He had once told her he was always a gentleman and that was true.
Well, most of the time; sometimes he could be quite something else altogether.
It showed in many different ways: some subtle, some more overt.
He had this thing about doors. Specifically opening them for her. Every time they approached one he would quicken his pace and pull it to with a flourish, often with silky 'ladies first' to accompany the gesture.
The first time he did this in the bug she had laughed. Rushing out of the car, he had raced around the hood and opened her door whilst she stared at him open mouthed. The second time she had actually found it a bit irritating, she was perfectly capable of opening her own door.
But now it was so natural she had came to accept it - well perhaps with only yet odd bit of chiding here and then. Secretly she had thought it was romantic - chivalrous almost.
He was so damn old fashioned.
But she liked it.
Every morning without fail he would wake her with a kiss. Sometimes on her neck or lips, occasionally her shoulder and once or twice on the soft curve of her breast. Every day he would say 'good morning beautiful', gazing down at her with those shimmering blue eyes, making her heart beat faster.
He was quite the gentleman.
She wasn't used to being treated like this - such care and devotion, it made her blush.
The first time he had had to leave her was to undertake a mission requested by David. He had lavished her with attention in the hours before he departed. Holding her. Whispering sweet nothings. Promising to think of her every minute he was gone.
Then he had shown her just how much he was going to miss her. The memory of his passion made her toes curl and her hips buck.
Yes, he still had an inkling for his rum. She had laughed when he told her one night that he had once abhorred alcohol - would never let a drop pass his lips. The idea of Killian, her Killian, without that spicy dark scent of rum seemed crazy. That said, in their courtship she had never once seen him drunk. He was always lucid, clear, on the right side of that hazy alcohol line. Like he didn't want to waste a moment of his time her - didn't want to risk not remembering something.
One thing he seemed to love to do was to wash her hair. It had started when he had dislocated her shoulder tracking down a petty thief on Main Street. Dr Whale had managed to manoeuvre it back into place but she was ordered to rest it. Taking a bath later that night she had called to him shyly, asked him for help.
With great pleasure he had squeezed the shampoo onto her hair, using his hand to lather up the suds and spread them over her scalp. He worked the soap into ever strand, twisting and sliding his fingers through it.
A few days later, now healed, she was in the shower when he appeared behind her, she'd smiled - showers were his favourite thing about this world. Well that and the activities you could get up to in them… But rather than puller her body to his, he took up the same bottle and began to work away at her hair once more. She asked him why he did this. He had shrugged and said it made him feel close to her. So she'd let him continue, laying back into him, enjoying the tickling trails of soap that ran down her body.
And so it had become a little ritual they had - one of many that evolved.
One cold morning she had taught him to make hot chocolate with her secret ingredient of cinnamon. His eyes had lit up as he sipped his drink - the look that crossed his face was one she had previously only seen in more private moments. Henceforth every Sunday morning, after he had given her his usual greeting, he padded downstairs before returning with two steaming cups, liberally topped with whipped cream.
It was so sweet, if not also hilarious as she thought of the famous Captain Hook, working away in her kitchen.
There was actually not much pirate left in him now. The Hook remained. Whale had offered to fashion something more useful, but Killian had rejected his offer - he said it served as a reminder of what he once was. However he did accept a prosthetic hand - more natural than his wooden one, he wore it when the occasion fitted.
It was a sad day for Emma when the leather had been retired to the closet. He had clung to it for weeks - it was his armour she had guessed. But as much as she liked it it wasn't all that practical in Storybrooke. But she missed feeling the soft hyde bunched up in her hands and the way it slid over her skin.
One night he had surprised her, waking her up while it was sill dark and the stars twinkled outside their window. As her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she had realised what he was wearing. The coat. The vest. The pants… Oh her certainly knew how to treat a lady. Gleefully she had pulled him towards her, shedding only some of the leather before he ravished her over and over again.
He was like that. Perceptive. Thoughtful. Annoyingly so.
She once told him that she liked buttercups. They reminded her one of her foster homes - The Adams. They and been kind to her. Buttercups had flourished in their back yard. Whenever she saw one she thought of those happy moments that had been so rare in her childhood.
After working late one day the apartment had been silent on her return. Creeping into their bedroom she had found the comforter covered in buttercups. Hundreds of buttercups. It must have taken him hours to collect them. The thought of him picking flowers in a field just to make her smile caused her heart to soar and her to let out a little giggle.
You see, as much as he was a man (and yes, he was certainly that) and as much as he cared and protected her, it was his little idiosyncrasies and quirks that made him so special - helped him creep into her heart.
He was a gentleman like he said.
And she loved him for it.
More of a drabble/head cannon than a fic I know! Please review it you liked this!