this-too-too-sullied-flesh:

incredible art by the inimitable @bleebug, who offered to draw a scene from this fic as an enticement for me to actually finish writing it

this is a 3b angst smut fic, post 3.17 aka after “the jolly roger” aka when hook cannot put his mouth on emma’s mouth. very graphic. 

a note: it has always been my personal headcanon that they’ve been sleeping together since neverland. almost all of my s3 fics reflect that idea, and this one is no exception.

---

you don’t have to kiss to be intimate [on ao3]

part 1

“Hook. Hey, Hook! Killian, wait up!”

He slowed down, his back arching as one leg hovered with exaggeration before dropping. Emma sighed as he straightened, waiting for her to catch up. Fucking finally.

“Hey,” she huffed, jogging over to where he’d stopped. “Didn’t you hear me yelling?”

“Sorry, Swan. I did not.” He eyed her askance, the corner of his mouth pulling down into a slight frown. “Apologies. I was merely on my way back to my room.”

Emma tried to ignore the deep, uncomfortable tug in her gut that was telling her that he’d totally heard her, which was hard to do because there was also a deep, uncomfortable yank in her gut telling her that something was going on with him. But it wasn’t like they were confidantes or anything, or even friends, really. So, she let it go, as she’d been doing since he’d looked her square in the eye earlier that evening and lied to her face. She’d actually offered to open herself up to him, and he’d turned her down flat. Fine, whatever; they weren’t friends, or comrades, or even allies. Just two people currently fighting on the same side who occasionally fucked.

And like always, all it took was a slight acknowledgement of it for her mind to start thinking about that exact thing–them fucking, nice and hard.

He was really good at it.

Keep reading

msgenevieve447:

Pairing: Captain Swan – Season 7 adjacent Canon CS Holiday Fic!

Rating:  M

Summary:  She always knew Henry would leave home one day. She just didn’t think he’d leave home for another realm, okay? (Starring Emma Swan and Killian Jones, featuring cameos by Henry, Snow and Charming, mention of Regina and others.)

Notes:  This is probably the schmoopiest Christmas fic I’ve ever written.  Completely and utterly self-indulgent, TBH.  It starts off during 702 but then continues with the Storybrooke timeline and our Captain Swan, completely ignoring the hodge-podge of a timeline created in Season 7, because that makes no sense whatsoever as far as I’m concerned.  Your mileage may vary, of course. LOL.

P.S. THERE BE MENTIONS OF CANON BABIES IN THIS FIC.  

PPS. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, my lovely shipmates. 

~*~

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 coloured 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 gentle 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.

~*~