happyyyy birthdayyyy

A/N: Bet you thought you’d seen the last of this. I was all set to write something for i-know-how-you-kiss’s birthday and a little birdie told me she might like something in this ‘verse. 

So this little instalment is a special edition one shot set in Whatever Floats Your Boat.

Happyyyy Birthdayyyy Liiiz, my little chocolate croissant :)

Whatever Floats Your Boat

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Appendix 1: Cook Books

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It was an accident.

She must have put them on the table at least a hundred times before, kicking, resting and slamming her boots or bare feet against the wooden surface  - but evidently, this was one time to many.

In the months they’d been living together, Emma and Killian had finally managed to clean Liam’s place properly, and create some sort of organisation for Killian’s ever growing personal library. The furniture in their apartment grew - the rug they had bought was particularly useful to cut out some of the annoying echo - but easily the thing they owned most of were books. Some of them had been moved from the boat before they started leasing it out, others had simply found their way out of Killian’s boxes, and even Emma’s suitcase.

(Not to mention Killian’s insistence that this time they shouldn’t let her staff discount go to waste.)

But the coffee table was the one concession to disorder that they made.

He had been quite attached and proud of himself for building the legs, sturdily out of an array of books that seemingly would not have seemed secure. They were mostly hardback novels – Margaret Atwood, Dickens, Ian Rankin – but many of them were wider more physically imposing books - atlases, recipe books, children’s picture books (she had spotted Animalia there some weeks back under a Jamie Oliver, reminding her briefly of sadder times past).

However, it didn’t seem to matter what kind of book was a part of it when Emma’s feet hit the table, because the whole thing wobbled, collapsing in a massive spread on the floor. It’d almost occurred in slow motion, Emma cursing the thing and herself before it had even fully begun to sway. It took her a moment to even really react, groaning in annoyance rather than jumping up in shock - her life seemed perpetually at risk of toppling piles of books.

(And it was almost always his fault.)

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