Today’s 10 minute fic courtesy of @evil–isnt–born who got me thinking about sleepy mornings in the CS house.
There are a lot of things Emma loves about living with Killian, but with all the craziness in their life, curses and portals and alternate universes, the things she loves most are so simple.
Neither of them really sleep all that well, even with each other to turn to in the middle of the night when one nightmare or another takes hold. And at first, she fought it, forcing herself to stay in bed, and she knows Killian did the same. They found other ways to pass the time, and while it was definitely a good time, using sex to sweep their demons under the rug was never going to help them heal.
So they stopped fighting it.
Which is how Emma finds herself in the kitchen, half-asleep and stumbling through making a pot of coffee with Killian wrapped around her, his chin resting on her shoulder. He’s really more of a hinderance than anything, but she doesn’t push him away. It was his nightmare that woke them this time, his fears that have him holding onto her like she’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.
So once she manages to get the damn coffee pot going, she leans back into his arms, a content sigh slipping through her lips. It’s not quite dawn yet, the kitchen filled with the watery, pale light of the approaching day, and it’s quiet. Henry won’t be awake for hours yet, and the stillness is a balm on her bruised and battered heart.
After so much turmoil, after coming so close to losing Killian forever, she can’t ever take for granted these moments.
He hums against her throat as she leans her head back against his shoulder, her hand finding his as his stump rests against her hip. It’s rare he puts the hook on this early, and though he’s still somewhat skittish about Henry seeing him without, he has no such reservations with her.
“I love you,” she says quietly, lacing their fingers together and closing her eyes.
“Is that your way of telling me you’d like breakfast, love?” His accent is thick this early in the morning, sleep still clinging to the words, and she sighs, her eyes popping open to glare at him. The bastard has the nerve to laugh when he sees the look on her face, pressing a kiss to her temple but not relinquishing his hold.
“Haven’t you learned your lesson about teasing me before my coffee?” she grumbles, eying the not-yet-finished coffee pot as Killian’s kisses travel down, tilting her head to give him access to her neck as she shivers.
“Hardly.” The laughter is gone from his voice, and when Emma turns in his arms, he kisses her. It’s the sort of kiss that mornings like this are made for, languid kisses that go on and on as they breathe together. They’re kisses that don’t go anywhere with Henry in the house and liable to come downstairs at any moment, but Emma loves them all the same, and when he finally releases her, he smiles, brushing her hair away from her eyes. “I love you too, Emma.”