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stubblesandwich · 6 months

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Return To Me - Chapter 4

A/N: It was requested I post this here, as well, so here ya go! (Sorry if I double tagged anyone.) I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you endlessly to anyone still following this story. You have all my love.

Summary: Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.

Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny. Find on A03 here

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Chapter Four - Don't Get Around Much Anymore

Three Weeks Post-Op

Emma had been called a cynic plenty of times in her life. As it turned out, being pushed through the foster system for a decade and a half hadn’t exactly turned her into a beaming optimist. Like most cynics, she claimed she was actually a realist. She planned for the worst, because things tended to not work out that great for her, and hoped for the best. Sometimes she was pleasantly surprised.

But in the litany of potential outcomes Emma had been preparing herself for, a new heart had never actually made the list. It was akin to winning the lottery, in her mind. Life had not been particularly kind to her. Yet, she had always taken her blows in stride, and she never took handouts. And the prospect of finally making it to the top of the transplant list at the age of twenty-six, after almost a decade of waiting, felt like a handout from life.

Emma Swan had never been one to sit around waiting for handouts.

There were other things she had prepared herself for. Increasing the handful of pills she took each day to keep her body from failing on her any faster. Moving from her full time job and supporting herself completely on her own to working part time, then very part time, to not at all. Getting on a government disability program. Each new punch to the gut from life she took in stride, as best she could.

And through it all, righting her each and every time she stumbled, were David and Mary Margaret. They were some of the best, most genuine and caring people ever to be placed on planet earth. She didn't deserve them—there was a small, cruel voice in the back of her head that affirmed this for her every day. But they just kept showing up for her, and they wouldn’t leave, and they wouldn’t let her quit.

As it turned out, after the first week, getting a whole new vital organ sewn into her chest wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. By the third week, the pain was starting to subside, transitioning into a residual soreness, and her biggest struggle currently was not clawing at her incision every time it itched. When the skin itself didn’t feel like an odd mixture of both tight and numb, it felt ablaze with itchiness. It was all she could do not to scratch at it. (Every time she did, Mary Margaret would bark at her to stop it, or David would throw a random item in her direction. Most recently, it had been a box of tissues that had narrowly missed her head, and he threatened to get an extendable fly swatter to swat her with, as needed.)

For the first time in her life, Emma was well and truly doted upon. She had family members who inarguably refused to leave her side. That is, of course, until Mary Margaret was forcibly removed by way of her impending school year start.

She’d had almost a month left of her summer break when Emma had had her operation, and she had been able to push almost all of her classroom prep off until the very last minute. David helped her ready her room when he could, but Emma knew her friend was fraying at the seams from trying to do so much in such a short span of time. Mary Margaret had a handful of vacation days, but she hoarded them like a dragon for true emergencies, and worried constantly that if her students started off the school year with a substitute teacher, they would just end up watching movies all day instead of actually learning something.

This was their last weekend before the new school year started and Mary Margaret went back to working full days. Emma was lounging on the couch, dozing, lidded eyes half focused on the episode of Friends quietly playing on the living room TV. She and Mary Margaret had just finished putting together twenty-five “Welcome back!” folders for her incoming students, as well as a second set for their parents.

“Why couldn't they have been ready for you to have the surgery during the start of summer?” Mary Margaret lamented, as she plopped her last folder down on the pile. “I would have had three months off to be here with you!”

David glanced over at them from the pile of pans he was washing at the kitchen sink and gave his wife an odd look. “You do realize you're wishing the woman whose heart Emma has now had died earlier in the year instead of later, right?”

Mary Margaret looked aghast. “No! Of course I don’t wish that. I didn't... I just meant...”

David raised his eyebrows at her, but by now he was smiling gently at his wife. Mary Margaret huffed. A slightly awkward silence settled between the three of them. The fact that another person was dead and Emma was still alive because of it was something they all knew but typically left unsaid. David had said it out loud, and now the strangeness of that fact settled over them all heavily.

“I wonder what she was like,” Emma murmured from her spot on the couch, puncturing the silence. “They couldn't tell me much. Well, couldn't or wouldn't, not sure which. All they said was that she was older than me, but not by too much, and in great health. Obviously we had to have the same blood type. But they couldn't tell me how she died, just that it didn't affect her heart.”

“Probably head trauma,” David said sagely. Emma winced at the thought, but he was likely right. He had seen enough as an officer to know. Especially working night shifts, when the majority of car accidents took place in the area.

“That sounds awful,” Mary Margaret said quietly.

“I'd never say I was glad someone else died,” David said after a while. “But I'm glad Emma's still with us.” The fact that these things were one in the same went unsaid. Mary Margaret reached over and squeezed Emma’s arm in gentle agreement with her husband. Emma glanced over at her and offered her sister-in-law a small smile, trying to convey to her without having to say it aloud that it was okay.

But in truth, Emma was uncomfortable. It just made her feel so strange, knowing that for every happy moment she now got to have here with her family, someone out there was living new moments, making new memories, without their own loved one to share them with. Someone out there was grieving a tremendous loss—had lost a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife. The woman whose heart Emma now had could have been any one of those things, or all of them at once. She was presumably loved, adored, missed dearly. And Emma just didn’t know what to do with that information, how to carry these feelings with grace and proper gratitude. Often they \manifested in the form of guilt. David and Mary Margaret were quick to talk her out of that whenever it came up. That woman’s death meant something, they assured her. Part of her lives on, and part of her saved a life. That has to mean something to her family, right?

They were right, Emma knew. David saw so much meaningless death in his line of work that she inherently believed him when he told her that it was a gift, her being able to use someone else’s heart. (She didn’t have the courage to ask him how he would feel about any of Mary Margaret’s vital organs going to someone else, if she died.) It was a guilt she carried nonetheless, and she carried it poorly. It was an awkward shape, this guilt, and heavy, and she didn’t know how to carry it well. It all too often made her fumble.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said Mary Margaret looked over at her sharply, instantly suspicious that Emma was still feeling off from the previous conversation, but Emma was quick to wave away her worry. “I’m fine,” she assured her. “Really. I just feel grimy, and I don’t want to taint the epicness of Last Dinner with my stink.” This was their last evening—Last Dinner—before Mary Margaret returned to work full time, and they were marking the occasion with David’s mother’s famous lasagna recipe, a favorite from David and Emma’s semi-shared childhood (and coincidentally the only meal David really knew how to make, but that was beside the point).

“I second the vote for a shower,” David said, raising his hand in mock vote.

“You would,” Emma said with a roll of her eyes that David didn’t even need to see to know was there. Mary Margaret started to rise with her, as if about to help her to her feet. “Relax, woman,” Emma said, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder gently to stop her. “I’ve got it. I’m not a complete invalid.”

“Jury’s still out,” came David’s response.

Emma looked at Mary Margaret, half expecting her to admonish her husband, but Mary Margaret just stared up at her with poorly veiled anxiety. “I’m not!” Emma said. “Guys, it’s been almost a month.”

“Three weeks,” Mary Margaret corrected. “Since you got a new heart. Not since you got your tonsils removed.”

“Okay,” Emma said, stretching out her back a bit as she stood there, chasing a kink out between her shoulder blades. “Sure, it was a big surgery.” David scoffed from his place by the sink, and Emma shot him a warning look. “But the doctors even said I have to try to do more on my own. I think it’s safe to say that includes showering.” There was no argument from David on that one. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, looked unconvinced.

“What if you slip and fall?”

“I’ll be sure to have my Life Alert button handy,” Emma retorted wryly. “Seriously, guys, it’s okay. I can handle showering.” Before they could argue any further, Emma slipped away, locking herself in the bathroom.

“Let me know if you need any help, okay?” Mary Margaret called through the door in a singsong voice only a few moments later. Emma swore she heard the doorknob jiggle, like her friend was testing to see if it was locked or not. It was, thankfully. Emma was already halfway undressed, and the last thing she needed was for her brother to get an accidental peep show because his wife thought Emma had already gotten stuck behind the toilet and died or something. “Emma?”

Oh, my God, Emma mouthed to herself. “Thanks,” she called out. “I will!” That seemed to appease Mary Margaret. But the faint squeak of the bar stool at the kitchen island assured Emma she hadn't gone far. It was endearing, how much they worried about her. At least, that's what she told herself in the moments like this, when it was almost impossible to find even just two seconds of privacy. Sometimes, she really did feel like she was a little kid again. Only now, she was re-living a much different version of her childhood. A sweeter, kinder version wherein people actually wanted to take care of her and didn't think of her as a monumental burden.

The tub's faucet squeaked shrilly as she turned on the water. When she’d first gotten home a week ago, just that motion, gripping the handle and giving the antique metal a yank, had left her arm feeling like a limp noodle. She was doing much better now, but she still felt pathetically weak and exceptionally out of shape. At one point, long ago, she had been fairly strong. A thin child, but always scrappy. Now she was a pale waif, muscles atrophied over the years as she'd gotten sicker. She vowed to herself that was going to change. Despite how frail she was, at the same time, she legitimately felt like she could take on the world now, with this new heart. She could finally breathe, take a breath fully in and out, without feeling lightheaded. That alone was a miracle.

Gingerly, she lifted her tank top up over her head. Her scar, where a surgeon had cut into muscle and bone and forcibly ripped open her sternum, stood out, an angry red slash against alabaster skin. For the first few weeks, it had been concealed by gauze. By this point, it was still tender, but her doctor encouraged her to air it out often. She even had some skin mobility exercises she was supposed to be doing daily, to help the layers of tissue beneath the scar not permanently adhere to one another. The scar itself stretched from the top of her chest, dropping down in between her breasts, all the way past her sternum bone. It was a thick, gnarled thing, aesthetically ugly; but she found herself overwhelmingly grateful for it the longer she looked at it. As ugly as it was, this scar meant she was going to live to see her next birthday.

Washing herself was still a slow, cautious process, but much easier than it had been when she’d first gotten out of the hospital. She took the time now to do her full, luxury, self care princess shower routine, something she hadn’t had the strength to do in months. The venting system in the loft's tiny bathroom was terrible, and by the time she stepped out of the shower, steam cloaked the room like a fog. The sheer dampness of the air made her cough when she inhaled. Emma didn't care; she felt amazing. It was easy to underestimate how much better a good shower could make a person feel. She felt human again, instead of the fresh-from-the-hospital, invalid goblin she’d been feeling like for the past few weeks. Humming to herself, she dried off, turbaned her wet hair, and started to dress.

David had the water running at the sink, and the apartment’s ancient radiator had kicked on next to the bathroom; when Emma finally opened the bathroom door, her brother and sister-in-law didn’t hear the faint creak of the old wood on its hinge as it started to open.

“But you love your classroom.” David was saying in a low voice. It was clear he was trying to be fairly quiet, but this felt like intruding in on a conversation that had been going on for several minutes. Possibly the whole time she’d been in the shower.

Emma didn't hear Mary Margaret sigh, but she could tell by the tone of her voice that her words had come on the end of one. “Of course I do,” she said, “And I really do miss my kids. But Emma needs me here. I can't just leave her! She just got a new heart, David. A heart. It's not like she had her wisdom teeth removed and just needs a day or two to get back on her feet.”

The aforementioned heart skipped a beat in Emma's chest. A familiar, sinking feeling of guilt settled low and heavy in Emma's stomach.

“But she will get back on her feet,” David said gently. “You know she will. She just needs time.”

“Exactly! And she needs me here to help her until she does.”

“No, she doesn't.”

“David—”

“Mary Margaret,” David interrupted lovingly. “She's going to be okay. Better than okay. This is the day we've all been waiting for, don't forget. She's getting a second chance at life here.” Unexpected tears welled in Emma's eyes at that. “And Emma knows that,” David continued. “You and I both know she's going to be chomping at the bit to get back out there. It's going to be hard enough keeping her here the six weeks it'll take for her to heal. She's not going to need our help half as much as you think she will.”

Mary Margaret started to respond, but Emma couldn't take it anymore. She took the bathroom's old doorknob in her hand and gave it a good rattle, like she had just started to open it, and the door creaked loudly as she pushed it fully open. David and Mary Margaret grew hush until Mary Margaret piped up with, "Oh, hi Emma!" a little too brightly. David noticeably busied himself with cutting the garlic bread he’d pulled out of the oven moments before. The guilt at having eavesdropped coiled in Emma's chest like a snake ready to spring, and she swallowed around the lump that had grown in her throat. “Hey,” she said, trying her best to sound normal.

“Everything go okay?” Mary Margaret asked. “No dizziness?”

“I didn’t hear the Life Alert alarm go off,” David said dryly, shooting his sister a wink.

“I feel amazing,” Emma said earnestly. “Seriously.” She sidled up to her brother and successfully bumped him out of the way, taking over the cutting of the garlic bread despite his weak protestations.

“Oh, good,” Mary Margaret breathed, and the relief was evident in her voice. She shared a glance with David, which Emma pointedly ignored, and moved to grab the stack of dishes waiting on the island so she could start setting the table.

“I was thinking,” Emma went on, “Maybe I could come help you set up your classroom later today. If you think you need the help. Or I could just come keep you company, get a change of scenery.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” David said, as he watched his wife’s expression.

“That would be great, honestly,” Mary Margaret said, but was quick to add, “As long as you’re feeling up to it.”

“I mean, as long as you don’t have me lugging around twenty-pound carts of Crayons or something,” Emma laughed, “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Do fourth graders still use crayons?” David asked, as he popped open the oven one final time and withdrew the lasagna. The cheese on top was browning and bubbling and a minute away from burnt, just the way his mother had always cooked it, and the whole thing looked wonderful.

“Not really,” Mary Margaret said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t matter. I have a big, handsome deputy to do all my heavy lifting for me.” She batted her eyes at her husband a few times, who grinned back at her.

“All right, lovebirds,” Emma said, as she clicked the salad tongs at them a few times in playful warning. “Let’s eat. I’ve got my appetite back and I’m actually starving.”

“Jeez,” David said, “You’d think she’d gotten a new stomach with the heart. She’s gonna eat us out of house and home now.”

Table set, food out, they took their respective seats. David uncorked a bottle of red wine he’d been saving for a special occasion, which Emma was definitely not allowed to have, but she told Mary Margaret to enjoy it for her.

As Mary Margaret spooned squares of lasagna onto everyone’s plate, Emma took a moment to try to find the right words to say to convey how she was feeling to these people who would seemingly do anything in the world for her. But what she wanted most is for them to get back to living their lives, too. They had put off so much for her sake, and she was more grateful than she knew how to say. But it was time to move on now, to heal, for all of them.

“I know it can suck, having such a huge surgery,” Emma started, pausing to clear her throat. “But this is different.” She glanced up at Mary Margaret, who was watching her closely. “I mean, a month ago, I was dying. I never told you guys this, but it just felt like the end. I was working on drafting a will.”

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret said quietly.

“That’s so morbid,” David said.

“I know it’s stupid.” Emma toyed with the end of her napkin as she stared down at her plate. “I don’t really have anything to will to anyone. I was just going to leave anything I had to you guys.” She cleared her traitorous throat again and took a moment to blink back some tears. She needn’t have bothered; when she glanced up at her family, they were both openly tearing up as they looked at her. “Okay, stop,” she said, pointing her fork at them, “Or I’m going to lose it. Absolutely no crying in baseball.”

“Got it,” Mary Margaret said, her voice watery and absolutely unconvincing.

“Just… Thank you,” Emma said, when she finally got her voice back under control. “I don’t want to think about where I’d be without you both. From the bottom of both my hearts,” she said, with a wry little smile she couldn’t keep at bay, “Thank you.”

David chuckled, wiping at his eyes, and Mary Margaret continued to stare at her, smiling and barely holding back the floodgates. “We love you, sis,” David said, and a moment later he raised his wineglass. “To Emma’s new lease on life.” Mary Margaret’s wine glass followed, and Emma clinked her water glass with theirs.

“And Mary Margaret’s new school year,” Emma added.

“Hear, hear,” Mary Margaret agreed. “I’ll take prayers, good vibes, anything you’ve got.”

“You’re going to do great,” David assured her, as he put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer to kiss her cheek. “Those kids are lucky to have you.”

Dinner was splendid, and the company even better. It was the first full meal Emma was able to enjoy without feeling nauseated, which was a win in her book. She literally couldn’t think of the last time that had happened. Mary Margaret did indeed have Emma’s wine, and was perhaps a little tipsy when they later ventured out to put some finishing touches on her classroom, which just made it all the more enjoyable for Emma and David.

And as Emma settled into bed that night, for the first time in a long time, she felt well and truly good. She felt full, warm, strong, and loved. And she knew, felt sure in her bones, that this was the start of one of the best years of her life.

+++++

The funeral went as well as a funeral could--especially considering there was no actual body to bury. Milah had set it up long beforehand that all salvageable organs were to be donated to the nearest hospital at the time of her death, then the rest of her body donated to science. This made planning her funeral and memorial service a unique affair, as there was no body for a wake, no urn of ashes received. That he would receive later, whenever the hospital saw fit. So Killian honored his wife's memory the best way he could.

Everyone who had ever known her in the past few years since she and Killian had moved Stateside was crammed into a small funeral home to celebrate her life and speak well of her. Her parents were long dead, but he had managed to get his hands on some childhood photos from her aunt who still lived across the pond; a small smattering of her extended relatives had sent cards to pay their respects. But the room was filled primarily with her coworkers and friends she’d made in the few years they’d lived in Boston.

Milah had been a truly gifted photographer, both in her work and personal life, evidence of which sat neatly framed and displayed on nearly every available inch of table space in the room. All the best photos Milah had ever taken through her work had been printed and framed and displayed, tucked neatly between bouquets of flowers. One table was so long, it took up the entire back wall.

Killian had almost, almost, completely lost the last tenuous grip he had on his sanity when the wrong flowers had come in that morning. He had distinctly ordered stargazer lilies, his wife’s favorite flower, for the table arrangements. Instead, what had been delivered to him were a rainbow assortment of Gerber daisies, of all things, which he viewed on this particular day as nothing short of an abomination. As it turned out, there had been a mistake with the delivery trucks, and his order had been sent to a birthday party instead. It probably should have embarrassed him, how angry a simple mix up of flowers had made him. But as he had very little pride left, he was literally seeing red, until Robin showed up beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently steered him out the side door and outside for some fresh air. Will took over, his general belligerence a helpful and actually useful tool that day, and tried to get the flowers sorted out with minimal shouting.

As Killian stood now, gazing down at the myriad of perfect photos his wife had taken over the course of her career, he belatedly realized he had been the star of many of them, unbeknownst to him. His wife had apparently been a ninja behind her viewfinder when he wasn’t paying attention. It should have made him feel awkward, being the focal point of so many of her photographs; the last thing he wanted now was attention. And yet, he couldn’t help but smile at most of them. One of him leaning over the railing of a dock, for instance, staring pensively out at sea, squinting slightly in the light of the sun. Another of him from behind, a shadowed figure standing on the beach with his toes buried in the sand and his hands in the pockets of his shorts, staring out at the red slashed sky of an oncoming storm. He was the blurred, black clad figure in the background or at the helm in several photographs of the ships he and his brother had helped restore.

It was visible, tangible proof of how much she had loved him, how often her camera found itself pointed in his direction, focused on him. And God, if that didn’t make him miss her all the more. His heart was an open wound, and he was never going to be able to staunch the flow from it. Day by day, he felt like he was bleeding out, until soon there would be nothing left of him.

One photo, his favorite, and one that was already framed in his home, stood out prominently. His and his brother, Liam, in front of their first real score for the ship restoration foundation, a beautiful, towering piece of history in the form of a stunning antique merchant vessel. Liam’s arm was thrown over Killian’s shoulders, his face alight with absolute joy (and possibly the buzz from the beers they’d had over lunch). They were both squinting, laughing like fools at having finally pulled it off. Towering behind them, not to be overshadowed, was the ship, herself: the Jewel of the Realm. Milah had been sent by a local paper to get photos of the ship, and her new owners, as a focal point for a story on local maritime history.

Killian felt fortunate he remembered that day so well. It had felt like the best day of his entire life, at the time. Seeing his brother so elated, after everything they had endured together, had been enough to send Killian to the moon. It felt like things were finally, finally going their way. He had taken to Milah instantly, and spent the hour regaling her with the history of the ship. A merchant ship, originally, but thought to have been used for piracy at one point. He leaned heavily into the implications of the latter fact, as he felt—rightly so—that it added intrigue, and Milah had been enamored with the Jewel. He'd joked that day about renaming it the Jolly Roger, much to his brother's chagrin. She’d had other work to get to that day, so she hadn’t stayed long, but she’d given him her business card, which he still carried in his wallet. Liam had been killed shortly after, on one of his last missions with the Royal Navy before his scheduled retirement. Everything had changed, then. But Killian had always felt especially lucky that it had been Milah that day who had come to take their photo. For one short hour, she had been able to meet his brother, before Killian had lost him forever. The stars had aligned, and for one short span of time, the man who had meant the most to him and the woman who would come to mean everything to him had met, briefly. It wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of things, but to Killian, it had to be enough.

And then there were the glorious photos of the rest of the ships he had brought on through the years. He had always marveled at Milah’s skill behind a camera, her ability to find just the right angle, at just the precise time of day, to truly capture the essence of the ships he restored. Through her eyes, even the in-progress pictures never made them look like pieces of floating shit, which some of them very much were at the start of the process. She managed to make them look like hidden treasure, just waiting to be uncovered. Pieces of history waiting to be lovingly restored to their former glory. That’s what he’d felt like, with her. She’d been the one to see past his flaws after the death of his brother, to see something worth loving in him, something worth restoring.

And now what was he, without her?

The frequent looks of sympathy that came his way over the course of the memorial service were one of the worst parts of the day. Each and every concerned glance that flit in Killian's direction was threaded not only with heavy condolences, but something much worse: pity. And he knew he was a pitiable sight, indeed. He was dressed well enough, in a deep black suit Milah had bought for him after his business had another big break. But, his arm with the broken collarbone was still in a sling and had no hand at the end of it. Dark circles cradled his eyes, which seemed to be permanently bloodshot these days. He had given up almost entirely on sleep.

Sleeping felt impossible, an insurmountable task despite its simplicity; the bed was too big, too cold, and too empty when he was the only one in it. He tried—really tried. Each night, he made a valiant attempt to sleep in his own bed. He'd toss, turn, and generally do a lot of staring up at his ceiling. Eventually, he resorted to Netflix. But his “recently watched” list was full of her favorite shows, episodes half finished, series just begun. It was a terrible distraction.

The first week after he arrived home from the hospital, his recliner chair in the living room had been the only place he could comfortably fall asleep with his arm in a sling. It was a lumpy, unsightly thing he had inherited from his brother (it was this reason and this reason alone his wife had allowed him to keep it.) Milah had called it his old man chair. These days, he’d often fall asleep in the chair, wake up with a start an hour later, and make his way to the couch, where he’d try to fall back asleep, but would mostly lie awake, staring into the dark, letting his mind off its leash and letting it wander to dangerous places.

Often these thoughts centered on what he would do if he could track down the driver who had hit them head on, then fled the scene. What he would do when he found him or her varied. Sometimes, he pictured lighting him on fire. The next moment, he'd revel in the thought of running him through with a knife, watching him slowly bleed out on the floor. Or he’d take his hand from him, too. Such thoughts kept him company and carried him through until morning.

Now, with the lack of sleep and the general dissociation he felt, he often didn’t feel cemented in reality. When he looked around the room, taking in the funeral parlor, it felt like this was happening to someone else, and he was merely observing. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by a sea of people who didn't know what to say to him. The moment never came that he was spared the awkward indignity of a conversation with someone who had little else to say other than I'm sorry.

She was a lovely person.

(Each time, he bristled at the use of the past tense.)

She'll be missed.

Pity had overtaken the room, lingering like a dense fog. Everywhere he turned, his friends, her friends, co-workers, even a handful of people he had never seen before in his life, were all wearing the same expression on their faces. It transcended simple pity. It was next-level pity, flashing from their eyes and those slight down-turned corners of their mouths like a brightly-lit billboard in the night that read "YOUR LIFE DEPRESSES ME."

He couldn't blame them. He pitied himself, too, when he wasn't numb, pulled down so deep into his own despair he could no longer think straight.

At least the food was decent—or so he had been overhearing. One quick glance over at Will Scarlet in the back of the room, face stuffed with h'orderves, told him the funeral parlor's appetizers couldn't have been terrible. If there had ever been a time he appreciated his friends more, he couldn't think of it. Of all the people who had shown up to the service, Locks and Scarlet were the only two who didn't make him want to scream. Or run. Or throw a punch. All of it, all at once.

Will and Robin sat apart from the rest, in a pair of wingback armchairs in the corner of the room. Killian hadn't had a chance to speak to either of them, apart from initial hellos and quick hugs when they'd first arrived, and of course the ordeal with the flowers, but somehow, he knew without even asking they intended to stay for the entire affair, likely planning to take him out for a drink when this was all over.

What else do you do for your best friend after his wife's funeral?

All in all, it wasn’t a very hopeful affair, and too often bordered on bleak. Killian had no words in honor of Milah he wanted to share with a roomful of people who didn’t know her very well, and he didn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down. So, people ate, drank, and made a reserved and somber form of merry. They swapped stories back and forth, each offering up little pieces of the woman they had known.

Milah's parents had died years ago, and she had no siblings, so the room was occupied primarily by people she had thought of as friends. That was a nice thought, and in the coming weeks, Killian would be touched by the food, flowers, and cards that continued to arrive on his doorstep in memory of his wife.

But here, in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to find hope in anything.

+++++++

One Year Later

Was a house truly haunted if you didn’t mind the ghost?

It felt like a haunting for months after Milah’s funeral, this limbo state he found himself in, where he couldn’t bring his heart or his brain to fully comprehend that she was gone. They traded shifts in misunderstanding, his heart and brain. There were days where, logically, he understood his wife was dead. And yet, his heart still leaped at the sound of a car door shutting outside, or an imagined creak in the floorboards that sounded like her coming around the corner in the hall. Other days, his heartache was so profound, he could barely muster the strength to get out of bed. All too often, he’d forget, and for a few blissful minutes, reach for his phone to call her and ask her a question. Those were beautiful moments, the forgetting. But the remembering that followed took his breath away.

Then there were the things around the home he couldn’t bring himself to toss. Notes she’d left on the fridge, a grocery list on the table. Leftovers from her favorite meal at their favorite restaurant he couldn’t bring himself to throw away until they were fouling up the whole kitchen. Her phone was recovered from the accident and eventually made its way to him, via the detectives working the hit and run case. He went through her email drafts, texts, anything he could get his hands on that held pieces of Milah. He'd saved every voicemail she'd ever left him, had them memorized, and he'd play them when he missed her most, poking the bruise in his heart over and over until it numbed and didn't hurt so much. It all felt relatively harmless, like doing this to himself couldn’t possibly be a bad thing.

Until he found himself practically sobbing the floor of the shower one morning over a soggy clump of her hair he’d pulled from the drain.

He just couldn’t seem to pull himself together.

How do you bring yourself to purposefully excavate traces of someone from your life, after they’re gone, until it was like they weren’t even there at all, the life you shared existing only in snapshots and memories? How exactly does one get to that place, force yourself to loosen your grip on all you have left of the person you love, the person you’d give anything to see one last time? Killian couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t picture himself ever ridding himself completely of Milah’s memory.

But he could stop leaving land mines for himself.

He’d always run a tight ship at home, in terms of cleanliness. He had never had much, by way of possessions, and wasn’t sentimental about keeping things. Now he found himself debating whether or not he should keep a note in the bathroom his wife had scrawled out for herself to remind herself to order new contacts. These were the silly, useless things he stared at for minutes on end, debating what to do with. This little scrap of her pretty handwriting he recognized and loved. The thought of it winding up in a landfill somewhere made him ill.

Eventually, he gathered these random scraps and pieces of her he’d found (except the clump of hair from the drain—that one did make it into the waste bin, thankfully) and gently shepherded them into a large Ziploc bag, which he kept in a box on her side of the closet.

Robin and Will called often, texted even more often, and even dropped by now and again. They offered their help constantly, gladly would have helped with menial tasks like this (like throwing away scraps of paper Milah might have touched, God, he was a mess), but he turned them away each time. He just wanted to shut the world out, encase himself in a tomb of his own grief.

He hadn’t even been able to see her, to say goodbye to her, because he hadn’t been bloody conscious for it. He had no memory of Robin telling him of her death; in the week following the accident, he left a slew of traumatized nurses in his wake as people had to tell him again and again for what felt like the first time that his wife was gone.

Milah, bless her ever-loving soul, had signed herself up to be an organ donor. Of course she had. On some level, he knew this. It was marked on her driver’s license, and it was surely something they had talked about at one point. But now he resented it, resented the whole idea of it. He resented anything that didn’t allow him to see his wife one last time. One doctor had had the absolute audacity to tell Killian that he didn’t want to see his wife, anyway; the damage from the accident had been too great, the brunt of which had gone to her head, and that it was a miracle her heart was still beating enough to allow for any organ transplants. Killian, for his part, had an entirely different definition of the word “miracle”.

So he waited to receive her ashes, held a funeral without her body. But he certainly didn’t wait patiently.

He wonders sometimes what she would think of what he's become. No doubt there would be times she'd laugh at how ridiculous he was being, debating on keeping an old, wet clump of her hair like some kind of serial killer, and the subsequent guilt he felt at throwing it away, this gross little piece of her DNA.

And yet, he reminds himself that there is, oddly, more of her DNA out there somewhere. Somewhere, out in the world, a select few of her vital organs are in new bodies, presumably thriving and keeping their hosts alive and well. Presumably, there are people out there who will be forever grateful for these pieces of his wife. Actual, living pieces of her. Killian has no idea how to feel about that, truly. There will come a day, when he is able to pull himself out of this darkness that perpetually feels more crushingly inescapable by the day, that he is able to see the true and abundant beauty in it. Milah, gone, but literal parts of her living on, providing life-giving support to someone else’s body and soul. That's the true miracle, really, and something he’d know she would be proud of.

For now, in the depths of his despair, he feels annoyed, indifferent at best. Her benevolent medical and scientific donation was, for many long months, the thing standing between him and a proper burial for his wife, the thing that stood in the way of closure and him being able to say goodbye to her properly. This is the thing his mind latched onto, chooses as a target for his blame.

Closure arrives on his doorstep one afternoon, boxed and bubble wrapped, in the form of an unassuming black urn. When he finally received her ashes, half a year after her death, he knew what he would do with them, knew immediately what she would want him to do with them. But he can’t yet bring himself to say goodbye, and the urn sat above their fireplace for months. This is the moment it hits him, truly, that she is gone. This is what it takes for it to finally sink in. He spends a long time building up the courage, brick by brick, to do what he needs to do. And as what would be her 37th birthday approaches on a warm July day, he finally gathered the strength to lay his wife to rest and honor her the way she deserved.

What he doesn’t appreciate about the day, however, is the weather, which turns out to be an absolutely perfect New England summer day, which Killian very much resented.

It was almost like it was mocking him. Jabbing a bright, sunshiny finger right into his face and laughing at his grief, which still, even almost a year after the death of his wife, was still a wound that had left him hollowed. When his brother had died, suddenly and with too much life left unlived, he'd felt like the ground itself had been pulled out from under him, and he'd been left in free fall. Now, with Milah gone, it felt as if his heart had been ripped right out of his chest and crushed in front of him.

How did people live like this?

If he were truly honest with himself, Killian wasn't certain what he was doing each day could actually be called living. He was alive, sure. Most days, the only thing that kept that from being true was the unknown lurking behind the veil of death. He had his own theories, his own hopes, for what awaited in a possible afterlife, but of course, no one really knows for sure until their time comes. He couldn't be sure what would happen to him, whether or not he'd see Milah, if he died tomorrow. Hell would be dying and not being reunited with her. And that was a hell whose existence he was not quite ready to test.

The closest thing he had to his wife now was resting in his lap, ashes encased in ceramic. He had taken a small, private sailboat out to sea, sailed until there was no one else in sight, trying to find a good spot to release her ashes to the ocean she had loved so much. It had been close to two hours, now; he knew he was putting off the inevitable. If he didn’t do it now, he feared, with good reason, that he never would.

The best part about giving someone’s ashes to the sea was that there wouldn’t be one particular spot where her body would be laid to rest. The waves would take the dust of her and spread it for him, from shore to shore, just like they had taken his brother’s ashes. There would be no headstone, but the ocean itself would remind him of her, and he could visit her anytime he liked on a sea that had always brought him a sense of serenity.

Killian Jones had never believed in soul mates until he’d met Milah. And he still didn't quite believe in them, in the traditional sense. He didn't believe in a ready-made mate just waiting for him to find her. No, in his experience, life was far from ever that easy or that simple. But things had changed for him when he'd met his wife. Then, with her love, the broken pieces in him, irrevocably shattered the day his brother had died, shifted together into something that could almost be held together again. With her, he’d felt more whole than he could ever remember feeling in his life.

She had been married at the time, when they’d met. Daydreaming of leaving her terrible husband, dreams which grew in intensity with each passing day. And while she hadn't exactly left him for Killian, she may has well have. Everything had changed for her that day, too.

For while Milah had been his partner, they hadn't met each other and been perfectly content. But they had made each other stronger, in all the ways that counted. Now he believed wholeheartedly that soul mates existed. But they weren't found, ready made and prepackaged. They were made, forged through love and hard work working hand in hand.

These were the things he thought, as the gentle salted breeze ruffled his hair and brought stinging tears to his eyes. As he looked down at the urn that held the last physical piece of the woman he’d loved, would always love, was lost and adrift without.

“I love you, Milah,” he whispered to the wind. The tightness in his throat and jaw wouldn’t let him say more, but he knew he didn’t need to. She’d known how much and how fiercely he’d loved her, and he had to think that wherever she was, she still knew the hold she had on him.

He held the urn against his chest with his prosthetic hand, working to unscrew the top. The breeze calmed at just the right moment, and as he leaned over the side of the ship to release Milah to the sea she'd loved, the dust of her settled gently down into the water.

=========

gonna tag a few folks who I think might care this is up (again, sorry if I already tagged you!) @spartanguard @sunbeamsandmoonrays @caprelloidea @kmomof4 @queen-mabs-revenge @ahsagitarius @galadriel26 @t-tamm-

@lavendersoapsuds @its-imperator-furiosa @midnightswans @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky @withheartfulloflove @captainswan-middlemist @sarahreadsff @princesseslikepirates @winterbaby89 @pirateherokillian @wordslovedreams

@hannah-mic @thecraftyartist @blackwidownat2814 @once-uponacaptain @kylalovesbabeme @swiftmicheles @emmaswanstlk @captainswanslay

@the-tones-of-wallflowers @kday426 @krystalsficpage

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #cs fanfic #cs au #captain swan fanfiction #return to me

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aksannyi · 2 months

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Left Behind (1/1) - Captain Swan

Emma and Killian are urban explorers, taking camera crews and checking out abandoned spots to get footage of these liminal spaces for their docuseries - Emma's on YouTube, and Killian's on Netflix, when they converge on one location by complete coincidence. They argue over who has the rights to film this location when they find themselves trapped, and they come to realize that they’re more alike than not.

(I have been more than a bit obsessed with watching explorations of abandoned locations and learning their history and I just needed to put Killian and Emma in one of them.)

“Whoa, look at this place! This is so creepy!” Mary Margaret lowered the camera she’d been holding to take in their surroundings, her jaw dropping as it came into view.

The building loomed before them, its dark, brick exterior peeking out from behind the thick overgrowth of trees and vines. It was massive, so massive that they couldn’t see the full length of it from where they stood, and its dark, partially broken windows gave only the suggestion as to what the interiors once held.

Emma Swan, of YouTube fame, along with her friends (and camera crew) David and Mary Margaret, had always had a fascination with abandoned locations. There was something so unsettling about these liminal spaces, as though she could step within and be transported to a different time. Perhaps even be someone else for a while.

“How long has it sat here?” David was always amazed by just how much a space could decay in a short period of time, particularly with no upkeep.

“2005, I think?” Emma chimed in, taking her phone out to do a quick search of the location. “Yeah, 2005.”

“There’s no way this building is only 20 years old, Emma, look at it.” Mary Margaret said it with a wave of her hands, as if to punctuate her statement.

“No, that’s just how long it’s been abandoned. It was built like, a hundred years ago. But it’s only been left to rot since 2005.”

They walked toward the building, taking care not to trip over the cracks in the pavement. They’d parked Emma’s car a bit further away, so as to not arouse suspicion. It was best not to draw anyone’s attention to their excursions. “A hundred years old,” David mused. “That makes more sense. They were probably doing a bit of maintenance when it shut down, but couldn’t keep up with all the problems such an old place would have.”

“Okay, Bob Vila,” Emma teased. She always joked that David must have been a carpenter in his past life ‘or something,’ because he was always talking about the structure and maintenance of these places.

“I’m just saying. If this building was only twenty years old, it wouldn’t look like that. Even if no one so much as picked up a broom.”

“All right, all right,” Mary Margaret intervened. “Let’s hurry up and get inside before someone sees us.”

“You see anyone?” Emma had been keeping an eye on their surroundings as they approached, but it was always a good idea to make use of everyone’s senses.

“No,” David said, taking another glance around.

“Not a soul,” Mary Margaret confirmed.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54187552

They didn’t approach the front entrance of the building – that was almost certainly closed off, boarded up tight. Anyone wanting to keep someone out would have closed off the front door as their first line of defense, and it was probably the most heavily watched. Emma didn’t see any cameras, but if there were any, they’d be toward the main entrance of this dilapidated former hospital.

Instead, they headed toward an entrance to the side, which sat hidden under an awning of sorts, almost like it had been a hotel. She could see cars driving through here, picking up and dropping off patients, or perhaps ambulances. She shivered at the thought. Hospitals were not exactly her favorite place to be, even when they weren’t abandoned.

“Can you get it?” Mary Margaret was saying, watching over David’s shoulder as he used a crowbar to pry the doors apart. They had clearly been glass doors once. The glass was long gone, of course, but the doors were firmly boarded against trespassers.

Such as themselves. “Almost…” he grunted. “There!” The crowbar clanged to the ground loudly, startling all three of them as it echoed through the quiet space.

“Come on,” Emma beckoned, prying the doors a bit further apart and stepping carefully inside. They would have to try to close them when they left, so it would be best if they didn’t break anything.

“Oh my god,” Mary Margaret breathed as she took in the space.

It was a mostly empty room, save for a few thick support pillars, all of which had peeling paint and graffiti. “I FUCKED UR MOM” one of them proudly proclaimed, while others were considerably less coherent. There were a good number of swastikas and racial slurs throughout, and Emma rolled her eyes at the amount of blurring they’d have to do so that kind of crap would get minimal exposure. There were already enough assholes on the internet, no need to stoke those flames. She continued looking around, noting that the walls looked much the same, although there had clearly been a two-toned paint pattern, with some peeling wallpaper in a few spots.

A handful of chairs were scattered about, two of which were joined together, as waiting room chairs often were. One was turned on its side, and papers were scattered all around the floor – almost none of them containing anything legible, though a poster reminding patients about skin cancer still warned against the dangers of UV rays, even from its crinkled spot on the floor.

Some ceiling tiles were missing from the space, and stripped wires hung down, unimpeded. Some of the tiles lay broken on the ground, while a few others leaned against a wall. All of the fluorescent bulbs had been taken out, leaving only the shell of what was undoubtedly a bright, buzzing interior. A few boxes sat in the corner, their age apparent by the way they sagged beneath their own weight, and a lamp sat overturned, its lightbulb and shade both long gone.

“Wow,” Emma breathed, impressed. The first sight of any of these places was always the most breathtaking, and this was no exception. She knew that David had gotten her reaction, while Mary Margaret was busy filming the scenery.

“Smells kinda…musty,” Mary Margaret said, crinkling her nose at the smell.

“That’s an understatement.”

David was sure to keep Emma firmly in the frame, the light from his camera casting unnatural shadows in the darkened space.

“You’d think, with all the broken windows…” she trailed off. Would it really air out that much, with such a small amount of exposure to the outside air? Sure, there were plenty of broken windows, but many of them had been boarded up, and the ones that weren’t were quite a way off the ground.

“Well there’s a lot of dust,” David said, kicking at the dirt on the ground. The building seemed to hear them, as one of the ceiling tiles that had been leaning against the wall fell over, kicking up a cloud of dust that caused all three of them to start coughing. Sometimes, Emma wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea for them to wear protective masks or something.

Emma cleared her throat, reaching into her backpack for a bottle of water. “You’re getting all of this, right?” She took a swig, then tossed it over to David, who caught it deftly, even with the massive camera on his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he confirmed.

“Good.”

Emma continued to walk around the space slowly, taking in everything. This was only the first room, a waiting area of sorts, and she knew there would be plenty of other spaces to explore. This type of abandoned building was a gold mine for decay junkies like her viewers. (And herself, obviously.)

“Look, some of the furniture is still here. Ugh, look at all that mold on the cushions. It amazes me how they just leave these places. It’s like one day they just…stopped coming here. Like they just locked the doors one day and never came back. Everything just left here.”

“That’s actually true though. This part of the building was never used as anything after the hospital closed.”

“Yeah, I think they wanted to use it but couldn’t find a tenant.”

“Hard to imagine why,” Emma murmured dryly. The building was in horrible condition, that much was clear.

“Well, it looks like looters did pretty well for themselves,” David commented, noting the obvious lack of furniture, fixtures, and even coverings for the electrical outlets.

A shrill, quick beep sounded from down a hallway, and all three of the occupants jumped in surprise.

“Oh Jesus! Was that a fire alarm? Low battery?” Emma would never admit it to a single soul, but the mournful chirping of a dying smoke detector was probably one of the most unsettling sounds in the universe. She hated that sound. She always changed the batteries in her smoke detector well before they could ever hope to get to the point of alerting her that they were barely clinging to life.

“I think so, yeah,” David confirmed.

Emma was unnerved. “How long has that thing just been beeping every few minutes?”

“Probably as long as the building has been vacant.”

“That’s so creepy,” Mary Margaret breathed, and Emma nodded in agreement. Glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.

The alarm chirped again insistently, and all three of them startled again, despite knowing to expect it.

“Case and point,” Mary Margaret added unnecessarily.

“Like they just up and left! Those things have battery backup, but they’re mostly electric, right David?” He nodded. “But the electricity has been off for years, and that thing has been beeping pitifully ever since?”

“There’s no way,” David supplied. “No batteries are that good. I wonder if they just keep a few smoke detectors rigged up in case of fire?”

“Ooh, yeah. Arson is a problem at some of these places.” Mary Margaret began to rattle off a list of other abandoned places, some of which had been burned to the ground by vandals looking to get a cheap thrill.

“But why would they care? The building is condemned. What difference does it make if it gets torched? They could rebuild something better.” Emma kicked at the ground, scoffing. “It isn’t like this place can be repaired.”

David shrugged under the camera. “Beats me.”

“Maybe it’s an insurance thing.” They would have to have smoke detectors on the premises to get an insurance settlement, right? That had to be it. The alarm chirped again, and Mary Margaret took a deep breath. “So how long would this one have been here before its battery dies?”

Emma set her backpack down on the ground and reached into her pocket for her phone. She clicked on a few things, then rattled off the answer: “This site says anywhere from a year to like, five years. Depends what batteries they used?”

“Really?” David seemed intrigued, and Emma knew that he would do some more research into this topic when they made it back to their hotel.

“Yeah, today I learned that smoke detectors work better with specific batteries.”

“Huh,” he responded, confirming that he, too, had learned this very thing today.

Beep

“That’s gonna get old,” Emma said, heaving a deep sigh.

David shrugged again. “Well, do you have a nine-volt battery?”

“Of course I don’t, David! Who the hell ever has a nine-volt battery?”

“Well then let’s just try to ignore it and keep going.”

Mary Margaret changed the subject. “Oh my god, look at this. That’s the reception desk.” She had walked across what had to have been the waiting area to a curved counter, faded turquoise, the formica cracked – and in some places, gone entirely. Above the counter, the outline of the letters RGEN Y were still visible, although many had been painted over by vandals, obscuring their original verbiage. “Look, you can still see the outline where the letters were. Wow, this was the ER.”

“Well, the ER waiting room. Or like, triage,” Emma corrected. The actual emergency rooms would be down the hallway a bit. She wondered if any of the beds or curtains were still there. Probably not.

“Wonder how many people died here?”

David coughed. “Good lord, MM, why are you so macabre?”

“Like seriously! I’m just saying! This place has got to be haunted.”

“We’re not Ghost Adventures,” Emma reminded her. While it would be cool to have a show on the Travel Channel alongside big name shows like Ghost Adventures, she wasn’t sure that their particular brand of entering – which often involved the “breaking” part of “breaking and entering” – would be palatable for TV, even for cable television.

“Oh, come on, Emma, they’d love this!” Mary Margaret’s eyes were shining. She loved the show, and even Emma had to admit that it was fun to watch late at night with the lights off. Even if Zak Bagans and his team were overdramatic as all get-out.

“All right, all right, now can you stop fangirling and get over here with the damn camera?”

She picked up the pace with a huff. “Coming.”

Emma was standing behind the reception desk, poking around. There had once been drawers, but they were long gone. A small piece of corroded wire stuck out from inside one of the recesses where the drawers used to be, and some broken glass sat atop the desk, covered in dust. “Look, there’s some files.”

Mary Margaret zoomed in on the small pile of paperwork. It was a stack less than a centimeter high, the file folders warped with moisture damage and mold. “Do they have anything important?”

“They’re all stuck together. But I’d really doubt that they were personal medical files just…left here.”

“That’d be one hell of a HIPAA violation. Did HIPAA even exist when this place was still operating?”

“Nice pun. And I think at the end? Maybe?” Emma shrugged. She didn’t really feel like looking it up this time, and the signal here was weak anyway. “These were probably like protocol files or something.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” David replied with an exaggerated inflection. “One of the great mysteries of this place.”

“Oh, not you too with the dramatic haunted house crap,” Emma grumbled. “You guys-“

Suddenly, there was a loud banging noise coming from somewhere else in the building, followed by a shuffling sound and a couple of thumps. All three of the explorers jumped before freezing, their eyes wide with fear.

“What the fuck was that?” Emma whispered, her voice wavering slightly.

“I told you this place was haunted.”

“Mary Margaret, I swear to-“

“A rat?” she supplied, keeping Emma from finishing whatever threat she’d been about to level.

“Would a rat have been that loud?” David asked, and they all knew the answer.

“No, but at least a rat wouldn’t be the worst thing we’ve encountered.” A few years ago, they’d come across an angry, terrified raccoon. They had no intention of harming it, but the wild animal certainly hadn’t known that, and it looked like it wanted their blood. Instead of exploring further, they’d turned around and explored other parts of the building, hoping it’d leave them alone.

It had.

Emma, David, and Mary Margaret still stood in place, not moving. Just as Emma was about to shake it off and get them back into the exploration, another series of noises wafted toward them.

It was voices, and they were muffled. Emma could only make out every few words or so. “We’re on…Haven … Hospital … 2005. … 1987 … was built, and it … the years, but nothing … building, who had hoped … hotel, … to rot …fell through.” Whoever it was had quite a monologue going, Emma mused.

Mary Margaret sighed. “There are other explorers in here?”

“Who the hell?” David asked.

“I think I know who that is,” Emma said, and she hoped she was wrong. “Hello?” she called out, alerting the others to their presence.

From the distance, she could vaguely hear another voice saying something about reshooting.

Emma wasn’t amused. She knew they had heard her, so why were they ignoring her? “Who’s there?”

“The last thing we need…” they heard, as the voices inched closer, “…some amateurs out here causing trouble.”

The voices were nearing, and there was one she definitely recognized. Damn it, not this guy. “Yeah, we need to get these trespassers out of here. They’re a liability.”

Emma heard the word trespasser and her blood ran cold. Shit. She couldn’t afford to get another trespassing charge. While she and her crew were always careful, that didn’t stop curious, concerned citizens calling in on them, which resulted in their getting citations more often than not.

But another group of urban explorers wouldn’t rat them out, would they?

Suddenly, an entire entourage came around a corner, three men and a short woman. Emma knew all of them. Killian Jones, the star of a Netflix documentary series about abandoned places, and his crew, Robin, Will, and Belle.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she groaned as she spotted him, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms around her chest.

“Emma Swan,” Killian Jones said, looking as though he had just discovered buried treasure. Emma was far less amused at the sight of him, but then she realized that he’d said her name.

“You know me?”

“Of course I know you. We seem to explore quite a few of the same places. Killian Jones, at your service.” He stepped forward, offering his hand.

Emma didn’t take it. Instead, she stared him down. “I know who you are.”

He lowered his hand, wiping it on his jeans. “So then you understand why we’re here, exploring this place,” he said, as if that made the fact that he’d encroached on their shoot any less obnoxious.

“It’s a cool location that I’m sure will be extremely popular with my viewers.” Behind her, David coughed again, and she could practically hear Mary Margaret thinking, but neither said anything. They both knew about Emma’s dislike of Killian Jones and had listened to the way she’d rant about him after hate-watching his show. Neither David nor Mary Margaret understood Emma’s vitriol toward the man – or his series – but they were her friends, and friends let friends rant about Netflix docuseries and the smarmy British narrators who made them.

Or so Emma had said, once upon a time.

“I would say the same, which is why I’m here.”

Emma wasn’t budging. “Well I heard you talking about kicking us out of here. You don’t own the building, so you have no right.”

He stepped forward, and Emma steeled in her resolve not to move. She wouldn’t let this guy push her around. “Given how nervous you were when we came around that corner, it seems that you felt as though you were caught. Breaking and entering, Swan? Is that how you get to all these places the other YouTubers don’t ever seem to hit?”

“It appears that way, doesn’t it,” she said, leaving the last word to hang between them for a few minutes.

He shook his head. Behind him, she watched his crew stand silently, though a look passed between Belle and Will. “Tsk. Do your viewers approve?”

“I’m not stupid! I would never put anything incriminating on film. Which reminds me – you’re going to need to delete that footage.”

“Well this certainly got a bit more interesting,” he mused, and there was that look passing between his crew members again. Emma felt her hackles raising.

“Listen, we’re just here exploring. How we got in here is irrelevant, isn’t it?” David chimed in from behind Emma, sensing Emma’s growing annoyance. She turned her head and looked back over her shoulder, shaking it slightly. Let me handle this, was the message.

Killian was already replying. “I wouldn’t say that it’s irrelevant-“

“Isn’t it? We’re here now.” She shrugged slightly, scuffing her boot on the dusty floor. “But it also appears that you’re doing the same exact thing, so I don’t get why-”

“Not quite. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Hold on a minute, we were here first! And if you’re breaking in, too, I don’t see how you have the right to tell us we’re wrong. A bit hypocritical,” she pointed out. Killian rolled his eyes, but didn’t address the accusation.

“Ahh, but you see, I’m filming a professional production,” he supplied.

“What the hell do you think we’re doing?”

He shrugged. “Being amateurs,” was his response.

“Asshole,” she spat.

“An honest asshole.” Emma’s YouTube channel was very popular, and her videos got hundreds of thousands of views, but they weren’t, strictly speaking, professionals as far as the industry was concerned. It was one of the pitfalls of content creation platforms – it was a job, but at the same time, it wasn’t. And it pissed her off that Killian was right. They were amateur filmmakers. Talented amateur filmmakers, but amateurs nonetheless. That still didn’t give him the right to be a dick, though.

“Honest my ass! You don’t get to come in here and kick us out when you’ve just done the exact same thing you’ve accused us of doing. “

“I-“

She put her hand up to stop him, gesturing with her finger as she spoke. “So just turn around, walk your ass the other way, and get the hell out. We were here first.”

It was clear that she wasn’t going to listen to his explanation, so he decided he’d try to be diplomatic. This space was enormous, surely they could get enough unique footage to satisfy both of their audiences.

“Look, we’re both here now, why don’t we just do this together? You don’t have to get me in any shots, and I’ll keep you out of mine. We can agree to be silent while the other team is talking, aye?”

“Why would I do that? You’ll get all the same footage as us.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “While I might get some of the same footage as you, you may have noticed that this building is massive. And besides, why are you so worried about overlapping footage when your video will be posted before my film is edited and released?”

“Are you saying we don’t edit our footage?” Emma was rarely this easily angered, but he’d managed to strike every nerve he possibly could in the short time they’d been speaking to each other.

Killian drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Emma waited silently, giving him the opening to answer her question. She could tell that he was getting aggravated with her. Good, she thought. Maybe she’d piss him off enough that he’d get tired of arguing and just leave so they could get back to filming.

“I’m saying you’re not professionals. We are. And professional productions take time.”

“Fuck you. “

“Perhaps later, you may wish to clean yourself up first.”

She balked, resisting the urge to repeat her previous statement, lest he take it even further. “Listen, just because you’re some bigshot Netflix star doesn’t mean you get to treat everyone else around you like shit. My channel has been steadily growing for the past ten years, I have a solid viewership, and I know what I’m doing. So why don’t you take your big, expensive camera crew back around that corner and go fuck off to somewhere else.”

He shook his head. “After all the work I’ve done on this location? You’re mad.“

“All that work and yet, we still got here first.”

“Fine. We’ll do this the hard way then.” He nodded his head to one side, indicating that his crew should follow him. Robin had set his camera down, and he picked it back up, following Killian’s lead. “We’re on the site of the Mist Haven Memorial Hospital, which closed in 1987. It saw a few ownership changes in the time since, but fully closed – and was left abandoned – in 2005. When the-“

Emma started speaking over him. “We’re going to head down the hallway-“

He raised his voice, continuing, “they thought they could transform the building-“

“remnants they’ve left behind-“

Killian stopped, rolling his head back and interrupting her. “You’re polluting my footage.”

“You’re polluting my footage.”

They were in a standoff, staring each other down. Behind them, both crews stood quietly, watching but unwilling to interrupt. Emma narrowed her eyes, then Killian narrowed his. They both took twin deep breaths, and Killian tilted his head slightly with a saucy wink, knowing it would irritate her.

“Ugh!” This was going to cost so much extra time in editing, to remove all traces of Killian fucking Jones and his stupid fucking documentary voice. She turned around, motioning for Mary Margaret and David to follow her.

“Come around this way, look down this hallway! One of these rooms is where a nurse was stabbed.”

“Guess it’s a good thing they were already in the ER,” David supplied, and Emma let out a slight puff of air, amused. She was still annoyed, and she couldn’t seem to get a natural flow back knowing that Killian Jones was there, probably overhearing everything she said. She kept speaking, but despite her best efforts she couldn’t shake the feeling of being observed. She hoped that their footage past this point wouldn’t look forced or unnatural.

“This hallway is creepy,” Belle spoke up behind her, after having been instructed to also continue observing the space as though the other team was not there.

Killian continued into a nearby room, continuing his history lesson. “Back in this room, the founder of the hospital died, which was the first death knell in the lifespan of this hospital. A series-“

“Look at how this handrail is falling off!” Emma exclaimed, much louder than she’d have normally pointed out a feature of a location. Her team was still in the hallway, but she knew that her voice would carry and the other team would have to reshoot. She gloated inwardly. “David, zoom in on that.”

“Oh gross, it’s moldy,” Mary Margaret added, getting a different angle.

“Christ, that stinks,“ Emma continued, wrinkling her nose and stepping back.

“Opened back in 1927, this hospital saw the worst parts of the Great Depression, as people suffered from easily curable diseases they simply had no money to pay to eradicate. Suicides were at an all-time high, and many of the nurses sat right here on watch, trying to ensure-“

“This room is freezing,” Emma interrupted again, and Killian glared at her.

“Reshoot,” he said with a sigh, the obnoxious chirp of the dying smoke detector punctuating his statement. “You know, we could take turns-“

She interrupted, pretending to ignore him completely. “All these patients, all these rooms, now empty. Left to rot, like-“

“Water damage,” Killian pointed out, stepping in front of Emma’s crew and crouching near the baseboard to get a closer look at the line that indicated that there had been some type of flood.

“Really?!”

“What? You interrupted me, I feel it only right that I should do the same.”

“You’re the most aggravating-“

He stood back up, turning to face her, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “Hey now, I offered to share the space. You wanted to do this the hard way. So by all means, keep going. I’m going to do my job. My editors are going to charge me double for this.”

“Then get the hell out of my shots.”

“My shots.”

They stared each other down, but neither of them wanted to concede even an inch. “I’m wasting time,” Killian said to his crew, turning and continuing to talk about the location. “It’s eerie, isn’t it, the way this bedframe is just situated at an angle? It certainly wasn’t like that while the hospital was operable-“

“Oh my god, look at the writing in here! What the fuck does that even say?” She ran her fingers along the letters, faded from years of wear and tear, and unintelligible.

“Swan, you can’t curse on my footage,” he growled.

“I’m not on your footage.”

“Unfortunately, you are.”

“Emma-“ Mary Margaret began, but Emma ignored her, focusing solely on getting Killian Jones out of this damn abandoned hospital.

“Could you just go away?”

“No can do, Swan. I’ve a deadline to meet.”

“Killian-“ Robin spoke up, but he was also ignored.

They were standing at a doorway, and Emma turned to enter the room at the same time as Killian did. The doorway was not narrow, but they jostled for position all the same, Emma bracing her hand on the doorframe and standing with her legs far apart, raising her elbows to shove him when he tried to pass. “I was here first!”

He elbowed her back. “You keep saying that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got a film to make.”

David spoke up again, sighing. “Come on, Emma, we can go to the other side of the building.”

“Why should I? We got here first. They can go shoot over there and come back here later.” She stepped on Killian’s foot, and he kneed the back of her thigh. He was now bracing himself on the other side of the door frame, refusing to give an inch. It was childish, and they both knew it, but neither wished to be the one to forfeit.

“When there’s less light? Hardly.”

“Jones…” Will tried, as unsuccessfully as the other crew members, to get them to stop.

“Bugger off,” was Killian’s response as he took an elbow to the back.

“Let me in the goddamn room!”

“Watch your elbow,” he grunted out after she hit him with it a third time.

“Well, if you’d let me in the room I wouldn’t have hit you!”

“Listen, I offered for us to share-“ They were both bracing on the doorframe still, and he heard a slight cracking sound, as though the wooden frame was faltering. They both stopped, their limbs still half-entangled from their battle.

“What the fuck was that?” There was another crack, and Killian released the doorframe.

“We should probably-“

It was as if everything happened all at once: the building was creaking and groaning and the next minute, the foundation above the doorway was falling away, causing the beams from the ceiling to fall. He didn’t even think, just jumped toward her, pushing her toward the ground and out of the way of the falling beam. He landed on top of her with a grunt, but they seemed to have avoided the biggest pieces of debris.

A few more rumbles and they heard more of the building crashing down around them. He could hear Emma beneath him, screaming, and he couldn’t exactly blame her.

The dust settled. A small bit of light peeked through a crevice in the debris, and he could see that the space they were in was pretty tight – they’d narrowly missed being crushed to death.

They both spoke at the same time.

“Ahh, shit!”

“Bloody hell.”

“You can get off me whenever.”

He shuffled away carefully, trying to make sure he didn’t disturb anything that had fallen around them, in case the building wasn’t done yet “Sorry,” he apologized awkwardly.

“No… thank you.” He could tell what a supreme effort it took for her to thank him, but even Emma Swan couldn’t be so crude as to refuse to thank someone for saving her life.

“I do suppose gratitude is in order.”

“Yeah that’s why I thanked you. And I don’t think this is something you can flirt your way out of, hotshot. Unless those pouty lips can lift this door frame.”

He chose not to comment on the descriptor she’d chosen for his lips. “Unfortunately, my lips lack the skills to lift heavy wooden beams out of the way. They do, however, have other skills…”

“Ugh! Stop!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop,” he said, laughing slightly. “You do realize that I’m just trying to get a rise out of you?”

“You succeeded. Now we need to find a way to get out of here.” She looked around, surveying the damage. The space they were in was just barely big enough for the two of them to sit up, and neither dared to lean on anything. “How the fuck did this happen?”

“We’ve both been exploring for years. These buildings are all falling apart. It’s a wonder it hadn’t happened sooner.”

“Well that’s comforting,” she muttered. “Don’t you have people who come out to check these places first? Like, for safety? For your big, professional productions?”

“Of course I do, and I’m given specific instructions on places I should avoid for this very reason. This part of the building was determined by the insurance adjuster to be sound.”

“Well, someone fucked up.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Us.”

She was immediately on the defensive. “You think that our argument caused this?”

He looked at her, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Perhaps it was your yelling, it disturbed the delicate foundations of this place.” She narrowed her eyes.

“Perhaps it was your gigantic ego being incapable of fitting through the door.”

“Perhaps- “

She sighed. “Perhaps arguing isn’t fucking getting us out of here. Come on, if we reach up here we can probably-“

He shook his head, taking another long look around the space. He couldn’t be sure that they weren’t under several layers of debris down here. If they moved one thing, everything else could come crashing down. “Love, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She glared at him. “You got a better one?”

He took his phone out of his pocket, clicking the home button and seeing that he had no service. Emma mirrored his action, seeing her phone screen was cracked.. She groaned as she attempted – unsuccessfully – to turn it on. Calling for help was out of the question.

“Wait for rescue?” He asked, and even he knew it sounded pathetic. She let out an incredulous huff.

“From who?”

“The crew?”

Oh God, the crew! In their current predicament, she’d forgotten that she’d brought two other people in here with her, and that Killian had brought his team, as well. “Do you hear them? What if they- oh god, what if they’re all… it’d be my fault, I dragged them here…”

“Shit.” It was quiet. He thought they’d have heard some yelling by now. What if he’d been responsible for killing his entire crew?

“If they’re… and we’re stuck here… how long…?” She found it hard to speak the word. If they were dead. Dead. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. These were her best friends. She would never live with herself if she survived and they hadn’t.

“I don’t know.” He let out a long breath. Emma could tell that he, too, felt the weight of responsibility for the people he’d brought with him.

“Would anyone nearby be able to hear the crash? Would they think to look for people?”

“My truck is parked outside, so I’d hope so,” he replied. Sure, they hadn’t parked directly in front of this exact location, but eventually someone would find it odd that there was a car parked in front of an abandoned hospital.

“Mine, too.“

“That ridiculous yellow contraption?”

She felt her irritation rising again at his tone. “I like it” The Bug was old, but it was hers – one of the first things that she’d ever bought for herself.

“It fits you, I guess,” he said, and she snapped her head to look at him.

“And what does that mean?”

“That thing looks like it’s held together by duct tape and dreams. Kind of like-“

“Do not finish that statement,” she warned. She didn’t know what he’d been about to say, but it couldn’t have been anything kind, judging by their conversation so far. She sighed. For a moment, it had seemed like they were starting to get along, but now he was antagonizing her again.

“Fine,” he snapped.

“Fine,” she snapped back.

The silence enveloped them, and Emma realized at that moment just how little space they had. She could see that there were some small openings in the debris – she could barely see the light from one of the windows – so it wasn’t like they would run out of air, but the space was not a comfortable one by anyone’s definition. She wondered what would happen if they had to sleep here – if they had to spend the night, waiting for rescue, in a tiny space where perhaps one errant move could send the rest of the building upon them.

It was only when Killian spoke again that she realized she’d started breathing a bit more rapidly. “Your breathing is disrupting my thinking.”

“Oh, I’m sure your thoughts are exhilarating,” was her reply. As much as she’d tried to sound sarcastic, she was secretly glad that he’d drawn her out of her headspace.

“They are, actually. Not that I can hear myself think over the sound of you hyperventilating.”

“Well excuse me for panicking! We could die in here, and you’re hellbent on antagonizing me!” He recoiled, realizing that his attempts to lighten the mood with teasing had not been taken in jest. “This is your fault!”

It was his turn to be defensive. “How in the hell is this my fault?”

“If you hadn’t come around that corner and bothered us while we were filming…” she waved her hand, seemingly showing the result of him walking into the hospital.

“Oh, so I was supposed to just know you were here?”

“You could have just seen us and turned around. Let us do our thing. It isn’t like the building is going anywhere.”

He turned his head toward her slowly, giving her a pointed, incredulous look.

She swallowed. “Okay, so the building was going somewhere. How were we supposed to know that?”

“Exactly, love,” he nodded. “How were we supposed to know that?”

Emma huffed, a short breath pushing a few errant strands of hair away from her face, and she reached up to brush her hair back behind her ear. As much as she wanted to blame Killian Jones for all of her current woes, she knew as well as he did that they were both responsible for their predicament. Had they not been shoving each other like a couple of five-year-olds, the building probably would still be mostly intact.

He was still talking, she realized. “And we could have collaborated, if you’d been amenable to it.”

“Could you cut out the proper British guy act? This isn’t fucking National Geographic.” Who the hell uses words like amenable?

“I hate to break it to you, love, but this is my natural accent.”

“I mean your stupid vocabulary,” she amended, and he snorted, trying to keep from laughing.

“The mere fact that I have a vocabulary indicates that it is not stupid.” And damn it, she hated that he was right. Again.

She sighed. “This sucks.”

“On that, I am in agreement with you.”

“Fuck, I don’t even have my backpack on me.” Killian raised an eyebrow, silently asking her to elaborate as to why that mattered. “My backpack has water. Some snacks.”

“Planning on getting trapped?”

“No. But you so eloquently pointed out my ‘yellow contraption,’ which is kind of old. I like to be prepared. Plus, I like to snack. We spend hours in these places. You mean to tell me you don’t bring snacks? You don’t have anything to drink?”

“We keep a cooler of water in the truck, but snacks, no. Not on location,” he mused. He’d never thought to bring snacks into one of these places; they would shoot different parts of the documentary at different times, and they could always grab something to eat while outside the venue.

“On location,” she mimicked, her horrible rendition of his accent making him snort with laughter. “You sound so pretentious.”

“I’m a filmmaker, love. That’s what it’s called.”

“Totally pretentious.” He couldn’t stop himself from laughing, snickering softly under his breath.

Emma was less amused. “What’s funny about this?”

“I’m laughing at you,” he replied with another shake of his shoulders, though he at least managed to contain his grin.

“Yeah, sure, laugh at me, kick me while I’m down! We’re both in here, we’re both gonna die! Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“I am!”

“No you’re not!”

“Okay, well, first of all, we’re not going to die, and I was just trying to make you feel a bit better,” he said with a shrug, his tone apologetic. He realized that his approach with Emma had been wrong. She was far too guarded to find the humor in a situation such as this, and he should have contained himself, at least more than he had.

“Why should I?” She asked, throwing her hands up. “Feel better, I mean?”

“What’s the use in panicking? You’ll use more energy,” was his response.

“Why should that matter? We’re not going to be pushing our way out of here, we’ve already established that.”

He reached to push her hands down, keeping a grip on her wrist. He was surprised when she didn’t push his hand away. “When a crew comes to let us out, you might need some strength.”

“When. You seem awfully confident,” she retorted, her eyes betraying the worry she’d been trying to conceal. Despite her tough exterior, he could tell that Emma was more afraid than she’d let on.

“People know I’m here,” he said, hoping to provide an extra bit of reassurance. “They will be expecting to hear from me.”

“People other than your crew?” She swallowed again, trying not to think too hard about what might have happened to their friends.

“Yes, believe it or not,” he replied. “People actually care about me. People who aren’t on my payroll.”

At that, she cracked a smile, but decided to keep playing the role. “Like who?” she asked, as if she didn’t believe him.

“Like my brother, who will no doubt gloat about my idiocy in getting trapped in here, and who will be sure to tell me to stop my ‘foolish dangerous hobby,’ as he calls it.” Emma dropped the façade immediately, becoming indignant on Killian’s behalf.

“It’s not a hobby if you get paid for it.”

“Exactly. I told him that. This is my job. A job I quite enjoy.” As an afterthought, he added, “most of the time.”

“This is mine, too.”

He was surprised by that. It wasn’t easy to be able to support oneself with a career in content creation. “Really?”

“It’s almost impossible to produce good, quality YouTube content like this without committing to it. I worked for the first few years while I ran my channel, and you can tell by the quality of my videos, because I didn’t have the time to devote to the locations, or the time for editing them the way we do now Then I…I lost my mother,” she took a shaky breath and felt him squeeze her arm, “my adoptive mom, I never knew my real mother – and I decided then that I’d pursue this for real. She left me a bit of money, so I could comfortably quit and try to make this happen. If it didn’t work out, I’d at least know I tried. If it did – well, I’d be where I am right now.”

“Trapped in a collapsed building with me.”

“Maybe I should have kept my job,” she joked, but there was no bite behind it.

“Am I all that bad?”

No, she wanted to say, but somehow couldn’t form the word. It had been hard for her to let people in, to trust people, and she was already trusting him a lot more than she’d ever intended upon. True, she hadn’t expected to meet him and then become trapped in a tight space under a partially collapsed building, but she still wasn’t ready to be completely open.

He could see her warring with herself, so he continued. “I think we’ve got quite a bit in common, love. You say you never knew your birth mother, I’m assuming that extends to your birth father, as well?” He paused, and she nodded in response. “My mother died when I was four, then my father abandoned my brother and I when I was five. Liam was fifteen. One of his friends’ mums took us in so we wouldn’t get separated from each other. She kind of became my second mum.”

“What happened to her?” Emma asked, though she sensed there was no happy ending to this story.

“She died,” he said, swallowing hard. “Last year. Cancer.”

“It’s a bitch,” she said softly.

He chuckled darkly in response. “Indeed.”

Emma didn’t know how to respond, other than the usual platitudes and sympathy, and she had a feeling that he wasn’t one for wallowing. She was the same way. Hearing people offer sympathy to her forced her to think about it, and she didn’t want to think about it.

“Let me ask you something, Swan,” he said softly, and she lifted her head up.

“Hmm?”

“Is that why your series is named ‘Left Behind’?”

“Um. Yeah, actually.” She was surprised. There were so few people who understood the double meaning of her series title, and in mere hours he’d picked up on it.

He nodded sadly. “I knew I saw it in you. The look of someone who had been abandoned. You put so much love and care into these explorations. You’re fascinated by things left behind, but you recognize the tragedy in it all..” She was too stunned to reply. “We’re more alike than you think.”

That shook her out of it. “I suppose. And what about your series? ‘Desolate and Deserted’?” She watched him reach to scratch behind his ear, a nervous gesture that made him seem oddly endearing.

“Aye, I was in a kind of rough patch when I came about the name. My girlfriend had just left me to go be with one of my mates, and I felt pretty much desolate and deserted.” He stopped for a moment, then continued. “Looking back, it never would have worked out, so I guess I should thank her for it, but the name is rather unfortunate, at that.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry. Cheaters are the worst. No one should have to go through that. It’s a shitty feeling.” Feeling like you’re unwanted, she didn’t add, but she didn’t have to. He understood.

“I told you. We’re more alike than you think.”

“I suppose we are.” It was weird, realizing that she may have been wrong about him, and that for all his bravado as portrayed on TV, he was just as flawed and broken as she was. “Look, I’m sorry for all of that, back there. Being the first to explore a location, that’s kind of my whole thing. Audiences are fickle, and I’m terrified of losing everything I’ve built.”

“I understand, Swan. More than you think. When you come from nothing-“

“Do you hear something?” They both sat silently, listening for something out of the ordinary. Then he heard it – some faint yelling. Were people here already, looking for them? Should they begin yelling?

The yelling was getting closer, though they couldn’t make out what the person was saying. Whoever it was didn’t seem to know where they were. “Is that-“

Mary Margaret interrupted him, her voice calling loudly from what must have just been outside the room they were in. “Emma! Killian! You guys in there?”

“Jones!” Robin’s voice called, and he heard Belle and Will calling further off in the distance.

“They’re alive,” he breathed.

“Oh thank God,” Emma replied, heaving a huge sigh. Not only were the people she loved alive – and probably fine, but they were actively looking for them.

“We’re here!” She yelled as loud as she could. Killian flinched and tried not to cover his ears, despite the volume of her voice. “We’re both fine! A few scratches!”

“Killian?” Will shouted, apparently needing to hear him.

“I’m fine! What took you lot so long?”

Even through a thick brick wall and a mountain of debris, Killian could hear Will’s biting tone: “We were trying to get out, you wanker!”

“We thought you were dead!” Mary Margaret yelled. “You weren’t calling for us, so we assumed…”

“We thought you were dead!” Emma shouted, and wiped a tear that had started rolling down her cheek. When they got out of here, she was going to give Mary Margaret and David the biggest hug imaginable.

“We’re calling 911! Don’t kill each other!”

“WHAT!?” Emma bellowed, her face turning to panic. The group outside didn’t respond, so she assumed that they were already in the process of calling.

“How else do you think they’re going to get us out of here? Divine intervention?” Killian asked.

She rolled her eyes. “The cops will come.”

“So?”

“We’re trespassing. Why are you not freaking out? We’re trapped under all this shit, the foundation is probably not that sturdy given… everything… and we’re going to get arrested once they pull our stupid asses out of here. How can you be so calm?”

“I have a permit, along with liability insurance,” he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You do?” Now it all made sense, the way he’d reacted to her crew breaking into the location.

“You mean to tell me you don’t?”

“Would I be freaking out if I did?”

“Fair point,” he conceded. He had been teasing her earlier, but now it seemed that their explorations were a lot more amateur than he’d thought. When they got out of here, he’d try to convince her that she should start doing things the legal way. That wasn’t a conversation to be had at this particular moment. “But anyway, my insurance specifies ‘Killian Jones and his crew.’ None of their names are listed on the document.”

What did that have to do with anything? she wondered. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you could pretend to be a part of my crew – you and your own crew – and you can avoid the charges associated with trespassing.”

It was a generous offer, one Emma couldn’t believe he would make. “Why would you do that? After all the shit I’ve given you today?”

“What kind of person would I be if I didn’t?”

She didn’t respond, because she realized that everything she’d said about him earlier had been borne of assumptions, almost all of which were wrong.

He continued. “An asshole?”

“Listen, I didn’t mean…I mean…” she pursed her lips together. She knew she had to apologize, but Emma wasn’t always the greatest at admitting when she was wrong.

“No, no, I’m your competition, after all. That’s why you were so upset that we were here. You don’t want to lose half your viewers to my episode.”

“I mean, you’re not really my competition.” His eyebrows shot to the sky, and she quickly amended, “You’re not a YouTuber. Our audiences are not the same, and people expect different things on YouTube than they do on Netflix.”

“So then you really shouldn’t have been so upset about us being here,” he pointed out, and she shrugged. He was right.

“But to be fair, we are often covering the same locations, a fact that you have mentioned more than a few times in your videos.”

Emma was shocked. “You’ve watched my videos?” It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, given that he’d recognized her on sight, but she still felt flustered at the knowledge that someone as prominent as Killian Jones, a renowned documentary filmmaker who had a non-zero amount of Emmy nominations throughout his career, sat down to watch her videos.

Suddenly, she wanted to know more. Did he subscribe to her channel? Was he familiar with her posting schedule? Had he ever commented on one of her videos before?

“I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I? They’ll get us out of here, I’ll give them my insurance information, I’ll say we were all here filming together, and we can go our separate ways. Nothing to worry about, Swan.”

No one had ever called her by her last name before, and she kind of liked it, loathe as she was to admit it to herself. “Thank you.” She waited for him to make a snarky comment, or to make another flirtatious remark about how she could properly show her gratitude. When he didn’t, she turned to look at him, noting the way his eyes had softened.

“And when the firemen finally get us out of here, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Can’t just let a favor go for free, can we?” she snarked, immediately regretting her words when she saw him flinch slightly. She let out an apologetic breath, giving him the space to continue.

“Well you see,. I quite fancy you, when you’re not yelling at me.”

If someone had told her this morning that not only would she meet Killian Jones, but she’d be sitting next to him under a pile of rubble while he confessed to liking her, she’d have called that person a dumbass. And yet…

And yet.

He watched the surprise play across her face before continuing. “I’ve watched your videos for years, Swan. Not to copy your locations – we have similar tastes, is all. I actually enjoy your content. You have a fresh enthusiasm that my documentaries lack. A – youthfulness, a feeling of whimsy.”

“Yours are kind of clinical,” she agreed, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “How old are you anyway? Fifty?” Emma Swan was not one for sincerity, but teasing? That, she could do.

He ignored the age comment, pointing playfully. “I knew you watched them!” His wide grin was perhaps the most endearing thing Emma had ever seen.

“Sometimes there’s nothing else on Netflix,” she shrugged. He narrowed his eyes at her, letting her know that he didn’t believe her for a second.

“Okay, okay! I’ve watched them! The history you dig up is really interesting. I sometimes wish I went through all the trouble before getting to these places. I mean, we do get a little bit of background, but you’re like an abandoned building archaeologist. The stuff you find out about these places is fascinating.”

“It does give the exploration more depth,” he agreed. It was a lot of work, the research that went into each of his videos, not to mention the interviews and location shots. He was glad to hear that someone he admired as much as Emma appreciated it.

“Tell me the history of this place.”

“Now, now, Swan, no spoilers.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think I know how this episode ends already,” she joked, and he had no response to that.

“All right, so, George Mills made a fortune in the steel industry at the turn of the century. He was one of the first to open a steel mill just outside Pittsburgh, which – as you know – is well-known for steel production. He met his wife there, a woman half his age by the name of Regina Barnes. She was, according to many accounts, a tyrant, and just prior to the first World War, she forced him to sell the mill and move their family – they had three kids at this point – and settle in this area.”

“Why here?” Northern Maine wasn’t particularly close to Pittsburgh, so it seemed an odd choice.

“She had ‘a feeling about this place.’ A small, unincorporated area of the country, well off the beaten path, and she wanted to live there. She packed up her family, ‘convinced’ dozens of families to leave Pittsburgh with them, and they all settled down and incorporated the town of Storybrooke, which holds its name to this day.”

Killian’s use of air quotes had not gone unnoticed. She imitated the motion, asking, “Convinced?”

“Coerced. Allegedly.” Emma gave him a pointed look, urging him to continue. “She was apparently great at getting dirt on people, which was an excellent means for her to get her way. So she basically brought a small town’s worth of people with her to settle down, got them all to build her a mansion which, sadly, burned down about ten years ago, and appointed herself mayor of the town.”

“Her husband wasn’t bothered by this?”

“He was very enamored of her, it seems.”

“Or she had something on him, too,” Emma suggested, and he nodded slightly.

“We’ll never know, I suppose. Anyway, that’s how this hospital came to be. One of their children developed a chronic illness, and rather than travel to another city for healthcare, she blackmailed a doctor out of Boston and had the hospital built. They began construction in 1920, and the first wing of the hospital opened that year. This whole massive building was built and operational by 1927, funded in part by the number of disabled war veterans needing continuous care. Storybrooke was a thriving small town at that point, and the hospital was the largest for miles for over thirty years.

“It saw the tail end of the depression, had a major boom during the Second World War, as did the town. George Mills died shortly after the war, and Regina inherited his fortune. She ran the town, and the hospital was part of the town. She wasn’t mayor anymore, but every subsequent mayor answered to her. She had the money, and with it, the power. There is a lot of scandal surrounding Regina Barnes-Mills, so much that I can’t possibly put it all in the episode. I could do an entire documentary on her alone.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I don’t have time, for one. Perhaps I will revisit her story someday.” He paused, heaving a slight sigh. “Anyway, she died in 1983. She was 102 years old then, and held onto control right up until the end. Following her death, her children had a huge battle with each other over inheritance. Our lovely Mayor hadn’t been too clear about her intentions. Some local historians say that she didn’t intend to die.” He paused, giving Emma a chance to giggle. “The familial in-fighting and lack of leadership at the hospital was essentially its death warrant, though there were many other factors. Newer, more state-of-the-art facilities, people leaving the town, and the questionable decision to convert the hospital – well, a wing of it, at least – to a mental health facility. Problem was, there weren’t enough patients locally, so they kind of… outsourced.”

“I take it that didn’t go well?”

“Not as such, no. There were some lawsuits over the mistreatment of patients, and the hospital closed in 1987. A wealthy investor bought this place hoping to turn it into a hotel, and some parts of the building were converted into rooms. That lasted a couple years. It’s not like this area is a tourist hotspot. Except, you know, for people like us who want to explore decrepit, abandoned places,” he joked.

“I know the rest, I think. They couldn’t find anyone else to buy it and there was a huge fire all the way on the other side of the building. People wrote it off, right?”

“That’s essentially it, yes. And here it sits.”

“And here we sit,” she grumbled, heaving a deep sigh. He responded with a sigh of his own. They sat in silence for a few moments, and Emma pretended to be supremely interested in her cuticles.

Killian broke the silence. “So, have I made this place more interesting to you?

“Nah,” she said, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile from him.

“I beg your-“ He grabbed her wrist, causing her to look at him. “You were hanging onto my every word!”

Emma couldn’t help but laugh. He was so offended at her feigned disinterest. “Perhaps I was merely appreciative of the messenger.”

“And not the message?”

She huffed out a breath, pushing an errant strand of hair away from her face. “I was trying to compliment you.”

“You were?” He raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat slightly. “All right then. Thank you.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but didn’t get the chance. “You guys all right in there?” Robin’s voice carried over the rubble.

“Fine!” Emma called, trying not to be too annoyed at the interruption from outside. They were just trying to help, after all.

Killian seemed to sense her frustration. “But you could get us out, yeah?

“The firemen are on their way. Try not to kill each other,” Robin advised. Killian made a mental note to remind Robin later that he didn’t need a second over-protective older brother.

“No promises,” Killian shouted back, winking at Emma as he did so.

Right then, she seemed to make a decision about something. “Okay,” she said, agreeing to an unknown prompt.

“Okay what?”

“Okay I’ll go to dinner with you,” she replied, her eyes glinting with amusement at the way his face lit up.

“Really Swan, what changed your mind?”

“I quite ‘fancy you’ as well,” she replied, in a poor imitation of his accent.

“Emma Swan, were you watching my documentaries to admire the locations, or just to admire me?” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows in an animated fashion.

“You really are such a dick sometimes.” The insult was spoken, but it had no bite.

He shrugged casually. “It’s part of my charm.”

“I suppose.”

“But you didn’t answer my question,” he pressed, and she looked down at her fingers again, picking at one of her nails.

“Both,” she muttered.

“Both?” He repeated, wanting to be sure he’d heard her.

She threw her hands up exasperatedly. “Both the locations, and you. All right?”

“Was that so hard?”

“Admitting that I’ve been a bitch to you all this time because I didn’t want you to know that I liked you?”

And there it was, out in the open. Sure, there had been the worry about him getting all of the prime bits of footage before she could manage it, but the real reason she was being so prickly was that she hadn’t wanted to admit to him – or to herself, for that matter – that she liked him. Kind of a lot.

“I wasn’t going to say it.” He knew better than to use that particular word in reference to a woman. She smiled then, surprisingly relieved that it was out in the open now.

“So what do you say, Swan, care to plan a collab? Starting here?”

What did she have to lose? “Okay,” she said. “But I still get to release my video on my schedule.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to manage how you run your channel, love.”

“Good.”

Inwardly, she wondered how it would all work – would they have contracts? As much as Killian said he wouldn’t want to meddle in her production, she knew that the folks over at Netflix would probably have a few more stipulations.

As if reading her thoughts, he continued. “I can’t promise that my agents will appreciate me bringing another personality onto the team. Especially one as volatile as you,” he said, shaking his head slightly.

“Don’t make me find something to throw at you.”

He grinned. It really was too easy to get a rise out of her. “But. If we were to collaborate with each other, even if it’s only on this location - I think we could really have something. Your videos are good. And I daresay my documentaries are good. But together…”

“We could be great,” she finished, letting her mind wander beyond just their filmmaking endeavors. They could be great. What would it be like to get to know Killian Jones on a personal level? How much of his narrative charm was genuine? The more she got to know about him, the more she wanted to learn.

She startled when he spoke again. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re quite fetching in that tank top.”

“I’m sweaty,” she protested, her face beginning to flush. “And covered in dust. And I probably smell terrible.”

He was close enough to dispute that assertion. “You smell nice, actually.” His voice was lower, huskier. He reached to brush a strand of her hair away from her face, and she shuddered at the gentleness of his touch.

She turned her head then, meeting his intense gaze. She leaned ever-slightly toward him, noting that he did the same. A pang of longing shot through her, and she parted her lips in anticipation of what was to come.

They closed the distance slowly, their lips barely grazing when a loud cracking noise pulled them from their reverie. “Y’all just sit tight in there, we’ll have you out in a few,” came the reassuring voice of what could only have been one of the firemen over what must have been a megaphone.

“All right,” Emma yelled weakly, barely trusting her voice. A loud motor roared to life outside, and the moment was effectively broken. The faint sound of rhythmic beeping, signaling that a vehicle was backing up, seemed to draw closer. She wondered how much work the rescue crews would have to do to pull them out of there. Exactly how much of the building was piled on top of them?

“We’ll finish that later,” Killian promised, grazing her cheek with the back of his hand. How he desperately wanted to pull her into him and claim her, but the background noise of the rescue effort was especially jarring. They may as well have doused him in freezing water.

He and Emma hunched over, keeping their eyes shielded in an effort to avoid any falling debris. There was a constant din – between the motors of vehicles, the yelling of workers, the beeping, and the sound of the building being lifted, Emma would be surprised if she left without a headache.

Be grateful that’s all you’ll have, she reminded herself. She grasped Killian’s hand, and he squeezed it reassuringly. “Bit loud,” he commented, and if she hadn’t just been thinking the same thing, she’d have made some sarcastic comment about him being Captain Obvious.

The fireman had said, “a few,” but they had no frame of reference for that statement. A few minutes? A few hours?

The noise was such that they couldn’t really converse, so they sat beside each other waiting for their eventual release, trying to be patient. Periodically, one of them would look up to check the progress, but that didn’t really give them any indication as to how much longer it would be, and the rescuers weren’t stopping to give them any updates. Eventually, though, the firefighters were pulling them out – Emma first, followed shortly thereafter by Killian. The sky was slightly darker, but night hadn’t quite fallen.

There was a flurry of activity as everyone rushed to hug each other and express their overall relief that this ordeal was over. The police had already questioned both crews, and they gathered statements from both Killian and Emma.

Emma must have seemed worried, because the officer reassured her that the questioning was merely for insurance purposes. The firefighters left first, and before long, the police officers were leaving, as well, leaving behind a construction crew, who had been tasked with ensuring that they got everything cleared from the site. They were all given strict instructions not to reenter the building by both the police and the construction workers.

“Good thing we got all of the cameras then,” Will grumbled, though Emma suspected that Will – not unlike herself – would have had very few qualms about disobeying the police.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Mary Margaret fussed over Emma, and Emma could only respond with a pointed look. A few meters away, Killian was subjected to similar treatment from Belle, and he met Emma’s gaze as he repeated – much like she had – that he was fine.

“I’m fine, Mary Margaret,” she said again, not even looking at her friend as she did so. In the waning daylight, Killian’s slightly mussed form seemed even more enticing, if that was even possible, and she caught his eye, noting how his gaze darkened with lust. “I’m fine,” she breathed, hardly aware of anyone – or anything – other than Killian Jones.

He raised an eyebrow at her and that was it. She stalked over to him, grabbed the collar of his still-dusty leather jacket, and practically crashed their lips together. Within seconds his hands were tangling in her hair, pulling her possessively closer and groaning deeply into the embrace. She felt her knees go weak as he kissed her passionately, his toned frame seemingly the only thing keeping her upright.

They breathed each other in, their hands clinging, groping, desperate, their breaths hot against each other when Emma finally – reluctantly – pulled away slightly, her lips trembling and a shudder shooting through her. She had never been kissed like that.

“Would you like to have that dinner date now?” Killian asked softly, his words low and gravely. For as long as she lived, Emma was certain she would never, ever forget how absolutely fucking sexy he sounded in that moment.

She giggled against him, pressing her lips to his in another short, quick, kiss, giggling again when he chased her lips with his own. “Maybe we should just skip the dinner part for now,” she suggested.

“I like the way you think,” he murmured against her, “But I do still want to take you out on a proper date,” he added, closing the distance between them again as she nodded her agreement.

“Mate, you gonna keep snogging her there all night?” Robin teased, and they stepped back from each other, noting the various states of amusement on the faces of their spectators.

“Right,” Killian said. He wasn’t going to stand here so his mates could give him the third degree, not when Emma Swan wanted him to take her somewhere more private. “Shall we, love?” he asked Emma, nodding slightly toward where his truck was parked. The crew could take care of the equipment and get the van back to their hotel.

Emma reached into her pocket and grabbed her keys, tossing them toward her friends. “M&Ms, take the Bug, would you?” Mary Margaret caught the keys, just barely, jingling them a few times with a pointed look, one that very clearly told Emma that they were going to have a long talk about this, and Emma felt Killian put his arm around her waist, leading her away from the stunned onlookers.

“Told you,” they heard Mary Margaret whisper loudly as they began to walk away, and Emma could only smile as she let Killian lead her to his car.

A few years later

“For Deserted and Left Behind, I’m Killian Jones,” he began the sign-off.

“And I’m Emma Swan,” she continued.

“And we’ll see you in the next exploration,” they finished together, holding their final pose until the camera crew gave them the all-clear. They’d probably reshoot that a few more times, but Emma personally felt that it was satisfactory.

It was one thing she’d had trouble adjusting to when she’d agreed to these periodic special collaborations with Killian – Netflix’s need to have them constantly reshoot everything. It was for camera angles, or lighting, or just a different tone of voice. She’d never known how exhausting it all could be.

“Hey, don’t go anywhere,” he said as she turned to leave, grabbing her elbow before turning to one of the cameramen.. “Can we get some more footage real quick?”

“Killian, I’m hungry,” she protested. “Can’t it wait?”

“This won’t take long, love.” He nodded to the cameraman, who started recording again before nodding back, indicating they were rolling.

“Three years ago, I ran into this lovely yet infuriating lass when we both stumbled upon the same location-”

“They know all this-“ she began to interrupt, but he silenced her with a finger on her lips.

“Like I said, infuriating.” She tilted her head to the side, giving him that affectionate-but-annoyed look she’d perfected since they’d begun dating. “Little did I know, however, that I would find not just a partner in exploration, but one in life.”

He took her hand, dropping to one knee. “And I’d like to ask her to continue to be my partner, for the rest of our lives.” Her mouth hung open, tears welling up in her eyes as he took out a small ring box, opening it to reveal a perfect, beautiful ring.. “Emma, will you marry me?”

“Infuriating?” she teased as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Takes one to know one.”

“Emma…” he warned with a groan, squeezing her hand. Only Emma Swan could take a proposal and make it sarcastic.

“Yes, Killian. I’ll be an infuriating wife to an infuriating husband,” she agreed with a huge smile, and he slid the ring on her finger before standing up and pulling her in to a searing kiss, oblivious to the cheers – and tears – around them.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” he asked against her lips, and she shook her head slightly before diving back in.

“God, I hope not,” she replied, and kissed him again.

#ouat #captain swan #captain swan fanfic #captain swan fanfiction #emma swan #killian jones #my fanfiction #also hi hello this is my first published captain swan fic

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lovephotographyandcaptainswan · 2 months

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I wrote this CaptainSwan Fan-fiction forever ago and finally decided to post it! Too pzt. To type it out though lol 😂

#ouat #captain swan #emma swan #awesome #captain hook #killian jones #once upon a time #captain swan fanfiction

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cs-rylie · 9 months

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Let's spread some love 😘. What are some of your top five favourite cs fics?

Five?! I guess I can give you five.. (plus a few extras..) I pick the ones I reread the most as my "top five favorites", which is the best way I know how to narrow this down, but I'm not convinced I have a favorite or a top 5. There are far too many good reads in the CS community!

My picks below the line - links are for ao3

I couldn't find everyone on tumblr, so PLEASE let me know their tumblr tags if you know them! Such amazing writers, the lot!

1. Unbreakable - xHookenonKillianx

I reread the epilogue, just by itself, quite frequently. It's so beautiful. As soon as I forget the meaning of certain details in it, I reread this fic, which usually amounts to once a year.

2. The Legend of Captain Killian Jones - hollyeleigh @hollyethecurious

Ooph I love when someone manages to bring pirate-from-the-18th-century Killian to a modern AU. I just love how all the details add up and how they fall in love and how Henry is as much a part of the story as CS. I reread this every October. (often once again when winter appears over, too)

3. Alone, until I get home - phthalo @peglegjones

I think I need to reread this [again] to give it accurate praise, because my memory SUCKS, but Henry and Ian's dynamic is one aspect I remember well, and appreciate. It's so hard to write kids and keep them relevant in a story and she does this sooo well. And the little bits of magick.. that made my heart swell. I don't wanna spoil anything..

4. How you remind me - cosette141 @cosette141

Any fic that can do it better than canon deserves praise. This is canon divergence from Killian showing up in New York, and the whole thing is my new head canon for the show.

5. Second star to the right - only_halfway_there

This was different than most CS fics, and I suspect it's because this was written before we got a lot of CS in the show? But that just means this author used her creativity, making a different Neverland, a different version of Hook, and the whole thing is so unique and beautiful.

This one is incomplete, hence it's spot here at #6, but I'll never give up on it being completed one day. A ton of people from the past show up in the present all at once, including one Pirate Captain Killian Jones. (Again.. pirate-from-the-18th-century Killian in a modern AU..)

Bonus, 6. A place in time - twistedroses @swanslieutenant

(feel free to send me more pirate-from-the-18th-century Killian fics.. no I don't have a problem!)

Now for the rest. I've reread most of these, but again ONLY FIVE?! These are not in any order, except the order I found them in my document. Again, lmk any missing tumblr names so I can tag these amazing writers!

Dark Grey - colormyheartred @cutieodonoghue

With affection - PhiraLovesLoki @phiralovesloki

Devastation and Healing - jrob64 @jrob64

More than all the stars - colormyheartred @cutieodonoghue

Beastly - xHookedonKillianx

Catch me if you can - LetItRaines @let-it-raines

A hard man is good to find - wtvoc @this-too-too-sullied-flesh

The convenient groom - @searchingwardrobes

A fairytale beginning - PocketAnon @pocket-anon

For the sake of Henry - jrob64 @jrob64

A band of grass and crown of flowers - hollyeleigh @hollyethecurious

only five my left foot *grumble grumble*

#cs library #captain swan #killian jones #emma swan #once upon a time #ouat #fanfiction #emma x killian #killian x emma #fanfic #ao3 #cs #captain swan fanfiction #rylie recs

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kazoosandfannypacks · 7 months

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"Isn't that my flannel?" (CaptainSwan drabble)

requested by @totallyradioactive15

"Isn't that my flannel?" Killian asked.

"Hmmm?" Emma asked, turning halfway to him with a playful smile as she tied a knot at the bottom of the orange checkered shirt. Killian walked over to her, then wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"Emma, love, did you steal my shirt?" he asked.

"Come on," Emma winked, "you always knew there was a little pirate in me."

"And I love you for it," Killian said. He leaned around her neck and whispered, "but just know, I'll be taking it back later."

Emma bit her lip "I would despair if you didn't."

(a/n and tags under the cut)

a/n: i went through about three or four different endings for this fic before settling on this one. i really liked how it turned out!

taglist: @zahara@kmomof4@jonesfandomfanatic@booksteaandtoomuchtv@jrob64 @tiganasummertree @anmylica @teamhook @undercaffinatednightmare @gingerchangeling @lonelyspectator @caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @cs-rylie @silver-the-phoenix @pawshapedheart @captainswanholidayspecialreruns [if you’d like to be added to or removed from this list, hmu in my dms or askbox!]

🍂 fall drabble prompts

#the ol' kazzle drabble #captain swan #once upon a time #killian jones #emma swan #fanfiction #ff #captain swan fanfiction #kazzy writes #kazzy writes fanfic #otp: try something new darling

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cosette141 · 1 year

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While You Weren't Sleeping | OUAT fanfic oneshot

Author: cosette141

Fandom: Once Upon a Time

Pairing: Captain Swan

Words: 1.2k

Summary: Emma learns that Hook was a little less unconscious after their fight in the Enchanted Forest than he’d led her to believe. (tag to s3 ep The Jolly Roger)

AO3

(story under the cut!)

a/n: I personally still think that the s2 fight between Emma and Hook could have gone either way (one theory being that Emma actually won because Hook was being cocky, the other (more popular one) being Hook threw the fight because he didn’t want to hurt Emma).

I’m all for girl power so I love the idea of Emma having actually gotten the upper hand cause he was flirting too much lol and underestimated that Emma is a scrappy badass.

But this little story came along with the other theory, because I caught something Hook said in season 3. He tells Emma “Magic is a part of you, Swan. Don’t forget; I was there when Cora tried to steal your heart. I saw the power inside of you.” So, either this is a writing mistake, since he was supposed to be unconscious… or it was Hook’s flub, outing himself.

For the sake of this story, we’re going with the idea that Hook threw the fight, but I love both theories. :)

She found him where she knew she would; by the docks. And ever since seeing him again, though it’s been weeks since he woke her up in New York, she still felt a… something stir inside her at the sight of him. Something she’d felt at the town line, that might have prompted her to do something if they had been the only two people there.

But that was a long time ago.

And everything after Walsh…

She knew she had… feelings… for Hook—Killian.

However she didn’t yet know what to do about them.

“Hey,” said Emma, trying to ignore that feeling when he looked her way. “I need you to watch Henry again.”

Hook grinned, but it was still a softer one than he used to have.

Like this smile was one just for her.

“If you wanted to get close to me, no need to use the lad as an excuse,” said Hook, smirking a little.

Emma very nearly rolled her eyes. “I’m not.” At least not entirely. “Regina is giving me a magic lesson,” she explained. “We think that the both of us combined should be strong enough to overpower Zelena.”

His features shifted into one of a little relief. “That’s about the best plan we’ve got yet.” he said with a grin.

“Yeah,” said Emma, biting her lip, feeling a little less confident than he seemed to feel about her. She had no idea how to handle her magic and she wasn’t sure one lesson was going to change that.

“Don’t worry, Swan.” he said, the cunning slipping out of his expression, the look in his eyes shifting to something much more genuine. “Remember,” he said gently, “Magic is a part of you, Swan. Don’t forget I was there when Cora tried to steal your heart.” A change in his eyes, something like pride, like confidence , in her . “I saw the power inside of you.”

Emma smiled, a little heat touching her cheeks at the faith he had in her, nodding at his reassurance. Her magic was powerful, and that reminder did give her a little newfound faith in herself .

But her expression halted, something shifting in her eyes, and then her eyes snapped back to his.

Suspiciously.

“How do you know that?” she asked, eyes locked onto his. “Cora told you?”

“She didn’t have to,” he said, his own brows kneading with genuine puzzlement. “I was there.”

No…

“As I recall,” she said slowly, brows narrowing, “you were unconscious .”

“I—“ It was only then he seemed to understand the direction her interrogation was heading, and he froze. Swallowing, he scratched behind his ear, saying, “—aye, yes, I was.”

He didn’t .

“Then how did you know I used magic to stop Cora?” she demanded, brow hitching up sharply.

Hook swallowed again, eyes shifting to the ground before meeting hers.

Lie.

Emma felt something heat up her chest.

He did not .

“I—er, it only makes sense that’s how you—“

“ Hook .”

His eyes found hers.

And then…

He grinned .

Like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t have.

Emma’s jaw dropped.

“I knocked you out!” she hissed.

“You knocked me down ,” he corrected, that amused grin lifting his lips into a crooked smile, and Emma suddenly wanted to smack it off.

“Are you saying you let me win? ” growled Emma, voice hitching up an octave.

“I’m saying,” he said, “I didn’t duck when you swung the compass at my head.”

Emma gaped at him.

But it was there in his eyes.

His stupid, cocky eyes.

“I knocked you out,” whispered Emma. “You were being a cocky bastard, and I knocked you out .”

Hook winced a little. “I’ll admit to being the cocky bastard, but you know as well as I do that you didn’t.”

Emma stared him down, and he let her, and damnit he wasn’t lying.

“But—“ began Emma.

“Swan,” he said, a little exasperatedly, “unless you’ve forgotten, I am a few centuries old. I’ve been a swordsman for hundreds of years, and you’d been one for all of five minutes.” At her narrowed eyes, he said, “Though I’ll admit, I did have quite the headache afterward.”

Emma felt anger and a thread of humiliation course through her.

He let her win?

She’d prided herself on that victory.

But something else snuck into her mind, a question that suddenly wouldn’t let her go.

She raised her eyes to Hook. “Why?”

The amusement slipped from his face. “What do you mean why?”

Emma’s anger faded. “I mean,” she said quietly, “why’d you let me win? It’s not like we were on the same side.”

His brows rose. “Emma,” he said, and it always shot a little chill down her spine when he chose to use her first name. “ Winning that fight would have meant either severely injuring or killing you.”

“So?”

He blinked. “What?”

“So?” repeated Emma. “At that point you were ‘done with me.’” She watched Hook wince at the words, and she suddenly realized he must have regretted saying them to her. “You risked your mission and Cora’s wrath for me? Why?”

Hook hesitated.

And Emma would never get over how strange, how rare it was to see him unsure.

But he smiled, something soft, and he shifted her hair with his hook, like he’d done on the beanstalk. “Because I was never done with you, love.” Taking a breath, he said, “I still had the last Bean. I knew Cora and I could use it to get here, and you deserved to return to your son. I… simply couldn’t bring myself to prevent you.” He scratched behind his ear again. “And, love, I…” He swallowed. “I do apologize for the way I spoke to you that day.”

There was a touch of anguish in his eyes, and Emma found herself smiling. “You let me clock you in the face with a compass,” she said. “I think we’re even.”

He smiled too.

His eyes on her, he said, “Rest assured, love, that you are the strongest person I know.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

His expression didn’t change. “I’m not placating you, Emma,” he said with a sort of gentle firmness. “I may have given you that fight that day, but Cora didn’t.” Emma felt herself pause, realizing that. “No one,” Hook went on, “in any of the realms had been able to defeat her, myself, Regina and the bloody Crocodile included.” He smiled. “So, trust me when I say that I’ve still yet to see you fail, and I know you will defeat Zelena.”

Emma felt herself smile. “Thanks, Killian.” she said softly.

Hook smiled too, something even warmer. Because Henry was nowhere in earshot, and she used his name.

Because she was also realizing that he had been the first person, other than perhaps Henry, to believe in her.

And before she could think twice about it, throwing a look over her shoulder to make sure Henry wasn’t looking their way, Emma stepped toward him, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

He stared at her in utter shock.

Breezing past it, trying to keep the heat from rising to her cheeks, Emma said, “So you’ll watch Henry?”

He looked like he was torn from a daze. Shaking himself from it, he said, “Ah—aye, of course.”

“Thanks,” she whispered. She turned to get Henry, when Hook said, “Emma.”

She turned.

“I’d be open to a rematch,” he said, that grin back at his lips.

Emma smiled. “I would, too.”

Hook grinned.

She left Henry with Hook, then walked away, heading toward her magic lesson with Regina.

And found that she might be open to more than just a rematch.

tag list: @kmomof4 @justanother-unluckysoul @klynn-stormz @stahlop @ilovemesomekillianjones @hookmecaptain @sotangledupinit @tiganasummertree @eddisfargo @anmylica @pirateprincessofpizza @cs-rylie @elfiola

#captain swan #cs ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan fanfiction #while you weren't sleeping #emma swan #ouat #ouat fanfic #killian jones #captain hook fanfic #captain hook #cosette141 ffn

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wistfulcynic · 10 months

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as we meet at the fading of the longest day

A new Captain Swan fic? From me? Only *checks notes* one year and nine months since the last one.

Surprise?

Actually, the solstice made me do it. This is has been a half-worked WIP for well over two years now and i wanted to finish it but couldn’t hit on quite the right angle. Today i did. A midsummer miracle.

This is the third and final instalment in the Portable Magic verse, and so i offer a tag to @optomisticgirl and @piinfeathers because i know they are fans of this verse, along with @thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu @katie-dub and @kmomof4, for what feels like obvious reasons ❤️.

He places himself at the cliff’s edge—its very edge; the tips of his toes in their squared-off boots lie flush with the crumbling granite. Wind whips through his hair and waves crash below his feet—far, far below—against rocks that shatter them into froth and fling their fragments through the air. The world spins around him, dizzyingly, but he is not afraid.

He steps over the edge, and off it.

When he opens his eyes he’s reclining on a long, low chair with a high back at his elbow and an armrest at his head. The cushion beneath his cheek is coarse-woven of silky fibres and his hand clenches on upholstery of the same material as he struggles to sit up.

“That was foolish, child,” says a voice from behind him. A gently lyrical voice that pierces his heart with the single word it does not speak.

His own is rough when he replies. “I had to see you.”

“I gathered.”

He turns as the speaker emerges from the shadows. He doesn’t remember her face but he knows it, long and lean, the lips his, the brow his, the eyes his.

“Mother,” he breathes.

Her breath catches. “Killian.”

He’s dreamt of this moment for so long, imagined it in such detail, but now that it’s here he cannot find a single word to say.

She seats herself gracefully on a chair beside his own and summons a smile. “Tea?”

He almost laughs. She looks nothing like Emma—her hair is straight and a deep, rich auburn, her pointed chin un-dimpled and her eyes more wise than knowing. Yet in essence they are so alike, his mother and his chosen wife. He thinks they’d like each other.

He hopes they can.

“You have a need,” says Alys, as she pours tea from a pot that was not there a moment ago. Neither were the cups that she fills with pale-green brew, but Killian has long since passed the point where such things might astonish him. He accepts a cup with a nod of thanks and takes a sip—there can be no danger to him in doing so—and considers his reply.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

“You’ve lost something,” she murmurs, “or are on the verge of losing it.” Her gaze is probing but not sharp, gentle as she sifts through the layers of his mind. He lets her—he could resist, but what would be the point? He’s here to offer her the very things she seeks. “No… someone.”

“Aye,” he replies, and lifts the last layer himself.

Alys gasps; her hand trembles as she returns her cup to its saucer. “She—she’s lovely. American?”

“Yes.”

“And a practitioner. How pleasing to see our ways survive, even in that land.” There’s an edge to her tone that rankles him a bit.

“It’s not such a different land,” he argues, then amends. “Well, not all of it.” It’s difficult even to stretch the truth in this place.

“You’re strongly bonded, you and she,” Alys observes, “and have been so for years. Yet there have been no formalities?”

“No.” His voice catches on the word. “We—didn’t want to rush things.”

Alys frowns slightly, then she nods. “Perhaps that’s wise. It doesn’t do to be light-handed with the threads of fate. Or destiny.”

Killian barks a wry laugh. “That’s what Emma said.”

“Is that her name? Emma?”

He nods. “Emma Swan.”

“Swan.” Her mouth twists. “English.” Of the Angles, she means.

“By descent. But that was centuries ago. She’s her own self now. One who respects all ways and all people.”

Alys smiles. “You’ve chosen wisely, then.”

“I think so.”

She nods. Her expression turns wistful, longing and so lonely. “I thought you would be angry,” she says. “When you realised that I left by choice.”

“What choice, Mamm?” asks Killian softly, “Your ‘choice’ was leave or die. I’d far rather have you alive.”

She swallows; her eyes are misty now. “But you were so small,” she whispers. “You were so small, Killian, it broke my heart to leave you. I wanted more time, and I couldn’t—your father wouldn’t let me bring you along.”

“I know.” He takes a risk and takes her hand. It’s slender and cool in his, with the faint hum of magic he’s grown accustomed to feeling beneath another’s skin. She goes still for a breath, then two, and then she turns her hand beneath his and clasps it hard.

Killian feels tears prickle in his eyes. He’s dreamt of this, longed for it, but he knows that desperation alone gave him the courage to take the step. He had nothing left to lose.

Alys knows it too. Her eyes are wet with the same tears.

“Very well,” she says. “I shall help you.”

—

The wood is dark, and noiseless. Nothing moves, not even the trees. There is no wind to rustle them, no trill of birdsong nor scurry of animals in the underbrush. Killian’s heart races but his blood is cold; his heart labours to pump it. The air pushes at him, tries to force him back. He grits his teeth and presses on.

At his side Alys moves without a care, on feet that barely touch the ground. It’s not she the wood seeks to exclude. Her presence grants him some reprieve; not much, but enough. Enough to bring him to the edge of the clearing but no further.

His mother takes in their surroundings with an almost academic disinterest, curiosity untempered by judgement. “How fascinating,” she murmurs. “What happened?”

“The baby,” says Killian hoarsely. “All seemed well until—”

“—her pains began,” Alys finishes, when his voice grows too rough to speak.

He nods.

“Birthing a fae is always a tricksy thing,” says Alys, “and most particularly for a human. Far better to have the babe born nearer the turn of winter, when the veil is thinnest. At midsummer the lay of things is rather different.”

“There—” Killian fights to speak the words “—there wasn’t precisely—a plan.”

“Indeed,” says Alys wryly.

“Mother…” Killian gasps. The woods twist round him like a vise and he can barely breathe. “Bring her back to me. Bring them back.” He draws a rasping breath. “Please.”

Alys nods. “Here,” she says, unhooking the clasp of her cloak. She sweeps it off her shoulders and around his own then does it up again. Immediately the crushing pressure recedes. “This should hold the magic off until it’s finished,” she says. “Wait here.”

—

The hut is simple in appearance, deceptively. Alys observes the spells woven into the structure’s foundation, its walls, its sloping roof. Spells of protection and warding but also practical ones, for insulation, water- and fire-proofing, and fresh air.

A clever witch, her daughter-in-law, Alys thinks with an unexpected thrum of pride. Her son has chosen well indeed.

She passes through the door without stirring a breath within the hut but the woman on the bed senses her presence. She lifts her head, sweat-slicked and haggard, and calls out, “Killian?”

“No, hwegyn,” Alys replies. “He cannot enter.”

The woman regards her with green eyes still sharp despite her exhaustion, hours of fruitless labour writ plain upon her face. There’s determination too and hope, though this woman knows, as Alys does, that no child of fae and human can be born into this realm without a careful hand to guide her through.

She knows this, and yet she tried it anyway. Alys shakes her head. Humans.

“You’re his mother,” the woman says. “You’re Alys, of Kernow.”

“I am.”

“I’m Emma,” says the woman. “Emma Swan.”

A waiting tension thickens the still air just for a moment, then Alys smiles. “You are well met, my daughter,” she says.

Emma releases the air from her lungs in a whoosh. “Thank the goddess,” she whispers. The air within the hut is gentle now. It cradles them both as Alys approaches the bed and lays her hand on Emma’s forehead. Emma sighs again as cool relief floods her body and she relaxes for the first time in hours.

“Shall we introduce the world to my grandchild?” Alys says.

—

As the last rays of the Midsummer sun break across the horizon, split by angles and air and magic into fiery shades of peach and rose, Rowan Alys Swan-Jones draws her first breath in the human realm. She blinks open eyes of the same sharp green as her mother’s, and regards her surroundings as Emma traces the outline of her slightly pointed ears.

“Babies don’t have green eyes,” remarks Emma, with a sidelong glance at Alys, sat gracefully in a chair at the bedside.

“Human babies don’t,” Alys agrees.

“Hmm,” is all Emma says in reply. She’ll have to think on that one.

Alys smiles and with the tip of a finger ruffles the reddish-tinted downy fluff on Rowan’s head. “Lowen owgh hwi, ow myrgh wynn,” she murmurs. “Hwi bos krev ha bos gwir.”

The words seem to hang in the air above the baby’s head. Emma doesn’t understand what they mean, but she feels their impact as they settle around Rowan’s tiny shoulders like the mantle they’re meant to be.

Just then, the door bursts open and Killian appears. “Emma?” he calls in worried tones. “Are you all right? The woods have only just let me through.”

Emma smiles and holds out her hand. “Killian,” she says softly, “come meet our daughter.”

Killian approaches the bed and reverently accepts the bundle Emma offers him. He tucks it into the crook of his arm, releasing a shaky breath as he strokes a gentle finger down the baby’s cheek.

Rowan coos.

“She recognises her father,” says Alys. “All is well.”

“You’ve blessed her,” Killian observes.

“I have.”

“Thank you, Mamm,” says Killian. He looks at Alys and sorrow clouds the joy in his eyes. “You’re leaving soon.”

“I must.”

“Will I see you again?”

“No, ow mab,” says Alys, with far greater gentleness than is her custom. “You are much too firmly of this realm, and rightly so. But this one—” she tilts her head to Rowan “—shall always have the means to find me, until such day as she chooses to relinquish them.”

Killian nods. “Farewell then, Mother,” he says. “And thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Emma echoes. “For everything.”

Alys smiles at her children, bestows a kiss onto each forehead, then takes her leave.

The breath of wind that carries her home is bittersweet but as she lights a candle to illuminate the shortest night, Alys feels content. Soon—many years yet by human reckoning but the merest tick of the ages to her—she will have a visitor again. A granddaughter, obstinate and tenacious and questioning, and far too clever for her own good. A challenge to everything Alys knows and all she holds dear.

She smiles at the flickering flame.

She’s always loved a challenge.

a/n: Killian in this verse is from Cornwall, or Kernow in the Cornish language. Though technically part of England, Cornwall shares a Celtic heritage and language with Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Brittany. The language Alys speaks is my best approximation of Cornish, based on scant internet resources and zero knowledge of the language’s syntax. Apologies to any Cornish speakers for the inevitable errors.

#captain swan #cs fic #cs fanfic #captain swan fanfiction #emma x killian #a uniquely portable magic #profdanglais #as we meet at the fading of the longest day

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booksteaandtoomuchtv · 1 year

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Nose boop.

A quick sketch of a moment in chapter four of @kazoosandfannypacks fic "It Now Belongs to You" that I've been thinking about all day.

#killian jones #captain swan #captain hook #emma swan #killian x emma #fanart #cs fanfic #cs fanart #kazzy writes #captain swan fanfiction #ouat fanfiction #ouat fanart #cs ff #ouat fanfic #ouat #once upon a time #Art attempts by Jas #my 'art'

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cs-c-ocktoberfest2023 · 8 months

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CS Cocktoberfest 2023 Prompts!!!

Wanna write some smut? Here are 31 prompts for you to use for posting throughout the month of October! Feel free to follow the list, or you can pick whichever prompt(s) inspire you. Post as often as you’d like, and anonymous submissions are allowed!

If you have any questions, send them to @deckerstarblanche or @teamhook. Just make sure you tag us at #cscf23 so we can reblog your work! LET THE FUN BEGIN…

1) Caught in the Act

2) One Night Stand/One Night Only

3) Locked in a Closet

4) Secret Relationship

5) Friends/Strangers with Benefits

6) In the Rain

7) Semi Public

8) Voyeur (planned or unplanned)

9) Revenge/Angry Sex

10) In Front of the Fire

11) Sub/Dom

12) Sex Pollen/Fuck-or-Die

13) Praise Kink/Dirty Talk

14) All Tied Up/Shibari

15) Against the Door/Wall/Window

16) Possessive Behavior

17) Biting or Marking

18) Mutual Masturbation

19) Sensory Deprivation

20) Lingerie/Sex Toy(s)

21) Threesome/Polyamory

22) Authority Kink (Uniform)

23) Breeding Kink/Pregnancy Sex

24) Phone Sex/Sexting

25) In Front of a Mirror

26) Food Play

27) Edging/Orgasm Denial

28) Shared Dream/Soulmates

29) In the Workplace

30) Instant Attraction between strangers in a public place

31) On a Boat (Ship!)

#cscf23 #captain swan fanfiction #cs ff #cs smut #cs fic #captain swan #cs c ocktoberfest2023 #talented shipmates #CS(C)ocktoberfest2023

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the-darkdragonfly · 1 year

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NEW!! A Trick of the Light - A Captain Swan Tale

Chapter 8: The Broken Kingdom

Emma & Killian have found their way back to their own time, but finding their home again will prove to be another adventure entirely…The Tale of a reunited family, an inescapable destiny and the marvels of indoor plumbing.

*gasp!* I wrote things!! it's been ... a tad longer than I was expecting - sorry all!

I hope you like - we're heading into a few... intense... chapters... *smirks*

Thank you to @donteattheappleshook for fixing my horrible grammar 🥰

♥️♥️♥️

“So,” Emma asked between bites of pastry, her hand tucked into the crook of Killian’s arm, “the Sword in the Stone is real?”

“Excalibur was pulled from a stone by a child named Arthur, aye. He became the rightful King of Camelot.”

Killian held Hope, much to her displeasure, against his left side. She’d howled like a fiend when they walked down the gangway over the water- I know, lovie, but you can’t run around here, it’s not safe- and had settled into a quiet discontent as she allowed her father to feed her bites of his red fruit pastry, eyes flashing as she watched Henry walk ahead of them.

“Like Thor’s hammer?”

“Huh?-”

“Yes,” Henry answered, trotting ahead of them, his own breakfast, an apple hand pie, held loose at his side.

“Stay close, lad,” Killian warned, Henry’s gaze wandering as they made their way through the small port. Alec holding Liam, cutlass strapped to his side while Fiona flitted from one shop to another, buying supplies to take back to the ship.

Emma hummed, biting off a chunk of her breakfast and holding it out for Hope’s inspection. Her fingers were sticky from sugar and the skin of Killian’s throat had started to shine slightly with the sugary remnants of her meal.

“We need to find something else for her to eat,” Emma said, voice low as Hope sucked on her fingers, happy for the moment with the treats her parents had found for her. “She’s going to crash hard if we don’t.”

Killian nodded, a sugared out, hungry Hope was a fairly unpleasant creature, and he nodded towards the doorway of an inn- let’s try here.

♥️♥️♥️

Read the rest here.

Tagging:

@elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @sailtoafarawayland @teamhook @wefoundloveunderthelight @caught-in-the-filter @batana54 @ultraluckycatnd @veryverynotgood @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @jrob64 @kmomof4 @artistic-writer @gingerpolyglot @xarandomdreamx @justanother-unluckysoul @zaharadessert @xsjax @karlyfr13s @tiganasummertree @wyntereyez @klynn-stormz @onceratheart18 @rkrbirdgirl @ouatdaily @blowmiakisscolin @courtorderedcake @winterbaby89 @pirateprincessofpizza @superchocovian @deckerstarblanche @jlsadphoenix @alexa-fangirl-forever @stahlop @undercaffinatednightmare @lostintheskyfaraway @anmylica @motherkatereloyshipper @last-tsarina @lfh1226-linda @hookedmom @yikes-00 @midnightsuki @paradiselady19 @jonesfandomfanatic

#a trick of the light #a captain swan tale #the darkdragonfly #captain swan fanfiction #captain swan #killian jones #emma swan #emma x killian #ouat fanfic

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whimsicallyenchantedrose · 7 hours

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Season 3 Rewatch Drabbles: 3x21 Snow Drifts (Part 2)

Summary: A series of 100-500 word drabbles to accompany my rewatch of season 3 of Once Upon a Time. There will be a drabble–either a deleted scene, a “fix it” fic or a character musing for each episode of the season. Focus will be on Emma, Henry, the Charmings and Killian–with an emphasis on Captain Swan’s epic love story.

Word Count: 589

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list): @sailormew4 @annaamell @flslp87 @emmateo26 @bethacaciakay

@ultraluckycatnd @effulgent-mind @ilovemesomekillianjones @brooke-to-broch

@missgymgirl @galadriel26 @the-lady-of-misthaven @charmingturkeysandwich

@jennjenn615 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma

@daxx04 @nickillian @gillie @britishguyslover @ginnyjinxedandhanshotritafirst

@kmomof4 @linda8084 @golfgirld @captain-swan-coffee @searchingwardrobes

@hollyethecurious @laughswaytoomuch @allyourdarlingswans @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82

@therooksshiningknight @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree @jrob64 @anmylica

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @i-will-sing-no-requiem @bluewildcatfanatic @laianely

Other Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (25) (26) (27) (28)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Notes: I knew there was no way I could stick to just one drabble an episode for the CS movie, so I didn't even try. There will be 2 drabbles for 3x21 and 4 for 3x22. They are all written, so the plan is to post one per day until they're all posted.

They walked in silence for several moments, Killian shaking his smarting hand. He hadn’t taken into account how blasted solid his former self’s jaw was when he decided to wallop him.

“I wasn’t going to let it go anywhere, you know,” Emma said, giving him a tentative side glance.

“Pardon, love?” Killilan asked, brows furrowed.

“You know, that whole make out session with him…or…you…or…whatever,” she said. “I know he was expecting a tumble in the sheets–”

He grinned wickedly before waggling his brows in an exaggerated manner. “With a lass as tantalizing as you, I rather doubt we’d make it to the sheets. I’d probably take you right there against the ladder.”

He saw a delightful shade of pink spread across her cheeks and felt more than a little satisfaction that he’d managed to affect her even a fraction as much as she affected him.

“But,” she said, apparently deciding the best course of action was to pretend he’d never interrupted “I had no intention of letting it go that far, no matter how well he kisses. A few seconds longer, and I’d have decked him so we could get the hell out of here. I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Oh I know,” he said, smiling. “You’re a fearsome lass, and you’d leave many a pirate quaking in his boots.”

She smiled back at him, and he was sure he’d be willing to do anything to keep that delightful smile on her face.

“Anyway, if you were, I don’t know, jealous of him…yourself…whatever,” she said, “I just wanted to let you know.”

He smiled wistfully. “He was a bloody git,” he said, his voice disgusted. “He deserved far worse than that.”

She was silent for a second, and he could tell that she understood him, that she knew he was talking about far more than Captain Hook trying to get into the skirts of a fetching woman.

“Killian,” she said gently, as they slowly walked toward Midas’s castle, “I know you did bad things in the past, but who of us hasn’t?”

“Far be it from me to disagree with you, love,” Killian said bitterly, “but your transgressions couldn’t have been anything compared to mine. That man lying unconscious on the Jolly… There’s no way to expunge the dark deeds he’s done.”

“Bullshit,” Emma said, and his brows rose at her emphatic tone as well as her profanity. “Killian, that man is you. You may have lost your way, but you’re a good man. You’ve always been a good man at your core. I could have defended myself if I’d needed to, but I knew I didn’t. Even at the height of your bad guy days and drunk out of your mind, I know you would never have hurt me.”

For a moment, this simple statement of faith rendered him speechless, and when he spoke, his voice was not quite steady. “You trust me that much? Truly?”

Her smile was just a little bit tender. “Of course,” she said simply.

The moment was charged, the tension crackling between them. Emma swayed toward Killilan, and he mirrored her action, his eyelids started to flutter as their lips moved closer…closer.

Suddenly there was a scurry of motion and a rabbit darted past, a fox close on its furry heels (Incidentally, do rabbits have heels?) and the mood was broken. Emma took a step back, her cheeks pinkening once again.

After a moment Killian grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Might we return to the topic of how well I kiss?”

#season 3 rewatch drabbles #captain swan fanfiction #my fanfiction #self-loathing killian #supportive emma

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searchingwardrobes · 1 year

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Scarborough Fair: 7/?

I was shocked to discover that I last updated this at the end of October! I still love this story, though, so I hope you all will stick with me. Writing this chapter was great therapy for me, but in addition to that, I really enjoyed writing the dynamic of this quirky and unique little family. I also rather like how this chapter ends, if I do say so myself. It’s a nice bit of levity in what has so far been a dark story.

You might want to go back and read Mary Margaret’s journal entry from chapter 6 (the part in italics) to refresh your memory about how the curse in this story works. I know it’s been a while!

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Emma Swan has had a charmed life, despite being a foster child. She has a wonderful family who loves her, and the best friends in the world. The only thing that mars her idyllic existence is her birth mother: a homeless woman who mutters nonsensical rhymes and claims to be Snow White. One fateful night, however, Emma’s world is shattered. Perhaps her mother’s rhymes aren’t nonsense after all.

Rated: M for date rape, dubious consent, teen pregnancy, and sexy times (the good kind!)

Words: Over 3k in this chapter

Also on Ao3

Tagging: (let me know if you wish to be removed or added): @snowbellewells @teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @xhookswenchx-reads-blog @thisonesatellite @welllpthisishappening @spartanguard @ohmakemeahercules @tiganasummertree @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jamif @undercaffinatednightmare @onceratheart18 @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jonesfandomfanatic

Emma descended the stairs with the pregnancy test in the pocket of her jeans, one hand clutching her mother’s journal, and the other clasped firmly in Killian’s. If not for his presence beside her, she would have collapsed.

It hadn’t taken them long to come to this decision. Their very unique family had come together through a series of crazy tragedies. Some would call them a series of coincidences; but to every family member under this roof, it felt like fate. If Emma was cursed to follow this path, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn’t have to walk it alone. Elsa and Anna hadn’t been alone after their parents died in a boating accident - their Aunt had immediately taken them in, and they’d gained a third sister in the process. Killian hadn’t been alone when his father left and his mother died - a brother he had never met stepped up. Then Ingrid Arendelle and three little girls had knocked on Liam Jones’s front door with a platter of cookies to welcome him and his little boy to the neighborhood, and well - fate took over once again.

As for Emma, what would have happened to her if Mary Margaret had never met Ingrid? This Dark One her mother wrote about in her journal couldn’t have anticipated Ingrid. Or Liam. Or Killian, Elsa, or Anna. Hiding this from them just wasn’t an option. Every time they faced difficulties, they were stronger together.

Emma and Killian paused at the bottom of the stairs. Ingrid, Liam, and Anna were bustling about the kitchen. Anna was opening the boxes of pizza that had just been delivered, Liam was pulling paper plates from the cupboard, and Ingrid had just walked in the kitchen door after fetching sodas from the extra fridge in the garage. She kicked the door shut with one foot, her arms loaded down with soda cans. She froze, the laughter on her lips dying as she saw Emma and Killian standing there.

“We need to have a family meeting,” Killian announced.

All three of them looked from Killian, to Emma, then to their joined hands. Anna’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. Ingrid and Liam shared weighted glances.

“Okay,” Ingrid agreed as she began setting the soda cans one by one on the kitchen counter. “Let’s grab our food and gather around the table.”

Killian looked at Emma and gave her an encouraging smile followed by a squeeze of his hand. Emma nodded nervously, then let go. She sat down at the kitchen table, hugging her mother’s journal to her chest. Everyone resumed dinner preparations, although their voices were softer and the laughter had floated away. Emma wasn’t hungry, but she tried to pick at the slice of pepperoni Ingrid set before her.

“Well,” Ingrid announced, taking charge as always, “do we want to eat and then have the meeting, or talk while we eat?”

“I’d really rather get it over with,” Emma said softly.

Ingrid nodded. “Okay, then. Do we want to try and include Elsa in this?”

Emma wet her suddenly dry lips. She really just wanted to rip this off like a bandaid. “If she could, that would be nice, but I don’t want to wait.”

“Liam, see if you can get ahold of Elsa for a Zoom call.”

A series of texts were exchanged, Liam set up his laptop at Elsa’s usual seat around

the table, and suddenly, there was her older sister, via the magic of technology. Thankfully, dinner time around Boston was lunch time in the North Sea, so Elsa was on a break from her intern responsibilities. She waved at Emma, her smile still holding that edge of concern as she asked how she was doing.

“In truth,” Emma confessed, “I’ve been better. Which is why I called a family meeting.”

“You both did, actually,” Liam clarified, giving his brother a weighted look. He glanced down to where Killian’s hand rested atop Emma’s on the table.

Had he reached for her hand or had she reached for his? Emma wasn’t sure, but it felt right, as if it were the only way she could face this.

Emma let out a long breath as she reached into her pocket. “There’s not really a way to ease into this conversation, so . . .”

She pulled out the pregnancy test and set it in the middle of the table. The reaction was immediate. Anna gasped, Liam made a strangled noise, and Ingrid pressed a hand to her mouth. Elsa’s confused voice came out distant and tinny from the computer screen.

“What is that? I can’t see.”

Emma lifted the pregnancy test and held it right in front of the camera.

“Oh . . . my,” Elsa breathed.

“What the bloody hell have you done, Killian?” Liam suddenly burst out.

“Me?” Killian shouted.

“You mean you think it’s his?” Emma choked out.

The other three female members of the family began shouting over each other in chastisement. Liam lifted both hands placatingly.

“They come walking down here hand in hand, calling a family meeting, then she pulls out a pregnancy test? What was I supposed to think?”

Ingrid glared at her husband and smacked him in the shoulder with the back of her hand. “You’re supposed to think about Neal Cassidy and what he did to her just two months ago! Not to mention have more faith than that in your brother.”

Liam’s shoulders slumped. “Neal?” he whispered as he looked apologetically at Emma.

She nodded solemnly in reply.

“So now we need to support Emma instead of flying off the handle,” Elsa proclaimed from across the ocean via Zoom.

Emma leaned towards the screen to address her sister. “Don’t be too hard on him. He looks pretty awful right now.”

“Well,” Ingrid announced, splaying both hands on the table, “you have options Emma. Tomorrow we can -”

Emma cut her off with a raised hand. “This is about more than an unplanned pregnancy.” She looked at Killian, pushing the slim volume with the tattered green cover towards him with her free hand. He never had let go of her other one. He squeezed her hand now and gave her a nod in understanding.

“I found this the night of the prom in Mary Margaret’s things,” Killian explained.

“It’s her journal,” Emma added, “and she wrote it for me.”

“Emma,” Ingrid breathed, reaching hesitantly across the table, and then drawing her hand back, “I had no idea . . .”

“I read it,” Emma continued, ignoring her foster mother, “and then I had Killian read it, and . . . well . . .”

“It explains some things,” Killian filled in for her.

“Right. It explains things. I made Killian promise me something before he read it, and I’m going to ask you the same thing. Promise you won’t think this is crazy, or that I’m crazy.”

Any other parent would probably jump in at that point with an adamant denial that they would ever entertain such a thought. Emma’s foster parents, however, knew the gravity of what she was asking them. So did her sisters. Ingrid and Liam exchanged marital looks that spoke without words. Anna and Elsa, even through a computer screen, did their creepy sister telepathy. Then the four of them solemnly promised Emma that they would all have open minds. With that vow, Killian picked up the journal, opened it, and began to read it out loud.

He still didn’t let go of Emma’s hand.

She refused to look at her family as he read aloud, afraid of what she might see in their expressions. There was an audible gasp from all four of them at Neal’s name, but other than that, it was eerily silent as Killian read. When he finished, he set the journal down on the table, and Emma finally raised her head. Ingrid’s brow was furrowed as if she were mentally reviewing every moment with Mary Margaret over the years. Liam stared at a point somewhere over Emma’s shoulder. Anna blinked and shook her head slightly in shock. Elsa massaged her brow with the slender fingers of both hands. The silence stretched.

Anna, unsurprisingly, was the one who broke it.

“That . . . actually explains a lot.”

“A curse then,” Elsa said, leaning closer to her screen, “so how do we help Emma break it?”

Liam banged both fists on the table. “I should have punched that kid when I had the chance.”

Ingrid rose, strode to the kitchen drawer, grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, then sat back down with pen poised over paper. “Repeat that riddle to me again, Killian.”

He read it again, and Ingrid scrawled furiously. Liam leaned over her shoulder.

“I could do more research into the song,” he told everyone.

“And that art professor?” Ingrid asked, tapping the paper with the end of the pen, “What was her name? The one who did her dissertation on textiles?”

“Kate Freemont?”

“Yes, her! Maybe she could look into fabrics that would work for this first riddle.”

“How is that even possible?” Anna asked, leaning over her aunt’s list. “If you sew a shirt, doesn’t it have to have a seam? And how do you make it without a needle?”

“I can ask around here about the third riddle,” Elsa spoke up. “It seems it would be pretty hard to sow an acre on the shore before the tide comes in, but some of these scientists I’ve been working with have traveled the world. Maybe they know of a place where that would work?”

“Forget the tide,” Anna scoffed, “how do you sow an entire acre with only one kernel of corn?”

“The agriculture department!” Liam exclaimed. “I’ll ask around.”

Emma’s eyes welled up with tears as she watched her family roll up their sleeves and jump right in to solve the riddle. Not for one second did they scoff at her or turn away. Ingrid met her watery gaze, and her expression softened. She put down the pen and raised a hand to quiet the rest of the family.

“Before we go on, there’s one solution we haven’t voiced.” She looked intently at Emma with eyes full of compassion. “The curse says that you have until your child is born to solve the riddle. If you terminate the pregnancy -”

“No!” Emma cried, placing a hand protectively to her abdomen.

“Sweetheart,” Ingrid said gently, “you were raped. No one would fault you if -”

“I can’t,” Emma protested, shaking her head. “I can’t explain it, but my gut tells me things would be worse if I did that. I think this baby is the key to breaking this curse. If I did what you suggest, I have a feeling the madness would take me then, and my parents would be cursed forever.”

Ingrid nodded, blinking back tears. “Okay, then. Well, everyone, how do we go about finding a town that no one knows?”

Emma’s smile grew, and she felt herself relax in her chair as everyone’s voices overlapped one another. Except for Killian. He sat silently, her hand still in his, his thumb idly rubbing across her knuckles. It soothed her.

Then he cleared his throat. “I have something I need to say.”

Everyone stopped and looked at him.

“I’m in love with Emma.”

The words shot through the quiet room, and then Liam spoke up.

“And you all wondered why I thought the baby might be his.”

#cs ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfiction #cs impossible au #cs au #lieutenant duckling #modern fantasy #angst #cs angsty august #angsty august #captain swan angsty august #impossible au

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wellhellotragic · 2 years

Text

The Placeholder (2/2)

Summary: Emma is not the girl that boys date. She’s the girl that he sleeps with but never tells his friends about. She’s the girl that he’ll cuddle with and then ghost. She’s the fun one who he goes out with but not the one he goes home with. She’s the one that fixes him so he can be with someone else. She’s the placeholder, the one who works for now but won’t ever be his forever.

A/N: This fic is based on a TikTok video that was just heartbreaking, where the creator always came in second. If you want to watch the video, you can find it here, but this story can be read without watching it.

It’s three months later when she runs into Robin in the street, turning her entire world upside down. Killian is engaged.

There’s a bottle of rum at the back of the cabinet above the refrigerator. She finds it while looking for her favorite mug, completely certain and irrationally irate that Killian took it with him when he left. Because that’s what she does. People leave and unable to deal with the pain of being left behind, she looks for reasons to hate them instead.

It’s his favorite bottle. The expensive bottle that he bought when he started his firm. The one he was saving for a special occasion, so it was hidden away out of sight.

She’s angry, and turnabout feels fairplay. She’s two tumblers in when her anger turns to grief, and she decides to make her first Tiktok video. It takes her a second to figure it out, especially in her slightly drunken state, but once she does, she catches sight of herself on the screen. Tears fall, and before she knows it, she’s spilling out all of her pain.

I am not the girl that boys date.

I am the girl that is pretty enough to sleep with but not pretty enough to brag about to his friends.

I am the girl that he will cuddle with on the weekends and then not message throughout the week.

I am the girl who is fun to go out with and dance with and have a drink with but not to take to breakfast the next day.

I am the girl that will show him that he can be loved and deserves to be loved before he finds somebody better.

I am not the girl that boys date. I am the placeholder until they find someone better.

She goes to sleep after, waking late the next morning to multiple alerts on her phone. 40,000 people have liked a video she barely remembers making. She’s about to delete it, mortified that she let herself be so bare in her rum fueled state, but then she sees them. Duets of her video, hundreds of women putting their own spin on her words, making aesthetic videos to her voice and it hits her.

Emma Swan may be alone, but she isn’t alone in the world. She isn’t the only one feeling so unlovable, so she leaves the video up, hoping that it helps other women to realize that they aren’t alone as well.

By the end of the week, her video has almost 4 million likes amongst whoever knows how many views. She loses track of all of the comments and stitches, finally just turning off her notifications, overwhelmed by the comradery. Sure, there are some snarky and misogynist comments, but they become drowned by the words of encouragement, letting her know that she's loved and that her time is coming.

They don’t know her though, don’t know that she’s irrevocably broken.

She dives back into her work, trying to ignore the lingering sting in her heart. She also ignores the ribbing that she takes when one of the paralegals comes across her video sharing it with the whole firm.

It takes another two months for the jokes to die down.

There’s a new junior partner that joins them, and against all odds, she and Emma become fast friends. Well, friends isn’t exactly the right word for it. They’re the yin and yang of the law firm, and together they have an undefeated court record. And she’s the closest thing that Emma Swan has to a confidant.

It’s on a Saturday, four months after her original post that Elsa first brings it up, letting her know that she saw the video. Emma chalks it up to a lack of sleep and stress which had caused her to have an emotional breakdown one night, trying to laugh it off. But Elsa isn’t so easily dissuaded and she won’t let it go.

Instead, she tells Emma that the video is part of the reason she chose to work at that firm. She could see something in her vulnerability that drew her in, because who else could be trusted to fight for children than someone who knows what it was like to feel forsaken.

Emma tries to brush her off, but she forges on, asking Emma if she’s seen the replies to her video, thrusting her phone in her face. There are so many stitches that she knows she’ll never find the time to watch them all, but Elsa is relentless and shows her a few that are the most commented on.

Some are like the one she’s already seen, women mouthing words of encouragement, and some are women crying and nodding along, pointing at her video as if to punctuate the end of each statement. But it’s the last one Elsa goes to show her that has her gasping for air. The one Elsa says is the most heart wrenching.

Blue eyes stare back from the screen, and she’s so mesmerized by the sight of him, that she doesn’t even read the words flashing across the screen. It’s too much.

She leaves work, feigning a headache.

When she gets back to her still empty apartment, she feels like igniting the world to flames. Wine bottles fly across the room, she screams into pillows. The world around her is burning in her rage.

He broke her and used her for views.

Emma Swan is a glutton for punishment though, and as her anger boils over, she opens her phone, looking for his video so she can block him, or leave him a hateful comment. She wants him to know what he’s done to her. Wants the world to know.

But her resentment dies on her tongue as she gets back to his video, and sees the anguish in his face. She’d missed it before, the bags under his eyes. The way his hair is mussed in every direction from him running his hands through it, something he absentmindedly did when he was stressed. The way the sparkle was gone.

She hits play, letting it all sync in this time, letting her eyes scan the words that appeared next to her own.

I am not the guy that dates. Not anymore.

I’m the guy that fell in love and wanted to be able to sing it from the rooftops, but she wasn’t mine.

I’m the guy that obsessively carried his phone everywhere with him just so he wouldn’t miss a message from her, and still kept checking his phone once she was gone, because he felt phantom vibrations all week, and now he spend each weekend alone on the couch wondering what if.

I’m the guy that went to our diner every Sunday morning for a month hoping to run into her getting breakfast, and then went home sulking, drinking when she never showed.

I am the guy that was shown that he could still be loved and deserved to be loved before he ruined it all, because he was terrified of losing her when she was the only one that ever mattered.

I am not the guy that dates girls. I am the heartbreak when the story ends.

She would be mad at all of the comments if she didn’t already know how in pain he already was. There were lines of women, drooling over him, reaching out hoping to each be the one that fixed him. She’s already done that though, and what has it gotten her?

She is about to exit out of the app when she notices that there is one comment that he’s replied to. Someone asks for a storytime, and against her better judgment, she clicks on it. It’s just him, sitting on what she assumes is a stool as he leans against a counter.

He is in her favorite shirt, one she’d bought him for good luck during a major design pitch that she told him brought out his eyes.

So, uh, a few of you have asked for a storytime. I’m afraid many of you might find yourselves disappointed as it isn’t much of a tale. My whole life, I felt like an outsider, and tried as hard as I might, there was never a place for me that felt like I belonged. Until I met a woman who changed my whole life.

Emma has to pause the video, grabbing a glass of the only unsmashed wine bottle to help her stomach whatever he is going to wax poetic about Milah. She’s only met the woman a handful of times, and she’s nice enough, but all Emma can think about is the fact that she stole Killian, and in her mind, she’ll forever be the villain.

A glass and a half of merlot later, she pulls his video back up and hits play.

She was the last thing I ever expected, having resigned myself to a lonely life. But she blew in, and before I knew it, she had consumed my soul, and everything I was was hers. She made me believe in myself again, told me that I was worth something. But before her, everything I’d ever touched had turned to ashes, and I was terrified to tell her how I felt, because I knew that eventually I’d ruin everything. So instead, like the coward I am, I threw myself into the arms of another, hoping to drown out the longing in my heart that screamed for her. But in doing so, I lost her anyway.

I briefly let myself believe that I could move on and be happy in the relationship I was in. I gave myself to it completely, or I tried to. I even proposed thinking that if I just took that step, I’d forget the woman that haunted the very recesses of my mind, taking up residence in my dreams.

But then I came across the video that mine was stitched with, and I knew that I would never have with my fiance what I had with her, that she was the love of my life, and without her, there was no point in pretending with someone else. So I ended my engagement and made that video.

I suppose a part of me hopes that maybe she will see it, that she will know that I realize how much I’ve mucked everything up. But perhaps most of all, I want her to know how sorry I am for the pain I’ve caused her, and even if she never forgives me, I just need her to know that even though she often felt like nothing, to me she was everything.

He gives the screen a small sad smile before standing and leaning towards the camera, and the video cuts off.

She sits in stunned silence, not quite sure how to process what she’s just seen. It’s been months since he dueted her video and he’s made zero effort to reach out to her beyond the stitch, so she’s left to wonder about his authenticity. Killian has never been a man to do things by half measures, and if he really wanted her, he would have found her already.

She blocks him and deletes the app.

It’s three days later when there’s a knock on her door.

It’s a man in a tailored suit delivering a small manilla envelope, insistent that she sign for it. He doesn’t give any indication what he’s there for as he slides the package into her hands, just nods toward the item she’s clutching and tells her that once she opens it, she’ll understand.

Her name is written in the center of the package, along with her address in unfamiliar handwriting. There’s no return address, and she’s hesitant to open it, having heard horror stories at work.

Eventually curiosity wins out, but not stupidity as she dons a pair of latex cleaning gloves just in case there is danger lurking inside.

What she finds takes the air straight from her lungs, leaving with a gasp on her lips and a single tear shed onto the page. She has a brother, by blood, and he wants to meet her. He only recently discovered that she even exists or he would have sought her out sooner, but he understands that it may be too much for her right now. He gives her his name, number, and address, writing that his door is always open to her.

It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. She’s been alone for nearly her entire life, and the idea of there being someone out there in the world, someone who looks like her, maybe has some of the same mannerisms, well it’s simply terrifying. What if she can’t measure up to his expectations, or what if he doesn’t measure up to hers. Life has taught her over and over that she’s not the type of person who gets a happy ending.

But she caves. It takes weeks before she can summon the courage to send him a text, not quite ready to hear his voice. Texting is safe, she can step away, she can change her number even, if needed. They start with little things, like their jobs, interests, music tastes. It’s all superficial, and if she didn’t know better she might think that he was just as nervous as her.

He’s a cop with the Boston PD. In time, she learns about his wife, a school teacher who actually teaches not far from where she lives, and he convinces her to meet him for lunch in a diner not far away as he puts it. He has no way of knowing that it’s a diner she frequented once upon a time, that it holds memories she can’t bear.

And in true form, Emma cancels at the last minute telling him she has a work emergency. He’s persistent though, and won’t give up on her now. He tells her that family doesn’t give up on eachother, and she wonders where he got that idea from because their parents surely didn’t share the same mentality when they gave her away.

It’s David’s birthday, and he’s having a get together at his house. A casual affair and he asks her to drop by, telling her that it won’t be awkward. She debates going, right up until the minute that she finds herself on his stoop, her hand a hair's width away from knocking. She can’t quite bring herself to do it, but she isn’t walking away yet either, which for Emma is progress she supposes.

She isn’t sure how long she’s been standing there when a hand on her shoulder makes her jump, shaking her head to clear the thoughts running circles. The face on the other side of the arm holding onto her is shockingly familiar and she’s confused until he explains that Mary Margaret is Roland’s teacher and then Emma remembers the Nolan name from the trial depositions. She’d actually interviewed her maybe-kinda-sorta-sister-in-law and learned how she took a special interest in watching over them after the boy’s mother passed away.

It’s almost a cosmic joke how small the world is, and how intent the universe is on littering her life with small reminders of ‘him.’

Meeting David isn’t as awkward as she expected it to be. He introduces her to everyone as his sister, like it’s just a simple fact that she belongs and her heart nearly explodes at how unreasonably right it all feels. Emma actually knows a few of the officers at the party, having worked with them on some of her cases. She chats with guests as David mingles, looking so happy every time they lock eyes, as if her being there somehow means the whole world to him. And maybe it does if the way his wife gives her knowing glances.

She even speaks to Robin for a bit, catching up on all of the progress he’s made since she won his case for him. She doesn’t question him about Killian, and he has the good sense not to bring the man up either.

The weeks turn to months, and Emma finds herself standing back on David’s stoop, knocking this time only because her hands are full of presents for her family. A word that still leaves her shocked sometimes as she says it outloud. She doesn’t normally wait at the door anymore, Mary Margaret having been insistent that she just walk in, because again, they’re family now.

There’s something strange in the way with which she’s melded into this family unit. With how David knows exactly what she needs, like he’s always known her. Like he’s somehow been there for the more intimate moments of her life and understands why she is the way she is.

It’s a smaller gathering this time. Just the misfits as David puts it, the family he’s adopted along the way, having spent too much time alone in this life as well. She’s learned a little about her birth parents, not enough for her to forgive them by any means, but maybe enough to understand them, because to the ugly duckling turned swan, forgiveness and understanding have never been synonymous.

David’s father left when he was young, almost too young to remember him, and at the time, he had no idea that his mother was pregnant. With no formal education above high school, and no job, she knew that she couldn’t take care of two children, so she gave Emma up, hoping for a better life for her. Ruth passed years before, having taken her secret to her grave.

In fact, it isn’t until that night, on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve that Emma learns how David even found out about her. The night is winding down and everyone is leaving, even Robin with a sleeping Roland resting in his arms. He says his goodbyes, but asks Emma to follow him outside for a moment. She obliges, and it’s there that the lifeboat she’s carefully been tiptoeing across nearly capsizes.

He shouldn’t be telling her this, he swore that he wouldn’t, but he thinks it’s stupid how headstrong they’re both being, and from someone who would give anything for even a few more minutes with his wife, he can’t stand the idea of them wasting what they have. With that, he hands her a folded piece of paper that’s been hiding away in his pocket all night.

She waits until she gets home to read it, and then waits some more. It’s Christmas Morning, and she’s supposed to be heading back to her brother’s house to unwrap presents and drink ungodly amounts of cocoa, but instead, she’s curled up on her floor reading Robin’s chickscratch for the fifth time.

It was Killian.

He sought out a private investigator to look into Emma’s past, because as Robin put it, even though he screwed up and couldn’t be there for her anymore, he didn’t want her to be alone. That Killian wants to give her the world, he just doesn’t think he has a place in it anymore.

Robin also includes an address.

She doesn’t go.

Instead she self sabotages and orders her usual from Mr. Wong’s around the corner and eats until the pain in her overcrowded stomach is stronger than the pain in her heart. She watches movies and yells at the scream about how they are all lies. That people don’t really make these grand romantic gestures. And she drinks wine until the fog overtakes her muddled mind.

It’s David that finally puts her in her place having let himself in after days of not hearing from her, worry etched into his face until he sees her wallowing. They argue, yelling about this and that. She’s mad that he never told her about Killian and the private eye, and he tells her to grow up and stop playing the victim. That neither of them can change their pasts, but they can change their futures.

She tries to kick him out and tell him that they are finished, barely more than strangers, but he tells her he isn’t giving up. That siblings fight and she needs to get used to it because it’s not going to be that last time that they disagree. He does take his exit though, knowing she needs time to process, but he leaves her with a final thought, picking the now crumpled note up off the coffee table, handing it back to her.

He’s all she has left in this world, but he doesn’t have to be.

His profile is gone from the app. She’s searched every combination she could think of but the videos that were stitched are gone now. She never should have blocked him.

It’s seven pm on New Year’s Eve when she makes the decision to find him, not wanting to start another year without him. Not if he’ll have her anyway. She doesn’t even take time to throw a bag together, too aware that she only has five hours until midnight, and the drive to New York takes four in normal traffic.

The world is absolutely against her in the most tragic way possible. She gets a flat tire just outside of Hartford and her sweater is nearly ruined by the time she gets it changed. The traffic is horrendous and somewhere near Eastchester she gives up, parking her car in a random grocery store parking lot before running to a subway station.

She’s out of breath, nearly doubling over with a pain in her side, but she’s made it with four minutes to spare. With four minutes to gather enough courage to grab him by his shirt and kiss him into next year.

She scans the piece of paper, making sure she really does have the right address before knocking, knowing it’s late and not wanting to disturb his neighbor by accident. But she’s in the right place, and with the minute hand on her watch now reminding her that she only has three minutes left, she pounds on the door, hoping he can hear it above the chaos of the city.

The door swings open, and she’s crestfallen with a short stocky forty something man opens the door, nearly growling at her as he does. She has the right apartment, but she’s about a week too late and now someone new lives in the apartment.

It’s late, and she should just get a hotel room in the city, but she can’t stay. Doesn’t want to. She just needs to get home, back to her own bed in Boston. Or to cry in a hot shower until the water runs cold. She’ll take either at this point, but she doesn’t want to be here, in a strange city mourning the what ifs.

What if she had gone when Robin first gave her his address? What if she had replied to his video when she first saw it? What if she has just stopped being such a coward and told him how she felt before he ever had the chance to meet Milah?

But now she’ll never know.

Getting back to her car isn’t nearly as difficult. Everyone is still busy enjoying the festivities near Times Square and the train is nearly empty. The drive back is just as uneventful, although somehow every single radio station seems to be mocking her life choices with their song selections.

With Boston approaching in her windshield, she lets the tears finally fall, feeling safer in the embrace of the known. This is her city, her home, and she’s missed it tonight. Or maybe she misses what it used to be. So she lets herself grieve the ambiguous loss.

The city is still lively as she drives down Boylston, people nearly falling over themselves in the street as she tries not to hit them. It’s stupid how accurate her brother was. She is alone, and he is all that she has left in this world. And it’s all her own fault for putting up her walls.

It doesn’t help her wallowing that all of the street parking is taken in front of her building and it’s about twenty minutes of aimless driving before she caves and parks her car in her work parking garage, taking yet another grimmy subway train home as she avoids men with loose lips from too much liquor on her street.

She’s almost there, ready to just crawl into the abyss, but there’s a man sitting on the curb blocking the front door, and she can’t quite make him out through the haze of tears that have reformed. She’s not completely able to discern if he looks threatening or if he’s just drunk enough to let her pass by unscathed. Taking in the way he’s slumped over with his head tucked into his arms against his legs, she assumes it’s the latter and tries to quietly walk past, sniffing into her sweater sleeve as she goes, alerting him to her presence.

His voice is shaky and her name is a question on his lips. She feels betrayed, because there’s simply no way she’s hearing the voice she thinks she is. Her mind must be playing tricks. It’s almost five in the morning and she hasn’t slept. That’s it. A hallucination.

Except it’s not. Somehow he’s there, looking as weary as she feels. They should talk, but it’s late, or early depending on how she looks at it, and she’s too exhausted to do anything but grab his hand and drag him upstairs and into her bed.

They don’t speak. He just reads her silent cues, and like he never left, he knows exactly what she needs without her having to ask for it. And what she needs right now is to just feel him, so he removes his jeans and crawls under the covers, scooping her up and holding on for dear life.

They’ll talk about it tomorrow, and the next day and the next, because she’s never letting him leave her again.

In the end, she’s not the placeholder until he finds someone better. And he’s not the heartbreak when the story ends.

No.

They’re the sudden turn of a blank page, an empty slate with nothing but promise.

#csff #Captain Swan #captain swan fanfiction

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