The one thing he's grateful for is that it doesn't happen on Christmas Eve while he is assisting David in carving the turkey, or on Christmas Day when Henry is trusting a festively wrapped box at him with the biggest red ribbon he has ever seen (until later that night when Emma comes out of their bathroom in nothing but an over-sized silky blood-red ribbon that only emphasizes her slim waist and barely reaches up to cover her nipples and hell, he loves this Christmas holiday), or on New Year's Eve when everybody is counting like school children around him and Emma is grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down and closer and bloody hell is he glad it didn't happen then.
It happens on the 2nd day of the new year.
He has been tasked with taking down the Christmas lights and he is all but completely forgotten about the queen's warning and his 'kitty residue' or whatever and why wouldn't he? He's still uncharacteristically relaxed and mellow from the overdose of food and drink and gift-giving and ridiculous songs and warm embraces and open-mouthed kisses that Emma bestowed on him any chance she got and skies above, he is the luckiest man alive.
Only in the next second he's no longer a man.
The line of lights he was holding drops to the ground, dragging an unfortunately placed porcelain snowman with them, the crash ringing loud and clear and dangerously close to his pointy fluffy ears.
"Killian?" Emma's voice drifts from the kitchen where she was preparing a light lunch to go with their 3rd Home Alone movie.
('I know Christmas is over but you need to see them all! Except the 4th one, the 4th one is crap, you are not allowed to see that. Trust me, I'm protecting you.')
"Killian, what hap-" her eyes go wide as she enters the living room, immediately going to the black and white kitten tangled in a string of Christmas light, the other end of which is still attached to their Christmas tree.
"Shit! Are you, alright?" she drops to her knees, brushing away the broken snowman pieces and sweeping him into her arms, checking his paws for any embedded pieces.
I can already feel the bloody hairballs congesting in my throat. Other than that – splendid!
To her credit Emma seems more sympathetic than amused this time as her fingers run gently down his back. He really cannot be held responsible for the purr that he emits when she bends her head to nuzzle her nose into his neck.
"Look on the bright side, at least it didn't hit on Christmas."
He huffs a little but knows he's been thinking the same thing. If there was a right time for one to turn into a bloody feline, it was probably after the holidays, when you no longer had to meet and greet family and friends but were still lazing around on the couch, finishing up the Christmas marathon your girlfriend forced on you.
"That tickles!" screeches Emma, removing the hand that was leisurely stroking his chin a minute ago (and it's not that he isn't happy with that but he had slightly different plans for the afternoon, plans that his kitty parts don't really coincide with), the hand he starts licking excitedly, exploring all the sensitive spots on her palm.
Swan, I need entertainment!
"Just watch the damn movie!" she exclaims exasperatedly, nudging his head back around toward the TV screen.
I would apologize for finding you more entertaining than a little boy fighting criminals with the help of a bloody parrot and his toy vehicle but I think that's to be expected.
"Ugh, for fuck's sake!" Emma groans in exasperation but turns off the TV anyway, throwing the remote on the coffee table with a pointed look. "There. What do you wanna do, your Fluffiness?"
Killian jumps on his feet, eyes shining with unadulterated glee and the next thing she knows he has dove in, nose and whiskers tickling the sliver of exposed skin between her jeans and sweater.
"Killian!" Emma squeaks out, hands flying towards the wiggling kitten as a high pitched squeal escaped her lips. "What are you doing, you idiot?!"
Of course, shoving his head away only results in him jumping over and landing beside her feet, probably the only more ticklish spot Emma has. Biting down on her woolen snowflakes-embroidered sock, Killian wastes no time tugging the offensive barrier off her foot and flicking his little tongue at the now exposed flesh.
Emma shrieks with laughter, drawing her legs up and trying her damnest to regain some control of her muscles so that she doesn't kick her boyfriend straight off the couch.
"Oh God, stop! Stop, please," she begged through her laughter, feeling her eyes begin to sting with tears. "Killian, I can't- Oh God! Stop iiiit!"
He doesn't. He doesn't stop for the next ten minutes and at one point, when her abdomen is past aching and there are tears of laughter rolling freely down her cheeks, she thinks that if she has to go out, this would be a damn good way to do so.
"Fuck. Oh, fuck, Killian," groans Emma in something close to fatigue as she clutches her stomach, trying to make the best of the little reprieve he has given her.
Suddenly a little black and white face swims back into her sights as the little kitten climbs on top of her and makes his way up to the hands splayed over her heaving breasts. And he looks damn pleased with himself too. Bastard. He is a rotten bastard.
For his part Killian surveys his pawiwork with great satisfaction. Emma's hair is in complete disarray, blonde curls sticking in every direction, her cheeks are flushed and her lower lip is bright red from where she has bitten into it, trying to keep in her laughter, she is breathing hard, her breasts bouncing a little with every intake of air. Goddess. She is a bloody goddess.
"Smug," Emma heaves a deep sigh. "Idiot."
Why, yes. And I have every right to be when I can reduce you to this state even in the form of a cat.
"Shut up," she grumbles, smiling softly despite herself as he nuzzles the space between her breasts.
She really shouldn't find a pervert kitten that endearing but the way he wrinkles his little kitty nose is absolute adorable, the proud little glimmer in his eye is addictive and he is purring right above her heart and-
The front door swings open.
"Well, she said they were just gonna be taking down the Christmas decorations and-"
"David, I don't think-" Snow White stops dead in her tracks at the sight in front of her.
The flushed look on her daughter's face, mussed hair peaking over the couch and eyes as wide as saucers, would've justified her suspicions and a nice solid I-told-you-so for her husband. That is, if it wasn't for the kitten on her chest.
"Oh, that's just-"
"I don't ever ever," declares David, arm already raised to cover his eyes even as he turns to go back into the hallway. "Wanna know what was going on in here."
"Right, I'll just-" Snow gestures helplessly towards her husband and follows his lead before sticking her head back inside a second later. "Sorry to see you back on four feet, Killian."
The door slams shut behind them but Emma is pretty sure they forgot all the awkwardness and embarrassment behind because oh God.
"Oh my God!" her hand flies to her now embarrassment-flushed face, her eyes squeezing tightly shut. "My parents think I just had… something! With a kitten!"
She didn't think it possible for Killian to look more smug than before. She was wrong.
Can't say I blame you, lass. It's understandable that you won't be able to resist me in any form.
He finally finds himself on the floor.