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thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

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where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles - part 4 of 4

“When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each.”

Thanks for sticking with me, everyone. I love you all.

Part One / Part Two / Part Three

Part Four on AO3

“Keep going, love, you’re doing great,” Ruby says, trying to keep Mary Margaret from breaking the bones in her hand. Sweat is caked on everyone in the room, even with the chill in the air. Outside, the rain pounds against the windows, the worst spring storm any of them have seen in years, wind slamming the branches of the trees against the glass.

“We’re almost there, dear,” Granny says, her voice soft and smooth, and Emma makes the mistake of turning to the older woman sitting at the foot of her friend’s bed. Her hands are coated in a deep red, but she shows no signs of the lightheadedness Emma feels. In the chaos of the room, Granny stays steady, her focus never failing, never distracted by the wind or the weather or the cries of Mary Margaret.

That’ll be me soon enough, Emma says to herself, distracting her mind by going back to her recent conversation with Granny, just three days before.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Granny says, her voice low in the silence of Emma’s bedroom. “I can easily make you a tincture to remove your little problem.”

“No!” Emma’s voice is louder than she expected, the answer coming immediately. Sure, she thought — albeit briefly — about how easy it would be for her to ask Granny for something to solve her “little problem”, but the thought itself made her queasy in a way much different than what she has been feeling of late.

But, as easy as it would make her life right now, she cannot bear the thought of removing the one single reminder she has of those short few weeks she spent in the cabin with Killian, the single reminder she has of the love they shared.

Even if it brings her downfall, even if it means she has to marry as soon as possible to save from scandal, she will not get rid of it, if only to keep her reminder of the man who truly owns her heart.

“One more push, honey, that should be all we need.” Granny’s voice calls her back to the present, back to the pain in her hand from where Mary is squeezing her fingers.

“I want my husband!” she cries, tears streaming down her face, but she does as Granny commands, lifting her back off the bed.

“I know, darling,” Ruby whispers, wiping her forehead with a wet rag to keep the sweat from falling in her eyes.

Mary sighs, falling back against the mattress, and Emma worries that it was not enough, that she will need to push again — but then Granny gasps, and moments later, the small cries of a baby fill the small room.

This is far from the first birth Emma has ever witnessed: cows, horses, pigs, dogs, cats. Birth lingers around every corner on a farm, and she has been around it since she was a little girl. But this — watching her best friend give birth to her baby, a human baby — seems wholly different.

A baby. Mary Margaret has a baby — and she, herself, is going to have a baby.

She wishes the similarity ended there, but standing there, looking down at the baby in her best friend’s arms, hearing her call him David for the first time, she is overwhelmed with the realization that they are both also alone. Sure, they have each other, they have Ruby, the other staff of the house that have become like family; but neither of them have significant others.

Alone.

More than before, she finds herself missing not only Killian, but also David. She leans against the side of Mary Margaret’s bed, her head feeling light as she realizes just how much has changed in the last few months. She thought the biggest change in her life would have been leaving the farm, running away with Killian. But she was wrong. Since returning home, she has lost her brother, lost contact with her love, gained a nephew… and learned that she has mere weeks to marry in order to stay at her childhood home.

David, Junior — DJ, Ruby jokes, but Mary Margaret loves it — is a blessing, of course. A blessing to them all, surrounded by so much hurt and destruction.

DJ, thankfully, remains healthy through his first few days.

Mary Margaret, however, does not.

Moreso than before, she finds herself drowning in her grief, sobbing as she holds her little boy, unable to avoid the memory of her husband and their shared excitement for their baby. Holding him, rocking him to sleep, all seem to unearth these memories, and it seems to Emma that she spends more time crying than not, lamenting her new identities of both widow and mother.

Emma, too, continues to find herself sadder than before. Just as Mary Margaret grieves for her husband, Emma grieves for the life she dreamed of with Killian, now not having heard from him for a month.

Which is how she finds herself here, riding all the way to Philadelphia beside Ruby with a very specific list of herbs from Granny, who has found herself at wit’s end with all the crying happening lately.

Despite the heat of the early May morning, Emma leaves her heavy coat on, afraid to give away her current state, which she feels is growing more obvious with each passing day.

They find the apothecary easily enough, a white, ivy-covered building pressed between two larger brick houses. The cobblestones beneath her feet make her feel off-balance, thankful for Ruby’s presence beside her, their arms linked together, steadying her.

The bells over the door ring softly as Emma pushes it open and it takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the shop. The inside of the shop reminds Emma more of a townhome than a store, the open space filled with shelves of herbs and small bottles as well as couches, tables, and books.

“Hello, lovelies,” a voice calls through the doorway, followed immediately by its owner. Her dark skin seems to glow in the soft lamp light of the shop, black hair braided and piled high on her head. Her dress is a brighter shade of green than Emma has ever seen and reminds her of the way grass seems to change color in the breeze. “How can I help y’all today?” Her accent is unlike anything Emma has heard before, and it takes her a moment to decipher what she just said.

Ruby, however, doesn’t miss a beat, pulling the small list Granny gave her from the pocket of her slacks.

“Do you have any of these items?”

The woman takes a moment, her eyes scanning the page — but when she looks up at Emma, she sees they are filled with sadness. “Would you be able to read the list to me, ma’am?” Her cheeks begin to turn a dark red, and Emma realizes a moment too late what she means: she was never taught how to read.

Before Emma can take the paper from the woman’s hand, though, another person comes through the doorway, her footsteps heavy on the wooden floors. “Did I hear the bell ring, Tiana?” she asks, her voice thick with the same accent, but her opposite in every other way. She’s pale, even more so in the light pink dress she wears, her cheeks rouged and eyelids lined with kohl, and her hair a collection of shining blonde ringlets that fall down her back.

“These ladies are searching for a few ingredients, Lottie,” she responds, turning to hand the paper instead to the other woman.

After a moment of reading Granny’s list, the blonde takes off across the shop, grabbing a small basket before climbing a ladder that Emma didn’t even notice.

“We definitely have the Wort!” she calls, hiking up her skirts to climb a few rungs further. “Tiana, can you get them some saffron, it’s the bright yellow one behind the counter.”

Tiana smiles at Emma and Ruby as she moves through the room. “I know what saffron is, Lottie, I use it in my kitchen all the time.”

“I never remember where our knowledge overlaps,” the blonde laughs, carefully coming down the ladder with a large glass jar in the same hand that holds her skirts out of the way. “We should also have the Rhodiola and the ginseng. You ladies are free to take a seat, if you like, it’ll take us a few minutes to gather all of this.”

Emma is thankful for the offer, her feet sore and aching in her riding boots. Though she has definitely felt weighed down by sadness and grief, the strongest side effect of her pregnancy is certainly a lack of energy, even when she sleeps well into the morning. Even the minutest task can drain her — and riding all the way to Philadelphia and walking to the apothecary made her feel more drained than usual.

She nods, taking a seat on the closest couch, and Ruby joins her, grabbing one of the largest books from the table in front of them. It’s well-loved obviously, its spine cracked and embossing worn off the cover, and when Ruby cracks it open on her lap, she finds the pages covered with colorful images of plants, the typed information mostly crossed out and written over with pen, a long, curling script that reminds her of Ruth.

“I could be an apothecary,” Ruby says, focus on the book spread in her lap. “I find all this fascinating.”

Emma breathes out a small chuckle. “You want to do anything that involves moving to the city, Rube.”

And she’s right. For as long as Emma has known Ruby, she has flourished more at parties, in the city, anywhere around people. The opposite of their life on the farm.

“Question for ya, darling,” Lottie asks, approaching them on the couch. “I can give you the lavender in its dried version, but I also have a lovely lavender and chamomile tea blend that I highly recommend.”

Emma shrugs. “I think that would be fine.”

“Can I ask what all this is for?” Tiana asks, scooping a bright yellow powder into a vial on the counter.

“My sister in law recently gave birth to my nephew, but has been, understandably, overcome by the recent loss of my brother, her husband.”

“Melancholy,” the blonde calls from the back room. “I’ve read recent journals calling it depression, as well.”

“This is a… normal thing?”

Lottie laughs, loud and twinkling that seems to fill the room.

“The doctors will tell you otherwise, but yes, it’s actually very common.”

Emma swallows, glancing sidelong at Ruby beside her on the couch. “And what about that melancholy happening… during pregnancy?”

“Yes ma’am, and the suggestions I would make are very similar. If you would like, I could put together another mixture for a healthy pregnancy.”

“I would appreciate that,” she replies, her voice small.

With their goods tucked into the bag slung over Ruby’s shoulder, they step back into the bright light of day, the sun straight above them in the sky.

“Are you still alright visiting a few more shops?” Ruby asks, recognizing the exhaustion that always seems to be on Emma’s face anymore.

For a moment, she turns her eyes up to the sun, knowing that the heat will only affect her more… but she very rarely gets the chance to be out anymore, and especially with a baby on the way, does not know when the next chance might be. So, she flashes Ruby a smile. “Sure,” she says, linking her arm through her friend’s once more.

There is something so freeing about the city, something enlightening about the privacy she can find here, surrounded by people, that she cannot find on the farm. She is so used to everyone she passes knowing her, asking about her life and her family, that the silent passing of strangers on the streets is a breath of fresh air in what otherwise is not very fresh at all. The city smells wholly different than her life on the farm, the warmth of the world around her, all crammed so close together, nothing like the openness she is used to back home.

She couldn’t live here, sure; but she enjoys her time here whenever she gets the chance.

The market is unlike anything she has ever experienced, incomparable to the weekly sales held by her local townsfolk. She is used to five or six stands, the small hustle of people moving among them; what she finds in Philadelphia is pandemonium in comparison.

It thrills her.

The spring crops have brought more types of tropical fruits than Emma has ever seen, and she wants to try each of them: the brightly colored mangoes, prickly pineapples, and perfectly round oranges and grapefruit.

“Would you like to try a bite, ma’am?” a young boy asks her, holding out a piece of the flesh of a mango balanced on the edge of a shining knife.

Emma smiles at him, carefully picking up the piece between her fingers. When she places it in her mouth, the sweetness explodes on her tongue, unlike anything she has tasted before. In her excitement, she makes Ruby try a piece, as well, before purchasing three of them and placing them in her bag with the herbs from the apothecary.

“Hopefully Granny can find something to do with these.”

“I’m sure she can.”

“Where else did you need to go?” Emma asks, and the sly grin that spreads across Ruby’s face makes her immediately regret it.

“There’s a dress shop near here that I’ve heard some of the local girls raving about, and we can also pick you up a new dress and corset for you to wear when you’re out trying to find your new husband.”

Right. Emma has, understandably, pushed that thought from the front of her mind, but Ruby is right — though she doubts she should be wearing a corset in her current state.

The shop is in a row of beautiful brick houses, many with flowers growing in window boxes or in the small patch of grass between the house and the road. The sign hangs over the large front window: French Tailor and Dress Shoppe, and in the window hangs a pristinely-made men’s formal suit, complete with both a waistcoat and full-length trousers; beside that hangs a rich green dress adorned with a delicate lace pattern, complete with matching gloves, which hang in front of it.

Just as Ruby places her hand on the knob to open the door, a voice calls from behind them: “Miss Swan!”

They both turn to see none other than Neal Cassidy approaching them on the street, hat held in his hands as he jogs over the cobblestones.

Emma turns to Ruby and rolls her eyes, but tells her to go into the shop without her. Ruby just nods, pushing open the door, and Emma hears the twinkling of the door bells as she turns back in the direction that Neal is approaching her.

“Miss Swan, I thought that was you,” he pants, stopping just in front of her.

She tries her best to smile, but fears it is more like a grimace as she offers him a small curtsey. “Good day, Mister Cassidy.”

“I recently heard about your brother. What sad news, please let me offer my condolences.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“May I ask how your family is doing?”

She thinks about glossing over it, but her anger towards the situation gets the best of her. “Mary is bedridden with grief and leaves only to take care of her newborn son, named after my late brother. Our house is in chaos, taken over by David’s twin, James, who left for the city ten years back and did not return until he got news of David’s death. He has given me six months to find a new proprietor for the farm and marry him, or else our property that has been in the family for three generations is going to auction.”

By the time she is finished, she must take a deep breath, trying her best to steady herself without reaching for the door — or, worse, for Mr. Cassidy.

Neal nods, wringing his hat between his hands. “Yes, I’m afraid I heard about your farm. Word travels fast surrounding a tragedy such as this.”

He stops, obviously expecting a response, but Emma has none. He coughs into the back of his hand, then runs his fingers through his sandy hair. “I have been contemplating riding out to your homestead once more, but I did not know how you would take it. But I want you to know, Miss Swan — Emma, if I may — that the offer I gave your brother still stands. If you will have me, I would be honored to be your husband, especially if it means saving you from losing your family’s farm.”

She can tell he expects her to be thankful, but instead, she just finds herself filled with anger.

“Even in my current state?” she asks, pulling aside her coat to reveal her stomach. She is not sure if he understands what she is saying at first, but watches as his eyes go wide.

He is silent for a moment, eyes traveling from her stomach to her face, but he pinches his lips together and nods. “Yes, but to save your family from scandal, it must be soon. I’ll visit the farm in a week to learn your answer.”

It’s obvious he expects her to say yes, and she has no real reason not to — because he’s right. If she continues to go unwed, it will only bring scandal to her family.

“Thank you,” she says — the only thing she can think to say. “I’ll have an answer within a week.” And with another curtsey, and without another word, she enters the dress shop.

Five days pass, and Emma is lounging in the sitting room when she is startled by a knock on the door. It must be Neal, she thinks, laughing to herself about how confident he is that she is going to accept his proposal two days early.

But when she opens the door, she feels the breath pulled from her lungs, shocked in a way she has never felt before. Because it is not Neal. It’s the very last person she expects to see.

Robin. Bruised, bloodied, clothes torn, arm tucked around another man that Emma recognizes from their camp.

“We didn’t know where else to go,” he says, breath ragged. When he meets her eyes, she can see the pain in them, the losses and hurt, the changes that he has gone through since their last meeting.

Emma doesn’t hesitate another second, moving aside to let them in. Which is when she sees what is behind them: Four other men, carrying a blanket between them — and on that blanket is Killian, the most injured of the group.

“Set him on the floor,” Robin commands, pointing to the carpet in front of the couch.

“Carefully!” Emma adds, eyeing Ruby as she steps around the corner from the kitchen.

“Well, fuck,” she mutters, loud enough only for Emma to hear.

“Robin, tell me what happened,” Emma says, gesturing for them to take a seat wherever they can find one — which they obviously need to do.

“We were bloody ambushed, that’s what happened!” the youngest of them yells, but with one look from Robin, he sighs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Will’s right, though,” Robin says, turning back to Emma. “We were traveling per orders from our lieutenant and we were ambushed. Of the forty of us there were, we’re all that’s left.”

“What about Liam?”

Robin turns his eyes to the floor, shaking his head. When Emma looks at his hands, she notices they are shaking. “‘Fraid not.”

“Oh, Killian,” she whispers, kneeling beside him on the floor.

The room falls silent, either staring at Killian or trying their hardest not to. Emma pushes his hair off his forehead, staring down at him, and has no reaction to Ruby re-entering the room, this time holding a tray of glasses of water, which she hands out to the men on the couch.

“Can you fetch Granny, please?”

Without another word, Ruby leaves the room.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the glass of water in his still-shaking hands.

“Bloody awful is what it was,” Will comments. He, too, has shaking hands. “We were sent on patrol, were told there was possibly an enemy camp nearby. We weren’t gone most of the morning before we were attacked, right out of the bushes. Some of us were dead before we even knew we were there. Little Jones here took a bayonet to the arm and Jones Senior—”

“Please, Will,” the large man next to him says, setting his hand on his arm. “I think that’s more than enough, really.”

The man next to him hums in response, and the room goes silent. It stays that way, silent enough to her Granny and Ruby climbing the stairs to the kitchen.

“God above,” Granny mutters, hand over her heart, after she rounds the corner. “I hoped Ruby was joking, but I see she was not.”

“Please, Granny,” Emma half-whispers from where she is seated on the floor.

“I take it that would be the man you left us all for?” she asks, her face somewhere between a smirk and a scowl, but she kneels beside Emma on the floor nonetheless.

“Yes,” she breathes, thankful that she did not give away her biggest secret to the strangers in the room. “Can you help him?”

Granny turns her eyes up to Robin, who is still staring into his glass of water. “Can one of you gentlemen tell me about what has happened to him?”

Will recounts the same story as before, adding a few more details: he believes Killian took a bullet to the arm as well as the bayonet, and noted that his head hit a rock as he fell to the ground.

Granny nods through all of this, carefully checking for a heartbeat before feeling his wounds with the tips of her fingers. The whole time she does this, the entire room seems to hold their breath — but when she moves from his heart to the tourniqueted wounds on his arms, the collective breath is let out.

“I’m going to have to amputate, I’m afraid, it’s the only way to save the rest of the arm, but whether he’ll wake or not is something we will just have to wait and see.”

And wait and see is exactly what they do.

They wait for two days, the other men insisting on sleeping in the yard behind the house, the weather nice enough for them to spend most of the time outside. With her new tinctures — or, perhaps, seeing how much Emma needs her assistance — Mary Margaret is spending less time being solitary, leaving her room when DJ is sleeping to be beside Emma.

Emma barely leaves the living room for the whole of those two days, feeling that, somehow, what happened to Killian — to their whole group — was her fault. Logically, it makes no sense: they would have been sent on their patrol whether he spent much of the winter with her or not. Her brain does not agree with logic.

So she stays there, beside him. Holding his hand, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. Holding his hand but squeezing her eyes shut as Granny and one of the other men amputate his arm, then treating what is left behind. Washing the wounds to keep from infection. Sleeping on the floor beside the couch, ignoring arguments from Mary Margaret, Granny, and her back.

And that is where she is, two nights later, when he wakes.

Dead. There is no other logical explanation. He knows, somehow, that he is dead, that he must be in heaven.

He didn’t think heaven would hurt this much, though.

But heaven is the only explanation he can find as for how Emma is sitting next to him, her hand wrapped tightly around his, both resting on his chest. Until—

“Killian,” she breathes, jumping to her feet, and the pain it sends through his body is unimaginable. Not even hell would be this painful; this can only be the real world, the world they live in, filled with war and grief and loss.

He winces, feeling the movement in every part of his body.

It is only when he squeezes his hands into fists that he realizes one of them is gone.

Hence, the pain.

“Oh, Killian!” she says again, quickly running from the room, unaware of the waves of pain passing through his body. “Everybody!” she calls, her voice echoing off the stone walls of the house. “It’s Killian! He’s awake!”

He wishes he could be as thrilled as she is, wishes he could jump for joy and call out cheerfully to the other people in the house. But he cannot. He barely wants to breathe, each breath bringing him more pain.

“Pardon?” a familiar voice responds, though he cannot see them around the wall between him and what he assumes to be a kitchen. He knows that voice, knows that at any other time he would recognize it without a second thought… but his brain is full of fog, as cloudy as the sky before it opens with a storm, and the name eludes him.

The face, too, he recognizes, but he still cannot place it.

“Jones?” he says, slowly, carefully approaching the couch on which he is laying. “It’s Rob, Jones, how are you feeling?”

“Rob,” he replies, the memories hitting him all at once. Childhood with Robin. Splashing through the creek, sledding down the hill between their houses. Leaving for war together, fighting alongside each other on the battlefield.

Getting ambushed. His arm, his head…

Liam.

“Rob,” he says again, his voice hoarse. “Where’s Liam?”

His friend’s face immediately falls. The excitement that covered it with his waking is replaced with sadness, and Killian knows the answer before Robin even opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m so sorry, Killian,” he says, his voice low as he falls to one knee beside the couch. ‘Liam didn’t — he didn’t survive the attack.”

He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, hoping that when he opens them, maybe this will all be a bad dream.

Of course, that’s not the case. This is his reality, his new reality: yes, he is back with Emma, a shining beacon as she walks back in the room, an older lady close behind. He should be glad that he is back here with her, has overcome the hardship of leaving her — a hardship that he thought was the most difficult thing he has ever experienced.

Liam being gone, he learns very quickly, hurts even more.

The older woman — Granny, Ruby’s aunt, he learns quickly — checks on his wounds, her bedside manner as cold as her fingers, but seems to be content with everything.

“He’s going to need weeks to heal, maybe even more than that. I’ve only worked with one other amputation in my time, but I’m planning on traveling to town in the next few days to do some research.”

“Thank you, Granny,” Emma whispers, offering her a smile as she kneels beside Killian once again, this time holding a glass of water. “I thought you would be thirsty,” she says to him, helping guide the glass to his lips, and he offers her a small smile as she does so.

His eyelids close again as he lets the water cool his throat, just a few small sips — he’s not sure he can handle more than that. When he looks at her again, her cheeks are wet with tears.

“Emma, love,” he says, unable to stop the chuckle that escapes his lips. “What’s wrong?”

She gently nuzzles her face into his shoulder, careful to avoid his injuries as best she can. “Nothing,” she laughs, her tears obvious in her voice. “I’m just — I’m so happy you’re back.”

“Me, too, darling,” he whispers, resting his good hand — his only hand, he reminds himself — against her hair.

All too quickly, it all falls apart.

A knock on the door startles them all. Granny wipes her hands on her apron, then disappears back into the kitchen, and Ruby moves towards the door. None of the rest of them — Emma and Robin, but also Will and Arthur, who followed Granny from the kitchen — didn’t dare move.

They all knew the trouble they were in, even with no surviving superior officer. All of them were fugitives, absent from their posts. Any visitor could be the end of them all, and by the look on Emma’s face, the paleness that has overtaken her in the moments since the knock, Killian can tell she was not expecting a visitor.

“Can I help you?” Ruby asks, opening the door only as much as needed to speak to the visitor.

“I’m here to speak with Miss Swan. She is expecting me.”

“I’m afraid Miss Swan is indisposed at the moment.”

Emma seems relieved by this, the lines on her forehead disappearing as she lets out her breath — but she still has his hand in a death grip.

“What do you mean indisposed?” The man asks. “Is she sick? I must speak with her at once!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but she’s not taking any visitors. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back another day.”

“Oh, fuck no,” he replies, the last thing any of them seem to expect, and pushes his way past Ruby and through the door. “I’m going to be master of this farm one day soon, you have no right to—”

But when his eyes meet Emma’s, he and his words both stop dead in their tracks. A flurry of emotion crosses his face, as if trying to decide which emotion he wants to feel.

By the sharp incline of his eyebrows and the steep lines in his forehead, he chooses anger. “And who are you?” he spits, looking right past Emma to Killian.

He, too, immediately feels anger at the man’s words, wondering why he feels that he can speak with such authority in a place where he has none. “Why does it matter who I am?”

His laugh is nothing but poison, pointing at the woman still kneeling at Killian’s side, whose hand is still wrapped around his. “Miss Swan and I are engaged to be married—”

“I never agreed to that!”

“What choice do you have?”

“Emma, who is this man?”

“Emma?!” he repeats with a laugh. “So, you’re on a first-name basis with an enemy soldier. I knew there was something off about this farm.”

“Please don’t speak to her like that,” Robin says, crossing his arms over his chest. Killian knows that he’s trying to seem intimidating, and it works for a moment — until Little John, a head taller and twice as wide, comes down the hallway behind him.

“You can’t tell me what to do, traitor,” he spits. “Once I take over this farm, you will all be gone, hanged for your crimes against America.”

“I will never marry you,” Emma says, her voice absent of the anger that Killian knows must be flowing through her veins, as it is his.

“What choice do you have? If you refuse to marry me, I’ll tell the whole world of your affair with a British soldier and you’ll be hanged as a traitor, as well. Along with that bastard in your belly.”

At this, finally, Emma stands, failing to notice the shock on Killian’s face — on the faces of everyone in the room. “Please get out of my house and never return.”

Instead of moving towards the door, he takes a step towards her, and then another, until he is standing face to face with her. “This will never be your house. It was David’s, now it’s James’, and one day soon, it will be mine.”

“Leave. Now.”

“And if I don’t?” A sinister smile takes over his features.

She shakes her head. “Get out.”

“Your brother should have taught you better.”

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, and before anyone takes the chance to jump to Emma’s aid, she proves herself to all of them.

In one swift movement, she lands a hard punch to the man’s jaw, and he falls to the floor.

“My brother taught me just fine, including how to defend myself from men like you.”

Dear James,

As I am sure you have heard word of already, I have followed through with your demands and found myself a husband. He and his friends, who will also be staying on the farm, are British separatists, and I would appreciate if you could send a letter of support for him, but also let us know when we can travel to you for legal purposes — the sooner the better, as I may be unable to travel soon in my expecting state. Killian will be taking over as the proprietor, and as soon as he is well enough, he will begin learning how to run a farm; thankfully, he has a woman at his side that has done it all before.

We are looking forward to an excellent harvest here this summer and are thankful for the support you offered us following the loss of our dear David. Anytime you would like to leave the city for a calmer space, please know that you are always welcome. Soon, there will be two children on the farm, and I know they would both very much like to know their Uncle James.

Much love,

Emma Jones

#my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #cshistfic #captain swan ff #cs ff #cs fic #captain swan #ouat ff #lieutenant duckling #kind of

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snowbellewells · 1 year

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CS Fic Rec Monday: “I’ll Be Seeing You” by: @deckstarblanche

I have only recently begun getting to know @deckerstarblanche and discovering many of her wonderful CS fics. This one in particular captured my imagination and emotions, and has really been in my head ever since. We get to see a lovely historical 1940s version of Emma and Killian, who meet just as WWII begins to loom. They feel a bit like a sweet real world take on the Lt. Duckling version of our favorite couple and it really gave me all the feels. If you haven’t read this one yet - I believe it was part of the @cshistfic event last fall - definitely check it out.

And @deckerstarblanche thank you for the lovely read, I hope you’ll enjoy the bit of cover art for it:

“I’ll Be Seeing You” by: @deckerstarblanche

#cs fic rec monday #cs historical au #cshistfic #cs 1940s fic #cs angst #cs fluff #cs fic rec

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booksteaandtoomuchtv · 8 months

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hi im new to tumblr and love ur blog, i rly love captainswan! can u suggest some other captainswan tumblrs to follow? thanks xx

WELCOME, MY DEAR NONNIE.

HAVE I GOT BLOGS FOR YOU...

(I am still fairly new to the fandom so this is not an exhaustive list at all.)

Art @cocohook38 @piinfeathers @wild-werewolf - her Insta is more active and I highly recommend following @pirateswhore

Gifs/Edits @pirateherokillian @killianjonesz @k-leemac @naiariddle Fics/Meta/All the Things/Reblogs For fics, I elaborated at length here and my tag 'major cs fic rec' has many, many other lists that others in the community have done. (I will spare the retag for most of those folks.)

@teamhook @ishoulddefbedoingotherthings @piraterefrigerator @cptainjones @vasfasan @saptaincwan @grimmswan @exhaustedpirate @goforlaunchcee @snowbellewells @killian-whump @killiansprincss @kmomof4 @nachocheese-itsmycheese @anmylica @stahlop @tiganasummertree @jrob64 @djlbg @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @hollyethecurious @whimsicallyenchantedrose @elfiola @undercaffinatednightmare - Also has lots of relateable writing things over there @kazoosandfannypacks - Kazzy did OUAT-tober last year and propelled me into the OUAT fandom. Even when she is not doing OUAT things, she is doing amazingly creative things that encourage you to write or create on your own. Crack pairings? She's got them. Meta? Got it. And, it is smut-free and curse-free for those who take that into consideration. @ouatsnark - Doing the good work of defending CS against so much hate Event Pages @cssns @cshistfic @csjanuaryjoy @cssecretsanta2020 @ouattober Listen... I know that I forgot people I KNOW that I did and I am so, so sorry. But, follow them too!!

Oh, and I am so glad you like it here.

#ouat #captain swan #asked and answered #ouat fandom

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kmomof4 · 8 months

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For Self Promo Sunday…

I decided to highlight a fic that got a bit of attention on ao3 last week…

In the Vipers Den

Posted almost two years ago for the @cshistfic event, this WWII spy fic was inspired by the movie Shining Through, starring Melanie Griffith, Michael Douglas, and Liam Neeson. If you haven’t read it, I hope you do and let me know what you think, and if you have read it, maybe have a reread!

Summary: Emma Nolan, age 22, goes to work for attorney Killian Jones in the fall of 1940. Over the next year, she comes to believe her boss is a spy, only to have her suspicions confirmed when the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. When a German spy working for Killian turns up dead, Emma kisses her lover goodbye and attempts to continue his work of finding and stopping the development of a flying bomb that could spell disaster for the Allied forces.

Find the fic here on ao3.

Below is the original movie poster @suwya maniped with Emma and Killian for her Once Upon a Movie collection after reading the fic. Please go give her all the love!!!

Tagging the usuals, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @teamhook @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @xarandomdreamx @undercaffinatednightmare @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @superchocovian @pirateprincessofpizza @tiganasummertree @anmylica @cosette141 @motherkatereloyshipper @zaharadessert @jonesfandomfanatic @ultraluckycatnd @jennjenn615 @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 @kymbersmith-90 @booksteaandtoomuchtv @wistfulcynic @mie779 @snowbellewells @lfh1226-linda @aprilqueen84 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @pirateherokillian @elfiola @ilovemesomekillianjones @justanother-unluckysoul @poptart-cat-78 @myfearless-love @goforlaunchcee @searchingwardrobes @gingerpolyglot @gingerchangeling @djlbg @cocohook38 @cs-rylie @thisonesatellite @donteattheappleshook @deckerstarblanche @veryverynotgoodwrites @wefoundloveunderthelight @fleurdepetite @alexa-fangirl-forever

#self promo sunday #in the vipers den #krystal writes #art by krystal #art by suwya

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svenjaliv · 3 years

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She was born and raised in Norway. He was an Anglo-Saxon warrior. Betrayed by his king, he was taken captive and brought across the sea. But he proved himself and escaped his shackles, making a name for himself as he led raids against his former home. She knows about betrayal, too; the man she loved absconded and left her to face the consequences of the crime he committed, but she fought and survived.

At first, she didn’t trust the foreigner whose rage rivalled Thor’s, who fought like a berserker and made suggestive comments in strangely-accented Old Norse. He was trouble, however charming and fierce he might be. And he, for his part, wanted nothing to do with the fair-haired warrior with fire in her eyes and challenge in the set of her shoulders, as ruthless as she was beautiful; she was a threat to his heart, and he knew it.

But after a few reluctant alliances, a few battles where they fought back to back, a few quiet moments afterwards, a few drinks... well, perhaps this wasn’t the worst partnership after all...

My contribution to @cshistfic - Emma and Killian as Vikings!

Please don’t tweet or repost this. Reblogging is totally fine and welcome, thank you!

#captain swan #cs fanart #ouat fanart #cs crew #cshistfic #my art #fanart

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wistfulcynic · 3 years

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The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a schoolteacher, respectable and respected in the small town of Haven, Wyoming. She does her job and minds her business, but she has a secret. One that brings meaning to her dull life and excitement to her restless soul. One that she knows could end at any moment.

Killian Jones is a man with a powerful enemy and nothing to lose. He’s prepared to sacrifice every bit of that nothing for the sake of his revenge.

Or, at least, he was.

I am THRILLED to be here, kicking off the @cshistfic Historical Fics event! I’ve always loved reading romances set in the past and Westerns are a long-time favourite. Given how deeply entrenched the Western genre is in American culture, it’s funny to think about how a) most of it was made up for dime novels and, later, radio and television shows and movies, and b) the actual historical period that we call the Old West only lasted roughly thirty years—from the post-Civil War westward expansion under the Homestead Act to around the turn of the 20th century. This fic is set right around the end of that time—late 1890s to early 1900s—in the waning moments of the open range and the “lawless” frontier and the start of the modern era with its trains and barbed wire and cars and world wars. I’ve tried to capture a bit of that sense of transition in the story, mostly with the way it ends.

Huge thanks to @shireness-says for coming up with and running this event, and to @thisonesatellite for Just Being Her.

Words: 4.9k Rating: T Tags: Western AU, historical, outlaw Killian, schoolteacher Emma, all the historical detail, I did so much research for this

on AO3

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan):

The hour was late, afternoon edging into evening in the town of Haven, Wyoming. ‘Town’ as a designation flattered it, this tiny settlement tucked back against craggy and striated formations of rock and nestled amongst ragged brush, being, as it was, scarcely more than a handful of rough-hewn cabins, a church, a general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, a saloon with its attendant whorehouse, and a school.

The store and the smithy did the town’s most active business; unsurprisingly, seeing as they were the only examples of either within the radius of a good fifty miles. The residents—those who lived within the town’s scant limits—were certainly insufficient in their numbers to support either one, but the owners of those ranches that lay outside the town, they and their ranch hands, their wives, and their daughters, frequented both with pleasing regularity.

The general store doubled, as such establishments generally did, as a post office, in which capacity it served as the sole tenuous link between this stark western land and the fashionable cities of the east. The Sears and Roebuck catalogue and that of Montgomery Ward, both prominently displayed beside the till, were tattered and well-thumbed, and the monthly mail delivery never came without piles of brown-wrapped parcels containing the latest in fashion and technology from the wider world—hints at the wonders promised by the new century.

Very little of this prosperity touched the actual residents of Haven. The lives they lived were hard ones, scratched from unforgiving soil, but they were good folk, honest and hard-working. They lived simply and piously and for the most part happily. They tended their gardens and their livestock, read their Bibles, loved their children, and whenever possible sent those children to school.

The Haven school, a single room with two windows, one on either side, and a disproportionate bell-tower on the roof—both this tower and the bell it contained were gifts from a local rancher, who considered them a better use of his money than blackboards or books—was located well away from the town’s main street. It had no fireplace, only a tiny, smoky, potbellied stove, and in the warmer months no breeze blew through the unglazed windows. The pupils sat on simple benches and copied their lessons onto slates that sold at the general store for rather more than their parents could comfortably afford; lessons their teacher laid out for them on a thickly-whitewashed wall with a piece of charcoal, the dust of which stained her fingers and her clothing, and embedded itself beneath her nails so deeply there were times she felt she’d never be free of it.

This teacher’s name, the one she used, was Miss Emma Swan. A solitary and self-contained woman of about twenty-six, far too pretty for a schoolteacher most said, and if pressed these same would likely agree that teaching was not what folks might refer to as her calling. Though none could deny that she did her best and was kind to the children—a thing not always guaranteed from schoolmarms—she exuded such a restless air, an impatience with the tedium of her job and the pace of life in Haven which she did not trouble to conceal, that it was a subject of great curiosity amongst the residents why she continued to stay there.

“I have my reasons,” she would say, whenever anyone dared to broach the subject, “and those reasons are my own.” There it was and there it would remain as far as Emma was concerned, and as the townsfolk knew her to be a courteous woman but one who never minced her words when riled, they declined to press the issue.

By the time Miss Emma Swan had finished up in the schoolroom on this particular late afternoon, the floor swept and the board cleaned and lessons all prepared for the following day, the sun was already slipping behind the craggy rocks at her back and casting upon the town a peculiar sort of distended twilight—shrouded in shadows beneath a glaring blue sky. As she made her way the short distance between the schoolhouse and her own cabin—or rather, the schoolteacher’s cabin, perhaps the most compelling perk of her job—a brisk breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and the few flyaway hairs that had escaped her tidy Gibson bun. The night would likely be another chilly one, and Emma wondered absently if she had enough wood left to leave the fire high for an extra hour or two or if she should resign herself now to another cold, dark evening spent alone.

The cabin where she lived, she and sixty years of schoolteachers before her, was small and rough like most in Haven and comprised only two rooms: a small bedroom to the rear and a larger space at the front used equally for sitting, cooking, and dining. In this front room was both a fireplace and stove, the latter surprisingly modern and another gift from a different rancher, to the previous teacher. Near this stove sat a small wooden table and two matching chairs; a soft and generous armchair had pride of place before the fire.

The bedroom was by far Emma’s preferred room. The walls in it were painted, in a pale and soothing blue, and on one of them a charming watercolour of forget-me-nots was hung. There was a white wardrobe with a mirrored door, a washstand and a vanity table, and a large bed with a sturdy iron frame. The curtains on the single window were of dotted swiss that Emma had sewn herself, and in the morning when she opened them she was greeted by the colours of the dawn.

Emma removed her buttoned boots the moment she was through the door; they pinched her toes and she disliked wearing them indoors. She replaced them with a well-worn pair of carpet slippers then headed for the bedroom, there to change out of her school clothes and into the more comfortable, loose wrap dress she preferred at home. When she entered the room she had already undone most of the buttons on her high-collared blouse and so made straight for the wardrobe, without so much as a glance at the bed.

The mirror on the wardrobe door as it swung open flashed the brief reflection of a face, just as Emma heard the sound of a chair leg scrape against the bare wood floor. She gasped and spun around, eyes wide and one hand pressed against her chest.

There could be no question that the man currently in occupation of her vanity chair, sprawled in it with an air as casual as it was deceptive, was one who had followed quite a different path of life than that afforded to the residents of Haven. His untidy hair and the thick scruff on his jaw might not be especially remarkable out in this still-wild corner of Wyoming, but the narrow cut of his coat and the embroidery on the waistcoat beneath it, the silver chain of his pocket-watch and the ostentatious knot of his tie marked him as a man who knew his way around a gambling table for both good or ill and could likely acquit himself equally well in both scenarios. A man who dealt with the hardships of life by shooting rather than working his way out of them—as the gleaming six-shooter currently pointed straight at Emma would most certainly attest.

Emma forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. Her heart was pounding. The man greeted her with a brusque nod, and cocked the hammer on his revolver.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, love,” he drawled, in an accent that suited this town less even than his clothes or his gun. “By all means, keep going.”

Emma swallowed hard and with trembling fingers undid the remainder of her buttons. Her blouse hung open to reveal the hooks of the corset underneath.

The man gave his gun a menacing wave. “All the way now, there’s a good lass.”

She shrugged off the blouse and let it fall to the floor.

“And the skirt.”

She unhooked her grey wool skirt and released it to pool around her ankles.

His voice rasped. “Take down your hair.”

Emma shivered.

Three pins and two combs held her hair in place. She removed them, dropped them into the pile of clothing at her feet; the bun tumbled down and over her shoulder.

“Shake your head.”

She did, vigorously. The bun unraveled further and strands of silky blonde fell across her face.

He swallowed audibly. “Now the rest.”

Emma hesitated, fingers hovering over the hooks on her corset. She wore nothing beneath it but a combination made of thin cotton lawn.

The man raised his gun and growled, “All of it.”

She tossed her head back, jutted her chin out high in defiance. Her belly churned with a dark thrill of anticipation as she unhooked the corset and flung it away. He chuckled, low and rough. Emma fumbled with the buttons on her combination as he uncocked his gun and set it aside, then undid the belt designed to hold it. His eyes locked with hers as he stood, pale blue and profoundly tired, eyes that had seen far too much.

She finished with the buttons but left the combination on, parted to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Her heart thundered as he approached, her breaths short and heaving. He swaggered up and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the dust and sweat on him, so close she had to tilt her head again to see his face. His hand slipped beneath her shift to curl around her waist, fingers rough on her soft skin.

“I—” Emma gasped as he pulled her closer, flush against him. His voice was a rumbling growl in her ear.

“You what, love?”

“I was expecting you yesterday!” she snapped, and then she kissed him.

“Gold is dead.”

Emma’s head shot up from where it had been resting on the bare and hairy chest of Killian Jones. The most notorious outlaw in three states, or so the Wanted posters would have folks believe. Train robber, bank robber, high-stakes gambler—but only the trains and banks and gambling dens controlled by one particular man. A man in whose side Killian Jones had been an exceptionally troublesome thorn for near to six years. A man whose wife Jones stood accused of murdering. A man who was, it seemed, now dead himself.

Emma stared down at his face, at the sharp definition of his cheekbones and lines of strain around his eyes. Such heavy burdens he’d been carrying for as long as she’d known him, but now, despite the exhaustion writ plain on his face he seemed lighter. Relieved, in some intangible way.

“He is?” she gasped.

“Aye.” Killian nodded, grimly satisfied. “Shot him right through the place where his heart should be. That’s why I was late.”

“Oh, Killian.” It wouldn’t do to feel happy about a murder, even that of a wicked man, but Emma found that she too was grimly satisfied. “You did it.”

“Aye, it’s done. And now I have a price on my head so high I’d turn myself in if I could, and special team of bounty hunters hired by Gold’s son to bring me to him, dead or alive.”

“Oh.” Her fingers flexed on his chest and his tightened where they curled around her hip. “What—what will you do?”

“Leave the country.” He spoke as though the answer were obvious, and Emma supposed it was. “I’ve no choice.”

“Will you go back to England?”

“No. There’s nothing left for me there.” He paused and his hand slid up her back to tangle absently in her hair. “I was thinking South America. Argentina.”

“Argentina?”

“Aye. Land’s selling down there for cheap and I’ve enough saved to buy myself a ranch. I’ve never tried ranching before so it’ll probably be an utter failure, but the idea’s crawled into my head and made itself a nest there, so I think that’s what I’ll do.”

Emma slipped from his arms and out of bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she took her house dress from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, as she tied it at her waist with jerky movements.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

“I could eat.”

“Stew?”

“Perfect.”

In the front room Emma piled wood on the embers in her stove and coaxed a fire to life beneath the pot of stew she’d left on the hob. She swept the ashes from the fireplace, arranged the logs and the kindling, then struck a flint to light it. She could hear Killian in the bedroom washing and dressing in the spare clothes she kept on hand for him, and by the time she sensed his presence behind her the larger logs were catching nicely and the hearty aroma of stew had begun to waft in from the stove.

“Shouldn’t be too long before it’s ready,” she told him without turning around. “There’s cornbread too. It’s a few days old, but—”

“Emma.”

“—it should still be good if you dunk it in the stew.”

“Emma, love.” Killian’s voice was soft, full of the tenderness he showed only to her. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this day would come, this one or another very like it. She understood the dangers of the life he lived, out on the edges of society, pursued by an influential man with a terrible grudge, and she’d done all she could to make her peace with it. Killian could have died any number of times in the three years of their acquaintance; she had always been aware that every time she bid him farewell might be the last.

And now she knew for certain that it would be. Nothing had changed.

She heard him pull out one of the dining chairs and sit down in it, and though she kept her back to him she he knew he would be leaning his elbow on the table and running a hand over his face. She could picture the gesture in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity, so often had she seen him do it before, and her heart hurt because she knew he only did this when he was deeply troubled.

“Emma, you know—you know why I spent so long trying to kill Gold,” he said roughly.

“For Milah.” Her voice hardly broke on the name. “To avenge her.”

“Yes. That bastard hunted her like an animal, shot her right in front of me then framed me for the crime, and all because she couldn’t bear to spend another moment as his wife. He took her life rather than allow her to live it free from him, because he couldn’t countenance her finding happiness with another man. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would make him pay for that.”

“Because you love her.”

“I did.” In the silence of the cabin, she could hear the rasp of his scruff against his palm. “I did.”

Emma had been watching the fire, now dancing merrily in the hearth, and it took a beat or two for his words to register. When they did her heart gave a shuddering thump and she spun round to gape at him. “Did?” she repeated.

Killian’s lip quirked and humour flared briefly in his eyes before they became solemn again, and heartrendingly soft. “It’s a funny thing, revenge,” he remarked. “It begins as a simple quest for justice but so easily descends into obsession—almost before a man knows what’s come over him, it’s all he’s got left to live for. That’s how it was for me, for years. Until…”

He trailed off and Emma found she was holding her breath. “Until?” she prompted.

He looked up at her. “Until I met you.”

She inhaled sharply as their eyes met, his own warm and such a brilliant blue, full of an emotion to which she didn’t dare give a name. “I kept after Gold because of my vow to Milah, yes, but also because I had to, because it was him or me. His life or mine. When that bullet pierced his chest and I saw him fall, I realised that it wasn’t about Milah for me anymore and it hadn’t been, not for a long time. I was fighting for my life, my right to have it and to live it in peace. That’s all I want, just peace and a simple life. And you.”

“Me?” gasped Emma, blankly and ungrammatically, as she attempted to grasp what he was saying.

Amusement coloured the tenderness on his face, alongside a hint of exasperation. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked with a shake of his head. “Why do you think I kept coming back here?”

She offered a weak smile and an abashed shrug. “My cornbread?” she ventured, and he laughed.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, darling, but your cornbread is dry. Try again.”

Emma elected to ignore this ungentlemanly slur on her culinary skills. “Well… I suppose the town is quite secluded, good for hiding out,” she observed.

“It is that. But that isn’t the reason, love.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You know it isn’t.” Killian stood and moved towards her, slowly as if she were a baby faun he was apt to startle, or possibly a sleeping mountain lion. “It’s you, Emma Swan,” he said softly. “You are what I will always come back for. You are the reason my soul is hale and unconsumed by hatred. Because it wasn’t revenge I was after, in the end. It was the future I wanted with you.”

Tears clogged Emma’s throat and pressed insistently behind her eyes. “Killian,” she choked, “I—”

“Shh.” He closed what small distance remained between them and folded her in an embrace to which she clung tightly, face pressed against his shoulder so the soft flannel of his shirt might absorb her tears. “Emma, I know I have next to nothing to offer you.” Killian stroked her hair soothingly as he spoke. “A tenuous existence in an unfamiliar country, backbreaking work that likely won’t pay off, a struggle for everything we have. I shouldn’t ask this of you. I should have the decency to walk away and let you find happiness with a better man than me.” She could hear tears in his voice now, and when she looked up she saw them glistening in his eyes. “But I won’t,” he continued gruffly. “I can’t, because I am a selfish bastard and I love you. I love you so much, Emma.” His voice broke. “So much. And if you could see your way clear to coming to Argentina with me, I would spend every day I have left on this earth working to make you happy.”

A rush of joy filled Emma Swan then, joy such as she had never known before. Her tears fell freely and unheeded as she tightened her hold on the man she loved and pressed her forehead to his own. In that stance they remained for some considerable time, until Emma became aware that the silence had drawn out far too long and she must speak. There were words he needed to hear from her, crucial words, and yet Miss Emma Swan, despite being quite a competent schoolteacher in all respects including her vocabulary, had always found words failed her when in the grip of strong emotion.

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a ranch?” she blurted, then shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d wished to say.

Killian’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“My daddy’s place out near Casper,” Emma pressed on. “A thousand acres of cattle, mostly, and some horses.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It was.” She snuffled and shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder and she felt cradled in his arms. This wasn’t the speech she’d planned but now she found herself determined to give it. “I was his only child, his only family after my mama died, and he reared me all my life to take over from him,” she continued. “But then when I was nineteen he got married again, and had a son. And suddenly ranching was ‘no job for a woman,’ or so he said, and I should look into teaching instead. Or better still get married and become some man’s pretty possession. Preferably the son of a neighbouring rancher, ‘for the future of our family’s land and legacy’.” She paused, remembering, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

Killian’s laugh rumbled through the both of them. “That’s my tough lass,” he said, with a pride in his voice that warmed her, and made her desperate.

“But you do know what I’m saying, don’t you Killian?” she persisted. “You hear what I’m telling you?”

“What I hear is that in addition to being beautiful and brilliant and tough as old boots, you also know how to run a ranch. Which would be bloody useful I must admit, as I haven’t got the first faint clue where to start. Is that what you wanted me to understand?”

She nodded in relief. “That’s it.”

He brushed the hair back from her face with fingers gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “And is that... all you have to say?”

She felt caught in his eyes, and like to drown in them. “There may be one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s that I—I—” Emma drew a steadying breath. “I love you too, Killian, and of course I’ll go to Argentina with you.” A smile broke across his face, that rare and brilliant smile of his that set her heart to soaring and broke the dam that held her words in check. “I’d go anywhere with you,” she declared, laughing as he squeezed her tight. “To the moon. To hell itself, and then back out again.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

He leaned down to her and she swayed up to him and their lips met in a kiss that sang of love and of hope and of a most solemn promise, if something of a dramatic one. He dipped her back and kissed her until she was dizzy and overcome with laughter, and then swung her up again and into a dance.

Emma put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as they danced to music they alone could hear, all around the cabin with the aroma of stew in the air and hope for the future in their hearts.

The disappearance of Miss Emma Swan, schoolteacher and respected resident, shook the town of Haven, Wyoming as nothing had before. Even the escape and subsequent stampede down Main Street of Mr Murchison’s pigs had caused less consternation, since, as the residents all agreed, for that at least there was an explanation. A rusty gate hinge, investigation later revealed, had been the culprit behind the Spectacular Pig Hullabaloo of 1893, whereas Miss Swan had simply vanished, with no explanation given or obvious method of egress. She owned no horse and had not boarded the stage; no one matching her description had been observed at the train station in Casper or anywhere else that a woman alone on foot might reasonably have been expected to turn up. She had taken nothing with her save some clothes and a few books and left nothing behind but a brief letter hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper—her resignation from her position as schoolteacher effective immediately, and a recommendation for her replacement.

Haven residents were thoroughly baffled, and for many months afterwards the Fantastical Vanishing of Miss Emma Swan was the number one topic of conversation amongst them. Theories were dismantled nearly as quickly as they had been constructed, replaced by newer and ever more fanciful speculations, and each resident had his or her own pet notion as to how and why the trick was done. Rarely had they felt so stimulated or enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, however time, as it inevitably does, soon began quite noticeably to pass, and the town’s attention moved on to other happenings. For although new events in such a quiet place may never again be as deliciously sensational as the mystery of the vanished schoolmarm, they do possess the not insignificant advantage of being new.

And thus Emma Swan passed into Haven legend.

Some years later, on the eve of her wedding, Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard—soon to be Mrs David Nolan—sat at the very table where Miss Swan’s letter had been left and composed a letter of her own, to an old friend she’d first met at the State Normal School of Colorado. In her letter Miss Blanchard informed her friend of the imminent blessed day and thanked her for the recommendation that had not only brought Miss Blanchard many years of enjoyable work as schoolteacher to Haven’s children but also led, in that roundabout way life sometimes takes, to her current state of blissful happiness.

This letter travelled by mail coach from the Haven general store—where Miss Blanchard posted it to the care of a P.O. Box in San Francisco—to the main post office in Casper. From there it went via train to Cheyenne, where it was loaded onto the mail car of the Union Pacific Railway and thence made its journey to the west coast. In San Francisco its fortunes underwent a curious change, for it was redirected by a clerk there, in accordance with instructions, and placed back on the Union Pacific, headed this time for Denver. From Denver it voyaged onwards to Kansas City, then Chicago, and finally to New York, where it abandoned train travel forever in favour of a steam ship bound for Buenos Aires.

Upon arrival at port it was placed in the charge of a courier who carried it along with a scant handful of others over the rough roads of the Argentinian coast to Puerto Santa Cruz and then inland, where it finally, many months after its departure, came to rest at a tiny, dusty outpost in southern Patagonia. And it was from this inauspicious locale that the letter was collected, at long last, by its intended recipient—a woman none of the residents of Haven nor indeed the erstwhile Miss Blanchard herself would be likely to recognise as Emma Swan.

The clothes she wore were utilitarian in design and plain in colour, liberally coated in fine brown dust. Her pale hair hung loose and wavy down her back, and her face beneath her wide-brimmed hat was tanned and marked around the eyes with the fine lines characteristic of those who spend a good deal of time squinting into bright sunlight. But these were superficial changes. The woman who collected the well-travelled letter and rode with it back to her ranch, who sat at the table in her kitchen and read it with a wide smile and sincere pleasure at the news from her friend—this woman was happy, as Emma Swan had surely never been. It was a happiness born of deep contentment and the satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms. And it was the happiness of a woman who is loved.

Emma was reading the letter a fourth time when the sound of boots on the porch alerted her to Killian’s arrival; she looked up just as he came through the door with a smile on her lips the like of which neither Mrs Nolan nor any other in Haven could ever imagine her smiling.

Killian hung his hat on a hook and met its brilliance with a smile of his own. “What are you thinking about, love, that has you so radiant?” he inquired.

“A letter from Mary Margaret.” Emma indicated the sheet of paper in her hand. “She’s getting married. Is married now, I suppose.”

“To a fellow worthy of her, I hope?”

“A rancher, but not one of the arrogant ones,” Emma replied. “I think he is. Worthy of her, I mean. I think they’ll be happy.”

“That’s good news indeed.”

“It is.” She set the letter aside and went over to him, tucked her head beneath his chin as he enfolded her in his arms. “But that’s not why I’m radiant, as you say.”

“I say it only because it’s true, darling.”

“It’s because I’m happy,” said Emma softly. She nuzzled her nose against his neck; he smelled of sweat and dust and horses. “For Mary Margaret, of course, but also for me. It struck me just now, reading her letter, how happy I am. I’m so happy, Killian.”

His arms around her tightened and she felt him stroke her hair, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “No regrets then, about abandoning everything you’ve ever known to live out your days on the lam with me?”

“Nope.” Emma pulled back just enough to look up at him, to caress his cheek with her fingertips and press her forehead to his. “No regrets at all.”

Historical Note: Emma in this fic is based loosely on a woman named Etta Place. Very little is known about her, but she is thought to have been romantically involved with Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a. the Sundance Kid, and to have accompanied him and Butch Cassidy to South America. However, verifiable details about her are scarce—even her real name is uncertain—and only one photograph of her remains. Some believe she may have been a prostitute but in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the writer chose to make her a teacher instead, and honestly I have always found that such a compelling tale. A “proper” schoolteacher having a secret affair with an outlaw, then running away with him to another continent? The romance, am I right?

And thus the inspiration for this story.

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @killianjones-twopointoh @mariakov81 @stahlop @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @snowbellewells

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #cshistfic #captain swan #western au #historical fic #historical romance #Emma is a teacher #killian is an outlaw #many many historical details #like so many #i make no apologies for this #it's more of a warning #the outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)#profdanglaisstuff

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spartanguard · 3 years

Text

It's Getting Hard to Be Someone

Summary: Killian Jones lost a lot in Viet Nam—his brother, his hand, his sobriety, and his sanity. He has little hope of reclaiming the last two, until a chance encounter with a little boy—and, more specifically, his fierce mother—at a war protest sets him on a new path.

A/N: It's finally here—my contribution to CS Historical Fics 2021 ( @cshistfic )! I'm definitely a history nerd, and I've always had the idea for a story involving jaded Vietnam vet Killian meets single mom Emma at a protest, and this event was the perfect opportunity to bring that to life. Thank you to the organizers of the event for putting this on! (And be sure to check out the other stories in it!) Warning: this story involves PTSD and alcoholism. But it does have a happy ending. (Title comes from "Strawberry Fields Forever" by The Beatles)

rated T | 11.1k words | AO3

It wasn’t the largest protest by any means—no march on Washington, no sit-in, nothing particularly uproarious—but it still wasn’t small; this was New York, after all. The dozens or so of dedicated young adults did take up a decent amount of their patch of grass in Central Park, holding signs and chanting slogans that all supported the statement carefully, though clearly hand-painted, on the banner behind them:

END THE WAR IN VIET NAM

They made enough noise to drown out the din of traffic from the city beyond the trees of the park, but were still situated in a well-enough traveled area to make a statement, even if half their audience was wide-eyed tourists and the other half was jaded Manhattanites.

Killian Jones, from the view of his park bench, was probably more aligned with the former group, though that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate their drive and optimism. He didn’t think it would work—that they really only had half an idea of what they were trying to achieve.

But maybe, if he hung around them enough, some of that hope would rub off on him. Because it had been a damn long time since he’d had any.

At least, it felt like that. In reality, it had hardly been a year since his discharge; three since he first deployed. But in those few years, he’d lived a lifetime.

He was of age with the protesters, more than likely, yet still felt like an old man shaking his head at the folly of youth. Those trust fund college kids would never know what it was like there, in the jungle—the thick air, the long marches, the bombs the bombs the bombs the b—

He shook his head; if he followed down that train of memory, it’d take ages to get out of it, and he was actually having a good day for a change. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t still be stopping at the bodega by the subway entrance to pay a visit with his friend Captain Morgan (or one of his other, cheaper brethren). But he didn’t need to head for the bottle...yet. Not until his one remaining hand started shaking, so he was alright thus far.

Commotion surrounding one of the park’s trash cans caught his eye; a group of young men were gathered around it, each one sticking the corner of a piece of paper into their lighters and laughing while the sheet went up in flames, letting the ashes fall into the bin below.

Killian couldn’t help but scoff. They could burn those draft cards all they wanted; if their number came up, Uncle Sam wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Perhaps the college kids were a bit smarter than him in that regard, though—he’d actually signed up for the military voluntarily, determined to follow his big brother Liam’s steps and make a name for themselves. Yet all it had wrought him was a lovely case of post-Vietnam syndrome, a medical discharge, and a spot on a waiting list for a prosthesis where his left hand used to be.

At least he’d made it out. Liam’s body never even got out of the jungle. (The official designation was “missing in action”, but—Killian saw what happened; felt the heat of the flames. He knew. And he relived it every night, waking up screaming and sweat-soaked in his secondhand sheets.)

Technically, he was being treated by the VA, and had check-ins and appointments every so often. Normally, he was seen in Brooklyn, where he lived, but there was a day several weeks ago when the phantom pains got too bad to bear and the overladen clinic had no openings, so he had to make the trek out to the Manhattan building. He was taking a walk through the park after, killing time before his train home, when he stumbled upon the small but dedicated rally.

And, for some inexplicable reason, he kept coming back. He was frankly out of fucks to give when it came to considering why. But it was a nice break from the monotony of liver abuse and spinning old 45s on repeat.

He never talked to anyone, though there were some fellow veterans visibly part of the proceedings. And no one tried to interact or get him to protest; his shaggy hair and leather jacket, hand and wrist shoved deep in the pockets, were either off-putting, or suggested he was like-minded enough to not need convincing of their cause.

It got him out of the house, exposed him to some fresh air, and was probably the only thing keeping him from a self-destructive downward spiral.

At least—until it was time to get on the train back to Brooklyn.

Then, he did stop in the convenience store for some bottom-shelf rum. He shuffled down the steps to the subway platform, trying to ignore the ever-present smell of urine and exhaust. Jumped on his train, flopped in a seat, and then uncapped the fifth. The sway of the train always reminded him of riding the Tube back in London, a lifetime ago as a small boy, before—everything.

Generally, he was able to remain mostly sober by the time the train pulled into the station nearest his apartment—at least, as sober as he ever was nowadays. But behind the locked door of the dingy flat he used to share with his long-gone family, the bottle was usually empty by the end of the night, and he was passed out on whatever flat surface he ended up on, the mattress or the floor.

And then he’d awake the next morning with a splitting headache and fading nightmares, waiting for something to push him in one direction or the other.

══════════════════════════════

As time went on, he found himself spending more and more time in the park. Not necessarily at the protest, but walking around, people watching. His caseworker, Robin, appreciated that he was getting fresh air, even if he was sipping from a flask the whole time. It was progress, of some sort.

That said—he still found himself among the dissenters whenever he was there, for at least a little while. He began to recognize some faces, though hadn’t yet worked up the desire (or courage) to try to talk to anyone. Similarly, most recognized that he was best left to his own devices, so while he might make eye contact and be on the receiving end of some half smiles, that was the extent of his human contact on the average day.

Until, one early spring afternoon, while sitting in what had become his usual bench on the outskirts of the demonstration, a small creature plowed into his knee—more specifically, a small child, he determined once he’d gotten over the jolt. (Something he was working on, but it was slow going when the slightest startle brought about a string of reactions more suited for war zones than city parks.)

When he finally looked down at the little lad, it was into a pair of large brown eyes and a wide grin, a set of chubby fingers gripping his knee while the other hand was proffering a slightly bent daisy.

“Fow-er!” the little boy yelled, shaking the stem toward him.

“For me?” Killian asked, his voice nearly cracking in surprise.

“Uh-huh!”

“Why, thank you sir,” he replied, and gently took the bloom from the boy. He tucked it in his breast pocket for safekeeping. “You’re quite the little gentleman, aren’t you?” he asked, smiling and ruffling the boy’s (clearly done-at-home) bowl cut.

(Though it wasn’t like his own shaggy locks weren’t a result of similar efforts—an old, dull pair of scissors and a lopsided, one-handed attempt at trimming his fringe; the rest could grow long so long as it was out of his eyes—or until he had enough foresight to head to a barber before a bodega.)

The boy giggled, but Killian took the opportunity to scan the crowd while he was still somewhat safe in his grip. Surely someone was keeping an eye on the lad, or at least concerned he’d wandered off? Granted, the streets of his neighborhood were full of unsupervised children not much older than this one, but—this was downtown; it was different.

“Lad, where’s your mum?” he asked, shifting his hand to the boy’s shoulder.

He looked over his shoulder and pointed to the crowd, but the next words that came out of his mouth were incomprehensible to Killian’s ears—someone named David? Maybe?

Thankfully, a frantic voice started shouting from the swath of people, and he could see the crowd parting to let someone through.

“Henry? Henry!”

“Mama!” the boy—Henry, apparently—shouted, but made no move to leave Killian.

“Henry! Oh my god,” the woman yelled, and quickly knelt in front of the tot and pulled him into her arms. “Do not scare me like that!”

Killian vaguely recognized the blonde woman, he thought, as being one of the people at the center of the protest. She was young, too, or at least seemed it; but he recognized some of the fatigue of a hard life that hung on her frame like it did his.

Regardless, this wasn’t the place for a kid. If he was right and she’d been around here before, then she knew what could happen at these events—when things got out of hand. And she was just bringing her child into the fray?

“You really need to keep a better eye on him, lass,” he said, fully aware of the edge creeping into his voice.

Her eyes jumped from her son to him in an instant; fierce green was staring at him from behind thick-rimmed glasses. “Excuse me?”

“All these people around, in the middle of the city—anything could have happened to him.”

“Well I was going to thank you for finding him, but not if it comes with a lecture. I’ve got him now. It’s fine.” She stood up and took Henry by the hand, using the other to brush some dirt off her bell-bottomed jeans.

“Look, you know how these events can get out of hand fast. It’s no place for a kid, let alone one who should be leashed.”

He regretted it just about as soon as he said it, especially when her eyebrows nearly jumped into her bangs. “If you have an issue with how I parent my son, you’re more than welcome to leave.”

“Fine. Just keep him safe.” And he got up and stormed away.

Looking back, he had no idea why he reacted the way he did. He didn’t have any particular affinity for children, though he didn’t dislike them. His own childhood was far from glamorous, but he didn’t have any bad memories of parental neglect—his father had left them, but his mum never did, not until she passed. He still wasn’t even sure if he was passionate about the cause.

But...when that little boy smiled at him so genuinely, without any pretense, knowing nothing about Killian, his terrifying past, or his sorry present, it triggered a feeling he hadn’t known since he returned stateside—possibly ever.

Someone simply wanted to share something with him and make him smile.

Despite his lingering anger at the encounter, that odd bit of hope carried him home; even the old woman at the bodega gave him a funny look as she gave him his change (and his rum).

The last thing he saw before he passed out that night, “Paint it Black” spinning in the background, was the slightly beat-up daisy, carefully placed in a glass of water on his coffee table. He fell asleep smiling.

══════════════════════════════

He tried to stay away from the park for a while after that, not wanting to invoke the fiery blonde’s ire; there were plenty of other parks around town—plenty of other people who hated the war. Robin had given him some information on some support groups he might benefit from, and he’d given the information a solid eye, but he wasn’t sure he was enough of a hippie for whatever kumbaya they offered. (Unless they were offering marijuana, too...but he didn’t think that was an appropriate question to ask his caseworker.)

So it was no surprise when he ended up on his usual park bench a week or so later. He wasn’t even thinking about it; he was coming out of a fog—either rum or morphine, he wasn’t sure, but his phantom pains had been hurting something awful that day and the VA was all too eager to dope him up and move him on. Before he knew it, he was floating up the steps of a subway station across from the park, and the varying particles of him didn’t settle back into a solid form until the recognizable sound of dissent reached his ears.

He blinked his eyes clear as the bleariness from the drugs wore off, though thankfully their effect on his left arm lingered. The park and his surroundings were their own kind of balm, too, though he didn’t dare to say anything so sappy as it being “good for his soul”.

He continued to come down as the world rotated around him; probably a good metaphor for his life. But he was dragged back into the goings-on when a familiar mop-top smacked into his legs again.

“Hi!” The little boy from last week screeched, a battered dandelion in his fist. “Fow-er?”

“Again?” Killian sighed, even if the gesture was just as heartwarming as it had been last time. “Where’s your mum this time?”

“For you!” was his only reply as he shoved the flower into Killian’s hand.

“You’re too kind, sir,” he replied, taking it, “but really—we need to find your mum.” Why was Henry here again? Not everyone here would react the same as he did to a small, unattended child running up to them; with as fearless as Henry seemed to be, it wasn’t hard to imagine the worst happening. (And that wasn’t just his intrusive thoughts talking.)

The boy began to babble again, so Killian gently gripped his arm and glanced around for his mother; at least he knew what she looked like this time.

His eyes scanned the crowd and he listened as well as he could, though he wasn’t at his sharpest. Finally, though, he found her, near the center stage as it were—really just some crates bolted together—talking to another passerby in earnest. He admired the devotion to the cause, but not when it came at the risk of her son’s safety.

“Henry, can I pick you up?” he asked the boy, though he realized as soon as he said it that the question was just as much for him.

Thankfully, Henry wasted no time in holding his arms up; Killian managed to scoop up the boy with just his right arm, but instinctively tried to stabilize him with the left—only to hit the blunted end of his wrist. He hissed in pain as stars filled his vision, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been—the morphine was still numbing the pain to some extent.

“You okay?” Henry asked, patting him on the shoulder.

“Aye,” he breathed, hoping if he said it, he’d will it. “Let’s go to your mum.”

She was still in her conversation as they approached, but as they got closer, he saw her eyes widen behind her glasses. She quickly excused herself and dashed over to intercept them.

“Henry! What have I told you?” she whisper-yelled as she pulled him into her arms. “You can’t go wandering off like that!”

“Perhaps you should stop putting him in harm’s way, then,” Killian bit out. “What other strange men has he ran up to while you weren’t looking?”

She glared at him. “Apparently, only one asshole. Maybe I should be asking you why you keep ending up with my son?”

“You can make me your villain if you want, but I’m not the one you should worry about. A protest is no place for a babe.”

“You think I’m just bringing him here for the hell of it? Teaching him while he’s young or something?”

“I don’t know; you tell me. Can’t you leave him with his father?”

“I can’t, actually, because his father is dead.”

Oh. Well that did complicate things.

His eyes darted to her left hand, only to see her ring finger was bare. He could only imagine the judgment she’d faced for that—and was starting to realize why she might have a good reason to bring her son to an anti-war rally.

And a long-lost sense of honor and duty drifted through the haze of his conscience, not to mention a hefty amount of guilt.

“Well, thanks,” she spat, clearly feeling anything but grateful, and turned her back to him to walk away.

“Wait,” he said, though not very forcefully. It was enough for her to pause and look over her shoulder at him. “I know you don’t know me, but, if you want—if you need—I can keep an eye on the lad, while you’re here.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she threw back, and continued away from him.

He swallowed as she left him in the proverbial dust, trying to figure out why her rejection of his offer felt like such a gut punch. He’d been far more disappointed in life and far more traumatized.

And, in reality, he probably shouldn’t have expected even a halfway decent parent to leave their child with a man who was noticeably high, whose hand was shaking with tremors indicating some other issues.

For a fleeting second there, though, he thought he could have some purpose, small as it was. And it was more crushing than he’d anticipated to be turned down.

He shuffled out of the park, following his usual routine in heading home. But when he got to the bodega, he noticed the dandelion in his reflection, tucked into his coat pocket again. He wasn’t even sure when that had happened. But the weed was just enough of a burst of hope that he needed to not give up so easily.

There was something drawing him to that little boy and his mum, and even if he was in sore need of some help himself, if he could assist them, maybe that would be enough to keep him going until he otherwise figured out his life.

══════════════════════════════

A few days later, when he was in as improved a place as he was bound to get, he showed up to the park like normal. He was fairly clear-headed this time, though had his flask nearby if he got too shaky (and took a sip or two as he climbed the steps from the subway platform).

He passed his bench and entered the loose crowd of people at the demonstration, searching for the spirited blonde and her tot. It didn’t take long; she was once again near the center, talking to one of the men he recognized as an organizer of the movement here. Her hand was holding Henry’s, but he was desperately trying to pull his mom in another direction—anywhere but there, it seemed.

She finally relented and turned her attention to the boy, but he quickly caught her eye. He supposed he wasn’t surprised that she scooped Henry into her arms and went on the defensive.

“The hell are you doing here?” Anger flashed in her green eyes, a sharp contrast to her red leather coat.

“It’s a public park,” he quipped back, his own defensive instincts coming to the forefront. But he took a breath and eased off. “I just wanted to reiterate my offer from the other day. If you need someone to watch the lad while you’re fighting the man, I’m more than willing to.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why should I trust you?”

That was a valid point. He hardly trusted himself; lord knew he’d be a terrible role model for any older a child. But— “Is anyone else offering?”

She pursed her lips at his equally true response. “Fair. But why are you? You don’t know me; I don’t know you. I don’t even know why you’re here or what your name is.”

“First Sergeant Killian Jones, United States Marine Corps.”

It was her turn for a wash of realization, apparently, and he didn’t miss the way her eyes gave him a quick once over, lingering on the empty left cuff of his jacket. “I see. They let you into the US military with that accent?”

He scratched nervously behind his ear. “Moved here when I was 13; as long as you have a green card, they don’t ask too many questions.”

“No, they don’t,” she concurred. “Are you sure, though? He can be a handful.”

“Good thing I still have one,” he replied with a self-deprecating grin.

The string of emotions that usually played across someone’s face at such a quip were always amusing to him, and hers were no exception, as she quickly moved through horror, apology, and finally settling on something akin to awkward amusement. “I didn’t mean—”

“No one does; it’s fine.”

The man she’d been talking to earlier shouted out, “Emma!” and beckoned her over.

“Oh, that’s me,” she said, and then turned to Henry. “I’m going to leave you with Sgt. Jones for a bit; is that alright?”

“Okay, Mama!” the little boy answered without complaint, then looked up at Killian. “No fow-er today.”

“Well, that’s alright,” he replied, holding his hand out as Emma—apparently—set him down; the boy didn’t hesitate to wrap his small fingers around Killian’s rough ones. “Perhaps we can find some nearby?”

“Thank you,” she effused again. “I’ll be right over here, in case he needs anything. And just—stay in sight?”

“Of course, Emma.” He liked the way her name felt on his lips. (He wasn’t sure what he thought of that notion, though, sudden as it were.)

She gave him a smile—a tight, small thing, but it seemed like it was rare enough she gave those to anyone other than her son that he ought to treasure it. And then she ran back to the curly-haired guy.

There was another bench nearby, this one with varying weeds sprouting about its base, which meant Henry was quite content to build a bouquet (and put another dandelion in Killian’s pocket). The boy babbled the whole time, and though Killian began to pick up on more words the more time he spent around him, a translator would have been helpful. But he seemed to be content as long as he had someone to talk to, and Killian’s intermittent nods, gasps, and “tell me more”s kept him engaged enough that he didn’t even attempt to wander off.

Eventually, though, the boy took a seat next to Killian, laid his head against his side, and promptly fell asleep. Killian almost couldn’t breathe—partly for fear of waking him, and partly out of shock. It was one thing to enjoy spending time in his company, and for Killian to keep a watchful eye; this was a whole other level of trust he hadn’t anticipated.

(And he had to will away the shaking in his hand, lest it disturb the boy’s slumber.)

Thankfully, Emma came back shortly, but even she was taken aback by the sight. “Wow; has he been out long?”

“Not very, no; I apologize if this means he’ll be a handful at bedtime.”

She waved it off. “He always is; this won’t change a thing.” She came over to pick him up, and the boy automatically nestled himself in her shoulder. “Look—I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you the last couple times you’ve been here; I—”

“Love, no,” he interrupted as he stood. “I made some rash assumptions and rude statements; it wasn’t my place.”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t mine, either. But thank you. It was nice to be able to focus on things here and not constantly worry about him.”

“I can imagine,” he said. “Um, if you’d like, I could watch him again sometime.”

Her eyes grew wide, magnified by her glasses. “You’d really do that?”

He shrugged. “Someone has to fight the good fight. And I’ve done enough of that, but if this is some small way I can support the cause, then I’m glad to.” Frankly, he astonished even himself with that statement, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. He went on, though. “I can’t say I keep an exactly regular schedule, but whenever I’m here, I’d be glad to keep an eye on him.”

She smiled again, even bigger than the last one. “That would be amazing. I’m not here every day, either, but whenever we match up—absolutely. Thank you.”

The man she’d been working with earlier came up alongside her then. “You read to go, Emma?” But he was giving Killian an assessing stare.

“Oh—yeah. David, this is First Sergeant Jones,” she introduced, nodding at Killian. “And this is my brother, one of the directors here, David Nolan.”

There was a steeliness in David’s gaze that didn’t relax, even if the man’s posture did; it was a look Killian knew from his own experience (his own brother) of protective instincts. But he still offered a hand, which Killian took, and he shook it firmly. “Thanks for being here,” he said. “Any chance we could get you on stage?”

Emma threw a warning glare at her brother, but he didn’t fault the man for asking. “I’m not much for public speaking, I’m afraid,” he replied—though he feared more reliving those dark days in the jungle. He’d seen enough other vets recount their horrors on that stage, and they barely even scratched the surface; maybe someday, but not anytime soon.

“You’re fine,” she assured him. “David, go on; I’ll catch up.”

David’s eyes narrowed, but then he gave a nod and headed off.

“Ignore him; he’s overprotective but also always looking for a bigger impact to make here,” she said once he was out of earshot. “I get the impression it’s not something you like talking about.”

“Not particularly, no,” he agreed. “It’s...not something I’m much proud of, or much like reliving.” The screams in his nightmares weren’t just his or his brother’s—the things they’d been commanded to do—he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of memories, but—

“Hey—you’re here; it’s okay,” Emma told him, but it was her hand squeezing his arm that pulled him out of the mental hole he’d started to go down. “Are you—are you getting any help?”

“Some,” he whispered, “at the VA. But...there’s a lot of us.”

“Yeah.” There was concern etched in her brows, but neither of them seemed to know what to do about it. “Well—take care of yourself, okay? Until I see you next?”

“I’ll do my best.” He knew that wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I’ll be seeing you, then,” she said, gave him another smile, and then made her leave.

He turned the opposite way and meandered through the park, giving himself a bit of time to clear his head from his almost-breakdown—and to take some stabilizing sips from his flask. They quelled the tremors in his hand, but not his shaken nerves. He hated how often that happened, but that was the first time it happened in company. At least Emma had been understanding.

What was even more, though, was that she hadn’t judged, and she hadn’t changed her mind about him. She might yet, but—she hadn’t told him not to come back, or that she didn’t want him around her son. That on its own was significant.

Maybe he wasn’t a completely lost cause, then. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t get lost in a bottle tonight, but in general—there was some hope.

══════════════════════════════

He showed up a few days later to a smiling Emma and excited Henry. And again the next day, and then a couple days after. As he’d said earlier, he wasn’t much for a schedule, save for his biweekly meetings with Robin (which he always followed with a trip to the park), and they weren’t there every time he was. She worked in a diner, apparently, and took classes at Bronx Community College a couple days a week. Her sister-in-law usually helped with watching Henry, but she was a teacher and had her own schedule, too, which was why Emma usually brought him to the park. “Figured the fresh air was good for him,” she explained; Killian had no counter to that, given that he always enjoyed the reprieve from his stuffy apartment.

He also learned she was only 20; not significantly less than his 23, though perhaps they were just both old souls. They hadn’t shared their respective traumas, but they didn’t really have to—it was pretty apparent they’d both lived through some shit, and they recognized that fact in each other.

It didn’t take long for them to strike up something of a friendship. He wasn’t sure if he could really be much of a good friend anymore, but he certainly tried, for her sake and Henry’s. The lad could warm even the hardest heart, and there were certainly days—after bad nights, usually—that Henry’s bright smile and chatter were just the balm he needed. And it seemed as though Emma liked having someone to talk to who she wasn’t related to or worked with.

He was a little surprised at how much he enjoyed their company. He’d gotten so used to being on his own in the last year, and some time before that, prior to his discharge, that he’d forgotten what having connection was like. No wonder Robin had been pushing him towards those support groups. He still wasn’t sure he was ready for something like that, but just—talking to someone, conversing with a voice that wasn’t his nor whoever was singing out of his record player, was refreshing.

He even began to understand more of Henry’s stories, and realized that most of them involved his family. He never asked, but given the lack of talk about his father, he had to assume the man had met a fate similar to far too many overseas, and long before Henry could form memories.

After a month or so of these sporadic shared afternoons—with Killian watching Henry until he fell asleep, and Emma joining him for a conversation of some length (David occasionally joining in and, if he wasn’t mistaken, warming up to Killian), she asked him to join them for dinner. “Just at the place I work,” she added. “We get a discount.”

How could he say no? (That, and he wasn’t sure when he’d last ate something that wasn’t a TV dinner—especially ironic since he didn’t own a working television; no amount of tin foil could get those antennae to get reception.)

That too became an intermittent tradition, and he gradually got to know Mary Margaret, David’s wife and said sister-in-law, as well as Granny, Emma’s surly (but caring) boss.

He still had bad days. He still got phantom pains. He still ended too many nights well into a fifth. But things were looking up.

══════════════════════════════

That said, Emma still managed to throw him for a loop. “Are you coming to the be-in on Sunday?” she asked one evening in late March.

He’d seen the flyers for it all over town, even in Brooklyn, calling for a mass gathering on Easter to not so much protest the war, but celebrate life itself (although it no doubt had something to do with the decision made by the city parks department to no longer allow mass demonstrations in the park, as well). “Do you need me to watch Henry then?” He thought it odd she’d try to bring him to something as large as that.

“No, of course not—he’s staying with Mary Margaret that night. I’m asking if you’ll be there with me.”

Oh. Well that was something else entirely. Or maybe it wasn’t and he was reading into things too much. Either way, it felt like a step up from their usual interactions, where Henry was nearly always a buffer, even when he was sleeping on his mum’s shoulder like he was now. (Not like they’d really be alone...there’d likely be thousands of people there.)

“I...guess I hadn’t gotten that far,” he answered. “Should I?”

“I’d like it,” she replied, somewhat shyly. “David will be there too, and even if it’s not technically a protest, I know he’ll be in business mode. But I think it’ll be nice to to just relax.”

And she wanted to do that...with him? He swallowed; he was taking too long to answer and definitely interpreting some other meaning in her asking. They were friends, that was all; and it’s not like he was really looking for anything more, nor was he ready for that.

(But—if he was—it would definitely be someone like Emma: fierce, sharp, determined, hardworking, beautiful...perhaps he had put more thought into this than he realized.)

“Then yeah, I’ll be there,” he finally said. “Do I need to bring anything, or wear anything, or…?”

“Just yourself,” she answered, but then tilted her head in thought. “And maybe some snacks.”

“I think I can manage that,” he said. “What time?”

“Whenever,” she said casually. “I think it starts early morning, but I probably won’t be there until around noon.”

That was sadly considered early for him, but he had an alarm clock somewhere—probably buried in a closet, but it was somewhere. “I’ll see you then, then.”

“See you,” she said, giving him a grin that never ceased to brighten his day.

They parted ways, and he promptly began to overthink his entire existence. What should he wear? Should he get a haircut? Trim his beard, short as it was? What kind of snacks did she like? What did the bodegas he frequented even have?

Bloody hell—it was still a few days away; he had time to figure this out. But, for the first time in a long while, he had something to look forward to—and he didn’t want to mess it up.

══════════════════════════════

On Sunday, just a bit after 1200 (there was a delay in the tunnel getting there), Killian arrived at the park with a paper bag in his left arm and taking a sip from his flask with the other. He’d cleaned up his beard and tried to do the same with his hair, and made sure he’d done his laundry so he had some clean clothes, though his straight-leg jeans were clearly out of style and his tshirt was a faded black (but at least it was soft). Still—he was ready.

Until he saw the mass of humanity across Sheep Meadow and suddenly felt very, very lost.

Thank God he heard his name being shouted; when he figured out where the voice was coming from, he saw Emma waving at him not far away, with David nearby.

“Good thing I saw you, huh?” she said as he got close.

“Aye; I don’t think I’d have ever located you,” he agreed, taking a seat on the blanket they had spread out.

“Nah, we’d have found you eventually; we always find each other,” David said, then nodded at the bag. “What’d’ya bring?”

“Uh, well, I wasn’t really sure,” he started, pulling out items. “But I grabbed some Bugles, some potato crisps, and some Pop-Tarts.”

“My favorite!” Emma yelled, grabbing the box of treats. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he replied, laughing; he’d never really been a fan but supposed someone might enjoy them—he just hadn’t realized how much. (The Bugles were his personal preference.)

They settled in and watched as more people arrived, spread out across the vast expanse of green. Lots of hippies—on lots of drugs—but people from all walks of life, of all ages and all races—even families in their Easter best—filled into the park, which was carefully being watched by police; he hoped their involvement wasn’t necessary, though there was something to be said for the fact they hadn’t kicked anyone out yet.

Truthfully, Killian had worried such a massive gathering might trigger some of his anxieties, but after a couple hours, he was still feeling calm. David had wandered off a bit ago to discuss some protest plans, leaving him and Emma alone and deep in conversation—about music, books, Henry, everything.

He did pull his flask back out after some time; she’d seen his tremors before, but if he could stave them off today, he’d prefer it. “What’s your poison?” she asked as he took a sip.

“Rum,” he replied, following the familiar burn down his throat, then offered her the flask. She gamely grabbed it and took her own long pull, though coughed a bit after she swallowed.

“Yeah, that’s rum alright. Guess I’m more of a whisky girl.”

“To each their own,” he shrugged as she passed it back. “Although I’m not sure I pegged you as the whiskey type, either.”

“No? What did you think?”

“Beer, maybe?”

She gagged. “No thanks; that’s what Neal liked, but I could never get a taste for it.”

“Neal?” he asked before he was even thinking—although as soon as he said it, he could make a guess.

“Henry’s dad,” she said simply. “Which...you’ve probably figured out how that ended.”

“To some extent, yeah.” A slightly awkward silence settled over them, despite the sounds of joy all around. “Do you...want to talk about it?” he finally offered.

She sighed. “Not a ton to tell. We went steady in high school; he was a couple years older than me. He got drafted nearly as soon as he graduated and didn’t have a way out of it, since his dad had cut him off as soon as he turned 18. So we got married real quick, he left, and then he didn’t come back.”

“Wait—you were married?” But, as was established, she wore no ring.

“Yeah; he didn’t want his dad to be next of kin in case anything happened. And I was young and in love, so I agreed.” She paused. “Looking back, I’m not sure it would have lasted, but at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. Especially when I found out I was pregnant a couple months later.”

“Bloody hell.”

She nodded. “I hate that Henry doesn’t know his dad, and so I mourn what could have been; hell, I don’t even know if he got the letter I sent letting him know. It wasn’t a whole lot later I had a couple of g-men at the door saying he was gone. But...is it bad that I don’t think I really miss him?”

“Not necessarily,” he replied, though it wasn’t a position he’d ever been in. “Raising his son is the best way you could honor him, as is promoting an end to the war. He’ll always be important to you, but you don’t have to structure your life around grieving him, not when you have other responsibilities—and when you’re so young.”

She scoffed a bit. “Yes, because you’re so old,” she teased.

“I certainly feel it sometimes,” he countered. “Feels like I’m going on 240 some days, rather than 24.”

“Then that makes me 237.”

“And you look fantastic for it.”

She giggled, but it didn’t last before she turned somber again. “You’ve lost someone too, haven’t you?”

“A few,” he said simply. “My parents are gone, same as yours.” She’d explained that one a while ago. “But yeah—my brother. We served in the same unit. I...he...he died. In my arms.”

“Oh, Killian. I’m so sorry.”

Her words sounded far away, though, as the image came back into his mind’s eye—the humid forest, the heat of the bombs, the smell (god, the smell)—

“Hey—I’m right here; we’re here,” she said, grabbing his arm again and pulling him out before he fell too far in. “Sorry; I shouldn’t have prodded.”

“No; it’s fine,” he assured her, though he took a pull from the flask he was still holding. “But perhaps I should take some of my own advice; I spend so much time trying to forget how he died that I can't remember how he lived.”

“What was he like?”

“A stubborn arse,” he joked.

“Oh, like David?”

“A bit.”

They shared stories of growing up—her in the Bronx, he in England and then Brooklyn—comparing and contrasting their youths and taking note of the many similarities between their older brothers; no wonder he and David were starting to get on well.

As the day wore on, she convinced him to try one of the strawberry-flavored Pop-Tarts and he had to admit—it was better than he remembered...but the Bugles were better.

David came back eventually, with some franks he’d acquired from a street vendor, and they watched as the sun began to set into the city’s skyline.

Despite the occasional outburst from the crowd, and their own emotional revelations, it had been a peaceful afternoon, thoroughly enjoyable, and more fun than he’d had...probably since before he enlisted.

At one point, Emma had left to track down some glasses of water; when she came back, she sat right next to him, leaning her shoulder into his, her red leather right against his black. It was a physical familiarity he’d never really known, high school girlfriends aside, but he didn’t dare voice how much he enjoyed it lest he risk breaking whatever happy spell had descended on them all. (If he was being rational, it was probably residual high from the many dope smokers around them, but that was also reason enough to throw logic out the window.)

But as evening darkness settled, everyone was jolted into awareness by bright lights suddenly being beamed into the crowd. Then the cops came over their bullhorns and speaker systems, ordering everyone to disperse. Confusion and chaos quickly broke out, but this was precisely why Mary Margaret had stayed home: in case they needed a bailout.

Quickly, they gathered their things and got up, although they soon lost David in the swarming crowd. Killian tried to call for him, but Emma said it was fine—she’d see him at home. “We just need to go,” she said, starting to sound panicked.

Well, he hadn’t reached the rank of sergeant for no reason. Without thinking, he grabbed her hand and looked for a path through the throng of people heading in every direction. “Hold on,” he commanded, and began to press through as fast as he could.

Their path was winding, and not the fastest way to get out of the park, but it worked, and they were eventually breathing—well, not fresh air, but that’s how they knew they were clear of any potential danger, standing under a streetlight on 5th Avenue.

“Thank you,” she sighed as they both caught their breath. “That was a bit more excitement than I thought we’d have.”

“Yeah,” he concurred; he hadn’t moved that briskly since...well, the jungle. “You think David got out alright?”

“He’s a big boy; he’ll be fine. And if not...we’ll get him.”

She was still holding his hand and leaned against the light pole, a happy smile taking over her face.

“That was fun,” she giggled.

“Aye,” he chuckled back, and stepped a bit closer to her, so they both stood in the circle of light from the lamp. “That...seems to happen a lot more lately.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

The moment between them grew heavy in a way he wasn’t sure how to interpret. But he didn’t miss the way her eyes darted to his lips.

In another life—his coquettish school days, perhaps—he would have made some flirtatious quip and essentially dared her to kiss him.

But, as it turned out, he didn’t have to. “Can I kiss you?” she bluntly asked.

“Yes.”

She didn’t hesitate to grab the lapels of his jacket and haul him in, quickly finding his lips with hers. His hand and wrist settled on her waist, and he ignored the brief jolt of pain as he got lost in—her: the way she felt against him, the way her lips tasted (like Pop-Tarts), how the rest of the city seemed to disappear for a long moment.

Truly, nothing seemed to exist but them, until all too soon they were breaking apart for air. But even then, it was just him and her in the glow of the light. “That was…” he murmured, but his mind wasn’t clear enough to determine just what.

“Something I’ve been curious about for a while,” she finished, and he felt more than saw the smile on her lips.

“And?”

“Even better than I imagined.”

Now it was his turn to grin, and to find her lips again.

Their moment didn’t last much longer—it couldn’t, lest they both missed their trains home, but it was a sweet reprieve from the responsibilities (or lack thereof) they dealt with daily.

“Can I at least see you to your train?” he said softly as they got ready to depart.

She laughed again. “It’s the same station, silly.”

They kissed a few more times before hers arrived, and his was the next one out.

And if a goofy grin played at his lips the whole ride home…then good; let everyone see how happy he was, even if only for one night.

══════════════════════════════

Of course—it had been a while since he’d done...this—romance. His more gentlemanly instincts wanted him to call and make sure she’d gotten home okay, and then ask her out again on a proper date.

But that was kind of hard to do without a phone number, or even the right phone book—he could only seem to come up with one for Brooklyn (that was five years old at that).

So he swallowed his awkward pride, bought a bouquet at the bodega, and showed up to the park in their normal spot at their normal time a couple days later.

Emma was engaged in conversation when he got there, Henry tugging at her miniskirt, but when she saw him coming, her eyes lit up.

But before she could even approach, Henry screamed out “Kill’an!” and ran for his legs.

He knelt and gave the boy a hug; who knew that such tiny arms could give such a warming embrace?

And when Emma did come over, he shifted Henry into his left arm and stood to greet her, but before he could even present the flowers, she was pressing a kiss against his cheek. There was a slight nervousness in her features, too, but that honestly made him feel more at ease. They both had baggage—some more visible, some not—but they could navigate that together.

More than that, maybe this was something he could just...have. There hadn’t been a whole lot of that in his life—something he had any control over. Perhaps this could be that.

Nothing much changed, really—they still saw each other more than a few times a week; he still watched Henry, and they still went to Granny’s diner after. It was just—more: more closeness, more affection, more kisses. He was still working up the nerve (and cash) to take her out on a proper date, but she thankfully didn’t seem to mind that he hadn’t yet.

And at the next be-in a month later—this time an actual protest, with a subsequent march on the United Nations and even a speech from Dr. King—they walked hand-in-hand, shouting for peace.

His soul just might finally have found some.

══════════════════════════════

But nothing in his life was ever that easy, was it?

He was still on the waiting list for a prosthesis, continually moving down in priority as men came back from Viet Nam even more broken than he. Robin was apologetic, but he could see how harried the man was and wasn’t about to let his own somewhat short temper snap at the man.

It wasn’t like having that piece of equipment would miraculously make the phantom pains go away, anyway, but whatever he’d been doing while watching Henry lately was exacerbating them (not that he’d ever let the lad know that; Emma seemed to figure it out, though, by the way he’d wince and shake at the end of the day). So he was making somewhat more frequent trips for pain relief than he’d like to be making.

It all coalesced one day in May—the anniversary of Liam’s death, because of course it would all happen that day. He was already holed up in his apartment, well into his bottle, when an odd sound rattled in the street below. He went to the window to investigate, but before he could, it rang again—shots.

Instinctively, he hit the floor, jarring his wrist in the process and sending stars across his vision as he cried out in pain.

But when they cleared, he was back in the jungle—the thick green foliage all around, the smell of death hanging in the air, the bombs the bombs the bombs and—Liam—Liam was in his arms—but he was—he was—

He didn’t know how long he was stuck in the traumatic loop; not even the sirens down below pulled him out, nor his own retching. He wasn’t sure what did, really, until he heard the shrill ringing of his alarm clock. Somehow he got up and shut it off—it was only a few feet away on the coffee table—but that was usually his signal to pull his shit together and go watch Henry; he was in no shape to do that today. It didn’t help that he’d apparently left the record player on, spinning an endless loop of “Strawberry Fields Forever” that didn’t aid his addled mind at all.

But being in this ghost-filled apartment wouldn’t help, either. Maybe Emma would understand that he just needed to be there—away, out. Or maybe she’d finally realize she was so much better than his sorry arse and kick him to the curb like she should have done months ago.

He threw on his cleanest shirt and grabbed his nearly empty bottle and headed out. The train was packed, and slow, or at least it felt like it, so at least he didn’t mind when the world began to blur as he gripped the overhead bar and swayed with the car.

He nearly missed his stop but managed to stumble out before the doors closed, and nothing else quite registered until he was in the park, dropping his now-empty bottle in the nearest waste bin. He scrubbed a hand down his face and took a deep breath, trying to clear the fog from his mind. It didn’t work, but maybe he’d at least be able to hide it enough to keep anyone from worrying—or judging.

Henry didn’t mind, and came charging at him with his usual enthusiasm; never had a hug felt better. He didn’t trust himself to be steady enough to hold the growing boy, though, so he took his hand instead, and prayed Henry didn’t notice Killian’s world tilting off its access once he was upright again.

Emma, though—he should have known better than to try to hide it from her. “Killian, what’s wrong?” She was kneeling at his side sooner than he realized, hand cupping his face and worry furrowing her brow.

“Don’ worry about me,” he tried to reassure her. “Just...not a good day. I don’t...I probably won’t be much company today.”

He could almost see the steel set into her gaze and prepared himself for a verbal lashing. But instead, she picked up Henry and grabbed his hand, then pulled him away from the small but devoted crowd.

He lost track of where they were going but was aware of the fact that it was suddenly quieter, and she was pushing him down onto a bench. She was still standing in front of him, though. “Who’s your contact at the VA?” she asked, digging through her purse.

“Um, Robin,” he said, pulling the name from the haze of his mind. “Robin Locksley.”

She turned around—they were at a payphone, apparently—and went about calling. He tried to tell her not to bother, he’d be fine, but she just sent another glare his way and he shrunk back.

“You need help, Killian,” she said, almost angrily.

“The VA has enough on its plate.”

“Yeah, and you need more than them. Just—let me do this, okay?” She stepped closer and her hand brushed his cheek again, and he thought he might cry.

She turned her attention back to the phone, and other than Henry’s gentle pats on his shoulder, he began to lose awareness of whatever else was going on around him. Voices became muddled, and his vision clouded. He was vaguely aware of Emma moving him somewhere—his feet got the message his brain didn’t—and they might have been in a cab? At some point, his head wound up on her shoulder and he got lost in the clean scent of her hair.

But all too soon, it was stopping, and what followed was a blur of hospital rooms and doctors and the smell of antiseptic and trying desperately not to flash back to the field hospital in Da Nang (and failing, several times). There were brief moments of lucidity where he wasn’t reliving past traumas, but even those were so muddled he couldn’t tell dreams from reality.

(He thought he felt Emma’s lips on his forehead once, saw her bright green eyes behind those thick black frames in the midst of the jungle, but he wasn’t sure what to trust or believe any more.)

Until, suddenly, it was over. He blinked his eyes open to the sterile light of a hospital room; could just hear the sounds of life from the other side of the curtain that divided it. An IV was in his arm and he felt sore all over, but mentally, he was clear for the first time in months.

Which made it all the more apparent that he was alone. And that stung worse than the physical aftereffects of withdrawal he was likely dealing with.

What did he expect, though? He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d be able to hide his issues from her forever; she knew about them to some extent, anyways. She deserved so much more than a one-handed veteran with a drinking problem, though; he should just be grateful that he got to bask in her glow for a little while.

And he was good at brooding, so he let himself do that for a while. Eventually, the curtain began to shift; likely a nurse coming to check on him and hopefully telling him when he could leave.

But it was Emma.

“Oh, thank God, you’re awake!” she exclaimed as she rushed to the empty chair at his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

He blinked a bit. “You’re here?”

“Of course I’m here; why wouldn’t I be?” She seemed taken aback.

“Because I’m a bloody mess,” he barked out, half laughing, half astonished.

“And I’m not?” she countered.

“You’re not the one who spent...god, I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, detoxing or whatever they did to me because you don’t know how else to handle anything.”

“It’s only been a couple days,” she told him. “And I don’t think you can really say anyone who had a kid at 17 really has their life together. If I’m getting by, it’s only because I have a support system; and guess what—so do you now.”

He scoffed. “You don’t need to do this, love; you deserve someone much better in your life than me.”

“No, I don’t need to do this. But I want to.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “You didn’t need to look after Henry, but you wanted to. And don’t think this is just me returning the favor—you’re funny, you’re smart, you’re sweet, and you’ve got such a big heart, Killian—and it’s so easy to see the pain it carries. So don’t bother with what you think I deserve—you deserve better than what you’ve been dealing with; you deserve good things, and I plan on reminding you of that whenever you forget. Including right now, apparently.”

He blinked and swallowed—God, he could use some water—and let the weight of her statement wash over him. He wasn’t imagining this too, was he? “You’re not mad?” was all he could manage to say, though.

“I’m not—well, I am,” she admitted. “A bit at you, but mostly at—everything. And I wish I could have helped you sooner.”

He wanted to tell her he wasn’t worth it, to leave and forget about him, but he was too selfish. “Thank you,” he finally told her, though it didn’t seem like those two words were enough for all she’d done for him the last few months, even if she didn’t realize it. “For everything.”

“You can thank me by staying sober.” It was blunt, but he knew it needed to be said. He nodded.

She brushed the hair off his forehead and leaned forward to press a kiss against it (confirming that he hadn’t been dreaming it). “I have to go to work in a bit, but I’ll come by tomorrow, okay?”

“Sounds perfect, love.” He was in no position to complain.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you then.”

“I can’t wait,” he said, probably hyperbolically, but what else did he have to do?

She did give a grin at that, one he couldn’t help but return, and then slipped away.

A harried nurse eventually came and caught him up on what he’d missed in the last couple of days—a heavy detox cycle that he was still stabilizing from, and a hefty warning to not head down such a path again.

He’d do his damnedest—if not for himself and his liver, then for Emma and Henry.

The rest of the next day or so was spent in and out of sleep; he attempted to eat the meals they brought but his stomach was still uneasy (and not just because the food itself looked unappetizing, but that certainly didn’t help).

He was snoozing again early the next afternoon when a steady tapping noise woke him; it grew louder and his mind started assuming the worst, until a small voice yelled his name and burst through the curtain.

“Killian!”

“Henry!” He sat up to greet the lad as he climbed up on the bed and slammed his little body into him. He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around the boy; there must be some magic in Henry’s hugs.

Emma came in behind him, followed by David and Mary Margaret. He felt suddenly self-conscious at having such an audience to his problems, but Emma gave him a reassuring smile, and he remembered what she said yesterday about having support. Regardless of what his pride or ego thought, he needed that—and he was glad they were the ones offering.

“How are you feeling today?” Emma asked him, brushing his hair out of his face; he didn’t know why such a small gesture meant so much to him, but he wouldn’t question it.

“Alright; still a little nauseous, and sore, but as best as can be expected.”

“Did you eat?”

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked him that—or cared. “Not much; couldn’t really stomach it.”

“We’ll have to get Granny to send some food over,” Mary Margaret commented. “Much better than hospital food. She sends her regards, by the way.”

“I…appreciate it,” he said, somewhat surprised, but at the same time—not really. Just not something he was accustomed to.

They politely chatted for a bit, until Henry proclaimed his need to use the restroom; Emma took him and Mary Margaret followed, leaving just him and David.

The man hadn’t said anything since they arrived, but he was getting the same vague sense of disapproval he’d gotten at their first meeting. But he did approach.

“Are you serious about staying sober?” he asked.

“Aye, I am.” He may have found these people in spite of his dependency issues, but he didn’t want to lose them over them.

“Good. You know,” he started, resting his hands on his hip-hugging jeans, “I’m not sure if Emma told you this, but…our dad fought alcohol addiction his whole life. And I know there’s a lot more to it here, but—he never beat it, and it killed him. I can’t…I can’t see that happen to someone I care about again.”

There was a quip on his tongue about David having affection more than tolerance for Killian, but now wasn’t the time. “I don’t intend to let you—any of you—down,” he assured him.

“I know some people that can help with that—some groups—if you’re open to that.”

Just a few months ago, Killian probably would have declined; but now— “I’d like that a lot; thank you.”

David smiled. “We’ll get that figured out, then; but first, you’ve gotta get out of here,” he said and clapped Killian on the shoulder. “Have they said how long?”

“Another couple days, it sounds like.”

“You’re coming home with us, you know,” Mary Margaret added as they returned to the room.

“Oh, no—I couldn’t impose—”

“It’s not imposing if it’s a command, is it?” she countered. Bloody hell, she was on par with some of his drill sergeants in terms of authority. Though he later realized that was to be expected with elementary teachers.

“Aye-aye, captain,” he agreed with a salute.

The conversation lasted a bit longer, until both he and Henry were sharing yawns and they took it as the cue to leave. He would have liked it if they could stay longer, but sleep was indeed calling.

The Nolans took Henry out, giving he and Emma a moment alone. “You really don’t have to take me in,” he told her. “I appreciate it more than I can say, but it’s not necessary; you don't need me hanging around—”

“Hush,” she cut him off. “I know we don't need to. But like I said—we want to. And I plan on keeping you around for a while, so I’d like to make sure you recover from this properly.”

That was the second time she’d made a comment regarding her long-term plans with him. As amazing as it sounded—it hurt. “Emma,” he protested. “Look at me. I can barely take care of myself; do you really see a future with someone like that? You deserve—”

“Oh, fuck off with this ‘deserve’ business, Killian! You. You are the one that I want. No one else. We’ve been taking care of each other since we met, and I’m quite content to do that for as long as either of us are able.” She sighed. “Look—I get being scared to start a new relationship; I have been ever since Neal died, so I understand if you need some time and space to get yourself sorted out. But I’m not going anywhere, and whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there.”

He blinked and let that settle in. He hadn’t even dared to dream she saw that kind of future—or any, really—with him; that it was even possible. But now that it was out in the open air— “I want that too, love. More than anything.”

“Good.” And she pressed forward and stole what little air was in his lungs with a searing kiss—at least, as much as it could be when one of them was laying on a thin hospital mattress in a creaky bed, but he managed to dig his fingers into her hair and hold her there for a few moments longer.

“Sleep,” she murmured, “and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“As you wish,” he said softly back.

══════════════════════════════

Two days later, he was discharged from the hospital, and Emma took him back to their townhouse in the Bronx.

Not even a week later, he attended his first AA meeting, with David as his sponsor.

And finally, a month after, he was able to get a prosthesis for his left side—a hook that he had to go through a few sessions of occupational therapy to learn how to use, but immediately made his life easier.

For as much as his life had felt aimless for the last year, it seemed to settle after his last breakdown. It was sad that that was what it took, but he knew it was more than that.

Meeting that little lad and his amazing mother one fateful day in the park—that was the difference. More specifically, having something to live for.

He still had days when his demons reared their heads; when the physical pain got too bad. But now—Emma was there to hold him through the ensuing tears, to massage his burning muscles. And Henry was there to put a smile back on his face.

It did take a few months for him to finally be able to take Emma out on a proper date. They went to a tiny place in Little Italy, where the food was divine and the company even better.

They went back there a year later, when he proposed.

And their wedding was a small affair, in a tiny corner of Central Park where it all began. (Henry picked the flowers Emma wore in her hair and in Killian’s boutonnière.)

The protests continued. Henry grew. Emma finished her associate’s degree, and Killian worked on one too.

He sold the flat in Brooklyn—even if it held fond memories from his childhood, it was haunted with too many bad ones. They used the money to get their own place in the Bronx, not far from the Nolans, where they later welcomed their daughter.

It was also where they watched the news (on a working television set) of the last troops leaving Viet Nam, a few long years later. Killian had been looking forward to that moment—to the day when no other man would be subjected to the horrors he and too many others had faced in that particular war.

To his surprise, though, he didn’t feel the weight lift off him like he expected. Better yet—that weight wasn’t even there.

He was thrilled, of course—it was long overdue. But where he’d expected some massive emotional release, he found only a normal amount of relief.

He’d moved on. What happened to him there impacted him greatly, but it no longer defined him.

He thought back to what had drawn him to the protests in the first place—that spirit of optimism and hope he had wished would rub off on him.

He hadn’t expected to find friends—or, better yet, family; he couldn’t even dream that, in the not-too-distant future, he’d be settled with an incredible wife and their beautiful children, building a more wonderful life than he thought he’d have.

And now…well, just look at his infant daughter’s name: Hope. He held her close to his chest as he and Emma continued to watch the news—and continued with the life they were creating together.

══════════════════════════════

thanks for reading! tagging some friends: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @profdanglaisstuff @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @killian-whump @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke

#cs ff #cshistfic #cs historical au #my ff

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donteattheappleshook · 3 years

Text

Coming Soon: His a Captain Swan Historical AU

This is my entry for the @cshistfic event but due to a horrible bout of writer’s block, I wasn’t able to complete it by my post date. So here is a teaser of my upcoming story which I’m hoping will be up soon!

Summary:

Mature widower with good home wishes to make acquaintance of a hardworking girl or widow. No children. Object matrimony.

When Emma Swan flees scandal in New York to marry a man she’s never met in Storybrooke, Montana, she doesn’t have any illusions of finding love. But when she’s picked up at the station by Killian Jones, it finds her regardless. Despite sharing his home, his bed, and his heart, she can never truly be his.

Rated M

His

The whistle of the train as it pulls towards the station is what draws Emma from her sleep, her heart leaping in her throat as she jumps. The man across from her stares in concern and asks if she’s alright. Blushing furiously she nods and tries to clear the remnants of sleep from her mind, the images clinging in a thick fog around her.

She’d been dreaming of home. Of New York with its bustling, non-stop cacophony of people and sights and sounds, of her friends she’d left behind with little to no word. She can still picture Mary Margaret's face. ‘You’re getting married? But why? And why not to someone here?’

She’d been dreaming of him. She hates that she still dreams of him, that in her dreams he’s still kind and charming and full of sweet promises and pretty words. That in her dreams she still loves him sometimes.

But she’s far from home now. Through the window of her traincar there’s nothing but endless fields and mountains stretched out before her. She doesn’t know anyone here, and while that was the point of her trip, of the drastic change, a chance to run away, Emma can’t help but be overwhelmed with the reality that she’s in a strange town, friendless and alone, and it’s too late to turn back now.

And as for love - well, she’s promised herself to whomever it is that picks her up at the station. She’ll make her vows and keep his house and be a good wife to him. But love, she doesn’t have any disillusions of that. She lost the naivete of her youth when Neal changed his mind.

Emma reaches into her carpet bag, pulling out the newspaper clipping and the single letter she received from her husband to be. Both have been folded and unfolded so many times that the pages are frail and falling apart at the creases. She reads them again, over and over as the train slows.

Mature widower with good home wishes to make acquaintance of a hardworking girl or widow. No children. Object matrimony.

She runs her fingers over the small newspaper print and then over the neat lines of his handwriting. Mr. Jones seems a good man. He wrote to her of his farm out in the valleys and his shop in town, and of his children who he specified were not in need of raising. He wrote how difficult it’s been to run the household since the passing of his wife and that he needs someone who can cook and clean and isn't afraid to roll up their sleeves and work.

His first and only letter had been accompanied by a proposal of marriage and a train ticket out to Storybrooke, Montana. Emma had jumped on the first train she could with hopes that her letter with the date and time of her arrival reached him before she did.

This is the thought that makes her worry the fingers of her gloves as she makes her way off the train, carpet bag still clutched tightly to her chest. A man calls her attention, snapping her out of her anxious thoughts, an attendant retrieving her chest and handing it to her. She thanks him, searching frantically for a few cents to give him and hurries out onto the platform with everything she owns tucked under her arm.

Casting her gaze around the busy station, she realises she doesn’t know what she’s looking for - or whom she’s looking for. There had been no photograph or portrait enclosed in the advertisement or in the letter. Every man who passes by could be Mr. Jones and she wouldn’t know him from Adam. She tries not to look too expectantly at everyone who catches her gaze, especially when some of those gazes turn interested or suggestive and she hopes they’re not the one she’s waiting for.

But as the platform begins to empty of passengers and carriages ride off without her, her fears change. What if he hasn’t come at all? Or worse yet, what if he saw her and changed his mind? She hadn’t included an image in her response either, and she knows that at twenty-eight, she’s older than most mail-order brides who make the journey out west.

She’s just about given up hope, only herself and a station attendant left, the train having already moved on to its next destination, when she hears a hesitant, accented voice ask, “Miss Swan?”

Turning, she takes in the man standing before her and her breath catches, wondering if this could be her fiance. When she’d read the advertisement, she’d pictured someone older, someone more worn down by a hard life out in the fields and the loss of his wife. But this man is tall and lean, the muscles of his arms and shoulders not hidden beneath his clean shirt and vest. And he’s young, likely not much older than herself, and she can’t help the small flutter of excitement that rolls in her stomach.

“Mr. Jones?” A flush colours her cheeks despite herself as she takes in his dark hair and bright blue eyes, struck by how handsome he is. She hadn’t expected him to be handsome. She wants to shake herself. What he looks like shouldn’t matter.

He smiles, nodding, and it does something unfairly beautiful to his already attractive face. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he tells her. “The widow Lucas’ cart lost a wheel on the road. I wouldn’t have been so delayed but it took me ages to convince her to accept my help.” She frowns at him and he gives a small laugh. “You’d understand if you met her,” he promises. Emma returns his grin despite herself.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” he adds, gesturing vaguely with his left arm and that’s when Emma notices the metal where his hand should be. She hadn’t seen it at first, the iron hook on the end of the wood and metal brace his sleeve has been altered to fit around. A wave of sadness washes over her wondering what could have happened to him. He doesn't look old enough to have been in the war. “Is everything alright?” he asks and when Emma looks back to his face he’s frowning at her in concern.

She shakes her head, realizing she’s been staring. “Yes, sorry. You’re just… not who I expected,” she admits.

The man reaches to scratch behind his ear nervously. “Ah, yes, well -” he begins awkwardly and she speaks quickly, worried she’s offended him, that he thinks she cares about his missing hand.

“I only meant… you’re younger than you sounded in your letter.”

He frowns at her again and then his eyes go wide with something - realization or understanding, but most notably, embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry Miss, you have the wrong idea. I’m -” he hesitates, scratching his ear again as it turns pink. “I’m not your fiance.”

“You’re not Mr. Jones?” Emma asks, trying to ignore the rush of disappointment that follows his words.

“Aye, I am. Killian Jones.” He clears his throat. “The man you’ve come to marry, Brennan Jones, is my father.”

***

@kmomof4 @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @xhookswenchx @undercaffinatednightmare @jennjenn615 @dramioneswan @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @batana54 @lfh1226-linda @csalltheway @xsajx @xarandomdreamx @onceratheart18 @ownedbycaptainswanandportwell @teamhook @pirateprincessofpizza @lostintheskyfaraway @zaharadessert @thejollyroger-writer @ultraluckycatnd @justanother-unluckysoul @jonesfandomfanatic @bdeveraux @jrob64 @klynn-stormz @wefoundloveunderthelight @sailtoafarawayland @tiganasummertree @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @snowbellewells @xellewoods @sals86 @karlyfr13s @skairipakomtrikru

#His #Captain Swan fanfiction #cs fanfic #cs ff #sneak peek #cs au #cshistfic

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elizabeethan · 3 years

Text

Whatever The Cost May Be: 1 / 1

Killian Jones had been in love with Emma Nolan for as long as he could remember, since the day he began his employment in the Nolan estate as a boy. With the knowledge that Emma had fallen in love with him in return, he had become determined to make a name for himself. When the British joined the Second World War, Killian enlisted in the Navy, promising to return to Emma and give her the life she deserved.

Rated M (barely)

15,009 words

Read on Ao3

Hello! I'm excited to share this piece, posted for the @cshistfic event. The idea for this fic came when I found some letters from my grandpa to the woman he loved, who would become my grandma, while he was deployed in WWII. I use some elements of his letters very briefly in the story. I was so excited to get the excuse (and push) to actually write it when this event was announced! The story mainly features angst with the promise of a happy ending, so get ready for that.

Disclaimer: I did really try to make this as historically accurate as I could, but I'm sure some parts of this are not, so be nice. Also, a trigger warning for a very brief description of drowning as well as a severe injury (It's Killian Jones, so...). As always, if you'd like some more information before you read, feel free to message me!

Finally, a humongous thank you to @donteattheappleshook, who somehow beta read this monster in one night, and also to @the-darkdragonfly, because they both let me ramble about this until the plot made sense.

Read my other works here!

Get added to my tag list here!

~~~~

The west wing of the Nolan family’s Bath estate always smelled of freshly baked bread. A loaf was baked daily, the oven firing up no matter the temperature inside or out. The kitchen staff produced bread tirelessly, sourdough or even a baguette always fragranting the estate and making the residents hungry. Each member of the Nolan family tended to visit the kitchen each morning, seeking an extra slice of the kitchen’s specialty, despite breakfast nearly being ready. And while each member of the Nolan family went seeking a treat, there never seemed to be enough by simple coincidence. However, there always seemed to be an extra serving made just for the eldest Nolan.

Leopold always became jealous, his annoyance clear as he pouted whenever his sister’s special helping of bread was given to her. Mary Margaret Nolan often blushed and grinned when she observed the single, small loaf being pulled from the hot oven by the young baker. David Nolan, the owner of the estate, seemed aloof to the happenstance surrounding his daughter and his baker, caring not to consider the scandal of a man in his employ falling in love with his eldest daughter.

The problem was never whether Killian loved Emma or Emma loved Killian. The problem wasn’t even whether Emma's family liked Killian enough to let him marry her, or even whether Killian or Emma could ever build up the nerve to tell her parents of their illicit affair. The problem was always the doubt that Killian had in himself and in his ability to provide for a wife of such high social standings. Emma would say that her parents would support them, that it made them lucky, but Killian saw it more as a curse. David Nolan never came out and stated that his estate’s baker was not good enough to be with his daughter, but Killian always felt it.

After all, what kind of life could a simple baker give to a woman who deserved the world?

It wasn’t as if Killian or Emma ever told her parents that they tended to sneak off together, or that they spent many a night in the family’s grassy meadow in one another’s arms, or that they hoped to spend the rest of their lives together. It also wasn’t as if they were very discreet about it, either. However, Killian could never move past his feelings of certain and impending failure.

And so, one warm night on the first of September, he told her his plan. He explained to her the assumption that the Prime Minister would declare war against Germany if they refused to remove their troops from Poland, and if that should occur, he would join the Navy and fight for his country without a need for conscription. Not only had he drawn such a conclusion because he was dedicated to his country, but also because, as a Navy veteran, he would have much more of a name for himself than he would as a baker. As a Navy veteran, he would prove himself worthy of her. To her, and to her family, but mostly to himself.

“Killian, you can’t,” she had told him that night, pulling him closer to her in the tall grass so that almost no space came between them. “I can’t lose you.”

“Who says you will?” he had asked with a soft smile. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

She sighed heavily, letting herself fall so that her back landed on the soft ground. The field felt warm from the long day in the sun, but not warmer than the glow of her cheeks. Her white dress, the one he had said that he liked with the small red flowers decorating it’s soft fabric, clung to her curves as it was held down by gravity, and he found her utterly irresistible. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Aye, it’s dangerous, but it’s also necessary. If they should declare war, they’ll need every able-bodied man.”

“But you’re needed here,” she argued stubbornly. “My father and grandfather avoided conscription in The Great War because of their work; can’t you do just the same?”

Killian chuckled as he lay by her side, his hand just barely touching hers in a scandalous and forbidden ghost of a movement. “My love, your grandfather was a veterinarian, as is your father. I’m merely a baker; my work is not important in the eyes of war.”

“It’s important to me,” she whispered, her small voice barely audible to him over the sounds of the crickets singing across the field.

“I want to marry you.”

“I want that, too. I also want you alive. ”

“I’m twenty-four,” he continued brashly, struggling to ignore her sentiment as he attempted to help her to see his point-of-view. “You’re just twenty-one. Should I… should I die, you’ll be able to find someone who can give you the life you deserve.”

The speed with which she sat up must have been dizzying, her form suddenly blocking his view of the sunset over the small pond before them. “Don’t you dare say anything like that again, Killian Jones. You will not die.”

He couldn’t help but to grin at her, the smile soft and adoring as he gazed into her eyes which matched the green grass they lay upon. “You've always been rather stubborn, my love.”

“And this instance is no different.” He nodded at her in agreement, his hand begging his mind to let it reach for hers, although he held back, desiring not to be caught in such a compromising position. “And I don’t suppose my stubbornness will convince you to stay?”

“I’m not sure your stubbornness will be a match for all of Parliament, my love. And besides… this is sure to be the best thing for us.”

The two were silent for a while after that. There were no words exchanged between them; only the sounds of their breathing and the songs of the crickets disturbed the silence as they lay together. Their hands touched easily and naturally, sparks seeming to fly, Killian finally taking Emma’s without a second thought and without the worry of being caught. They were almost caught years prior, when Emma was just eighteen and Killian almost twenty-two, the two of them having fallen in love easily and quickly when she had returned from college and started visiting him in the kitchens.

He had worked for her family for most of his life, his mother leaving him in the care and employ of the Nolan estate upon her passing. He and his mother had begun their work for the Nolan family just after his brother had passed from Smallpox, when Killian was only eight years of age. He knew Emma when he was just a boy, often laughing as she barged her way through the kitchen and earning a whack upside his head from his mother and then by Granny when his mum had gone. He knew that he loved her when they were just children, because he was in such pain following the death of his older brother, but she was somehow capable of making him smile. It wasn’t until she came home from college that she started to love him back.

She had told him first, that she loved him. She informed him that there wasn’t a day she was gone during which she did not have thoughts of him. He had vowed that night, to himself, alone in his drafty bed chamber, that he would become a man of worth for her. That he would become the kind of man who could care for her the way she deserved. He vowed that, aside from loving her, he would give her a life that would honor her perfection and her kindness and her beauty.

So, when he had heard of the impending war and the opportunity to fight for his country, he suddenly knew just what he had to do. He had considered joining the service before, but now, the choice was simple.

“I want to marry you,” she had finally whispered again into the darkening night, the sun having set and the stars peeking through the clouds. “I don’t want you to go away because I want to be with you.”

“You will,” he promised her softly. “I’ll not be gone too long, my love. Surely the Germans will retreat, and I’ll be home to you before you notice my absence.”

“That’s impossible,” she insisted to him firmly. “I’ve never not noticed your absence.”

He couldn’t respond, because it hurt too much to think of words that would do her justice. “I love you,” he chose.

“I love you, too,” she vowed. “I’ll wait for you. I’ll write you every day. I’ll think of you always, until you’re back in my arms and I can make you my husband.”

“I believe I’m to make you my wife,” he had chuckled, and she shrugged in response, sitting up until she could see him clearly and then leaning down to press her lips to his in a stolen, scandalous kiss. “There’s not a day that will go by in which I won’t think of you,” he promised her against her mouth.

“Good,” she’d whispered. “Hurry back then, soldier.”

~~~~

He was gone from her three days later, Chamberlain declaring war swiftly as the Germans refused to remove themselves from their occupation in Poland. He couldn’t write to her for weeks. She wrote to him each day, although she usually saved her letters in her diary so that she could send them on a weekly basis, careful not to be too suspicious by sending so much in the post.

Every morning, she had awoken to nothingness. The smell of freshly baked bread seemed all wrong coming from Granny alone. There was no joyful humming coming from the kitchen, no Killian insisting that it never came from him. There were no soft, gentle kisses to her forehead at each fleeting and hidden opportunity. No one lifted her up onto the counter top to steal kisses and touches and soft laughs and smiles.

With nothing to do but wait and worry, Emma began to help her father with the animals. He was recruited again as a veterinarian for the military horses, just as he and his father had been during The Great War, and she saw a joy in him that she hadn't seen in years. Tending to the horses and dogs brought about a sense of happiness and helpfulness that she finally began to understand must have been necessary for Killian. She saw that he couldn't have forgiven himself if he had elected to stay, not that he had a choice, and she found herself almost glad that she let him go.

(Not that she had a choice either.)

But months after he had gone, fall turning to winter, winter turning to spring, spring turning to early summer, she found herself going nearly mad with impatience. She had hardly heard from him, only a few short letters describing the cold and the rain and the uselessness of all this fighting , and all she wanted was to have him in her arms again. Nothing could quell the irrevocable need to be with him again.

The last letter she received broke her when she read it again, weeks after the disastrous events of which he had taken part against his will. His descriptions of how warm his foxhole was and how he expected to be paid soon seemed casual enough at the time, but when she got the nerve to reread it after he had been declared missing in action, she nearly chose to burn it. His asking how Leo was faring after falling off his horse; his concern that he never learns to be careful , reminded her of how caring he was despite his sarcasm, and of how she may never know such kindness again. His gratefulness at her letters, his joyful explanation that they were coming in quite regularly despite her willfully putting off sending them, sent her down a dark path from which she could not escape.

When she reread the last line of his last letter, in which he described missing her more than the heat of the sun missed the warm grass upon which they liked to lie together, she had shattered.

~~~~

He was drowning.

The water in his lungs burned. It was salty and hot and cold all at once. It was in his chest and in his throat and in his stomach. It began to sink him. It sent him near the bottom of the Channel, the chilling water cooling down his blood and calming him somehow despite the adrenaline burning through his veins. He could see nothing but blackness. He felt unreal, inhuman, dead. He felt dead . He wasn’t, not in that moment, but he may as well have been.

The man pulled him from the sea, his sopping uniform weighing him down and making things difficult. The ocean was drenched into every part of him, chilling him from the inside out and making him nearly unrecognizable. The frigid water paled Killian’s skin, giving him a bluish tint that made the man wonder whether his efforts were futile. The loss of blood and oxygen that the young soldier endured likely furthered the near-death-like state in which Killian hung.

“Comment t’appelles-tu?” the man had asked, although Killian would maintain that he heard only gibberish. The words burned into Killian’s ears just like the salty water had. The man noted the slight twitch to the soldier’s closed eyes and must have felt hopeful, giving Killian a shake. “Réveille-toi! Dis-moi ton nom!”

Killian could not respond, having found himself merely floating along a plane somewhere between life and death. He had found that everything had pained him, each movement causing a sting and burn and a dizziness which he had never felt before and would never feel again. Finally, after just a moment of clarity during which he stared up as his rescuer, a blurred figure who blocked out the harsh white sun, he had allowed himself to succumb to sleep once more.

~~~~

Emma Nolan was determined not to get married.

It was nearly August by the time her parents had begun to insist that she hear Neal Cassidy’s attempts to court her, entirely certain that the two would make a handsome pair. Mister Cassidy would prove himself entirely able to provide for the eldest Nolan, his wealth surviving through the start of the war. He was lucky, as some might have said, having been found ineligible for conscription because of the importance of his work in finance.

Neal Cassidy was a caring, wholesome man, Emma had found. He had soft eyes and kind features that made her feel a sense of safety that she was not expecting when they met. He had money, inherited from his father who broke his back as a foreman in the coal mines, but aside from that, Emma’s father was certain that he would care for her well. David Nolan worried endlessly for his daughter, always fearing her unhappiness, and it was all he could do to find her a suitable husband.

Mister Nolan was never blind to his eldest child’s pain. It became clear to him when she had returned from college years ago that she had harbored feelings for the young baker who took residence in his kitchen. Killian Jones was always respectful and kind to the Nolan family, his gratitude for their care of him clear in the passion of his work. Not only that, but he was a talented baker, one who could win anyone’s heart with his plaited brioche.

It was no wonder that his daughter fell for Killian Jones.

And while David Nolan knew of their love for one another, though he was sure they thought they were hiding it, he could not do anything about the fact that the man his daughter loved died fighting for his country. He could not change the fact that she needed to think of herself and of her well-being. He did not enjoy thinking only of her financial prospects, although it became a necessity as he aged.

The look upon his daughter’s face as she prepared for her wedding to a man she did not love burned through his heart and set a fire of pain and anger through his veins. Her loss, though it was one of which she would not discuss, especially with her father, was so palpable that it spread through the room, each member of her family watching solemnly as she stepped out from behind the curtain in the small boutique in a modest white gown.

“I can’t,” she had finally whispered as she stared deeply at herself in the reflection of the mirror. She had admitted openly that her fiancé was kind to her, a gentle soul who seemed devoted to her happiness, and yet she was painfully unhappy.

“Emma,” her mother said, hurrying towards her and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Of course you can.”

“No,” she cried, a soft sob escaping her throat as she slowly placed a hand over her mouth, still staring painfully at the reflection of herself she did not care to recognize. “I promised.”

“Promised who?�� her mother had asked. “Promised what?”

And so David stood firmly from his chair and walked towards his daughter, wishing to provide for her the comfort that he had been able to when she was just a girl. Now, as an adult with all of the maturity and life-experience of someone much older than she truly is, he had realized that there was very little that he could do to soothe the ache of her broken heart.

Killian Jones, the man who went off to war and took with him the heart of David Nolan’s only daughter, was pronounced missing in action, presumed dead, following the evacuation of Dunkirk beach. The chaos that came with removing hundreds of thousands of shivering soldiers meant that it was impossible to keep track of who went where, but Killian Jones was nowhere to be found.

And with him being missing, so was his lover’s heart and happiness.

“Emma,” David had said once he reached her, “I’m sorry.”

She had broken then, collapsing into her father’s arms and wrinkling the white satin fabric which she wished desperately to rip off of herself. Emma had always been close to her mother, the bond between a woman and her first child strong and hearty, but she would be considered her father’s little girl for the entirety of her life. At his understanding, she shattered once more, needing to be held together by the only other man in her life who had ever shown her the type of love that she so strongly deserved.

“I can’t,” she had sobbed again into her father’s shoulder, her grip upon his sport jacket violent and desperate. “I promised him I would wait.”

“I know,” David had consoled, although this was only a fact which he had come across through luck and assumption. He had never gained confirmation of his daughter’s affair with the estate’s baker, but they were shoddy at hiding the love they had for one another. “I know, I’m so sorry.”

“He could come back,” she begged desperately as she had pulled from him, her eyes shimmering sadly through her tears. “He might…”

“A lot of ships were hit with U-boats as they tried to cross the Channel,” David had tried, although it was clear in an instant that he had chosen his words incorrectly as he watched her face fall once more.

“He’s strong,” she cried. “He can survive anything; look at what he’s survived so far!”

“Of course,” her father had agreed, though he was unable to make himself change her wording to past tense. “But Emma… it’s been months now.”

“He’s missing ,” she had insisted, with her voice more firm and her face more angry. “Missing doesn’t mean dead!”

“Honey,” her mother had interrupted, “this is about Killian?”

David watched painfully as his daughter’s face fell upon hearing his name, one that he is certain she hadn’t heard since he left nearly a year prior. “Yes,” she had whispered in return, her face turning downcast as she pulled away from her mother.

“We understand,” David had told her. “We know this is hard for you, and that you made a promise to him. But now you need to consider yourself and your best interests. Mister Cassidy can give you a good life.”

“So can Killian,” she had said in a voice so small and weak and broken that David could feel his own heart shattering once more. Without awaiting a response from either of her parents, Emma had stepped down from the low podium, the one that had placed her on display in a gown she wished not to wear, and hurried out of the room.

~~~~

Killian had grown to enjoy the manual work that kept his mind and body busy. As his wounds healed, he would say that tending to the animals on Nemo’s farm helped his thoughts to heal as well. He would watch as the chickens hopped along the rolling fields, following him as he set out to feed the cows, and the sight set his heart ablaze with joy.

Of course, one might argue that such a reaction was because of the way his Emma loved to follow him along each morning to fetch the eggs from the chicken coops, taken by the brazen birds.

It had taken him several weeks of recovery before he was conscious enough to recall the woman to whom he had given his heart. All he could ever see was a glow of golden tresses in his dreams, a figure gently healing him with compassion and love that he could feel through his state of oblivion.

When he had finally awoken, drifting out of his sleep, he felt sadness at the thought of no longer seeing his healer, his guardian angel, until he realized that who he was seeing was Emma. Then, the sadness turned to impossible anguish at the realization that he could never be with her again.

He had struggled when he had finally woken up; it had seemed as though too many thoughts had begun to swirl around within his mind. First came the knowledge that the son of the man who had saved him and cared for him shared a name with his late brother. Liam was kind to him from the start, often changing his bandages and bringing him water when he was asked, although the pain that came from being in his presence began to become unbearable to Killian after so much loss.

Then, there was his hand, or lack thereof. It had felt more like a dream when he had finally woken up, the realization that part of the reason he had slept for so long was because of the trauma of losing an appendage. He had lost far too much blood and oxygen as he had floated away listlessly in the water, Nemo had told him. It was nearly impossible for him to even be alive, Nemo claimed. But he had known that a part of him refused to let himself die as he sank, because he had to get back to Emma.

Once he had awoken, he learned that it would never be possible.

“You’re doing well, my boy,” Nemo had called one afternoon as the sun began to set, the gleaming of the golden sun reminding him painfully of her.

“Thank you,” he had mumbled in return, the bucket heavy on the crook of his elbow as he used his remaining hand to scatter the grain.

“Something interesting in the paper this morning,” he had told Killian, holding up the heavily folded stack as an offer before leaning his body weight against the fence that enclosed the chickens. “Or, at least, thought provoking.”

“What’s that?”

“The engagement announcements had caught my eye.”

Killian had taken the paper from the man who cared for him, the man who nursed him back to health, and when he cast his gaze upon the announcement that was surely fueling Nemo’s thoughts, he cursed him. Killian cursed Nemo for rescuing him, for bringing him back to life, because it meant that he had to live with the image of her with another man burned into his soul for the rest of his days. It meant that, each time he closed his eyes, he would be cursed with her face standing beside the man who would give her the life she’s always deserved. The life Killian had so desperately wanted to give her, although it had become far too late for that.

“That's… I’m glad she’s happy.”

“ Happy? ” Nemo had spit, casting a look of utter disgust and disrespect in the direction of his friend. The man had grown fond of Killian during his lengthy recovery, and watching him heal from such a horrid injury, watching him come back to life after sinking aimlessly for what seemed like days, had given Nemo an undying respect for him. “Are you a fool?” he had asked, seemingly able to look past his reverence for the lad.

“Yes.”

“Look at her face,” Nemo demanded. “That is the face of someone who would rather be anywhere but by this man’s side!”

“The Cassidy’s come from money. He’s a good man; she’ll be well taken care of.”

“My boy,” Nemo had breathed, standing from his perch and shaking his head in disbelief as he approached Killian, who continued to mindlessly scatter grain across the ground as he was chased by the relentless birds. “You must have knocked something loose in that head of yours before I pulled you from the sea.”

Shoving a fowl from jumping upon his leg, Killian asked, “What are you on about?”

“She is miserable.”

Nemo had taken the paper from Killian then, tossing it over the fence of the enclosure so that it landed heavily in the ground. At the loss of her, Killian dropped his bucket, letting the handle of it painfully slide over his still battered skin, and hurried towards the small gate to the coop, crouching as he reached for the article again before tearing the page out. He struggled with the large sheet of parchment, pressing it to his bent knee with his blunted arm and ripping it carefully so that he could remove her face from beside the man who could never be him. While he recognized that he could never marry her, Killian could at least have a small, mud-covered reminder of the woman he loved.

“She… she’ll have a good life,” he had choked, finding it impossible to stand and face the man behind him.

“You were brave on the battlefield, my boy, and in the evacuation. You were the bravest man I’ve ever met while Liam and I mended you. But you are being an utter coward.”

“ What ?”

“This is the woman you love, and you’re letting her go. You’re here, Killian; you’re alive. Why wouldn't you want to give her the choice to be with you?”

Killian stood then, his hand carding through his hair, covered in dirt and sweat from his day in the fields. He’d enjoyed his work on Nemo’s farm, assisting where he could with the animals but always seeming to prefer the chicken coops. The cows were gentle, the lambs enjoyable to be around, but the chickens reminded him of his Emma. And, despite his affinity for the animals, the truth was simple; Killian was incapable of helping in any other way with only one hand.

“I can’t,” he had finally admitted, his hand clenching into a fist at his side, his jaw tight enough to twitch slightly beneath his skin. “I’m not… I can’t.”

Nemo had watched as his young friend sat back upon the soft grass, bending his knees against his chest and gripping the front of his hair with his single hand. The boy’s other arm, the blunted and badly scarred one, raised as well, but stopped short when it didn’t reach his face. With great empathy, and also with a struggle to fully comprehend what the lad had been through, Nemo sat by his side, struggling to get to the ground with his damaged knee and placing a consoling hand upon Killian’s back. “My boy,” he had started, “you are still you.”

Killian’s voice was rough, seeming to scratch through his throat as he had asked, “What are you talking about?”

“This woman… she loves you, isn’t that right?” Killian only sighed heavily in response, giving Nemo a single, tense nod. “I can’t imagine she would stop simply because you’ve been injured.”

“I haven’t been injured ,” Killian had spit back in response, his body appearing rigid in response to the words of his friend. “I’ve been… I’m ruined . What happened has destroyed me.”

“And you’ve done well to heal. My son, many men who were at the beaches are likely feeling just as you are. Many lost their lives. You’ve lost your hand, and you’ve been healing physically. It’s time to allow yourself to heal in here .” Nemo had reached his own hand up from the ground beside Killian and placed a finger upon his temple, tapping lightly before he had pulled away. “Many soldiers experience shellshock like you have, many of them far worse.”

“I know that,” he responded quietly, letting his head drop forward, his chin to his chest.

Nemo sat quietly beside Killian for a few moments more, allowing him to breathe in his surroundings and take solace in the fresh air provided by the long grass and the sea spray coming off of the cliffs to their right. He had been soft on Killian for the last few months, letting him heal as slowly as he needed to, but when he had admitted that he left behind a woman he loved, Nemo began to feel impatient.

He had been close to other soldiers, veterans who were hurt one way or another by the violence of war, and Killian was proving himself strong in the way that he had quickly gotten back on his feet. It was just over a month before he had gotten out of bed, three weeks in which he had slept off the ocean-induced coma. He had described fleeting, dream-like memories of his ship sinking, the very ship meant to take him and his fellow soldiers to safety. They had thought they were home free, enjoying bread and jam and tea below deck and counting themselves lucky. The U-boat struck the hull violently, knocking their ship on it’s side and sinking it almost instantly. Killian had described the scene playing before him so quickly that he had hoped it was a nightmare. He had hoped that he was still on that blasted beach, the thick foam spraying him and chilling him to the bone. He had wished to still be in France, dodging air raids from above and enemy fire from behind. Being in the water, a sudden, numbing pain taking over his mind, was worse torture than he’d ever felt.

It was when Elsa had gone to check on him that it seemed his memories had returned, young Liam told his father. She had checked his wound when she came for her eggs, and said that he was doing well. Killian told Liam later that night that, when he saw the glowing golden hair shining in the setting sun, he remembered everything. The sea had taken his hand, nearly took his life, but the sunlight gave his memories back and he was suddenly all-consumed with thoughts of his Emma.

He described her in great detail, speaking more than they had ever heard him. He spoke of loving her from the moment they had met as children. He spoke of her kindness, her softness, her stubbornness. He told them that he enlisted in the Navy so that when he returned he would be seen by her father as an honorable man worthy of taking his daughter's hand. When he told them this, it seemed to strike something within him, and he began to quiet. They hadn’t heard him speak so much since that day.

Now, as Nemo sat beside the young man, the man who had been through so much loss and so much pain, it made sense to him. Killian saw himself as incomplete, as broken. How could he return to the woman he loved, the one he had vowed to return to with the promise of a better life, with a missing part of himself? How could he provide for her?

Of course, Killian had also made the foolish mistake of proving himself worthy in his diligent work around his farm, so Nemo was easily able to see past the boy’s self doubt.

“Well, I feel sorry for her,” he had said to Killian frankly, staring ahead at the billowing clouds that met the field before them.

“Aye, I know. Why do you think I'm still here?”

“To have lost you, to think that she’s lost you permanently, when in reality, you’re here, moping about on my farm and perfectly capable of giving her exactly what you’d promised. It’s selfish, really.”

Killian never did lose that bit of rigidity, and it seemed to Nemo like he had stiffened even more at his side. He didn’t respond, at least not with words, simply choosing to shake his head and sigh heavily. Nemo had almost thought that perhaps the boy was giving in, accepting the truth in his words, ready to make the decision to go back to the woman he loved, but the boy simply stood, struggling to get to his feet with only the ability to hold the fence behind him with one hand for support.

“I’m not being selfish,” he had stated with finality. “I told her I would give her the life she deserves, and she deserves a man who can provide for her everything she could ever desire. That man isn’t me; it never has been.”

~~~~

Faran Nemo, retired Naval Captain, was a knowledgeable man. He saw himself as perceptive, wise, and empathetic to the feelings of his friends and the people he cared about. Killian had quickly become someone he cared about, from the moment he saw him floating in the bottomless Channel and noted the slight twitch to his remaining fingers. He saw life in the boy’s eyes, fleeting from the moment he had noticed it, but it was there. He felt himself being drawn to the lad, a need to save him and protect him overwhelming, much like the way he had felt when he first found his son, Liam.

When Killian had finally come to, when he began to speak of a woman he loved, one to whom he had vowed to return, Nemo knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would make that happen.

And so, when he had woken one morning and found his chickens fed, but Killian’s quarters emptied, packed up and tidied as if no one had ever lived there, he knew. When he found Killian gone, having left in the night with a small thank you letter left upon his pillow the only indication that he had ever been there, he knew that Emma Nolan would have her soldier back in her arms by the week’s end.

~~~~

The Nolan estate had been quiet since mid June, when the news about the evacuation and the Prime Minister’s speech became public. Emma had waited and waited for news of Killian, waited for weeks for his letter stating that he had survived and that he was coming home to her, but it never came. Eventually, his employer was informed of his presumed death, of his being missing, and Emma had become inconsolable. The Nolan estate had been quiet since that day.

It became difficult to speak in her presence, any words a reminder of the voice she was seeking. When Granny began to settle more permanently in the role that belonged to Killian, Emma became angry. It was the first time that Leopold Nolan saw any sort of emotion from his sister since the family’s baker had left. Emma had spent all of her days waiting for Killian’s return, and when it became evident that he would not, she appeared to fall apart.

Neal Cassidy could see easily that his fiance was painfully unhappy. He had never truly seen her smile, only witnessing a plastered-on fake grin from time to time. He had never heard her laugh, not even a falsified one. He had heard her cry many times, mostly when she thought she was being discreet. She would sometimes escape during dinner and hide herself away in a coat closet, closing the door upon herself and letting out sob after painful sob in what she thought was solitude. Neal never meant to listen in on her private moments, but it was difficult not to hear her when he had gone looking for her.

It was not as if he was dying to marry Miss Nolan himself, although he was not dreading it, either. Truthfully, he had simply made a vow to her and her family, and despite her obvious unhappiness, she had never appeared to be against the union. He knew that she had love for another man, but that man was gone, and the honorable thing for Neal to do was to follow through with a wedding to a woman who needed the support of a husband. He saw himself as a man who had the ability to provide for a young lady in need, and it was his goal to make her feel at least some semblance of joy, however he could.

But he could never comfort her, could never get close enough to even try. He knew that her heart belonged to another, and even with the news of his assumed death, it was apparent that she would not be moving on from the love she had for this other man. Neal couldn’t even find it in himself to be jealous, feeling for the young woman whose life seemed to have ended before it could begin. The sadness she felt seemed like it would follow her for the remainder of her days. It became clear very quickly that Neal would never be able to quell the anguish of his future bride. The only thing that could possibly hope to soothe her broken heart seemed to be impossible, as one could not simply return from the dead.

But then, just when Neal thought all was lost for the woman he was to wed, the man had returned. He was seen walking up the drive to the Cassidy estate one evening, his boots scratching against the stones as he trudged, his head bowed and his pack heavy on his back. Neal’s butler had informed him of the intrusion, but when he looked out his front door, it became impossibly clear to him just who this man was. His uniform gave him away.

Neal had sat across from Killian in the drawing room, handing him a dram of whiskey, which the man seemed to choke down. “Not a whiskey man?”

“I’m more drawn to rum, myself. But thank you either way for the offer.”

“I see. I’ll have Miss West look for some, then.”

“Mister Cassidy,” Killian had started, seemingly unsure of how to go on. He had cleared his throat, taking a long yet quick drag from his tumbler of whiskey-- making a sour face and coughing slightly-- before he spoke again. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Neal had cleared his throat as well, nodding as he took an easier sip from his own glass. “This one is meant to have notes of stone fruit and chocolate, but all I taste is that alcohol. I was never very good at tasting the notes.”

“Aye,” Killian had agreed, although he was certain he had no idea what Mister Cassidy was talking about. “I’ve never been good at tasting my alcohol, myself.”

After a moment of silence had passed between them, Miss West informing Mister Cassidy that they had no rum available, Neal had finally decided to speak. “I suppose you’re here to talk about Emma.”

Mister Jones appeared unable to respond, simply staring down at his glass, his eyes clouded with emotion and distress. Neal Cassidy had always seen himself as fairly sensitive to the feelings of those around him, which was why it was so simple to see the misery in his fiance’s eyes. And as he looked across the room at Killian Jones, he saw a matching demeanor to that of Emma Nolan’s.

“I am,” Killian had finally admitted, his voice rough as it slipped out of his throat. “I realize that this is not a very honorable thing for me to do, to simply show up here uninvited, but--”

“She thinks you dead,” Neal had informed him, though he was certain the soldier already knew this.

“Yes.”

“She’s been in great pain at her loss, Mister Jones. I can assure you I've never seen her smile, at least not genuinely.”

“She has a lovely smile.” Neal had watched as the corner of Killian’s mouth had twitched as if considering the memory of the sight of Emma Nolan’s grin, and in that moment, it had become clear to him what needed to be done.

Emma was in love with this man. The woman he was meant to marry, the young maiden meant to become Missus Cassidy, was in love with someone else. And as Neal stared across the space separating himself from the other man, he knew with certainty that Mister Jones loved her, too. He had vowed to himself when he proposed to take her hand that he would do anything that he could to make her happy, and he saw that he had that opportunity as Mister Jones sat adjacent to him in his drawing room.

“You love her?”

Neal had watched as the emotion began to play across the face of the man adjacent to him, pain and anguish and loss mixing with love and desire and longing in a way that made him feel completely inadequate as Emma’s betrothed. “Emma Nolan is… I could never love anything or anyone the way that I love her. I can’t describe to you the way it felt to be apart from her for the last year. My cowardice is unforgivable, because your insinuation that she has not smiled is criminal. To be the one responsible for such pain… I don’t deserve this woman, and yet I long for her. I find that I need her like I need air, as selfish as that sounds.”

Neal nodded, taking another sip and leaning back. He found himself beginning to understand, the nature of their relationship private and elusive but sensical nonetheless. Emma was essentially unavailable to the young baker, her status higher than his and making it difficult for the two of them to build a life together. But they were in love, that much was obvious enough to anyone paying attention. Neal was never privy to Emma’s past when they’d met, but it was clear that she had suffered a great loss. He had assumed it had been a former lover, perhaps a husband, but her parents had informed him that she had never been married. As time had passed, it became more and more obvious, and as he watched the young, maimed veteran walk up his drive, each and every piece of the puzzle fell together.

“She loves you,” Neal had said, and as he said it, he had watched Killian’s shoulders sag in relief. “But… the evacuation was months ago. Where have you been?”

Perhaps he had no right to ask such a thing, but Emma was still technically Neal’s fiance, for the moment, and frankly, he was curious.

“I’ve… I've been cowardly. I was shown the error of my ways a few days ago. I lost my hand in the evacuation and I thought myself incapable of leading the life Emma so deserves.”

“You’re a veteran,” Neal had stated simply, “injured while serving your country. What is there not to respect in a man who loses a part of himself while protecting the citizens of our great nation?” It was not difficult for Neal to see the blunted shortness of Killian’s left arm, stopping short at the wrist and covered in fresh, ghastly scars. “Will you seek compensation?”

Killian had simply shrugged. “I’ll be receiving a sum for my service. I’ve been medically discharged as of two days ago.”

“And your hand?”

“I can file a claim.”

The man’s voice was rough and strained, the topic obviously making him uncomfortable, so Neal chose not to press. “And what will you and Emma do when you’re reunited?” Killian had stared at the man, his pain far too palpable and almost contagious in the small, bright room. “That is, certainly you hope to wed her.”

“Well, yes,” he had choked out weakly, although his demeanor was still as straight and strong as ever. “That is most certainly my hope, although I fear it’s far too unrealistic.”

“Why?”

“Well… she is betrothed.”

Neal had shrugged. His nonchalance was felt by Killian across the room, and Neal was certain he could detect the smallest hint of a smile. “For now,” he had agreed. “However, I've never been one to force a lady into anything, particularly not something that seems to be causing her a great deal of distress.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

There was silence between them for far too long, Neal finishing his whiskey and Killian barely choking his down. Neal could tell that there was something else on the man’s mind, something that he was struggling to put to words. It was clear enough that his return took a certain amount of fortitude, his discomfort obvious enough, although he had chosen to face the fiance of the woman he loved despite it. While Neal knew himself as a man who could take care of Emma Nolan, at least financially, it became clear to him that Mister Jones was the one who could truly love her, and be given her love in return.

“Mister Cassidy…” Killian had started, but he was interrupted immediately.

“If I may, Mister Jones, I’m struggling to see the purpose of you still being here.”

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“The woman you love-- more importantly, the woman who loves you-- is a mere kilometer down the road, and here you sit in my drawing room choking down my whiskey. If I may be so bold, I feel that you should leave here and go to her. I’m certain her status as an intended woman will be rectified by morning.”

“You’re certain, Mister Cassidy?”

With a small, soft chuckle, Neal responded, “Mister Jones, I am certain that if you wait here any longer, Miss Nolan is sure to give you a well-deserved slap when she sees you, before enthusiastically ensuring that you know how much she has pined for you.”

Killian laughed as well, placing down his half-full glass as he stood, and stated, “Yes, that does sound like something she would do.”

“No more wasting time,” Neal had insisted, standing as well. “I have it on good authority that the rest of the Nolan family has missed your presence almost as much as Miss Emma.”

His hand had extended once his glass was placed upon the table between them, reaching towards Killian’s one remaining appendage and shaking it in respect. “Thank you, Mister Cassidy.”

“It was honorable of you to come here tonight, Mister Jones. Miss Nolan deserves happiness, and it’s clear that you are her best chance in that respect.”

As Killian Jones left the Cassidy estate, he had only thoughts of his love, mixed with the fear that he would be unable to provide for her. And as he walked along the road that led him to the Nolan estate, he began to find himself filled with more hope than fear, something he would say he could not recall feeling since he had lost his mother and brother as a boy. With the renewed sense of hope and promise, he walked to the estate he once called home with the purest of intentions, prepared to prove himself worthy of her hand, no matter the cost.

~~~~

The Nolan estate was always quiet at night, the energy of the home setting with the sun in each wing aside from the kitchen. There, a woman affectionately known as Granny tended to her small herb garden, prepared her dough for the morning to come, and planned menus for the following evening’s dinner. Granny was used to the quiet by now, but before the deployment of her young partner, a man desperate to make a name for himself, she had enjoyed the energy that he brought to the space.

He was always a happy young man, one of the vitality and joy that came with young love. His eyes were bright, his personality beaming, and each morning, when he had given Miss Nolan her specially-made loaf of bread, Granny would swear that the heavens reflected in his smile. There was a change in Miss Nolan as well, when she had returned from college, one evident in the way that she hummed happily each morning, meeting Ruby by the chicken coops with a skip to her step as she completed a task not assigned to her, one that simply made her happy. Killian Jones often headed out to the chicken coops each morning himself, content to collect their eggs as Miss Nolan elected to toss the feed across the soil.

Since the previous September, Miss Nolan had not gone out to feed the chickens. She had started each morning with a straight face, her lips never seeming to turn into the gracious and joyful smile that she had worn for years on end. She had spent each morning in the front room, sitting quiet and still in one of the wingback chairs, staring out the large window that overlooked the drive, as if waiting. She had always been waiting, for something that could never be returned to her. She continued to wait even after her engagement to Mister Cassidy, never content to leave her spot in the front room, never content to stop her waiting.

She had spent her days in that chair, sometimes finding a book to keep her company, but usually choosing the company of her own thoughts, ones that Granny knew must have been playing a part in her pained face. Each morning turned to noon turned to evening, and Miss Nolan was never happy to remove herself from her spot in her wingback chair in the front room, never happy to remove herself from her post watching the drive. Always watching, always waiting, always disappointed.

One evening, nearly a year after Mister Jones had left, Granny watched on as Miss Nolan held her post watching and waiting, and she became surprised to see the young lady stand before the sun set behind the trees just beyond the pond out back. Typically, Granny would see Miss Nolan sitting in her chair until long after the sun had gone down, but something had changed on this evening. Emma had stood, sighed, looked longingly once more at the front drive, and turned away from the window towards the stairs that would lead her to her chambers. Granny could read the distress on Miss Nolan’s face easily, the way her eyes appeared sunken and her lips adopted themselves into a permanent straight line.

She had given up, it had seemed. Miss Emma was a strong woman, one who had proven herself capable of many difficult tasks, but her wedding was upcoming, sooner than she would likely want. It had seemed that young Emma Nolan had begun to fall into a space of acceptance, finally moving on from the painful depression and anger that had accompanied the news of her loss. Mister Jones was gone, and with Miss Emma leaving her post, it had become painfully evident to Granny that he was not coming back.

Of course, that was what Granny had thought, before she had watched in disbelief as Mister Jones himself walked stoically up the drive from the quiet road that night. It had been believed by all that he was gone, never to return, and he was sorely missed among the staff as well as by the Nolan family. And as Granny watched him march up the stony drive, she needed to tap her fingers against her temples to ensure that she still had her wits about her.

He had rung the bell, as if this estate wasn’t his home, and Granny had taken it upon herself to hurry towards the door and hoist it open, the first one to shout at him and pull him in for a bone crushing hug.

She had heard his breath leaving his lungs with aggression, a soft, gentle laugh that she hadn’t realized she had missed so sorely dancing in her ears as she squeezed him through her disbelief. She had slapped his arm just below his shoulder, through tears, accusingly asking him, “Where the bloody hell have you been?!”

He hadn’t said much, simply giving her that smile she had missed dearly, though it wasn’t nearly as bright as she had seen it. He nearly whispered, “Is Master Nolan available? I realize it’s quite late, but--”

“Yes, boy,” Granny had said. “But are you sure he’s who you’re here to see?”

“Aye,” he had responded, clearing his throat and giving her a forced smile. “I’d like to have a word with him, if I can.”

“You bloody foolish lad,” Granny had cried, laughing as she slapped his arm again, but when she did, she had looked down, taking in the strange appearance. “What’s happened?”

Killian had smiled softly, shyly, pulling down at his sleeve to hide the wrist that lacked his hand. “I suppose I won’t be much help to you in the kitchen, love.”

“You were never any help before, boy,” Granny had said tearfully, pulling him back for another hug. “Let me see that he’s not yet turned in for the evening. You wait just here,” she had said, pulling him towards the front room and seating him in the wingback chair just beside Emma’s. She had smiled softly when she took in the image of him finally here, back where he was meant to be. He was home.

~~~~

“Truly, we weren’t expecting to see you again,” David said as he sat heavily behind his desk. He was wearing his dressing robe, the silk fabric covering his blue pajamas in a way that made him look as though he had been dragged from his chambers, although when Granny had delivered the news of Mister Jones’ return, he had sprung from his bed.

“I apologize for the late visit, sir,” Killian had answered, his head bowing in shameful embarrassment. “I hadn’t even realized the time when I arrived.”

“It isn’t a visit,” David had responded, shaking his head and meeting Killian’s fearful gaze. “I’m glad you’re home, Killian.”

“Sir?” he had asked, utterly and obviously confused despite David thinking himself quite clear.

The man chuckled and shook his head once more, leaning forward and resting his elbows atop the oak surface of his desk. “My daughter will be pleased to learn of the dissolution of her engagement, now that the man she loves has finally found his way home.”

“I’ve… I’ve a lot to explain to her,” Killian says softly, his brows deeply set in his forehead. “I was gone too long. And I’m not sure I'm worthy of her hand, sir.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to have a conversation with her, then,” David rebutted. “As for your worth, I struggle to see how a veteran who fought, was maimed, and nearly died for his nation could be considered unworthy of the hand of an eligible woman. Well, nearly eligible, I suppose.” David had given Killian a soft smile, one that he had hoped would relay a sense of ease to the young man, though he wasn’t sure that would even be possible.

“We’ve nowhere to live,” Killian had argued, making David roll his eyes into the back of his head.

“Emma has always been promised her grandfather’s house in Bristol,” he said. “No more excuses.”

“Well, that is good news,” Killian had agreed. David could see something simmering beneath his skin, a soft smile pulling at the lad’s lips that he tried to fight. It was hope, he had realized. “I suppose I’ll see Miss Nolan in the morning, sir, if you’re… in support of…”

“She’s in her bed chamber,” David had told him. “You know where that is, aye?”

“It’s late, sir.”

“Well, it’s no secret that you’ve been in her chamber before,” David had said, a smirk deeply set upon his face. “Though I tend not to dwell on the happenings in either of my children’s chambers.” He had watched on in amusement as Killian’s eyes grew wide, his cheeks reddening as he bit his lower lip between his teeth anxiously.

“It’s alright, sir,” he had conceded after a beat, seeming to need to regain his bearings. “I desire not to disturb her or to disrespect your hospitality by going into her chamber. I shall see her in the morning.”

David smiled, pleased with his answer despite giving him his blessing to see his daughter. Killian had always been a pleasant lad, one who brought with him a sense of easy lightheartedness, making each member of their household smile simply by being in the room. The mood of the Nolan estate had been significantly bleak since the day Killian Jones had gone off to war, and even more so following the evacuation of Dunkirk beach which failed to bring him home. Meeting him in his study, David had noted the stark change in the young man’s demeanor, as if his time away had taken from him far more than his hand.

He hadn’t wanted to ask for an explanation. Whatever was holding him back from returning had seemed to melt away, something convincing him to return to where he belonged, and despite the arrangement David had made between his daughter and her betrothed, he was pleased. Mister Cassidy had already phoned him earlier in the evening, informing David of Killian’s return and of their agreement, and it was almost too easy to allow things to fall into their natural order.

Emma’s love was finally home, something she believed so firmly would happen. It would seem as though her fierce hope and belief was enough to convince the heavens to let Mister Jones return from his tenure. And for that, and for her impending joy, David couldn’t be more pleased.

~~~~

Killian was too nervous to sleep, he had found as he lay in the bed that used to be his. His heart was racing almost as quickly as his thoughts, his eyes wide in the darkness of the room as he considered every possible scenario in great detail. Emma could reject him as easily as her father and fiance had done just the opposite, deciding that his excuse for his absence was as weak as he felt it was. She could take one look at his blunted wrist and decide him unworthy of her love and devotion. She could feel exactly as he had felt since he was pulled from the Channel; she could hate the broken man that the war had made him.

But he had decided that he hadn’t a choice. Nemo had told him that he had owed it both to himself and to the woman he loved to try to fight his way back to her, whatever the cost may have been.

He rose from his bed, the surface of the mattress feeling to foreign after a year away, and walked slowly and quietly through the door of his chambers until he got to the kitchen in the west wing of the house. It was too quiet, the sound of his heart and his memories overwhelming in the dark silence, but when he had arrived in the kitchen he used to love, he was able to hear the sounds of the chickens rustling just outside, the soft hum of the refrigerator settling his nerves.

He hadn’t even been thinking before he found himself gathering ingredients, combining his yeast with the warm water and sugar before sieving his flour. He struggled greatly with the eggs, finding it difficult to separate the yolks from the whites with only one hand. When it came time to knead, he nearly tossed the dough out the window to his left, his one hand barely able to roll the dough while also collecting it, and his bare wrist too painful still to provide any help. He had cursed and hissed and kicked the leg of the table he worked at, but everything had stopped and become unimportant at the sound of his own name.

When he had looked up, his world had stopped, his vision going black, a halo surrounding her as he blinked away the rest of the world.

He was home.

~~~~

Emma Nolan was too filled with melancholy to sleep. Her thoughts were swirling, never ending, always too loud, and she found herself as she often did, wide awake and staring at her ceiling when she should have been sleeping soundly. Her wedding was upcoming, Emma doomed to marry a man she did not love while she mourned the loss of the one she did.

She did not want to admit to anyone, especially not to herself, that she had lost Killian Jones. When he had left, she was so filled with hope, so determined to have him back and to marry him once he had finally accepted his own worth. He always had been unsure of himself and she was sure that would have changed when he had come home a veteran of the Second World War.

But he had been lost months ago, and he still hadn’t come home.

She had been waiting. She had spent her days and night waiting, and watching, and hoping. But he still hadn’t come home.

Her husband-to-be had been kind enough for the few times they’d met. She knew that he would take care of her, that he would respect her and be kind to her, but it didn’t seem to matter. There had been nothing to take her mind off of the man she was meant to marry. She’d known she would marry Killian when she was merely seventeen, and now, years later, to have that taken away from her was too painful to think about.

And yet, it seemed to be all she could think about.

She stood from her bed as she had every night, finding it too difficult to slow her thoughts and choosing instead to do what she had done each night since her love had left, wandering the house in which she grew up, choosing to busy herself exploring all of the things she had already explored years prior. She had always found herself in the kitchen, tearfully running her fingers along the countertops and peeking out the window at the chickens, content to pity herself for her sorrow. The counters reminded her where she sat while he cooked, accepting his kisses and his hands as they explored her over her dresses. The chickens reminded her of where they met on occasion, stealing more kisses and more touches. She couldn’t be in her own home without some painful reminder of the man she loved and could not find.

She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to give up that evening, standing from her usual spot in her wingback chair and ignoring the pull she had felt to stay and stare out at the stony drive. A part of her knew that he was alive, but she had been given far too much evidence against the fact, and she could simply take no more. She had heard a soft commotion downstairs while she had sat in her chambers, but she ignored that as well, figuring if her fiance fancied a late-night visit, her ignoring him would have sent the message that she wasn’t interested in seeing him.

Staring at the chair as she walked by, she pushed heavily against the swinging door leading to the kitchen, and when she made her way inside, she had stopped short in her tracks, her hands shooting up to cover her mouth in response to her utter shock.

She couldn’t speak, not only because her mouth was covered. Her eyes were blown wide, hardly blinking as she took in the sight with which she thought she would never be blessed again. He was cursing just as he used to, working his dough roughly and with great aggravation, and her heart stopped. It was something so simple and natural, something that she used to walk in on so frequently, but as she stared at him, all she could do was call his name through her fingers.

“Killian?” she said softly, her voice muffled. He lifted his head slowly, although his eyes darted quickly from his dough, his hands dropping from his tortured project.

No, hand , she noted.

But it didn’t matter.

“Emma,” he breathed, his lips pulling softly at the corners, obviously not nearly in the amount of disbelief that she was. He hit his hand against the white apron tied around his waist and stepped out from behind the counter. “My love…”

“You’re--” she started breathlessly, unable to speak as her hands returned to her mouth and then moved to cover her eyes. With a sob, she dropped to her knees.

“Emma,” he whispered once more as he hurried to her, squatting before her and placing his hand on her shoulder hesitantly, as if she may have cracked if he touched her. “Emma, darling, are you…”

“How are you here?” she’d asked through her tears, barely able to catch her breath. “I've always known you were alive but a part of me started to think you were really gone.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, my love. I’ve been gone too long; I thought-- that is, I thought I wouldn’t see you until the morning.”

“Killian,” she choked.

“I know how disappointed you must be,” he started, his hand landing heavily on her own before he removed it. “I’m so sorry, Emma. I just didn’t know how to face you after--”

His words were halted, Emma having leaned forward with such power and enthusiasm that Killian could barely catch her before falling backwards, the two of them landing upon the stone floor firmly, though neither of them cared. Emma’s lips were upon his own, finally , and she cared not where they were or in what condition. He was home , returned to her after her prayers and hopes and dreams and nightmares. It didn’t matter that he was not his complete self, his hand having gone in what she could only imagine to have been a painful and mortifying experience. What mattered to her was the fact that he was in her arms again.

“You’re here,” she said against his lips before kissing him once more. “I knew you would come home to me.”

His hand moved from her waist and up to her jaw, cradling her face to his as he returned her kiss through his obvious shock. It was as if he wasn’t expecting her to react in such a way, like he thought he would have to fight so much harder to have her back in his arms, but that would never have been the case. No cost would have been too great, so long as Emma had gotten him back. And she had gotten him back, a fact which she knew in that moment would be near impossible to wrap her mind around after months of hoping and praying and dreaming.

“Are you not--” He laughed as he was cut off by her kiss once more before continuing, his grin contagious. “Are you not angry?”

“How could I be angry?” she asked through exasperation and with a shake to her head. “You’re home.”

“I took such a long time to--”

“I don't care,” she shook her head again. “You’re here; it doesn’t matter. I don't care how, I’m just so glad you’re alright.”

Their lips couldn’t seem to stay apart; at least, that was what it felt like as Emma had drawn herself to his mouth once more, unable to part from him for more than a moment without the same anguish that she had felt for the last year. She couldn’t be apart from him without a pain in her heart, so she pulled him close to her and strengthened her grip on his hair, refusing to let go.

“I love you,” he had whispered into the small space between them. “So much. I’m so sorry.”

“ I’m sorry,” she had whispered back, her fingers toying with his hair and her lips meeting his once more. “Killian,” she cried, unable to speak more, at least audibly. Her fingers trailed from his hair to his shoulder, slipping down his arm until she reached his forearm, though she felt she shouldn’t go any lower. He had lost his hand, the brief preview of his injury she had been afforded showing her the angry and painful looking scars spattered against his skin, and she could barely comprehend how close she must have come to truly losing him.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. The space between them was short and quiet, although the rest of the world was quiet as well. His fingers laced their way through her hair, finally feeling the softness that she thought he must have missed in the year that he had been gone. “I don’t really remember much, to be honest.”

“What happened?” she’s asked, her voice a soft whisper, her fingers moving away from his wound and stroking against the soft skin of his temple and down to his jaw. “If you… I mean…”

He had hushed her, smiling softly, his own fingers brushing her hair away from her eyes. “It’s alright,” he had said again, his voice so soft and tender in the darkness of the kitchen. “I was saved. A retired captain, Nemo… he rescued me and convinced me to come back, love. I was so fearful of facing you, but he--”

“Killian,” she had cut him off, her elbows planting firmly into the stony floors as she hovered over him. “Why the bloody hell were you scared? Scared to come home?”

Her face must have conveyed a sense of hurt, as her pain of being feared, her pain of him being too fearful to face her with his injury despite the fact that she would always love him, far too great. She would never deny the love that she had for him, hand or no hand. He could lose his legs, his arms, his mind, and she would still love him. “I’m sorry,” he had whispered painfully again.

“I love you,” she told him solidly. “I love you more than anything or anyone. I could never hold your injury against you, Killian, how could you not know that?”

She had watched as a small smile crept onto his face, pulling slightly at his lips before she noted the sadness still painted in his eyes. “Nemo said you would say just that,” he had remarked. “I was such a fool.”

“It doesn't matter,” she whispers, pressing her nose to his. “You’re here, and whatever else happened… we’ll figure it out. I don't care as long as you’re alright.”

He had told her everything that he could remember then, how he was stranded on the beach and finally found his way onto a ship, thinking himself saved before it was sunk by a U-boat. He had thought himself so lucky before he nearly died once more, the bombs dropping from the sky enough before the added fear of the U-boats. He thought he would never leave that beach, and then he thought he would never leave the Channel, doomed to never again see the woman he loved.

And then, when Nemo had dragged him from the painfully salty water and given him a new lease on life, he had determined himself unworthy of her with his missing appendage. Nemo was a former naval captain from Calais who had used his personal vessel to travel across the channel in search of men in need, and had happened upon Killian, nearly dead from drowning and blood loss although determined not to die. The loss of his hand had taken a great toll on him, the fear of being unable to provide for her becoming far too great. He had been able to convince himself that she was better off without him, despite how much she had loved him, and he feared ever returning home. He had informed her that it wasn’t until the announcement of her engagement that Nemo was finally able to convince him to leave the bloody farm, way up on the cliffs of Dover, and return home to her.

She couldn't begin to formulate a statement of gratitude to this captain Nemo, neither for saving the man she loved, nor for convincing him to return to where he belonged. She couldn’t seem to stop repeating her disbelief at his return, saying, “You’re home,” over and over in a soft whisper.

Killian had seemed to finally gain his bearings after a moment or so, his fingers tangling in her hair and pulling her impossibly closer before he had decided to roll them over gently. His hand moved to cradle the back of her head as her back landed on the stony floor, Killian carefully resting his body weight atop hers in a way that was soothing and grounding and exactly what she had been missing for the year he had been gone.

She didn’t care that they were in the kitchen, on the cold floor in the middle of the night. She didn’t care that it was unbecoming of a woman intended for another man to grind her hips up against her lover’s. She didn’t care that it was improper for a lady to have physical relations with a man to whom she was not married. She didn’t care, because as her tongue snuck along the inside of his upper lip, his hand left her hair and squeezed against her thigh, lifting her leg so that he could push his own hips against hers. The moan that slipped from her mouth into his was not ladylike, and she didn’t care.

“ God, Killian,” she whimpered as his hand moved from the outside of her leg to the inside, slowly climbing up her inner thigh and sending a shiver down her spine. Her thin cotton nightgown did little to fight off the autumn chill or the coolness of the stones beneath her, but it didn’t matter to her as the warmth of him was finally pressed heavily to her once more.

They had been with each other in certain ways prior to his leaving, each of them exploring their own bodies as well as each other’s, but they had never taken that step that she so desperately wanted to as his fingers tickled lightly along her skin, only just missing where she wanted him.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured into her skin, his lips trailing down her neck to run his tongue along the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “There wasn’t a day that went by in which my thoughts were not consumed by the memory of you.”

“I thought of you every moment, Killian,” she whispered. Then, more boldly, but with her voice just as quiet, she told him, “especially at night, while I touched myself.”

“Bloody hell, love,” he uttered before lightly biting her skin. “You’re far too impossible to resist.”

“Then don’t,” she challenged.

“It’s not very honorable to sully the purity of a woman before marriage,” he’d argued, although it was clear to Emma that he was struggling to follow through with his own insistence as his hips jutted into hers again, the evidence of his desire clear.

“Please, I need you. I need to feel you everywhere, Killian. It’s been a year that you’ve been gone, and you… I thought you were… I need you.”

His lips had found hers again, finally fusing them together once more before he pulled back slightly and whispered, “I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through, my love.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she’d whispered back. “I know that it must have been hard for you to come back. But you’re here now; that’s what matters. Just… be here with me.”

He had been cautious, his movements slow and gentle as he had brought her to the edge and beyond with his fingers just as he had done before. But when he slipped himself inside her, his empty arm bent and his elbow supporting his weight as his fingers drew soothing patterns along her temple. It was a different feeling from what she was used to, but no less pleasurable as he gently drove into her until they were both seeing stars. Though she had never done such a thing before, she knew that she could never be separated from him again after experiencing the pleasure of being with him, mind, body, and soul.

~~~~

The sun had yet to rise, not even close to breaking over the front drive that overlooked the estate as they lay comfortably in each other’s arms. Killian had forgone his dough, realizing that his need to make Emma bread was for naught by the time they had finally been reunited. She hadn’t needed him to make her anything or give her anything; all she needed was him.

He’d started a small fire in the sitting room, gathering a nest of blankets around Emma on the small loveseat before he sat beside her, a gentle smile upon his lips as he lifted an arm, the right one, and cradled her close to him.

“How are you feeling?” he had asked, his fingers dancing lightly on the bare skin of her arm.

“Perfect,” she had whispered back. “Anything unpleasant that I was feeling melted away when I stepped into the kitchen earlier.”

“Oh, aye?” he laughed, planting a firm yet gentle kiss to the side of her head. She hummed and nodded sleepily, the weight of the lateness of the hour mixing with the emotional exhaustion of his return. He wanted to apologize, again, but he knew that if he had, he’d have gotten an elbow to the ribs.

“Will you tell me what happened to your hand?” she had asked after so much silence that he’d thought she was asleep. He wouldn’t have blamed her, though it had seemed as though she was too keyed up to sleep despite her obvious exhaustion.

He didn’t want to tell her what happened. He didn’t want to put to words the traumatic events that had separated them for so long, finding it both painful and embarrassing. His excuses were pathetic and childish, and he wasn’t sure he could move on.

But he loved her far too much to deny her of something she had wanted, and so he nodded. “I suppose it had started on the beaches,” he told her, relaying what had happened over those few days during which they had realized that they were doomed. He couldn’t seem to avoid talking about it. He told her of the vessel he had thought himself lucky to get onto, until he was below deck eating jammy bread when the U-boat had struck, sinking them more quickly than they could escape.

He told her of his hand getting caught in the heavy steel door, of the blankness in his mind blocking out the unimaginable pain of what had come next, of his almost inability to even comprehend what had happened, before he got out of the ship and had allowed himself to succumb to his fate. That was, until Nemo.

He didn’t know how long he had been floating, how long it had been before he had let himself sink below the surface of the water, content to let death take him away from the pain he’d begun feeling. His hand was screaming, though he had later realized that it was the wound being washed with the salty, oil slicked water causing the intense throb. His lungs had burned with each failed breath, taking in salt water instead of his much-needed air.

He didn’t even realize how easy it must have been to become emotional, the fear that he had felt coming back in droves and reminding him of the terrors of war. He cleared his throat, stirring slightly in an attempt to shake off his feelings of horror, and apologized again for his weakened display.

“Don’t, Killian,” she had whispered, her hand cupping his cheek-- the one with the scar that he got after she had pushed him too hard on the swing when they were children-- and brushing away a rogue tear with her thumb. “I’m sorry you went through all of that.”

“It’s no excuse, I should’ve been here for you.”

“No, my love. You needed to heal.”

“I could’ve come back and healed with you, Emma,” he’d said. “I knew I should return to you; I was too much of a coward.”

“It’s okay--”

“Please don’t say that,” he whispers. “It’s not. I realize I had a reason at first, but I was too afraid.”

“Of what? My reaction?” she’d asked as she sat up, a look of obvious disdain spread across her face. “Killian, I could never--”

“No, my love. No, I’m sorry. I just… it was never you. It was the fact that I had left you with the promise that I’d return a man worthy of your hand. And instead, I’ve returned with… Well, with one less hand.” Her fingers stroked lightly against the scar on his cheek before she kissed it, just as she had refused to do when they were children and he had goaded her for causing his fall. “There are so many things I can’t do now, my love. It’ll only make things more difficult if I--”

“There’s no if , Killian. You’re here, aren’t you?” Henodded. “Then there’s no if . I don’t give a damn that I’m engaged; I call that off tomorrow. And the only reason I care about your hand is because I know how much it must’ve hurt for you. I hate what’s happened because of how clear it is that it affects you so strongly. It doesn’t matter to me that you’ve lost your hand, Killian. I just want you to be safe and happy.”

“I am,” he whispered.

“Then be with me,” she whispered back.

“I will if you’ll have me, my love.”

She kissed him again, her hands cradling his face against hers, her thumb slipping along his scar and her fingers pulling at the hair at the back of his neck. “Always,” she whispers. “I don’t want to ever be apart from you. I wish to be with you, always.”

With a smirk, he had stared into her eyes happily, informing her, “Luckily, I’ve had a word with you intended already. Your engagement is off.”

“Is it?” she’d asked, pushing away from him to give him a bright grin. It has been obvious enough by her reaction that she hadn’t been interested in the marriage, and he knew that he had done the right thing by speaking with Mister Cassidy prior to returning to her.

“Aye, I spoke with your father as well.”

“So you’ve been back, and the first thing you did was not come and find your beloved? How rude,” she had joked before leaning in for another kiss.

“Apologies, but I figured it would be the honorable thing, to announce my intentions to be with you.”

“It was,” she grinned. “And will you have me, then?” she asked, as if his answer would not have been completely obvious.

“Always. You, and only you.”

“Then marry me,” she whispered.

“Aren’t I meant to ask you that?” he asked softly, bumping his nose against hers.

“Well, you bloody well haven’t yet, have you? You’ve been here all evening and still haven’t proposed; one of us had to eventually.”

“I love you,” he’d laughed. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, pulling her so that she had landed upon his lap, and repeated, “I love you.”

“Then mar--”

He cut her off with a kiss, grinning against her lips at the way she laughed lightly. “Emma Ruth Nolan, will you marry me?”

She hadn’t answered, although the way that her legs had parted to straddle his lap as she deepened their kiss seemed like answer enough. Without words, without actually saying yes , she took control, taking her pleasure from him as she eventually helped him slip inside again, never once letting his lips part from hers. She did eventually say yes as he drove up into her, though she was also quietly crying his name and her love for him until he finally took her over the edge.

“Yes,” she finally said breathlessly as she dropped her head to his chest just beneath his chin, and this time, he knew what she had meant.

“Yes?”

“Mhmm,” she said as she kissed his neck. “We’re getting married.”

He had hummed, his smile soft and tired as he kissed the crown of her head. “I’ll be there.”

“I know.”

~~~~

David Nolan was surprised by the quiet lack of energy in his estate when he had woken up the morning following Killian Jones’ return. It wasn’t as though he had expected some fantastical celebration, but he knew that the staff as well as his family had loved and missed Killian, and he was not expecting how sleepy the home was after he’d returned.

His wife was not in bed when he’d awoken, though when he’d gotten to the dining hall, he noticed that she was there at the table, and that it was not set for breakfast. Mary Margaret sat, her hands folded on the surface and a beaming smile drawn across her lips as she stared at the doorway leading into the kitchen. Granny was also there, staring coyly at the door while Ruby stood with her ear pressed against it.

“What’s wrong?” David asked as he took in the sight.

His wife looked up to him, her grin somehow growing wider and causing a small smile to tickle at the corner of his mouth as well. “See for yourself,” she had suggested, gesturing towards the door against which Ruby was listening intently.

Stepping over, he pushed against the door lightly, letting it swing just a bit so that he could peer silently into the kitchen, and what he saw was of no surprise to him.

“You’ve got to use all of your body weight, love,” Killian had said, coming up behind Emma and placing her hands where they should be on the ball of dough. David noted the bare finger on her left hand, her engagement ring given to her by Mister Cassidy haphazardly left on the counter, likely to never be worn again. “You really need to work the gluten so it proves properly.”

“It’s hard!” she’d exclaimed with a smile, turning her head to press a kiss against his cheek.

“Yes, I know. I’ve slaved over these for years.”

“But that was so that you could get my attention,” she’d giggled.

“Aye, and so I could keep it,” he agreed with a laugh. “I never claimed to be sly in my intentions, though I will admit that my labors were worth it.”

“I’ll say,” she grinned. He watched for just a moment more before she turned in Killian’s arms, forgoing the bread dough as she kissed him. David noted another ball of dough lying on the counter, obviously abandoned hours ago, and wondered what had gone wrong with that batch.

He stepped away from the door then, content not to watch his only daughter displaying her affection for the estate’s baker as he let the door fall shut once more. He fought the small smile as he turned back to his wife, who stared at him excitedly.

“He’s back,” she’d exclaimed.

“So is Emma, it seems,” he agreed.

“Did you see how happy she is? David, we can’t make her marry Mister Cassidy, no matter how comfortable she would be with him.”

He hummed, taking a seat across from his wife, resigning himself to the fact that he may never get his breakfast. “Yes, that’s what I told Mister Cassidy when he called me last night.”

“He called you?” he heard from Granny, who snapped her mouth shut but gave him a smirk to his weak glare.

“After Killian visited him. It seems things have worked themselves out quite nicely.”

“Yes they have,” Emma had agreed as she carried a bowl of fruit to the table, her grin impossibly wide as Killian followed her out with a heavy stack of plates. “Haven’t they, Killian?”

“Indeed, love,” he had smiled. “Master Nolan, may I offer you some fruit to start your breakfast this morning?”

“No,” David had chuckled, shaking his head. “Take the car to Bristol, for goodness sake. It’s time you and your future bride see the home you’ll share.”

“Father,” Emma had beamed. “You’re certain? Killian can have the day off?”

“Killian doesn’t work for me,” he’d argued easily. Then, with a smile, he said, “Killian’s family.”

And with their union a mere month later, he truly was.

~~~~

Tagging: @courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx @itsfridaysomewhere @alexa-fangirl-forever @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @rapunzelsghosts @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice @batana54 @sailtoafarawayland @deckerstarblanche @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @pirateprincessofpizza @captainswan21 @hookedmom @lostintheskyfaraway

#Whatever The Cost May Be #captain swan #cshistfic #captain swan fanfic #cs ff #once upon a time fanfic #ouat ff #alternate universe #captain swan au #historical au #angst #angst with a happy ending #mild fluff #mild smut

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ohmightydevviepuu · 8 months

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the part of a swan / chapter eleven (and ten, ICYMI)

[ art by @snowbellewells ]

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination. She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

But Killian Jones is not concerned with who she was–he’s interested in who she is. And he might be the only one smart enough to uncover the truth.

The crowds outside the front entrance to The Swan seemed determined to overcome the steel doors with their double locks, heedless of the two additional door-men—smaller than Anton, but visibly armed. The streets echoed with the shouts of the men filling St. James Street for the chance at five thousand pounds.

With a shove that was anything but gentle, Anton nudged Killian to follow Scarlet over the street and through an unmarked door to approach the casino from a back entrance, avoiding the crowds in every way except for the ringing in Killian’s ears. Anton knocked heavily on the door in a rat-a-tat pattern that must have been a code; the door opened quickly and they were ushered in through a well-appointed tea room. Another shove had him moving past the tables of what was obviously the women’s side salon and into a well-lit hallway with another door at its end.

Scarlet jumped ahead to pull the door open and Killian found himself amidst the hazard fields and gaming tables of the main floor of the hell. In the middle of the morning, the tables stood empty and silent.

The room was neither.

“Ah. You’re here.” Locksley spoke loudly over the din. “The waiting was becoming a bit much.” In spite of the early hour, Lord Locksley already sipped from a drink. So too did the Duke of Dorset, standing beside him.

What was he doing here?

“Your giant and your errand boy dragged me nearly from my bed this morning,” Killian said, struggling to keep his voice even. It was not an exaggeration; upon opening the front door of his personal residence, Killian had found himself swept—almost—off his feet. It was a nearer thing than he wanted to admit as he had scrambled for purchase under the unmoving arm of Swan’s giant. Scarlet’s cheerful greeting has he brandished the morning’s paper—as if Killian had not written it himself—had done nothing to improve his mood.

“Consider it an incentive,” Locksley said.

“Tearing my shirt collar is meant to be taken as an incentive?”

“It could have been your arm,” Locksley said. “Limb from limb, you know. Anton’s quite capable.”

“Wouldn’t have minded,” the giant muttered.

“We gave it serious consideration, did we not, Dorset?” Locksley gestured with the half-full tumbler, sloshing the amber liquid in the glass, but the duke’s eyes fastened on Killian.

Killian growled. He had not slept—not the night before, not in days. His mind was chasing itself in circles that kept him awake and dancing on the edge of a precipice and every time he closed his eyes all he saw was her. “So instead you decided to parade me about town?”

“The Swan prides itself on the quality of its entertainment.” The duke spoke for the first time. “But if you prefer, we can return you to the crowds outside. It is the least you deserve for your idiocy. This is your idea of a plan?”

““’I have set my life upon a cast, / And I will stand the hazard of the die,’” Killian said.

Scarlet piped up. “See, that’s Shakespeare. Even I know that. Thought you were smarter than that, Jones.”

“Richard III,” Anton said. “Only I don’t think that story ended so well for him.”

continue reading on AO3

@cshistfic @spartanguard @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @lfh1226-linda

#cs fic #cshistfic #regency au

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thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

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where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles (part 3 of 4)

Summary: British soldier Killian Jones is nursing his sick brother back to health in the middle of the coldest winter the Pennsylvania countryside has ever seen, and in the middle of a war he never wanted to be a part of. Emma Swan has found herself surrounded by American soldiers who have taken over the family farm in Valley Forge, but the biggest change in her life comes from a young British soldier she meets delivering extra rations. Will they give into the temptations of their hearts, or decide that the chance of unrequited love is not worth the dare of being branded a traitor?

Title from Robert Browning’s “Love Among the Ruins,” 1855. Written for @cshistfic and my forever cheerleader @shireness-says, who made her dream event a reality. Thanks to @welllpthisishappening @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @profdanglaisstuff and @kmomof4 for being excited enough about this to make it happen. 💕

part one on AO3 / on tumblr

part two on AO3

"And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey Melt away— That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there" - Robert Browning

It’s not unusual for Ruby to show up at the door of their cabin; she is the only one who knows where they are, has been supplying them with food every once in a while. She has a feeling that David also knows where they are — the secluded cabin was his father’s, though he swore never to return to it. For weeks, their only connection to life outside their cabin is Ruby, with letters from Mary Margaret tucked into the bottom of her basket.

So, when there’s a soft knock at the door on unseasonably warm early March morning, the very last thing Emma expects to see is Mary Margaret, her swollen belly due any day now, and her eyes red from crying, clutching tightly to Ruby’s arm.

“Mary,” she whispers, pulling her sister-in-law — her best friend — in for a hug after the moment it takes her brain to catch up. “What are you doing here?”

“You know I wouldn’t have done this if it weren’t an emergency,” Ruby replies, ushering them into the cabin.

It’s small, just enough for her and Killian to survive comfortably, a whole house crammed into a single room, but their two guests suddenly make it obvious just how small the cabin is.

Ruby’s words make Emma think the worst, her heart sinking in her chest as she watches them sit at the table, Mary Margaret’s eyes finding Killian, standing wordlessly at the stove.

“So you’re the reason my best friend disappeared,” she says. It’s not a question.

He nods. This isn’t his place to speak, and he knows it.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Emma says, her throat already dry. There is only one thing that would send Mary Margaret all the way out here in her state, and Emma can sense the words before they leave Ruby’s lips, a nod from Mary Margaret telling her to speak.

“David’s been killed.”

Her whole world seems to crumble from beneath her, head spinning as she tries to keep her feet on the ground. She has no words, and is unsure that she could speak even if she wanted to.

“How?” Killian asks, his voice sounding much further away than she knows him to be.

“I need your help, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, avoiding Killian’s question. “Please. I can’t do this alone. I need you to come home”

There’s no argument in her, nothing can be said that will change her mind. She has to go back.

And he can not go back with her. She knows it.

He knows it.

The air in the room is thick with the knowledge.

Home . Where is home anymore? She would have sworn that it became this very cabin, that it became any place she could be with Killian, but when the word leaves Mary Margaret’s lips, she knows that the farm will always be her home, no matter what.

“Of course,” she whispers, turning to meet Killian’s eyes. “Can we… have a few minutes?”

She fully anticipates the No , hearing it in David’s voice — which only makes Ruby’s “Of course, Em,” hurt all the more.

Neither of them move, frozen in their spots as Ruby and Mary Margaret move back through their door. The clock on the mantle over the fireplace ticks in the silent air, much slower than Emma’s pounding heart.

“You have to go,” he says, still leaning against the kitchen workspace.

She swallows, fingers gripping the edge of their dining room table. “Yes.”

“I can’t… I don’t want to stay here without you.”

“I cannot tell you what to do.”

“I love you.”

She sighs, her whole body shaking on the exhale. It is not the first time the words have been spoken under this roof, their feelings for each other quite obvious after giving up the rest of their lives to be together. In all definitions save the religious, they are married, have been together physically multiple times; perhaps in other situations, he would be able to return to the homestead with her as her husband, or at least her betrothed.

But that is not the situation they find themselves in, a fact they are both aware of.

Finally, she finds the strength to stand, closing the space between them just enough to touch him, though she does not. She holds her hands at her side, fingers squeezed into fists. “What are you going to do?”

He laughs out a single breath, shaking his head. In the ten weeks they have been together, his dark beard has grown thicker, stubble covering his chin, somehow making the sparkle in his blue eyes all the brighter. He has grown into the habit of running his fingers through the hair on his face, scratching along his jawline, and that is what he does now.

“All I can do is go back to camp and hope that my brother keeps me from scandal. From death.” After all she has heard about the elder Jones brother, plus the few moments she knew him once he regained consciousness, she has no doubt that Liam will do anything to save his brother’s life, even if he has been missing from their camp for ten weeks.

“I will write to you.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, Killian!” she yells, throwing her hands in the air. All at once, she feels all the emotion that she has been holding in — fear, anger, despair, grief — and she crumbles against his chest, searching for solace in the one place she has been able to find it recently. She chokes out a sob, finally allowing her tears to fall. “All I know is I cannot lose you.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, losing himself in the scent of her tresses, lovingly washed by his hands just the night before. “They are waiting for you,” he says finally, his hands gently pushing her hips away from him.

It is not goodbye, but feels just as final, and they share one last kiss before she closes the door of the small cabin that has become their home, not knowing the next time she will see the man she has loved since the first time they met.

But she is needed elsewhere, and for now, that is more important.

She expected a bit of a mess. A few piles of papers on the desk, maybe an old tea mug or two.

She did not expect the whirlwind of papers strewn about the small study, looking as if a tornado ran right through the middle of the house.

“What the hell happened here?” she asks aloud, though she is alone in the room.

“Sorry my organization strategy doesn’t fit your standards,” a voice from the darkened corner of the room says, making her jump. For a moment, she contemplates crying out, as she recognizes the figure in the corner as none other than her recently-deceased brother — but when she steps out of the shadows, revealing his pristinely-tied cravat, embroidered waistcoat, and knee-length jacket, she knows it is not David; it is his twin brother, their only other sibling. Sure, she hadn’t seen James for almost ten years, but she recognized the differences between him and David immediately.

“Hello, brother.”

He bows slightly, barely noticeable in the low light of the study. “Emma.”

“You’re here for the funeral, no doubt?” she asks, trying to keep her contempt towards her brother out of her voice. Along with the other differences in their personalities, James was always much colder to her than David, separating himself from his other siblings as often as possible.

And moving far from their farm as soon as he could, attending a prestigious college in New York City on the hard-earned dime of their parents. He left the day after he turned eighteen, almost ten years ago.

“And to take over my duties as the head of household.”

Had she not just placed the pile of papers in her hands on the desk, they would have fallen to the floor. She feels her stomach flip, but tries to calm it with a swallow. “Yes, of course,” she replies, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible.

But she can tell that he recognizes the sheer shock written on her face. It’s a look that he became familiar with during their childhood, always going out of his way to scare her, to upset her. Just as he has done now.

“Let me know if I can assist you as I did with David.” And with a small curtsey, she leaves the room.

It’s not very often anymore that Emma finds herself lucky. Over the past three days, her entire life has crumbled around her, losing her brother and having to leave behind the man who still holds her heart.

But James has gone to town to call on the casket makers, leaving Emma to cover the duties as head of the estate. Which, today, includes responding to a small pile of correspondence left ignored by James, some delivered that morning.

Today, she is lucky to be covering James’ duties; otherwise, she would have missed a letter she knows is for her, written in a script that she would now recognize anywhere.

Swan Household

Head of Staff

What a clever man. He had no way of knowing who would be placed as their head of household; even she did not expect James to return home. But he remembered her technical title, given to her to be able to receive funds from David — the very same funds that covered them while they were at the cabin.

Her hands are shaking as she pulls at the seal, hoping that it bears good news, even with how short it is.

I once again thank you for the generosity of bringing me into your home to recover from the effects of getting lost in the storm before Christmas. If not for your assistance, I surely would have met my death on the snowy hillside. I wanted to assure you and the rest of the staff that I was safely able to return to my camp and to my duties as a soldier.

Though I cannot be thankful for the war that brought me to this continent, I am thankful for the time I was able to spend in your care. Perhaps if more households were as caring and understanding as yours, we would no longer need to fight senseless wars.

I wish you peace and prosperity for your upcoming harvest months, and am eternally grateful.

-Killian Jones

Setting the parchment back down on the desk, she smiles, even as tears begin to form in her eyes. She misses him with every piece of her being, misses the way he smiles at her over his tea cup, his warmth in the middle of the night, his fingers as he washed her hair. That they were only able to spend a few short weeks in blissful happiness was immensely unfair, though she would never have left him for anything less important. She is thankful for his letter nonetheless, ensuring her that he returned to camp safely, even deceptively. She blinks, a tear falling down her cheek, and when she opens her eyes, she focuses on his name for a moment. Killian Jones , the man she loves. The man who, in any other life, any other circumstance, she would surely already be married to.

But life is unfair, a fact that she is reminded of as her eyes move from his name on the parchment to the piles of other unopened correspondence on the desk. This life is unfair, but she has other responsibilities beyond sitting in David’s office and grieving for her broken heart. Grieving for what her life could have been.

She has a life here, and right now, that life needs her more than ever.

The morning of the funeral delivers a cold and dreary late winter day. A handful of guests arrive throughout the morning, all acquaintances of David’s, many of them merchants and farmers themselves. Each of them introduces themselves to James, knowing that he will be taking over the farm operations.

The only reply James gives any of them is a small bow of the head.

The dreary weather only matches the dreary feeling of being inside the house, the windows and mirrors covered with mourning fabric. Unprompted, many of their guests begin sharing lighthearted stories about David — how he spared a few coins when they were needed, how he would help deliver groceries when he went into town and was always available to anyone who needed his help.

With each new story, Mary Margaret falls deeper into despair, flanked by Emma and Ruby the entire day. She is, understandably, inconsolable, tears only falling harder as the evening passes. She pauses only to take a few small bites of the biscuit and jam Emma shares with her. Not long after, she excuses herself, waving both her companions away as she leaves the room.

Complete silence falls upon the room for the first time that day. Though a few of their guests have left for the evening, many still remain, faces Emma recognizes from the few times she was able to accompany David into the town, or was sent with Ruby. She smiles briefly at the baker, a greying man seated on their sofa, his young son asleep in his arms; beside him sits the owner of the closest dairy farm, the only animal their farm has not gained over the last few years. The seamstress that made Mary Margaret’s wedding dress; the journalist who wrote David’s death notice, seemingly taking notes for another article.

Emma cannot help but wonder what the papers will say about the future of their farm, about the lost brother returning home — and sharing his unhappiness about it with anyone that will listen.

Her fears only grow when the journalist — Isaac, she thinks his name is — fills the silence with a question she’s been avoiding for the last few days: “So, Mister Swan, what are your plans for the future of your family’s homestead?”

His eyes flick momentarily to Emma’s, holding a look that she remembers well from their childhood, one that sends a frozen chill down her spine. It’s the same look he used to give her before tattling on her, before getting her in trouble with their parents. “I’m so glad you asked, Mister Heller,” he replies. “I do not intend to pack up my life in New York and move back here, if that is your question. In fact, if neither my sister or sister-in-law can secure a new head of household in the next six months through marriage, I intend to put the whole estate up for auction.”

Not for the first time of late, Emma finds herself nauseated, her stomach turning at her brother’s words. If she was not already sitting, she may have fainted, or at least lost her footing.

Through marriage… the whole estate. He expects one of them to marry in the next two months — surely he must be joking. He cannot expect Mary Margaret to marry so soon after the death of her husband; she knows that he expects it only of her.

“A very sensible plan,” the journalist responds, marking down notes with his charcoal pencil.

Emma can’t help but disagree.

Killian cannot believe she really wrote him back — but, at the same time, of course she did, has learned that she is nothing if not stubborn. The swooping letters on the page make his heart pound, remembering the delicate hands that wrote them, the way her fingers fit perfectly into his, how they would card through his hair as she sat staring at him, as if in awe of his very existence. He swallows, avoiding any deeper thoughts that would give him away, and turns his eyes down to the parchment in his hands.

Mr. Jones,

The rest of the staff and I were happy to hear that you have successfully returned to your camp, and that you remain in good health. With the tragic death of our head of household, his twin brother has begun the search for a replacement, hoping that one of the ladies of the household will be willing to marry in order to keep the farm. Needless to say, things are a little chaotic, not to mention up in the air, here. The sooner this war ends and gives us one less thing to worry about, the better.

Best of luck in your future endeavors.

E. Swan

He reads it once, twice, again, trying to figure out exactly what her words mean. Surely this twin brother — which Killian did not even know existed — was not really expecting one of the ladies to marry, especially not his mourning sister-in-law.

Oh, Emma, he thinks, his heart sinking into his stomach. In another life, he would have happily taken that offer, spending the rest of his days with the woman he holds most dear in order for her family to keep their farmland.

In another life. A life that he does not find himself in, he is cruelly reminded when Liam enters their shared tent.

“Pack your things, brother,” he says, beginning to do just that.

“Why?” he asks, dropping the letter on his lap. “What is happening?”

“We’ve been ordered to move west, and to do it quickly. There’s rumor of a storm moving this way and the captain wants to be clear of it before the rain hits. Orders are to pack up as quickly as possible and be ready to move before nightfall.”

Jumping to his feet, he tucks Emma’s letter into the breast pocket inside his jacket and begins to organize his few belongings back into his pack.

Emma already thought she knew heartbreak, having to leave behind her sweetheart to take over the responsibilities of her brother. She thought she knew heartbreak when she watched them lower his casket into the ground, right beside where she watched them lower first their father, then their mother, years before. She even thought she knew heartbreak when James declared in front of the entire village that the only way they will keep the farm is if she marries in the next six months.

But writing to Killian, replying to the letter he sent, and failing to receive a response after three weeks, hurts more than everything else combined.

Especially as her symptoms grow worse, the same symptoms she recognized in her sister-in-law less than nine months before, and she can no longer avoid them. She is thankful to have Granny on their homestead (more thankful than usual), knowing the woman also includes being a midwife in her history. She measures Emma’s stomach, asks her when the earliest she could have gotten pregnant could have been.

“New Years’ Eve,” she tells her, trying to keep herself from blushing remembering the evening — the excitement, the nervousness, the promises whispered in the darkness of their shared bed, the flickering of a single candle still lit to allow her to see his face.

Granny hums, looking down at the measuring tape in her hands before turning back to Emma and nodding. “You’re barely showing yet, but I would say it wasn’t long after that. Eight or nine weeks.”

That night, she does not even try to stop the flow of tears, curled up under the blankets in the coldness of her own room. She misses him immensely, wishes that he would just write back to her, even just to confirm that he is still alive. She knows there is no way to tell him that she is carrying their child, a being made by their love — and exactly the worst case scenario that David was trying to avoid when she introduced her to Neal. Tears come, puddling on her cheeks, dampening her pillow case.

James gave her six months, but if she is going to marry without their knowledge of her current state, it’s going to have to be much sooner than that.

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#cshistfic #captain swan #cs ff #my writing #cs hist fic #cs fic #historical au #heartbreaking chapter #sorry yall #but like #not really

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