A/N: JMo called Killian Emma’s ‘sort of boyfriend,' did you honestly think I wasn't going to fic that?? :3
“Well…what is he?”
Emma goes red at the question, heat creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks. She whisks at the eggs in her bowl a little too furiously. “I don’t know.”
“Mom,” Henry rolls his eyes. “Of course you know. Is he your…True Love?”
He beams at that, wiggles his eyebrows a little too suggestively and she swears he’s spending way too much time with Killian. (Her heart sighs a little, just a little.)
“I don’t know, kid. We haven’t…really gotten to test that theory out yet.” She is grateful there are no curses to break okay? Extremely grateful.
“Do you want him to be?”
Her stomach clenches, a large ball of anxiety lodging itself in her throat and Jesus, she can’t breathe. He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like there’s not a bunch of…stuff complicating a lot of…things. She sighs and rolls her eyes back, feigning her indifference.
“Isn’t this a little heavy of a conversation to be having over breakfast?”
Her son gives her a look, expression completely unamused. “We used to have conversations like this all the time over video games, breakfast is nothing. If anything, it’s better.”
Emma sets her whisk down, turns to face Henry while bracing her hip on the counter. She doesn’t know what she intends to say, everything slipping from her mind the minute his sweet hazel eyes meet hers. He watches patiently — knowingly, happyily — and then smiles at her when the silence stretches on and she frowns, scrunching her nose in distaste.
“You like him,” Henry tells her.
“It’s…new, ya know?” she replies, unsure what exactly she’s trying to justify and why. “And…exciting still. Fresh.”
“You like him a lot.”
Her face warms again and she resists the urge to press her palms to her cheeks.
“I think it’s safe to call him your ‘sort of boyfriend,’” Henry nods as if his decision is final.
God. The breath wheezes out of her. “He is not my…‘sort of-”
The rustle in the doorway shuts her up, has her green eyes going wide as she takes him in — all sleepy-eyed still with his hair mussed (not from her fingers unfortunately — he’d slept with Henry in the living room in their blanket fort last night, after a movie marathon and too many bowls of popcorn) and sticking up every which way — and hopes to God that he didn’t hear the earlier part of her and Henry’s conversation because shit.
“Morning,” he greets, then sniffs at the air. “Pancakes?”
“Better,” Henry answers, kicking out the stool beside him so Killian can sit with him at the island. “Omelets.”
He ruffles Henry’s hair but bypasses his seat. “‘Omelets?’ Not sure I’m familiar with those.”
“You’ll like them,” she tells him, swallowing thickly when he turns those baby blues on her.
He slides right on in, like he’s been doing it forever (damn him), and kisses her gently on the mouth. He lingers only a little (for Henry’s sake) but she feels it all the way to her toes, feels the press of his fingers against her hip and almost groans when they slip just a little beneath her shirt (he’s such a dummy). He presses his lips to her forehead and grins at her.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hey,” she breathes on a very unsteady breath.
Killian stares for a moment more, eyes flittering over the curves of her face and somehow she knows he’s memorizing how she looks in the morning. He strokes over the dent in her chin and sighs softly, contentedly, before he’s padding back to sit beside Henry who passes him a mug of hot chocolate. Their cups clink cheerfully and she can’t keep from smiling at the picture they make — her two favorite, handsome guys.
Henry looks at her over the rim of his cup, brow arching up pointedly. Sort of boyfriend, he smirks.
Emma rolls her eyes once more and hides her answering grin by turning around and picking up her whisk again. Maybe Henry’s right.
And maybe she doesn’t mind one bit.
Stiles knows for a fact that if he wants to marry Derek, he’s going to have to ask for himself. It’s not because Derek doesn’t love him or doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life with him. It’s just that when your existence reaches a certain level of terrible, you never quite get back to the point where you don’t completely fear rejection.
Apparently Stiles is awful at this though. He has fucked up about…8 times at this point.
One. The park. Tripped over a dog. Had to go to the emergency room for a broken arm.
Two. Candlelit dinner. Set the tablecloth on fire.
Three. Stargazing on the roof. Rain. So, so much rain. There had been a month long drought beforehand. Like it had just been waiting to fuck up Stiles’ plans.
Four. Their bed. Derek fell asleep. Stiles absolutely did not consider drawing a dick on his face in retaliation. Because that would be juvenile.
Five. Times Square on their weekend trip to New York. Too. Many. Fucking. People.
Six. Hike in the woods. He was so out of shape. Oh my god, worst decision ever.
Seven. Baseball game. Another couple swiped their moment! The fucking jackasses. He hopes the only color available for bridesmaid dresses is goddamn peach.
Eight. At a barbecue with friends and family. Why did he think that would be a good idea? Did he forget who he associated with? No. Just no.
In the end, this is how it goes:
Stiles and Derek are getting groceries like they do every Saturday. They have rituals at this point and seriously Stiles loves it. It’s the absolute bomb-diggity. He’s standing in the condom isle, reading the ingredients on a bottle of lube. He chews on the corner of his mouth, can feel his eyebrows creasing toward each other in the middle.
And from some eerie, otherworldly place in existence, he hears Derek’s voice say the words, “Marry me.”
Stiles’ head snaps up to see Derek, eyes huge and round, expressive brows climbing his forehead, and the bag of peas he’d gone to retrieve clutched in his right hand.
Stiles looks at the shelf full of condom brands and then back at Derek, “What?”
"Um. I didn’t. I mean—if you. We don’t. Uh."
Stiles tries really hard not to smile. He has a weakness for flustered Derek Hale. Hell, he has a weakness for any Derek Hale. “Did you just ask me to marry you?”
"I—um. Well I mean, it—yes."
Stiles set the lube back on the shelf, plucks the peas from Derek’s hand and plops them in the cart. “Did you um,” he looks down at the top of his shoes and back up through his lashes. “Did you mean it?”
Derek looks at him consideringly for a moment, “Yeah. Yeah I did.”
Stiles smiles, feels like he won’t ever be able to stop now that he’s started. He puts his hand to the back of Derek’s neck and pulls him infor a kiss. “Definitely,” he says, his breath ghosting across both of their lips.
"Really?" Derek sounds so disbelieving that Stiles can barely contain all his emotions inside his chest.
He nods. Goes in to kiss him again. “Wait,” he stops, pulling back a bit. “Did you get rings, dude?”
"Uh, no it was kind of a…spur of the moment thing."
"Oh good. Because I have some under our mattress at home."
"You said I imagined it being lumpy!" Derek exclaims, indignant but still happy underneath. "You fucking liar."
"Oh my god, Der. Shut up,” Stiles orders. And then he makes him.
They tell their friends that Derek proposed at the grocery store. They lie about being in the cereal isle.
Emma slammed her glass back down on the counter. Granny raised an eyebrow.
"Think you’ve had enough there, hon?"
"Nnnnnnnnnnope," Emma’s voice was thick and her speech clipped. "Not ‘til it stops being so freaking cold out there. ’Nother one."
Granny raised an eyebrow, reluctantly pouring Emma another drink. She breathed a sigh of relief as the back door opened and Killian entered the diner, pausing and raising an eyebrow at the sight of his princess practically doubled over against the counter. Granny crossed to intercept him.
"She’s been ranting on and on about some movie for a couple hours now." She whispered. "Don’t let her drive back to her apartment like this—her parents would never forgive me."
Killian nodded, eyes never leaving Emma’s crumpled form. “Aye,” he agreed, and sauntered over to sit beside her. He rested his hand gently on her shoulder. ”Something on your mind, love?”
"Frozen," She mumbled. "You know I took Henry to see that in New York. He loved it. Loved Elsa. The Ice Queen. The stupid Ice Queen who is apparently ALSO a real person because NOTHING in my life is allowed to be fictional—" a hiccup and a disgruntled swig from her glass interrupted her tirade.