#ITS A REVENGE PARTY. A PARTY THAT ENDS WITH SOMEBODY'S HEAD ON A SPIKE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

capnjay21 · 7 years

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the importance of being idle, 11/12

A/N: another delayed update, but this time not as long as the last which I'm pleased with! we're very near the end now folks, just remember to clap your hands and believe and it'll all work out in the end. ;) as always, thank you so much to all the comments and kudos I've received so far, it means the absolute world! so, enjoy!

Rating: M

Catch up on AO3

the importance of being idle get-out-of-my-apartment-(no-really-get-out)-you’re-hot-but-I-got-shit-to-do rock ‘n roll AU. Captain Swan.

“Well that’s what they get for having a goddamn brawl in the middle of your house.”

Truthfully, Emma didn’t even see who threw the first punch, the entire altercation was a blur. All she knew was one moment Malcolm had been gloating about something, spewing some crass comment about her or Tina and the next moment he was flying backwards, crashing into some antique coffee table and sending it in pieces to the floor. Killian and Tina had both been standing over him, and in all honesty she was sure it could’ve been either of them — or perhaps in an unprecedented show of synchronicity from the oft-bickering pair, they’d hit him in unison.

The following ten minutes were manic; Blackbeard and Isaac had jumped forward to defend their fallen bandmate and even Robin had been pulled into the fray. Emma had tried to step in and stop things from escalating too badly, but she’d received a swift elbow straight to her nose which sent her reeling backwards. It was hardly clean fighting, it was clumsy and involved a lot of grabbing and fumbling, and by the time Jefferson and August came sprinting from the other room there was only Killian and Blackbeard left rolling around on the ground to be separated.

That was over an hour ago. Since then, the injured parties had been marched into a private room full of executives who’d been attending the party, only Jefferson exempted for reasons that appeared unclear to Emma, and the rest of the guests had been sent home.

“It’s seen worse,” the bassist said, mumbling more into the trash bag he’d brought from the kitchen than to her, “the house, I mean.”

“Still,” she said, before pinching the bridge of her nose and testing to see if it was throbbing any less. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t start it.”

“No, but I wasn’t much help finishing it.” She bent down to pick a couple of pieces of splintered wood. “This wasn’t worth anything, was it?”

Jefferson shrugged, offering a rueful smile. “Nothing I can’t come up with myself.”

Guilt and unease both roiled in Emma’s gut, warring for which could make her feel worse; nothing about that private meeting felt particularly promising, and the Jolly Rogers’ place on the tour was already a fluke. Starting, or even just participating, in a fight in Jefferson’s house was hardly the gracious thanks they should be giving their hosts, smarmy as they were. In a tour full of unpleasant surprises, this appeared to be just the latest in a long line.

An unpleasant surprise of his own, Neal had slinked off somewhere else the moment any sort of formal executive had entered the scene, likely slightly fearful one of them might recognise him or call his father, or worse. That didn’t stop the spike of irritation Emma felt towards him — it was his fault Blackbeard’s Revenge had known about Killian and Milah, undoubtedly something he’d let slip in an attempt to curry some favour with the band. Or perhaps he’d just wanted somebody to vent to about the apparent frustrations he’d been harbouring over the situation. Whichever it was, she was pissed and she at least felt like she had a right to be.

Emma carried her own garbage bag around the room, picking up discarded bottles and cans and dropping them in without ceremony. It was only as she was clearing the surface of a dresser that she came across a few scattered photo frames, apparently of the same girl at various ages. There was one of her perched on shoulders that were clearly Jefferson’s, his face lit up in a wide smile.

She turned her head to look at the other man beginning to sweep some glass. “She yours?”

Jefferson looked up, eyes seeking what she was pointing to before nodding mutely.

“My daughter, Grace.” He answered her question before she could even give voice to it. “She stays with her grandparents while I,” he waved a hand around absently, “tour.”

Emma hummed quietly to herself. “Don’t you miss her?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards sadly. “Endlessly.”

Jefferson had always seemed like something of an odd one out when it came to the members of Blackbeard’s Revenge — by far the most tolerable, yet easily the one Emma saw the least. He seemed to bear no interest in the petty rivalry that existed between the two bands since the tour started, his only concern every time she saw him had been playing the music then returning to the bus. Before that moment she hadn’t any idea he even had a daughter. Compared to the others he was hugely private, and not for the first time Emma wondered how he’d managed to fall in with slimeballs like Blackbeard and his two cronies. Whatever it was, he kept himself isolated.

They cleared the rest of the room in an easy silence; Emma wasn’t feeling particularly chatty and she imagined Jefferson was the same, glancing through the hallway at the door to the office to see if either of the bands had emerged yet.

Just as she looked up for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes, the door suddenly flew open, crashing against the adjacent wall as it groaned on its hinges. Emma jumped, then watched as Killian shot out like a bullet, quickly pursued by Robin and August who were apparently trying to assuage his ire. Tina followed a little bit after, and Emma noticed the pack of ice she had pressed against her knuckles — none of them had emerged unscathed, after all.

Before Emma could even ask the question, Tina was shaking her head bitterly.

“We’re off the tour.”

It took a moment for Emma to even process the words.

“What?”

Jefferson chose that moment to loudly tie up the trash bag he had been using to clear up the room, before lifting it and making a swift exit. Emma thought she might have caught a sympathetic look while he was on his way out, but then she could’ve easily imagined it.

It took a few seconds for Tina to compose herself enough to respond to Emma’s concern.

“Apparently we’re volatile. Unpredictable. Too much of a risk for New England and Gold Records, in any case.” She grunted something incomprehensible, all but hurling the ice pack to the ground in frustration. Emma, totally unsure of what to say, merely watched. “We blew, it Emma.”

When she finally looked up, Emma thought she could spot a sheen of moisture in front of her usually sharp eyes.

“We blew it.”

***

The atmosphere on the bus was even worse.

As opposed to every evening they’d spent playing cards or swapping stories or putting on impromptu photoshoots, the Jolly Rogers merely lay on their own bunks in silence. Something heavy hung over the entire cabin, a thing that overwhelmed like disappointment or shame, and Emma had no idea what to tell them. She still didn’t know what exactly went on in that room and Tina hadn’t been particularly forthcoming with information, all she could do was let the total despondency of the situation wash over her.

They had come so far, against all the odds stacked against them. Blackbeard and his cronies had always held all the cards; all they’d needed was to bait the smaller band into an altercation and get them thrown out. Why, though, Emma couldn’t say. Some twisted power struggle that only they were playing, most likely. Now they all had to suffer for it.

“This is my fault,” a voice rumbled quietly from beneath her bunk. Emma didn’t think she’d ever heard Killian sound so small. “I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed was deafening, potentially even accusatory. They were friends, would always be incredibly close, but Emma could sense them all trying their hardest not to blame Killian or Tina for the lost opportunity — tricky as it was. She had lived in Storybrooke for years now, had watched musicians wither and fade while they waited for a chance like touring with Blackbeard’s Revenge to come along. Luck was it happening just the once; impossibility the twice.

“You weren’t the only one in there, Killian,” Tina pointed out gently. “I don’t even know which of us hit Pan first.”

“He deserved it.” Robin’s response was firm, resolute.

“Just a shame it screwed up our chances in the process,” August sighed, and there was a murmur of agreement.

Emma couldn’t stand it, these people she’d come to consider her close companions just giving up. So while she was still a firm believer that hope speeches were much more Mary Margaret’s territory, she couldn’t just let this all go without fighting for it.

“Gold Records aren’t the only label out there, you know.”

“But I don’t imagine he’ll make our lives easy. Nor will the press after all this comes out.”

“Are you kidding? You knocked the living daylights out of the drummer for Blackbeard’s Revenge, what could possibly be more badass than that?” She could almost hear the cogs whirring as the others considered this a little more carefully. “And besides, I’ve been at these gigs — I know the people who have been listening to you, who’ve bought your EP and are no doubt enjoying it right now. You don’t need goddamn Blackbeard, or any of his crap.”

“Don’t we?” Killian muttered bitterly from the bunk below.

Emma chose that moment to lean over the side. “God, you miserable lot, of course you don’t! It's a fact that people are gonna try and tell you what you can do and who you should be for as long as you guys are in this business. You’ve just gotta punch back, alright? Punch back and say ‘no, this is who we are’. And what you are is incredible musicians who are gonna go so far, screw the rest.”

“We do already have the punching thing down,” August said amusedly as he finally looked at her from across the cabin, and Emma’s heart surged with warmth.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, of all people, that there aren’t any fairy godmothers in this world." At her remark August laughed loudly, and threw a pair of his socks at her. “But there aren’t. And none of you need them.”

“Emma’s right,” Robin rallied behind her as he sat up. “So what if things aren’t going as planned — we were always going to release on album on the back of the national exposure, and we have that, don’t we? Let’s go back to Storybrooke and just get straight back to it.”

Tina let out a crow of agreement and, buoyed by their enrgy, Emma suddenly dove for the folder she kept at the end of her bunk, before slipping down the ladder and pulling her boots on.

“Where are you going?” asked August.

“To give Blackbeard his photos and get my damn paycheck.”

There was no chance Emma would be staying without them — not now that they were a team. Mary Margaret had encouraged her to take this opportunity based on the ways it could advance her own career, but it was so much more than that after the last month with them. To a smattering of cheers from the Jolly Rogers, she dropped out of the bus and into the starry night, eyeing up where the other vehicle was parked across the lot.

“Swan, wait,” after a moment Killian landed beside her. “I’ll come with you.”

She was going to tell him she could handle it by herself, but found her tongue tied at the immediate sight of him. He'd been so distant since way before that night's concert, and she'd spent the entire time avoiding him at Jefferson's party. The melody of Lavender Rose still thumped through her, and she was also somewhat struck by the knowledge that, however indirectly, she must have led to Killian losing his temper at Malcolm. The moments leading up to the first crash of glass had long since flown from her memory in the wake of the events that had followed, but she distinctly remembered her name coming out of Pan's mouth. Not to mention he had already been pretty wired, desperate to talk to her about the song he had performed just a few hours ago to six thousand people in Connecticut. All of that seemed like such a long time ago.

So instead of protesting she simply nodded, allowing him to follow her there. His company would always be a reassurance to her.

Killian easily fell into step beside her, but just before she reached the bus she felt him reach out and gently tug at her upper arm.

“Thank you,” he said quickly, as if she wouldn’t let him get the words out if he wasn't, “for what you said in there. I needed that.”

His eyes, electric blue in the darkness that surrounded them, darted between hers, searching. For what, she wasn’t sure. But for just one second she found herself desperate to be able to observe whatever it was that he saw in her, whatever it was that made him stand up in front of thousands of strangers and declare his feelings for her, whatever it was that made Tina trust her with Killian’s heart, whatever it was that kept him kind, and generous, and warm, that made him want to stay when so many others had walked away. Just once, she wanted to see it. Then maybe she could trust it.

“I meant it,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze and hoping he might, in turn, be able to see just a modicum of the regard she held for him. Something in her must have shown it, because he broke out into a heartfelt grin, running his hand down her arm until he could squeeze her hand.

He swayed forward, and for a moment Emma thought he was going to kiss her, but he swung back at the last momebr. She ignored the surge of disappointment immediately.

Killian let go of her hand. “Give them hell.”

Emma smirked, before turning to knock loudly on the door to the bus. After a few moments, it hissed open and she clambered up into it. One glance behind her confirmed Killian would not be joining her, but she didn’t blame him. It’d suit everybody if the two groups didn’t come into contact at all until the Jolly Rogers were firmly on the road home.

Everything Emma had thought might be true about the other bus was immediately confirmed upon her entering — it was far more spacious than the one provided for her and the others, kitted out with a full recording studio towards the front complete with fitted microphones and already set up permanent amplifiers. The beds were wider with curtains they could draw across to create a little more privacy, and everywhere she looked there were smooth surfaces, polished marble and plush comforts for any and every desire the occupants may have.

The members of Blackbeard’s Revenge were lounging at the back of the bus in a sort of makeshift seating area, a few cream sofas that sat around the kitchenette (complete with stove as well as microwave and sink). At her approach they stopped whatever they were talking about and watched her with interest, and if she wasn't mistaken the trace of smugness she had come to expect looked far more amplified than normal. To her delight, however, Pan was sporting a deep, purple bruise along the shell of his cheek that he was pressing a pack of ice to — but even that wasn’t enough to stop him looking as smarmy as she had become accustomed.

“Miss Swan,” Blackbeard boomed from his spot on the sofa, tuning the strings of his guitar. “I presume you’ve heard the good news?”

Emma ground her teeth together, but refused to rise to it.

“Here,” she said, and tossed the folder so that it landed onto the coffee table in the middle. Isaac immediately reached forward to open it. “You’ve got enough, and they’re good. I want my money.”

Charles blinked. “But we’re only halfway through the tour, my dear.”

“You’ve got Baelfire,” his pseudonym tasted bitter on her tongue, wrong. The life he had created without her. “You don’t need two photographers.”

“And what, pray, do you expect us to do once we get to New York and he leaves us for good?”

Emma shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“Those Rolly Jogers have made you so entitled, Emma.” Isaac tutted as he looked through the photos. “They’re nice, I’ll give you that. But you can’t honestly expect us to pay you for a three-month tour when you haven’t even been with us for half of it?”

“Look,” she snapped, “you don’t like me and I don’t like you. Just give me what’ll cover this past month and I’ll be out of your hair. Hell, you can pay me for half if it’ll make you feel any better.”

Blackbeard tutted loudly, leaning forward in his seat and carefully placing his guitar against the wall.

“No, no,” he said, clicking his tongue, and watching her with a wicked expression. “That won’t do at all. You signed a contract, my dear, a contract to be with us until October. I’m sure you remember that any breach of contract will incur a substantial termination fee — one I am almost certain you wouldn't wish to bring down upon yourself.”

Emma froze, trying to wrack her brains back to the contract Smee had set in front of her when she’d first agreed to the whole business; she’d never been one for going over every detail, a sign first think later sort of girl, and at the time she’d convinced herself three months were such a short time to be away. Even if there was a termination fee and she had known about it, the chances were that the Emma before stepping on that bus couldn’t imagine any scenario in which she’d be leaving after such a short time. Back then, she’d thought Killian Jones was going to be her biggest problem. She couldn’t have known how utterly wrong she would be.

“You can’t be serious,” she settled for saying, hoping to be calling a bluff.

“I assure you, I have never been more serious in my life.”

“How much is the termination fee?”

Charles Blackbeard didn’t miss a beat. “Five-thousand dollars.”

Five-thousand?

There was no way she could cover it. She and Mary Margaret had never exactly been well off, not with Emma’s meagre earnings at Granny’s and occasional pull from a piece in the Mirror, and as a local elementary school teacher her roommate was hardly rolling in it either.

“So of course you’re welcome to go home with the Jolly Rogers, darling. Shall I have an invoice sent to your address?”

Emma’s fists clenched at her sides, more than ready to give a repeat performance of earlier that night, but if the self-satisfied smirk on Blackbeard’s face was any indication, he knew he had her in the palm of his hand. Although she didn’t reply, kept her jaw resolutely shut, Charles must have seen something in her expression that alerted him to her decision — the only choice she could really make.

“Good. Well,” he brushed down his coat, removing some imaginary lint and made himself comfortable on the sofa again. “First thing tomorrow we’ll move all of your stuff over to our bus, how about that? At least then you’ll get to enjoy the rest of your tour in style.”

Emma snatched the folder back from where Isaac had left it on the table, before storming out of the bus.

***

The next morning, Emma watched from the edge of the parking lot as gear was transferred between the two buses. Members of the crew worked tirelessly to make sure none of Blackbeard’s Revenge’s equipment wound up going home with the Jolly Rogers accidentally, and Emma sat on the sidewalk with her own small suitcase and camera bag as she waited to be summoned to her new residence. The whole business left a rotten taste on the edge of her tongue, like smoke from a fire that refused to be put out. Of course the Jolly Rogers had been horrified that she was being made to stay, none moreso than Killian, and it had taken a long time to talk them down from doing anything about it — they were in enough trouble as it was, the last thing they needed to do was make it worse. Like adding something helpful like a legitimate assault allegation to it.

She couldn’t imagine doing this tour without them. Without August reading her fairy-tales from across the aisle, without Robin’s steadying stories about his son, that life experience that Emma was sure she would never have, hell, even without Tina and her sharp eyes and caustic wit keeping everybody in line.

And without Killian.

Without Killian and his light, his boisterous humour, that sense of knowing exactly when to buoy her up or leave her alone, his stupid post-its with dumbass messages. Without Killian and the song he had written just for her.

Emma sighed heavily, letting her chin rest forward on her knees. She would miss him. It had been a long road admitting that, and she could still remember him posing the question to her that night in her apartment when it all went wrong.

Will you miss me?

Of course she sodding would.

There was the scratch of shoes upon gravel, then somebody was moving to sit beside her. For a fleeting moment she thought it might be Killian, but found herself disappointed when she caught the familiar scent of Neal’s cologne instead. It was the first time he’d crawled out of whatever rock he’d hidden under after the fight, and Emma couldn’t help the immediate spike of revulsion she felt at his being near. Logically, she knew he didn’t cause the fight. Nobody made Killian or Tina swing their fists, it was their mistake and they would own that, but that didn’t help her wanting somebody else to blame.

“I heard about what happened,” he said, and for his part he did sound genuinely sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Neal scratched at the back of his neck doubtfully. “I mean…”

“Not all your fault,” she corrected. “It was a dick move to tell Blackbeard about Killian and Milah.”

“It was a dick move for him to do it.”

“Neal,” Emma warned.

He held up his hands. “You’re right, sorry. It was a dick move, and I don’t know why I did it. Vanity, probably. I’m a human being and he humiliated me and it felt good to get back at him.”

She sighed, finally allowing herself to look at him. “At least you’re honest.”

For a few minutes more they sat there in silence, and surprisingly Emma felt the calmest in his presence she had been since that first moment he had appeared in New Hampshire. Gone was the tumult he usually left in his wake, the twisted sensation of rage and regret broiling around in her gut — all that was left was nothing. Nothing at all. Even if it didn’t feel altogether like a totally positive thing, she couldn’t imagine anything being worse than the last couple weeks and the meagre explanations and diversions all pulling the floor out from under her.

“I could stay,” Neal said suddenly. Emma gave him a blank look as she turned back to him. “Past New York, I mean. I’ve been counting down the days but I could stay longer — if Blackbeard needs a photographer.”

Longer on the tour with one of Gold Records’ most popular groups could only mean a greater chance of crossing paths with Gold himself. “What about your father?”

Neal shrugged. “I’ll have to face him sometime. He already knows my pseudonym, my entire career. May as well get it over with now if it’ll help you out.” He shifted his trainers on the gravel underfoot, dropping his gaze. “I know you want to leave with the Jolly Rogers.”

Emma bit her lip, looking back at where the crew were loading the final pieces of equipment they’d retrieved from the Jolly Rogers’ bus, while her four friends and Smee looked on. Killian threw a glance over his shoulder and caught her eye, gesturing for her to join them with a barely perceptible nod of his head.

“That’s… a nice offer,” she said, something wistful in her demeanour as she stood. “But I don’t think Blackbeard and his goons would make it that easy. They just want to make everyone they can miserable, and this is the best way for them to do it.” Neal followed her to his feet, lips parted as if he wanted to say something else. Emma cut him off before he could. “I’ll see you at the next show.”

Emma picked up her bag and trudged over to where the Jolly Rogers were standing, apparently all set and ready to hit the road.

“I can’t believe you’re not coming with us,” Tina muttered, with a little more ferocity than was necessary as she glared at the bigger bus.

It felt like it only really hit her then that they would be saying goodbye.

There was no way of knowing for sure if the four of them would still be in Storybrooke by the time she returned. As Killian himself had told her, the town was more like a stop along the way than a final destination, and Emma had no doubt that the band would be moving as quickly as they could — capitalising on the national exposure while it still counted, attempting to secure a record deal before any potentially bad press could be leaked. They had a lot of work to do, and they couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Not if they wanted to get anywhere close to what they were aiming for in the first place.

“I guess it does kinda suck. Although, living without Robin slamming the bathroom door in the middle of every night?" She shot the man a teasing grin. "Can only be an improvement."

He stepped forward enveloped her in a tight hug. “I’ll miss you too, Emma. Don’t let them boss you around.”

Before she could respond Tina had quickly pulled her into her arms. “But if you have too much fun without me I’ll be pretty pissed off.”

Emma smiled into her shoulder. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Tina drew back, eyeing Emma for what appeared to be an open affection for the first time — she let herself enjoy it. She’d never been a tearful goodbye sort of person, not when goodbyes had been all too common in her life and tears shed over her all too rare, but the idea of it lurked at the edge of her mind once August stepped forward.

“So,” he said, keeping his hands held firmly behind his bag, concealing something from view.

“So,” she echoed. She could feel her heart start to thud, a tug in the centre of her chest when she thought about saying goodbye to this person who had become so much to her in such a short time. The first chance she got she would goddamn end Blackbeard and all of their Revenge.

August brought his hands forward to reveal what he’d been holding; the old story book they had spent many a night reading from, the one with the beautiful illustrations and the Snow White who preferred the bow and arrow to the pretty dresses. Emma liked her a lot.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” August continued, that knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, the one that promised of secrets to be told. “A little forget-me-not, if you will.”

“Couldn’t if I tried,” Emma countered, mirroring his grin. Only instead of taking it, she lightly pushed the book back towards his chest. “But keep it, please. I know how much this means to you — and I don’t need it.”

His eyebrows jumped to his hairline with amusement. “Oh no?”

Emma shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. “I don’t need the fairy-tales. I think I’m already on my way to believing I can make my own destiny.”

August’s smile could have lit up three blocks.

“Good,” he said, pulling her close, “good.”

Emma allowed herself a strong intake of breath, of the leather of his jacket and the scent of freshly carved wood and tried to commit it all to memory. She didn’t want to forget a thing.

She traded a handshake with Smee and promised to try and catch up with him for updates on the band’s progress as soon as possible, but before long she was running out of ways to put off her final goodbye. Killian hovered, shifting from one foot to another in a show of what she interpreted as despondent frustration, both patiently and impatiently waiting for her to get to him. Eventually she turned, her steady gaze assuring him he had her full attention, but apparently whatever he had been eager to say died on his tongue.

“Swan,” he merely got out. “I, uh…”

In a particularly conspicuous attempt at being inconspicuous, he chanced a glance over his shoulder where the others were still watching. Evidently it jolted them into action, as in moments Tina was ushering them all onto the bus in order to afford them some privacy, and Emma was grateful. For what she wanted to say she could do without the added audience.

Killian was still struggling for words, and eventually let his gaze drop to the ground with an amused laugh. “Throw a man a rope here, Swan. I really don’t know what to say.”

Emma couldn’t quite muster enough levity to laugh with him; it was all such a mess. An incomprehensible bundle of emotions that left her only, really, wanting to beg him to stay. No more and no less. She didn't want to watch him go.

“I wanted to thank you, Killian,” she started, begging for her words to remain steady. “For getting me on this crazy train to start with. It’s been…” She shrugged, searching for any adjective that would fit and not finding one. “Great. Really.”

He waved a dismissive hand, a frown drawing his eyebrows together. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Emma insisted. He didn’t have to come back for her; he didn’t have to enter Granny’s that day and invite her down to the Warehouses for a private concert, he didn’t have to encourage her to join their tour, he didn’t have to try and cheer her up when it was clear she was feeling low, let her confide in him and do the same with her, listen to her closely when she spoke and make her feel more a part of something than she had in years. He didn’t have to do all that, but he had done it. He had let her graciously into his life, and even his heart.

Speaking of which.

“And Lavender Rose?” Killian perked up as she mentioned it, eyes immediately searching for some answer in her own. Emma could only smile gently. “I loved it. Thank you.”

Killian’s hand found hers, bringing it to his mouth so he could press a light kiss into it, and Emma resisted the urge to sigh. The entire time he kept his eyes on hers, a level of scrutiny there that she found herself meeting stroke for stroke. He smiled then, something soft and rueful.

“There’s not a day will go by I won’t think of you.”

She willed her answering grin to not be as watery as she was sure it must be.

“Good.”

Stretching only slightly on her tiptoes, Emma leant forward to press her lips to his cheek and let them linger there. Desperate to remember the feel of the scruff underneath, the scent of the sea and rusted nylon, she took her time before backing away. By the time she did so, Killian’s expression was all warmth and an almost childish joy. He raised one eyebrow in the fashion of a challenge she had seen him utter on more than one occasion, and it had heat spreading out within her to the tips of her fingers.

“I’ll see you on the other side?” It was more like a promise than a request.

Emma smirked. “You bet.” As if she would let him do anything else.

Before he pulled away entirely he kissed her cheek in turn, squeezing her hand one last time before moving past her and up into the bus without a backwards glance.

And not fifteen minutes later, as she watched the bus slowly recede into the pale light of the morning, Emma resigned herself to another couple months of hellish work and worse company.

(She should’ve known better than to doubt Killian Jones.)

#jay writes #cs fic #cs ff #cs #captain swan #cs crew #ouat #emma swan #killian jones #cs au #chapter 11!!!!#penultimate chapter!!!!#I know there was a pree long wait for this one #but we're nearly at the end folks <3 hopefully you can forgive me!#the importance of being idle #enjoy guys!

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