<b>courfeyrac:</b> *grand plie*<p/><b>courfeyrac:</b> *pirouettes*<p/><b>courfeyrac:</b> *twirls*<p/><b>courfeyrac:</b> *splits*<p/><b>enjolras:</b> what is he doing?<p/><b>combeferre:</b> expressing himself<p/></p>
In all the years he’s spent knowing Emma Swan, Killian has become accustomed to her habits and her routines, has adapted a sort of sixth sense when it comes to reading her and predicting what she’s going to say a millisecond before she says it.
Still, there are moments that she surprises him.
Moments like when they’d spent far too long untangling and putting up Christmas lights in her apartment, a little tipsy on rum, and she’d told him, for the first time, that she was glad that he was in her life.
Moments like when she’d grabbed him by the lapels of his leather jacket and kissed the living sense out of him after she’d showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night.
Moments like when he asked her not to run, and she didn’t.
Moments like– well, like finding her huddled on their couch with a black kitten in her lap, its body curled into a ball and purring a soft rhythm. He’s frozen in place suddenly, the gentleness of the whole picture making his chest feel warm.
“Oh, hey,” Emma says, a little startled, obviously not having heard him come in. Her eyes dart to the takeout bag in his hands. “You brought dinner.”
“I did,” he nods. He turns to the kitchen island and drops down the bags, unable to tear his eyes away from Emma and the small smile on her face as she scratches behind the kitten’s ears. He tries to recall if when he’d left for work this morning, whether or not there was a kitten mulling about. He’s getting old, but not old enough to forget something like that. “Where did that cat come from?”
“I found him on my way back from work, and he looked hungry.” She shrugs, and Killian feels the smile tug on the corner of his mouth. Her compassion is one thing she cannot hide from him, no matter how hard she tries.
“And since when have you been partial to felines?” he teases, sliding down next to her. He curls his fingers into the kitten’s soft fur and hears him purr louder.
“I like cats.” Killian hums disbelievingly. “I do.”
There’s a stripe of white that runs down from the kitten’s nose to the base of his stomach, and Killian grins as Emma traces it from where it begins to the tip of his chin. She does it absently, like she’s already done it a hundred times.
“You know, Liam and I had a black cat much like this one when I was younger,” he muses. It’s one of the fonder memories of his childhood, one that reminds him of the calm in between the harshness of the life he and Liam shared growing up. “His name was Jolly,” he chuckles, more to himself than anything.
The nod Emma gives him is faint. When he looks up at her, she’s got a twist to her lips he can’t quite place. “Liam might have mentioned it to me a few weeks ago,” she mutters out quickly.
It takes Killian a second, his hand hovering to a halt over the kitten’s small paw when he registers her words. He furrows his brows in confusion, but Emma must take it as disapproval because she rushes to explain herself. “I know, I probably should have asked. But, Liam said you loved your cat growing up and that he’d never seen you so happy than when you were playing with him, and I thought, you know, you should have something in your life that makes you that happy. And that, okay, maybe you don’t want a cat, because you would have gotten one yourself if you did, but–”
He stops her rambling by surging forward and pressing his lips to hers. She melts into it immediately, and he feels a swell of adoration for her that’s larger than anything he’s ever felt before.
“You got a cat for me?”
Emma gives him a nonchalant shrug of her right shoulder. “Well, he’s kind of ours, but, yeah.”
“Thank you,” he tells her seriously, so she knows how much it means to him. He kisses her once more, chastely. Against her lips, he murmurs, “But please remember, love, I do have something in my life that makes me that happy. I have you.”
She grins, and then tampers it down a few notches before saying, “Could you not one up me when I’m trying to show you how much you mean to me?”
Killian huffs out a laugh. “I will attempt to keep my displays of adoration for you to a minimum, how about that?” She hums, and he wraps an arm around her and resumes his sifting his fingers through the kitten’s fur. “Swan, honestly, you told me once you’d never have a pet because they were too much effort.”
“Look, buddy, we have the cat, we’re keeping him.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “Besides,” she adds softly prodding the kitten enough that his eyes flutter open in response, “you two have matching eyes. And I already have to deal with you, what’s one more blue eyed guy that steals my bed space?”
Killian releases an affronted noise from the back of his throat. “Well, in that case,” he announces, “I demand that I, too, receive regular cuddling.” He releases her and stretches himself out on the couch, his head in her lap, right next to the kitten who has resumed his nap.
Emma laughs loudly, but buries her other hand in his hair, and caresses him until his eyes drift shut in contented sleep.
Enjolras is forced into piano lessons by his parents because they want a well-rounded son. The force him to practice every single day because they want him to be perfect. Enjolras absolutely abhors it with every fiber of his being. As soon as he’s out of the house he stops playing. Then one day Enjolras hears piano music drifting through the air. He follows it to the source where he finds Grantaire sitting at the bench, eyes closed, playing his heart out. Wordlessly, Enjolras sits down beside him to play the lower parts. And it is the most beautiful sound any of the Amis have ever heard.
So I’m watching Morocco because reasons, mostly because Paige McCullers dressed like the protagonist Amy Jolly in the season 3A finale but also because Marlene Dietrich kisses another lady in it, a rarity in black and white cinema.
I might type up a longer post about the film later, but let me tell you. Dietrich has so much swagger in this movie I almost can’t stand it. Even though it’s not super-duper queer, I can imagine Morocco being the film that made Paige realize she was a big gay-mo. Maybe the movie was something her parents had on VHS, and she wore a hole in the tape between the ages of twelve and sixteen. I can also see her idolizing Amy Jolly and longing to have her levels of confidence, especially when Alison Dilaurentis was giving her so much hell.
Maybe Morocco was the movie that saved Paige’s life.