"Dave, I swear by all the gods, if you do not stop humming that bleeding song, I will not be held responsible for my actions, bloody fur suit or no."

Killian's bitter muttering was soundly ignored by David as the man continued to straighten up the area, making sure the candy canes and holly were all arranged just so. All while humming yet another off key rendition of "Rocking Around The Christmas Tree."

Killian had swung back his foot to deliver a well deserved blow to David's shins when he heard, "Oh good you are both here!"

The reason for his being here seemed to have finally arrived. And he was still trying to wrap his head around how he'd been talked into being here. After finding excuses to not do this for the last four years, he somehow got suckered in.

But as Mary Margaret practically floated around the corner in an adorable elf outfit and sparkles on her cheeks, he couldn't find it in himself to mind too much. She hurried up to him with a beaming smile, "Thank you so much for helping us Killian!"

Then she threw her arms around him in her usual attack hug style. For such a tiny woman, her hugs always seemed to engulf him, and he gave her a tight squeeze in return as the warm sensation of home that Mary Margaret seemed to carry around settled over him.

Just like it had from the very beginning.

Killian gestured to the bartender for another round, doing his best to keep his mind occupied by the game of footie that was flickering on the giant flatscreen on the far wall of the bar. But as he watched the players throw themselves around the pitch, his mind would wander back to games of his past and the bitter taste he'd been trying to wash out all night would come back with a vengeance.

Another year gone without his brother.

As if on cue, another glass of rum appeared in front of him. And he must have looked a pretty pathetic sight, because it seemed the bartender had poured him a double without his having to ask for it.

"Cheers mate," he managed to cough out, before he grabbed the glass and tossed back half its contents, licking at his teeth as the rum went down. He waited for the burn to hit, but it appeared he was past that point in his evening. He needed to take himself back to his flat to continue drinking, because trying to get to the point of inebriation he was looking for would take too large a chunk out of his wallet.

He tossed back the second portion of his glass and went to pull his wallet from his back pocket when he was stopped by a voice.

"You look like you could unload a bit." He looked up to see that the bartender was standing in front of him, a sympathetic look on his face.

Killian sneered at him, "I'm just fine, mate. I'm paying for rum, not therapy."

But the bartender just raised his eyebrow, not dissuaded. "I'll tell you what- if you stay and drink here, I won't charge you for it."

Killian blinked, the lag in his thoughts trying to comprehend that sentiment. He narrowed his eyes in confusion, "Why the bloody hell would you do that?"

The bartender gave him an easy smile, "Well, if I had to take a guess, you are probably gonna leave here to go back to whatever little cave you inhabit, find the bottle of rum that I'm certain you have, and drink yourself into a stupor alone in the dark."

Killian sputtered as he tried to find the words to express his indignation, but the man just continued speaking, completely ignoring his half formed, slightly slurred attempts at a rebuttal.

"Hey, I'm not passing judgement. But you are still getting your booze, here or there. And you are already here, so …. may as well just stay right?"

Killian was still trying to wrap his mind around the horrible, albeit accurate, description of himself, when another glass of rum somehow magically appeared before him.

"May as well just stay, right?" The bartender repeated, and when Killian looked up at the man, there was a softness around his blue eyes that somehow worked its way around his bitterness and he found himself reaching for the glass. It almost reminded him of how Liam would look at him when he was being particularly stubborn.

"Aye, may as well."

Hours passed, and while the man never reneged on his promise, Killian's access to the next shot was regulated enough that as the night approached one in the morning, the appeal of continuing to drink started to fade as the stupor of drunkenness shifted from coveted detachment to nauseating vertigo.

So when the bartender next passed by, he waved a hand.

"Another?" the man asked with disbelief.

Killian shook his head, then groaned, dropping his forehead to the bar top, "Just some water for me this time mate."

He didn't raise his head until he heard the click of another glass being placed before him. When he looked up, the bartender was still standing there, watching as he reached out and tossed back the whole glass, feeling the liquid wash the now cloying taste of a night of rum out of his mouth. When he dropped the glass back to the bar top, the tender immediately had a pitcher refilling it with ice cold water.

"Want to talk about it yet?"

He tried to glare at the man but seemed unable to muster enough irritation to convincingly pass off the expression. The rum had settled in his blood, and something like grudging appreciation has settled in his gut, and before he could really catch himself, he told the bartender.

"My brother died eight years ago today."

The man's expression didn't change too much, but Killian thought he might have detected a sort soft understanding. But when he sucked in a breath to respond, Killian grit his teeth, bracing himself for the false sympathy and unwanted pity.

"He's lucky."

It was so unexpected, he couldn't even lash out correctly at such an absurd notion, only getting out a sharp and inelegant, "Come again?"

The man nodded, leaning forward against the bar, "Yeah. He was a lucky man. He got to live his whole life with someone who loved him as much as you do."

The tirade Killian had been about to unleash died in his throat as the bartender's words registered. And like the last crack in the dyke, he could not keep the flood of sorrow at bay any longer. Tears began leaking out as he dropped his face to his hand, trying his best to stifle his sobs.

As he slowly regained control of himself, something in his chest felt different. A strange sort of calm had settled over his heart and as he took each rattling breath, it was like he could breathe air all the way to the bottom of his lungs again. It was only after he had taken several such breaths that he realized that the bar was quiet.

He gathered himself and raised his head to look around and sure enough, the place was empty, the chairs were up, and the music was off. The bartender was sitting at one of the booths, looking down at his phone as he tapped something out. He seemed to notice that Killian had composed himself though, because he looked up from his screen a moment later.

"About ready to go then?" There was no impatience or sarcasm in his voice.

He nodded. The man gave a nod of his own as well before he slid out from the booth. Killian wasn't sure what to say to the man, beyond grateful for the nonabrasive companionship that he'd freely offered. He was again reminded of his brother as the man stood, exuding a sense of control and steadiness that made him feel anchored.

The silence stretched into the edges of awkwardness, and he did the only thing he could think of to break it.

"Erm… Killian Jones," he mumbled, offering his hand to the other man. The bartender took it easily.

"David Nolan."

"Nice to meet you David."

He nodded and then continued, "Are you going to head home now?"

Killian rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling the effects of both his drunken evening and his apparently much needed breakdown. "Aye. The walk down to the harbor will help sober me up as well."

"You live by the harbor?" David's voice was disbelieving.

"Aye, what of it?" sighed Killian, feeling the start of a violent pounding behind his eyes. between the tears and the alcohol, he was going to have a nasty hangover when he woke up.

David eyed him for a moment, "Well my wife is coming to pick me up, and we would be happy to drop you off on our way."

"Your wife is coming to get you?" He couldn't help the slight mocking in his tone.

David gave him a look of mild reproach. "Yeah. It was girl's night at Ashley's, who happens to be the fiance to the town mechanic, who had the cruiser in for repairs the last couple days. So Mary Margaret is bringing it home for me."

Killian didn't catch that much beyond, "Cruiser?"

David gave him an amused grin, "Oh sorry, I forgot to mention. I'm David Nolan, sheriff of Storybrooke."

"What the bloody hell are you doing tending bar then?" Killian sputtered. It occurred to him that far from being altruistic, David's actions in the bar may have been entirely self serving. Keep the drunkard where he could see him.

David chuckled, "My part time deputy usually works here a couple nights a week, but he came down with a bad cold. They didn't have anyone else to fill in, and he knew that I had bartended in college, so he hit me up and begged me to cover his shift. So here I am."

Killian nodded in bemusement, not really sure how else he could react. He was saved trying to find something further to say when headlights swung into the parking lot. He squinted as he took in the black and white paint, the faded lettering proclaiming it to be Storybrooke Sheriff.

The moment the engine cut out, the door opened and a small woman popped out of the driver's side. "Hi dear!"

"Hi honey."

Killian could hear the absolute adoration in both their voices and had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes.

He was caught off guard yet again when the woman turned to him, a beaming smile settled on her lips, an expression so genuine that he found himself giving a tentative smile back. "Hi! I'm Mary Margaret. You are?"

He cleared his throat, trying to take in her sparkling exuberance, especially given the fact that it was nearing two in the morning. "Er, Killian Jones, ma'am."

She waved a careless hand, "Oh no need for ma'am. That makes me feel old. But I haven't seen you around here before. Are you new? Do you like it? How did you meet David?"

The rapid fire questions had him blinking, "Um, yeah, I'm new. Trying to get a job at the University here. And I like it alright, I suppose. And I met Dave here while he was tending bar. And.. yeah…" he finished lamely.

But the woman didn't seem to notice. "Oh that's wonderful! Storybrooke University is always in need of new professors. Welcome to the neighborhood!"

And before he could react, he was engulfed in a massive hug. At first he wasn't sure how to react, but the way her arms squeezed tightly, as if trying to imprint her welcome on his skin, had him slowly relaxing into her embrace, and the strange sort of calm that had settled over his heart in the bar after his breakdown seemed to warm and grow.

For some reason, as she pulled back from her earnest hug, Killian fancied he could almost see his brother standing next to David, arms crossed and his favorite smile tilting up his brother's lips.

And in that moment, somehow he knew that everything was going to be alright. That somehow, he'd found home.

Killian was brought back to the present when she pulled back, "Ok are you ready to take on the Red Mantle?"

He winced as he heard David chuckle, "Please don't say it like that darling. Makes it sound like something out of Game of Thrones."

"Well given you'll be sitting in the Christmas Throne, maybe it's appropriate," she shrugged.

David burst out into laughter at those words, Mary Margaret only chastising him "Oh be quiet David."

He continued to chuckle as Mary Margaret walked through the mall pop up "Santa's Workshop," taking in every detail. Because it had to be perfect. For the children.

"Oh Killian!"

The sheer relief in Mary Margaret's tone had him standing up abruptly from the cafe table where he'd been working, immediately looking her over to make sure she wasn't injured.

"Are you alright?" He quickly reached out to grab her shoulders, unable to force down his worry. She, and David, had been the first friends he made in Storybrooke. Through thick and thin, through summer and finals, they had been by his side for the last four years. He wasn't sure how he would handle it if something happened to either one of them.

However, when she heard the urgency in his own voice, she immediately colored and gasped, "Oh! Sorry, I'm fine we're fine. Everything is fine. Well not everything but…"

He sighed in relief, then frowned in slight irritation, "What is the issue then lass, coming in here scaring a man half out of his mind?"

She blushed a little bit more, "Oh. Well it's just that David has come down with an awful case of the flu. He just hired a deputy, so he doesn't have to worry about work, but it's terrible! He can't dress up as Santa if he's sick!"

And suddenly everything clicked. Mary Margaret, of course, could give Feuzzywig a run for his money. And the idea that something could upset the perfect flow of her annual Santa in Storybrooke booth that the mayor deigned to allow in city hall each December probably fell fairly close to serious bodily injury on the Mary Margaret panic scale.

And if David was sick and she was here in such a state, that could only mean-

"You just have to play Santa this year or everything is completely ruined!"

It took everything he had not to groan. He had managed to avoid getting roped into that whole crock of shite for the last four years, claiming that he was busy grading finals and or some other feasible excuse at being too busy.

But looking at her earnest expression, the glimmer of tears just starting to coalesce, he just could not find it in himself to deny her. He knew that he was her first choice after David because she knew him and trusted him with such a great responsibility. And he should be flattered that she was willing to put the Christmas responsibility on him. But he could not muster the proper amount of gratitude.

Because if he said yes to her, it would mean a full month of Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays from four to nine sitting in an upholstered torture device, forced to interact with people under the age of ten and their charming parents. There was a reason he was trying to get tenure teaching at a university after all. At least when your students are over the age of 18, you can guess that its either food, sex, or sleep that's on their mind at any given moment. And after 21, alcohol also joined the list.

Children were wild and unpredictable and spoilt. And more often than not, their parents were simpering incompetences who had decided to have children too early. He had no desire to associate with any of them.

But he knew, even before he looked down into her puppy dog green eyes, that he just couldn't tell her no. He was already mentally rearranging his schedule.

"Aye, I suppose that means you'll need me to stand in for Dave then?"

"Oh would you?"

He sucked in a breath, mentally girding his metaphorical loins, as his literal loins were generally always gird, "Aye, I'm happy to help."

"Okay, David know how this goes, but since you are doing this for the first time, I will give you a quick rundown of how this works. We'll have two elves helping keep people in line and entertain the children. They will also get the kids' names. Then once it's their turn, you'll give a big ho ho ho and invite them by name up to the platform to sit on your lap. You'll ask them what they want for Christmas, they tell you, you give a suitable response about being good and merry. Then one of the elves will say that she's taking a picture. You'll pose with a big smile, then send the child back to their parents and it's off to the next one! Sound good?"

There was nothing about what she had just said that sounded good. "Aye, sound like a grand time, Mary Margaret."

He hated children. He would never again ever let another child to exist in his general vicinity. After getting kneed one too many times in the nuts, had his suit sneezed on, had his lap urinated in, had children burst into tears while their parents told them that "everything was just fine. Be comfortable about being unwilling placed into the hands of a strange and creepy stranger" he was about to call it quits.

Today was the first day.

But after he had changed out of the stifling fur suit he'd been in all evening, Mary Margaret came up to him, face still perfectly glittered, and there her arms around him, mumbling "You've saved Christmas Killian. You really have. Thank you" against his chest, he kept his cursing to himself. Because he was a giant pushover, apparently.

"You are more than welcome lass. Now what time do you want me here tomorrow?"