Christmas in Storybrooke: 3/13
Summary: My Hallmark Christmas movie fic in which flights get cancelled and Henry’s “best friend’ gets snowed in with him in his quirky hometown for Christmas. Only with magic and fairy tale characters.
Yes, you read that right. I outlined this fic, and it will be 13 chapters (well, 12 plus an epilogue) because apparently my muse loves to torture me. Once I finish Sleepless in Seattle, I’ll be updating this daily to hopefully finish by New Years. Hopefully . . .
Rating: M for suggestive scenes and adult situations, not smut
Trigger warnings: Henry is an adult. Read that again: Henry is an adult. Look at the picset: that’s Andrew J. West. If Henry actually behaving like an adult makes you feel icky, the don’t read this.
Tagging @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @kday426 @bethacaciakay @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @distant-rose @yohoyohoafandomlifeforme
Chapter Three: White Christmas
Henry rolled over on the lumpy futon, groaning and arching his back. How had ever slept on this thing as a teenager? Across the room, Evie was still asleep in the bed from the old guest room. She was on her side, one pillow under her head and a second one clutched to her chest. Her brow was furrowed and her fists clenched, and he wondered not for the first time why her body was always so coiled and tense in sleep. She seemed to be so steady most of the time, so unfazed by the rough nature of her work. Did she keep it all bottled inside?
He threw his blankets aside, also casting off such melancholy thoughts about Evie. Maybe she just couldn’t relax in an unfamiliar place while she was missing her family. He pulled a sweatshirt on over his undershirt, put some thick socks on his feet, and padded down the cold hardwood stairs to the second floor. It was quiet there, but he could hear voices drifting up from the ground floor along with the sounds of someone working in the kitchen. Sure enough, he found his siblings scurrying around the kitchen while his stepfather stirred a pan of scrambled eggs at the stove. A timer dinged, and Killian smoothly pushed the pan off the hot burner and opened the oven door to pull out a pan of cinnamon rolls.
“Morning, lad!” he called to Henry, in his usual bright morning voice. Killian’s love of the early hours had always been a source of slight irritation for both Henry and his mother. It never felt right that he was so chipper when the sun was barely rising.
Of course, the upside was having a breakfast chef. Once they had convinced him that broiled mackerel was not a suitable breakfast food, that is.