It’s just one weekend. At Christmas. In New York. With everyone there. With Killian there. It’s fine. Emma doesn’t mind – he’s always there and she wants him to be there and it’ll be good. Great, even. Festive. She’s looking forward to it.
Honestly.
She just hopes she doesn’t do something stupid. Like shout feelings in his face. That probably wouldn’t be very festive.
Rating: Mature. There’s makeouts. And lotsa kissin’. LOTSA KISSIN’ Word Count: Almost 10K. Again. What is control? AN: We’re finally going to talk! And David’s going to play big brother and Mary Margaret owns stationary and Ruth Nolan knows everything and there’s kissing. They kiss. It’s also my anniversary, so this all kind of times up real well. Enjoy @peggyyswan!!! Also on Ao3, FF.net and tag’ed up on Tumblr
Merry Christmas, Swan.
She reads the text at some indeterminate time in the morning because she never really fell asleep and Patrick and Samantha have very good, presumably very expensive wine that she finds in one of the cabinets in a kitchen that isn’t hers.
Patrick and Samantha have an absurd amount of cabinet space.
Emma briefly considers texting Killian that, but it’s probably close to six in the morning and the Merry Christmas text came somewhere around two in the morning and she’s absolutely spent the last four hours considering what that means.
It means he’s not sleeping either, some slightly more mature, human part of her brain is quick to point out, but the rest of her refuses to acknowledge it and it’s a weird war or thoughts and feelings and emotions that result in an empty bottle of very expensive wine and Emma downing a handful of Tylenol before sprinting out the door because she’s, somehow, late.
It All Starts With a Dance 