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Snow is an early riser, but she knows her daughter isn’t and so she waits, impatiently to be sure, but she waits a good three hours after she dug her wedding binder out of the box in her closet before she tucks it under her arm and heads off to Emma and Killian’s house. Emma gave her a key, for emergencies, she said, but Snow decides that she won’t trouble her daughter or her soon-to-be son-in-law by making them come to the door when she can just as easily… oh. Oh.

Snow stops dead in the doorway, her cheery greeting dying on her lips as she takes in the scene in front of her. She’s always known… well, suspected, to the extent that she ever actually thought about it, that Emma and Killian’s sex life was likely more… adventurous than hers and David’s… than a lot of people’s, probably. Emma is a woman who enjoys a bit of a thrill, and of course Hook —as David still calls him with a snarl in his voice whenever any conversation alludes to the passionate nature of the pirate’s relationship with their daughter— has had three hundred years to refine his techniques and to come up with new twists on old favourites. So actually, all things considered, them fucking on their kitchen table is not even the worst thing she could conceivably have walked in on. 

Though it is pretty mortifying, all the same. 

At least they’ve still got most of their clothes on, is her stray frenzied thought just as Emma yanks Killian’s jeans down and pushes him back on the table, straddling him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him hard. They kiss with their whole mouths, tongues and teeth and wet, needy sounds and Killian makes a growling noise deep in his throat as his hand quests beneath Emma’s short bathrobe, gripping her thigh and pulling her closer, his fingers digging into her flesh. 

Still frozen in the doorway, Snow wavers, unsure of what to do. They haven’t noticed her yet so if she’s quiet she can just creep back out like she was never there… but just as she prepares to go the table creaks and Emma moans, her head thrown back and her thin black bathrobe sliding off her shoulder, and for a moment Snow is transfixed, forgetting she’s watching her daughter, seeing only a man and a woman swept up in the physical expression of intense love. The look on her face as she slides down onto him… the look on his when he is fully seated within her… open and vulnerable and raw with emotion in a way that once, not long ago, Snow could never have imagined either of them capable. She reels at the sight, gripping the door handle for balance as Killian’s hooked arm wraps tightly around Emma’s waist and his hand tangles in her hair, her fingernails digging into his shoulders and back as they begin to move together. 

They are so perfectly in sync, thinks Snow, and a memory flashes through her mind, a thought she firmly quashed once, three years before —has it only been three years?— at the sight of Emma and Hook heading off up the beanstalk, climbing smoothly together, pacing each other perfectly. She didn’t wish to see it at the time but… it’s always been there, hasn’t it, she acknowledges now, that pull of recognition between them. Half battle, half dance, fear and longing and the jagged edges of each catching on the other and refusing to let go. They’ve found their balance now, finally, after so much struggle and strife, so much work put into building up trust and breaking down walls. They deserve the happiness they’ve found with each other. They’ve earned it.

They’ve also earned some damn privacy. 

The table creaks again as Emma shifts the angle of her hips, crying out softly, Killian groaning into her neck as she takes him in deeper. She tugs on his hair until he looks up at her, leans her forehead against his. 

“I love you,” she whispers, and her voice is ragged and wrecked. 

Killian’s hand curves around the back of her head, his hooked arm firm around her waist as he thrusts up into her. “I love you,” he rasps. “Gods, Emma, so much.” 

Emma’s breath is hitching in her throat and the cords of Killian’s neck are drawn tight as Snow finally pulls herself together and slips out the door, closing and locking it as silently as possible, leaving them to find their bliss alone and unobserved. As she heads back down the street she pulls out her phone to send David a text. Whatever dangers threaten Storybrooke that day, they can handle it without the Saviour or her pirate. Snow will see to that.