Someday soon we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Henry leaves Storybrooke on a sunny October morning, the week after Emma's birthday, two weeks before Halloween.

Emma bites back the urge to ask him to wait until after Halloween, until after Thanksgiving, until after Christmas. Maybe even wait until she doesn't look at him and see that little ten year-old standing on her ratty welcome mat outside her Boston apartment, looking up at her with hope brimming in his eyes.

God, she's going to miss him.

He politely shuns his grandmother's best efforts to throw him a going-away party, telling them he doesn't want to make a fuss, or worse, tempt the fates by having a happy celebration at Granny's.

Emma has to admit, the kid has a point.

He's not a kid anymore, though. He's now officially an adult, and that's kind of the problem.

Problem? No, not a problem, she tells herself, as though if she says it enough times, she might actually believe it. She understands why he wants to leave, she does. That doesn't mean she has to be happy about it, though.

But he's gotten enough grief about his travel plans from Regina, so Emma just keeps smiling until her lips feel like they're starting to fray around the edges, matching the tiny threads that are peeling loose around her heart.

Henry makes the rounds of the town in the week before his departure, and Emma can't help feeling proud at the effort he's putting into making his farewells. By the end of the week, she's pretty sure he's consumed his body weight in pizza and soda in the pursuit of spending some quality time with Archie, Granny and the rest of the usual suspects, to steal a line from one of his favourite movies.

In between the pizza fests, he manages to squeeze in a few last motorcycle safety lessons with August, honing his skill to the point where Regina had finally managed to stop watching him through white-knuckled hands.

(This last development? Not exactly Killian's favourite thing, much to Emma's eternal amusement.)

Last night, he'd had dinner with his grandparents and his toddler uncle (and Wilby, she assumes, lying in wait for any dropped crumbs as usual). This morning it was their turn, a late breakfast involving way too much food. The three of them will be eating leftovers for days.

No, wait. Not three. Her breath snags in her throat. The two of them.

Damn it. This is going to be harder than she thought.

Henry's been packed for a month, she knows, but she can't help herself. "You've got Killian's magic message-in-a-bottle-thingy?"

Her son and husband exchange a knowing look over the kitchen table that makes her want to laugh and weep in the same heartbeat. "Sure do." Henry grins at her, and there's the ten year-old kid again. "It was the first thing I packed."

They linger over breakfast, but Emma knows she's just delaying the inevitable, and as much as she might like, she can't wish for the clock to stop ticking. Finally, it's time for him to head to Regina's for one last lunch together and feeling like a child dragging its heels, she follows Henry and Killian to the front door, watching in silence as her husband helps her son don his backpack.

"Enjoy your adventures, mate. Take care of yourself." Killian gathers her son in his arms, a bracing hug with more than a little back-slapping.

"I will." Henry's reply is muffled against Killian's shoulder, making him sound much younger than his years, and Emma's fingernails curl into the swell of her palms. "You'll look after everyone while I'm gone, right?"

"Aye, you can count on it." Killian's eyes are suspiciously bright as he takes a half step back, almost fumbling as he retrieves a small box from the sideboard and presses it into Henry's hand. "A little something for the journey, my lad."

Emma never thought the sight of a box of Pop Tarts could make her cry, but that was her old life. In the here and now, she manages to see that they're S'mores flavour – Henry's favourite – before her eyes blur hotly with tears. "Really?"

Killian's arm tightens around her shoulders, and Henry quickly takes her hand in his. "I'll be home again before you know it."

Blinking back her tears, she squeezes his hand. "I'm fine, really." She's not fine, but that's not Henry's burden to bear. He might be almost as tall as her these days, but it's still her job to keep his heart safe. "Do you need a ride to Regina's?"

Her son's grin is unabashedly proud as he lets go of her hand to smooth his fingertips down the front of his new leather jacket. "My bike's outside."

"Right, of course."

Then Killian is opening the front door, letting in the cool Autumn air, and she has to gulp down the sudden knot in her throat. "I love you, kid."

I'm Henry. I'm your son.

The hug Henry gives her is tight enough to make her ribs creak, and she never wants it to end. "Love you too, Mom."

He extracts himself from her arms with typical teenaged awkwardness, making her heart lurch, but Killian's hand is warm at the small of her back, holding her steady. "Your grandmother may never forgive you for depriving her of organising a farewell party for you, you know."

"I know." Henry looks faintly embarrassed. "I just wanted to say my goodbyes without everyone watching."

A dark memory flashes through her thoughts at her son's choice of words. Beside her, she feels Killian stiffen, but his reply is cheery enough. "Perfectly understandable."

The next few minutes are a blur, another hug, another kiss on her cheek (God, her little boy has stubble on his chin, when the Hell did that happen?), another handshake for Killian. And then he's roaring up the street on his second-hand bike, his new black helmet gleaming in the sunlight, and Emma knows he's taken a piece of her heart with him.

(Not literally, thank God. Sometimes she forgets how often that actually happens around here.)

They linger in the doorway until he disappears from view, and Emma's sigh feels like it's been dredged up from the soles of her feet.

"Interesting turn of phrase." Behind her, Killian lets out a soft breath, his hand coming up to rest on her hip. "Did you tell him of our farewell in the Underworld?"

His tone is light, almost playful, but the weight of memory behind it has her turning to face him. "No, never." She buries her face in the curve on his neck, inhaling the clean tang of him as she wraps her arms around his waist. "Maybe it's in his book?"

"That bloody book." She feels the curve of his smile against her temple. "Is nothing sacred?"

She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a stuttering sob. "Come on, love." His lips are warm against her skin, his hand trailing down her arm to entwine his fingers through hers. "Let's sail away."

Leaving the breakfast dishes in their wake, he leads her back to their bedroom, and in the sunlight strewn tangle of sheets, she lets him chase away the sadness from her thoughts with the heat of his kiss and the silken brush of his skin against hers.

(They leave the condoms in the top drawer, just as they have every time they've - well, you know - for the last year.)

When they fall, breathless and giddy with pleasure, they fall together, his fingers still tightly wound through hers, the pounding of his heart fluttering against her own chest. Closing her eyes, she presses her forehead against his, her free hand slipping unbidden to rest on her belly. Maybe this time, maybe not. If it doesn't happen, Henry will always be enough. She and Killian will be enough.

That doesn't mean she can't hope for more.

"Good thing I didn't bother making the bed," she eventually quips as she rolls onto her side, and he laughs, pressing a smacking kiss to her bare shoulder.

"Well, we now officially have the house to ourselves, Swan." She turns her head just in time to see him wriggle those ridiculous eyebrows of his, his gaze sweeping hotly over her from head to toe. "We may never make the bed again."

They do, of course, because he's a stickler for keeping their cabin shipshape.

Besides, there's always the couch.

Halloween comes and goes without much fanfare, at least in their home. While his Swan is a lifelong devotee of candy, it seems she can't muster the energy to enjoy the festivities with her young man gone.

When they're not dodging national holidays, they go about the business of settling into normality, enjoying the novelty of married life and all the highs and lows that come with it. He would be exquisitely happy if it weren't for the fact that he can literally see the sadness chipping away at the woman he loves.

He does his best to make up for Henry's absence. Some days, he thinks he almost succeeds. Other days, when he finds her wiping away surreptitious tears she doesn't want him to see, he knows he's failed her.

The very real fear that he is not enough sends a chill through his heart far too often, but he is a patient man, and he knows his Swan. She is strong. She will get through this.

When Thanksgiving arrives (yet another gluttonous occasion) a month later, he doesn't have much more luck raising her spirits. Thankfully, her parents are all too happy to fill the gaps in conversation at the late luncheon they host at their farmhouse.

(They'd all already indulged in a sumptuous brunch with Regina, Zelena and young Robyn at the Mayor's mansion, and Killian is quite sure he never needs to eat another candied anything in his lifetime.)

After the meal is done, Emma and her father take the young prince for a stroll around the vast garden behind the house. Killian, knowing the best way to his mother-in-law's heart, insists on helping with the dishes.

"David's normally the one who does the dishes," she informs him with the lofty air of a warrior princess, trying and failing to hide her smile. "I suppose you'll do, though."

They work well together, and they spend a pleasant ten minutes discussing harmless town gossip while the pile of dishes grows smaller and smaller. Eventually, though, her hands grow still, and he follows the line of her gaze through the kitchen window to where her family is engaged in an energetic game of fetch with the dog. "Emma looked a little sad at lunch."

"Aye." He tightens his grip on one of the ornate whiskey glasses that look as though they date from the Enchanted Forest. "She misses the lad, and nothing I do seems to help."

"I'm sure you help a lot. It's just a worried parent thing." Snow flicks him a knowing smile as she plunges her gloved hands back into the soapy water. "You'll be one yourself one day." She bites her lip, then hastens on, "Not that you haven't been an amazing stepfather to Henry-"

"It's fine, love. No offense taken."

Snow hands him one of young Neal's dinner plates, and he can't help smiling at the colour bunnies that adorn it. "You miss him too, I'm sure, just as Charming and I do."

"That I do." There is definitely a Henry-shaped hole in his life, but he's hardly one to complain about a young lad wishing to seek his own story in the world.

"As for being a parent myself one day, I'm not too sure of that." He finds himself thinking of the monthly ritual that always begins with hope and always ends with disappointment. Twelve months in a row, and nary a sign that they might be blessed with an addition to their family. "It's been a year now and we haven't-"

He breaks off, but it's too late. Snow's green eyes are already wide with sparkling delight. "You and Emma are trying to have a baby?"

His mother-in-law has the sense to whisper, but he's still kicking himself for speaking so freely. He tries one of his best leers on for size, hoping to distract her. "Frequently."

The toe of her small booted foot finds his ankle with a pointed jab. "You can cut out the sleazy pirate act, you know we don't buy it anymore."

Damn it.

She's still watching him with those bright green eyes, eyes that always see far too much, just like her daughter. "Yes, we're trying."

He can actually feel the excitement humming through her, and he bumps her shoulder gently with his. "Please wait until Emma tells you herself?"

Snow draws herself up to her full height, her pink-rubber hands laden with suds, and fixes him with a haughty stare. "Are you implying I can't keep a secret?"

He's not sure who starts laughing first, but they're still laughing when Emma and David make their way back to the house, young Neal perched high on his father's shoulders, the canine at their heels. Pausing in her massaging of the dog's ridiculously fuzzy ears, Emma looks from Killian to her mother, then back again. "What's so funny?"

"Granny's giblet patties."

"Food babies." The room seems to grow still at the word babies, and Snow presses her lips together for the second time in as many minutes. "Damn it."

The look Emma tosses at him is one of pure exasperation as David's head swivels, to look first at his daughter, then at Killian. He carefully manoeuvres young Neal down from his shoulders to balance him on one hip, hopeful anticipation etched on his face. "You're not-"

Killian's gaze locks with Emma's, his heart lifting when her expression softens. "No, I'm not pregnant." Reaching out, she takes her little brother from their father's arms, burying her nose in the tangle of curls Killian knows smells of sunshine and soap. "But we're trying."

"And that's where the too much information begins." David is suddenly at Killian's side, grinning as he relieves him of the dishcloth draped over his shoulder. "Why don't you practice your fatherly charms on my son for an hour or so while the ladies relax?"

"With pleasure." Killian clicks his heels together. "Dad."

David winces, and Killian's not entirely sure it's 100% teasing. "Still getting used to that."

Much later that night, Emma stretches out beside him, one leg hooked over his, her hand coming up to give his stomach a gently poke. "Food baby?"

"I'm afraid so, love." He didn't think it was possible for a human being to ingest so much food, but every holiday season in this realm seems to prove him wrong. "Perhaps you should regale me with more tales of my Wish self to ensure I keep myself in good health."

Emma laughs softly, tangling her fingers through the silver charms on his chest. "I'll help you work off those extra calories, I promise." She pokes him in the stomach again, grinning as he groans. "Not tonight, though."

"Definitely not." Rolling onto his side, he gathers her into his arms, relishing the feel of her bare skin against his from chest to knee. There's a lot of be said for having total privacy in one's own home, not to mention being married to a woman who can cast a heating charm with the flick of her slender fingers. "One of the joys of married life surely must be knowing the other person will be there beside you when the sun rises."

"Unless there's another curse, of course," she mumbles sleepily against his shoulder, and he slides his hand down the supple length of her back to bestow a light pinch on the curve of her arse.

"Hush, Swan." She snorts daintily, but burrows closer all the same. "Today is the day for being thankful, not tempting fate."

Lifting her head, she puts a soft hand on his cheek, her gaze burning into his in the darkened room. "No matter how much I miss Henry, never think that I'm not thankful for you. Not just today. Every day."

"And I you." Her mouth tastes of toothpaste and the faintest trace of strawberry lip gloss, and the throaty moan that rumbles from her chest to his as he flicks his tongue against hers is almost his undoing. Thankfully, given he's quite sure his performance would be decidedly subpar, her next kiss is soft and sweet and speaks to him of slumber.

"See you when the sun rises, sailor."

"Aye aye, captain." He rolls onto his back, closes his eyes as she settles into her favourite sleeping position stretched out beside, her hand over his heart. "It's a date."

Less than four scant weeks later, it's Christmas Eve, which means dinner alone at home, just the two of them, before the next day topples them into a maelstrom of family and townsfolk at the Mayor's annual Christmas celebration. Tomorrow they will dine on traditional roast beasts (he does so enjoy that particular joke) and every vegetable under the sun, but tonight?

Tonight they're eating Chinese food and drinking soda, their choice of beverage all the better with which to toast young Master Mills. There will be enough grog flowing at Regina's mansion tomorrow, thanks to the dwarves, and he's more than happy to abstain tonight to ensure he's in peak condition after dinner, as it were.

When they've organised themselves on the couch, cardboard boxes lined up on the coffee table and one of Emma's favourite festive movies flickering on the television, he holds up his glass of soda, clinking it softly against Emma's tumbler. "To Henry."

"To Henry." Her eyes are shining brightly with the threat of tears, but her smile is steady. "He brought me to Storybrooke and gave me a family." She taps her glass against his a second time. "Even though it was an accident, he also led me to you."

"Indeed he did." He grins at her, doing his best to ignore the lump in his throat. "Good lad, that one."

"I guess I always knew he'd have to leave one day."

"It doesn't stop us from missing him, though."

Her sigh makes his heart ache. "No."

"We'll see him again, I'm sure of it."

She lifts her chin, as if accepting an unspoken challenge. "I know."

There's my brave lass.

He puts his glass on the coffee table, then relieves her of her own untouched drink. "Until then, my darling, we'll have to muddle through somehow."

She rolls her eyes at him, but laughter dances in her voice. "You're quoting Christmas songs at me now?"

"I'm a shameless man. If I can borrow from a lovely song that always makes your eyes come over all dreamy, I certainly will."

She's blushing as he bend his head to hers, teasing the curve of her ear with his lips as he sings the words in a whisper. "Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow." He touches his mouth against hers, tasting the warmth of her sigh. "Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow."

Her eyes close, her mouth curving in a small, oddly secret smile. "You should sing more often, you know."

"Outside the shower, you mean?" Her cheeks turn pink, and he knows she's remembering their shared shower of the previous week. By candlelight, no less, which had made all those slippery curves and hollows beneath his questing hand and mouth so much more intriguing. "Perhaps I'll finally be tempted to join in with Granny and her kraken machine tomorrow."

Her laughter is music to his ears and eyes, her smile lighting up her whole face. "That's karaoke and you know it."

(They both know it will be a cold day in the Underworld before he sings modern ditties in public.)

"Speaking of tomorrow." Her gaze meets his with such tender force that he can't help blinking. "I have an early Christmas present for you." She shifts closer, but makes no move to retrieve a gift from beneath the glowing tree, which in hindsight, should have been his first clue. "Which is ironic, really," she mutters almost to herself, "the early part, I mean, because it's all about being late when you think about it."

As he struggles to catch up with these enigmatic words, she takes his hand and slips it beneath the hem of her shirt, encouraging him to touch her belly, stroke his fingertips from her navel to the swell of her pubic bone.

"Guess what?"

It all comes together with a click, in his head, in his heart, beneath his suddenly trembling hand. His chest grows tight, his tongue suddenly refusing to work properly. He looks at his wife imploringly. "Swan?"

Pressing his hand to her belly, she leans forward, her nose almost touching his. "That's not a food baby."

Joy courses through him, and he finds himself sliding off the couch, sinking to his knees in front of her, his hip banging painfully on the side of the coffee table. He doesn't care. How he doesn't tumble the boxes of Chinese takeout to the floor, he has no idea.

"Are you sure?"

"Two positive tests and a doctor's visit this morning say yes."

"Bloody hell." He kisses her once, then twice, then she's showering his face with kisses of her own, her cheek wet with tears against his. In between kisses, she cups his face in her hands, finding his eyes with hers.

"Do you mind that I went to the doctor without you?"

He opens his mouth to deny the gentle charge, then searches his heart. There are no lies or half-truths between them. Not anymore. "A little, perhaps."

"You were so busy helping Regina set up for the party this morning and I just couldn't wait." She brushes her thumbs at the dampness on his face. "It's also nice to be able to tell you when we're alone." Her smile is as radiant as their festive tree, and he suddenly knows exactly what she's going to say. "You know, without everyone watching."

His heart is so full, he's not sure he can find the right words. In the end, it's a simple thing. "I love you."

"I love you."

Dashing his eyes with the back of his hand, he clears his throat. "My gift can't possibly compare," he gestures towards the tree, feeling positively giddy. "But if I may?"

She beams at him. "Definitely."

A moment later, she stares at the small jewellery box, her eyes widening with surprise. "Where on earth did you get this?"

It's exactly the reaction for which he'd been hoping, and makes two months of fretting utterly worth it. "Marco knows a little pixie silversmith."

"Of course he does," Emma laughs. "God, it's beautiful." Pulling the rose gold chain from the box, she holds it up so the small compass charm catches the light from the fireplace, her gaze intent. "Wait. It looks exactly the same as the one we had to steal from Anton."

"The pixie silversmith takes direction very well."

She looks at him. "You designed this?"

"Well, I'm not one to brag-"

She doesn't deign to rebuke such an obvious untruth. "From memory?"

"Of course." Taken the chain from her hand, he drapes it carefully around her neck. "I remember every single detail of our first adventure together."

Her smile is a beautiful, trembling thing. "You are something else, you know that?" The tenderness in her gaze makes his knees turn to water, making him thankful he's resumed his seat on the couch beside her. She pulls the thick curtain of her hair aside so he can settle the chain against the nape of her neck, smiling when he feels the goosepimpled skin beneath his fingertips.

The new chain and compass charm gleam against her skin, and he has a sudden (and lurid) image of her wearing nothing else, her naked body dappled with the colourful reflection from the Christmas lights.

(They haven't christened that particular rug yet, he realises.)

He touches one fingertip to the compass, the memory of weighing its full-size counterpart in his hand seared into his soul. He didn't know it then, of course, but that moment had been the beginning of a long and winding journey to his own happy ending.

"Swan, I don't care if we have to muddle through, or if we know exactly where we're going in this life." He smooths her hair back, letting his fingers linger in its golden strands. "There is nowhere else I'd rather be than at your side."

"Me too." Her answering kiss is filled with the same promise she made on their wedding day, making his heart race. "Merry Christmas." Her dimples flash in her cheeks, and he braces himself for the teasing he knows is coming. "Dad."

He grins. "Unlike your father, I am going to greatly relish getting used to that."

In the end, they don't make it far enough to christen the rug, but that's okay. As luck would have it, the reflection of the Christmas lights do reach as far as the couch, bathing them both in a myriad of colours as they slowly move together, the lights flickering wildly as Emma finds her peak, seeming to keep time with her pleasured gasps.

Afterwards, he gathers his breathless, languid wife into his arms, half-wondering if he should make the effort to heat up their cold takeout so she doesn't miss out on eating a proper meal. She kisses the skin above his hammering heart, then brings his hand down to touch the tiny swell of her belly, derailing that thought. "I never thought I'd get to have any of this."

Just when he thinks there are no surprises left in this evening, she finds a new way to make him fall in love with her even more. "I know that feeling all too well, love."

They kiss, long and slow and sweet, and when it's over, she breathes out a long sigh of contentment. "Should we tell my parents the good news tomorrow?"

"Definitely." He grins. "There is a chance Regina might be annoyed at us stealing her thunder at her own party."

Emma's eyes light up with mischief. "Wouldn't that be a terrible shame?"

Pirate, he thinks proudly but doesn't say. By the impudent smile she flashes in his direction, however, he knows she's read his thoughts. Definitely a pirate.

They eat their reheated Chinese takeout much later than can be considered sensible for a pair of responsible adults, but Emma assures him they don't have to set anyone a good example for at least another six months.

As the clock ticks past midnight, taking them into Christmas Day morn, he dreams of golden hair and compasses, of ogres and beasties, the flash of swords at mock battle and the gurgle of the young Charming prince's laughter. Henry – no longer a boy but a man – embracing his mother, both their faces alight with identical joy. Emma's face glowing with effort and pride, the weight of a squirming babe placed in his arms.

Killian wakes at dawn, faintly bewildered by the array of dream realms his mind had seen fit to visit as he'd slept, but he feels an odd sense of peace, his heart fuller than he could have ever imagined. His family's course is now set true and, no matter what lies ahead, no matter which realm in which they find themselves, they will never lose their bearings again.