he is just a kid.
A kid who is gonna have all his favourite people on his birthday.
/
The second night she has him in her bed, she probably couldn't have kept her hands to herself, even if she wanted to. Which she doesn't want in the least. And he doesn't seem to either.
She wants her hands and her mouth on everything single sensitive, ticklish, scarred or flushed inch of him. And that's exactly where she puts them.
/
As the stewardess brings him his coffee, he tells himself he is not sentimental enough to take out the cupholders tucked in the inner pocket of his satchel. But, in the interest of full disclosure, he really doesn't need to. He can probably trace every single doodle in the air from sheer memory. This morning's being by far his favourite.
It's a little plane with books stacked right on top of it, struggling to take off and leaving little hearts behind it instead of fumes.
He hasn't even landed yet and he can't wait to leave LA.