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#portland head + bug light
rosie-writings · 1 month
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Hypnotize Me
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Summary: You and the gang investigate a hotel haunted by a demon that influences people in ways none of you experienced before, making it the final push for Colby to solidify the relationship he always wanted with you.
Warnings: Colby x Reader smut, MFM (no Solby) threesome, unprotected sex, overstimulation, love bites, squirting, messy sex
Words: 7.6k
No Y/N Used
Title is from ‘Hypnosis’ by Sleep Token
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I was so damn tired.
The backpack met the thin floor with a thud that hung in the air. My eyes were too heavy to open fully, and maybe I led us all into the most haunted room—of course the largest suite as well—in the hotel, but I really couldn't care less. 
“Oh—Wait this is actually nice,” Colby spoke first between the five of us. He brushed past me and walked into the room to our left.
”Wow it actually is,” I think Nate said as he rounded the corner. I don’t think my toes lifted off the roughened carpet as I dragged myself through the unrealistically large suite to find the bedroom. When I found it, I audibly moaned in relief.
”Holy shit! Maybe we didn’t need the second room, this bed is probably big enough to fit all of us.” Sam must have followed me with the camera but I ignored him as I face planted into the ivory linen sheets. They covered my peripherals, and my eyes rolled back in the suffocating darkness.
It was worth not checking for stains or bed bugs first.
Then there was a loud scuffle.
“Ah—! Jesus, I almost met god because of your backpack in the middle of the floor.” I huffed a breath in response; Colby must have tossed the backpack to the side of the bed but I didn’t flinch from the reverberation. Didn’t care that my laptop was in there at all.
Maybe I needed a shower; after two sleepless nights in a cold dangerous area proceeding a haunted hot as hell area, a shower and a dreamless night in the deepest cavern of this bed was first on my priority list.
Of course the boys had different plans. We were in the middle of our third video of the week. Thank god it was the last as well.
Between infiltrating an abandoned building outside of Portland to talking to whatever lurks in the woods of a small town somewhere in Texas, I was beat. Road kill, some would say, and dare I say I looked like it too. My hair was a mess and my nose was still red from the cold wind in the north but my neck was caked with old sweat from the humid heat of the faux winter in Texas. At least I could hear it in all of their voices too; this quickly became a midnight hunt rather than an afternoon hunt. If only we could get through this damn intro.
”—here she is, she's uh well—tired.” I lifted my head up slowly and looked up to see the camera and Sam’s tired eyes smiling down at me. “Don’t blame her; at least we all feel the way she looks.” 
I flipped him off before he turned the camera towards himself.
”That was mean,” he laughed. I stuffed my face back in the now damp with sweat and hot breath duvet. “But fair. We’re going to rest this afternoon and after dinner, we have a meeting with one of the most skilled demonologists we’ve ever met.”
”Yeah, I’m pretty sure we’ve met one in every country we’ve filmed in,” Colby tagged on as I heard him approach Sam.
”Pretty soon we’ll be able to say we’ve met every demonologist—“
I don’t remember what the ending of Sam’s sentence entailed. 
My eyes opened. 
The room was dark besides the ambient orange light from the lamp beside the head of the bed. The curtains were shut. What time was it?
I lifted to my elbows but drew in a breath when I felt weight fall from me. I looked to my left and noticed how Colby rolled from his side to his back; his face turned away from me. He was knocked out. Was his arm across me as we slept?
Two nights ago I woke up in the middle of the night in the same situation except two bright eyes stared back at me. Even in the dim moonlight that shined through the broken ceiling of the abandoned building, his eyes glowed bright back at me. I told myself the only reason I fell back asleep in his arms was because I shivered my skin off from the chill. I felt his body shake as well which meant it must have been cold even with the sleeping bags. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been daydreaming about what his hands felt like on my back and what the warmth of his neck felt like on my face, my lips.
As I stretched on the bed and yawned as quietly as I could, I looked to my other side and I nearly choked myself half to death when Sam jumpscared me. He as well lay on his front with his head supported on his crossed arms. I didn’t know how I didn’t feel his side flush to mine. We slept in almost the same position. 
My face burned when I pulled my leg off of Colby’s. 
I slid backwards off the bed and popped my neck; my body ached from sleep uncomfortably. I was ready for a real sleep. Although, that nap did fare well. Nate slept on the other side of Sam and I smiled at the sight of his arm and leg wrapped around Sam’s body. 
I snapped photos of them. For blackmail. Or, at this point, pure entertainment.
I grabbed my bag and headed into the bathroom. I held my breath for some reason as I turned on the light and nothing happened. It always crossed my mind that maybe—just maybe—everything was a lie and hauntings weren’t real because of evenings like this one. We all were zonked on the bed—aside for poor Seth who coiled up on one of them sofas in the main room across from the bedroom—and not a thing happened. 
Then again I'm sure I could have time traveled during that nap and I wouldn't have known a thing. 
The warm water almost lulled me to sleep then and there, but the chilly tiles kept a pep in my step. I wished I had this room to myself. I imagined it then; kicking the boys to the floor so I could have the largest bed I had ever seen all to my clean self. 
I didn't do that. 
By the time I was finished blow drying my hair and making myself as presentable as possible for the camera while keeping my future bed time routine simple, I heard commotion in the rest of the suite. I pulled a new pair of black jeans from my bag and pulled on a thermal long sleeve and a hoodie on top of it with rushing hands. What was the plan now? 
“Yeah man, I have no idea.” I only caught the end of Colby’s gentle statement when I opened the door. His eyes found mine and I watched intently to find out what they were saying.
”Seth is still asleep,” he said.
”And Sam wants to be,” Sam spoke into Nate’s side. He held onto Nate and tried to curl into him comfortably, but Nate scooted away with every advance Sam made. I scoffed a laugh as I passed the pathetic three on the bed.
”And Nate wants to get this show on the road or else he won’t ever get up from this bed. Jesus, it’s damn comfortable.”
”It really is though,” Colby said.
”I don’t think the nap did anything for me even though it was really nice,” I admitted. Colby aimed his attention at me as I dropped my bags under the covered window on the side of the bed he sat on.
”Yeah, I’m really tired still as well.” 
“Let’s get energy drinks and some food before we miss the meeting,” Sam said as he too yawned and stretched.
”Someone wake up Seth.”
”Oh right,” Nate laughed as he got up to do just that. “Can’t forget poor sleeping Seth.”
”He looks so cold,” Sam laughed.
”Not as cold as two nights ago.”
”Don’t remind me,” he moaned. 
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“We’re here with Dr. Smith; the renowned demonologist who’s especially familiar with all of the paranormal activity that’s happened here at this hotel,” Sam spoke to the camera.
As much as dinner was amazing fuel, as soon as we got back into the lobby of the hotel and started the meeting with Dr. Smith, my eyelids were heavy again. Sure, we missed two nights of restful sleep, but how tired was too tired?
A subtle flinch on my hand yanked my attention from the interview, and my eyes met Colby’s whose eyebrows rose with question. ‘I’m good,’ I nodded. ‘Tired,’ I mouthed and he nodded heavily with his eyes closed. His eyes were darker than I had seen them, and when I looked back in Nate’s direction, I noticed the distraction in his eyes.
Were we all truly this spent? We all had taken many trips with Sam and Colby through the years, and almost every week was filled with three or four high adrenaline videos to get done. The traveling mixed with the paranormal adrenaline and the unrestful sleep promised hazy days and many many energy drinks, but this? This was different.
”Seth—“ My attention was pulled by Sam’s voice.
”Shit I’m sorr—“
”It’s fine,” Dr. Smith said. “If you all don’t know, the main issue visitors have dealt with in this hotel is fatigue.” My stomach dropped. “The souls that make pit stops here often get trapped and are weary from living in purgatory in these walls.” Somehow a burst of energy coursed my veins at this insight; at least my suspicions weren’t too outlandish.
”This makes a lot of sense,” Colby sighed. 
“We’re outrageously tired and took a three hour nap,” Sam laughed. Dr. Smith nodded.
”If it’s already affecting all of you this much, you might want to be careful when you go to the third floor then; people are known to pass out very frequently because of—well the things that live there.”
”Why—What’s on the third floor and why does it make people pass out?”
”We believe there is a demon who stays in this hotel, specifically the third floor, and it influences the spirits and human people who come. It doesn’t like to be alone, but it also doesn’t enjoy the company of people so it depletes energy quickly.”
”Almost like an omen for them to leave?” Sam questioned.
”Maybe,” Dr. Smith said as his head fell to the side with some disagreement.
”Or is it more so wanting something to do, like, does it enjoy messing with people or something?” 
“I think that’s the case,” he responded as he pointed to Colby. “It might be bored and it may want human energy to feed on and manipulate.” 
The way that Dr. Smith expressed the demon’s wants sent chills down my arms and it felt like hot air held my ears. Maybe this would be a long night, and maybe some decent activity would come of it.
Hopefully all this fatigue wasn’t for nothing.
”I’m still on edge about all of… this,” Seth said as his hands gestured to everything around us. We walked through the hotel with quiet voices and the camera filming on Sam’s side.
”Same, but what are you feeling?” Colby asked.
”I’m freaked out about how we all are equally feeling the demon’s effect already and we haven’t even tried to taunt it or anything.”
”I mean, it could just be because of our trip,” Nate spoke. The voice of reason. “We barely slept.”
”Yeah but all of us took long naps and we all feel like zombies even after the drinks.” No one argued that.
As we walked and talked and introduced the hotel to the camera, Colby made sure to keep up with my pace. I couldn’t decipher whether I imagined it or I was the one keeping up with him, but for some reason, all my attention honed in on him and his body and every motion it made. 
And when we turned the corner and Sam quickly stopped in front of me, I halted in my steps and Colby’s body collided into mine. I held my breath so I wouldn’t gasp; we all were quiet. Seth had heard something and Sam whispered to the camera.
I backed up into him tighter when his hands that held onto my waist dug in deeper. His breath skipped some and he let go of me and passed me with a raised whisper when Sam asked him something. It took me a moment. A dazed moment. My tired brain was so overwhelmed with everything that suddenly I felt intoxicated. Intoxicated by the fatigue, intoxicated by the lack of effected air conditioning, intoxicated by Colby who seemed to also be unable to stop touching me and thinking about me—
What was going on? 
I lagged behind the boys as they walked down the hallway. Colby turned to me. His eyes were dilated, face flushed, hand reached back towards me.
”Come on, don’t fall behind,” he whispered. I took his hand and didn’t say anything because I swore my heart replaced my vocal cords in my throat. 
Even as it got hotter when we ventured to the second floor and even as the sheen of sweat in between our palms became more so a dripping pool, I didn’t let go of him. And he didn’t let go of me. 
“Are you okay?” He whispered down to me. I nodded slowly.
”Yeah, just hot as fuck.”
”Are you good?” Sam’s louder voice caught my attention and I looked up. Nate spoke animatedly to Seth with a hand pointed down the hall and Sam had turned towards us. The camera was to his side.
”Yeah,” Colby answered for me. “We—It’s hot as hell and can barely stay awake.”
”I know,” Sam sighed breathlessly. Sweat too lined his face. “Dr. Smith did say that they have perpetual issues with the AC on the third floor, and even during the winter it gets this hot.”
”Couldn’t imagine the summer here,” Nate said as he spun into our conversation.
”I’m really wanting to get to the third floor to test some things out.”
”Like the Estes method?” Seth asked. Sam nodded quickly. 
We were on our way and my heart burned in my chest. I gripped Colby’s hand tighter as my head rushed with more elevation. The elevator was slow but my pace was slower, and the fatigue gnawed at my bones.
”You’re not going to pass out are you?”
”No,” I shook my head. “I mean not yet at least.”
”Don’t worry,” Sam said. “We’ll catch you.”
”Shut the hell up,” I snapped as the elevator doors opened. Nate led the way. “Of all of us, I trust you to purposely miss me.”
”Yeah that’s only because Colby would have caught you before you even started to fall—“
Seth’s spiteful jeer was cut off by a loud bang at the end of the hallway. Sam and Nate rushed forward around the corner with the camera. 
“There’s literally nothing,” I heard Sam’s whisper. I ignored the smirk on Seth’s face as he gave a look to Colby. We three turned the corner as well.
Nothing. An average looking empty hotel room shined back at us. Not even a member of housekeeping nor their supplies showed any kind of appearance. 
“We’re in a hotel for fuck’s sake,” I whisper. “It could be a damn guest.”
”True,” Nate said. We slowly walked backwards.
”Alright,” Sam started and lifted the camera. Real filming time. “The demon’s known to be most responsive in the conference room on the third floor, which is where we’re headed.”
”Yeah because for some reason this demon has a lot of business to get done,” Seth said. We all looked at him. I burst out with one singular laugh and slapped my knee.
”Good one.”
The conference room was larger than I anticipated and dark and musty. We left the lights off and turned on all our flashlights and faced them towards the ceiling to give more of an expansive ambient light. As Colby set up the rem pod, I held an emf device and Sam prepared Seth to go under on the Estes method. For as empty as this room appeared to be, it sure as hell felt full.
Tables lined the back wall while chairs were stacked near them. A few stragglers of chairs peppered the room but other than that, only two gigantic crystal chandeliers decorated the room other than the hardly touched plush carpet with intricate designs.
The heat around my face didn’t get better. Only worse. I could hardly breathe. My vision was hazy and it was as if the air suddenly had a film of white air over taking the much needed oxygen. I decided that I was just crazy and sleep deprived when none of the guys complained about it.
”If there’s a spirit in here, let us know by coming close to one of our devices,” Sam started. His voice echoed around the room. “If you would like to speak with us you can do so by touching these devices,” he pointed to the rem pod and emf. “Or you can send words into this and it will read them back to us—“
Present
My heart stopped at the shrill of the ovilus.
”Thank you so much, I’m Sam, these are my friends—“ We each said our names. “We’re just here to talk and nothing more. Can we ask you some questions?”
”The rem pod—“ Colby rushed out. We all looked at the brightness of its lights. The rem pod never seemed so bright and loud to me than at that moment.
”Yeah that’s the rem pod it’s pretty intense,” Sam said. ”How many of you are there?”
Full
”The ovilus said full—
Meeting
”Does this mean a meeting full of spirits are here?” Sam asked. The rem pod stopped.
”If you have a lot to say and would like to talk to Seth in the spirit box, then move back to that—“
The rem pod went off again and stayed on
Sam turned to us with wide eyes and I stared back at him unblinking.
”Get—Alright Seth get on the spirit box,” Colby told him.
Seth sat in the chair blindfolded and he set the headphones on his head. The moment he went under I too felt a rush of dizziness.
”Hey—“ Colby grabbed my hand. “You good?”
”The energy drink must be making me jittery or something,” I said. “I’m so damn tired like I can’t keep my eyes open but I’m faster.” He nodded with a slight grin.
”Hopefully it’s just that—“
”Sam,” Seth spoke in a monotone voice.
”Hi, yeah that’s me. Who am I talking to, what’s your name?”
”Many.”
”There’s many of you, aren’t there? Are you all trapped here?” Sam must have been referencing Dr. Smith who said that the spirits here are trapped in purgatory.
”Not likely.” Seth’s voice twisted in my chest like a knife; I didn’t know what it was but I couldn’t breathe and the tone in his voice told me something different.
”Is there a way for you all to leave?”
”There was just—just a noise I think a sigh? Or a laugh? I don’t know— Irrational.” Sam’s head cocked to the side at the obscure word the spirit box tagged on to Seth’s description of the sound.
”What’s irrational?”
”Maybe it’s saying we’re irrational to think they are trapped,” Colby told him.
”Probably. Do you like staying here?”
“Feeding.” Seth's single word alone sent chills across your arms as if it didn't push 90 degrees in the room. 
“Are you feeding on energies? I know a lot of people stay here—”
“Love it when you… I didn't catch the rest.”
“You love feeding on the energies or something?” Sam's patient tone never ceased to shock and impress me. The way he so confidently handled the discussion was something entirely beyond my capabilities. If whatever this was fed on any energy at all, it must have been mine because as my fear increased the remaining ounce of my energy decreased. 
“Dr. Smith was talking about how this was like a super busy place for humans and spirits, and it's easy for them to get trapped since the supposed demon loved stealing the energy—” Colby spoke before Seth interrupted him. 
“You bet, you bet I do—No for real guys that's what it said before a laugh. I'm shaking,” Seth rushed. Colby shot a glance at Sam the same time Sam turned to him. 
“Why do you stay here and take the energy—”
“It—” Seth laughed as his cheeks blushed pink. “It's literally just a girl moaning.”
“Moaning? What the fuck?” Sam whispered back at Colby. 
“Do you like to trick people here? Are you bored or something so you feed off their energy for entertainment?” Colby asked. 
“I love it, I love it, I love—So stupid.” My head turned to the side in confusion; what the hell did that mean?
“Are you calling us stupid because we don't understand?” Sam asked. 
For some reason I raised my voice next. 
“Or are you calling the people you play with stupid—”
“Fucking bitch.”
“What the fuck,” Sam gasped as he looked at me. 
“Damn sorry for speaking,” I laughed. 
“You will be.” The boys gasped and looked at me as I stared at a completely oblivious Seth who still rocked back and forth in time with the jumping channels in his headphones. 
“That's—That’s a threat,” Colby raised his voice. He took a step in front of me.
“You can't touch us or mess with us, you und—”
“Too late.”
“Too late as in too late because we’re all tired?” Nate asked. 
“Yeah maybe it's already influenced us like Dr. Smith—” It cut Colby off. 
“You'll feel it. Can't you?” 
“Yeah we're pretty tired,” Sam replied, still somehow patient and confident. “Is that you making us tired?”
“Even more than.”
“More than what? You're making us more tired than usual?”
“Idiot.” Sam took a step back with a laugh. 
“I'm tired of getting roasted by a demon,” he laughed. I wanted to laugh with them, but the fire started at my knees. Yes, it was hot in the room, but a particular ache that I wished was new spread lower than it typically did. 
It was hot. And I wasn't just sweating. 
“What’s your name?” Colby spoke up that time. 
“It's my pleasure.”
“What does that mean?” Sam asked in our direction. Colby shook his head. I stared intently at Seth still as if I couldn't look away. The fairness of his skin drew me in and it took a full seven more seconds until I realized the fire in my legs raised to my mid thigh and even higher. 
I ached. 
“What's your pleasure, what do you like to do to people?” Colby asked. 
“Everything.”
My stomach fell out of its place. 
“Everything,” Sam gasped nsd Colby quickly raised his hand. 
“You would do everything to us?”
“Somethings.”
“You cannot hurt us or follow us home, you must stay here—”
“Oh trust me.”
“I don't like this,” I finally choked out. 
“Yeah me neither,” Colby’s voice gently replied. 
“Should we get him out?”
“One more question then we will,” he replied to Sam. 
“What do you want to do to us?”
“it's already been done.”
“What? What have you—”
“Bye.”
And the headphones yanked from Seth’s head and fell to his feet by themselves. 
The five of us stood frozen; all eyes peeled to the headphones that now reverberated with the shrill of empty changing channels. 
The heat pooled in my stomach. I needed to change underwear. 
“Holy shit—“ I finally break and take a step back.
”I know, oh god. What was—What the fuck—”
“What the hell just happened?” Colby cried and cut off Nate. 
”Let’s—Let’s go back,” Sam choked out. “We need to get out of here.” Seth was deathly still and soaked in what had just happened to him. Nate’s hand held the back of his neck as we all left the conference room.
“Did—Did we get anything good at least?”
“Oh my god, let me tell you what happened.” On the way back to our rooms many stories above, Sam told Seth the entire story. 
“How was that possible?” Colby finally broke. He spun around and walked backwards so he could see us all. “It literally stole enough energy from us to throw the fucking headphones down!”
”Which makes sense. I might pass out,” Seth said. 
“Let’s hurry.” Colby grabbed my hand.
The ache wouldn’t leave. It was like it attached itself to my legs and spread up, up, and up— the heat in between my legs was unbearable now. I needed sleep. I needed to pass out. I needed—
I looked at Colby as we entered the elevator. His eyes were nearly devoid of color. We all were drained and tired, and this strange feeling like a spirit of desperation or something, came over all of us so suddenly that even Sam forgot to pick up the camera and press record again.
Nate and Seth went straight to their suite and Sam led us into ours. My heart pounded against my ribs as I crossed the threshold. Eyes. I felt their eyes on me but I didn’t turn back. Too tired, too drained, I didn’t know what else, or how much else, I could handle. I kicked my shoes off if I walked and didn’t even mind that they were in the middle of the floor. I flopped on the bed only for them to follow me. 
Sam pulled a rem pod out of the backpack and set it up in the corridor between the first room and the bedroom while he set another room in between the corridor of the bedroom to the bathroom.
”Just in case,” he told Colby as he shot him confused looks.
The anxiety that welled in my chest depleted when Sam yawned and slipped out of his hoodie. Colby’s eyes were closed and I couldn’t tear my eyes from his dark lips when he licked them wet.
”I’m so ready to pass out,” Sam said. He flicked the lights off. 
Colby made a sound as he moved and I heard him as well strip clothes off. What was happening? It sounded like their heads were caught in a fog as well and we couldn’t think. Our decision making skills were non-existent and when I slipped under the blankets in between them, it didn’t feel off from any other situation we had been in. At least Sam plugged his phone in. I could have left mine in that conference room and it wouldn’t have mattered to me.
The darkness of our room struck me before my head hit the pillow and I was out.
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My throat was a dry fire and my skin turned to lava. My eyes peeled open and swirls of blues and whites from my forgotten dream mix with the darkness of the room around me. I whined. It was fucking hot. I sat up straight because if I didn’t get the hoodie off of me immediately I was certain I would die.
”Hey,” I heard Colby’s half asleep voice. I only whined again in response. He sat up. “What’s wrong—“
”So fucking hot I’m going to be sick.”
”Here, here,” his soft voice replied, and his hands quickly snaked under my hoodie. It was a frenzy to get everything off. I didn’t know what came over me, us, but before I knew it my hoodie hit the floor on top of his leather jacket and my thermal came off with it. My back hit the bed again as he hovered halfway over me. “Better?” He whispered.
”I—I don’t—I need—“
”What do you need?” My hands already fumbled with the button of my skinny jeans. Colby’s eyes trailed down my body and I didn’t cower in the sight. His hands swatted mine away and I lifted my hips so he could drag the damp fabric from them. Only when my jeans met his on the floor did I realize that he too only wore underwear.
”Something—anything—“
”Fuck, it’s not just me who feels it then, huh?” I shook my head quickly. He wavered in his confidence. Even in the darkness of the room I watched his head shake. His arms shook as well and he fought within himself it seemed.
”Do whatever you want, Colby.” So he lowered himself down on me. When did my legs spread?
And when I felt how hot and hard he was already, questions poured through my mushy brain faster than I could process them. Was this an effect from the demon? If so, what kind of demon was it? Were we not just tired out of our minds but also horny out of our minds as well? What if this wasn’t even the demon? Did I really like Colby more than I was willing to admit? Was Sam alright? Was he even still asleep?
A moan hitched in my throat when Colby purposely thrusted against me slowly. My back arched and he pinned me down by my throat.
”Sh,” he demanded. “This is what I want. You still gonna let me do it?”
I couldn’t think. Nothing rational repeated disagreements in my mind because for far too long now I’ve wanted this too.
I nodded frantically.
”Please, I’ll beg you to do it if you won’t.” He laughed once.
”I don’t think I can give you the time to beg this time.” This time? More sounds so far from myself escaped my tense throat when his thumb dipped into my mouth. He pulled at my teeth then my bottom lip and even though I know he only tried to find where my mouth was, my eyes still rolled back at the feeling and bitter taste.
And his mouth was on mine.
He drank down my moans and pushed my legs back so that he could thrust against every part of me. I couldn’t even call any part of this dry or clothed because my arousal was enough to saturate both of our clothes to ruin.
My stomach couldn’t keep up; it twisted under my skin and my heart pounded in my ears with every lick of his tongue behind my teeth. My hands chased up his skin from his pantline to his neck where I held tightly. I couldn’t get enough of it even if our sweat mended together past the point of comfort and our noises and movements were definitely harsh enough to wake Sam. 
When he pulled away, I sucked on his tongue hoping to bring him back.
”Holy fuck—“ he gasped as I let go of his tongue. It was then and there that I decided I could never get over his taste and I needed more and more of it until I was addicted. 
And I heard a heavy breath from Sam. 
He did too because both of us shot wide glances at him. Of course Colby didn’t stop the obscene movements against me. Thankfully. Colby looked back at me, but I still watched Sam sleep. His head tossed from being disturbed and my heart dropped when I realized that in a matter of seconds, Sam’s eyes would be on us.
”Look at me,” Colby hummed and of course I did. “Please, can I…” He mumbled as his fingertips dipped under the band of my underwear.
”Fucking god—obviously,” I whined and writhed under him because why wouldn’t he hurry the fuck up—
My underwear were halfway down my thighs when we froze in our tracks; a moan that wasn’t mine. 
“What—“
And another. 
We looked at Sam simultaneously and I couldn’t look away from him this time.
”Maybe it—Maybe it’s not just us too,” Colby aimlessly spoke as he hurried to get my underwear off my legs. It was impossible to keep still. The friction overstimulated my every nerve but it also wasn’t enough. I needed more, more of something, of anything.
”Fuck.” Another drawn out moan interrupted us and I couldn’t contain the fluttering in my chest from the sound of Sam’s voice. He must have still been asleep because he moved lazily. I watched him as Colby ducked under the blanket. 
Just as Colby’s mouth met my thighs, Sam thrusted up into the sheets.
He looked for something, anything, and in that moment I understood. I questioned, something in me truly did because this was incredibly unlike us, but I couldn’t think straight. Not with this haze flooding my neck and this cotton stuffed in my brain.
”Colby—“ I gasped the second his tongue met me. My hand found his hair and it only pulled a moan from him. 
“What the fuck.” And there it was. A groggy voice next to me. I looked away from him in fear of my own red blush but I forgot how dark the room was. “Oh shit—“ It sounded like Sam came to and understood the situation now. “What the hell, why do I feel—“
”Sam.” I didn’t mean to hum his name the same way I did Colby’s. Colby moaned as he sucked me sweetly; I nearly blacked out from the heat of his tongue. And when his fingers teased me? My hips writhed for him. “Please oh my god, more just—inside already,” I whined and thank the heavens Colby didn’t put up a fight.
I didn’t even try to conceal my moans anymore, not when his fingers filled me and his tongue stimulated me so perfectly. Even in the darkness I saw and felt the head rush; my vision pounded with stimulation and shock.
Muffled moans caught my attention and I looked at Sam. He had turned to his front and although his eyes were closed and pointed down, he still faced me. His arms were crossed under his pillow and I knew he tried to fall back asleep.
He was closer though.
And I didn’t disregard the way his hips thrusted repeatedly into the mattress.
”Colby please, god I’m so close.”
”I know,” he whispered but pulled away. I wanted to complain but how could I when his kisses and tongue trailed up my body like that? 
“Sam he’s—“
”I know,” Colby laughed. “It’s okay.” 
“How do you know?”
”Look at him,” he laughed. “He would have told us to fuck off by now.” I don’t know why I would ever question Colby’s judgment of Sam. He knew him like he knew himself; I should have known they could communicate without even speaking at this point.
”It—It's okay,” Sam choked out. “Fuck—Colby, fuck her.”
I swore I met god from the sound of those words on his wet tongue. 
A string of inaudible expletives rushed from Colby's mouth as he crawled up to eye level with me. 
And he couldn't even wait. 
He pulled himself from his underwear instead of taking them off, and my head tossed back when his wet tip slipped across me. My hands grappled for anything to hold on to for support. I couldn't contain myself or control my movements, not when Colby felt like heaven incarnate.
Sam's hand came up and pinned my wrist to the pillow next to my head. I whined for release but didn't do a good enough job escaping his grasp; his fingers slid up and interlocked with mine. 
“Can I? Inside you?” Colby gasped. 
“Inside me, fill me up please. I need—You know how bad I—”
“I know, I know,” he groaned before pushing himself fully in. 
A moan punched out of me and I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. Sam moaned as well and held my hand tighter. 
And as Colby fucked me like we would have no other chance, Sam thrusted into the bedding and pushed his hip against mine. 
“Feel—Oh my god you feel better than I imagined,” Colby moaned. 
“You imagined me?”
“No shit,” Sam bit back in spite. Colby only moaned louder and shoved my knees back further. My moans lifted to nearly a scream and Colby clasped his hand around my throat. 
“Sh, only I can hear you, baby.”
“And Sam, right?”
“Fuck,” Colby laughed. Maybe I couldn't see him but I heard the blush. “Only if you can be good for him too.”
“I can be good,” I whined. Sam moaned and his hip pushed tighter into mine. 
“Let go Sam—My hand, let go,” I forced out through the moans, and he did. Immediately I lowered my hand in between us and slipped it under him. 
“Oh shit!” He cried and allowed me to wedge my way in between the bed and his insanely wet arousal. Between my sweat covering my skin alongside Colby’s and our pre-come saturating our legs and sheet, I should have felt disgusted. But it was heaven on earth. I wanted to drown in them. “Oh my god, you'll make me cum so fast,” Sam gasped into the pillow. 
“You're doing so good,” Colby's moan turned into a laugh. “Like holy shit—I'm fucking close too.”
“Harder, please Colby, fuck me harder,” I whined and his head tossed back. His skin slipped under my nails from the sweat so I couldn't leave marks so I yanked him down by the neck. His hand supported himself next to my head and he moaned as I sucked harsh bruises into his collarbone. 
And I pushed my hand tighter against Sam. His underwear were soaked and I just needed a little more—
“Oh—Oh my god yes, yes, yes—” Sam moaned as I shoved my hand in his underwear. I stroked him in time with his thrusts and there was something about the way his hips shook that ingrained in my mind. 
Colby gouged his fingers into the thick of my thighs and I couldn't help but hope there were marks for me to fawn over in the morning. And it was his turn. 
He leaned over me, and with his free hand, he held the side of my neck and kissed me into the pillows. I couldn't breathe between his violent thrusts and with his intoxicating taste in my throat, I let go of my body and let the boys fully take over it. 
Then another arm came up and pulled my leg back. 
“Sam—” I gasped his name when he inserted his arm under my leg between me and Colby. A gasp expelled from my used throat when he swirled his fingers against me. “Shit! There, there like that, oh my god!” I all but screamed. 
“Oh fuck yeah, does it feel good baby?” Colby moaned. “Does it take both of us to please you, make you feel good?” 
“Please! I'm so—”
“Holy shit, the rem pod!” Sam groaned. 
And he was right. 
I opened my eyes to find blue and red lights flickering in the dark abyss of a room and a loud shrill combined with our moans. Of course he was even prettier fucked out of his mind. Colby's hair stuck in every direction, and his lips parted in pleasure so I could see the gleam of saliva on his tongue. Fuck, I wanted him inside of me. Not even if he curled up in my bones would he be close enough. 
“What—What time is it?” Colby breathlessly tried to ask in a serious tone. 
Of course they would still be on the grind for work while fucking my brains out. 
Sam moaned as he leaned and grabbed his phone—
“Holy fucking shit no way; it's 3:33am now 3:34.”
“Jesus, fuck,” Colby gasped. I didn't give a fuck. I needed him deeper, closer.
“More please—”
“So needy, baby. Oh my god. Want more? Alright, let me—” Colby rose to his knees and pushed my thighs back again. “Sam finger her, use your fingers, yeah like that.”
My gasp caught in my throat when Sam slipped his fingers lower and joined Colby inside of me. This time I think I blacked out but I'm not sure; when I open my eyes, my tears blur what little exposure the rem pod lights give us. Colby’s blue hued face gleamed back at me blurry and Sam's moans flooded my side. 
“I'm cumming—” I whined. Colby nodded his head furiously. 
“Shit yeah, cum—cum for us,” he praised. And Sam fucked his fingers deeper and finally found that spot inside of me—
My orgasm crashed into me before I could prepare myself and I closed my eyes and allowed the pleasure to take me. 
Sam's moan was next, and I felt him cover us with his warm fluid. I made sure I stroked him harder until his hips painfully pinned my hand down and rendered it unable to move. His moans turned into whines from overstimulation and that was when Colby broke as well. 
“I'm—Holy shit I'm going to—”
“Fill me, Colby. Please I need your cum. Cum inside of—” I barely finished my sentence before he choked out a loud moan as well. With my name on his lips, I swore I could have finished again and again, nevermind Sam's fingers that still harshly worked me. 
It took a second or two and then Colby cried out with overstimulation.
“Sam—” he gasped, but as he pulled out, Sam got up to his knees and pinned me down. 
“Please, please, please! It's so much!”
“Let go, baby. Let go when you need to—”
“Sam! Oh my god—”
Another wave of pleasure drowned me and I held onto his other arm as he fingered me through the intensity of it all. After another few seconds, he pulled his dripping hand away. My entire body violently shook as I watched a cup full of my fluids and Colby's release drip from his hand. 
“Holy shit, you're so damn hot,” Colby laughed as he leaned back over me and kissed me again. He wiped the tears from my face. 
It took a few moments. 
For us to come back to ourselves, find our wits again.
The rem pod never stopped. 
Sam walked to the bathroom to clean up since he was the dirtiest. 
“Holy shit, what pervy ghosts—”
The rem pod stopped. 
“No fucking way,” Colby burst out laughing and I covered my face with my arms. “Stop,” he laughed and pulled my arms back. “How can you blame them? You're so hot, so sexy, the most beautiful thing—”
“Alright ew, get a room,” Sam jeered from the bathroom. 
“You're judging as if you didn't just finger her with my dick on your hand—”
“Alright I didn't think you'd say anything about that.”
“Aw, what, are you embarrassed that you touched his dick for the first time?” I teased. 
“And it's the fucking last time too; that was disgusting,” Sam complained as he washed his hands harsher. 
“I would have expected it to definitely not be the first time—”
“Shut the hell up,” Colby laughed. “Sam’s just judging me for telling you how hot you are, how beautiful and good you are—” I watched a sliver of Sam's reflection in the mirror as he smiled and shook his head. “—How much I love you.” 
My stomach dropped and my eyes looked straight to Colby. The bathroom orange light drenched his face with an overwhelming warmth I wanted to swim in. 
“Colby—” He held my face in his hands. “Love you.” The sentence only just fell from my lips before his met mine. 
“Okay, okay,” Sam said. “There's all the time in the world for the lovey stuff after I leave.”
“And this is the only time you'll be here for this,” Colby snapped back. My eyes widened. I didn't anticipate Colby's genuine hostility towards his best friend over me. 
“Colby,” Sam laughed. “I know. Obviously I know: she's been all yours from the start.” 
“What the hell?” I shrieked. “Am I the only one who knows about this?” The two burst out laughing but not without a thick blush on Colby's already flared cheeks. 
“Seems like it,” Sam laughed as he pulled on fresh underwear and clothes. 
“Okay,” Colby sighed. I gasped as his arms tucked under my worn out body. “Let's clean up so we can actually have a good sleep.” 
I held onto him as he carried me to the bathroom. He turned on the shower as I pulled my hair back to keep it from getting wet. 
“Oh my—” He gasped a laugh when he looked in the mirror. Love bites lined his collarbones and slipped down his chest. “How are you so damn good at that?”
“I don't know, I guess you bring out the worst in me.”
“You have to be careful because I'll bite you back.” 
“Oh yeah? Maybe you should or else you're all talk and no bite—Ah!” With that coy smile he slapped my ass and pushed me towards the shower. 
“Get in the damn water, you're dripping cum everywhere.”
I couldn't open my mouth as Colby dropped to his knees in front of me. Ever so gently, his hands cleaned my skin with soft body wash until I was clean and smelled like myself again. He kissed my skin and trailed up my thigh. 
“Don’t,” I sighed as I brushed his hair back. It was soaked from being directly under the water. He looked up at me darkly; eyes bright blue again. 
“Can't wait until we go home.”
“And why's that?”
“Then I can finally have you in my bed like I've always wanted.”
“Colby is—” My tongue tied in my throat as the bashful smile fell. My heart slowed. I licked my lips. He stood to his feet. “—is that something you've wanted? Permanently?”
A slow nod from him had never felt this way before. 
“I've wanted you, permanently.”
“Let me go home with you then.” My arms wrapped around his neck. “I've wanted to be yours forever by now.” 
And he tossed his head back into the water with a wide smile. 
“Fucking finally.”
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The morning wasn’t kind.
The sunlight bit at our sensitive eyes, with zero remorse, as we tried to get ourselves together and ready for check out. We all were spent. Now it was time for a long—long—break in our own beds. 
When we made it to the lobby, it took all but three seconds for the other two guys to shine widened shocked eyes back at us. Of course I messed up; I miscalculated the height of Colby’s neckline last night, but could anyone blame me?
”Colby—You—Last night?” Nate gasped. They looked at me. 
“I—“
”Sam?” Nate looked at him. His face flushed pink as a boyish smile pulled at his lips. 
“Hey now,” his hands rose in self defense. “It wasn’t me and it’s not happening again if you really want to know.” Colby tried his best to hide a wide smile, but as he hooked his arm around my neck, he broke a laugh.
”Jesus Christ.”
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A/N: I am new here—to Tumblr (other than my account from 2013-2016 that popped off real hard rip)—and also Sam and Colby. I write predominately one shots for Dream Team, Corpse Husband, and Sam and Colby now. I dumped all my works on Wattpad—easy reads—and I got up to 3 Million reads on my Corpse Husband one shot collection, but Wattpad smote that shit.
Request anything—outside of my listed interests, I’m open to Jake Webber and Johnnie Guilbert but I don’t know much about them—and I will write it. I focus on 18+ writing so request anything in your wildest dreams, and if it somehow is too wild for me, I will let you know (but that has yet to happen).
Love, Rosie
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that-fema-corps-blog · 8 months
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Day 349
July 17, 2023
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We packed the remainder of our stuff in the vans and headed out at 8:00. I saw a band-tailed pigeon fly by somewhere along the route. I’m surprised it took this long; they’re supposed to be one of the most common pigeons in Washington.
Two of the vans met up for lunch a couple hours down the road, then set off separately. Our van continued on to Portland, where we stopped at Powell’s, the world’s largest independent bookstore. We drove through Salem and stopped in Eugene to eat and visit a team leader’s friend. Came across this guy on the toilet paper dispenser:
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We met up with other teammates at the hotel to switch vans for the trip out to Diamond Lake and Umpqua National Forest. There are a lot of bugs! I must have seen thousands of gnats looking across the lake at dusk, though they’re too small to appear on camera:
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We made a campfire at the designated spot; there is a high fire danger currently, and it is not safe to do so elsewhere.
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Some of us drove out to the dock to watch the stars. It was new moon and one of the best starry nights most of us had seen in years; the milky way was partly visible and it was difficult to identify the constellations due to the sheer number of stars. I saw a couple shooting stars and several bats fly overhead. Wild to think that these are the kinds of nights we could be seeing on the regular if it weren’t for light pollution.
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angelkissiies · 2 years
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fallen but not forgotten (lucifer x reader)
CW : religious themes, christmas themes, light dissociation. 
TW : none- just mild fluff!
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Heaven was in disarray, it felt like a poorly planned family vacation and honestly-  You were over it. Chuck didn't seem to care, he watched over the chaos like a vulture. Why? This was his creation, us his dutiful servants. Yet, he couldn't be bothered to fix the corruption that was seeping into heaven, the stain it left on your faith that was growing by the second as the archangels fought over something to do with Wiconsin.
“That's it!” You shouted, hands running through your hair as you looked at your brethren. “I'm sick of this. Look at yourselves!” You laughed in disbelief, your head was spinning. How could they act like this and still call themselves ‘holy.’ It was a mockery, a big joke.
You seemed to have finally caught Chuck's attention. 
“And you! You have the power to fix this, to dismantle the system and make heaven pure again. Why don't you? Do you enjoy this? Is this fun to you, Chuck?” Your mouth ran faster than I could control, every protest from the beings around you were being drowned out by the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You felt invincible, like you were truly about to make a change for the betterment of heaven. “I'm sick of this AND I'm sick of you!”
Audible gasps swept through the room, angels were exchanging terrified glances. Nobody dared to speak. 
You locked eyes with the man himself, watching as he twiddled his thumbs.
 His expression did not change, his face stayed perfectly still. “Tell me how you feel, why don't you?” Chuck laughed, a dark look clouding his expression. “Have it your way then.”
Chuck raised his hand above his head and snapped. The archangels began to protest- but before they could make their argument, it was too late.
Heaven faded from view. 
That was then. It's been a couple weeks since you fell from grace, and honestly- earth really did resemble hell. The humidity, the bugs, not to mention the never ending stream of demons that seemed to pop up anywhere you planned on staying. It was like they had a radar for angels with burnt wings. Well if you could even consider yourself an angel anymore. 
Chuck had so graciously dropped you in Portland, Oregon. It was December and your clothes were much too thin for the wet, cold weather. He didn’t care, you knew that much, he had proved to be the wrathful god that was written about in lore- not a care in the world, other than himself.
You tugged the tote bag closer to your body, carefully making your way through the busy sidewalk. It was the week of the annual christmas festival and the streets were packed with ongoers and tourists from all over the country- as delightful as it should have been to see all of these people having fun and celebrating a sacred holiday- it was really the opposite for you. The laughter and carols light a fire in your heart, you couldn't help but hate the idea of christianity. God didn’t care about humans, he barely even cared about angels. He cared only for himself. 
“Merry Christmas. Miss! Could I interest you in a free bible? This is the season of the lord!” A man offered, holding the darkly binded book. 
Your stomach twisted, barely able to contain your disgust. “No, Thank you for offering though.” You murmured, turning away from him and picking up your pace. You really couldn't handle this today. 
As you pushed past the crowd, you found yourself at a dead end. It was quieter, less bright. Nobody seemed to notice you here, it was as if you could finally sit and rest without the “children of god” bothering you. Tears threatened your eyes and for once, you let yourself mourn. 
Not the loss of god, or your friends, or even your grace. You mourned your faith, your old life. Being chucked down with the humans was bad enough, but during christmas- it felt like a cruel joke. 
The wind picked up and slowly but surely, the parties died down. It felt like minutes but in turn it was really hours. You had barely noticed the time, or even when it had begun to snow. You felt empty. 
“I’ve been looking for you.” a voice rang out to your right, making you jump out of your trance-like state. 
You glanced over and on the bench, just a few inches to your right- a man was seated with his eyes fixated on you. “Excuse me?” You said, clearing your throat gently. You had seen this man before, but you just couldn’t place him. He was so familiar. 
“I sensed you. I’ve been looking for a few weeks now, especially since dear old dad locked all the angels up there permanently.” He chuckled, before holding his hand out to you. 
‘Dad? How does he know about the lock up? Wait..’ Your mind was racing, trying to put two and two together. 
“Who are you?” You furrowed your brows, taking his hand and shaking it. “Only archangels and.. you know.. Jesus call Chuck ‘dad’.” 
The man was handsome, dirty blonde hair, and his eyes were brown. He was beautiful, unlike the angels you had seen before. He had to be an angel, right? 
“Close but no, I'm not Jesus or an official archangel- at least not anymore.” He smiled, “I'm Lucifer.” 
Your heart skipped a beat and a blank look covered your face. “THE Lucifer? Like, fallen angel- currently also known as Satan?” Your voice quivered, not in fear but in intimidation. It felt like a whole new reality- you had genuinely thought that he had been a myth. A euthanism even.
Lucifer nodded, laughing at your expression. “Yeah, you’ve heard of me?” 
You nodded, a tinge of a smile gracing your lips. You shrugged, “In passing, maybe.” 
He scratched the back of his neck, slitting his eyes. “So, what happened? How are you here? I was under the assumption that your kind wasn’t allowed to roam down here.” His tone was inquisitive, not pushy- like you had grown to know Chucks as. 
The pit formed in your stomach again, the empty feeling you had been attempting to forget swarmed you. “Well,” You cleared your throat, looking away from him. “I was cast down. I'm now kinda like you- but probably with less power.” You attempted a light chuckle, but it almost sounded like a sob. 
“Oh.” 
You gave a small nod, pulling your eyes from the ground to see his expression. You let out a small gasp, he looked upset. 
“Why did he do this?” 
You pushed your hair back and shrugged, “He wasn’t being God. Heaven is in literal shambles, the archangels are fighting about Wisconsin, and nothing is being done to stop the elder angels from taking vessel after vessel. They're killing people, and he just didn't care. I had to say something. So I did. I spoke my mind.. maybe a little too much because now- I'm down here.” You laughed in disbelief at how incredulous it all sounded. God not being a God but being a tyrant who feeds on chaos. 
Lucifer, himself, was struck by how similar your stories were. Though he was the first, he felt like maybe the two of you were the same in some ways. You were young, scared, and sleeping on benches in the snow. If he had a heart- it might just be aching for you right now. “Chuck is the worst.” He honestly was at a loss for words. 
You nodded, crossing your arms in front of you to keep warm- because the snow was beginning to fall harder. “He definitely is. I’m not sure how he’s the same person that created all of,” You paused to wave your arm around motioning to everything around, “This.” 
“Come home with me.” He says firmly, giving you a glance. He had already begun to shed his jacket. The man draped it over your shoulders as he awaited your answer. In good conscience, he couldn't leave you out in the cold with nowhere to go. 
You pondered it for a moment, the idea was intimidating. Going home with Satan would have never been a thought before this moment- but as you watched the man go out of his way to care for you, you realized that maybe he wasn’t the problem after all. Maybe it was just Chuck.
“Okay. I'll come with you.” 
He looked delightfully surprised, a cheeky smile forming on his lips. “Wow, that was the fastest I've ever gotten a woman to agree to come home with me.” Internally, he was happy to know that you could see past the old rumors that surrounded his name. 
“Oh shut up.” You laughed, shaking your head at the man. 
This wasn’t all bad, maybe being a fallen angel would be better for you than to remain under Chuck's thumb- and as he linked his arm with yours, things felt alright again.
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manawari · 2 years
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Seen Mountainsides and rivers wide
And Tokyo lights
Been to London, England in the pouring rain
California to Portland Maine
But I know all these memories I hold onto
Would'a been better with you. You
Better with you. You
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Bellamy Blake is a travelling writer.
He travels as he writes, a novel about a young man who's trying to find his purpose by going places across the world until he finally finds where he belongs. Almost similar to what he's doing right now.
He already went to London, California, Mexico, and Portland Maine. And now, he's in Hawaii.
His first night in the hotel is quite pleasing, with a beautiful view of the beach and mountains from afar and the gorgeous sight of the sky, Bellamy couldn't ask for a better vacation at this moment.
Then, he rented a small house in a lovely neighborhood that is a mile away from the beach so he can either drive or walk all the way there. Everything is just so nice, hopefully Hawaii would be the perfect place to finish up a novel.
And by nice. . . All except that nextdoor neighbor of his that certainly doesn't know what peace and quiet means.
Bellamy is sitting in the kitchen, laptop sitting right in front of him what he's tapping his fingertips on the mahogany table ─ figuring what should be the cliffhanger of the current chapter. He then furrows his brows, trying to concentrate but with the vague sound coming from the house right next to his is bugging him.
Groaning, he stands up and storms out of the house to head to the noisy neighbor who's keeping him away from doing his novel. He quickly knocks at the door and takes a step back, praying it'll be opened right away.
He still hasn't seen him ─ or her ─ since he moved in but hopefully they're easy to deal with.
And a couple of seconds later, the door is finally swung open and Bellamy already has his mouth open to speak but his voice pauses once a young woman appears into his view. A year or perhaps three years younger than him with blonde hair, cream skin, and has a soft complexion.
"Uhm, may I help you with anything?" She speaks, her aquamarine eyes sparkling with a small delight.
Bellamy clears his throat, forcing himself to not get distracted by her. "I came here to tell you that you're making a noise and I couldn't focus on my work."
"Oh, I apologize for that! My two friends barged in to test if my speaker's actually fixed and hasn't left it since." The young woman chuckles. "Wait, hold on."
He watches her turns her head over her shoulder and starts to shout. "Jasper! Monty! Can you guys keep it down a bit? My nextdoor neighbor's finding it hard to concentrate!"
Bellamy can't comprehend what her friends said but the next thing he knows, his neighbor starts stepping forward that he has to take some steps back so there won't be awkwardness between them.
"Again, sorry about that, I never knew somebody moved in to the house." She says, closing the door behind her. "I'm Clarke, Clarke Griffin, by the way."
"Bellamy Blake." He shoots her a grin.
"I don't mean to bother or anything, but why are you working?" Clarke asks. "Usually, if somebody moves in this neighborhood, it means they're up for a vacation."
"I am, although 'work' just means I'm writing my novel and hope to finish it before I get any ideas of where I should go next."
A smile blossoms on her face. "That's amazing! Guess I'm looking forward to the novel of yours, Bellamy."
He then opens his mouth to reply but the door suddenly creaks where a head of an Asian man pops out.
"Hey, Clarke, mind if we eat those cupcakes in the fridge?" He asks and his eyes flicker at Bellamy. "Oh, hey!"
"Hi." Bellamy greets him with a smile.
"About time you two decided to ask for permission!" Clarke exclaims and shakes her head playfully. "Go ahead, I actually saved them for the two of you."
"How sweet, love you, Clarke!" Her friend says before slipping inside.
She lets out a chuckle as she averts her gaze back to him. "That's Monty, a friend since grade school."
"He seems nice." Bellamy remarks.
"Well, wait until you meet his partners-in-crime named Jasper." Clarke grins.
He smirks. "I'll keep my heads up for those two then." Bellamy whirls around, about to head back to his house but stops when the girl behind him speaks again.
"Hey, uhm, see you around?" She says, fiddling with the light fabric of her cardigan.
Bellamy looks at her once more, staring into her face this time and smiles. "Sure thing, Griffin."
~ = ~ = ~ = ~ = ~ = ~ = ~
"It's about time you freaking called, you idiot!"
Bellamy chuckles as he holds his phone's screen up to his face, taking quick glances at the beach to his right side while walking in the middle of the dusk. "Hey, at least I never forget you, Murphy."
His best friend scoffs, rolling his eyes. "How's your novel hangin' up? My hands are itching for it to be published!"
"Relax, I've just finished chapter fifty-three so there's two chapters left and I'm back to San Francisco!"
"You'd better or I'll be forced to quit my job as your publisher."
"You mean, you'll force yourself to quit." He corrects then grins. "And it's not my fault you decided to pursue another career as my publisher after reading my first written story."
"Oh come on, dude, your writing's amazing and I'd force everyone in sight to read it." Murphy smirks. "Anywho, you've got any lady in your arms yet?"
He shakes his head. "Nope."
A fake-shock blossoms on his best friend's face. "Bellamy? The guy who can get a girl with a single look, hasn't got himself a girlfriend ever since he started travelling?" Then, he glares. "Who are you and what have you done to Bellamy Blake?!"
Bellamy rolls his eyes. "I'm still the same, you jerkface, my novel's just got caught up."
Murphy sighs. "Alright, but hey, has Miller ever told you about how Roan kicked Cage Wallace's arse in the streets?"
"No."
"Okay, good, so Cage thought he can get Roan do whatever he wants but no, that douchebag made the biggest mistake in his life. . . "
As Murphy chatters about what happened, Bellamy can't help but have his mind trail somewhere else and continues stealing glances at the beautiful sight until his eyes suddenly lands on a very particular person sitting by a stone bench and appears to be drawing on a piece of sketchbook. Clarke.
"Murphy, guess I'll just either call or text you later." He says, not removing his gaze from the blondie.
"What? Hey! I was just getting to the best part─"
His thumb presses the red button and shuts his phone before making his way towards Clarke where he spots an incomplete image of a sun behind a tall mountain and she seems to be working on the forest at the bottom.
"'Sup, Clarke." He greets her once he's an inch away from the bench whilst shoving his phone into his pocket and keeps his hand there.
She stops drawing only to lift her attention to his, then smiles in amusement. "Fancy seeing you here, Bellamy, finished your novel so that's why you're out here?"
"Can't a writer take a break and see the beautiful outside?" He grins at her and settles down next to her then looks down on her drawing. "Wow, that's one beautiful masterpiece."
Clarke shrugs. "It's not even finished yet, though, but I hope I'll finish it before the sun comes down so I'll stay up all night turning it into a painting."
"Wow, sure is pretty amazing." He remarks while nodding.
"Thanks." She replies.
"So what do you do after finishing the painting? Sell it? Or keep it to yourself as a decoration?"
"Probably sell it unless if I love it so much, might as well keep it until I have my own gallery set up." She says, flickering on her work before switching her gaze back up to him. "What about you? What are your plans once you finally published that book of yours?"
Bellamy grins lightly and averts his eyes to the horizon. "Write another book or perhaps write a sequel if it gets a lot of recognition from the readers but I'm not sure if I will continue travelling across the world."
"I'm sure you'll figure your choice out, both are pretty good and if I choose either one of it, it won't change a thing." Clarke shoots him a soft smile.
He smiles back at her and eventually, he can notice her closing her sketchbook then putting it aside so the two will enjoy the sunset together in silence while hearing the indistinct joy coming out of people's mouths.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The next few days go like a breeze.
Clarke starts to knock on his door and offers him a tupperware filled with cookies she baked from scratch then Bellamy will gladly take them while thanking her and in some cases, he takes a bite on it right away as he works on his novel.
He and Clarke has become closer as day passes by, Bellamy would invite her to his house to chatter about anything and one day, she comes in then he decides to let her check out the chapter he's been aching to finish because it's still fifty-three and has no idea how to get through the conflict.
"Hmm. . . I'd say he should confront that girlfriend of his and break-up with her since she's holding him like a chain from doing what he wants which is not my definition of love." She says after reading the paragraph.
Bellamy, who's leaning against the table with his hand cupped on his chin. "Wow, that's such a pretty good idea."
She shoots him a smirk. "Take it as a personal advice from someone who did the same thing on her past relationship a few months ago."
"Right. The girl you once told me about." He chuckles.
Eventually, Clarke would come unattended ever since Bellamy gave her a spare key so she is absolutely welcome to visit him anytime she wants but there are times he'll almost jump by the sight of her because she's already in the kitchen, cooking some scrambled eggs for the two of them.
He starts to hang out with Jasper and Monty which they introduce him to the rest of their friends named Harper, Bryan, and Raven. They pretty much welcomed him to their circle right when they first saw him and he has to admit, Hawaii is the best vacation he ever had ─ all thanks to Clarke for showing him such amazing people that he's sure Murphy and Miller would love to meet them as well.
Though, he spends most of his time being around Clarke, always touring him across the town and showing him the best attractions there is. He likes─ no, loves being around her and it's making him want to stay for a few more months.
But no, he has a deadline and a promise.
Each morning, he gets texts from Murphy reminding him about the novel and he should not ask for another extend. Another tough moment for aspiring authors like him.
"Bellamy, if you chose to call me to extend the publish, no. And dude, I love you and you're my best friend, but no, I won't accept anymore pleads." Murphy says from the other line.
"I know and you told me that lots of times but. . . " He lets out a sigh, rubbing his forehead as he paces around the living room. "I feel like I'm not ready to leave this place yet."
"For the love of God, can you stop following what your heart says and follow that big brain of yours? Your future depends on this, your dream!"
"I know, I know, I know." He mumbles and begins scratching the back of his neck. "But, Murphy. . . I met someone here and I don't think I'm ready to say goodbye to her."
"Aw, that's cute, but you need to figure how you're going to pull this out. It's her or your dream. This is your last chance and if I don't get a call from you until the end of the day," his best friend sighs, "I'm sorry, Blake."
His heart falls at Murphy's words, his world slowly starts shaking, and he swallows the lump on his throat. "Alright and I'll make sure this is the last promise you will receive from me about my novel."
With that, his best friend hangs up and Bellamy is left within an ocean of thoughts swimming around him until he finds himself dropping into the couch and rubs his face with the both of his hands.
How is he supposed to tell Clarke about the news? That he's going to leave and be back to San Francisco for good?
Don't get him wrong, he knows her and he's sure her reaction would be jubilant because he is finally a step away from his big dream career. But being with her in these past three months has become the best part of his travels, it's like he wants to settle down here for good so he can see her every day.
And Bellamy has to admit, though, he never thought he would fall for someone throughout flying from one country to another and he can't help but imagine a bright future ahead of them together.
Suddenly, he hears the doorknob getting opened so he quickly straightens up his composure and taps his fingers on his knees, biting his bottom lip as he waits for her to show up to the living room.
Then, he sees Clarke making her way with a container in her hand as she places it nearby the sink and forces a smile at her which she reciprocates.
"So, how have you been holding up?" She asks him.
"Good, I guess." He shrugs and swallows. "I, uhm, I just finished my novel."
Her blue eyes sparkles at the news and rushes to join him on the couch, staring at him with such a bright and wonderful smile on her face. "Bellamy, that's amazing, I'm so happy for you you! Have you called your publisher about it?"
"Yeah, just a while ago before you come in." Bellamy replies and sighs.
She frowns. "What's the matter? Any problems with it?"
"No, no, it's just that. . . I feel like I don't wanna leave." He mutters.
He then feels her hand on his knee and she speaks. "Bellamy, this is your greatest chance, I know you told me how much you love being here but it's your dream. You worked so hard for it."
He slowly moves his gaze to her and places his hand above hers, giving it a light squeeze. "What if I told you I can't risk leaving you?"
Clarke's mouth falls agape, as if struggling to find words. "What do you meant by that, Bellamy?"
"I'm in love with you, I really do." He finally admits. "I was supposed to stay here for only two months so I can move to Argentina but I decided to stay here because I love being around you, Clarke."
"I love being around you, too, and my friends have been telling me that I was never this happy ever since the debacles of my past relationships." Clarke says, putting her other hand on his. "And they are right but I didn't tell you right away because I don't want you to choose between me or your career."
"What if I choose both?"
"Bellamy, that's not easy─"
"Well, it does, if you want to fly with me back to the country where I grew up."
Then a grin forms upon her lips. "Bellamy Blake, is that an invitation?"
"If that's what you want to call it." He shrugs.
And with a wide smile on Clarke's face, she surges forward to press her lips on Bellamy's, he freezes for the first few seconds before letting himself drown on the kiss. His hands find their way up to her waist, pulling her closer on his lap, while her hands slide up to his neck ─ letting out a sigh of bliss.
"So is that a yes?" Bellamy murmurs once they pull away with only an inch, although he exactly knows the answer but he wants to hear her say it herself.
Clarke giggles, pecking him sweetly before replying. "I'm with you all the way."
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𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 𝟸𝟽𝟺𝟷
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werezmastarbucks · 3 years
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portland
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honeymoon masterlist
word count: 2731
music: silently by axel flovent, tear in my heart by twenty one pilots
You got tired of driving at around two in the morning. Somehow Kennewick did not satisfy neither of you in terms of sleeping. Perhaps it was the road, nervousness of traveling, and Kai’s indifference about the current situation you got stuck in, but as soon as he snuggled against you at eleven o’clock, you felt all the sleep has escaped you like a butterfly that leaps away. He was already deep in sleep, when you decided you wanted to drive at night, and Parker was sorely unhappy about getting out of bed. While you still had moral high ground as leverage on him, while it worked, you elected to use it. Then, a couple of hours later, the tiredness returned in full swing, and you stopped in the middle of the highway (the liberating truth was that you could now stop at any point while driving, without even thinking) and made him switch seats with you. 
The portable loudspeaker he had manufactured out of a big boombox was incredibly loud and workable, and you prepped it just below the windshield. As you drifted into sleep you were thinking about how practically useful this boy can actually be, and how underrated his skills were back in the real world. Even without magic he was extremely handy. He was an amazing cook, he was insanely masterful with electronics, he was more savvy about the internet than you, the child of the web world...
You woke up because he whispered right into your ear, the most gentle order you’ve ever received in your life,
“Wake up now”.
Your neck ached, crooked unnaturally, but, as you opened your eyes, you saw what he woke you up for. Kai seemed relatively unaffected, probably having seen this a million of times; perhaps there was already an alarm clock in his head going off when it was the time for sunset. It was a first for you, though. You were already in Portland, and the car was lazily crawling along the street as the sleepy houses passed you by. Bright pink and raspberry was blooming in the sky indicating the new day, again. The light was so intense that, when you caught the reflection of yourself in the rearview mirror, you saw the shade of red on your own face. Your eyes looked sleepy and foggy. 
“Are we there yet?”
“Yeah. Are you hungry? It’s almost time for breakfast”.
You looked at the electronic wristwatch you nicked from an Epson store. It was a real nineties neat cute wrist watch, and it had lighting button which drove you insane. 
“It’s not even five yet. You’re always hungry”.
“I’ve been driving for nearly three hours. It’s draining. You fell asleep in my car, I drove the whole time, but that’s okay, I’ll just avoid the holes, so you sleep fine”, he declared. You couldn’t hold back a chuckle. He gestured towards the speaker.
“That was a good song”.
“It’s my car”, you argued benevolently, feeling very kind after three hours’ sleep. Due to the fact that Kai has been decent enough to just drive the car without waking you up. And the fact he even turned down the music a little.
“I stole it”.
“You didn’t steal it. It had no owner”, Kai replied. 
He stopped the car in a romantic gesture, and you two drowned in the morning silence, ever quieter than it even was before. The wind lay still, and no bugs buzzed in the grass. You left the car just to be in the moment, to step on the ground and feel its matter, and raised your face to the sky. This was all for you and you only, and that was the first time you asked yourself,
why do they even consider this torture?
The Parker house turned out to be more like a palace. Your head swung back and forth comparing Kai with the wedding cake looking family dwelling, trying to picture him on the porch. There was a traditional old oak that yearned swings, and the big lawn, greener than that of the Salvatore’s possession. There was whiteness of the façade and the depth of the invisible basement.
Soon Kai crawled up the stairs, and sighed, in the yellowish glow of the waking skies. 
“Welcome back home”, he murmured. You tried reading his face to see if it’s hard for him, but then reminded yourself he’s been here already, probably many times.
He’s been suspiciously tolerable these first days, you thought to yourself quietly as you wandered wordless through the living room. The first red flag fluttered in your mind when you threw a look at the banisters of the stairs leading up, and saw two ropes tied to them; they hung down, empty, with loops, like dead cat tails.
“Kai, why is it here?” you asked. The boy was already head first into the fridge in the kitchen.
He walked back to you, and sighed knowingly.
“Oh, yes. They kept the house as I left it at night. As a reminder. Go up the stairs, there’s still blood on the walls, and everything. Let’s go”.
He suddenly grabbed your hand with determination, and you sensed, on the run, like he needed to hold it. Not to guide you. You ran up the stairs, and you threw a quick look at the living room, amazed at the normality of it. One would think Malachai Parker’s house would look horrific, but his tragedy was very American. Pretty cover, bloody insides. The living room had two big couches (big family, it used to be), a very curious L shaped coffee table, and a fireplace. On the shelf above, there was a neat row of photographs of the family: everyone but Malachai, of course. They wished to forget he existed, for one reason or another. Kai’s hand led you on and you went into the long, spacious wooden hall of the second floor out of three: the blood on the walls was fresh, it glistened in the first cloud light. The patterns were thick and wide, like Kai’s been deliberately pouring it around; on the floor, there was a faint trace of his bloodied steps and something else, like he was dragging... a baseball bat? with him.
You tried not to step on the blood. The little window at the end of the hall was covered with a curtain, so it was bleak. 
“Here”, he said enthusiastically. It was obvious Kai has been psyched that someone would share the whole thing with him. No matter what part of prison it was: whether the beautiful sunrises of Washington, or the evidence of the massacre he conducted in his own house.
“Wow, whose room was it?”
“The twins. Luke and Liv”, he pushed the door to let you in. The bed was turned on the side, and there was a puddle of blood under it. The wardrobe was thrashed. 
“This is where I stabbed Jo. She hid them from me with the cloaking spell. I made her talk...” Kai muttered. His eyes were opaque, and he was focused on the memory. His sight shifted under the window.
“The-ere it is”, the witch stepped to the dark spot and picked up the bat, wrapping his fingers around the handle. There was blood on the tip of it. He swung the bat in the air in a motion that made you understand he could be a baseball star. Could have been. 
“And the banisters? Who was there?”
“I hung Ashley and Sam”, he said, putting the bat back against the wall. You observed the room. His siblings, they all had names. Ashley, Sam... those who made it to the future, the twins and his own personal enemy, Josette, felt more real because you have met them. You were there when Kai merged with Luke, you witnessed his death. But to think that some of the Parkers were left in the ninety-four, hung down from the stairs, and they were children who had names... Ashley and Sam. You didn’t even know whether Sam was a boy or a girl. You asked him.
“They were best friends, Sam and Ash. Samantha was two years older than Ashley, and she was so uptight I think somebody would have killed her one way or another. She was unbearable. So bitter she didn’t have a twin, she told everybody Ashley was her age, and that they were twins, although everyone in the coven knew they weren’t”.
“She was just a child, Kai. She wanted to be a part of this important thing, too”, you shrugged.
“Yeah, so did I. You wanna see my parents’ bedroom?”
He probably saw it in your eyes that you were slowly growing anxious about the whole murder night replay. 
“What did you do to your mom?”
“I stabbed her in the throat. She had to go first, she was a very powerful witch”, Kai said quietly, watching you closely. He was cruel in a way, leading you deeper into the bleak reality of his, trying you, curious as to how much you can take. 
“I made a mistake with dad. Should’ve stabbed him, too, but I thought I’d be untrivial, and I poisoned him. Which obviously backfired right into my face”.
Kai put his hand through his dark hair, and you realized his eyes are glowing nervously.
“What made you snap?”
“When our birthdays were coming up, I realized they’d never let us merge. Even Jo herself didn’t want it. Just so you understand, merging and even dying, as a Gemini twin, is the biggest event of your life. Even if you lose, you’re not gone. You live through your twin. You give them your power”.
You weren’t saying anything. He went on,
“You think I’m inherently evil?” there wasn’t a trace of indignation in his voice; just sheer curiosity. He never had a chance to ask that anybody. He never had this conversation. He just didn’t know at all. “They always told me I was”.
“There’s no such thing as evil, Kai. It’s a tale created for kids, to make them afraid of giving in to their instincts. There’s only pain and its consequences”.
You looked away not to seem too invested. You wondered how one can let a fellow human go on for nearly fifty years with such a grave misconception about themselves; how one can allow such violence upon their own child. Violence and negligence so intense it makes them act out so aggressively, so loudly. Every single blood stain, every broken wooden thing, every swing of a bat in the hands of now twenty-two year old Malachai, was a cry, not a roar of evil deed. He was so disfigured. He was so wounded he had to inflict pain on others to be heard. And yet they didn’t hear anything except their own screams. 
You wanted to ask him the same question, am I bad for liking you so much? But you knew he had no answer. Kai was very knowledgeable about many things; he understood many things you didn’t, but he knew nothing about the philosophy of morale. He had no deep feelings, he had no deep core in him. It was burnt clean long time ago. 
Am I evil for not feeling sorry for the kids you hung from the banisters? 
Am I bad for rooting for you when you were merging with Luke?
Am I bad for siding with you against my oldest friends?
Am I bad for being the only one who gave you the benefit of the doubt, just for the sake of being the only one?
After all, it takes just one person to keep someone from breaking. But when Malachai finally killed his family, when he reached the breaking point to never be innocent again, you were still a month away from being born. 
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“Take the books outside”, you asked him.
Kai looked up from the table. He was reading diligently, not skipping pages, and watching him got tedious after three hours. While he was on it, you trod through the front and back yard; made sandwiches; studied the pictures of the kids; sneaked into the basement and got horrified at the sight of Kai’s ‘room’ there. 
(Yeah, it became my room for a while, he yapped from the kitchen. He laughed at your eyes, widened in horror, yeah, it was real pain. They kept me there when they had people over... pretended I don’t exist)
His real room used to be upstairs, underneath the roof, but it became Jo’s space eventually, and there was no trace of Malachai there. It was sad how there were so very few signs of the oldest child in the house. No posters, no shoes at the door, no jackets, no used tissues, no sports awards. No clothes, no mess, no boy things, no magazines, no CDs, no skateboard. There was a TV in the basement, and a bed, a nightstand, and a couple of comic books in the drawers of it, and you felt there was a huge chunk of Kai missing, as if they had got rid of all the things reminding of him, as if it was him who died. 
“Take the books outside”.
“Why?”
“I’m tired. I want to sleep. Let’s go into the city, find a hotel or a big house, and you can read there”.
Kai looked around as if saying, isn’t it the house enough?
You didn’t know how to explain to him that staying in this place was terrible. Kai clearly missed this place although you didn’t know what he was holding on to. The family he missed was clearly an illusion. He craved the real bond, the concept of loving community, not the actual Parker people. 
“I want to burn down this house”.
He tilted his head and his mouth twitched. 
“Have you ever done it?”
“Why would I burn my own house?” 
“You’ve spent eighteen years here, and...”
“Look”, he put up his palms defensively, “obviously, you are a very creative individual with a different way of thinking, and I haven’t done half of the things you come up with, while I was here, but if you’re gonna ask me this question every time you have an idea...”
“You know fire is cleansing, right? You should know, you’re able to control it. Isn’t fire an important element of witchery?”
“Mhm”.
He wasn’t offended by the idea. He was just a little susprised. 
As Kai stepped outside, bringing the last books into the trunk of the (ugly) Buick parked in the driveway, you watched him there on the lawn. Maybe he really was the cancer his family made him to be. He looked like a hyena looking around for a dying animal to chew on. He despised this place, and its lightness, and the fact his surviving relatives thought of the exquisite way of reminding him about what he’s done. And he went around busily, like a bee mama, at the same time.
The house still reeked of blood, and frankly, you didn’t know how he could even think about sleeping here. 
You threw a match on the couch, and another one down into the basement. You knew the house would restore as soon as midnight comes, but by that time you’ll be far away from here. Wherever the books send you to. 
You’ve never seen a house on fire so close. The heat was burning your face, and you knew it burns Kai, too, so you pulled on his hand to make him step away. 
“What sucks the most is that I had every right to merge with her”, Kai said suddenly. You had to step closer to hear him over the immense screech and cracking of the house.
There was deep, pure hatred in his voice as he spoke about his sister. You realized that his bitterness about her betrayal is still fresh, and the merge did nothing to heal it. It was personal. She was his to kill.
“I would’ve shown her if she only had given me a chance. You know? Nobody believed I could win, because I’m a siphoner. But if they only gave me a chance, I would’ve tried my best and I would’ve been a good coven leader”.
“You are already”, you said. Kai squeezed your fingers with his stiff palm.
“Once we get out”, he said, dead eyes staring into you, “there’ll be no coven. I will end every single one of them”.
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halo-jpeg · 3 years
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Bearable | A Reddie Fanfiction
Read it from the beginning
Chapter 8.5
The sound of the lock tumblers rolled shut in an almost satisfying timbre- it told Stan, in finality, that his shift was up and it was time for him to go home, that Roses on Deane had carried him through one more evening and was now seeing him off, waiting for his next return the night after. Taking a step back after removing the key from the door, Stanley glanced left at the sign reading 'closed' hung daintily from a hook just above the glass window. The red LED plant lights inside still shone in the dark corners, eerie yet comforting. With a slow inhale and then a clipped exhale, Stan spun on his heel, hitching his courier bag more securely over his neck and shoulder and setting off for home. The Portland streets were dark, the clock reading just late of 10:00 pm, thick clouds coating the sky and blotting out the stars. Keeping his gaze set forwards, Stan settled into a brisk walk, a bouncing pace that was more than familiar to him by now- even though he was no longer hurrying to evade bullies, the habit of being quick and silent stuck to him like a welcome burr. It wasn't necessarily a bad habit to be in, was it?
As he walked, closer and closer to home by the step, he busied himself in scanning the buildings, the businesses, attempting to identify the plants lining the streets with his new and limited botanical knowledge. A pale terracotta pot overflowing with rippling sunshine-yellow marigolds sat on the front porch of a thrift store, and then a few doors down outside of a place selling home-sewn fashion were bunches of hydrangeas, pink, purple and a pale blue. Petunias outside of a laundromat, bright pink begonias marking the entrance to an ice cream parlor with a large sign saying it was closing for the winter- distractions distractions. Stan heard a whip-poor-will sing it's little nighttime song somewhere behind him and found himself smiling warmly, almost instinctively reaching towards his back pocket for his bird book before realizing he didn't carry it with him anymore and letting that smile fall again. A shiver ran it's course up and down his spine for a reason he wasn't certain of. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable, shifty, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and a frown crawling over his face. Walking a little quicker, Stan crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head as if that would hide him from anyone or anything that might cross his path. Distractions distractions. Birds and flowers.
Warblers, Alstroemerias, Common Loon, Lilies, to busy his mind Stan went over all of the Portland-resident birds and all the Roses on Deane-resident flowers, trying to ebb the near-flowing paranoia building in his head. All at once a thought unfurled like one of the colorful flora he was thinking about- Did you really lock the shop door? Stan chewed his lip, clasping his hands together and forcing his legs forwards once more. Yes, he locked the door, he was sure of it- and even if he didn't who was gonna rob a flower shop? He needed to take his OCD medicine the moment he got home. Recently, with work and school, he had started taking it at night. It often wore off by the end of the day, letting silly thoughts like that pop up like moles. More birds, more flowers, less thinking. Northern Goshawk, Carnations, Yellow-Bellied Flycatcher, Daisy. Walk walk walk. Stanley's head was trapped in some strange in-between where one half was racing and the other was sluggish and slow, like molasses- he hated it, the feeling like he couldn't quite register that things were moving to fast. He just wanted to be home with Bill, with Eddie, in his bed or at the stove cooking something up for the three of them. Anything at all- maybe he could clean his room or the lounge or the bathroom- maybe he could offer to do the laundry. Stan shivered again, and another wave of discomfort rippled through him. Birds. Flowers.
Red-Breasted Nuthatch, Orchids, Winter Wren, Orange Princess-
Stan stopped dead in his tracks. All at once, the smell of oranges hit him in the back of the throat. It was sickening, suffocating almost, like the near-toxic, too-sweet taste of children's medicine. He screwed up his face and clenched his jaw, trying to pinpoint where and why that scent had hit him so suddenly. Then, a thought, a realization not driven by his OCD popped into his head and his face drained of it's colour. Now the only thing he could think of was Dick Halloran, a character from The Shining, that stupid horrorbook that Bill had forced him to read. Dick had this power called 'The Shine', see, and whenever something like a premonition or a message from someone else who 'Shone' hit him he smelled this smell, the oranges, overwhelming, tangy, sickening. Every time this scent is mentioned in the book it is a bad thing. Maybe now it is a bad thing. Stanley has to force his legs to move, to carry him again, faster faster faster; he's basically jogging now and he'll turn up home slick with sweat and that means he'll need to shower for much too long but he doesn't mind right now. He might scrub his skin raw later, but right now his sudden nagging fear won over.
Stan had played baseball in elementary and the beginning of high school so he wasn't a terrible runner but he had hardly half the stamina Eddie would have had were he in this situation, despite the bug in his brain he called asthma. It had only been a few moments and Stan, in his panic, had sprinted away his energy; Stanley needed to be smart about it, to conserve his energy, his breath. Something dark and urgent bubbled up in his chest and he knew he needed away. Slowing to a hasty jog Stan focused solely on his breathing and going the right way. Home was closer now, less than three blocks, he could see the building. Gooseflesh broke out over his arms and for the briefest, briefest moment he swore he saw a flash of red lit white by the streetlamps across the street from him, low, on the ground or in the gutter or from a sewer drain. He didn't stick around long enough to be certain. Birds, please. Flowers.
Swainson Thrush, Rose, Rusty Blackbird, Sunflower, White-Throated Sparrow, Peonies, one after the other Stan pumped out name after name until he ran out of flowers and only knew birds; at some point after he started naming any bird, not just the ones here in Portland or even Maine or even the whole of the United States- he was desperate for anything to say, any image to conjure up to replace the fearful ones his brain was fighting to depict. The India Peafowl, or the Peacock more often, was what ended up taking the coveted 'Throne of Distraction'. He knew the bird well and spent a whole thirty seconds imagining every detail about it, the royal blue feathering of it's crown, breast, abdomen, the crisp white of it's auricular and superciliary, the places above and below the eye. They had white-and-back wings that had a total span of five feet and six foot tailfeathers of emerald green, blue, yellow, the shapes of eyes, almost, grand and royal and silently threatening. By the time he forgot about the peacock he was crossing the street towards his block and his lungs were protesting greatly. His hair was dampened despite the chill in the air and his palms were sweating profusely.
In a burst of confidence since he was now faced with the homestretch, Stan risked a look over his shoulder and then immediately hated himself for it. You never look over your shoulder, isn't that what Bill always said about horror movies? Was this even like a horror movie? Which rules were real and which were fiction? Which ones applied to real life? Stan snapped his head forwards once more and now he was driven by terror in it's rawest form, cold and sleek like the scales of a snake or the glimmer of a dark poison. His veins burned with this terror, his eyes wide and glossy, his throat pinching up and disallowing a scream. Oh, God, the thing he thought he saw- Eyes, orange, burning like hellfire, promising so many things, horrible, horrible things, a tall man, a shadow-man, something deadly and threatening in the way he stood and the way he held his weapon ready to raise and ready to strike. Stan was quick to smother the sight, the memory of the sight under the heel of his mind's shoe to forget about, to abandon, no-siree he was not crazy he didn't need to go to the loony-bin the funny farm the madhouse he was just okey-dokey all 100% okay yessir.
Birds birds birds flowers oranges grackles grackles marigold- His mind was gone by now, shrouded in some thick fog, out of reach, his soul ripped from his body to view himself in some sick third-person form. Icy numbness ate through him leaving only the terror, the sleek-cold terror as he stumbled onto the doorstep of his building and ripped his key from his bag at lightspeed, scolding himself for not getting it out sooner and then scolding himself again seconds later for fumbling, almost dropping the thing. He jammed them at the door, missed the keyhole, jammed again, missed, again, missed- finally, the keys slid into place and he cranked them to the side, ripping the door open and not even bothering to recollect them. He sent himself flying for the stairs, not trusting the elevator and getting more images from his book, The Shining, the faulty elevator moving on it's own accord, New Years Eve, party poppers, black gold silver people in suits- As Stan raced up the steps he finally found his voice but decided he could not scream, could not alarm anyone else, could not draw any attention. If you asked for help, for salvation, you got people killed and you still got fucked in the end- and, one part of Stan was horrified that none of this was even real.
If Stanley could only make it up to his apartment than he would be alright. He would be just fine. Peachy. Right as rain. The problem was that the stairs seemed to be getting longer, reaching up and up into infinity, a stairway to heaven. Birds Stan needed birds flowers too birds and flowers flowers and birds then he'd be just fine if only he had his bird book, Lincoln's Sparrow Dahlias Purple Finch Azalea White-winged Crossbill Poppy Evening Grosbeak Chrysanthemum Birds Birds Birds Birdsbirdsbirdsbirds-
Stan's mind froze. Everything came to a grinding halt. His hand rests on the brass knob of his apartment, his home, but he does not remember ever reaching the top of the steps, ever rushing down his hallway. The icy chill that had been coursing through his veins was drained all too suddenly, jarringly, leaving him with wide eyes and heavy breathing as well as a sprawling sense of confusion. The... the panic, it had been so raw, so real. The sight of the shadow-man had been so vivid. The sweat on his brow and his back and in his armpits, it was real too- he had been driven into a spiral of terror, but was it in any way possible that Stan had imagined it all? Why, suddenly, did he feel so... alright? Why, just like that, was all of it gone? The dread, the doom, the smell of citrus. Stan wasn't crazy, no, he took pills to stop his crazy, needed to take his pill, needed to make this blinding sense of what?? ease into nothing, needed to return to being just another guy in the sea of other guys in Portland Maine.
Just like that, in the blink of an eye, everything had vanished and he was okay again. Stanley Uris was just fine. Peachy. Right as rain. He might- is probably- just be a little tired. So what? People got tired all the time. All he needed was some sleep and a shower and maybe to scrub his skin right off because this sweat was making him sticky and gross and he hated it. What he needed was to get control of himself. Letting his head fall gently, silently against the door, Stan let his eyes close and tried to even out his breathing. He felt like he was a little bit silly. The shadow man he had been so convinced he'd seen was supposed to have been Jack Torrance, but Jack Torrance was fictional and Stan was just tired. That was all. After two more minutes to control his breathing, he opened the door and made straight for the bathroom. He didn't even stop to note how Eddie and Richie were practically tangled up in one another and sharing a bowl of popcorn.
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Broken arm
A/N: This was requested by anon, I hope you enjoy! please let me know what you think! Also this is like my worst fear, like that sounds dumb but breaking something sounds absolutely disgusting to me. In movies if they do like sound effects of bones breaking and I know it’s coming, I mute the sound. 
summary:  i was wondering if you could write a reddie x daughter where the losers club all go out and the daughter gets hurt (maybe breaks an arm) so they all freak out and take her to the hospital, and it’s just rlly cute at the end. i just feel like i could image richie and eddie just freaking out abt what to do and not actually doing anything so the rest of the losers have to step in
warnings: mentions of a broken arm and surgories (not graphic), mentions of throwing up (but also not graphic) and some curse words and your mom joke
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At least once a month, all the losers have a reunion that usually either takes place in Ben and Bev’s lake house, or in their boat. The reason it does, is because Ben and Bev combined have enough money to restore any damages that may or may not occur during these times, more often than not Richie fault.
This time however, by some unlucky draw of the hat, everyone agrees to meet up in Richie and Eddie’s home, because their daughter Alexa isn’t feeling too great, and Richie not Eddie felt comfortable relocating with her for a few days.
She had nothing major, just a stomach bug that causes her to throw up from time to time, but Both Eddie and Richie were more than ready to postponed the losers’ meeting. Alexa insisted that all the plans continued on as normal despite her feeling unwell, since she loved spending time with her uncles and aunt any time she could, and when she showed signs of her health improving, nobody cancelled anything.
With the first knock on the door, Alexa jumps up, rushing to welcome whoever has made it to their house first, ignoring how her stomach was protesting the flash movement, and she’s greeted by the sight of her best-loved aunt, which happened to be Aunty Bev. Six months into the pregnancy made Bev look bloated and tired, but her eyes lit up as soon as Alexa opened the door, bending down as best as she could to hug her back twice as hard. She’s alone, Ben had had a meeting over in Portland, and agreed to meet Bev here.
‘How’s my favorite girl doing?’ Bev asks with a huge smile on her face, her hand resting on the top of her belly softly rubbing up and down.
‘I’m okay’, Alexa insists, even though her face still looks a little pale. Eddie, who had joined the two of them at the front door, rolled his eyes begrudgingly. Insisting that she’s fine even though she isn’t must be a trait she picked up from Richie.
Staying silent however, he brings Bev into an embrace, an; ‘hey Bev’ falling from his lips in the process.
‘Richie’s out back, come in, I’ll go get him.’ Before Eddie has the chance, the next guests arrive, in the form of Patty and Stan. Stan was holding a stuffed animal, a bunny in his hands, smirking as if he already knew that he was going to be the ‘chosen’ one today.
Eddie laughs out loud, watching as his daughter’s eyes grow bigger and wide, and she excitedly begins the bounce up and down, seemingly forgetting about the sickness for a little while. In his mind, Eddie is already praising Stan, for the few moments of rest this allows his daughter to have. Sleep is nothing something that has come in large doses to her in the last two days, every single waking minute of the day being consumed with sitting next to a toilet bowl, and brushing her teeth afterwards.
Eddie also praises Stan for basically knocking down the competition before the rest of them even have a chance.
At two years old, Alexa figured out how to play her family like the harp she later maintained she wanted to practice, giving up after only two lessons. She used to go around the room and beg her uncles and aunt to play a game with her, any kind, and when they relented, the first person who did would be her go to person for the rest of the evening.
Endearing everyone’s heart, but also resulting in a rivalry, where many presents were tossed around, and Alexa was in danger of becoming a bit spoiled. Now at twelve, she’s stopped crowning anyone as her winner, yet the losers still  arranges bets on her, as if their daughter is something to bet on.
It’s all in good fun of course, and Richie himself joins in on the gamble from time to time, but for whatever reason he never guesses correctly, but Eddie has a burning suspicion it has something to do with manipulating Stan to lose. Not that his schemes work, Stan is much too smart for that.
In rapid succession, Ben follows Stan and Patty, and after him Mike emerges, and finally Bill and Audra appear from the end of the streets. A loud and ugly snort forces its way out of Eddie, when he sees the exact some bear clutched to Bill’s chests, the annoying, cocky smirk on his face he mirrored from Stan, the same one that vanishes as soon as he steps through the door, and lays his eyes upon Alexa, clasping Stan’s gift.
Richie, who had since joined the rest of the group, could not contain his laughter, finding in Bill the perfect victim to tease throughout the entire night.
Rice and chicken were on the menu tonight, a light meal that was decided in light of Alexa, but nobody complained. Despite popular belief, Richie was a very good cook, and when he prepared any meal, it was guaranteed that it would taste delicious.
Alexa ate a bit, more than she had eaten in the last few days, and Eddie sighed a breath of relief.  Years of conditioning that any sickness was going to get him killed did not disappear off the bat, so he was immensely glad his daughter was starting to feel better, even if he knew her ailment was not that serious to begin with.
After dinner, the group resides to the living room, watching a movie that Alexa had her mind set on viewing, and secretive adult talk concealed in a child appropriate package so she wouldn’t notice, making a way across each other. A normal reunion like any other.
At nine pm, unsurprisingly, Alexa got up from her seat. ‘I’m going to bed dad,’ she explains, her hand stroking Bev’s baby bump one last time, and then waving at everyone. The spot next to Beverly, the one that Alexa had claimed, so she could discuss her new best friend as she lovingly called the new baby that was yet to be burn, remains achingly open. A weird feeling creeps up the back of Eddie’s neck, ridiculously.
The losers club just doesn’t seem complete without her, even if she has only been there for twelve years. Her bedtime was around eight, but when they go on a trip, she is allowed to stay up as long she want, the fact that she turns in for the night so early, is a testimony to how bad she suffers.  
Richie started to make his way up from the sofa too, ready to tuck her in, as he did every night, but she shook her head. ‘I can go to bed alone, Pops, don’t worry.’
She gave him a kiss on his cheek, and then scampered off to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Bill chocked on his drink in laughter when he saw the fallen look on Richie’s face, disappointment coating his expressions in a grey attire.
When he dejectedly resumed his place next to Eddie, the latter patted him on the arm in sympathy. ‘It’s just because there are others here Rich. You know how ashamed she gets of you.’ The smirk cannot be contained when the words leave his mouth, even though he means nothing but lies with them.
‘And they say my jokes suck? Spaghetti, come up with new and innovated humor, like mine. Thank god she’s got some of my qualities-‘
‘she’s adopted.’
‘- don’t interrupt me Eds that’s just bad manners. I’m so sorry your mom was to busy teaching me the way around her body to teach you how to be polite but-‘
‘Beep beep asshole.’ A murmur of agreement rose up from the group, Richie flipping them the bird.
‘Whatever, you losers have no taste at all.’
Deciding to check up on her after about fifteen minutes, Eddie settles back in his seat, joining in on the conversation to his right, where Ben and Stan discuss the different plants they have in their garden, listing a bunch of flowers Eddie will never know the meaning off.  
The movie clutters on in the background, almost like a lullaby, and Eddie yawns significantly. Richie’s hand presses in the small of his back, a grounding warm signal that he was safe, even though he doesn’t mean too, he zones out, not asleep, but also not as awake as he should be.
That happens to be a mistake when he hears something slam on the floor above them, the sound of the toilet being flushed a second after. He makes eye contact with Richie, both of them realizing that that is probably the result of Alexa throwing up again.
‘Dad, Pops’, and then a loud bang, proceeded by a few thuds that can be relocated to their stairs, and a pained yell.
Richie and Eddie scramble up faster than they have ever done before, even more hurried than when Pennywise was chasing them in Neibolt. Stan, Bill and Bev scurry alongside them, to the place of the accident, every single one of them in a panicked haze.
It only takes a second to get there, in their haste, and no other sounds emerge anymore, until They run into the hallway.
Alexa is spread out across the bottom of the stairs, her arm bend in a weird position, her legs propped up as she looks around the space dazedly, as if she’s not sure what just happened.
Her faces goes through a couple of emotions, intensifying when she takes a look at her arm, but not yet crying.
Eddie is the first to reach her, and when she sees him, her lips open slightly and a wail falls out. It proves to him that she is in real, and agonizing pain. Back when she learned how to ride her bike for the first time, she had fallen many times, as kids do, but if she cried, Eddie refused to indulge her. He wouldn’t let leave or abandon her, but he would tell her that everything was fine, and that it only stung a little, and there was no need to cry.
He mostly did this to stop himself from becoming like his mother, and to allow Alexa to discover her own boundaries and which one hurt enough to actually ask help for. He never shamed her for crying either, he just tried to teach her the difference between actual pain, and being shocked from a fall.  Ever since, is she saw Eddie walk towards her, her tears stopped if it barely stung, or begin to cry if help was needed.
Now she sobs, heavy and with snot, hiccuping to catch her breaths. It only takes a look to tell Eddie everything he needs to know, she is suffering from an open fracture. The bone is not stuck outside the skin, but the bump is visible from the outside, in the same way that his bone was when he broke his arm.
All previous training flies out the window when it’s his daughter that is the one who is harmed, nothing of the medical terms he surrounded himself with in his childhood sticking, like liquid dropping from his head.
He stands there, blankly as he gazes upon his daughters still laying form, until he gets pushed back by Bill. Richie too stands frozen, trembling from head to toe, but Bev and Stan launch into action, dropping down next to Alexa, each on opposites sides.
‘What do we do, what do we do?’ Richie inquires frantically, pushing against Bills hands, to get to her, trusting Eddie for guidement. Eddie subconsciously reaches for his inhaler, and curses once he remembers that he threw his placebo away.
‘Fuck, fuck, Eddie should we snap the bone back in? It worked last time right?’ Richie reflects Eddie’s frantic, ignoring Bill’s pleas to calm down, the cries of Alexa deafening their ears, and making their heartstrings cave in.
‘What? What the fuck asshole no. That was a terrible thing to do, and you were lucky that my arm got back to normal, are you fucking kidding me you absolute moron?’
He doesn’t mean to snap at his husband the way he does, but the mantra of; this is your fault, she’s going to die, get her to a hospital now, more careful, you should force her to be more safe, in a voice that sounds an awful lot likes his mother hisses in his mind. The panic is very nearly all consuming.
‘What the fuck was I supposed to do then huh Eds? I was fucking twelve.’ Their panic-stricken words grow louder and louder, until even Alexa’s cries of agony sound quieter than theirs, they’re so consumed with worry, being oblivious to notice what Beverly and Stan are so desperately trying to convey.
‘I don’t know, not that. And you’re 43 years old, by now you should now better dickwad.’
‘Stop it’, Bill yells in the same determined leader voice that lured them into the house on Neibolt street, effectively silencing them and focusing their attention on him.
‘Your daughter needs you right now, so shut up, and do what we ask you too okay. Richie get her cloths, Eddie retrieve anything she has that helps calm her down. Alright? Okay go.’
Richie hurries to get the car as fast he can, but Eddie hesitates when he gapes at Alexa. He doesn’t want to leave her without her parents. ‘Hey’, Bill places on of his hands on Eddie shoulder, ‘we’ll take care of her for a minute okay?’
Her cries have turned into loud whimpers, her face hidden behind Stan’s body, which stops her from seeing Eddie anyway. Bev is calmly shushing her, on the phone with what must be the hospital, carefully checking her arm. Stan is trying to distract her, his cardigan being discarded towards Bev, who uses is to carefully cover the injured arm.
It looks painful, and Eddie can’t stand to think of her in pain, so he too complies with Bill’s demands, searching for the plush toy she got as a gift, and her soft blanket that she sleeps with during the winter.
When he comes back, he hears the blaring sirens of the ambulance stop outside their door, and his stomach falls when he realizes that a few hours ago, Alexa was standing in that exact spot, excited for the night.
Audra and Patty lead the paramedics into the home, apparently they had been waiting outside to help, Patty grabbing Eddie’s arm to steady herself, and maybe even Eddie, who is swaying dangerously from side to side.
He’s been through all of this before, in a way, but that seemed somehow less scary than it is now. Back then, Eddie had been glad none of his friends got hurt, so it didn’t matter that he did. Now, it’s different, but if he could somehow switch places with Alexa, he would do so in a heartbeat.
They insert an IV line and administer pain relief, Eddie assumes, since his ears seem like they’ve been stuffed full of cotton. He vaguely registers Richie’s hand in his own, all his attention pointed to watching Alexa’s face for any discomfort.
She’s placed upon a trauma board, Stan and Ben aiding to help her jolts as minimal as possible, before they carry her to the ambulance as fast as humanly possible. Eddie hopes to god, something he hasn’t believed in since he started dating Richie, that the medicine she has received knock her out, just so she’s painless the rest of the ride.
‘Dad, pops’, she wails, extending her uninjured arm to reach for the both of them. Next to him, Richie cries too.
Eddie speed walks to be by her side, grabbing her hand and pressing a kiss to it. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine.’ He can’t help the way his voice cracks as he tries to keep his own tears at bay.
Richie also hast himself to get to her, brushing away her tears as best he can, but new ones continue to leave wet rivers on her cheeks.
After consideration, Eddie says to Richie; ‘You need to go with her,’ his words lacking any really conviction.
Richie gazes up to him in surprise. ‘Eddie?’
‘I can’t be in there, in a hospital or ambulance, but I would feel so much better if you were with her.’ The trauma lingers around Eddie like a bad stench, and he hates himself for the fact that he can’t be with his daughter. He knows Richie will keep her safe though, so if he were to go with her, maybe the grip guilt has on him will loosen.
Richie says nothing and stares for just a split second, before one of the EMT’s says they need to hurry. Then he nods, climbing on board with Alexa, but pressing his lips against Eddie’s quickly before his does.
He’s trying to convey Eddie into believing everything will be okay, but Richie isn’t sure if he believes it himself.
They have to leave then, and Eddie stares as the ambulance disappears into the distance. When he can’t see it no longer, he allows himself five seconds, and he uses those five seconds to cry upon Mike’s sturdy statues the waterfalls flowing from his eyes like they’re a rives. He can sense the others coming closer, each laying a hand on a part of his body, their silent way of telling him they’re here for them.
He feels bad for making Richie having to be the one to hold it all together, since he can’t break down in front of Alexa, but Eddie honestly didn’t have any resolution left to sit in an ambulance.
When his five seconds are up, he begs someone to drive him to the hospital, ignoring his next door neighbor who comes to check up on the commotion that was happening.
He ends up driving with Stan and Patty, in the middle backseat, where he can feel their worried gazes on him. In his mind, he is trying to recall any information about what he had to go through with his arm, but all he really remembers is that he had to have surgery.
As predicted, that is the first thing Richie tells Eddie when he finally gets to the emergency room, Richie waiting near the entrance, his hands trembling when he reaches forward to pull Eddie against him in a tight hug.
‘She needs to have surgery Eds, you have to come quick. They’re about to put her under.’ Richie informs him when he pulls back, this time reaching for his hands and pulling him in the direction of the room Alexa is in. Eddie wants to say something to his friends, but he’s already whisked away, and he just figures he’ll tell them later.
Upon entering the room, Eddie can smell the disinfected in the room, the whole room is drenched in it, but he refuses to let it deter him, so he pulls through, pulling a chair to the side of the hospital bed, resting his hand on Alexa’s shoulder. Richie goes for her hand on her good arm, his thumb sweeping the back of her hand back and forth.
‘hey, honey, how are you?’
Alexa lets her head fall sideways, her eyes dropped with exhaustion, she hasn’t received any anesthetic, so Eddie assumes that it’s the adrenaline that has worked off.
‘I’m scared dad,’ she tells him truthfully, squeezing Richie’s hand tight while not looking him in the eyes.
‘It’s okay to be scared baby,’ Eddie soothes her, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. ‘I had to same thing happen to me when I was little.’
Her lips tug upwards in a faint smile. ‘I know, pops told me.’
‘It wasn’t that scary anymore. Not when getting into the hospital. I just fell right asleep, and when I woke up, the pain was dulled.’
‘I’m not in so much pain right now though, can I not avoid the surgery?’ Eddie’s heart breaks once again, and he wishes so bad he could heed his daughter from this, but it has to happen, there’s no other option.
‘That’s cause you’re on a lot op pain medication kiddo, but as soon as they’re worn off, you’ll feel it again.’  Richie heavily admits, the lines on his face have turned more prominent, the night taking ten years of their lives away from them.
‘Like I said, you’ll just go to sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll be here.’ Eddie tries to convince her one last time, and with a heaved sigh, she relents.
Just in time, for the nurse sticks her head through the door, her smile apologetic.
‘Alexa Tozier-Kaspbrak? I’m sorry, but we really have to get her upstairs now.
‘You’ll be fine bucko, We won’t be fare okay?’
‘And remember we love you okay?’
‘I know dad, Pops, I love you too.’
When they wheel Alexa away in her hospital bag, the other losers wave at her from behind the glass door, sticking their thumbs up in good luck, while Alexa waves at them as best she can.
‘She’ll be okay’, Richie insists as he pulls Eddie close to him by the waist, pressing his nose in his hair to comfort himself.
‘I really hope so Rich, I’m scared.’
‘Don’t be Eds, she’s your kid, she’s so strong, this is just a minor setback. I love okay, we’ll get through this together.’
‘I love you too.’
Later, when Alexa is back in her room, falling asleep on her own this time, and Eddie watches Richie’s lanky from twist in half to rest his head on the bed, the rest of his body in an uncomfortable hospital chair just to be close to their daughter, he thanks whoever is listening that he got this family; He would never trade them for anything in the world.
He’s mumbling to the both of them, a stupid story about Richie and his childhood, because Alexa had once told him she slept best with some background noise. Twirling the same piece of hair over and over again, he presses another kiss to her head, thankful that’s okay. 
He nearly thinks of his mother, and how much he would have loved to see her face if she ever saw him like this. Gay, married, with a child and in a hospital. But then he banishes her to the back of his mind. She is not worth any ounce of his thoughts. 
 Alexa shifts in her sleep, relaxing into the movements, and Eddie can’t do anything but mumble out in pure adoration; ‘I promise, I’ll never be like my mom, I love you and your pops too much for that.’ 
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laschatzi · 4 years
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Since We’ve No Place To Go
(A CSSS 2K19 gift for @the-captains-ayebrows​)
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Merry Christmas again, my dear Hollie, it was a pleasure talking to you over the last few weeks! Thank you so much for your patience, and I really hope it was worth the wait, and thank you to @cssecretsanta2k19​ for organizing this fabulous event! Oh, and I better not forget to thank @nowforruin​ for helping me kick this off in the beginning. Here are ~14,4k words of my variation of the snowed in trope (rated G):
(also on ff.net and ao3)
After a car accident in the middle of nowhere of rural Maine (where she really shouldn’t have ended up two days before Christmas), Emma Swan almost freezes to death, but is rescued by a three-legged dog named Smee and his grumpy master Killian Jones who can’t seem to get rid of her soon enough to have his self-chosen hermitage back. Alas, the weather outside is frightful, and the fire is so delightful...
“Emma, come on, there's no need for being dramatic.”
His condescending tone sets her off even more than anything else that has happened over the past two days – dealing with his snot-nosed parents, the stiff atmosphere in their pristine house, or finding out that he cheated on her with his secretary, cliché alert.
Furiously, Emma Swan slams the hood of her old yellow bug shut, thanking the fates that she had to stay back for work one day longer than Walsh while he already drove home to his rich mommy and daddy. That way, she has her own means of transportation now, even if it might not be too comfortable in the unforgiving Maine winter.
He has the audacity to try and grab her arm when she climbs into the driver's seat. “Emma, don't be ridic–”
“Fuck. Off.” she hisses and wriggles her arm free from his grip, and he knows better than to insist any further as she closes the door forcefully and starts the engine.
“You're gonna freeze to death out there!” he calls after her, and she thrusts her right fist in the air to give him the middle finger salute as she drives off.
She grasps the wheel so hard her knuckles turn white. Really, she should have followed her guts in the first place and refused to accompany him to his parents' home over the holidays; deep down, she knew already two months ago that thins thing wasn't ging to work out in the long run. But Walsh insisted, poked, and cajoled her into it... and also, as he remarked so insensitively, “You've nowhere else to go for the holidays.” Where was the lie?
Truth is, she doesn't have a place to go, or people to go to, for all that matters. But truth is also, being alone in her ugly little flat in Boston beats being in that snakepit of arrogant pricks any time, so that's exactly where she's heading, no matter how long it takes, how many toes she'll lose to frostbite, and how many gallons of caffeine she'll have to consume.
It was in the middle of twilight time when she left Portland, and now she's been driving through the dark for hours, a darkness eerily illuminated by the heavy snow that seems to be everywhere. Maybe at nine she stops for a fill of gas and shortly contemplates to ask the attendant to point her to a motel for the night, but then decides against it. She still feels fresh and full of adrenaline and wants to drive on through the night, wants to put as many miles as possible between her and what she left behind – another shitty relationship she never should have allowed to come that far, another illusion of a perfect life she would never have. But seriously, fuck this shit. Nobody needs that.
She throws a merely fleeting glance at the only partly green sign indicating that she is leaving Storyb– whatever the rest of the little town's name reads is covered in snow. The flurry is getting thicker and thicker, and seriously, fuck winter in Maine. For a moment she considers turning around and driving back to Storyb–, but the snow is heavy, and she can't really see the confines of the not-too large road, and she really doesn't want to risk slipping off the road and ending up with her car stuck in the roadside ditch.
Damn, she should have flown to Portland, but money was a bit tight after having to replace the washing machine, and she sure as hell wasn't going to allow her boyfriend to buy her a ticket. Ex-boyfriend. She huffs, asking herself whatever she saw in him, and she can't even remember. Great, another ruined Christmas in her long history of not-so-great Christmases... well, for someone who spent her childhood and half of her teenage years in the forster system, and the other half of her teenage years on the streets, it's really not a surprise that this doesn't even qualify as her worst Christmas ever. The thought makes her laugh almost hysterically, and for a second she's distracted. A shadow suddenly pops up on the road in front of the hood of her car, and she jerks the wheel violently to the right. The moment she feels the wheel thrum in her hands, she knows she's fucked, and one second later she loses control over the car.
For the blink of an eye she's afraid the car is going to overturn, but luckily, at least that doesn't happen; much to her luck, it doesn't end up in the roadside ditch either, and after a loud clonk! the car comes to a halt in a weird angle at the very edge of the road. The engine dies a quiet death.
“Fuck!” she gasps and lets out her breath in a long huff as everything else goes silent.
“Okay,” she whispers to herself, to reassure herself. Calmly, very carefully, she closes her fingers around the key, presses her left foot down on the clutch pedal and shifts into the first gear, her right foot on the brake, and slowly turns the key. The engine sputters a bit, then it starts. Thank God. Gently, she lets go of the brake and steps on the gas pedal, easing off the clutch. A shiver seems to run through the car, but otherwise, it doesn't move. More gas, until the engine starts to protest loudly... and it still doesn't move.
“Shit,” Emma presses through clenched teeth and steps down harder, but that's a mistake. The old car makes a rattling sound, and the engine dies. “Shit, shit, shit.” She turns the key again, trying to will the engine to start, but it's useless.
She hits the wheel with her fist and a filthy curse and snatches her phone from the passenger seat. But the display shows no signal. Seriously, fuck rural Maine. Fuck everything. With a groan, she leans her forehead against the wheel and tries to come up with a solution that does not involve her leaving her car, wearing just an – at least padded – leather jacket and thin, albeit knee-high, leather boots over her jeans and sweater. But there is no other solution – she can't stay here in the car without engine in the middle of the night and wait for who knows how many hours until someone drives by; for all she knows, it's perfectly possible that won't happen for days. She has to leave the car and try to find help – her best shot walking back in the direction of Storyb–, whatever the fucking name is, and maybe she'll pass by a farmhouse or something like that earlier and doesn't have to go all the way back.
Every fiber of her being, every instinct protests against leaving the relative safety and warmth of the car – but she knows staying inside is not an option, as that warmth is already fading with the engine shut off, she can already feel it. With a deep sigh, she grabs her beanie, gloves, and scarf from the passenger seat and bundles up as good as she can, shoves her useless phone in the backpocket of her jeans, and opens the door to climb out of the car.
The cold is not as bad as she expected, it doesn't feel biting, it's more... soft, for the lack of a better word. And the snow doesn't blow in her face, it falls calmly – but steadily – and covers everything, seems to muffle even the sound of her own breathing. Then she starts walking. It seems surprisingly easy, and she gains ground faster than she thought. At least something.
Five minutes later, she can barely feel her feet anymore, and the snowflakes melting on her face do leave a bit of a sting. A slight worry starts to creep up in Emma's mind, but then she sees something from the corner of her eyes, maybe a few hundred yards away... lights. There must be a house, and she knows it might be risky to bang at unknown people's doors in the middle of the night, but she also knows that she's never going to make it back to Storyb– by foot in this weather, so she definitely has to try her luck with these potential axe murderers. She pulls out her phone and uses the flashlight to look for a path leading towards the lights, but she doesn't really see anything; if there is a path or driveway, it's all covered and hidden underneath the snow. She's going to have to make her way cutting across country.
With a deep breath, she hunches her shoulders to brace herself a little more against the cold, and turns to the left, making her way towards the lights. Her third step goes right into the void of a small pit hidden underneath the snow. She gasps in shock and waves her arms around as she stumbles, a sharp pain shooting through her left ankle, and for a moment it looks like she can manage to steady herself... but her numb feet are too clumsy; then she's falling, a dull thud echoes through her head, and everything fades to black.
***
“Bloody hell, Smee, you scurvy beast, come here!”
A distant yelp is the only answer, and he groans in frustration.
“Should've let you rot in that trap,” he growls and trudges through the snow in the direction of the sound. Whatever might that bloody useless dog be up to now? He was supposed to just do his deed before retiring for the night, but the moment he let him out, the stubborn animal darted away in the direction of the road, as fast as the snow and his three-legged clumsiness would allow. Except for a dull reflection of the moonlight on the snow it's pitch dark, and Killian Jones switches his flashlight on and calls again for his dog.
After a few yards he quickens his step – as much as it's possible with all the snow – because an uneasy feeling is prickling at the nape of his neck. As stubborn as his dog is, tonight he seems particularly insistent on not following his master's voice, and that's not typical.
“Smee? Where are you, m'boy?” The annoyance in his tone is replaced by concern.
The dog replies with another howl, more urgent this time. He doesn't sound like he's in pain, but he very obviously wants his master to hurry. Something must be wrong. Killian has almost reached the edge of the road now, and there's still no sign of the dog, but he can see the animal's weirdly shaped track in the snow. Three steps later, it becomes clear why Smee has been hidden from his sight: the dog is crouching in the snow-filled roadside ditch beside an almost completely snow-covered heap that must be the remnants of some big dead animal.
“What did you find? Smee, what's that?”
The dog whimpers and nudges his plump muzzle against the heap, brushing the snow away. What looks like the blood of a fresh roadkill at first, on second look turns out to be red leather, and after narrowing his eyes to see better in the blazing light cone, Killian realizes that he's looking at the body of an unconscious woman lying in the ditch, almost completely covered by snow.
“Oh, bloody buggering hell!”
He jumps into the ditch and drops to his knees beside the motionless figure. Smee jumps to his three feet and wags his tail, firmly whimpering. A quick scan tells Killian that the woman is breathing, and there's no blood or any injury to be seen save for a bruise on her forehead. But her lips have a faint blueish tint, and when he pulls off his glove and touches her cheek, her skin is ice cold; who knows how long she's been lying here already – long enough to be covered with a soft, deadly sheet of snow.
Killian doesn't waste any time pondering over what happened to her or how she ended up here, his priority is to get her out of the unforgiving cold. He takes his flashlight between his teeth, pulls on his glove again and pulls the unconscious woman into a sitting position. Smee jumps out of the ditch and barks encouragingly.
“Aye, good boy, Smee, good boy. Oh, fuck.”
He's lean, but strong enough, yet lifting an unconscious body from the floor and rise to one's feet and climb out of a ditch is no easy task, even for someone who's used to hard physical work. But eventually, he manages, and once he's secured the body over his shoulder, groaning under the weight, he walks across the snowy meadow towards the lone farmhouse, with his dog hopping excitedly around him.
Finally inside the house, he crosses the large living room with the mighty fireplace in the middle and the large bed in one corner. He lets the body glide from his shoulder and deposits her on the bed in a sitting position, pulling down the zipper of her red leather jacket that's almost frozen stiff and ridiculously inadequate for winter. He makes equally quick work of her soaked boots and socks, scarf, beanie and gloves, before he lets her drop on her back and drops to his knees to examine her feet. The skin is pale and ice cold, but it doesn't look like there's frostbite yet. He also checks her hands, ears and the tip of her nose, and when he doesn't find any signs of frostbite there either, he starts to quickly remove her damp clothes, places her in the middle of the bed and heaps every available blanket on her body. Then he puts on a kettle with water and quickly gets rid of his own boots and jacket.
When the water is ready, he fills all of his three hot water bottles and places them under the blankets against her feet, on her thighs and her stomach, folding her hands above it.
Smee whimpers and makes a move to jump on the bed, apparently feeling responsible for his find, but Killian calls him out in a sharp voice.
“Hey! Nice try.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the dog's disappointed yelp. “You know bloody well the bed's off limits.” He scratches behind the flappy dog ears. “Come on, let's heat up some soup. Come on.” He slaps on his thigh, and the dog follows with one last reproachful whimper. “Stop complaining, you've already caused enough trouble.”
Passing by the fireplace, he puts on an extra log, making the flames blaze, and hangs her wet clothes on a leather chair near the fire. He throws one last glance over his shoulder before heading for the kitchen. Aye, trouble. He can already feel it in his bones.
“Bloody hell,” he huffs.
In the kitchen, he sets a pot on the stove and takes a container with the remnants of the chicken broth he made the day before, as if he knew it would come in handy. Smee is watching him intently as Killian grumpily stirs the yellowish liquid.
“Just what I needed,” he murmurs. There's just one thing Killian Jones hates more than an interruption of his quiet routine: surprises. Like the one currently huddled in his bed under all of his blankets.
The dog tilts his head in an almost apologetic gesture. Just like his master, Smee has a habit of attracting trouble and misfortune like a magnet, which is of course what brought them together in the first place.
Killian Jones had been living in the old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere for a few years, content with the fact that he saw people only about twice a month, when he drove into the next town to buy the supplies he needed and to deliver his wooden work pieces. Nobody asked him questions, nobody knew or cared about his backstory, and he liked it like that. The one exception was his only friend David Nolan, the veterinarian, for whom he'd once made a sycamore medicine cabinet. He and his wife Mary Margaret were his only social contacts, and once they'd given up trying to lure him further out of his self-chosen shell, they shared a tentative friendship.
One day, when he roamed the woods around his farmhouse to find the perfect tree branch for a coat rack, he stumbled over the miserable figure of a shaggy dog, more dead than alive and even to weak to whimper, its left hind leg stuck in a leghold trap. Even if it seemed useless, he struggled to free the poor dying creature from the vicious device which earned him a feeble tail wag – and rusty iron claws plunging into the flesh of his left palm, crushing the metacarpal bones.
Surprisingly enough, when he arrived in town, the dog was still breathing, and he left him in Dave's capable hands. In the hospital, his own wounds were tended to, but the rusty iron and the bacteria of the dog's rotting flesh had already done their infective work, and even though the doctors did their best, they couldn't save his hand. So he became a one-handed carpenter. Why not. It fit with the bloody luck he'd had so far in his life.
Ten days later, when he left the hospital, he passed by the vet's office to see if the stray dog had made it. The shaggy animal had to be one tough bastard, however, because not only was he alive, he literally jumped to his feet – his three feet – when he saw him and wagged his tail tentatively, as if he recognized the human who saved his life.
“Nobody looking for him?” Killian asked, and David Nolan shook his head.
“No dog tag either, even if he must have belonged to someone once.” He showed him a dirty red leather collar with faded black letters inside that looked like written with a sharpie, forming the word Smee.
“I'll take him,” Killian said curtly.
David frowned. “Do you really think that's a good idea?”
“What happened, wasn't his fault.” He held up his stump that was still bandaged. “If we don't match, I don't know who does,” he replied dryly and motioned to the dog's rear with the mutilated left leg. “Besides,” he went on, “who's gonna want him?”
David looked from the dog to his friend. “How are you holding up?”
Killian shrugged. “I've been much worse.”
David knew it was a lie, but he kept his mouth shut when he saw how Killian looked at the dog.
“Smee, eh?” The dog wagged his tail again, more fervently this time. Killian slapped his thigh in a beckoning gesture. “Come on, let's go home.”
When he drove off in his old jeep, Mary Margaret Nolan joined her husband at the window and sighed compassionately.
“Do you really think that's a good idea?” she asked.
David nodded thoughtfully. “I think it's a very good idea.”
That was three years ago, and from that very day, Smee never left Killian's side, obviously determined to repay the favor with undying loyalty and fierce affection. Nobody ever came looking for him, and nobody ever found out where he'd come from. Perhaps, David Nolan thought sometimes, he was just meant to be at the right place at the right time.
With infallible instinct, he found every injured animal in the range of a few miles, and dragged them home. Tonight, it seems, his instinct struck again.
When the soup is ready, Killian turns the stove low and returns to the living room to look after Smee's newest find. Much to his relief, the figure of the woman is stirring under the heap of blankets, and when he takes a closer look at her, he sees the color of her face has changed; the worrisome paleness of her cheeks has turned into a more healthier tone, and her blueish lips are rosier now.
He sighs and fetches a few clothes for her to put on when she wakes up, which will undoubtedly happen soon. Oh, the fun. He sighs again.
***
Slowly, very slowly Emma drifts back into a sort of semi-onsciousness, and the first thing she notices is a tickling pain in her feet... but that's gotta be a good thing, because the last thing she remembers is the thump on her head, and that she couldn't feel her feet anymore. But now she can feel them, even if they're hurting and stinging, and also her hands, and she can even ball them into fists, and she's engulfed by warmth and softness and a soothing, pleasant smell. It gives her the urge to bury herself deeper into the nest she's in and just go back to sleep.
But her instinct scrapes at her consciousness, demanding of her to wake up and check out her surroundings and situation. She stirs and struggles to open her eyes, and it's surprisingly difficult. The blood is rushing in her ears, and then she clearly hears a voice through the haze swirling around her. The voice is low and accented and somehow fits well with the warm and cozy feeling.
“Lass? Are you awake?”
But it's a stranger's voice, a man's no less, and she has no idea what's happening to her. Her survival instinct kicks in, and with great willpower and effort she opens her eyes, blinking rapidly to clear her sight. She notices that she's inside a room and that she's lying on her back stuffed under what seems a lot of blankets that seemed cozy just a moment ago, but now seem to suffocate and threaten her. She struggles to sit up, and there's the voice again.
“Whoa, careful,” he warns, “you got a bruise on your head.”
That would explain the dull throb and maybe she dizziness, and she struggles even more. She has to see the owner of this voice and somehow make sure she isn't in danger. She notices with dread that underneath the indefinite number of blankets she's wearing only her underwear. A hint of panic brushes over her spine, and she's careful to hold the blankets in place around her body as she finally manages to sit up and fix her eyes on the man standing only a few feet away from the bed she's been placed in.
He's wearing normal clothes, she notices. A plaid shirt over a grey henley, well-worn jeans. Dark hair, a little too long, a tuft of it falling over his forehead. It almost touches his thick eyebrows that are currently raised above very blue eyes scrutinizing her closely. A slight stubble is peppering his jaw and cheeks, shimmering reddish in the dim light of the room. He doesn't look dangerous, and absurdly enough, her instincts tell her that he isn't, but she could be terribly wrong, and she's alone with him, in a bed, stripped down to her freaking underwear.
“What happened?” she demands to know. “Where am I? Who the fuck are you?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I have no bloody idea of what happened, lass. Smee found you in the roadside ditch, passed out and already half covered in snow, and insisted we take you in.”
“Smee?” she echoes and looks around suspiciously, a fresh hint of panic making her toes curl. “Is there someone else?”
“Smee's a dog,” the stranger replies calmly, patiently. “You're at my house, thirty miles outside Storybrooke, Maine, and my name is Killian Jones. I'm living alone.” He tilts his head in what appears to be slight mockery. ”Anything else I can be of service with?”
“Did you take off my clothes?” she snaps.
“Of course I did, they were bloody frozen,” he explains pointedly, a slight annoyance creeping into his voice now. “Did you miss the part where I said you were half covered in snow?” He nods his head sharply in her direction and adds, “You were bloody frozen.”
Emma huffs. “Oh, right, and to warm me up you had to put me in your bed, with–”
He holds up a hand. “Listen, darling,” he cuts her off, clearly angry now, “this is no bloody Hallmark movie. I put you in my bed, the one close to the fireplace, with three hot water bottles to warm you up as fast as possible, because hypothermia is fucking dangerous!” He motions his hand vaguely to the side. “I hung up your damn clothes at the firesite, and they're still damp, if you don't believe me.” A quick look confirms that her jeans, shirt, and jacket are indeed draped over the armrests and back of a huge leather chair standing close to a cozily burning fire in an open firesite. “But let me tell you,” he continues, “you're pretty rude for someone whose life I just saved.” He gives an annoyed flick of his wrist in her direction. “What were you even doing out there, in these clothes no less?”
She's momentarily disarmed by his little tirade, and she knows she should probably apologize, but her head is still dizzy, and she blinks rapidly to clear her mind and tries to recall what happened that made her end up in the roadside ditch where her life-saver apparently found her.
“My car... must have driven over a small rock or something,” she murmurs and touches the bruise on her forehead absentmindedly, flinching a little. “I think I had a flat tire.”
His eyebrows rise high. “So you decided walking was a good idea?”
“Better than waiting in an old car to be frozen to death!” she replies defiantly.
He tilts his head. “You do have a point.”
She draws a deep breath. “Do you have a phone?” she asks firmly.
He nods his head once, slowly, but Emma has a feeling that it's not a good sign. “Yes.” For a moment, she's relieved until he adds, “But the landline's dead. Happens when the snowing gets heavy.” He gestures in the direction of the firesite where there's a table with an old-fashioned looking phone and suggests pointedly, “Check for yourself if you don't believe me.”
Her instinct tells her he's not lying; and so far, her instinct has never failed her. She ignores his remark and raises her chin. “Mobile?”
“I have one, but it's never charged.” He tilts his head again. “No connection here.”
She lets her shoulders sag. “And what now?”
“I'm afraid you're not going anywhere tonight, lass,” he says and raises a hand in defense. “Believe me, I don't like this one tad better than you, but for tonight you'll have to stay here. Tomorrow we'll look for your car.”
She groans in frustration, feeling pretty deflated now. “Do you... do you maybe have something for me to put on?” she asks reluctantly, and he just motions wordlessly to the foot of the bed. Neatly folded, she finds what looks like a flannel shirt, faded grey sweat pants, and red socks with a christmas-y pattern. When she looks up agin, she sees he's retreating from the bed.
“I'm going to fix something to eat while you put that on.” He gestures across the room. “Bathroom's down the hall, fresh towels are in the closet.”
Emma combs her hair behind her ears with both hands and notices that they tremble a little when the shock of what happened settles in and she realizes that this grumpy stranger and his dog most probably saved her life. She shivers, and not from the temperature. Before she can say something, all she sees of him is a glimpse of his back as he closes the door to what's most probably the kitchen behind him, giving her the privacy to get dressed.
Reluctantly, because the bed is warm and cozy and smells good (and where did that thought even come from?), she folds back the blankets and puts the hot water bottles aside that were placed on her   nearly strategically. She slips into the clothes provided for her and carefully gets up on her feet; like she expected, her legs are slightly wobbly. After a few tentative first steps, she shuffles through the large quaint room on socked feet, almost magnetically drawn to the cackling fire. When she brushes her fingertips over her jeans that are draped over the backrest of the huge leather chair, she can feel the dampness and shivers again. She would be frozen to death by now, two days before Christmas. Not that anybody would care or miss her, mind you.
After using the bathroom and splashing cool water into her face, the dizziness in her head seems to have lightened a bit. In the bathroom mirror, she examines her face and finds the bruise on her forehead is not as bad as she feared, which allows her to believe she probably doesn't have a concussion. Fuck, she was really lucky.
When she opens the bathroom door, immediately the smell of chicken soup fills her nostrils, and suddenly she becomes aware of the roaring hunger in her stomach. The large wooden table near the fireplace is set with soup bowls, glasses, and a large, steaming pot. The door to the kitchen opens, and her savior appears with a bottle of water. A plump dog of middle size comes over to her, moving in a weird, clumsy way, and it takes Emma a few seconds to realize it's because he has only three legs: the left hind leg is missing. The dog bumps her leg eagerly with his shoulder and wags his tail.
“Smee, easy!” his master calls sternly and puts the bottle on the table, but Emma waves him off.
“No, it's okay.” She hunkers down and scratches him behind his flappy ears, obviously to the dog's delight. “Thank you, thank you so much!” she tells him in her talking-to-a-good-boy voice, and he wags his tail so hard that his whole rear end shakes. She pats his thighs and looks at his missing leg. “What happened to you, Smee?” she asks. “Did you have an accident?”
“Aye, with a leghold trap,” his owner – Jones? – replies, and Emma is shocked.
“With a what? That's fucked up!”
“Must have been some old relic from twenty years ago.” His remarkable jawline tightens. “Was half dead when I found him.”
Smee seems to notice they're talking about him, because he looks to and fro between them eagerly. Emma pats him again and shakes her head with disgust. “Terrible. You could have been hurt as well!”
“Well, about that...” He tilts his head and lifts his left hand – except, she realizes with dismay, there's no hand where his forearm ends; his wrist – or what must be left of it – is hidden under a soft cover made of cotton or some similar fabric. His grim expression looks almost challenging, as if he expects her to react repulsed. As if that's a reaction he's used to, and that thought makes her unexpectedly sad.
“Oh fuck, that sucks,” she blurts out.
He's startled. “What, losing a hand?”
“Doing something good and being screwed over.”
“Well.” He shrugs and scrutinizes her for a moment, a curious look in his eyes now, and scratches behind his ear in what seems to be a nervous gesture.
Emma turns her attention to the friendly dog again and palpates a little along his spine and hips. “He could use a little massage,” she says, “his muscles are a little tense.”
He huffs. “What are you, a vet?”
She raises her chin. “Actually, yes.” She is, even if she hasn't felt like a true veterinarian in some time, as she's been tending mostly to rich brats' handbag dogs in the posh Boston veterinary practice she's working.
“Oh.” He runs his hand through his hair and says a little stiffly, “My apologies. Don't worry, though. I'll have you know Smee's special needs are regularly taken care of.”
“I'm sure they are.”
He motions to the table in an inviting gesture. “Come on, the soup will warm you up from inside.”
She sits down gratefully, and he fills her bowl with soup, pushing it towards her and sits down opposite her. Smee finds his place under the table between their feet.
“Thank you...?” she says and raises her eyebrows in question, having forgotten the name he told her.
“Killian,” he helps out, “Killian Jones.”
“Thank you, Killian. I'm Emma, Emma Swan.” He just nods to that, and she adds, “And I'm sorry for my reaction. It was just a shock to wake up to...” She lets her voice trail off, not really knowing what to say, and makes an all-encompassing move.
“You were right to be wary,” he replies to her surprise. “For all you know, I could be an axe murderer.”
She huffs a little laugh. “You know, I guess I'm just not used to people... being nice.”
He tilts his head. “That's because they're not.”
“Well, you are nice,” she remarks.
“Oh no,” he contradicts dryly, “I'm not nice.” There's not much humor in his voice, and the self-deprecation she senses touches a string inside her, urging her to convince her grumpy savior that he is, indeed, a good person for what he did.
“Come on! You saved my life?”
He waves her off. “That's not being nice. That's... basic humanity.”
Emma shrugs and picks up her spoon; she has enough of burden to carry on her own, she can't cast away everyone's shadows. “If you say so...”
Quickly, he changes the subject. “What were you even doing in this neck of the woods?” he asks, “you're not from here, right?”
“I came from Portland,” she explains vaguely and dives into her chicken soup. “I was on my way back to Boston.”
He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “You're from Boston and don't know how to dress appropriately for this weather?”
“I'm not from Boston, I just live there at the moment,” she points out in a defensive tone, “and I–I left Portland in a hurry.”
He tilts his head. “And ended up in this godforsaken nowhere.” Emma snorts, and he frowns. “What?”
“You realize you're talking about your home?” she deadpans.
He looks intently into his soup bowl. “This is not my home. I just live here,” he replies, and Emma is startled that he chose almost the exact same words as she did. “It's as good a place as any, and I've nowhere else to go,” he adds.
She feels like punched in the gut by those words, because that – I have nowhere else to go – has been her own rough-and-ready replacement for a home during her whole life, and to hear the exact same from this total stranger under these absurd circumstances just makes it feel so weirdly...  predestined that he was the one to save her life.
Emma stares at him, but if he feels something similar, he doesn't show it. After a few moments, he looks up at her blankly and then motions to her soup bowl. “Anything wrong with that?”
She swallows and shakes her head. “No, it's very good. Thanks.” Then she lowers her head and eats her soup without another word, and it starts to warm her up inside more than she'd ever have expected.
Killian watches her while she's meticulously emptying her bowl, that stranger the snow storm literally swept in front of his feet. When he looked up and found her eyes resting on him after him saying he'd nowhere else to go, he recognized an odd sort of understanding in her features, like she knew exactly what he was talking about. Now, she seems to avoid looking at him, and honestly, he's grateful for that.
It's absurd that he feels that sort of instant connection to that complete stranger, and it's not useful at all, because they will go separate ways again tomorrow anyway. Plus, so far it's never done any good for people if he had any connection to them; all of those who he was really close with, are dead: his mother, his brother, his first love. That's also why he keeps David Nolan and Mary Margaret always at arm's length, even though he considers them friends – he seems just no good to be with, and he knows he's really not worth the trouble. No, it's convenient that the stranger he rescued – Emma Swan, he recalls – seems to be similarly closed off and doesn't push any further.
Briefly, he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind and then finishes his soup quickly – he isn't hungry anyway – before he gets up to clear the table when Emma's bowl is empty, too. She looks at him questioningly.
“It's late,” he says and heads for the kitchen balancing the two empty bowls atop the pot, and she gets to her feet as well.
“Of course,” she replies. “Can I help? Where can I–”
“I suggest you go back to bed,” he interrupts and motions his head over his shoulder, “I'll sleep on the couch. For one night it'll do.”
“But I can take the couch!” she protests. “I wouldn't want to–”
“It's fine,” he cuts her off curtly and turns towards the kitchen again, “you need the extra warmth.”
When he has deposited the dishes and comes back to the living room, she's standing in front of the fireplace, and the light makes her face look like it's glowing. Smee is standing close to her, his tail slightly wagging. Killian frowns without noticing. With his sweatpants, worn plaid shirt, and the Christmas socks Mary Margaret knitted for him last winter, she looks incredibly cozy – and like she belongs exactly there, next to his dog, in front of his fireplace, and the thought startles and annoys him. He clears his throat, and she whirls around.
“I don't think you had a concussion,” he says, “but the bruise might still give you a bit of a headache. I have aspirin in the bathroom cupboard, if you need it.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Thank you again.”
He waves her off. “Try to get some sleep, you'll want to be well-rested tomorrow. You've still got a long way to go to Boston.”
She frowns. “Boston?” Then she huffs and takes a step towards the bed, the dog trotting after her. “Oh yeah, right. Okay. Then... good night, I guess.”
“Good night.” He clicks his tongue at the dog. “Smee, you know the rules. Not on the bed,” he warns.
His eyes follow her as she shuffles over to his bed and crawls under the covers again, and he quickly looks away when, again, the inexplicable feelings creeps up on him that she belongs exactly there, because why the bloody hell would he think that?
Suddenly it seems like he isn't in control of his feelings, of the situation anymore, and if Killian Jones hates something fervently, then it's the feeling of being under external control. It's ridiculous, of course – just a fleeting hint of connection, attraction maybe, and it will be gone tomorrow. She will be gone tomorrow, not more than a faint memory of blonde locks, green eyes, and a soft voice.
Abruptly, he turns around and heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth and get into his sleeping clothes. He has a feeling that his sleep will be a little troubled tonight, and he's right.
When Emma wakes up the next morning, her host is already dressed, and the smell of coffee wafts through the entire room. She sits up and notices that he's nowhere to be seen, but she can hear him rummage about in the kitchen, obviously preparing breakfast.
Absurdly enough, she's had a deeper and more relaxing sleep than in a long time, which probably explains her odd reluctance to leave the bed; the feeling is disturbing.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she murmurs to herself and swings her legs out of bed. Passing by the leather chair, she picks up her clothes that are dry by now and heads for the bathroom to get dressed. When she returns to the living room, the breakfast table's set with coffee, bread, butter, honey, and scrambled eggs with bacon. Her stomach reacts with a loud growl.
“Good morning,” Killian greets her, “Slept well?”
She nods with a tentative smile. “Yes, thank you.”
“I hope Smee didn't bother you?”
“Not at all.”
“Fine. Then,” – he motions invitingly to the table, and she notices that he's wearing a prosthesis in the place of his missing hand – “you should get some breakfast into you before going on the road again.”
She doesn't understand the absurd hint of disappointment she's feeling at the thought of continuing her trip to Boston and never seeing Killian Jones and his dog again. When she steals a glance at him now, in broad daylight, she realizes that he's actually really handsome, in a very down-to-earth way, and she wonders how his smile would look.
What's wrong with you, she calls herself to order, who cares how his smile looks, for fuck's sake. Eat your eggs, and then you're out of here.
Killian, too, doesn't seem very eager to extend her stay longer than necessary. The breakfast is a short, silent thing, and when they're done, they get dressed, and she bundles up as much as she can, before they finally head out.
This time, they're not going across the uneven meadow, they use the driveway from the farmhouse to the road. It's stopped snowing, but the snow is quite high – much to Smee's obvious delight.
“Bloody hell, this doesn't look good,” he murmurs when they reach the road. “So, in which direction is your car?”
“That way. I was heading back to the town when I saw the lights from your house.”
“It's thirty miles to Storybrooke!”
Emma rolls her eyes. “As I said, it was my best shot. Freezing to death in a car didn't seem appealing either.”
He nods somewhat grumpily. “Alright, point taken.”
They turn in the direction Emma has pointed, and the farther they walk, the darker Killian's mood seems to get, and he keeps murmuring and huffing and grumbling to himself. When they reach Emma's car after maybe seven minutes of walking, she's shocked to see that it's well-covered in snow; a lot of snow.
“Bloody buggering hell,” Killian blurts out, “I knew it!”
“You knew what?”
“This!” He gestures angrily towards the little, half-buried car, and then towards the road. “Even if we could get it fixed – and to do that we'd have to practically shovel it free – there's no way you could drive on that road.”
“But it's stopped snowing, won't the snow plow truck pass soon?”
He snorts. “This is not a highway. It might take days before it's cleared.”
Emma closes her eyes. Fuck rural Maine indeed. Then the meaning of his words seeps in. Before she can say anything, his angry voice cuts through the white silence.
“Grab your stuff already!” He gestures vaguely around. “I'm not going to get frostbite here.”
“My... stuff?” she echoes.
“Your clothes,” he replies impatiently. “I do have enough sweatpants and shirts to clothe you, but you might want a change of underwear during the next few days, until the bloody road is cleared.”
“Do you mean–”
“I mean,” he interrupts pointedly, “you're going to have to stay at my house for the next days. Unless of course,” he sways his arm out in the direction of where the town is, “you want to try your luck again and hike to Storybrooke.” He tilts his head in a sarcastic shrug. “At least it's not dark, you could even get there alive.”
“Very funny,” she shoots back and opens the trunk of her bug with some effort and snatches her duffel bag.
“That is all?” he asks doubtfully.
“Yes, that's all,” Emma replies, anger bubbling up in her about his constant rudeness. Okay, to drive through heavy snow in an old Volkswagen bug without winter tires might not be a really smart idea, but she barely had any choice, and the weather wasn't her fault. “I don't need much stuff. Or do I strike you as the princessly type?”
Wordlessly, he turns around and proceeds to trudge back to the farmhouse, with Smee delightedly hopping through the deep snow on his three sturdy legs, and Emma following as fast as she can, trying to process what's going on – and what to feel about it. So, apparently she's stranded here for the next few days, in the middle of this snowy nowhere, with a gruff, handsome stranger she's instantly felt an odd connection to. Well, it's not like she has anything better to do or anywhere else to go – or anyone.
When they get back to the house again and are inside, Killian tries the phone right away, but apparently, the landline is still dead.
“Bloody hell,” he curses under his breath and then turns to her. “No connection. Looks like you're stuck here.” He scratches behind his ear. “I do have a pickup, but you've seen the road.”
“I'm sorry I'm ruining your Christmas,” Emma says tentatively, but she can't shake off the feeling that he wasn't in a very festive mood anyway even before she showed up.
“Christmas?” He frowns and shakes his head once. “I don't care about Christmas.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” she murmurs. Meanwhile, she hasn't failed to notice that not only there is no tree in his living room or anywhere visible, there is no other piece of decoration either, no holly, no candy cane, no nothing. Emma herself isn't very much of a Christmas person either, but even she puts up the occasional candle or holly.
At first it seems like he wants to say something, but then he turns around and heads for the door again. “I'm going to work.”
“Work? Where?”
“In my workshop in the barn. I'm a carpenter.” He tilts his head. “And before you ask, yes, that's possible with one hand. It takes a bit of creativity, but it's possible.”
“I wasn't going to ask,” Emma replies indignantly.
He leaves the house without any further word.
She spends the day wandering around the house, resting in the afternoon, and reading in front of the fireplace, after she found a shelf full of books in one corner of the huge living room. She also checks the phone from time to time, but never gets a signal. Killian comes back only around noon for a small lunch of bread and cheese and waves her off when she asks if she can do anything around the house or prepare something for dinner (honestly, she's relieved when he tells her that he has already a stew in the fridge ready to be heated, because cooking isn't one of her prominent skills). He disappears after a rather short break, and it's almost like he's avoiding her presence. Not that she can blame him – she's basically an intruder into his routine, and even if he apparently doesn't do Christmas, she's still a stranger in his house and in his life. Absurdly enough, she can't help but feel a bit disappointed that he doesn't ask her if she wants to take a look at his workshop; she hoped to find out a little more about the man who saved her life, but apparently he's even more of a recluse than she is.
When the sunlight outside is fading, he comes back again and heads right to the bathroom for a shower, not before making sure she's okay though, with no headache, dizziness, or further signs of a concussion, and with no signs of a cold either.
“Landline still dead?” he asks when he puts the pot with the stew on the table; she has set it this time with plates and glasses, spoons and bread.
“Yeah, I've tried a few times.”
“Hmm... someone's going to be worried about you.”
She huffs. “No one, trust me.”
He throws her a sideways glance, but doesn't reply to that, and she decides to try her luck and simply asks, “You're not from here, right?”
Killian shakes his head. “No, I was born in England.” He pauses, but she's looking at him expectantly, and so he goes on, “My mother died when I was very young, fourteen, and my father already wasn't in the picture anymore.” Briefly, a sadness flickers over his face, like a long-healed wound that still throbs from time to time. She studies his expression intently as he continues. “I had an older brother, Liam. He was already of age, and luckily, the authorities let me stay with him. He trained as a carpenter and worked very hard to build his own business, and then I trained with him. One day, he had a fatal accident with the disk saw.” Emma's eyes widen, but she stays quiet. “He died. I sold everything and left the country. I just couldn't...” He falls silent, and a muscle in his jaw ticks.
She nods. “It didn't feel like home anymore.”
He gives her an odd glance. Even though he doesn't reply, she knows instinctively she's right, and it startles her once more how connected she feels to him.
“I came here for a fresh start,” he continues his tale, “settled down in Portland, met a woman. She was married to a rich and powerful man. We were planning to run away together, but she never showed up.”
“She changed her mind?” Emma asks sympathetically, but he shakes his head.
“She was hit by a car,” he tells her, and she gasps. “On Christmas Eve,” he adds soberly.
“Fuck.”
“Aye.” He tilts his head and drops his spoon into his empty plate with a dissonant clang. “You'll understand why I'm not overly fond of Christmas.”
She tries to process everything he just told her, the tragic summary of his life in five sentences, and she understands what's behind his pain – it's not only about the losses he experienced, but that he blames them on himself. She knows he does, even if he hasn't explicitly said so. Just as she, as a child, knew it had to be her fault, every time a foster family sent her away again. Just as she, a teenager in a juvenile detention home, knew it was her fault what happened to her child.
“Yes, of course,” she says hastily, “I'm sorry I–”
“It's not your fault,” he cuts her off and pushes back his chair.
She understands the clear signal that the conversation is over, and she doesn't blame him for not wanting to elaborate any further on his misery... and yet, she feels a strange longing, something she hasn't felt in a long time. The longing for a person to share one's burden with, a person who won't judge you, because they'll understand. She feels that longing, because she has caught a glimpse of that person in Killian Jones. But it's obvious that he's not up for that.
She helps him clear the table, and then asks if he has a spare room for her to sleep in, so that he can sleep in his own bed again, but he shakes his head.
“It's not worth the trouble of preparing it and heating it up properly for another day or two,” he tells her, “and I don't mind the couch. Unless, of course, you mind.”
“No, no,” she replies quickly, “I don't.”
“Fine.” He nods. “Then, you'll excuse me for not keeping you company, but I have some paperwork to do. Comes with the business.”
“Of course. I won't disturb you.”
He spends the evening at the huge wooden table, buried in papers and sipping his tea, not saying another word to her, and Emma settles on the couch with a book and Smee at her side, but she can't really concentrate on what she's reading and keeps glancing over at him. The tuft of his too-long hair falls over his forehead again, hiding his eyes from her view, and the glow of the fire makes auburn highlights dance in it. For the life of her Emma doesn't understand why she feels the strong pull to go over to him and comb her fingers through it. It's absurd. She doesn't know this man. Except, she has the feeling that she does.
He really doesn't know why he blurted out his whole miserable backstory to this blonde intruder into his boring, conveniently numbing routine. Killian Jones normally doesn't share personal things from his past if he doesn't have to – not even David Nolan knows every detail about his personal history, and he's probably the person who knows him best. Then why did he feel the push to open up to his involuntary guest? Apparently, the instant connection he felt towards her isn't as fleeting as he thought, that feeling of mutual understanding – as if she knows exactly who he is, and he knows who she is – it's still there. Which is odd, since he doesn't really know much about her save snippets here and there – that she doesn't really have a place she calls home at the moment, that she's a veterinarian, and that she apparently is a loner. Very much like him. He doesn't understand it, and it makes him uneasy. It reminds him of the long forgotten desire to have someone who he could be himself with. Except, it's useless because this woman is someone who will disappear from his life as suddenly as she's stumbled into it.
He buries his nose in his paperwork, but it's a useless endeavor tonight. He feels her presence almost physically, the occasional looks she gives him when she looks up from her book, and they make him nervous. They make him question his self-chosen aloneness in an uncomfortable way he's not ready to deal with.
After two hours, he gives up and closes his books, shoves his papers aside and finishes the last of his now cold tea. As if on cue, she clears the couch for him and moves over to the bed, telling him quietly good-night to which he responds with a hesitant murmur.
Again, it's a night of restless sleep interrupted by periods of lying awake and listening to the even breathing coming from his own bed – and trying to ignore the dreadful feeling that soon enough this somehow soothing sound will be gone again, replaced by the silence he's been used to for years and which suddenly seems so little appealing now. So, he really hopes that soon enough is close, so he won't have a chance to get too used to the feeling of not being alone – and enjoying it. And being crushed when it inevitably ends.
The next morning, Emma is woken up early again by the smell of coffee and bacon – contrary to her, her reluctant host seems to be an early riser. See, we've got really not much in common, she tells herself as she shuffles into the bathroom.
When she comes back fifteen minutes later, Killian is just putting the plates with the scrambled eggs and the bacon on the table and nods a curt good morning.
“Landline's still dead,” he informs her grumpily, and Emma wants to slap her forehead that she hasn't even thought of checking that first thing when she got up.
“Oh,” she replies, not knowing what else to say.
“Well, I suppose we'll survive another bit.”
For a while, they eat in silence, then she asks, “Can I do something more today? Do you have anything special planned for dinner?”
He raises an eyebrow. “There's some leftover stew from yesterday?”
Right. He doesn't care about Christmas, so no special dinner plans for Christmas Eve. If she's honest with herself, she's the same. Her Christmases usually consist of Chinese takeout or frozen pizza, bad mood, and Die Hard. She just thought that this year, maybe, could be a little different for both of them, given the weird circumstances they have been thrown into. Something like making the best of an unexpected situation, maybe making it even better than it normally would have been. But apparently, he isn't interested in anything like that, so she's going to roll with that.
“Sure,” she replies hastily, “that's fine. I just thought... nevermind. I just wanted to do something to make up for...” she motions vaguely around, an all-encompassing move mainly apologizing for her presence, “messing up your life.”
“I told you already, it's fine.” He gets up from the table. “If I could leave the dishes for you? I have some work to finish that's due soon.” He gestures towards the door.
“Yeah, of course. Go to your work, I've got this.” She pushes back her chair. “Anything to get ready for lunch?”
“Just some bread and cheese.”
He fills a thermosflask with the rest of his breakfast tea and pulls on a heavy sweater before he calls out for Smee, but the dog just woofs and flops down in front of the fire. Killian huffs and leaves the house for his carpentry.
The day goes by just like the one before, Emma watches the fire and puts on more logs when it grows smaller, and checks the phone from time to time. What irritates her is the odd relief she feels every time it becomes clear that the landline is not working yet, because why even?? She should be looking forward to finally getting away from here. But she pushes these thoughts aside. For noon, she sets the table with bread and cheese and makes some fresh tea. The sight of the ready table seems to make Killian even more grumpy, though, and she's gettong more and more annoyed by his monosyllabic behavior. Really, what's wrong with this man? He keeps telling her that he doesn't care about Christmas and that she's not really disturbing him, yet he acts like she's the most inconvenient nuisance ever, even though she's trying her best to make things pleasant for him. How she ever could think there was a connection between them, is beyond her. He's nothing but a misanthropic hermit who probably already regrets saving her life. Ass.
When Killian comes back for lunch and finds everything ready, even the tea made just how he likes it and the bread freshly toasted, he's almost offended. And it gets worse: when he comes back in the evening, the table is set for dinner, she even found a nice tablecloth and a candle somewhere, and the stew is already heating up on the oven. He doesn't need – and doesn't want – these frills. He can take care of himself, has done so for all of his life and will have to do so again once she'll be gone, and he has no interest in being cared for now. Has no interest in getting used to the uncomfortably pleasant feeling of someone... just being there when he comes home.
Even Smee is obviously falling for that feeling, refusing today to go to the barn with him, as he does every day. The stupid dog preferred the company of their guest. Well, he's going to be disappointed soon enough. It's a cruel jest of fate showing them how things could be if he weren't such a... failure of a human being. Especially at this time of the year when the memory of his last great failure comes back hitting him with all might.
It's been eight years now since that fatal accident that took Milah from him – eight years in which the pain of losing her has dulled and faded, but the feeling of guilt, of being nothing but a failure, has remained.
The dinner is spent in an almost oppressive silence, and he ignores – to the point of being rude – Emma's attempts to start a conversation. At some point, she presses her lips together and pushes away her plate, wordlessly getting up from her chair and starting to clear the table. He lets her do it without helping this time, and when the table is cleared completely, he gets up and fetches his bottle of rum and a glass from the cupboard beside the table.
By the time she has finished rummaging and clattering in the kitchen, he's already on his third rum, staring with contempt at the thin black leather glove covering his prosthesis. Another proof of him being a royal failure. She leaves the kitchen, and he hopes that she'll retire to the couch with a book again, like the day before, and leave him be, but of course he has no such luck.
“You think you're the only one who has lost something?” she snarls, and when he looks up at her wearily, he's surprised about her aggressive stance – feet firmly planted on the floor, hands at her hips, and chin raised as she motions her head to his prosthesis.
His eyes follow her movement to his fake hand. “Oh, the hand is only the last thing in a long, boring row,” he tells her. He's in no mood for defending himself for feeling like horseshit, he's entitled to wallow in a litle self-pity, isn't he? “After my mother, my brother, and the woman I loved,” he adds and asks provokingly, “What have you lost?”
She shrugs. “Everything,” is her simple answer. “My parents, when I was a few hours old and they dumped me on the stairs of a hospital. Three failed adoptions.” That gets her his full and prompt attention. “My first boyfriend at seventeen, when he betrayed me,” she goes on, “and I went to jail for a deed he'd done.” He clenches his jaw unconsciously, a wave of anger at the cowardly son of a bitch washing over him that ruined a young girl's life that already had been getting the short end of the straw since she'd been born. No wonder she has no one in her life who cares for her – probably she's used to not letting anyone come closer, and why would she? Everyone has fucked her over so far. But her tale isn't over. “In jail I found out I was pregnant,” she continues, and a cold hand grips his heart, “Lost the baby, too.” She shrugs and adds soberly, “Was probably better for the both of us.”
He studies her face in shock during the following pause, and he sees the faint pain that's still there... looking very similar to what he feels when he thinks of Milah. Because of course she'd blame herself for losing the baby. He wants to say something, anything, to assure her that no, it isn't her fault, but the right words won't come to him.
“Whenever I have something, a job, friends, a scrap of happiness, I lose it.” She huffs. “I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this, I haven't spoken to anyone about all this crap.”
Killian gets up wordlessly, turns to the cupboard and fetches a tumbler, then he pours a respectable amount of liquor into the glass and puts it on the table, motioning for her to sit.
She sits.
“I haven't told anyone the story of my miserable past either,” he says, “but you.” He tilts his head. “And Smee. But I highly doubt he counts.” The dog, still relaxing in front of the fire, wags his tail when he hears his name.
Emma huffs again, a little laugh this time. “You're better than me. I don't even have a pet to open up to.”
For a moment, their eyes lock, and he feels their connection stronger than ever, then he swallows and raises his glass. “To sharing shitty backstories.”
She clinks her glass to his. “To failures.”
“You're not a failure,” he contradicts, “You've just been screwed over by life. None of it was your fault.”
She takes a sip of her drink and coughs a bit. “Maybe not,” she finally replies, “but I haven't done anything to improve.”
“Horseshit,” he growls. “You have made something of yourself, you've built a life.”
She snorts. “I have no roots and no place where I belong.”
“But that can change.”
Her eyes fix on him with a disturbing intensity. “How?”
He tilts his head, avoiding her gaze. “You can belong anywhere, you just have to decide you want to.”
"You're the one to talk,” she replies pointedly, “hiding out here from the world, behind your fake hand and your anger!”
Killian is taken aback at her words, because... he isn't hiding, is he? He's doing the world a favor by keeping it at arm's length. “The world doesn't like me.”
Emma shakes her head. “No, it's you,” she tells him and points her index finger at him. “You don't like the world, and you don't like yourself.”  
He looks at her with wide eyes, frozen, at an actual loss for words. “There's really not much to like,” he finally says after a long pause and is shocked to see her smile, and understanding sadness hidden somewhere between the laugh lines around her eyes.
“Why are you so stubborn?” she asks softly.
***
Emma wakes up with the strange feeling of her neck being a little stiff, but the rest of her feeling extremely cozy and at home. She stirs and realizes that she's not in the bed she slept in for the last two nights, and she blinks her eyes open with some effort.
She's looking directly at the fireplace which means she's on the leather couch, and when she turns her head to the right she sees she's snuggled up to Killian Jones's side, her head on his chest, and his arm around her. His head has sunk on the backrest, and he's still asleep. A blanket is draped over her and across his lap.
There's a moment of panic as she tries to recall what happened that brought them here, and she thinks it must have happened some time between her tale of how she went on shoplifting sprees with Neal, her first boyfriend, before he let her go to jail for him, and his tale of how his brother Liam was distracted for a second by telling him to be more careful with the wood plane, and thus ended up hurting himself so badly in the disk saw that he bled to death. They moved from the dining table to the leather couch, leaving the rum behind, and Killian put another log on the fire to banish the cold and dark with warmth and light.
They talked and listened, carefully approaching each other, exploring limits, lowering defenses, and examining scars. Emma isn't sure how it happened or what it was that made them open up to each other, and she doesn't remember when they cuddled so close together that she ended up falling asleep in Killian's arm, but she does know she feels more free and safe and lighter than she has in years. Like she has shared a burden that's been weighing her down, and now it feels only half as heavy.
She manoeuvers herself in a sitting position so that she can have a better look at Killian's handsome sleeping features, for once relaxed, but her movement wakes him from his sleep and he's apparently startled by the position they're in, but can't move away any farther, being already in the corner of the couch.
She smiles. “Hi.”
“Good morning,” he replies in an almost questioning voice and looks nervously at his arm, the left one with the prosthesis attached to it, that's still resting on her back. “I... I apologize if I...” He falls silent, not really knowing what to say, and she shakes her head.
“I'm glad we talked,” she says firmly. “I feel so... relieved.”
He shifts himself into a more upright position and lifts his hand very carefully, tentatively, as if she might shy away from it; she doesn't. “So do I,” he admits in a rough voice and smooths a strand of hair from her face.
Emma studies his features, his look so serious and sober, but also full of warmth and questions and hope, and she throws all caution to the wind and moves closer to him, approaching his face with hers, and he mirrors her gesture. After one last glance at his slightly parted lips she closes her eyes.
A shrill ring, deafeningly cutting into their fragile, tender silence, makes them jump apart.
For a second, they look at each other and around the room, confused and shocked, and then a shadow falls over Killian's face as the telephone rings again.
“The landline,” he says and jumps up from the couch, making Emma feel almost physically hurt at the loss of contact, the loss of warmth.
“Hello,” he answers the phone in a voice bare of any emotion, not showing disappointment, annoyance, or any feeling at all. “Oh, Dave. No, I'm fine, thank you for checking. Yeah, I've noticed. Really? That's a relief. Thank you. Okay, in a few days. Goodbye.”
He hangs up and looks at her with the same empty expression she just heard in his voice. “That was a friend from Storybrooke. The snow plow truck just left town and is clearing the road outside right now. I suggest,” he picks up the phone again, “I call the Storybrooke garage and tell them to send out their towing vehicle as soon as the road is passable again. They should be here in two hours at the latest.”
Emma feels like punched in the guts. Numbly, she rises from the couch.
“Sure,” she replies tonelessly.
The next hour passes by in a haze. Emma hears him on the phone, obviously talking to a mechanic, explaining the situation and telling the man to knock at the door once he's got the vehicle, so he can pick up her, too. She busies herself getting dressed and packing up her stuff while Killian fixes them breakfast. Smee is alternating between following her and Killian, whining reproachfully.
It takes barely ninety minutes until there's a heavy knock at the door.
Killian opens, and she's already prepared, dressed in her boots and red leather jacket, like when he found her, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. He looks at her as the mechanic is waiting outside, and she draws a deep breath and steps nearer.
She's searching his gaze, waiting for him to say something, anything. He averts his eyes and reaches into the pocket of his jeans, then he hands her something on his open palm.
She looks at him questioningly, and he tilts his head in a barely perceptible, encouraging nod. She reaches for the thing in his hand, an object about the size and form of a kiwi fruit, and when her fingertips brush his palm, sparks shoot right up to her elbow. It's cool and smooth, made of wood, and she recognizes the features of a slightly stumpy, three-legged dog.
“Smee?” she whispers, tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. “Did you... did you make it for me?”
He swallows, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. “I thought you'd like to have a souvenir of your savior.”
The man waiting outside clears his throat. “Ma'am?”
Emma huffs a laugh. “Thank you. For everything.” Then she raises on her tiptoes and leans a little forward to brush a kiss on Killian's scruffy cheek, his stubble prickling her lips. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”
Then she leaves the house and walks away. When she turns around to look back, she finds the door already closed, and all she can think is that she never even got to see his smile.
“Oh, shut up, Smee,” Killian growls as the dog whines and scratches at the door. “This is what was going to happen, all the time. This is how it's supposed to be. It's better this way.”
The dog whines again, and Killian scoffs at him, turning away from the door and proceeding to make all signs of the presence of another person disappear. He clears the breakfast table and folds the blanket they've slept under, involuntarily recalling how it felt to wake up with her in his arms, snuggled against his side, her head resting on his chest. The intimacy of sharing a blanket, the warmth their bodies created, and most of all the emotional intimacy of sharing their pain and anger, both having lots of it locked away in them.
It felt... right. Like how it was supposed to be.
The looks they shared, open and raw and understanding, knowing. Longing. The tender touch of his fingertips on the silky strand of her hair, even though his skin is roughened from working with wood everyday, he could feel the smoothness through and through, like a promise. The almost shy expression in her captivating green eyes, turning to something vulnerable and courageous when she swayed closer, her lips full and soft and waiting for his.
And yet, it was not supposed to be. She had her life and her job in Boston, even if she didn't feel at home there. She was going to leave anyway.
He's glad it happened today, before they kissed and he could fall even more for her – because aye, he realizes now, absurd as it sounds, that's exactly what has happened in these mere two days and three nights spent in her company, as much as he's tried to avoid it. It's true: he started to fall for Emma Swan, to fall in love with her. So it's good that she left now, before he was in way too deep, so deep that losing her again could devastate him. Like ripping off a band aid.
An hour later, the bloody phone rings again, and he contemplates for a moment not answering; he's really not in the mood for people, and the only people who really matter (and care about him) know he's alive and well. But then he thinks it could always be David again, and he doesn't want to snub the only friend he has, so he picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Killian? It's Emma.”
That hits him unexpectedly, and for a moment his tongue is tied, and her voice reaches him again through the landline. “Killian?”
He clears his throat. “I'm here.”
“Ah. Okay. I... I just wanted to let you know that I've arrived in Storybrooke. Turns out my spare tire is damaged, so a new tire has to be ordered.” She pauses for a moment, before she goes on, “Looks like I'll be around for another few days. I'm staying at the bed and breakfast here.”
“Granny's,” he says automatically, trying to process her words.
“Yes,” she replies. “I thought you... we...” She starts to stumble over her own words, and he closes her eyes. Don't say it, he thinks, just don't. “I tought if you came to town the next few days, we could have dinner together or something. I... I'd like to thank you properly for, you know, saving my life.”
“I... well, that's not...” He licks his lips and starts again. “You know, that's really not necessary.”
“I know, but...” He hears her draw a deep breath, and it sounds shaky. “Anyway, if you come to town, just drop me a call, okay?”
“If I come to town, I will, Swan,” he replies reluctanty, fully well knowing he's going to avoid Storybrooke for at least ten more days.
***
The next four weeks come and go in a haze, and it's surprisingly easy to fall back into his old, boring routine. He crafts his works, he drives to town to sell them, he buys his groceries and other supplies he needs, and he retires to his hermitage.
Then, in the first week of February the time has come for Smee to get his annual shots, so he takes him to his friend's office. Just when he's about to enter the house where David Nolan sees his patients downstairs and lives upstairs with his wife Mary Margaret, the door is opened and David almost bumps into him on his way out, obviously in a hurry.
“Killian! Good to see you again!” he exclaims, then frowns. “Something wrong with Smee?”
“No, he's fine, he just needs his shots.” The dog confirms his good health with a friendly woof.
“Ah, damn, I'm heading out to an emergency,” David says, gesturing to his pick up parked in front of the house, not after giving his favorite patient a hearty pat.
“Oh...” Killian scratches behind his ear. “Okay, no problem, I'll come back tomorrow, and–”
“No, no,” David cuts him off and gestures towards the house as he's opening the driver's door and throws his veterinary kit inside, “just go inside, he'll be taken care of.” He starts the engine and calls out of the window, “Wait for me, we'll have a beer later!”
Killian is startled as he watches hin friend speed off, but then he shrugs and enters the house as David has told him. The waiting room is empty, and he calls tentatively, “Hello?”
“Come in!” comes the answer from a bright, female voice, and the voice hits him like lightning, right in the guts and in the heart, and Smee's ears perk up and he lets out an excited bark.
Then the door to the treatment room is opened, and they find themselves face to face with the person Killian has never expected to see again. She's wearing white scrubs, a messy ponytail, and she's never looked more beautiful.
“Swan?” he gasps. Her eyes widen in only mild surprise, and she smiles, and it's his downfall. “How... I mean, why... are you here?”
Smee doesn't care about these vain details, he's all over her in the blink of an eye, and she crouches down so he doesn't have to jump up on her on his one hind leg, and greets him properly. Then she rises to her full height again.
She shrugs, a girlish gesture that makes her look incredibly young. “David had a job to offer, and I needed a change of scenery.”
“Oh.”
A change of scenery?  What does that mean? It sounds like a fleeting thing. He doesn't know what to say.
Emma licks her lips and draws a deep breath. “Killian... I–I was waiting for you, to show up for that thank you dinner.” She fixes her eyes on him. “Why did you never call?”
“Oh, well, you know...” He runs his hand through his hair and averts his eyes, shame filling him at the sound of hurt in her voice. “I thought you would be leaving soon anyway, and I didn't want to... I was afraid I...” he shakes his head helplessly and looks at her again, hoping she understands from his eyes what his words cannot express. And she does.
“I'm here now,” she says simply, her gaze holding his, and nods in affirmation.
“What about your life in Boston?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “I never really liked what I had there,” she tries to explain. “But I like it here. I might even grow some roots.”
“Here, in the middle of nowhere?” he scoffs.
She tilts her head to the side, an almost playful gesture. “You know, someone told me, I can do that anywhere I want to. And,” she points her index finger at him, “that someone also told me, here's as good a place as any, and...” She shrugs again. “I've nowhere else to go.”
He just looks at her like an idiot and nods, really and completely at a loss for words now, even more like an idiot. He's grasping for words in his mind, or even a coherent thought would be nice, but he can't find either, not before he's managed to wrap his mind around the meaning of what she just told him.
So, like an idiot, he gestures towards the dog. “Smee needs his shots.”
Emma buries her hands in the pockets of her scrubs. “Then let's get it over with.”
Between them, no more words are spoken, Emma gets to business with the dog, Smee taking his shots stoically as always, because what are a few pricks when you've had your leg bitten off by rusty iron jaws, right?
When she's done, she gives the dog a few treats and looks at Killian again, somehow expectantly, and he knows, he just knows it's his turn now to say something useful.
He clears his throat. “Then I suppose I... see you around?”
She nods with a smile, but she can't fool him – he notices the slight disappointment in her voice, and he hates himself for it. “Sure,” she replies lightly.
Emma's hands are buried in the pockets of her scrubs again as she watches Killian from the window driving away in his pickup. She supposes he just needs a bit more time to really understand what she told him, that she's not planning to leave again so soon. But anyway, even if he doesn't realize it anytime soon – as crazy as it sounds, she can already feel the first roots sprout into the ground.
It did seem like fate had its hands in it: the delivery of her new tire being delayed for days and days, her stumbling over the friendliest woman she ever met while buying some hygiene products, that woman turning out to be the wife of the local veterinarian who told her her husband was suffocating with work but couldn't find anyone wanting to help him out.
And then, completely out of the blue, Walsh showing up one day, wanting to make amends and becoming nasty when she just shook her head.
“You're ridiculous, Emma,” he spat. “What do you want here, in the middle of nowhere? Your best shot is with me. You don't belong here, you don't belong with anyone.”
“I like it here,” she just replied calmly and rose to her full height, because he really wasn't worth the adrenaline. “And to be honest, anywhere is better than with you.” And she turned around and let him stand there, at the curb where he belonged.
She knew eventually she'd run into Killian, and she was nervous about it, asking herself if the time in between might have made him close off again. To be honest, even now, after meeting him, she isn't sure.
Two days later, to her surprise, he's standing in the waiting room again.
“Killian! Is something wrong with Smee?” she asks, eyes scanning the dog, but he seems to be his normal, carefree self, greeting her with a bump of his wet nose and appropriate tail wagging. “Did he react badly to his shots?”
Killian frowns. “What? Oh.” He shakes his head. “No, no. Smee is fine.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Then what... what can I do for you?”
He draws a deep breath and scratches behind his ear before he looks her directly in the eyes, determination in his gaze. “I'm here to... to ask you out,” he finally says in a rough voice. “To dinner or something.”
Time seems to be frozen for a moment as she lets the meaning of his words sink in. Then she exhales carefully. “Shouldn't I be the one taking you out?” she asks and shrugs, trying to play it light. “I mean, I still owe you that thank you dinner, remember?”
But he shakes his head, not accepting the easy way out. Apparently, he needs to get something off his chest. “You don't owe me anything,” he contradicts. “I owe you an apology. For being rude and.. and...” His voice trails off as he's searching for the right word.
“Afraid?” she offers.
He draws deep breath and tilts his head in a fatalistic nod. “Aye,” he admits. “You know, someone... fate, the gods...” he hesitates and then raises his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face that somehow escaped her ponytail, and the tender gesture makes her heart swell. “Someone sent me the best Christmas gift one could ever stumble across in a snowy roadside ditch,” he says softly, “and I was just too much of a coward to accept it.”
She huffs a little laugh and revels in the warmth spreading all through her veins. “And now?”
He tilts his head again. “If you can decide to grow roots, I can bloody well decide to stop being angry.”
Emma smiles and takes a step nearer, standing only a hand's breadth away from him now, and she can see the fine skin around his eyes crinkle. And she thinks, yep, that's a smile. Finally. Without further hesitation, because why the fuck, she raises on her tiptoes, and the moment she leans in she feels Killian's hand at the back of her neck, pulling her to him the last bit. She closes her eyes when she finally feels his lips on hers and sighs into the kiss. He wraps his other arm around her waist and molds her into him, deepening the kiss, and it's everything she's imagined since they were interrupted on Christmas morning – everything and more. When they reluctantly separate again because they both need some air, they lean their foreheads together, both smiling with sparkling eyes, and she thinks she'll probably never get enough of his smile.
“I like it when you're not angry,” she breathes.
“You know, if you want it, you have it,” he replies in a low voice, a little cryptically.
“I have what?” she asks and licks her lips.
“A place to go.”
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theantitote · 4 years
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A Call to Action + A Few Resources for These Times of Unrest in the US
On the Recent Unrest and Our Worst Fears (Is a civil war brewing?)
These times are uncertain, dire even. A mismanaged pandemic has and will continue to claim many lives and ravage our economy, yet several Republican governors still stand poised to reopen schools in the fall, and economic woes potentially put millions at risk of falling victim to mass evictions. Police and government brutality has long plagued our nation with near impunity and in the wake of George Floyd’s death and the violent crackdowns on protests, we seem to be reaching a breaking point. Police have been seen on numerous occasions assaulting the media, and federal agents sent to Portland, Oregon have been responsible for among other things, shooting Donavan La Bella in the head with “less lethal” impact munitions, cracking his skull and nearly killing him, arresting protesters into unmarked rental vans, and striking a Navy vet with a baton after he attempted to confront them on their oath to the constitution, breaking his hand. Now as anger swells in the streets and fears rise of an apparently fledgling secret police force due to the actions of federal agents, recently threatened to be deployed to more cities as part of Trump’s Operation Legend, a question thought unthinkable just a few months ago seems to be becoming uncomfortably plausible - are we heading for a civil war?
Anyone with even the slightest bit of morality and an inkling as to what such an event would entail should be struck with terror at the mere thought of the possibility. So it is imperative in these times that we do our due diligence as citizens of this nation to learn from history and do everything in our power to deescalate such a situation before our worst fears are realized, all without loosing sight of the problems and what must be done to solve them. To this end I have compiled a fairly brief list of videos, podcasts, articles, and webpages that I recommend all Americans observe and heed the messages and warnings found therein.
Top Recommendations
Note: All podcasts link to Spotify pages however you should be able to find them elsewhere if needed, including most popular podcasting apps from my experience.
1) The Youtube channel Beau of the Fifth Column, and his recent covering of the events in Portland.
I link his playlist of videos covering Portland and how the federal response runs counter to the guidelines of their manuals because it’s most relevant however I can’t recommend his entire channel enough. For further reading, here are a few links related to what he discusses in those videos:
FM 3-24 - Insurgencies and Countering Insurgencies - FAS PDF link
Federation of American Scientists - their website hosts a sizable amount of information some of which is relevant, including the aforementioned pdf
The Rand Corporation’s website, which has more public documentation and who also plays a large role in the making of classified documents for policy makers on the subject.
The nonprofit archive.org free online library
2) It Could Happen Here - A podcast from 2019 by Robert Evans, who has a background in investigative journalism on the conflicts in Iraq and Syria and Ukraine among others, exploring the possibility of a Second American Civil War, what might cause it and how it could be prevented. Though he is rather open about his own leftist bias he does not shy away from addressing the valid grievances rural America might have with the government as well as areas where the true left of America and rural conservatives might share some surprising common ground.
3) Behind the Police - Another podcast and a recent spinoff of “Behind the Bastards” that covers the history of American policing and how it has led to the often corrupt institutions we have today. Also hosted by Robert Evans and joined by the hip-hop artist Jason Petty aka Propaganda.
A few reminders of recent state violence
Tweeted video of the moment Donavan La Bella was shot in the head by a US Marshal
Tweeted video of the immediate aftermath (CW: profuse bleeding)
An update on Donavan La Bella’s condition (CW: distressing images) - “His mother, Desiree La Bella, previously said her son’s face and skull were fractured and that he underwent facial reconstructive surgery in the hours after the encounter. She said he had a tube in his skull to drain blood and had vision problems in one eye.” - the good news is the article says he’s recovering better than doctors expected.
Tweeted video of Navy veteran Chris David being struck with a baton by federal officers, breaking his hand, dubbed by some as “Captain Portland” after the viral video showed him taking the blows unflinching
A Newsweek article with an interview with Chris David - "I want to use my 15 minutes to put out a message to my fellow vets. I also want to use my 15 minutes to try to refocus this whole discussion back to Black Lives Matter as opposed to an old white guy who got beat up because I don't think I'm worth the attention, to be perfectly frank" - He states in the interview that he sought to confront the federal agents on their oath to the constitution when the beating happened, after hearing of the seemingly random arrests using unmarked rental vans.
NowThis News compilation of police violence against journalists from June 1st
Another NowThis News compilation of more police violence against journalists from June 3rd
Vice coverage of the protests in the wake of George Floyds death, posted on June 2nd. This includes a rather emotionally intense moment when the crew is assaulted by police with pepper spray and tear gas along with a small family who were attempting to protect their local business.
What Now? A Few Words of Advice
The times ahead are uncertain and fraught of dangers to say the least, but if we wish to avoid the worst we have to act. So, what do we do? Don’t just hope but organize, strategize, plan, and fight for the best, while preparing for the worst. At the very least and most simple take the advice from Beau’s videos and make your voice heard. Demand the government start following their own manuals and stop escalating tensions even further. 
Yet distressingly enough, it seems unlikely that the onslaught of violent federal crackdowns will slow down anytime soon regardless of what we do. Preparedness seems more important now than ever, so here are a few basics. Try to get at least a month's worth of food if you haven’t already and still can. There are several sites for such things, such as Mountain House as one example, however much of this might be sold out or unaffordable so you might have to consider buying canned goods little by little as you can. Prepare a bug out bag, especially if you live in the city. There are countless tutorials and advice on this topic but try to stay focused on what you might need - things like a first aid kit, water, a filtered straw and other purification methods, a way to light a fire and cook, and so on. If you’re sane and responsible and wish to acquire a firearm for self defense if you haven’t already, and want to train but don’t want to have to involve yourself with the toxic conservative dominated gun culture, look into the SRA (Socialist Rifle Association) as they might be offering range days and training in your area. 
But most importantly, start networking and organizing. No matter what comes to pass it will be imperative that we develop close ties with those within our communities which we can call upon not only to help try to prevent the worst, but also for protection should our worst fears become a reality. You might consider joining your local IWW if you’re an advocate for democratic unionization and workplace democracy like myself, or you might look into and maybe get into touch with folks like Mutual Aid Disaster Relief, and see if there’s any local to your area or what you might be able to learn from them. Regardless, try to find some group you at least somewhat fit in with and organize with them together.
A quick final note on my blog
I started this blog spontaneously on July 3rd hoping to ease my way into amateur blogging first and hopefully a career in journalism later, however current events have left me anxious of the future and uncertain of what new tragedies might lurk around the corner of tomorrow. I am however, highly privileged. I live at home in a rural town in the South Eastern US far away from the unrest with a supportive family who have at least for the time being a fairly secure income, and am currently unemployed, meaning that while I have no income of my own at the moment I do have a lot of free time, which I plan to spend much of on my amateur blogging pursuits. So if you want to see more blog posts like this in the future, give me a follow and consider turning on notifications and you’ll certainly be seeing more posts like this from me in the days ahead.
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phoenixfeatherquill · 5 years
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To Catch A Swan (14/22)
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Once upon a time, not so long ago, Neal fell asleep in a car.
He liked the yellow bug.  It was a little ostentatious and it was probably foolish to steal it—a white sedan was probably a little less obvious.  But he couldn’t help it.  It reminded him too much of those Herbie films.  There was a homeless shelter in Denver that had zero movies in the rec area, save those movies, so he’d watched them all during a particularly nasty blizzard. He didn’t have fond memories of Colorado, but he liked those movies.  (The remake was crap.)
He hadn’t been long in Portland.  In fact, it was supposed to be his last night there.  No cash for a motel, shelters were packed, so he slept in his car, parked in a little alley to avoid cops.  He actually liked crashing in his car.  It was a little cramped, sure, but there was something soothing about falling asleep to the sound of rain on his roof.  It reminded him of better times.  
So it was quite the shock when he awoke to someone breaking in.  
The sound of the metal sliding through the window was what woke him.  He watched in utter shock as the thief easily unlocked the door and got inside.  
She was the most beautiful thief he’d ever seen.  Golden hair caught up in a messy ponytail, dark hipster glasses (clever, to avoid detection in Portland), a small smile that indicated she’d done this before.  She withdrew a screwdriver, a large rock, and started the transmission.  He watched her start to drive off before finally announcing his presence.
“Impressive. But really, you could’ve just asked for the keys.”
He dangled them for emphasis and she yelped.  The squeal of shock only made her more adorable.  He rested his chin on his fist and observed her.  She didn’t seem to know how to react to this situation (it was new for him too), so she remained silent.
Neal gave a little wave of approval.  “Just drive, it’s fine.”
“I just stole your car, your life could be in danger!” She’d snapped, perhaps trying to regain her earlier confidence.
“Neal Cassidy,” He introduced himself.  
“Yeah, I’m not telling you my name,” She’d fairly snarled and her irritation only made him more amused.
“I don’t need it to have you arrested when the robbery’s in progress,” He chuckled a little.  
She set her chin.  “Emma Swan.”
Emma Swan.  A good name, and he told her so.  
“So do you just live in here or are you just waiting for the car to be stolen?” Emma Swan asked sarcastically.
“Why don’t I tell you over drinks?” He suggested amiably.  
She turned to look at him over her shoulder in shock.  “Excuse me?!”
“Eyes on the road!” Neal pointed at the stop sign Emma blew past.  The sound of irate Portland drivers filled their ears. She straightened a little, probably embarrassed.
“I am not having drinks with you, you might be a pervert,” She informed him.  
“I might be a pervert,” Neal acknowledged. “But you’re definitely a car thief.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“You didn’t, actually,” Neal felt it relevant to point out.  She huffed a little at this but both of them stiffened in fear when the heard the siren behind them.  Emma swore a little.
Neal groaned and raked his fingers through his hair.  “That’s why I said eyes on the road…”
He could see her eyes flick around and he knew from experience she was judging whether or not it was worth it to make a run for it.  But there didn’t seem any good places to run to so Emma put on an artificial smile as she nervously awaited the officer.  Neal, however, immediately snatched the screwdriver out of the ignition and replaced it with the keys.  
“License and registration?” The officer’s bored and patronizing tone towards Emma’s bright greeting gave Neal an idea.
“Terribly sorry, officer, but this is actually my car. I’m…I’m trying to, uh, teach my girlfriend how to drive stick.” He gave the officer a sheepish grin, one he’d perfected over years of conning authority figures.
“She’s got a lot to learn,” The cop said coldly.
“Yeah, I know, but you know…women.” Neal gave a helpless shrug.  
Emma gave him the dirtiest look.  But he knew what he was doing.  He read the cop the moment he’d walked over and looked Emma all over, condescension fairly dripping from his uniform.  
“All right, I hear you. It’s a warning. This time.” The cop gave Emma a stern, paternal look before returning back to his car.  Neal thanked him grandly and popped out of the backseat to join Emma in the front.  
“What are you, some sort of misogynist?!” Emma demanded as he clambered into the passenger seat.  
“You’re welcome,” Neal glanced over his shoulder as the cop drove off. “Oh, go. We got lucky.”
“We?” Emma stared hard at him and he grinned at her mischievously. “This isn’t your car either, is it? I stole a stolen car?!”
Her outrage was palpable and hilarious.  He beamed unrepentantly and cocked his head.
“Now how about that drink?”
It had hit him like lightning.  It wasn’t merely attraction or companionship.  It was something far greater, something he hadn’t understood at 23. His father—before he became the Dark One—had always spoken sadly of love, had seemed almost wary of it.  As the Dark One, he’d been mocking towards it.  Though even he had apparently been caught up in its magic, with this mysterious Belle character…but no one had prepared Neal for it. He’d fallen in love at first sight with Emma Swan.  
She had been understandably apprehensive of him, but charmed too.  She expected him to take her to a dive, somewhere they wouldn’t check her ID.  He took her out for cocoa instead and brought her to one of his favorite spots—a deserted amusement park.  He’d never forget the utter delight on her face when he turned the lights of the carousel on.  It was at that moment he wanted to do nothing but make her eyes sparkle like that for the rest of his life.
They’d sat together on that carousel and talked.  She’d asked him his story and he was tempted to say, “Which one?” He’d lived so many lives across the years he sometimes wasn’t even sure who he was anymore.  
She’d asked about his past and he’d admitted to her his problems with his father. He had shoved his fear and hatred for Rumplestiltskin in a dark place in his heart; it was unbelievable that he was sharing it all with her now, even confessing how he missed having a home.  
Their gaze had met and for the first time in a long time, Neal felt like he had a home.  Wherever Emma was…was home.  
And that night in the sheriff’s office, when she kissed him, something in his heart settled and Neal felt like coming home again.  
Everything in his mind went blank.  There was only Emma, only how right it felt for her to be in his arms once more, the feel of her soft lips against his, the tangle of her golden curls in his fingers.  This was right, this was real, this was home, and he was never going to let it go again…
The phone rang.  They were abruptly ripped back into reality and Emma dove for the phone like a drowning woman would grab a life preserver.  Panting a little, she answered the phone.
“Hello?”
Neal watched her, his fingers twitching.  She glanced at him, the color in her cheeks rising.  
“Yeah, fine. I’m…I’m going to get her. And then I’ll question her. Yes, I’ll let her know you’ll be present. Okay. See you then.”
She hung up the phone.  She stared at her desk like it would reveal her fortune and Neal cleared her throat. She straightened and looked at him.
“That was Regina. She wants to be present when I question Mary Margaret.”
He nodded.  They stared at each other, unable to vocalize what had been lost.  The moment was broken.  Neal desperately wanted to snatch it back.  But did he have any right to?  
Emma crossed her arms over her chest.  “I’m…I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Neal broke in immediately. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She laughed harshly.  “I kissed you.”
“Yeah, well, I kissed you back.”
There was another long pause while Neal pondered what to do next.  Emma wiped her chin absently and Neal tried to reclaim his frazzled mind.  
“I should—I should go,” He said finally. “Get some sleep. You should too. I’ll…I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”
She nodded but did not meet his gaze.  He quickly strode out of her office as fast as he possibly could.  
Running away again, coward?
Neal ignored the hateful thought.  He thought vaguely that perhaps he ought to do as he’d told Emma, go back to the cabin and sleep.  But he had more important business.  He turned the corner and heaved a sigh of relief.
The light in Mr. Gold’s pawnshop was still on.  He strode forward and banged on the door.  
Sweat beaded his forehead.  He exhaled again when he heard the slow footsteps of his father approach the door and open it.  Gold said nothing about the lateness of the hour, Neal’s frazzled appearance.  
“Mary Margaret needs your help,” Neal said without preamble.  
Gold leaned against his cane.  “Oh?”
“It’s—it’s Regina. I’m sure of it. Regina is setting her up, framing her for the murder of Kathryn Nolan. You have to help her. Mary Margaret needs a good lawyer and fast.”
Neal felt dizzy.  He was actually asking his father for help.  Was he insane?  Whenever his father helped him, people died!  But the heat from Emma’s kiss, his fear for what would happen next, everything scrambled his mind.  
“I was already intending on offering my services,” Gold said smoothly. “Pro bono, of course. I know what I charge her for rent, after all.”
Neal stilled.  “You were going to—why? What do you get out of it?”
Gold said nothing.  He watched him and picked up a silver chalice.  He polished it carefully and Neal watched the methodical movements in frustration.  
“What are you trying to do?”
For some reason, the question cast a shadow across Gold’s face.  It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, but Neal, who was an expert at his father’s expressions, felt very cold.  All of this was a chess match to his father. He was placing different pieces on the board, arranging his surroundings until the moment he would strike.  To trap a queen—but which queen?  
Neal turned and walked out of his father’s shop.
                                                                       XXXX
Neal did not call Emma.  Instead, the two of them gave each other a very wide berth as Emma conducted her investigation.  He trusted that she would call him if she needed any help.  But he needed to figure out what exactly Gold was up to.  
What did Gold want?  The obvious answer was power.  But didn’t he have power here in Storybrooke?  Aside from occasionally going toe to toe with Regina, but overtaking her didn’t seem to be a priority of his.  But if he remembered who he was…what else would he want?
The answer struck Neal like lightning as he entered Granny’s diner. Gold would want magic.  
But this world had no magic.  So how on earth could he—
Neal stiffened when he noticed August talking to Henry at the counter. He marched over and snatched August’s shoulder.
   “What did I tell you about talking to my son?” He growled.  
August sighed dramatically.  “Always so suspicious! I was just offering Henry a little friendly advice.”
“Dad, he believes in the book!” Henry said excitedly. “He could help with Operation Cobra!”
“He can help by getting the hell out of here,” Neal said very softly, in a tone uncomfortably reminiscent of Gold’s.  August well remembered Neal’s fists and hastily made his exit.  
Nolan took the newly unoccupied seat.  “Henry, I want you stay away from that guy.”
“But Dad!” Henry complained. “We need all the help we can get. And he’s right. He said we need proof to help Miss Blanchard and we do.”
“Emma is working on finding proof,” Neal nodded at Granny in thanks as she filled him a mug of coffee. “We have to trust her on that.”
“Yeah, well, we found a big knife in Miss Blanchard’s heating vent,” Henry informed him loftily. “And my mom obviously planted it there. So we’re finding proof in the other direction.”
“Does Emma believe the knife belonged to Mary Margaret?”
“Of course not!”
“Then trust her to find the truth. That’s something Emma’s really good at,” Neal took a long sip of coffee. “In the meantime—I mean it, Henry. Stay away from August. He’s not a good guy and he could get you into trouble.”
Henry sized his father up.  “How do you know him?”
Neal hesitated.  He didn’t want to keep secrets from his son.  Rumplestiltskin lived in secrets and darkness; Neal wanted his relationship with Henry open and honest.  But how could he tell his son such a thing?  That August had played upon his insecurities, frightened him with his warnings of Emma’s destiny and the Enchanted Forest—and had convinced him to leave her?  Could Henry ever forgive such weakness?  
“Look,” Neal put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I just want you to trust me on this one, okay? Stay away from him. Promise me?”  
Henry’s brow furrowed and Neal was strongly reminded of Emma.  After a long moment, Henry nodded.  
“I just want to help prove that Miss Blanchard’s innocent,” He sighed and pushed his now cold hot cocoa away.
“I know it’s frustrating,” Neal acknowledged and ruffled Henry’s hair. “But trust me, kid. Emma knows what she’s doing. And I’m looking into it too. If Regina is setting her up—”
Henry’s eyes lit up.  “I’ve got it!” He crowed.
Before Neal could ask what he was talking about, his son hugged him fiercely and dashed out of the diner as fast as his short legs could carry him.  
                                                        XXXX
Neal wasn’t able to catch his son the day after, to find out what exactly had inspired his outburst.  But he learned that Mary Margaret had accepted Gold’s help and her arraignment was scheduled for the following morning.  At the very least, Neal had confidence in his father’s talents.  He would keep Mary Margaret from being arrested. Not everyone could nearly beat a man to death and persuade (or blackmail) a judge to ignore the matter.  
The rest of the day was quiet but very busy.  Jefferson nearly overwhelmed him with odd jobs the entire day, so much so, that by the end of the evening, Neal almost decided to crash at Granny’s inn rather than make the long trek home.  It was still freezing and nothing seemed more unpleasant than a cold, windy walk back to the cabin.  It hadn’t been the first time he’d crashed at Granny’s.  And he could check in at the sheriff’s office first thing in the morning. Maybe bring Emma some coffee…
But he still hadn’t talked to her about that kiss.  Did she even want to see him?  
Finally, Neal decided to walk home.  He needed the time to figure out if it was even worth broaching the topic of the kiss.  Emma was completely immersed in Mary Margaret’s case—as well she should be. It wasn’t really time to talk about the nature of their relationship.  He should leave it alone.  He knew better than to push Emma.  No one could deny she had walls—many she’d built because of him—but breaking them down forcefully would only wreck her further.  
He’d nearly reached the cabin on Jefferson’s land when he noticed something odd.
There were lights on in Jefferson’s house.  
At any other moment, this would not have concerned Neal.  Jefferson was something of a night owl and Neal had gotten used to his odd employer taking walks at 3AM, occasionally skulking around the gardens in the middle of the night, or even having an all night nightcap, which he often invited Neal to join in.  But Jefferson had specifically told him that he would be out of town tonight and it was doubly urgent that Neal complete all of the errands by that evening.  
Why would Jefferson have lied to him about being out of town?  It made no difference to Neal.  They weren’t exactly friends.  Neal didn’t care what Jefferson did or didn’t do.  
Unless…had he dumped all of those errands on Neal to keep him away from the house?
  The idea was paranoid.  But Neal couldn’t seem to escape the niggling feeling that something was off.  And he’d learned at this point in his life it was best to trust his instincts.  The last time he hadn’t, Graham had ended up dead.  
Jefferson was always extending invitations for drinks.  He would go up, have a glass of beer with him, see if anything was amiss, and head back home.  No problem.  
Neal cast one more longing look towards his cabin and shut out the yearnings for his nice, warm bed.  He trudged up the hill towards Jefferson’s front door and raised his hand to knock. He then thought better of it and tried the handle.  
To his surprise and unease, it yielded immediately.  
He stepped inside.  “Jefferson? You here?”
The house was eerily quiet.  It had always been far too big a place for one person and Neal had repeatedly told him so.  Jefferson always smiled an odd little smile and agreed.  
“Hey,” Neal called out again. “It’s Neal. Everything okay? I thought you were going out of town tonight.”
He continued to walk down the hallway.  He thought he heard something, a scraping noise, metal against stone. He followed the sound and turned a corner—and nearly ran into Emma and Mary Margaret.
“Emma?!” Neal said thunderstruck. “What are you doing here?”
“Neal, thank God!” Relief broke over Emma’s face. “We have to get out of here. Right now. He’s crazy! He tied Mary Margaret up!”
“Keep your voices down!” Mary Margaret implored. “He’ll hear us!”
“Neal, quick, we have to—”
They were interrupted by the click of a pistol cocking.  
“Sorry, Neal,” Jefferson said ruefully aiming the gun towards them. “I really didn’t want you to be here for this.”
                                                     XXXX
“What the hell is going on?! What the hell are you doing?”
Jefferson clucked sympathetically and pointed the gun at all of them.  “You should’ve stayed in Storybrooke tonight, Neal.”
“Put the damn gun down!” Neal moved bodily in front of Emma and Mary Margaret.
“I’m afraid that just isn’t possible,” Jefferson sighed. “Emma. Tie Spot back up, please.”
Neal calculated his odds.  He was likely to get shot if he rushed Jefferson but there was a chance he’d only hit Neal, and the scuffle would give Emma and Mary Margaret a chance to escape. But before he could make a move, Emma placed a hand on his shoulder.  
He looked at her and she shook her head.  After so long, how could she read him so well?
“Single file, please,” Jefferson said in a bored voice. “Forward march.”
They slowly walked into a small, dark room, where a trembling Mary Margaret returned to her seat.  Emma whispered something to her and tied her wrists and replacing the gag.  She then turned to Jefferson.
“Your telescope,” She accused. “You’ve been watching me.”
“You’ve what?!” Neal thundered.
“It points towards the Sheriff’s office,” Emma’s eyes never left Jefferson’s face. “Why?”
“I need you to do something for me,” Jefferson replied quietly. “Neal—if you make any move towards me, I swear, I will blow Miss Swan’s head off. Let’s go.”
He must have noticed Neal’s fingers twitching.  Boiling hot rage coursed through Neal’s veins and he said in a low voice.
“Is this why you hired me? To get close to Emma?”
Jefferson didn’t answer.  He nudged them out of the room, indifferent to Mary Margaret’s screams, and prodded them forward.  He took them to a small room Neal had never seen before, lined with top hats.  
“Sit down, Neal,” Jefferson ordered. “Hand me that cell phone in your pocket. And keep quiet.”  Neal obeyed, regretfully.  
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Emma burst out. “But if you hurt my friend, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”
“Hurt her? I’m saving her life.” Jefferson said softly, walking towards her not unlike a lion stalks its prey.  
“How do you figure that?” Emma demanded.    
“Don’t play stupid. We all know what happens when people try to leave Storybrooke.”
And in that moment, it hit Neal like a ton of bricks.  Jefferson knew.  He knew everything.  He knew about the curse, he knew who he was, where he came from…did he know about Neal?! Did he know who his father was?!
“The curse is keeping us all trapped,” Jefferson murmured. “All except you two.”
“Have you been reading Henry’s book?” Emma said perplexed.
“Henry and his book of stories,” Jefferson mused. “The ones that Emma chooses to ignore—but Neal pays very close attention to. Ever wonder why?”
Neal’s fists clenched.  Emma glanced at Neal in bewilderment.  
“For the last twenty-eight years,” Jefferson began to circle the room, like a vulture, keeping the pistol aimed high. “I’ve been stuck in this house. Day after day, always the same. Until one night, you two roll into town, the clock ticks, and things start to change. You see…I know what you refuse to acknowledge, Emma. You’re special. You brought something precious to Storybrooke—magic.”
“You’re insane,” Emma said flatly.
“Interesting,” Jefferson bared his teeth. “Perhaps you’re the one who’s mad. After all, what’s crazier than seeing and not believing? Ask Neal. He knows.”
Without waiting for this, however, Jefferson took Emma by the shoulders and sat her down at the table across from Neal.  The table was littered with sewing supplies, pins and pincushions, scissors of all sizes, scraps of fabric.  
Jefferson bent and rested his chin on Emma’s head, staring at Neal blankly. “She’s the only one that can do it, Neal,” His voice was barely above a whisper. “She’s going to get it to work.”
And in that moment, Neal realized who he was.
The Mad Hatter.  
“The hats…” Neal sucked in his breath.  Magic hats that could open a portal.  
“The tea!” Emma exclaimed. “Your psychotic behavior. You think you’re the Mad Hatter.”
Jefferson clearly did not like to be called that.  “My name is Jefferson.”
“Okay,” Emma set down the piece of fabric and took a deep breath. “You’ve clearly glommed onto our kid Henry’s thing. They’re just stories. The Mad Hatter is in Alice in Wonderland—a book. A book I actually read!”
“Stories…” Jefferson smiled a little. “Stories. Tell me, Neal. What do you think of these stories? In high school, you studied the Civil War, yes? You learned that in perchance a book? And what are storybooks based on? Imagination? Where does that come from? Neal—where do you come from?!”
“Jefferson,” Neal said in a low voice. “You can’t—you—”
“This is it!” Emma gestured around her. “This is the real world.”
“A real world,” Jefferson corrected.  He leaned towards her, across the table. “How arrogant are you to think yours is the only one? There are infinite more. You have to open your mind. They touch one another, pressing up in a long line of lands. Each just as real as the last. All have their own rules. Some have magic, some don’t. And some need magic. Like this one. And that’s where you come in.”
Jefferson pointed the blade of the scissors towards Emma while keeping the pistol firmly trained on Neal. “You, Spot, and Neal are not leaving here until you make my hat. Until you get it to work.”
The scissors clattered as he dropped them in front of Emma.  Both she and Neal jumped at the noise.  Jefferson smirked a little at their tenseness and spun around towards Neal.  
“I truly did not want you involved,” He said apologetically. “Believe that, at least. I know who you’re hiding from. And I know why. But I have to get my daughter back.”
“What?” The color drained from Neal’s face.
“The curse,” Jefferson told him. “He did this to find you, you know. To make all of us feel what he felt. Like everyone else, what I love has been ripped from me. Look.”
He gestured for Emma to go to the telescope.  She peered through but Neal remained rooted to the spot.  He did this to find you, you know.  To make all of us feel what he felt.
 “Her name is Grace,” The pain in Jefferson’s voice was palpable. “Here it’s Paige. But it’s Grace. My Grace. Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch her day in and day out, happy, with a new family? With a new father?”
“You think she’s your daughter?” Emma asked.
“I don’t think, I know. I remember. She has no idea who I am. Our life together, where we come from. I do. That’s my curse.”  Jefferson turned towards Neal.  He reached a shaking hand out and ran his fingers through Neal’s curls.
“Do you understand now?” Jefferson asked quietly. “Do you understand what he’s done to me? To all of us?”
“What—what who’s done?!” Emma asked, her eyes flitting between Jefferson and Neal nervously.
“Jefferson,” Neal’s mouth was dry. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want him to find me. I never did. I just—”
“I know,” Jefferson nodded frantically. “I know. You and I are the same, Neal. We will do whatever it takes to get our family back.”
“That’s why you want me to make the hat.”
They both turned to look at Emma.  Her expression was vulnerable.
“You just want to take Grace home,” She exhaled slowly. “To your world.”
Jefferson stared at her.  “You believe?”
“If what you say is true, that woman in the other room is my mother. And I want to believe that more than anything in the world. So maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to open myself up more. Maybe, if I want magic, I have to start believing.” Emma stepped towards Jefferson.  
“So you’re—you’re going to help me? You can get it to work?” Jefferson was half-begging.  His voice trembled and Neal’s heart broke for him.  
This was all because of him.  The curse, Storybrooke, all of it—all of it had been done because Rumplestiltskin was trying to hunt him down.
It was all his fault.
Emma swallowed hard.  “I can try.”
He backed away and turned to grab the hat Emma had haphazardly stitched together. But as he did so, Emma seized the telescope and knocked him unconscious.  He fell to the floor instantly.
“Crazy son of a bitch!” Emma burst out and snatched the gun. “Neal, are you okay?!”
“I’m fine,” Neal stood up and embraced her. “Are you? Did he do anything to you?”
“He drugged me, but that’s it. You got here before anything else could happen. C’mon, we’ve gotta get out of here!” She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him along with her, but Neal stopped short.
“You get Mary Margaret out of here,” Neal told her. “I’ll keep an eye on the Mad Hatter here. Then come back here and arrest this asshole.”
“You sure?” Emma handed him the gun.
“Don’t worry about it,” Neal said grimly. “I’d like to have a few words with him in any case.”  
Emma nodded curtly.  “Here. Time him up.”  She handed him scraps of fabric that would do as light ropes.  Neal bent down and tied Jefferson’s wrists together tightly.  The Mad Hatter’s eyes flickered slightly and Neal kicked him in the gut for good measure.
“I won’t be gone more than fifteen minutes,” Emma promised. “I have to get Mary Margaret back to her cell before her arraignment.”
“I got him,” Neal said, still staring at Jefferson’s unconscious form. “Go.”
“Neal…” Emma hesitated. “I just—about what happened the other night—”
He gave her a half-smile.  “You know, I was all worried about bringing it up with you because you had so much going on. And now you’re bringing it up right after you’ve been drugged and tied up?”
“Okay, fair enough,” Emma coughed. “Raincheck?”
“Raincheck. Get out of here.”
                                                           XXXX
When Jefferson awoke, he was tied to a chair facing Neal, a gun pointed directly at his head.  
“Let’s review,” Neal said in a dangerous voice. “You hired me so you could keep a close watch on Emma and figure out her movements. You drugged the mother of my child and tied her up. You terrorized her mother and tied her up. And you tried to force her to send you back to the Enchanted Forest. Am I missing anything?”
Jefferson spat a wad of blood on the ground. “Neal…”
“Trust me, I sympathize,” The dangerous glint in Neal’s gaze faded slightly. “I get the desire to get your kid back at any cost. But you cross a goddamn line when you endanger my family.”
“You have to let me go,” Jefferson pleaded. “Before she gets back.”
Neal laughed harshly.  “Oh yeah? And why the hell should I do that?”
“Because I know where Belle is.”
32 notes · View notes
timelock97 · 5 years
Text
Time Never Stops
Chapter Five: Noticing the Obvious
Word Count: 3920
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(F/A/D): favorite alcoholic drink
(Y/L/F/T): your least favorite topping
Warning: language
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I open my eyes at the soft light coming from the partially opened curtain. I nuzzle my face back into the pillow and listen the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and Tom's soft breathing. I roll over carefully as to not jar Tom's arm that is across my back.
He's still fast asleep when I finally am able to roll over completely to look at him. His face is free of worry lines and in the glow of the early morning sun he looks younger, like when I'd wake up next to him when we were thirteen after spending the previous day exploring Kingston. His breath releases from his slightly pouted lips in small puffs, and his ruffled curls spread across his forehead wildly from a long, peaceful nights sleep.
I slowly crawl out of bed, only once I am free from under his arm. I slip on my favorite sweatshirt over my t-shirt and shorts before making my way downstairs to start up the coffee and cook breakfast. I turn on my phone and wait for the notifications to come rolling in from the night before. I stretch my arms over my head before I grab eggs, green peppers, cheddar cheese, and ham from the fridge and begin making loaded scrambled eggs while the bread in the toaster toasts. I hum along to some tune that lingers in the back of my mind while I work and smile at the notification that my and Tom's fans enjoyed the update from last night.
My mind is brought back to Tom and his weird behavior the past few days. Now, Tom is a weird person in general, but the way he had been acting was a little further out of the ordinary.
The first incident happened on the second day of our trip. Tom and I had been wandering through the Portland Art Museum, I wandered away from Tom while he is looking at one piece, over to a painting. As I stand there looking at the piece, admiring it, a man comes to stand next to me.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" The man asks, he glances at me from the side, smiling at me.
"Absolutely gorgeous," my hand lifts to point out my favorite features, "I love how they captured the light coming from the back window, it causes the colors of the flowers to darken on this side, and the way the other light source hits the roses makes them look like they are so much brighter, but it also allows the shadows of the petals to contrast making these parts here and here pop that much more."
"You seem to know some things about art." He says moving to face me, "I'm Jared."
"(Y/N), and I would hope so, my best friend and her little sister are both phenomenal artists."
"That's amazing." He mutters, "Have they ever thought to draw you?"
"Uh, no, why do you ask?" I let out a soft laugh.
"Because you, my dear, are a masterpiece," he states with a smirk.
I blush softly and let out a small laugh. "Well, uh, thank you, I definitely haven't heard that one before."
"Well, I'm sure I could think of more when I take you out this evening, my treat?"
I go to open my mouth to politely decline since I wasn't the one to just go out on dates especially since I was on vacation, but Tom beat me to it.
"This piece looks lovely, darling, no wonder you wandered away." He says, wrapping an arm around my waist and places himself on the other side of me before glancing around me to the man to my right. "Wouldn't you agree, mate?"
Jared nods, and gives me a tight lip smile. "Yeah, dude, looks great." He glances at me softly before nodding his head, "It was nice talking to you, (Y/N), have a nice afternoon."
"Uh, you too, Jared." I say as he gives me a soft wave before leaving the room. I glance at Tom and notice his jaw is set and he isn't really looking at the piece. "Wanna head over to the next room? The Asian art is always really interesting." I ask with a small cock of my head. Tom smiles at me and nods before letting me lead him out the other archway away from where Jared disappeared moments ago.
The second incident happened at the Portland Zoo. Tom and I were wandering through the Africa section, hand in hand. Tom tugged me away from the painted dogs exhibit to walk down to where the giraffes were. Tom and I walk up to the area and I let out a soft, breathy "Wow."
"Turn and look at me, love." Tom says I turn and smile at him as he snaps a photo of me on his phone. After, he pays for me to be able to feed them, taking pictures of me laughing happily as a handler talks to me about the specific giraffe that had walked up to have a nice snack. When Tom and I walk away, we both hear people calling our names, making us come to a soft halt to see a group of teens jogging over to us.
"Holy cow, you're Timelock! And you're Tom Holland! Can - could we get a picture with you two? We promise we won't bother you after." One of the girls asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"Yeah, absolutely!" I say, "Do you want pictures separately or all together?"
"All together is fine," she looks at her group who nod excitedly, "can we get it with the both of you in the picture?" She motions for a woman to walk over and from the looks of it, she was the girl's mother. "Mom, can you take the picture, please?"
The woman nods while we get into our poses, once we are done, Tom and I hug each one of them, once we are done his arm attaches itself to my waist while the group talks to us happily before they bid us goodbye.
"Sorry for bugging you on your date!" The girl, Madison, calls as they walk away. Tom chuckles beside me before waving with me and tugging me back in the direction of the small food court.
"That was fun." Tom mutters in my ear, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, making me blush.
"Gotta love our fans." I reply, looking at him to see the soft smile on his face.
The latest incident happened while we were hiking in Mt. Tabor Park. Tom and I had planned a full day of hiking, including packing a lunch, snacks, and waters so we would be good throughout the day. While we walked, Tom held my hand, helping me over fallen logs and other obstacles by either offering a hand or full on scooping me up bridal style and carrying me over several obstacles at a time.
"Tom," I giggle as he sets me down carefully, "I promise, I'm okay. I can climb over those too, you know?"
"I know, I just love to spoil you, I have to." He teases, smiling at me softly, blowing a curl from off his forehead.
"Well, I don't mind you spoiling me, but I feel like you are going to hurt yourself trying to keep me from injuring myself." I say, retaking his hand as we walk the trail, looking over the hills at the scenery below.
"I won't hurt myself," he scoffs, squeezing my hand and pressing a soft kiss to my temple. We stand there in quiet silence, or as quiet as it can be with other hikers walking up and down the trail.
"Enjoying the view?" Someone calls from behind us, Tom and I turn our head to see two guys walking up the hill toward us. We had passed them a mile back while they were taking a break and checking their map.
"It's gorgeous out here." I call once they are close enough to hear.
"Chris and I come out here every weekend to hike, it's wonderful, something new every time we come." The man puts his hand out, smiling, "The name's Zack."
"I'm (Y/N), and this is Tom." I say, motioning to Tom as I introduce him to the men in front of us.
"Nice to meet you both," Chris says smiling. "We were planning on stopping ahead and having our lunch, we were wondering if we could finish this part of the hike with you two. We enjoy talking with new hikers, hope that doesn't sound too weird."
"No, we would love that, we were going to stop and have lunch soon anyways." Tom says, motioning for us to start back up and continue our hike. While we walk, Tom either has his hand laced in mine or has it on the small of my back under my backpack. This doesn't go unnoticed by the two men walking with us. Once we make it to the eating area, Tom runs off to the restroom while I unpack the baby wipes and our sandwiches from my backpack and pull out a water from his.
"So, who long have you and Tom been together?" Chris asks, causing me to stop and lift my eyes from the task at hand.
"Oh, uh, Tom and I aren't dating. We are best friends." I state.
"Friends don't do what he has been doing with you, sweets." Zack stated.
Chris giggles next to him. "He's had his hands all over you, honey. If that's not obvious flirting then the way he has been talking to you is a definite clue."
"It's really not like that, we've known each other since we were very little. It's just how we interact." I say, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen out of my ponytail behind my ear.
"Well, we are just stating what we see." Zack smiles, "Either way, you two are really sweet together, it's nice to see two people so comfortable together."
I smile at them, but never get to respond because Tom plops down next to me.
"The water doesn't work, you grabbed the wipes right?" He asks, I had him one, "Thanks, love." He leans across and presses a quick kiss to my cheek before we start eating, a blush staying permanently on my cheeks for the next hour.
I let out a sigh, convincing myself that it's just me over reacting to the situations.
"Did you hear what I said, love?" Tom mutters into my ear as his hands find their home on my hips, making me jump and giggle against his chest.
"Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. What'd you say?"
"Just said that it smelled good, but I did miss waking up to you this morning." He sighs, resting his head on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around my waist while swaying us side to side as I continue humming. "What song are you humming, love?"
"Um," I mutter, "Life Changes by Thomas Rhett."
He lets out a hum before unwrapping an arm from my waist to do something behind my back. After a minute, the song I had been humming is playing behind me. I turn and look at him smiling. He sticks his hand out for me and I quickly turn down the burner to take his hand and sway with him to the tune of the song.
"Ain't it funny how life changes, 'y wake up, ain't nothing the same and life changes. You can't stop it, just hop on the train and you never know what's gonna happen, you make your plans and you hear God laughing. Life changes, and I wouldn't change it for the world, the world, oh no-." I sing along before the toast pops out of the toaster, scaring us half to death. We look at one another and laugh at one another before he takes his place at the stove finishing the eggs while I butter the toast and fill our mugs with coffee so we can eat and get our day started.
"I missed that." I hear him sigh behind me, I lean away from the table and look at his bare back in front of me.
"Missed what?"
"Just, missed you, doing things that only we appreciate. The whole works." He says, a small blush coloring his cheeks.
"Missed you too, Tom." I smile, hugging him from behind and pressing a kiss into his tee-shirt covered shoulder.
He hums before patting my hands so I let go and he loads our plates with food. We eat in silence for awhile, scrolling through our phones to see what we had missed the last few days. I go to GameSquad's twitter and giggle at the latest post. "What are you giggling at, (Y/N/N)?"
"Let me read this tweet from GameSquad, I'm sure it's from Jac. 'The fact that everyone is bombarding this page because @Timelock is away on vacation means one thing, she is not allowed to go on vacation again, unless we come with. #whatareyoudoing #gamesquad #weloveyoubut'"
"Oh my God," Tom laughed loudly, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "That's amazing."
"Only my friends," I giggle back, quickly commenting '@GameSquad sorrynotsorry' in the comment section. I let out a sigh and notice Tom watching me, "Whatcha looking at, Holland?"
"Just staring off." He states, rubbing a hand under his nose, "I was wondering what you wanted to do today?"
I sip my coffee and let out a soft hum, "Well, I think it should be done raining soon. I really want to go the Japanese Garden in Washington Park, and I was wondering if we could go to that bar in town that we have passed several times for dinner? Because you and I both know neither of us will wanna cook tonight."
"That sounds like a plan, we will probably want to dress a little more warmly since it's a little cool out." Tom states, wiping his lips with a napkin. "I'll clean up so you can get ready."
"You sure?" I ask standing and scraping what was left in the trash, "I can help clean up."
"No, go ahead and get ready. This won't take me too long." He states, motioning me to go upstairs. I smile and peck the top of his head before ascending the steps. I dig through my drawers looking for something to wear. "Love?" Tom calls.
I walk over to the edge to see Tom looking back up into the balcony. "What's up?"
"I don't think the rain is gonna let up, why don't we just stay in then we can go to the bar tonight and the Japanese Park tomorrow?"
"Okay, I'm up for that, gives me a bit to do some laundry and we can sit on the couch and relax."
"Don't bother changing out of your comfy clothes then, but will you grab my hoodie?" He calls, smiling. I turn and grab it from off the bed and toss it down to him. "Thanks, love. Want me to put in a movie?"
"Please!" I call, grabbing an arm full of laundry before walking down the stairs. Oh what a perfect, lazy day it was going to be.
~
"Ready to go in there?" Tom bangs on the bathroom door, almost messing me up while I fix my hair.
"I'll be out in a minute, asshole." I laugh, curling the last strand of hair before I check my makeup one more time. I smile at my reflection, happy with the way I look dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and a red, lacy shirt where the sleeves stop just above the elbow, the neckline plunging in a deep v. I walk out and find Tom sitting on the bed scrolling on his phone. I grab my ankle boots, sit on the bed next to him to slip them on and zip them up.
"Uh, (Y/N/N), isn't that a little revealing?" Tom asks, his voice shaking slightly as he looks at me.
"It's not that bad, Tommy." I giggle at him as I smile at him. "C'mon, the Uber is here and I don't wanna have to pay extra for making them wait." Tom sighs and follows me down the steps, I turn and admire the dark pair of jeans and burgundy button up tee-shirt he is donning before he hands me my jacket and purse. Tom locks the door behind us as I walk over to the car and smile at the female driver to confirm our ride. We drive to the bar in silence, beside the radio playing in the background. Once we pull up I thank the woman and step out of the car with Tom close to my heels. Tom wraps an arm around my waist and walks up with me to the door.
Inside is a quaint bar, an old jukebox sitting in the corner, two walls are lined with booths, the wall left of the door is the bar, and tables litter the rest of the space. Tom and I walk up to the bar and sitting down.
"Hey, what could I get you two to drink?" The bartender asks, his eyes lingering on my chest, but I decide to ignore it.
"I'll have a (F/A/D)." I say with a small smile.
"And I'll have a beer on tap. We'd also like some menus, we heard the food here is very good." Tom states, his jaw set as he speaks.
"You got it," the bartender, Jeff, states. He hands us each a menu before getting our drinks ready. I glance over the menu and watch Tom out of the corner of my eye. He barely looks at the menu and watches the bartender as he works.
"Tom, did you find something you might wanna get?" I ask innocently, leaning a little closer to him. He looks at me, but shrugs.
"Don't know yet, did you find anything?"
"I think I'll get a cheese burger, just sounds good." I hum, laying my head on his shoulder in hopes that it will comfort him.
"I think I'll get that too, make it easy on them." He states, pressing a quick kiss to my head.
The bartender comes back and sets our drinks down in front of us. "Here you go, did you figure out what you wanted?"
"We both would like the cheese burger, she would not like (Y/L/F/T) on her's." Tom states, handing back out menus.
"Sounds good, those will be out soon." The bartender states before leaving again. Tom lets out a sigh and I lace my fingers into his under the bar. He turns and smiles at me, but his eyes still linger on the bartender down the bar, glaring at his lingering gaze.
As the night goes on, Tom becomes more on edge, making me more annoyed. Whether it's the bartender making comments on my shirt or the lingering gazes of other men in the bar, Tom just can't seem to relax.
Tom squeezes my hand softly, moving to whisper in my ear. "I'll be back, just running to the loo. You think you'll be okay?
"I'll be fine, Tom." I state, faking a smile. He nods, squeezing my hand before leaving. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding in, moving the straw around my third drink of the evening.
"I thought he would never leave." I turn to see a guy sitting a chair away. He gives me a bright smile, making me smile back. "I'm Josh."
"(Y/N)," I say, bringing my drink to my lips.
"What is up his ass? If you ask me you look absolutely amazing, and if you were my girl I'd be showing you off."
I let out a laugh, "Tom is just protective."
"Well I guess that is fair, I mean," he licks his bottom lip, eyes lingering on my figure, "look at you."
I feel my face get hot, and I avert my gaze from the man to my left. A soft, awkward laugh escapes my lips. Josh keeps looking at me up and down, biting his lip after a minute before he standing from his chair, taking two strides to stand next to me.
"Why don't we get out of here, I can show you what you're really missing out on in a man." He states, putting his hand out in hopes that I will take it. Instead I feel another hand on my shoulder, squeezing almost too tightly.
"She's not interested." Tom's voice comes from behind me, tone cold.
"I wasn't talking to you-"
"Well, when you get into my girls face, you suddenly are. She isn't going home with you."
"I hope you have a great night, Mr. Holland." The bartender muses, coming into my view, handing Tom his credit card and a receipt before telling us to have a good night. Tom carefully tugs me from my place and hands me my coat before making our way outside. Tom leads me to a car and opens the door for me, he greets the driver, but I don't even hear it. All I can focus on is the anger and embarrassment bubbling up in my veins.
The drive is short, and once we get to the house I get out and walk to the door, waiting for Tom to make his way over to unlock the door. He fishes the key from his pocket and opens the door. I walk in ahead of him, throwing my jacket over the couch and turn to look at him. "Okay, explain to me what the hell is going on with you-"
"He was harassing you so I stepped in-"
"That's not what I am talking about, that I can understand you stepping in." I pace in front of him. "You were being an ass all night: the bartender, the other guys at the bar-"
"I was keeping the creeps away from you!" He tries to reason, waving his hand in the air.
"You don't know if they were creeps, Tom!" I yell, raking a hand through my hair.
"Did you not notice how they looked at you, they were looking at you like you were a piece of meat!" Tom yells tugging at his hair.
"It doesn't matter!" I shake my hand in the air before pinching the bridge of my nose, "I wasn't acknowledging it so why did you feel the need to glare at everyone tonight! We couldn't have just a nice night, out at a bar-"
"I'm a guy, I know what was going through their heads as they looked at you!" He shakes his head and lets out a bitter laugh while he runs a hand through his hair.
"Okay, let's face it, Tom." I pull my hand away from my face and stand unmoving, "I know there is something else going on," I strode forward toward him, fuming. "Cut the bullshit, what is going on in that head of yours, Tom. Why does it bother you so much for someone to be flirting with me-"
"Maybe because it kills me to think of you with someone that isn't me!" He yells, throwing his hands into his hair to tug at the roots. "Maybe I want it to be me, because God dammit, (Y/N), I love you. I've loved you my entire life!"
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Let me know what you think! Comment and reblog! Let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts
@revenantwriting​ | @bellagrayson-wayne
Chapter Six coming Sunday!
75 notes · View notes
let-it-raines · 5 years
Text
Rising from the Ashes (12/?)
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When her husband died, Emma wasn’t sure that she could ever move on. He left her with a broken heart and a baby who was only three-months old. It’s enough to take most people down, to make them not want to keep going, but Emma Swan isn’t most people. She’s stronger than she has any right to be. And after years of heartache, she’s found ways to move on…one of those being in Neal’s best friend, Killian Jones.
As she’s always known, however, things are more complicated than they ever seem to be.
Rating: Mature
A/N: I’m sorry for the wonky formatting. I’m on vacation and can’t sleep and am doing this off of my phone. I thought it would be easier, but Tumblr can be dumb sometimes. I hope you enjoy regardless 💕
Found on AO3: Beginning | Current
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Tag list: @jamif @artistic-writer @cs-forlife @qualitycoffeethings @resident-of-storybrooke @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog @mayquita @bmbbcs4evr @wellhellotragic @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @shady-swan-jones @snowbellewells @snow-into-ash @andiirivera @mariakov81 @thejollyroger-writer @shireness-says @kristi555 @facesiousbutton82 @superchocovian @jonirobinson64 
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“Killian, I’m really not sure if this is a good idea,” Emma whispers as they move forward in line, his fingers intertwined with hers as he tugs her forward to stand next to him so they don’t get lost in the crowd.
“Darling, I know you’re not big on the touristy activities, but we have to do it for Henry’s list.”
She tugs on his hand again, and he twists to the side to look down at her. He can’t see her eyes because of her sunglasses, the black frames covering the green, but he can see that her lips are pressed together in a firm line while her cheeks flush in a way that he knows has nothing to do with her blush.
“I mean the eye, babe. I don’t…I know it goes slowly, but I’m really worried that I’m going to throw up because of the movement.”
Oh.
He didn’t even think about that. He should have thought about it, but this is all still kind of new to him. It’s only been three days since they suspected Emma was pregnant, two since they’ve known officially, and they haven’t had much time to revel in it and celebrate with them constantly being around Liam, Belle, and Henry. It’s a bit ridiculous, really. Every time he gets Emma in a private corner simply to kiss her and tell her how goddamn happy he is that she’s in his life and is carrying their child, someone interrupts them.
Hiding Emma’s sickness is the most difficult thing, but trying to find some private time simply so they can talk is beginning to be even more difficult.
It’s likely a close tie.
He cannot believe he’s going to be a father.
Again.
He’s learning that it’s an odd disconnect, one that he’s struggling to understand, one that he really wants to talk to Emma about. Henry is his, undoubtedly. He loves that kid more than life itself. It hurts sometimes, physically aches, for him to think about his son and the light that he brings him after a life that has not necessarily been easy. He’s gotten to be a father to a little lad who he never thought would be such a major part in his life, and for someone whose greatest father figure was his brother and not his actual father, that’s not a responsibility he’s taken lightly.
He owes it to Emma and Henry, and even Liam and Neal, to be the man his father never was. Brennan was a fucked up man, but he helped shape Killian, whether he likes it or not.
But this is – this baby…she’s different. He’s got no clue if the baby is a boy or a girl, but he’s been calling her a girl in his head simply because it’s easier that way than dancing around pronouns and weird terms. She’s his little lady bug, and if she turns out to be a he, he’ll still be his bug. He doesn’t really have the words to describe how he’s feeling, and he likes to think of himself as a verbose man. It’s odd because he knows all of the science behind pregnancy and childbirth (Emma is a wonder woman), but he never could have imagined feeling how he feels. He didn’t always want children, his fear of being his father overwhelming him. It wasn’t something that he actively thought about, but then there was Milah and his love for her. They never got to that kind of future before things fell apart, but he realized that with the right partner, sometimes things shift and change.
And then he met Emma.
He met Emma, and even though they don’t have a traditional or straightforward relationship, she has changed absolutely everything in his life.
Now they’re having this child together, this child who he gets to be around from the beginning, and he doesn’t think he’s ever loved Emma more.
It’s not a second chance. No, that would be…wrong. It’s more like an old experience framed in a new light. There are similarities and differences, but everything is just as wonderful.
Except for Emma’s morning sickness, which seems to happen all day.
“If you don’t want to go, love, we can let Liam and Belle take Henry up there. They can tell him all about everything. They likely know it better than I do since it’s been so long since I’ve lived anywhere remotely near here.”
“Let’s,” she gulps, her cheeks puffing up for a moment, “ask Henry if he’d be okay for us to sit in the park while they go. I don’t think it’ll really mess with me since it’s not so much motion but…height. I’m not really sure. I just feel nauseous all the damn time.”
“It’s fine, Swan,” he tells her as he dips his head down and kisses her temple. “Liam,” he calls, reaching forward to grab his brother’s shoulder while Belle entertains Henry as he shows her the same toy ninja turtle that he’s been showing her for the entire trip.
“Yeah?”
“I think Emma and I are going to go sit down while you all ride, okay? She’s still not feeling well, and the height may make it worse.”
Liam’s brows furrow together, the lines on his face all concentrating in the center of his forehead, as his lips only slightly turn up into a sympathetic smile. “You okay, lass?”
“I’m fine,” Emma promises, even though he knows she’s lying. “You don’t mind taking Henry with you without us?”
“I don’t mind at all. I promise to point out everything that interests him. Henry,” Liam calls, and Henry stops talking to Belle as they both turn around to look at everyone, “your mum is still feeling a bit sick, so are you okay going on the ride with just me and Belle?”
Henry shrugs, holding up his ninja turtle doll. “Can I still take Leonardo?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’m good. Bye Momma.”
“Well don’t I feel special,” Emma laughs as she squats down to kiss Henry’s cheek. “Be good, okay?”
“Okay. Can we get something to eat when we come back down? Being in the air makes me hungry.”
Well that’s a new one.
“Yeah, kid, we can.”
He guides Emma over to the Jubilee Gardens. It’s crowded as any tourist attraction will be, but he manages to find them a place to sit in the shade under a canopy of trees, the August sun not shining nearly as brightly. They don’t have a sweater or blanket to spread out like most of the other people here, so he lays down on his back, hands crossed under his head, and let’s Emma rest her head on his stomach as she looks back over at the London Eye as if she can see Henry go up in the carriages.
“Still feeling sick?” he asks her as he moves his hands from behind his head so that he can mess with her hair, running his fingers through the strands of her hair while she closes her eyes, lashes landing against her freckle covered cheeks.
She’s so beautiful.
“Yeah, this kid of yours is going to be a killer. I can tell.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s great. Killian, this is a good thing. It’s what we wanted, and as much as I wish we could, we can’t change biology.”
“Aye,” he chuckles, working out a particularly nasty knot, “that’d be nice. I wish I could make it easier for you, especially since you’re having such a rough time right now. I mean, we can’t even tell anyone right now.”
“I’m kind of okay with that. It’s like our own little secret. It’s only us who know, and I don’t know – I like it. I like sharing something with you. I like not being bombarded with everything because you know the moment we tell everyone, they’ll never leave us alone. My mom, Marg David – ”
“Liam and Belle.”
“They’ll all go insane. Hell, even Ruby at work will be crazy.”
“Aye,” he laughs, beginning to twist her hair into a braid. “I imagine it’ll be quite the ordeal. Do you think Henry will take it well?”
“I don’t know. He’s been an only child for awhile, but he’s a good kid. I think he might be excited until he goes through the jealousy phase or whatever. We’ll have to make sure to look out for that.”
He hums in agreement and looks twists his head to the right to work out some of the kinks in his neck. There are people everywhere, conversations happening and laughter filling the air as much as the sounds of birds chirping, and he wonders how many of the people here are actually from London and how many are tourists. It doesn’t matter in the slightest, but it’s something he’s been noticing the past few days as his accent becomes heavier than it has been in years. He’s home, even if his home is both Brighton and Portland, and he finds a sense of comfort in all of this.
There’s a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looks to see two men arguing, their hands quickly moving around as they talk. They’re both in tailored suits similar to what he wears to work, but he can tell that one of the men is uncomfortable in it. There’s something oddly familiar about the man whose back is facing him, and when he turns to the side, Killian’s stomach drops at the similar profile. He looks just like Neal, but it’s not. It can’t be. Neal is dead, and this is simply another man who shares his profile. It’s not as if there aren’t a lot of dark-headed men out there.
“You okay, babe?” Emma asks, twisting her head on his stomach to look up at him. “You just went silent.”
“I’m fine,” he promises, flashing her a smile and shaking his head from the sense of deja vu that just happened. “I was simply thinking about you and our little bug. I can’t even express how unbelievably happy that I am.”
Emma’s lips tug up into a grin, her eyes radiating softness. “I can’t either. I – ” Her eyes go wide, and she has to cover her mouth. “Oh shit. I’ve got to vomit.”
-/-
-/-
“You really don’t have to take that long to wrap presents,” Liam laughs, sitting down on the window seat while Killian carefully folds the wrapping paper into small corners so that Emma’s new yoga pants are all wrapped up.
“I like things a certain way,” he protests, placing a piece of tape on the package. “Emma uses far too much tape when she wraps things, so unless the presents are for me, and sometimes not even then, I wrap our gifts.”
“It also makes it easy for you to know if Henry has unwrapped them, aye?”
He chuckles at that, twisting his head to look at his brother so that he can smile at him. He doesn’t have that many more presents to wrap today, but he does still need to put ribbons on them. “He usually shakes them, which is not a good thing when there’s something breakable.”
“He sounds like a kid.”
“That he is.” He reaches down and picks up a box from the floor, quickly opening it to see that it’s a few pairs of shoes for Ada that are far too big for her now. He rather likes the little sneakers with the lady bugs on them, but he doesn’t want to imagine her running around in them yet. She’s just about to start crawling. He can’t think about running. “Do you and Belle ever think about it anymore? I know it’s an awkward subject but – ”
“But we talk,” Liam finishes for him, getting up from the seat and walking toward the wrapped packages, stringing out the ribbon. “I’m fine with you asking me. It’s a bit of a sensitive subject for Belle because we tried for so long and nothing happened. It’s been…heartbreaking, but we’ve been looking into adopting, not as some kind of consolation. We just…we want to be parents.”
His heart breaks and soars all at once, the mixture of emotions like a tennis ball being hit back and forth over the clay covered courts of Roland Garros. He knows of all of the sorrow and emotions that Liam and Belle have been through in trying to have a kid. It was something his brother kept private until he confessed it one night when Killian was talking about the struggles he and Emma were having, and in a bit of a melancholy way, it’s bonded them more.
In truth, a hell of a lot of their bonding has occurred because of situations that he wouldn’t wish upon anyone.
“That’s bloody wonderful,” he sighs, a happy smile on his face as he watches Liam tie a ribbon around a package. “How is it going?”
“Well. We have a – there’s a young lad, Caleb. He’s about two, and Belle is absolutely besotted with him. I am too, but Belle is terrified to talk about it for fear of something falling through. We have a few more meetings about it in January.”
He stops wrapping the shoes and takes a step toward his brother, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding on as tightly as he possibly can. He only gets his brother here, in person, for two more days, and he wants to savor these moments. He wants to savor getting to have every person he loves in one place. He wants to savor celebrating and comforting his brother in the steps of life that he’s taking.
“I am so damn happy for you guys.”
“Thank you,” Liam murmurs, rubbing his hand up and down Killian’s back. “I am too. I want to be this boy’s father so badly. I want Belle to get to be the mum she deserves to be. I…want.”
He understands that completely. He understands every bit of it, every word. And when he pulls back, he can see all of the understanding in Liam’s eyes too, especially when he squeezes his shoulder.
“It’s not the same because of the age difference, but when it’s right for you guys, you could likely talk to Emma. She was adopted. She understands what it’s like to be the kid on the other side of it. Or you could talk to Ruth.”
“I could also talk to you.”
He quirks his brow and sits down on the bed, all of the presents shifting with him. “What do you mean?”
“You’re Henry’s father, but you haven’t always been. You took him on when he was about Caleb’s age. You know what it’s like.”
“Henry is different,” he sighs, shaking his head back and forth while he tries to figure out how to articulate his thoughts. “It’s…I had Emma. Emma knew all of the ropes, had given Henry a fantastic life, and I came in when it was easier. What you’re doing is different.”
“In a way, but I think we’re both men who are trying to be fathers to kids who had their fathers taken from them. It doesn’t make us more honorable or better, but it is a different challenge.”
“Aye,” he agrees, looking up at Liam. He looks startlingly like their father, but he never has those dark memories when he looks at them. “Though we have bloody wonderful women who do everything much better than us.”
“Well, at least Emma with you, but that’s not too hard.” “Shut up, you wanker,” he chuckles, getting up from the bed. “Here we are having a nice moment and you have to ruin it.”
“What else are older brothers for?”
“A hell of a lot more than that.”
“Daddy,” Henry whines from outside the door, his little voice muffled because of the wood, “are you finished wrapping presents yet?”
“No, my boy,” he chuckles, waggling his brows across his forehead at Liam who has an absolute smirk on his face, “I’m not. What are you doing outside the door?”
“Waiting for presents.”
“You get to open them tomorrow.” “That is too long,” he groans, and Killian has to contain the belly laugh that is threatening to escape him. Henry can be patient but not when it comes to Santa getting to come and opening presents. It’s all far too exciting for him to contain himself.
He glances at Liam once more before walking toward the bedroom door and unlocking it, quickly opening the door as that Henry falls back with it, his arms barely stopping his head from hitting the ground. It wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but Henry’s laugh is worth it.
“Where is your mum?” he asks, lifting Henry up from the ground and practically dragging him away from the door. “Isn’t she supposed to be keeping you entertained?”
“She’s changing Ada’s diaper, and it smelled like fish.”
“Oi,” he grunts, using the muscles in his arms to throw Henry over his shoulder. He’s almost too big for this now. “It did not. You only say this because you don’t like fish.”
“I like the ones like Nemo. The others smell.”
“Mackerel doesn’t smell when I cook it.”
“Yes it does.”
“Liam,” he calls, swinging Henry around as he moves to the staircase, his brother coming into view from the bedroom, “do you like eating mackerel?”
“Every morning for breakfast so I don’t get scurvy.”
“Ewww,” Henry groans, squirming even though Killian now knows that Henry is seriously considering eating fish since Liam does it. “That’s gross.”
“It’s yummy.”
Henry continues to protest, and even though his bony limbs are hitting Killian, he carries him down the stairs and turns right into the kitchen where Emma and Belle are chatting while the gentle hum of Christmas carols play in the background. There are a few discarded ingredients for the breakfast they’re serving for everyone in the morning, a grilled cheese on the stove instead, and he makes the assumption that Emma must have gotten hungry now. Or that they’re waiting for he and Liam to come help cook.
“Hello, beautiful ladies,” he greets as he walks in with Henry. Emma rolls her eyes. Belle blushes. It’s all as usual. “I have found someone trying to sneak his way into looking at presents before tomorrow.”
Emma whistles low under her breath, the smallest of smirks forming at her lips. “Oh no, babe. Do you know what happens when people try to find out what their presents are early?”
“I do not,” he sing-songs, plopping Henry down on the floor next to Ada’s playmat.
“They have to eat fish for dinner.”
Henry squeals at the same time that he and Liam bark out nearly identical laughs, the room suddenly a loud mess of him, and he watches as Emma winks before turning back to the stove and moving her grilled cheese off of the pan. The cunning lass obviously heard their talk. She’s always been the greatest at thinking on her feet when it comes to Henry, whether it be trying to explain something in a way that he understands or simply doing something funny to make him laugh. Once she managed to explain not wasting water by comparing it to Henry’s baseball games, and he’s still never quite figured out that one. Or at least, how she made the comparison. But Henry doesn’t waste water now.
Bloody miracle worker, the woman.
“I promise I won’t look. I promise.”
“It’s okay,” Belle laughs, reaching over the counter and taking Henry’s hand in hers. “Santa knows that you’re a good boy.”
“What’s all this screaming?” Neal questions as he walks in the room, his voice filled with laughter even though the jovial feeling in the air dies a little in his presence. It’s not his fault. He’s an outsider looking in no matter how comfortable they try to make him. It’ll get better for him when Liam and Belle go home, but he thinks that Neal’s been stepping back a bit to give them all some time this week. It’s nice, but he doesn’t have to step back. This is his family too.
“I have to eat fish if I look at my presents early.”
“I’d say don’t look at your presents early then,” Neal laughs, pulling out the barstool next to Henry and sitting down. “Ems, what time is your family coming over?”
“Tonight? At six.”
He watches as Emma cuts her grilled cheese into four slices, popping one in her mouth and sliding the plate to Henry, letting him eat the meal she very obviously was preparing for herself but is instead giving to Henry. While she’s chewing her food, she squats down and picks Ada up from her play mat, blowing a loud kiss into Ada’s cheek that causes Ada to scream out a giggle. He doesn’t know how he ever stepped back from her, from this. He remembers life before Emma, remembers how everything was, but he doesn’t really want to remember a world where he didn’t love her. Where she didn’t love him.
He doesn’t want to remember a world where she isn’t the center of his life.
Maybe it’s the joyous atmosphere in the room that’s making him think about all of this. Maybe it’s that Neal is now talking to Henry and making him laugh while Henry eats his good, Belle and Liam joining in on their conversation. Maybe it’s that everything finally feels right.
He’s not sure if he’s ever loved Emma more than he does right now. He’s thought it before, said it before, and he’s sure he’ll say it again.
Every time it is said, it’s meant.
He’s infinitely glad that they’re getting things right again, that they’re trying again. He doesn’t know what he would do without Emma.
“You look like you’re thinking,” Emma mumbles as she walks over to him, handing him Ada when she stretches her chubby hands toward him, her fingers already trying to mess with his ears.
“Always, love,” he winks, smiling down at her.
“About what, though?” Emma prods, her hand resting on the middle of his back while she makes faces at Ada, her cheeks puffing up as she inhales air.
“You.”
“Oh, your daddy is trying to be a charmer,” she whispers to their daughter, her eyes only glancing up to him for the briefest of moments.
“Who says I was thinking good things?”
Emma scoffs, like what he’s said is the most unbelievable thing in the world. It kind of is.
He adjusts Ada in his arms, wondering again how she can be this big now or if he’ll ever get used to her growing. He most likely won’t. “I’ll tell you later, love,” he promises, leaning down to kiss the apple of her cheek and whispers in her ear, “I’m afraid I’ll scar the lot of them if I tell you what I was thinking just now.”
Emma’s cheeks immediately flush red, and she shakes her head back and forth, gently slapping his back. He wasn’t thinking anything dirty, but she doesn’t have to know that. He’ll tell her everything later. maybe he’ll even throw in some dirty thoughts.
“Alright,” Emma starts, clapping her hands together, “who wants to make some cookies for Santa?”
-/-
“Now that we’re alone,” he mumbles before he drags his teeth across her collarbone, her skin tasting of the slightest bit of salt, and he hears the gentle thud of Emma’s head hitting their bedroom door. He’s not particularly interested in that when he can hear her whimpers as he bites down on her skin. Her hips arch into his, and she deliciously brushes against where he’s beginning to strain. The slight friction is pleasurable, but it’s not enough. So he steps closer, caging her in, their hips rolling against each other while Emma is fully pressed up into the door, his hands above her while hers explore his back under his shirt, likely leaving red lines on his back.
“Ah, fuck,” she moans when he licks a slow stripe up her neck, and he can feel just how much she loves it with the way her nails dig into his skin.
“Such dirty words from such a pretty mouth,” he mumbles, making sure that his lips cover every inch of her skin that he has access to.”
“I’ve always had a bit of a sailor’s mouth on me.”
“Technically, you do have a sailor’s mouth on you. Quite literally”
She laughs, something deep and throaty, but it’s cancelled out by her own moan again when he gets to the spot on her ear that she likes. Her hips keep moving against his, rolling and teasing, and he can feel the pleasure and the tension build inch by wonderful inch.
“You’re an evil woman,” he continues, moving his hands down from the door so that the slide down her arms, landing at her body so that he can move them up under her shirt, not at all caring for propriety or patience as he feels the heavy weight of her breasts in her hands. “We have had family with us all evening,” he pants, not sure how much longer he can hold back. “They’re here to celebrate Christmas with us, with our children, and you spend the entire night with your hand far too high on my thigh.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sighs innocently, and he would pull back to look at her with a raised brow, but he’s particularly interested in working his way back down her neck, making sure to rub his scruff into her.
“You do,” he says simply, his voice strained even to his own ears. “You’re a minx and a tease, and don’t think I didn’t notice the way you made sure to stand with your ass just in front of my view as we put out the presents.”
“I was trying to speed up the progression of the song about Mommy kissing Santa Clause.”
It’s a bad joke, but he can’t help but laugh at it before hungrily slanting his lips over Emma’s, capturing her mouth in his as their teeth clank together and their tongues battle, a harshness that is not always there with them present tonight. She nips at his bottom lip, hard, before soothing it, and it’s that which has him moving his hands from her breasts and up under her ass, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist so that he can carry her. She does, their cores pressed together, and he doesn’t break the kiss if only so Emma won’t say anything about him hurting his back. He’s not going to, not tonight.
He wants to take things slow tonight, to let them savor things, to let Emma know of his thoughts earlier of just how much he loves her, but Emma’s in a mood that has them shredding their clothes and him taking her from behind, his pleasure far outweighing hers until he reaches between them and finds the slick flesh where they’re joined. Emma’s gasp comes from the back of her throat, is similar to what must be pure sin, and he wants to hear it over and over again.
They’re hurried the first time, the need for each other too much, but when Emma wakes him in the middle of the night, he deliberately paces them slowly, holding onto Emma’s hips as she moves above him, only the sound of skin against skin and the occasional odd sound outside filling the room. The pleasure builds slowly, steadily, and this time he tells her just how much he loves her and how much she means to him. This time he tells her that his entire world has revolved around her, that it wouldn’t work without her, and he has to grit his teeth to hold back his release all the while wiping his thumb underneath her eye to push away the stray tears.
And for the few hours that they do actually get to sleep the night, their bodies are so tightly pressed together that he’s barely sure which limbs belong to him.
They wake when there’s a knock on their door, the beats fast and lacking enough rhythm for him to know that it’s Henry. He laughs into Emma’s neck before kissing down her bare back, enjoying this last little moment before the chaos of the day begins. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, the moonlight still filtering through the curtains, but Christmas has officially begun.
“Happy Christmas, my love.”
“Merry Christmas,” she whispers back, twisting her head and kissing the corner of his lips. “We have about thirty seconds before he breaks that door down.”
“Mom,” Henry groans from outside, his knocks quieting, “you have to come outside so we can see what Santa brought me.”
“Just a minute, kid,” she laughs as the two of them quickly get up out of bed. He doesn’t know about Emma, but the headache forming in his right temple is going to kill him if he doesn’t get a nap today.
They make quick work of dressing in pajamas, Emma deftly pulling her hair into a braid so that it looks less like he spent the night fucking her, and even though they both definitely need to brush their teeth and wash their faces, they get to the door and open it to Henry standing outside practically vibrating out of his skin.
“Hey, Merry Christmas,” Emma greets, dipping down and pulling Henry into a tight hug.
“Merry Christmas,” Henry murmurs, pushing Emma back and practically running toward the staircase.
“Henry,” he calls out, and the kid comes to a complete stop, nearly slipping in his socks. “Have you noticed that anyone is missing?”
“Ada?” he shrugs, yanking at his shirt sleeve.
“What about your dad?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Why don’t you go wake him up?” Emma says calmly while tightening the string on her pants. “Gently. We don’t jump on his bed, okay?”
“I know. Don’t go downstairs without me.”
“Scout’s honor.” He reaches up to salute Henry as he runs off before turning to look at Emma who is still working on adjusting her pants, messing with the drawstring. For awhile he was worried about how slim she was getting with the stress of giving birth and Neal, and despite her still being a bit smaller than usual, she’s getting back to how she usually is. Her being less stressed is definitely helping. “Do you want to get the other kid or shall I?”
“Will you get her? I’ve got to pee.”
“Sure, love.”
Ada is already awake when he walks into the nursery, so he quickly picks her up, kissing her cheek before stepping over to the changing table and changing her diaper before snapping back her onesie. It makes her look like a reindeer, and he’ll never quite understand where Ruth finds these outfits. And he is sure that it’s Ruth that bought it. It practically has her name written all over it.
“It’s Christmas, my little love,” he coos to her, tapping his fingers on her cheek. She’s going to need to be fed soon, but he hopes that she makes it through opening a few presents so Emma doesn’t have to miss that with Henry. “I think Santa came to visit you and your brother.”
“Come on, Dad,” he hears Henry plead, and when he walks out into the hallway, he sees Henry tugging Neal down the hallway.
“What time is it, kid?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The chuckle that passes through his lips can’t be stopped, and he flashes Neal a bit of a sympathetic smile. They warned him about this last night, but it doesn’t really hit until you’ve gotten no sleep and have to be enthusiastic for an eight-year-old.
“Morning,” Neal mumbles, flashing him a sleepy smile. “Do you think Santa left coffee under the tree?”
“God I hope so.”
Santa didn’t, but he did leave Henry several movies and toys, the house now full of a spike ball set and several scientific kits that he’s sure will make a mess. He doesn’t know why he bought those now that he thinks about it. They should have found things less messy. But it’s a riot watching Henry tear through the few gifts, especially when he gets to some of the art kits and storybooks that Neal bought him. He’s so excited about them that he practically smothers his father in a hug, jumping up on him and telling him all about the pictures he’s going to draw and stories he’s going to write with them. The smile on Neal’s face is one of a proud dad, and something settles in Killian’s heart then while he sits on the floor next to Emma with the two of them letting Ada rip at wrapping paper and chew on some of the little toys she’s collected herself.
His son has an extra person to love him, truly love him, and even though Neal is not his favorite person in the world anymore, he could be for how he loves Henry.
“What’s this?” Henry asks, holding up a small piece of paper. “Why does it say to go outside?”
“Maybe there’s a present out there that we can’t bring inside?”
“Like a car?”
“No,” Emma laughs, rising from the ground, holding out her hand for him as he brings Ada up with him, “not a car, but maybe something with wheels.”
Henry’s already squealing by the time they get outside, his new bike on proud display with a giant bow on it, and the lad is going on and on about having to shovel the snow so that he can ride it. it’s an ambitious plan, one that’s not going to work, but they’re not going to bring down his high this morning. He can have this.
Liam and Belle show up at the front door around nine, and all of the Nolans come in just behind them, Leo immediately running toward Henry so they can talk about their haul this morning. He and Emma make a conscious effort not to give Henry too much and to make sure that he understands everyone isn’t as fortunate as him, and while Killian thinks that Henry gets that, he does get excited to talk about his things with his cousin.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Ruth sighs, hugging him with her small frame.
“Hello, beautiful,” he whispers as he kisses her cheek. “Are you ready for your grandchildren to wreak chaos on you?”
“This is every grandmother’s dream, don’t you know that?”
“I thought every grandmother’s dream was to make me gain ten pounds so that I don’t fit in my suits anymore,” David laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Just because I make the food doesn’t mean you have to eat it, David.” “Mom, you know that it does. Emma,” David calls, looking over to Emma who’s just handed Ada off to Mary Margaret, “if Mom cooks, can we simply not eat the food?”
“We have to eat the food. Mostly because it’s good but really because Mom passive aggressively tortures us if we don’t eat all of her collards.”
“I do not.”
“You do, Ruth,” Mary Margaret starts. “One time I didn’t finish a panini you made me, and I swear you glared at me for weeks.”
“This is why I always finished everything you cooked me,” Neal says as he sips on his coffee.
“I cooked for you one time.”
“Yeah, don’t be a suck up, Cassidy,” Emma teases, winking over at him. “And I distinctly remember you complaining about the carrots when you never complain about anything.”
“Just throw me under the bus, why don’t you?”
“I try.”
“Belle, darling,” Liam laughs as Killian moves to start setting up breakfast for everyone, laying a sausage casserole onto the island, “are you terrified of eating anything Ruth has made now?”
“I’m shaking in my actual boots.”
“All I do is love all of you kids, and this is what I get in return,” Ruth huffs, sitting down on a barstool.
“I love you,” he tells her, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles, laying the charm on as thick as he can.
“Look who’s a suck up now,” Emma announces, opening the oven to check on the biscuits. It’s a pity he missed out on those for the first twelve years of his life. “It’s almost like you’re trying to impress her so that you can date her daughter.”
“Well, I hate to break it to the sweet Miss Nolan, but I did already knock her daughter up.”
“You’re pregnant,” Mary Margaret squeals, and his stomach does some kind of unnatural twist.
“Uh, n-no,” Emma stutters, holding her hands up while he can tell that she’s trying to find her words and regulate her breathing, her chest moving up and down the slightest bit. “I’m definitely not pregnant.”
“Oh, but Killian said – ”
“It was a poor choice of words, love,” he promises, not sure where to look. He doesn’t want to look at Liam and Belle, knowing this must be an awkward situation for them that can’t be pleasant and not wanting to look at Neal either since Killian is technically talking about sleeping with the man’s ex-wife. Emma’s not a great option either, especially since she’s going to murder him later, so he settles on Ruth who is looking at him with her lips pressed together as she shakes her head from side to side. “Emma is not pregnant. The only baby I was referring to is Ada.”
“So you can calm down, hon,” David says to Mary Margaret, squeezing her shoulder and kissing the top of her head.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine, Marg,” Emma assures her, flashing her a tight smile and bopping Ada on the nose.
“It would have been some way to announce it, though,” Belle laughs, her features relaxed, “since you have actual buns in the oven.”
“Mom,” Leo yells from the living room, and practically everyone turns to look at him, “when are we going to eat?”
“After you wash your hands.”
“I already did.”
“You haven’t left that room.”
Leo huffs, dropping the ball he was holding, before he turns to Henry and very loudly whispers, “we don’t actually have to wash our hands. If we turn the water on, they think we do.”
“So no one touch anything that Leo touches,” David announces, and even though it’s a bit funny, he makes a note to make sure to check that Henry is washing his hands.
Even though he tries to catalog the entire morning, it goes by much quicker than he could possibly imagine as everyone spreads throughout the living room to eat far more than necessary, the sounds of the Polar Express on in the background to keep Leo and Henry entertained since they can’t open the presents Ruth brought them quite yet. But they do eventually get to open them, and of course, once everything starts to calm down, the chatter not quite as insistent, Ada has a meltdown. Her little face turns as red as a tomato, and she wails and wails with nothing soothing her but having him walk her back and forth down the upstairs hallway away from everyone else.
By the time it’s two in the afternoon, all of the Nolans have left, and Neal has gone to take a nap, grumbling about not being used to this early thing on his days off. Killian gets it, which is exactly why after having gotten Ada to sleep in her crib, he wanders downstairs and stretches out on the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table while Emma leans into his side.
“I’m tired,” she laments, nuzzling her head a little further into his chest.
“Well, you are with child,” Liam jokes from his spot on the loveseat.
“I hate you.”
“You love me, birdie.”
“Possibly. I definitely love Belle, though.”
“Damn right,” Belle agrees, sitting up and crossing her legs underneath her.
“Darling,” he starts, resting his cheek against her temple while his fingers tap against the back of the couch, “don’t hurt Liam’s feelings. He doesn’t have many friends, so he really needs you.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Hey, language. Where’s Henry?”
“In his room, babe,” Emma laughs, patting his stomach, “so Belle and Liam can curse as much as they want to.”
“The walls are not that thick.”
“I would bloody hope that they are. Otherwise your children would be subjected to some noises that Killian makes that are not so pleasant.”
If he wasn’t too tired to move and didn’t have Emma resting on top of him, he’d…who is he kidding? He’s not going to get up and punch his brother or toss throw pillows at him for making a cheap joke about how Killian sounds during sex.
“You have the maturity of a fifteen-year-old.”
Liam shrugs. “It keeps me young.”
“If the wrinkles on your face are any indication, you need it.”
“Oh my gosh,” Emma laughs, slapping his stomach again. he grabs her hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing each knuckle before placing it on his chest with his hand resting over hers. “You two are ridiculous.”
“And yet the two of you chose to be with us.”
He watches Belle pat Liam on his cheek, a smirk painted on her face. “We married far below our level.”
75 notes · View notes
searchingwardrobes · 5 years
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Jumper
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It’s a big day in the fandom with TWO birthdays! I couldn’t let the day go by without gifting a fic to @gingerchangeling ! I got to know her long before I was on tumblr when she started leaving me wonderful comments over on Ao3. She may not even remember them, but they meant a lot to me. Happy birthday, my dear!
And before you hate me for thinking I gave you a horrible gift, I just want to explain that I am keeping my cards very close the vest with this. I know the summary and tags are intense, just . . . yeah. That’s all I can say.
Summary: He turned his gaze on her, his eyes blinking slowly. His pretty blue eyes, shining with tears. Emma blinked. He was incredibly handsome, despite his clenched jaw and melancholy eyes. Or maybe because of them. It was one thing to consider jumping yourself. It was another to stand by and let someone else do it. So she was going to stand here and ironically convince this guy not to do the very thing she was here to do herself. Based on the song by Third Eye Blind.
Rating: M
Trigger Warnings: attempted suicide, major character death (it’s not what you think!)
Words: 4,000
Also on Ao3. Part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist
Tagging my usual (hope they don’t hate me for this!) plus others I think might like it: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kday426 @jennjenn615 @teamhook @profdanglaisstuff @captainsjedi @welllpthisishappening @thislassishooked @bethacaciakay @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @wellhellotragic @let-it-raines @killian-whump @sherlockianwhovian @artistic-writer @hollyethecurious
I wish that you would step back from that ledge my friend. You could cut ties with all the lies that you’ve been living in, and if you don’t want to see me again, I would understand.
The bay bridge was eerily quiet at two am. Like any big city, this one never slept, yet the bridge still slumbered in its own way. The occasional car whipped past with a rhythmic sound, the waves quietly lapped at the pilings. Moonlight reflected off the water, and the streetlights shone like spotlights along the edge of the bridge. And illuminated by one of those spotlights was a figure, poised on the railing, one hand grasping a support pillar. Emma approached him cautiously, pushing aside her slight irritation that she couldn’t even fling herself off a bridge without an obstacle. This was her spot, damn it!
When she reached him, he didn’t even glance her way, eyes transfixed on the water below. His fingers were white where he gripped the pillar, which made Emma wonder if jumping were really his goal. Now that she was next to him, she saw that he was about her age.
“Whatcha doin?” she asked softly, casually. As if she’d walked up to a classmate flipping through a magazine at school.
He turned his gaze on her, his eyes blinking slowly. His pretty blue eyes, shining with tears. Emma blinked. He was incredibly handsome, despite his clenched jaw and melancholy eyes. Or maybe because of them.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He gazed back out at the water, his thick dark hair falling across his eyes. His hair was messy and a little long, curling at the nape of his neck and around his ears.
Emma kept her gaze focused on his profile. “It looks like you’re about to jump. Any way I can change your mind about that?” It was one thing to consider jumping yourself. It was another to stand by and let someone else do it. So she was going to stand here and ironically convince this guy not to do the very thing she was here to do herself.
“I doubt it,” he replied bitterly.
“You look about my age. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Me too. Seems awfully young to die.”
He gazed at her again. “And yet here you are to do the very same thing.”
Emma swallowed. “You’re not from here,” she pointed out, changing the subject.
“Perceptive,” he said wryly, “and how did you gather that?”
“Not many people in Portland, Maine with a British accent.”
“Ah, I see.”
Emma climbed up on the railing herself, wrapping her arms around the pillar on the other side of her new friend, if that’s what she could call him. “Is that why you want to jump? Because you’re so far from home?”
He looked at her again with those profound blue eyes. “No, because I’ve lost my home.” He stared down at the water again, and when he finally spoke, his voice was choked with emotion. “I just feel so lost. I can’t . . . I just can’t do this anymore.”
“I get that. Tired of everything? Tired of the hunger? Tired of the loneliness? Tired of the fear?”
He nodded once, and their eyes held for a long moment. Finally, Emma let go of the pillar and reached out her hand.
“Jump together?”
His lips quirked halfway up in a hesitant smile, and Emma imagined that if he really, truly, smiled, it would light her up inside. Smiles that would soon be cut off by the slip of a foot. Sadness crashed over her at this realization, and somehow that emotion messed with her balance. Both feet slipped into empty air, and as her heart leapt to her throat, she realized with sudden clarity: she didn’t really want to die.
Then a calloused hand grasped her forearm. She was jerked back up on the bridge, crashing into the boy’s chest. He was anchored to the pillar where his arm was wrapped around it, and he now had his other arm firmly around her waist. She had guessed he was hungry because of his slender build, but she now realized that his chest was solid, his shoulders knotted with muscle. Small for his age, perhaps, but not weak. He wasn’t much taller than her, and when she looked up, her gaze was zeroed in on his lips. She darted her eyes up to his instead, which were bright blue from the streetlight overhead. They were also wide with shock.
“I couldn’t let you do it,” he said.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.
He somehow eased off the railing without letting her go, collapsing onto the solid asphalt. They both shook, clinging to one another, sobs wracking their bodies.
**********************************************************
“Not that one, Swan,” Killian argued.
“Why not?” she protested indignantly, adjusting the dark rimmed glasses perched on her nose. “There’s no one around.”
“The color, that’s why. Yellow attracts way too much attention.”
Emma gnawed on her lower lip as she contemplated the yellow Bug at the end of the alley. Killian playfully tugged on her ponytail.
“You really like it, don’t you?” He grinned at her. “I’ll get it for you if it’s what you really want.”
He said that all the time. The first time had been that night on the bridge. Once her tears were spent, she felt a little too raw, and much too exposed. She was also appalled to see the tears and snot that were smeared over the front of his t-shirt, so she had whispered against his neck, “I’d really like a grilled cheese right now.”
Killian had gotten her one, too. Hot, and not from the garbage can either. He simply charmed one out of a waitress at a diner on Ocean Street. Killian could charm his way into (and out of) a lot. He had a face for it. Yet the only one who could charm Killian was Emma. Or at least she liked to think so.
“No,” Emma told him now with a shake of her head, “you’re right, it’s too visible. See another mark?”
“Over beside that convenience store,” Killian said, pointing, “it’s been there all day.”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “It looks like a toaster. Will it even run?”
“It can after you tinker with it,” Killian told her confidently, “and since it isn’t much to look at, the person may even thank us for stealing it.”
He winked at her, and she couldn’t stop the warmth that spread across her cheeks. Killian Jones seemed to think she could do anything, and frequently called her “bloody brilliant” in his adorable accent. So she followed him to the rusted out Chevy, leaving the yellow Bug behind in the alley.
********************************************************
Killian had a “code” about stealing. She teasingly called him “Robin Hood,” because stealing from the rich to give to the poor pretty much summed him up. Of course, the “poor” was just the two of them.
According to this “code,” they could shoplift from nice stores, but when they went to the Goodwill down the street from where they were crashing, they needed to pay. Which wasn’t difficult considering a pair of pants cost fifty cents. All they had to do was pick a few pockets, swipe a few purses, and they could afford a pretty nice wardrobe.
It was getting cold, so today’s agenda was to find coats, hats, and gloves. Yet Emma found herself drawn to another part of the store.
She glanced over her shoulder, making sure Killian was preoccupied trying on jackets. Then her hand reached out to touch the red satin, her finger and thumb running along the lacy trim. She shuddered thinking of slipping into bed next to Killian, wearing nothing but this tiny negligee. They had found a place to stay at a run-down motel around the corner, another result of Killian’s charms. The manager there had lost a son who had run away from home, a son who Killian apparently reminded her of. If someone had shown him kindness, she said, maybe he wouldn’t have ended up dead in a gutter. She asked no questions, simply slipped a key behind the ice machine to whatever room was vacant that night. All she asked was that they leave the room tidy when they left each morning. Sometimes she’d leave food for them in the room, too.
Sometimes the room had one queen size bed, sometimes two double beds. Either way, they usually ended up sleeping next to each other. And each night, things between them escalated more and more physically. They still hadn’t gone all the way, but that morning they had woken up half naked, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Emma slid the negligee off the hanger, her mind wandering.
“Emma?”
She jumped and whirled around to face Killian, balling the tiny bit of thin fabric up in her hand so Killian couldn’t see it.
“Uh, yeah?” she muttered, brushing hair out of her face.
Killian arched a brow at her. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be getting a coat.”
“I will,” she said, swallowing hard. Her face was burning.
Killian swiped at his lower lip with his tongue. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
He grinned wickedly, grabbing at her clenched fist. She spun away from him “Show me, Swan!”
“No,” Emma giggled as he grabbed her around the waist, trying to pry her fingers open, but she yanked them just out of his reach.
“Come on, please?” he gave her his best pout, which usually worked. On everyone, including Emma, but this time she shook her head.
“A girl’s got to have some secrets.”
His eyes sparkled as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. “Is the surprise for me? Because I like surprises.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, the lingerie still hidden in her tight grip. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
He kissed her in the middle of Goodwill, tugging on her ponytail. She decided right then and there; she was definitely buying that red negligee. She’d go without gloves all winter if she had to. He was worth it.
*****************************************************
When she came out of the bathroom that night in the red lingerie, the look on Killian’s face was priceless. Like he was in awe of her or something. She grinned nervously as she slipped under the sheets next to him. When he gathered her in his arms, she trembled all over in anticipation, his kisses making her core heat with want.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped when he seemed to hesitate.
“Are you sure?”
“I need you, Killian. Please.”
“I’ve . . . I’ve never done this before,” he admitted.
She cupped his face, searching his intense gaze. “Neither have I.”
He smiled tenderly at her then, kissing her with something akin to reverence. It was honestly a little awkward, mostly because Killian was so worried about hurting her, but it was wonderful, too. Afterwards, Killian fell deeply asleep, his arm wrapped around her waist, just like that early morning on the bridge.
“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered, brushing a kiss to his cheek. Then she curled up against his chest and fell into a contented slumber.
Stealing condoms wasn’t easy, but Emma knew they couldn’t keep falling into bed every night like this without protection. It had been foolish from the start, but Emma had been too turned on by that stupid negligee in Goodwill. Okay, not stupid. She and Killian were going on day four of this new phase of their relationship, and Emma couldn’t seem to get enough. So no, not stupid. Irresponsible, maybe, but not stupid. The problem was, every drug store had condoms under lock and key for some strange reason. Emma finally found a broken condom dispenser in the bathroom at the gas station, and she breathed easier knowing they were taking precautions.
Little did she know it was already too late.
*****************************************************
It was raining and the windshield wipers on the Chevy made a squeaking sound as they slid across the glass. Emma was slumped down in her seat, the belt across her lap pinching. She fiddled with the ends of her hair. Killian kneaded the steering wheel with his hands, his jaw clenching. He was brooding, and Emma wondered if it was because he had picked up on her own mood. He glanced her way, and his eyes widened when he found her staring. She dropped her hair.
“We need to talk,” they said simultaneously.
They chuckled nervously.
“Emma, I need to tell you something.”
“Please,” she stopped him, sitting up fully, “let me go first.”
He licked at his dry lips. “Okay.”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat, then just blurted out, “I’m pregnant.”
His jaw dropped, and he blinked rapidly, and stammered, “Wh-what?” It was pretty much the reaction she had been expecting. They were only seventeen, after all. She would be eighteen by the time the baby came, but still.
She told him as much, fingers going to fiddle with her hair again. “I don’t know how old you’ll be. You’ve never told me your birthday. Because if you’re wondering, I’m not getting rid of it. I mean, I’m not saying I’ll keep it and be a mom, I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I’m having it. And I can’t make you stick around, I know that -”
“What?”
His eyes flashed, and Emma gulped. Was he mad? She should have considered that he would be mad.
“I’m pregnant.”
“No, I heard that. I’m talking about the last thing you said.”
Emma choked out a tiny nervous laugh. “I was sort of rambling, so I’m not sure.”
His voice was low. “You said I didn’t have to stick around. Do you really think I would just leave you like that?”
Tears pricked at her eyes at the intense look on his face. She scooted up in her seat. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, to be honest. This is a lot to take in.”
HIs face softened, and her heart stopped its ping pong motion in her chest. He reached out and took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Expect me to always, always be by your side. I love you, Emma.”
She let out a small gasp, and now her heart was fluttering like a thousand butterflies had invaded her chest. “I love you too.”
Emma was never quite sure what happened next. A bright light blinded them. Glass shattered, tires squealed, and someone was screaming. Maybe it was her? There was pain, and blood, and . . . where was Killian? She tried to reach for him, but she couldn’t move. Then she was spinning and falling, and then there was nothing.
She woke up to a beeping sound, and a sterile smell, and the fuzzy outline of someone next to the bed. When her vision cleared, she was surprised at the smiling face bending over her.
“Sarah?”
The woman reached out and laid a cool hand to Emma’s forehead, brushing tendrils of hair back. Though part of her wanted to hold onto the reasons that she had run away from her foster mother three years ago, another part of her relished her motherly touch.
“You had no identification, sweetheart, but they found a slip of paper in your pocket with my number on it. So they called me.”
Emma managed a nod, realizing suddenly how much she hurt all over. She always felt silly for keeping that phone number, but she had never been able to bring herself to throw it out. If she were completely honest, she was relieved that Sarah was here.
“Can I see Killian?”
“The boy driving the car?”
Emma frowned. Sarah’s hand had stilled, and her voice had a strange edge to it.
“Yes, he’s my boyfriend. Can I see him? Is he okay?”
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry. He . . . he didn’t make it.”
“No!” Emma cried, struggling to sit up. She had stitches in several places that pulled, a cast on her leg and an IV in her arm, but the pain of moving was nothing compared to the knife in her heart. “That can’t be right! I . . . I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it until you let me see him!”
“Sweetheart, please calm down,” Sarah soothed, pressing gently on her shoulders.
Emma shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Take me to see him. I want to . . . “ she choked out the next words, “say goodbye.” And prove to herself that he was really gone, because it just didn’t make sense. He couldn’t be, not after they had saved each other on the bridge. It wouldn’t be fair.
“I’m so, so sorry, Emma. You can’t -”
‘What do you mean I can’t?” she was getting frantic now.
Sarah’s face was tortured. “He was pinned behind the steering wheel, and they were having a hard time getting him out . . . there was an explosion. There . . . there’s nothing left. I’m sorry.”
The sob that tore out of Emma then threatened to break her heart in two.
Well he’s on the table and he’s gone to code and I do not think anyone knows what they’re doing here. And your friends have left you, you’ve been dismissed. I never thought it would come to this, and I, I want you to know, everyone’s got to face down the demons. Maybe you could put the past away.
Sarah approached the bed on soft steps, but Emma stayed curled up on the bed, her back to her foster mother. The woman eased onto the bed, then reached out with a gentle hand to Emma’s shoulder blade.
“Sweetheart, you need to try and eat something.”
Emma wiped at the ever-present tears of grief leaking from her eyes. “I’m not hungry. I told you, I’m sick.”
“I know you aren’t sick, Emma,” Sarah told her gently.
Emma bit her lower lip. Sarah couldn’t possibly know. Emma had aged out of the system by now; Sarah had taken her in out of the goodness of her heart, but she wasn’t her legal guardian. The hospital had taken a pregnancy test, but they couldn’t give those results to anyone but Emma.
“Sick, depressed, whatever,” Emma mumbled, “just go away and leave me alone.”
Sarah stroked her hair. “I can make an appointment with a clinic, honey, if you want me to.”
Emma rolled over then, anger rising to the surface. “I’m keeping it!” she snapped.
Sarah nodded calmly. “Okay. Well, when the time comes, I can help you call some agencies -”
“I mean,” Emma clarified through clenched teeth, “I’m keeping it. As in, forever.”
Sarah cupped her cheek. “Are you sure?”
Emma laid a protective hand over her womb. “He’s all I have of him. No one’s taking that away from me.”
She knew the baby was a boy from the very beginning, and she prayed he would look just like his father. When she looked into those familiar blue eyes and ran a hand over his jet-black baby fuzz, she wept with joy. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she named him Henry. It just felt right.
********************************************************
Emma toed her heels off the minute she came through the door. She couldn’t wait to get this honey-trap dress off. Especially since the asshole had spilled wine all over the front of it. She frowned at the quiet and darkness that greeted her in the apartment. She was just about to call out, when -
“Surprise!”
Emma shook her head and laughed as Henry and Sarah popped out from behind the kitchen island. Sarah had a plate with a cupcake on it, a birthday candle flickering in the middle of the pink icing.
“Did we surprise you, Mom?” Henry asked with a toothy grin.
“You sure did,” she assured him, tousling his messy dark hair. Killian’s eyes stared back at her in a face that was a perfect mixture of each of Henry’s parents. It still made her heart constrict to see the resemblance, though the pain had eased over the years. But no matter how many years passed, she knew no one would ever love her the way Killian had.
“Make a wish, sweetie,” Sarah said.
Emma made a big show of resting her chin on the kitchen island and quirking her brow as she thought of a good wish. Then she closed her eyes and blew out the candle. Sarah and Henry cheered. Little did they know she hadn’t wished for anything. The only thing she needed was right here in this room, and the only thing she wanted was gone and could never come home again.
They settled down at the table with their cupcakes, and Emma realized that Sarah seemed nervous for some reason. She fiddled with her cupcake, not even taking a bite, even though double chocolate fudge was her favorite.
“Emma,” she finally said slowly, “this is a very special birthday.”
Emma licked icing off her finger. “Oh no, don’t start in on the whole pushing thirty thing.”
“No,” Sarah said with a slightly awkward laugh, “it’s . . . meaningful, and well, there’s something I need to tell you. And I guess the best way to start is, Once Upon a Time . . . “
*******************************************************
The tale that Sarah wove was a difficult one to believe, to say the least, and it was only the dedication and support her foster mother had given her all those years of raising Henry that made her get in the car and head for a little quirky town called Storybrooke, Maine. That and Henry’s enthusiasm and whole hearted belief. She hadn’t been to Maine since the accident, and going back wasn’t easy.
It wasn’t easy accepting these people - David and Mary Margaret? Prince Charming and Snow White? - as her parents, either. Neither was it easy wrapping her mind around a town filled with fairy tale characters. And how in the world was she supposed to break a curse? True love’s kiss? Her whole world was wrapped up in her son, and . . .
Oh.
Her son was in a hospital room, coding, and then the next minute a rainbow was rippling across town. “I knew you could do it, Mom!” he beamed, like he hadn’t just died on her.
Then there was a purple cloud of freakin’ magic, and wraiths of all things, then she was falling through a damn portal. This woman, a woman her own age, was trying to mother her, and she was camping out with Mulan and Sleeping Beauty, and what even had become of her life? She didn’t think things could get any weirder.
Then there were piles of corpses with holes in their chests, and a hand reaching out, and Aurora yelling about someone being alive in there. And the man squinted, and looked up, and his eyes were blue like forget-me-nots and of a profound melancholy.
“Killian?” she breathed.
The color seemed to drain from his face, a face that was so much older, and full of so much more pain. Much like hers, she imagined.
She’d know that face anywhere, regardless of time.
“Emma?” he exclaimed, the tiniest of smiles lifting the corner of his mouth.
“You know this man?” her mother asked.
“Yes. He’s Henry’s father.”
The angry boy a bit too insane icing over a secret pain. You know you don’t belong. You’re the first to fight. You’re way too loud. You’re the flash of light on a burial shroud. I know something’s wrong. Well everyone I know has got a reason to say “put the past away.”
100 notes · View notes
fereality-indy · 5 years
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Coolest - Wendip Week Day 6
July 14th, 2019
 Wendy pulled up to the closed Mystery Shack. Dipper was supposed to be out front waiting on her. Shutting off the vans engine, she pulled out her phone and dialed him up.
When he picked up he sounded winded, "Hey Beautiful, *huff* what's up?"
"I'm out front, where are you?" She said as she felt the blush rise in cheeks. If anyone else had called her that she would have thought they were trying to get something from her, but not her Dipper. "You sound winded, you're not in trouble are you?"
"Not *huff* unless you *huff* count fighting with your wardrobe *huff* trouble."  Dipper said in as jovial a tone as he could. "Why don't you com'on in and grab yourself a Pitt from the break room. I'll be down as soon as I'm able."
"Alright, don't take too long dork." She replies with her nickname for him, "Remember this is Gravity Falls, a lot of stuff does stay open too late."
"Alright, I'll try to hurry. See you in a few moments." He said  before the call ended.
Wendy went ahead and got out of the van. As she headed in she thought about the various events of that has happened since initially meeting her boyfriend and his twin. She wouldn't trade them for anything. As she made it to her destination she noticed that there was light coming out from under the door, but brushed it off as Mabel forgetting to turn them off. She was in for a shock.
"What is going on here?" Wendy asked as she looked around the Shack's former break room. 
It had been redecorated since she had left work that afternoon, majorly redecorated. The desk and futon were gone. So were the motivational posters from the walls. In their place was some sort of silky green fabric that was tied off at the sides like curtains. Even the floors appeared to have been wax. The only thing that was still the same as when she left was the room's table. But now that she looked at it, it did have a new table cloth on it. She was so taken aback by all this change that she hadn't even registered the gentleman in a vest and bowtie standing next to the door. 
"Ah, madam. I see you have arrived. I have been asked to see you to your table, Mister Pines will be along shortly."  The vested man, who she now vaguely recognized as Pacifica's butler Milton, said as he attempted to guide her to the table. 
As she followed him, began to recognize some of the handy work. The curtains definitely had Mabel written all over them and now that she was over the shock she heard the music in the background. The sound system looked like a Tambry set up. So that is Pacifica, Mabel, & Tambry, something's up. This was supposed to be a simple date. Maybe dinner and then bowling or going to the movies followed by some time at her apartment. But this is suspicious. 
She was about to get up to go find Dipper, or at least get Milton to talk, when he walked in the door. The last seven years had certainly been kind to him. While nothing short of steroids would ever cause him to bulk up, he was certainly no noodle armed little kid anymore. He had a nice runner's build and after loosing the baby fat had developed the Pines' family jawline. 
"Hey there, sorry I was late." Dipper said as he crossed the small room, guided by Milton, "I let Mabel use the shrinking crystals earlier and I think she shrunk most of my pants."
"Is that why you're in dress slacks and a dress shirt?" Wendy asked as he leaned down and they shared a kiss. As they broke apart she added, "I'm feeling seriously under dressed here." 
"Yeah, these and the shorts I had on at work today were the only pants that fit. So it was these or the kilt your dad insisted I get at the Ren Faire last year." Dipper said with a shrug before he sat down opposite her, "And I'm still working up to being able to wear that in the 'traditional' fashion, so I didn't think it would be appropriate for a date. As for feeling under dressed, don't worry this is just a simple dinner. Besides, you look stunning in anything."
"OK, we need to keep you away from Stan. He's been feeding you lines again, hasn't he?" She responded with a smirk. It was at this moment that Milton arrived back at the table with two glasses of Pitt. She had almost forgotten that he was even there. 
"Thanks Milton," Dipper said to the butler before returning his attention back to Wendy, "Nope, after the last time I think he's realized I may have finally gotten everything right."
"So dinner at the Shack wasn't his idea?" Wendy said with a wave of hand.
"Nah, this brilliant idea was all mine."  Dipper said somewhat proudly, " I mean we're always going to Greasy's or Yumberjacks, so I decided to try something different. And as I was working it out, Mabel overheard. When I explained what I was doing, she insisted that she and Paz could help."
"That explains Milton and the decorations." Wendy said with a smile before taking a drink. Mabel loves to organize things like this, heck she was ready to plan their wedding when she found out that Dipper had finally asked Wendy out the second time. That was three years ago and she still bugs them about their future. Heck, Wendy has caught her knitting baby booties for them more than once.
"You don't mind, do you?" Dipper said with some of his old nervousness showing through, "I mean we could still go bowling or something if you do." 
"Oh no way man. You started this, I wanna see where it leads." Wendy said with a smile that really hasn't left her face since he walked in the room. "Besides, we can always have as movie night after this. I know we haven't even put a dent in that stack of DVD's you brought with you this year."
"Dinner is served," Milton said as he brought in a tray with two covered plates on it. 
Wendy hoped it was something good and not anything too fancy. The Nuevo-French/Hindi cuisine restaurant they tried during their trip to Portland last year has sorta turned her off fancy food. They ended up getting burgers almost immediately after leaving the restaurant cause they were still hungry. So she was overjoyed to see a rib eye, some Spanish rice, and an ear of blackened corn on the plate. 
"Oh man, you went all out here. Wait, who cooked all this?" She asked as her mouth started to water. It all looked so good.
Dipper started to fidget a bit, "Uhm..."
"I don't see any sprinkles, so I know it wasn't Mabel. And the Shack is still here so it wasn't Paz." She's knew both girls hard gotten better in the kitchen, even if you exclude Mabel's addiction to Mabel Juice, but she still had to razz them a bit. 
"Heh." Dipper had to laugh a bit at that one, "Nah, Mabel roped Melody into it. Apparently it wasn't that hard to do, especially when she heard I originally planned to order a pizza for tonight."
"Pizza would have been nice, but this looks great. I'll have to thank her when we're done." Wendy said before she cut into the steak. It was cooked just the way she liked it. 
"It'll have to be tomorrow," Dipper replied after swallowing a fork full of the rice, "she left with Soos after she was done. Something about needing to make sure Mateo got Abuelita to bed on time. The food has been in warmers waiting on us. Really it should just be Milton and us here tonight. And he gets to leave once we get dessert."  
They continued to eat and banter through the rest of the dinner. And through it all, in the back of her mind, Wendy was still suspicious. Really, their dates were usually a lot more casual than this. So when dessert turned out to be ice cream and a cup cake, she made up her mind. She quickly devoured the icing off the cupcake then split it in two. Then she tackled the ice cream, but didn't see anything. 
It was then that she realized that she had been so distracted by the dessert that she hadn't notice that Dipper had gotten up from his seat and was now standing next to her until he took her hand in his.
He pulled something out from his pocket. "You looking for this?"
Getting down on one knee he said, "Wendy Blerble Corduroy, you are the coolest person I know. I love with all of my heart and I want to know if you would make me the happiest man alive. Will you marry me?"
She had been suspicious all night and she still was taken aback. He looked so in love as she looked at him. And he was loved. By her. She should be answering.
She was just about to answer when she heard, "Come on we're waiting.", come from the radio. Of course Tambry would have some way to listen in on this, probably the whole group is there if Mabel knew this was happening. At least Dipper seemed as surprised as she did.
Finally she got up and pulled him into an embrace, "Of course I will, Dork."
"I told you.", "You owe me twenty bucks.", "Congrats, Doods." and more poured out of the radio, but the young couple was too distracted by each other to hear it.
======================
Unfortunately I was only able to get four of the days done this year. but I do hope you all enjoyed my work.      
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lianneoelke · 5 years
Text
Yukon Gold, Part 2: An Involuntary Dismount From the Canoe
Good morning from Fort Selkirk!
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With bellies full of hearty chilli and a sky full of smoke, JJ and Falcon Heavy were ready to hit the river for our fourth day of canoeing down the Yukon River.
We were only five minutes past Fort Selkirk when JJ realized we forgot a radio and both cans of bear spray. We couldn’t just turn around and paddle upstream, so we had to land so Brian could run up the beach and grab everything (which was left on the above picnic table). After that, we were well on our way to an 80km day.
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We spotted a black bear munching berries on an island.
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We weren’t the only group on the river making a pilgrimage to Dawson City for the music festival. We’d play leapfrog with the same groups so often we came up with nicknames:
Spanish Armada: the group of nine Spaniards that made giant Spanish omelettes for breakfast and tied two canoes together because they had an odd number of people.
Walmart: the family that travelled with camping chairs, big tarps, and coolers. JJ disliked Walmart. JJ thought Walmart was American. Those are two separate sentences. Walmart was actually from Whitehorse. 
Gold Diggers: a husband and wife that would set up on islands and pan for gold. Or so it seemed. 
Reckless Youth: a handful of twenty-somethings from UBC with an aversion to life jackets.
Father & Son: they had little to say, to us or each other.
Frenchies: two French guys. That’s it. 
Christmas Trees: a red and green boat of women having a jolly old time.
We learned the Spanish Armada planned to camp at the site we were aiming for that night. We could have joined them, but I, for one, did not travel all that way to the middle of nowhere to make new friends. So we had to find somewhere else. We came across another good campsite early in the day, but the weather was beautiful and we wanted to get more kilometers in, so we kept pushing. This moment would be remembered as the time we “got greedy”.
Storm clouds blew in fast. When thunder started booming, Brian told us all to get off the river. So we did. And we waited. Then the rain started. And we waited some more. 
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Brian (very reasonably) didn’t want to get back on the water until thirty minutes after the last thunder, but the thunder wouldn’t let up. Things were looking grim. Then we remembered we had snacks. We survived on gummy bears, chips, tea, toasted pita and hummus, and craft hot chocolate from Portland, for the two and a half hours it took for the storm to pass.
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Spirits wavered but never failed. 
By the time the storm passed, we still had another ten kilometers to paddle before we reached our goal of Brittania creek, and we found ourselves in the curious position of chasing the storm we had just weathered. When we finally arrived, the site was full of bugs, but at least there weren’t any new friends buzzing around.
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For dinner I made a bastardized version of Pad Thai, using the canoe as a table while being swarmed by mosquitoes. I quickly realized why this particular packet of curry paste was left untouched in our cupboard for years.
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By this point JJ had given up on the trappings of individuality and had matured into a fully realized single entity. So when JJ cast a line and caught their first decently sized fish at 11.36 pm, the three of us celebrated the incredible testament to JJ’s speed, momentum, and finesse. Considering all the rain we endured, we figured it was safe to build a small beach fire to cook the fish. 
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We all came to regret this decision, as the fish remains and fish-smoked clothes had to be dealt with before we could finally go to bed, in order to minimize bear attraction. However, since I cooked that night, I was able to dodge clean up. I went to bed without a care in the world.
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Day five dawned sunny and misty. We knew this would also be a big day, but for a very different reason. This was the day we’d reach the bakery. Yes, somehow there was a bakery in the middle of nowhere on the Yukon River. 
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Power strokes would get us there quicker. 
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Of course we had to stop whenever we came across moose trampling through the bushes, beavers smacking their tails, and bears ambling down the beach.
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The bakery turned out to be less of a bakery and more of a family home that sold $18 omelettes and saran-wrapped cookies (we bought them all). We payed $8 each to stay the night. Camping in someone else’s backyard to listen to their kids blast music and play in their pool felt strange after the solitude of the river, but we knew the daily thunderstorm would hit us soon and the last thing we needed was to “get greedy” again. So we settled in, washed up, and tackled laundry.
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JJ waiting out the 6 o’clock thundershowers. 
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Of course, no camping trip with JJ (formerly Rob) would be complete without curry. JJ made us a heaping pot, just in time for more rain showers. 
The next day we found ourselves fresh out of fresh ingredients, so we climbed aboard the COUS COUS train and headed for dehydration station.
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Rafting up for snacks and map checks.
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We had lunch at the island right before the White River, which poured all its glacial silt into the Yukon. The two rivers blended like miso soup. JJ made ramen while Brian flew his drone for a better view.
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After lunch, we found a short but steep trail to hike. 
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After the merge we could no longer filter our water from the river, which was so thick we couldn’t even see our own feet when we dipped them in. All the silt brushing against our canoes made a constant fizzing noise, like a never-ending glass of coke being poured. 
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Just a couple bros enjoying happy hour with river-chilled beer.
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After the relative business of the “bakery”, we decided to camp on an undesignated island covered in moose tracks. While the views and privacy were top notch, all the silt made for very muddy shores.
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Brian made delicious minestrone soup for dinner, then treated us to freeze-dried ice cream sandos in honour of the 50th anniversary of the moon landing.
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You can only get dishes so clean in the silty water, but on day six, cleanliness was no longer a priority. Brian had bought a last minute gold pan in Whitehorse, and while it didn’t find us any gold, it did make an excellent vessel for washing dishes and laundry.
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The sky was still light at 1 am, because the sky was always light. We went to bed when it was light. We woke up when it was light. Time had no meaning on the river. It created (for me, at least) a sense of security. Openness. Like the Yukon had nothing to hide. But the truth was, we were in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest town, on a muddy river where every island was covered with bear, wolf, and moose tracks.
We woke to the sound of splashing outside our tent. I immediately thought the moose had come to do us in, but instead of moose on the loose, we saw a gaggle of goose. 
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These banks were home to countless cliff swallows that zipped along the river, eating bugs. Yum. 
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“JJ first.”
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There’s gold in them there hills. But not really.
Our last night on the river was spent at the Mechem Creek site. We set up camp as Brian howled in the cold cold creek, washing off the heat of the day.
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Fire bans don’t count on the last day of the trip. Not if it’s been raining every day and you’re careful. JJ struggled to get the fire going (which Brian and I found slightly concerning, considering how dry the sticks were), but all’s well that ends well. 
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I made a pesto surprise COUS COUS dinner with brownie bear poo for dessert. Everyone saved some sort of fun surprise for their last meal.
“Very good food on this trip. Every meal has been at least a solid 7.5 out of 10.” - JJ
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The site at Mechem creek turned out to be my favourite camp site, not least because we saved a bag of wine for that night. 
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We woke up at 6am up to a brilliant, clear sky.
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JJ treated us to one last meal on the river.
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There’s nothing better than a well packed canoe! 
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River travel is tiring work.
We rafted up for one last ceremonial flip of the map, which brought us to our final page. Spirits were high. Jokes were shared. We were finally on the home stretch of our 8 day, 400 km paddle through the Yukon wilderness.
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Minutes away from Dawson City, disaster struck.
Brian wanted to stop for a drone shot of Dawson before we paddled in, so we radioed JJ to let them know to land at the tip of the next island. Unable to reach the point in time, JJ decided to land mid island, where the strong current had eroded the bank, causing several trees to topple. It was a bad place to land, and they came in hot hot hot.
Official statement from JJ:
“JJ experienced an involuntary dismount resulting in minor losses from the deck and a minor intake of water. However, the landing was successful.”
JJ thought the word “capsize” was too passionate for the encounter, but Falcon Heavy disagreed. When JJ’s canoe met land, the current hit from underneath, tipping the canoe and its contents upstream. Brian turned to me and said “They capsized. They did exactly what I told them not to do.” No one was injured, although Jordan’s solar panel and Rob’s hat and beloved binoculars were lost to the water. Falcon Heavy found a safe eddy to pull in, then Brian brought out the drone while we waited for JJ to get their shit together.
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The paddle of shame.
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We had just got back in the water when we heard the unmistakable rumble of thunder. We were faced with a dilemma: get off the water, like all Brian’s experience suggested we do, or “get greedy” and paddle hard to race the storm.
We paddled hard...
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... but not so hard we didn’t have time to admire the first and only fox we saw on the river.
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That’s Dawson City at the top.
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This time our gamble paid off, and we made it to the docks with nae drama (except for the paddleboat that honked at us to get out of its spot).
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Safe and sound in Dawson City, it was time to look back at our favourite and not so favourite moments of the canoe trip.
JJ (Jordan)
Highlight: Fort Selkirk. Just the whole fort. So cool.
Lowlight: Involuntary canoe dismount and loss of solar panel. 
Gold Star: Gold Pan/Brian Shaw for getting the gold pan.
JJ (Rob)
Highlight: The River (as a tangible entity and metaphysical being) The colours, the current, the curves...the feeling.
Lowlight: Involuntary canoe dismount and loss of binoculars. 
Gold Star: JJ. The physical embodiment of speed, momentum and finesse.*
*In all my years of highlight/ lowlight/ gold star, I have never seen someone award the gold star to themselves. 
Brian
Highlight: All the Yukon cabins. The history of the Yukon Crossing, the trees growing out of Thom’s Location cabin roof, the historically intact cabins of Fort Selkirk (inside and out), and all the private cabins we saw in between.
Lowlight: Cleaning up the fish & fire at Britannia Creek between midnight and 1am, exhausted from the long day, swarmed by bugs, still stinking of fish, right into the tent.
Gold Star: Jordan, for making the trip (and JJ) happen by stepping in at the last minute and filling the spot, prepared and enthusiastic, and a strong paddler.
Lianne
Highlight: The beautiful site and tasty food at Mechem Creek. Also the fact that none of the canoeists that stopped by the creek for water decided to stay the night, because sharing the site would have really killed the vibe.
Lowlight: Spending hours waiting out the day four thunderstorm under a tarp.
Gold Star: The map. Following along and “staying found”, as Brian would say, was easy and delightful.
Bonus Gold Star: Brian Shaw. The unofficial leader of our canoe trip, Brian looked after us all with his experience, well-muscled arms, moon landing trivia, sexy beard, and positive attitude. 
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As always, most of the good pics were taken by Brian. He put together an album of the 2019 Yukon River greatest hits: 
https://www.flickr.com/photos/22674099@N08/albums/72157710102335767/page1
Stay tuned for the third and final part of Yukon Gold. Dawson City will bring a music festival, rowdy casino, epic hike, and a real life Yukon character known as “the Ghost”. 
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jarienn972 · 5 years
Text
The Right Place - Chapter Nineteen and Epilogue
For anyone who has been following this fic, you’ll know it was last updated in early October, 2018 and while my plans were to finish it at that time, it ended up being exactly one week before my mother passed away and I just couldn’t get myself into the right mindset to complete it.  Then, a couple of months ago, the @csmarchmadness idea came along to help give us writers a little boost of confidence to finish those nagging WIPs and I decided to go ahead and tackle this story. (I’m a little late getting it posted today, but technically, it is still 3/22 here in FL as I’m posting)
I’ve loved this concept from the beginning as it took Emma out of her magical comfort zone to solve a real world crime, working alongside law enforcement colleagues in Portland, Maine.  As I did with the opening chapters, I tacked the epilogue onto the end of this chapter to provide a fitting bookend.  
This is the last installment of a nearly 80K word fic so it has honestly been a beast to write, especially since it ended up taking far longer to complete than I’d planned.  You can read the entirety of this story on AO3 or FF.net or find the earlier chapters here: Prologue/Chap1  Chap2  Chap3  Chap4  Chap5  Chap6  Chap7  Chap8  Chap9  Chap10  Chap11  Chap12  Chap13  Chap14  Chap15  Chap16  Chap17  Chap18   I’m also tagging my cheerleader, @hookaroo who has been looking forward to the final chapter of this fic for a while now! (edited to add Tumblr link to Chap 18 after I realized it had never been posted on Tumblr.  Oops...)
Saturday Morning – Portland Harbor
The tempest of the overnight thunderstorms had given way to a breezy, warmer Saturday morning. Hazy sunlight filtered through the window coverings of the McCallen's guest room as Emma was awakened by the persistent blip of notifications popping up on her cell phone, all of them informing her of the incoming text messages from Regina. According to the texts, Ursula would be waiting for them at the same Harbor front park at 9am with some updated news regarding her offer to return the Jolly Roger to her berth in Storybrooke's marina. While Killian wasn't keen on anyone else taking the helm of his beloved ship, he'd conceded to the basic fact that at the present time, he lacked the physical stamina to sail her back home himself.
Emma would have preferred another hour of sleep since it this was far too early on a Saturday morning by her opinion, but since they did have the drive home ahead of them, she begrudgingly swung her feet over the side of the bed. It wasn't a particularly long trip, but she still needed to be wide awake and she didn't want to get back too late. After nearly a week away, she was certain there would be a mountain of backlogged work awaiting their return. She noticed that Killian had already vacated his side of the bed, waking up before his wife to wander into the kitchen where McCallen had left coffee brewing for them and a note stating that he had ventured out the station to finish his paperwork from yesterday's major breakthroughs in the case.
Killian seemed a tad more upbeat this morning and even seemed to handle the walk from the parking lot down to the waterfront better, only needing to pause once to catch his breath. The Sea Witch was already waiting for them, scouting out a quiet bench away from the multitude of park visitors who were enjoying the pleasant start to what was shaping up to be a beautiful day.
"You're late," Ursula grumbled in greeting. "I thought you seafaring types were known for better timing?"
"My seafaring timing is as precise as ever," Killian replied, voice tinged with a hint of offense. "However, you should be aware that in this realm there's a thing called traffic."
"We would have called to let you know we were running a little late if we'd had a way to contact you aside from a conch shell," Emma reminded the witch.
"Cell phones simply aren't the most reliable where I come from," Ursula countered with a grin that Emma wasn't sure was intended to be jovial or sinister. "Anyway, I've made all of the arrangements to transport your ship as promised. My niece will not be allowed to interfere with the vessel's passage."
"May I ask what arrangements you've made?" Killian queried. "Who did you find to sail her or is the transport to be more of a magical variety? I prefer not to have someone inexperienced at the helm."
"I managed to round up a few of your remaining crew, led by your former first mate, Mr. Smee. It'll primarily be for show though as once it reaches open waters, I can push your little boat along a bit easier…" Killian frowned at her use of the term little boat in reference to his ship, but held his tongue.
"So, my ship should be back in the harbor by the time we reach Storybrooke?" Killian chose to ask instead.
"Should be. Your crew is on their way here as we speak. I managed to find a fisherman who was willing to bring them down here to retrieve the Jolly Roger, although you may need to round up some of those gold doubloons you have stashed to pay the man for his service."
"How generous of you to offer up my funds as payment," he quipped sarcastically, although he was secretly grateful for all Ursula had done. She'd already rescued him from a watery grave so having her assistance in returning his beloved Jolly Roger to her home port was truly going above and beyond.
"I assume you have plenty of funds hidden, pirate," Ursula responded while flashing a broad grin. "Anyway, I need to get out of here before this park gets any busier so that I can supervise the return trip. See you in Storybrooke, Captain."
"Aye," Killian responded with a nod and a smile as the Sea Witch turned to depart, leaving him wondering exactly how much gold she'd promised his crew. But as she began to stroll towards the water's edge, Killian recalled one additional thing he wanted to ask her. "Ursula?" he called to her before she was out of earshot, grateful when she turned to face him again. "One last thing, if I may?"
"And that is?"
"Would you have my crew sail a pass through the inner channel? Not too close to the harbor, but around this side of the islands so that I might see her off?"
"I suppose I could do that," she replied as she took a few steps back towards the Joneses so she wouldn't have to shout. "I would have to uncloak the ship though."
"For a few minutes, revealing the vessel should be fine. This far from shore, she may appear as merely an illusion to anyone who may catch sight of her," he offered, eager to garner even a momentary glimpse of his ship nearly a week after he'd left her abandoned offshore.
"I'll see what I can do. You may want to hang around the harbor for a while though," the Sea Witch suggested.
"Any idea of approximately how long it'll take?" Emma questioned. "We do still have the drive back to Storybrooke ahead of us."
"Give me an hour," Ursula stated, not waiting for Killian to offer his thanks as she departed without another word.
As they watched the Sea Witch vanish behind a pier, Killian dropped his weary body onto the bench before he collapsed.
"Guess we have a little bit of time to kill before we hit the road then," Emma chuckled before noticing the forlorn cast to his gaze when he stared out over the bay. "I know you'd rather be sailing the Jolly Roger back home yourself…"
"It's alright, Swan," he said with a faint sigh of disappointment. "In my current condition, I'm well aware that I lack the necessary strength and stamina to properly man the helm. I'd much rather that she be safely returned to port, even if not by my hand." She could hear the disparaging tone of his voice and decided to think of something to distract him.
"Well, I really don't want to sit here on a cold, hard park bench for an hour while we wait for your ship to appear. Can we go grab a doughnut or something? And how do you intend to see the ship from across the bay anyway?"
"I believe you have a set of of spyglasses – I believe you call them binoculars? Aren't they somewhere in the vehicle?"
"Uh, yeah, there's a set of binoculars somewhere in the back seat."
"Then those should be sufficient," he replied. "I do have to agree with you though that sitting here for an hour is probably not the best option. I know we aren't far from the ferry terminal so perhaps we might pay a visit to the shopkeeper? I'd like to let her know personally that I'm alright if it isn't too far out of the way?"
"I'm pretty sure it's only a few blocks down the harbor from here. I think Ms. Scott would be very happy to see you. Think you can handle the walk or would you prefer we drive?"
"I'm feeling far better today, but I still believe it would be more prudent to drive."
"Okay, then let's get back up to the Bug and we'll go see if Ms. Scott has the shop back open."
Ten minutes later, after the short walk back to the parking lot and a four block drive through busy weekend harbor traffic headed for the marina and ferry terminal, Emma parked her little yellow Volkswagen beneath the old service station overhang. Although there were lights on inside Scott's Mart, the Closed sign still hung in the window, but Emma noticed that it was now accompanied by a notice that the shop would be reopening Monday morning. Emma exited the car and strolled up to the entrance door, rapping forcefully on the glass to garner the proprietor's attention while Killian ambled slowly behind her.
"We're not open yet!" a female voice shouted from inside.
"Ms. Scott, it's Sheriff Emma Jones. I was here with Deputy McCallen a few days ago…" They heard some rustling from beyond the door and something akin to metal scraping against tile before the smiling face of Jean Scott popped up from behind the register counter. The shopkeeper's face lit up even more when she caught sight of the man in the black leather jacket standing behind Emma.
"Sheriff! My apologies for being so curt. Come on in!" Jean immediately unlocked the door and yanked it open for her guests, a mix of elation and gratitude expressed through her welcoming grin. "You're always welcome around here. Sorry it's still such a mess but I'm trying hard to get things straightened up and ready to get back to business. I know I owe you both a huge thanks. I heard from the other police officer – not the one who was here with you but the other guy… His name escapes me now…"
"Sgt. Haviland?" Emma offered.
"Haviland, yeah that's his name! He called me to let me know I didn't have to worry about Donovan Donleavy coming after my property any longer. He said there's a warrant out for his arrest, as soon as they can locate the slimy son of a bitch."
"Yeah, unfortunately it looks like he might have been tipped off somehow and slipped away on his boat sometime last night after the Toliver brothers rolled on him for having hired them to intimidate you, not to mention the kidnapping and stabbing of my husband," Emma explained.
"Well, when they find him, I hope they lock him up and toss away that damned key!" Jean exclaimed before turning her head toward Killian with a softening demeanor. "And you – I'm so glad to get a chance to properly thank you. If I'd have had any idea what those bastards planned to do… I don't think there are enough words in the whole English language for me to express my thanks. You may have truly saved my life that morning and I'm still mortified to think that it nearly cost you yours. I knew Donleavy was scum, but I had no idea he'd actually stoop this low."
Emma though she detected a faint blush creeping across her husband's cheeks as Jean Scott thanked him, but he was trying hard not to let it show. "It was the right thing to do, Milady," Killian assured her. "Neither of us knew that their nefarious plans went so far beyond robbery. I certainly must have had some luck on my side that morning, but the important thing is that the guilty parties are being held accountable and won't be able to harm you any longer."
Jean's head lolled to the side as she caught Emma's attention with a cheeky grin. "Is he always like this?"
"Pretty much," Emma replied, sporting a broad smile of her own as she watched the tips of Killian's ears redden as he flushed with an uncharacteristic embarrassment.
"How do I find one like him?" Jean sighed. "I'd love to have my own little British knight in shining leather." Emma found her husband's blushing even more endearing as he tried to brush off the compliment, realizing it was part of why she loved this man so much. Sure, he could be a total ass sometimes, but when the sweet, old-fashioned, chivalrous side would surface, she'd fall head over heels in love all over again.
"I don't know if there's a clone of him out there somewhere, but if I find one, I'll send him your way," Emma laughed. "For now though, we've got to get going. Now that the case is solved, we're finally heading home."
"Well, please have a safe drive back to your hometown and remember that anytime you're here in Portland, please stop by. It'll be coffee on the house! In fact, if you'd like one for the road, I'm pretty sure the pot is still hot. I've gone through plenty myself while trying to get this place cleaned up but there's more than enough to share. Would you like some?"
"I would absolutely love some coffee," Emma replied graciously.
"As would I," Killian said with a smile.
"Hang on a sec…" Jean scurried down a partially stocked aisle to her coffee shop counter and disappeared behind it. She popped back up a few seconds later with two tall paper cups of steaming hot coffee. "Either of you take cream or sugar?"
"No thanks," Emma replied. "We both take it straight."
Jean made her way across the shop to hand over the coffee cups to her guests. "Here you go. Hope it's not too strong for you."
"I'm sure it will be fine," Killian replied as he accepted her offering. "This wasn't at all necessary, but thank you."
"Anytime," Jean insisted. "Any time at all. I won't keep you from your drive home but I really do appreciate you stopping by. I'm so glad to see that you're alright."
"Good luck with getting your business back on track," Emma said as she shook Jean's hand before departing. "Hopefully things will go better now that there isn't a greedy developer breathing down your neck."
"Oh, there will be another," Jean chuckled. "It never ends around here, but hey, I know I'm in the right place for now. I'll manage."
Emma and Killian said their farewells to Jean Scott and had just started their drive back to the park when Emma's phone started ringing. Seeing that it was McCallen calling, she gestured for Killian to answer and as he did, he pressed the speakerphone button so that they could both hear the conversation.
"Hey, McCallen," Emma answered. "Sorry we missed you this morning, but we locked up before we left."
"I'm the one who should be apologizing," McCallen's voice responded through the speaker. "I had to run into the station this morning to finish up paperwork relating to this case and I was worried I might miss you before you headed home."
"Well, you haven't missed us. We haven't left Portland yet," Emma informed their friend. "Killian wanted to see Jean Scott so she could see he was alright and now we're on our way to the harbor front park so that he can see his ship off. The crew sailing it back to Storybrooke for us offered to make a swing through the bay."
"Alright then, can you hang around the park for a few minutes? I've got some new information you'll want to hear, but I don't want to deliver it over the phone."
"Oh, don't worry, we'll be there for a while. We still have about half an hour to kill before the crew sets sail," Emma explained.
"Oh, good," McCallen replied. "I can be there in about twenty minutes. I'd really like a chance to see that ship too."
"You'll see just how magnificent she is," Killian said proudly.
"If you can see it at all," Emma countered. "The ship is going to be clear on the other side of the bay and I have no idea whether or not my binoculars will be strong enough… You two can figure that out though…"
"Okay," McCallen chuckled. "I'll see you in a few minutes."
The stroll down to the waterfront from the parking area took a little longer this time but Killian had insisted on heading to the furthest pier where they would have the least obstructed view of the bay. There was still one barrier island that partially obscured the horizon, but Killian was certain that they would be able to see enough of the channel to get a decent glimpse of the Jolly Roger. He was quite certain of the route his crew would take and that it would provide a brief window as the ship emerged from the far side of the landmass, before she headed out of the bay and into open ocean.
A visibly exhausted Killian dropped his fatigued body onto an unoccupied bench near the end of the pier as Emma's phone buzzed with a message from McCallen asking where he might find them. She typed back their location and half-expected to see the young deputy arrive in full uniform. She found herself a more than a little surprised to see him approaching dressed in casual attire after he spotted them and waved from the boardwalk.
As McCallen got closer, Emma thought about how this inexperienced deputy had become such a pillar of strength for her this week. He'd been so involved from the beginning, eager to help her out in any way he could and always trying to learn techniques to help himself grow as an investigator. McCallen still had a lot to learn and of course, had some physical obstacles to overcome, but Emma couldn't help to think about what Jean Scott had said about being in the right place and how it applied to the deputy as well. What had begun for him as a seemingly routine case to identify a John Doe had blossomed into a multi-jurisdictional investigation of a corrupt land developer. While McCallen's role in the Donleavy case may have been minor, the deputy's name was forever attached to the investigation and it would likely make a huge impact on his career.
"Hi!" the deputy greeted them once he was finally within earshot. "I haven't missed anything, have I?"
"Not at all," Killian assured their young friend as he lowered the binoculars. "I've not yet caught sight of her but it shouldn't be long now."
"Don't worry," Emma added. "You'll know the moment he sees it. It's all he's talked about all morning."
"So, this is kind of a big deal, huh?" McCallen asked with a crooked grin, almost as a tease.
"She's been a huge part of my life," Killian replied. "In fact, she was my life for a very long time, before I met Emma." He failed to notice the way McCallen glanced at Emma with a look that seemed to ask Is he kidding?
"I think that what Killian meant to say is that he spent many years working on that ship before we met. He puts a lot of effort into keeping it ship-shape. But yes – sometimes I swear he treats that ship like a person…"
"It's a good thing she's not able to hear you speak such blasphemy," Killian feigned offense as his wife laughed it off.
"See - I share my husband with a ship," Emma chuckled, shaking her head. "Anyway, I know you didn't come down here just to talk about Killian's ship. You said on the phone that you had some new information to share with us? Is it news about Donleavy?"
"Well, yes and no…" McCallen began as he took a seat on the bench next to Killian. "We got a call this morning from the RCMP…"
"RCMP?" Killian interrupted with a confused query as he didn't understand the reference.
"Royal Canadian Mounted Police," the deputy clarified. "Sorry, I should have been more specific."
"It's alright," Emma insisted. "We usually just refer to them as the Mounties." She'd explain the reference further for Killian when they were alone.
"Oh, okay," McCallen continued. "As I started to say earlier, we, well, technically Sgt. Haviland received a call from the Mounties this morning letting him know that Donleavy's boat was located. Appears that it ran aground along the coast of Nova Scotia and by all accounts, was pretty beat up. Unfortunately, they found no sign of Donleavy. Haviland forwarded me a copy of the report. Guess he thought you'd already be back home if he didn't get in touch with you yet."
"I haven't looked at my email all morning," Emma confessed. "If he sent something there, I probably won't read it until we do get home – especially if it isn't giving us any whereabouts of Donleavy himself. At least we have an idea of where he escaped to."
"I do recall saying that he wouldn't get very far by sea," Killian reminded them. "The seas would have been far too rough for his minuscule craft. Even a sailor as experienced as myself wouldn't have fared well in that storm."
"Yeah, Donleavy was probably thrown overboard somewhere between here and Canada, before his ship crashed onshore," Emma suggested.
"There's still a remote chance he survived so the Canadians are going to continue their search to see if he turns up. They weren't entirely convinced that he'd survived either, but they're not giving up the search yet."
"Serves him right, if I do say so myself," Killian said with an eyebrow raised playfully. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes to survey the bay once again, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the Jolly Roger. He stood as he caught sight of a set of familiar masts and sails materializing from beyond the inner harbor islands. "Ah, there she is!" he exclaimed with a huge grin stretching across his lips. "Such a thing of beauty…"
"Alright – you know I'm dying to get a look at this ship I've been hearing about. I mean, you've got the rings, the tattoos, the skull and crossbones pendant – there's definitely some kind of pirate obsession there so should I be expecting a pirate ship too?" Killian gave him a slightly nervous smile and Emma was practically biting her tongue as they both began mentally scrambling for a plausible explanation for the fact that Killian did indeed have have a pirate ship, and a marvel of one at that.
"Of course," Killian said as he offered the binoculars to the deputy and pointed to a distant location across the bay. "If you look out there to the northeast, you'll see her riggings just beyond that island." McCallen raised the binoculars and pointed himself in the direction Killian had indicated, his jaw dropping the moment he spied the tall ship on the horizon. He didn't know a lot about classical ships - he wouldn't have known a schooner from a frigate or a galleon, but this vessel looked like it could have sailed straight out of any pirate movie he'd ever seen.
"Wow! That's really your ship? It's definitely not what I expected, but seriously – you can sail that all by yourself?" Killian had to chuckle at the deputy's excited rambling.
"Indeed, I can," Killian replied proudly.
"That is so cool!" McCallen gushed, unable to contain himself. "What did you name your ship?"
"The J-…" Killian started to reply Jolly Roger, but something made him stop and reconsider, responding with the vessel's original moniker instead. "Jewel of the Realm."
"That's a really great name," McCallen told him as he passed the binoculars back to his pirate friend. "How did you ever come to own a ship like that?"
"Killian repairs and restores these old ships to keep them seaworthy," Emma jumped in with the most logical explanation she could determine. "And if you haven't noticed, he's a bit obsessive about his job."
"History deserves to be preserved," Killian stated, going along with Emma's lead. "And what can I say – I immerse myself fully into my work."
"Well, by the looks of it, you're very skilled at what you do! How do you manage to find the time as a deputy?"
"Don't have as much time as I used to so sailing has become more of a hobby now, but if you're ever in Storybrooke, I'd be honored to give you the full tour and a run about the harbor."
"I just might take you up on that one day, but since I have a tendency to get seasick, just admiring her from the dock would probably be enough for me," the deputy admitted with an embarrassed chortle.
"Well, my friend, if you ever want to try for your sea legs, my offer shall stand," Killian laughed as he raised the binoculars one last time to see if the ship was still visible but it appeared as though Ursula had already reactivated the cloaking. "Appears as though she has sailed beyond our purview."
"Oh, sorry… I'm guessing you're hoping to get back home around the same time as the ship?" McCallen wondered, not wanting to impede their plans.
"Yeah, that's sort of the plan," Emma stated as she glanced at her watch. "We definitely should get on the road soon, but Aaron, we really want to thank you for everything – for your help with the investigation into what happened to Killian... for opening your home to us. You've done so much more than you ever needed to."
McCallen's cheeks flushed as he tried to figure out how to respond to her gratitude. "Honestly, not many people have put as much faith in me as you did. I'm grateful to you for including me when you could have brushed me off in favor of letting Sgt. Haviland take over. I'm glad you didn't."
"You've got the instinct," Emma assured him. "You're going to be a great investigator."
"I guess we'll have to see how far a man with an artificial foot can get," McCallen said sullenly.
"As far as a man with an artificial hand can get," Killian insisted. "And that's as far as you desire."
Epilogue
Saturday Afternoon – Storybrooke
It hadn't taken Killian more than a few seconds after they'd exited the interstate before the gloved, wooden hand was discarded to the back seat in favor of his preferred attachment. Captain Hook was back and on his way home. By the time they passed the Welcome to Storybrooke sign at the edge of town, he was certain he could already smell the marine air again and began to imagine the sound of crisp sails flapping in the wind.
They finally parked in front of the Sheriff station nearly two hours after they'd left the Portland harbor and Emma was eager to find some lunch to appease her growling stomach. Maybe as anxious for food as her husband was to get to the harbor.
"Are you really sure you don't want me to heal you?" she asked as they climbed out of the Bug.
"For the last time, Love, I'll be fine. Aside from a few aches and pains – and a bit of general tiredness, I'm honestly alright. I assure you, if I change my mind, I promise, I will let you know."
"Okay, okay… I'm gonna call the family and see if they want to meet over at Granny's for lunch. I'm sure they'll all be looking forward to seeing you."
"Sounds good, but allow me a few minutes first?" he implored.
"I know – you're heading down to the harbor. Want me to drive you over?"
Killian smiled and shook his head with a subtle No. "I think I'd like to walk."
"Alright. If you aren't back in thirty minutes, I'll come looking for you."
The quarter-mile stroll from the Sheriff station to the dock was normally a brisk, five-minute walk for him, but today, it took a few minutes longer and he was clutching his chest tightly as he reached the gangplank. He pressed on with stubborn determination, pushing himself up the ramp and onto the deck of his ship. Reaching the helm, he leaned his aching body into the wheel to catch his breath, fully aware that he was not alone.
"Returned, safe and sound, as promised," he heard Ursula's voice call out from below the quarterdeck.
"Aye, thank you for your assistance. I do appreciate all you've done for me."
"You are one lucky pirate. Although I suggest you try to stay away from sharp, pointy objects for a while. One of these days, your luck will run out…"
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Killian said with a half-hearted chuckle. "Am I also to thank you for last night's events?"
"Afraid I've no idea what you mean," Ursula replied with a feigned innocence.
"Of course not," he grinned, lifting a knowing eyebrow at the Sea Witch. "Pardon my error, Love. Guess I should make my way over to Granny's pretty soon. Emma will send out a search party if I don't make it back. Why don't you join us?"
"As pleasant as an afternoon eating greasy diner food with the Charming family sounds, I'm afraid I'll have to pass. But as for you, I'm serious – watch your back, pirate. One of these days, you'll find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time and there won't be anybody around to save you."
He opened his mouth to reply, but she was already gone, leaving the words caught in the back of his throat. As much as he wanted to argue, Ursula was right. He belonged at Emma's side and that was honestly the only place he wanted to be.
Early Saturday morning – off the coast of Nova Scotia
It was late in the season for such a powerful Nor'easter and perhaps it was a foolhardy decision to be venturing out in such horrific weather but Donovan Donleavy preferred to take his chances upon the stormy seas rather than face the tempest that would be brewing at home if he hadn't run. He'd slipped out of the marina under cover of darkness before the authorities had descended. His sport fishing boat wasn't really designed for these conditions so he'd tried to remain as close to the coast as he could, but the howling winds and torrential rain kept blowing his battered craft further out to sea.
He was only a few miles off of the Canadian coast, estimating his position to be somewhere near the Province of Nova Scotia, but he was beginning to doubt he'd be able to reach a safe harbor. Rain lashed at the deck, making visibility near impossible as the ten to twelve foot swells pummeled the tiny boat. Donleavy clung to the wheel as long as he could until a towering, fifteen foot swell sent the vessel listing hard to starboard and it never recovered, capsizing in the cold waters of the North Atlantic.
He bobbed to the surface, struggling to keep his head above the waves as his arms flailed in futile attempt to grasp for anything that would keep him afloat. After a few minutes, he found his muscles tiring rapidly and he knew he wouldn't be able to tread water much longer. Of course, he still believed that drowning was far more dignified than the humiliation of watching his empire fall apart.
He was gradually giving in to the reality of a watery death when he felt something brush against his leg. Probably just a fish or a piece of debris from his boat he thought – until the offending object slithered its way up body and wrapped around his torso. While moments ago he'd conceded himself to drowning, suddenly Donleavy was in a panic as he recognized that he was being enveloped by a giant tentacle. He struggled only for a few moments, trying futilely to free himself as the tentacle constricted tighter - just before yanking him forcefully beneath the unforgiving waves.
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