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let-it-raines · 5 years

Text

Unraveling the Thread

Returning home is never something anyone wants to do when they've been trying to leave for their entire life, but it seems to happen to most everyone. It's just not something Emma ever thought would happen to her. But after getting let go from her job and refusing to work in another office answering phones for the next ten years of her life, she moves back home to Storybrooke and has to deal with all of the loose threads that she left behind.

It's easier said than done. She's still going to do it.

Rating: Mature

Found on AO3 | Here |

A/N: Because I have a million other things to do, I obviously wrote a one-shot. I hope you guys enjoy the product of my lack of sleep 💕

Tagging my usual peeps: @resident-of-storybrooke @mayquita @wellhellotragic @captainsjedi @bmbbcs4evr @jennjenn615 @ekr032-blog-blog @kmomof4 @onceuponaprincessworld @thejollyroger-writer @jonirobinson64 @qualitycoffeethings @cs-forlife

Everything is exactly the same.

Granny’s diner still rests in the center of a strip of stores, the bright blue paint noticeably having been touched up lately to go with all of the other brightly colored stores that Storybrooke’s city council obviously thinks will pull in tourists when they inevitably roll into town each summer. If she remembers correctly, it does work. She worked as a waitress enough summers to know that her tips definitely increased once summer break started, and as much as she appreciated the money, she didn’t appreciate the people that were constantly taking her parking space or telling her that if she smiled more, she’d get more customers.

Assholes.

They would also make comments about her ass, and well, despite the fact that she has a damn good one, that’s a little thing call harassment.

It’s a miracle she never punched anyone.

There are already people filtering in and out of the diner despite it being only five in the morning on a Saturday, and she quickly drives by so no one will see her. She’s fine coming home to see her parents, but she doesn’t want to see anyone else. Not yet. Maybe later once she has a few shirts on hangers and a toothbrush in the bathroom, but not before that. She needs more time to mentally prepare herself to see everyone again. It’s only been since Christmas, but really, all she did for those three days was spend all of her time inside her parents’ living room eating sweets her mom had baked and watching old Christmas movies long into the night until even the streetlights outside turned off.

And this trip isn’t for three days. It’s for three months at least. Maybe more. She honestly has no idea, but when you get let go from the job you’ve had as investigator for auto insurance company for the past five years with nothing else lined up that actually pays the bills, there aren’t a lot of options. Living with her parents again wasn’t what she preferred, but she couldn’t take another job as a secretary or a phone operator trying to sell people weight loss pills that are probably pretty unhealthy.

Her dream job is obviously not an option.

She’s not sure if she has a dream job.

She used to want to be a cop like her dad, but that was when she was five and also wanted to be a ballerina in space. Her thoughts and wants weren’t exactly the most well thought through. And then she never really figured it out. Her parents put her on the fast track to going to college and getting a degree that would supposedly allow her to make more money and be able to get out of Storybrooke.

Considering her mom is a third-grade teacher on every committee board ever created and her dad is the sheriff, it’s surprising that leaving was ever an option.

And if she thinks about it, it really wasn’t. Yeah, she could leave for four years, get a degree, and then come back to work at a business in town that would have hired her regardless of her qualifications (nepotism is a thing). But that was the thing. She was always supposed to come back.

And seven years after leaving, she is.

Except she has no college degree.

She’s not even close to having one. She’s got a semester’s worth of credits in classes like English comp and pre-algebra and things she’s likely never going to use in her entire life. She’d made the Dean’s list at NYU that one semester too, but then, like the oldest story in the world, she’d met a boy.

She met a boy who was a few years older than her, infinitely wiser, and just as charming as she had ever known anybody to be. Neal was her entire world. He shouldn’t have been, but he was. Her mother spent her entire life talking about how love is the greatest gift in life, the greatest privilege, and how if Emma ever found it, she should hold onto it like her life depended on it.

What her mother didn’t tell her was that first loves are not always good loves, even if there’s the occasional exception.

In all fairness, Mary Margaret Nolan most likely doesn’t know that. She grew up as an only child in a small town and met the love of her life on the first day of sixth grade. The only love her mom has ever known has been her dad, and as wonderful as that as, as in love as her parents are, Emma’s learned that sometimes the lessons her mom taught her are not great lessons.

Exercise a few times a week, never pluck your eyebrows too thin, sure. Think that the first boy who tells you you’re pretty and who sleeps with you is the love of your life, not so much.

Because unlike her dad, Neal was not some standup guy who sticks around and lives by some kind of moral code that everyone should live by. Be kind to others, don’t murder someone, wash your hands after you go to the bathroom, et cetera. And it’s not that Neal was a murderer. God, she hopes not. It’s that he was a cheater who she left college for to move to Boston with because he convinced her that he could give her a better life than living in a cramped dorm room and spending her days studying. He was a cheater and also a thief, apparently fencing expensive jewelry and stolen goods to fund that better life, and she only found all of that out when she told him that she might be pregnant and he bolted in the middle of the night and the other woman who he was dating showed up at their apartment looking for him.

She found out the theft stuff later when she was nearly arrested because he tried to frame her for his crimes.

Newsflash. She wasn’t pregnant, and she sure as hell didn’t commit any crimes.

But she did give up her entire life, things that even though she wasn’t sure she really wanted, she had worked for. And as much as it’s taught her, as much as she’s changed because of it, she regrets ever leaving New York.

She regrets giving up her life because she was convinced that her love would last forever, and she would never need anything else.

It didn’t even last two years.

She never made it back to New York. She stayed in Boston, finding random jobs that would pay the bills until she got her job as the insurance fraud investigator and moved in with Anna and Elsa, two sisters who were going to freaking Harvard of all places. There she was barely scraping by, and she was roommates with people who went to Harvard. It worked, though. They were always busy studying or attending events, and she could slip in and out without really having to talk to them too much or explain why she was their age but decidedly a little lost.

Her parents weren’t talking to her at the time, and if her own parents weren’t talking to her, why would she want to talk to anyone?

But she did eventually talk to her parents again and talk to her roommates. She became friends with them actually, and even after they both graduated and moved away, she stayed close with them. With everything that has gone on in her life, she’s at least thankful that she’s gotten to be close with Anna and Elsa.

When she lost her job, Elsa had offered to let her live with her in New York, and even though it’s a big city, she couldn’t go back.

Which is why she’s here pulling into her parents’ driveway, the two of them visible in the kitchen through the front window. They’re likely drinking coffee and talking about all of their plans for today even though it’s Saturday and the perfect day to stay home. Or they’re talking about her. She’d bet that they’re talking about her.

She’s a fascinating conversation piece.

And that’s why she takes at least fifteen minutes to regulate her breathing and prepare herself for all of the fawning that her parents are going to do.

That her mom is going to do.

She loves her, but she’s not nearly as good as her dad at understanding that Emma needs her space sometimes.

It’s exactly thirty five steps from her car to the front door, and she’s barely inside the entryway when her mom is wrapping her in a hug so tight that all of the air escapes her legs and her ribcage bruises a little bit. It’s too much, but she wraps her arms around her mom’s waist and holds on as tightly as she can regardless.

“I’m so glad you’re here, sweetie.”

“Me too,” she lies. “Why are you guys up this early?”

“Because we’re waiting for you,” her dad answers her, flashing her a grin before he’s hugging her too, cupping the back of her head with his palm. He smells like the cologne he’s been wearing for her entire life, and that feels good too. “How was your drive? What’d you do? Not sleep?”

“Pretty much,” she shrugs. “Can I get some of that coffee?”

-/-

It’s weird regressing back to a teenager in her hometown over the next few weeks, March fading into April, the weather warming with each day. The exact thing she didn’t want was to work as a waitress again, to really fall back into old habits, but at least she’s not working at Granny’s. She’s working at Storybrooke Country Club as server in their clubhouse, and even though she has to deal with old men all day, at least they tip well.

Most of the time.

Some of the people who used to tell her to smile at Granny’s are these same people, and she can feel their judgmental eyes on her as she’s back at home serving them food. She’d think that people would understand someone working as a waitress doesn’t make them less of a person, but some people never learn.

The tips, she reminds herself. And it’s something to do, something to occupy her time and give her money while she tries to figure out her life. It’s something that’s not being stuck in an office as a secretary or a temp.

But it is temporary.

So she’s working as a waitress, sleeping in her teenage bedroom, and after her shifts, she eats with Ruby at Granny’s for dinner, the grilled cheese tasting just the same. She really is somehow going back to the past like Marty McFly, except this isn’t nearly as exciting. Plus, she has this weird need to ask her parents if she can go out late to meet Ruby for dinner.

She’s twenty-five years old.

She doesn’t have to ask her parents for permission even though she’s living with him.

The weirdest thing, however, is seeing Killian Jones again.

She takes that back.

The weirdest thing is seeing Killian, and Killian not talking to her.

Last week they had a particularly busy day in the clubhouse, and she picked up an extra shift to help out and to get overtime. She was tired. It was her day off. She shouldn’t have been there. But she was, and she dealt with it, smiling and asking all of the right questions to the patrons, especially those who she knows are members.

And that’s when she saw him. Except, she didn’t see him until it was far too late.

She was bringing a table their glasses of water for Ashley while she was in the kitchen, and she didn’t pay any attention to the slight flip of hair underneath a clean navy hat or the tattoo peeking out underneath the short-sleeved shirt. She didn’t pay attention to any of it, so when she saw those familiar blue eyes, the ones that she’s always remembered, she dropped the entire tray of ice cold water on the table, the floor, and his white pants.

His white pants.

That were...thin.

That was bad enough, but then she started patting down his thighs with a cloth towel, and that caused all kinds of issued before he grabbed her wrists, looked her in the eyes for an extended thirteen seconds (she knows because she counted), and then he got up and left.

She’s seen him since then, but he hasn’t spoken to her. And she knows that it’s not because she spilled water on him and then felt him up while trying to dry him off.

He apparently works at the harbor, which doesn’t surprise her. What does surprise her is that he’s in charge of tourism for the summers, specifically making sure that there are plenty of boats to rent and that no one docks where they’re not supposed to. According to Ruby, he plans activities at the public pool, puts together festivals, and he even takes certain groups of tourists out sailing. It’s in his wheelhouse, even if it’s not what she thought he would be doing. He was supposed to go into the Navy, supposed to go straight into active duty and work his way through college with his grant. That was always his plan, even if he was delayed in getting around to it.

But that was never his fault. He’s two years older than her, and during his senior year of high school, his mom died. He’d fallen into such a deep depression that he almost didn’t graduate, and even though he did, he never went off to follow his dreams. Instead he worked down at the docks, like now, but instead of working with tourism, he loaded and unloaded cargo. She thinks it had been good for him to be able to work through things physically, especially since he avoided things emotionally. She tried to get him to talk about his mom and about Liam, but he never would.

Maybe this is his new dream.

A sob gets caught in her throat thinking about him, about how much she failed him by giving up on their friendship when she moved away. She fucked that friendship up, and there’s no way for her to work around that. She can’t change what happened.

She wishes that she could.

Out of all of the surprises about Killian, though, she’s surprised that he spends his time at a country club golfing in white pants. That’s not Killian. That’s not him at all. But she guesses people change.

Maybe if he would talk to her, she could understand.

She’s not sure if she wants to talk to him, if she deserves to talk to him.

She probably doesn’t deserve to talk to him.

-/-

Before she knows it, her three months she was planning on staying have passed and a Storybrooke summer begins, the tourists coming into town and filling up all of the hotels and restaurants, including the club. She’s nearly always working, and even though it’s not what she wants, she’s managing to save up some money for when she eventually figures it out. It’s not like she’s paying rent right now, and she can mostly eat at work.

So she’s still home, but it’s not all bad. She’s closer with her parents, even if her mom keeps deciding that she needs to go on a date with her dad’s deputy, and she’s become better friends with Ruby and Ashely, making up for lost time. Honestly, though, the nicest part about it is how much less stressful it is. It’s healing in a way to be home, to not have to constantly be worried about how she’s going to make it, about how she’s going to pay rent.

Something she was dreading is turning out to be pretty okay, even if sometimes she’s still a little bothered by not living in Boston anymore.

The small town life…it’s not all bad some days.

“You’re getting a little burned on your shoulder there,” Ashley points out as they lounge on the beach on their day off in an attempt to get a little bit of color on their skin after mostly working indoors.

“How?” she groans, twisting her head to the side to look at the slight pink of her skin. “I literally have reapplied all day. And we’ve been sitting under the umbrella too.”

“You’re fair.”

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Ash.” She stands from her towel and brushes the sand off of her body. “I’m going to go to the bathroom and to reapply, okay?”

“Can you stop and get some more waters from the café?”

She nods her head and reaches down to pull on her jean shorts, zipping them up and slipping on her sandals as she walks up the beach toward the docks. It’s pretty crowded today, families everywhere, and she has to move in and out of the crowds to make it to the bathroom, spending her time reapplying her lotion and fixing her braids before exiting and making her way toward the café. It’s just a small little shack that sells hamburgers and hot dogs, but the line stretches out down the docks so that it’ll be at least twenty minutes.

“Most people wear shirts when they dine, but then again, you seem to be a fan of see through material.”

She nearly drops her phone at the voice behind her, but she catches it and stuffs it into her back pocket, giving her some time to take a deep breath as she turns to see those familiar blue eyes and black scruff-lined jaw. He’s got on the same blue baseball cap, but instead of being in golfing clothes, he’s in navy pants with a white shirt tucked in, the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms.

He’s always had nice forearms.

That’s not what she should be thinking about.

Or the fact that his shirt is not buttoned up enough. Well, she kind of likes being able to see his chest hair, but it doesn’t really scream “hey look, I’m the guy in charge of tourism.”

“He speaks,” she snarks, straightening her back and lifting her chin up, wishing that she was about half a foot taller so they’d be eyelevel. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“The same could be said about you.”

The smile that was on his face quickly fades away as his eyes flicker down her body. She’s suddenly very aware of how much skin she has on display, and when she crosses her arms over her chest, she knows that he notices her defensiveness by the raise of his brows.

“Yeah, well, shit happens.”

He scoffs at that, his jaw tightening while he looks up at the sky, the underside of his chin now on display to her.

“Shit happens, huh? Is that why you’re home?”

“Isn’t it why you’re still here?”

“Believe it or not, love, I want to be here.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you five?” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest just like her, but she can see that same tattoo peeking through the material of his shirt. She’s not entirely sure what it is, but it kind of looks like a ship’s wheel. He would.

“No but at least I don’t run away from people trying to talk to me.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what? I don’t need lunch,” he groans before turning and walking away from her, his step steady and measured as he moves down the docks and disappears into a building that must be his office.

She wants to storm off as well, to act like the child like he just accused her of being, but she’s not going to let him annoy her to the point of not getting something to drink. So she waits, her foot stepping against the wood, and eventually gets her waters before making her way back to the beach and to Ashley who is looking at her like she’s having to bite her tongue on what just happens. The entire town probably knows that she and Killian just got into an argument.

She forgot about the gossip in Storybrooke.

Nothing is secret.

-/-

“So how’s it being home? Elsa asks her as they talk on the phone while she goes for a jog around the park. “Are you falling in love with a cute little surfer boy like it happens in the movies?”

“Els, seriously?”

“What? It’s a serious question. I’ve looked up your town. It’s super cute. I feel like great romances happen there.”

“You’re the worst,” she groans, slowing down her pace a bit as her breath gets heavy moving up the hill. “No, I’m not falling in love with any surfers. We don’t even have surfing here.”

“Okay, then sailors. Are you falling in love with any sailors?”

“Definitely not.”

“That was defensive.”

“It was not.”

“It was. Did you meet someone?”

Her eyes roll as she finally gets to the top of the hill, her legs and her chest burning the slightest bit as the June sun continues to beat down on neck from where it’s exposed. “I went on a date with my dad’s deputy, Graham. He’s a very nice guy, but I don’t know. I didn’t really feel a connection.”

“Nice guys are the guys you want to be with. It doesn’t have to be all dangerous assholes.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I’m just saying,” Elsa laughs as Emma dodges another runner, “you have a tendency to find some not so nice guys. I mean, I wasn’t there for Neal, but I saw all of Walsh and – ”

“He was an asshole,” she finishes for Elsa, thinking about Walsh and how he was always steering her away from her friends and her hobbies so that he could try to morph her into his weird kind of ideal girl. “Yeah, I know. I’m just not sure if I want to see Graham again. I’m gonna have to think about it. Enough about me, though. Tell me what’s been going on with you as I try to finish this run.”

-/-

It’s raining.

And not like a light drizzle. It’s a torrential downpour with no signs of stopping, and even though every time she goes outside she bundles up into a coat and an umbrella, she’s still absolutely soaked down to her bones. As nice as the summers here are, this is always the one big thing – rain can come out of nowhere, and it can and will stay for days.

It also seems to stop everything.

Obviously no one is spending their time at the beach or going out sailing, so everyone huddles inside at hotels and restaurants and, unfortunately for her, the club. They open to non-members in the summer, so it’s always more packed than usual. But this? This is like absolute chaos. She’s never going to be able to sit down, and her feet are going to fall off. It’s what’s going to happen as she keeps running between the kitchen and at least four different dining rooms, dealing with angry parents and restless kids who never seem to be happy with the food they’re being served. It’s insane and stressful and she wishes that she was in Boston trying to figure out if someone was lying about whether the car accident really did hurt their neck.

No, she doesn’t wish for that. She doesn’t. She likes being home, and she thinks that’s what makes this entire day and this entire situation so much worse.

“Emma, I need – ”

“I know,” she calls back to Ashely, twisting on her foot and slamming right into a solid body that has the tray of drinks in her hands falling, spilling, and glass shattering against the ground. She knows that she could probably feel shards of it in her foot if she wasn’t so goddamned embarrassed by the fact that she just spilled drinks on Killian again.

The world is a very cruel place.

She’s going to have to bandage her ankles.

“Shit,” she sputters, already bending down to pick up the tray and the glasses that didn’t break. “Shit, shit, shit.” She starts to pick up the large chunks of glass when suddenly there are hands underneath her shoulders and she’s being pulled back up to stand, Killian’s eyes peering at her. “Shit.”

“You don’t need to pick up glass with your hands, love,” he says softly, his words far too kind for someone who just had more of his clothes ruined. “And you’re bleeding. You need to get cleaned up.”

“I know how to do my job,” she huffs, not wanting him to be kind to her, “and I’m fine.”

“You have bloody glass in your skin, Emma. Someone else can clean this up with you get it taken care of.”

“I – ” she starts, the protest on the tip of her tongue, but it dies there when she looks at the blue that has always meant so much to her. He’s changed a lot, really filled in physically, but the blue is the same. “Um, okay. I’m going to go to the front office and clean up I guess.”

He nods his head and releases her arms, and as she walks away, the slightest bit of pain in her step, she realizes that he’s walking with her. She doesn’t understand why, doesn’t want to ask why, but then he’s following her into the office, somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to go, and plopping himself down on a couch while she gets the first aid kit out and starts trying to clean her cuts and make sure there’s not more glass in her skin.

“Why are you in here?” she finally asks as she takes off her sneakers to check for glass. It’s everywhere.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why?”

“Because believe it or not, I still care about you.”

“Yeah,” she says incredulously, shaking a piece of glass out of her shoe and into the trashcan, “sure you do. That’s totally how you’ve acted the past few months.”

“Well, forgive me for not always wanting to talk to the woman who left without so much as a goodbye.”

The cuts more than the glass that was in her skin. She should have known. She should have known that them being around each other, that them talking, that it would lead to old scars being brought up. Why the hell did she want to talk to him to begin with?

“Killian – ”

“No, it’s fine. I get it. It’s been years. I shouldn’t still be bitter about it.”

“You very obviously are, though.” She sits down on the edge of the desk and starts dabbing at cut on her hand that she must have gotten when she was picking up the glass. “Wounds made when we’re young tend to linger. Or at least that’s what you always said as if you were some wise old man.”

He chuckles a bit at that, and her eyes snap up at him. She missed that sound. She didn’t realize it until now, but she did.

“I’ve always had an old soul, love.”

“And an old personality, obviously considering you’re now spending your time in country clubs golfing.”

“It’s for work,” he explains on a sigh as he wipes at the dampness on his pants, a loud crash of thunder shaking the window. “I – ”

“I know what you do.” When he raises his eyebrow, she continues. “Ruby told me. Don’t act so surprised that I asked about you. I’m not this cold heartless bitch you obviously think I am.”

“I have never said that.”

“You might as well have for the way you speak to me and the way you mostly avoid me.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s not as pleasant. It’s more…dark, and she doesn’t like it. Not at all. “Again, that is entirely rich coming from you.”

Her shoulders tense, and she stops working at her hand to look at him, to really look at him. He looks tired, exhausted really, and if she looks closely, she can see that his eyes are red rimmed. And that’s exactly when it hits her, when she realizes what today’s date is. June 24th. It’s the day that Liam died. Of course he’s going to be upset with her, even if he has every right to be, but today is likely not the best day for them to get into seven years of issues.

So of course she’s going to anyways. She doesn’t want to drudge up Liam’s memory. Killian doesn’t like to. He has to be the one to bring it up, and if he needs to yell, it might as well be at her.

“I’m a shitty person,” she says flatly, even if voice tries to betray her. “I left town, and I didn’t say goodbye, I know. I didn’t answer your texts or your calls. I can’t…Killian, I don’t know why I did that, not to you. You were my best friend for a long time, and you didn’t deserve that. So if you want to hate me, you have every right to. You can hate me and slander my name and spill five times as many drinks on me as I did to you. I deserve it all because I shouldn’t have done any of that. I have excuses, but they’re not worth anything.”

He doesn’t say anything for what has to be at least a minute. He simply sits on the couch and taps his fingers against his thigh while his jaw visibly clenches and unclenches. “I came to visit you, you know? In New York.”

She nearly loses her balance at his words, her ass almost falling off of the desk, but she doesn’t. She stays still and tries to regulate her breathing, tries to dislodge whatever is caught in her throat.

“When?”

“February of your first year.”

“I wasn’t – ”

“You weren’t there,” he finishes for her, his gaze practically burning her skin. This is almost too much for her right now, but she’s here. It’s happening. He deserves to talk to her and yell at her for abandoning him for no reason other than wanting out of Storybrooke. She can’t believe he came to see her in New York. “You hadn’t answered any of my calls, obviously, and I needed to know why. I missed you, and I wanted to see you. Only there I was, ready to lay my heart out on the ground for you, and your roommate told me that you’d dropped out and run off to Boston with some guy.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Why would you do that, Emma? Where is this guy now?”

“He’s gone,” she whispers, her voice nearly getting carried away in the rain. “He was an asshole who broke my heart.”

“And who made you drop out of college.”

“I did that all on my own.”

“Sure you did.”

“Why do you even care anymore?” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and hugging herself, trying to put up some kind of shield. “I’m a screw up who was careless with your feelings. You should not care about me.”

“I was in love with you, Emma,” he yells, slapping his hands against his thighs before running them through his hair as he stands up and steps closer to her. The storm raging in his eyes matches the one outside, and she can barely breathe at the words that just slipped out of his mouth. “You were my best friend, you were there for me through everything, and you just left. I was so goddamn proud of you for going to college, for making something of yourself, but then you dropped off the face of the earth. You didn’t return my calls or my emails. Ever. And then I find out that you’ve dropped out of college and run off with some idiotic guy who did nothing but use you. I had never been more pissed at you than I was right then.”

She wants to acknowledge the fact that Killian just said he was in love with her, but she can’t right now. She doesn’t know if she ever will be able to.

“You’re pissed at me because I made a dumb choice and got my heart broken?” she finally says, the words struggling to get past her lips. “I was a naïve kid, Killian. I did stupid shit, and I paid the price for it. But you don’t get to get mad at me for that. You don’t get to throw my mistakes in my face.”

He nods his head as if he agrees, but he also inches closer to her, his knees nearly knocking into hers. “Why didn’t you call?”

“What?”

She doesn’t even know why she asked what. They’ve already talked about this. It’s like running in a damn circle.

“Why didn’t you call? Why did you decide that I wasn’t worth talking to anymore? What? The depressed man with no family was no longer interesting? I no longer made you laugh and drove you around since you didn’t have a car? I didn’t have a promising career so your mom no longer approved of me? Huh? Was that it?”

“Of course not.”

He takes a step closer, the blue of his eyes nearly completely black as their knees finally knock together. She can feel his breath on her, can feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“Then why?”

“Why would you want to spend time with someone whose entire life was laid out for them when yours had just been destroyed? I had everything, and I wanted none of it. I was young and stupid and selfish, and you deserved someone better than me to be your friend.”

“We had very different childhoods, love. You grew up in a happy house full of love and opportunity, and I would never blame you for thinking differently than me, for wanting a different life than the one you had. I was – I am an idiot. I’m a hot headed idiot who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut when it comes to you. That hasn’t changed. That’s not going to change.”

“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” she quietly admits, not knowing what else to say when Killian’s proximity to her is making it hard to breathe. “I’m sorry that I didn’t call. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry that I’ve been ignoring you since you’ve been home.”

She takes a deep breath and nods her head, her heart still thumping against her chest. This is a lot of emotional whiplash, and she’s not quite sure how to take it or handle it. She doesn’t even think they’ve solved anything or explained it well, but the truth of the matter is that she doesn’t even have an explanation. That’s how shitty she was to him. She doesn’t even know why she did the things she did.

Killian was in love with her.

And she broke his heart without even realizing it.

How could he ever want to talk to her again?

“Killian, I – ” she starts, more words of apology on her tongue when Ashley walks into the office, her eyes widening at the sight in front of her. They must look like a mess. And when the hell did her hand land on Killian’s shoulder?

“Um, Ems,” Ashely stutters while Killian sighs, “I don’t know what’s happening here, but we kind of need you back working.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles, not moving from her spot. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Now would be better.”

“I’ll be there now,” she says, looking up at Killian and wondering how the black of his eyes has faded back to blue when he should still be pissed at her. “Do you want to talk some more later?”

He smiles, and even though his lips are now surrounded by scruff, it’s the same smile.

“I’d like that.”

-/-

June swelters into July, and she becomes busier than ever at work as well as helping Killian with whatever events he sets up to drive in tourism. It’s odd talking to him again, really talking to him, but after that day at the club, despite nothing really being resolved, they’ve both made an effort to try to be friends again. She doesn’t know why Killian would want that, not really, but it’s his life, and a lot can change in seven years. A lot has changed, and even though they were friends before and know the basic questions and answers of their lives, it’s kind of like starting anew again. Neither of them are the people they were. They’ve grown, changed, and it takes some time to start to get to actually know Killian again.

For one, he’s not a loner anymore. Not at all. And it’s not like he was to begin with, but he definitely wasn’t actively social. Now, though, they can’t walk down any street without Killian talking to someone and asking about their wife or their kids or something personal that shows that he knows this person. It’s the strangest thing watching him be this social guy, but honestly, it makes her happy that he’s happy. He’s always been so charismatic, and it’s kind of nice to see him use his charms and to not be holed up in his house drinking rum.

That’s one thing that has definitely changed. It’s not that Killian was some underaged alcoholic, but he did have a fondness for rum, especially after his mom died. She doesn’t know how he got it, but he did. But now, Killian doesn’t drink at all. He hasn’t outright said it, but when they go get something to eat, he always orders water or tea. She doesn’t think much of it until one night they’re walking along the dock hanging streamers for a sailing race the next day and he starts telling her about Milah.

She hates that her heart pangs when he starts talking about her because she should not be jealous of a woman who’s not in the picture anymore. She should not be jealous at all. She’s always found Killian attractive, even more so now, but they’ve never been a…thing. She’s never wanted them to be a thing, to be more than friends, but her mind is obviously betraying her.

“I loved her, you know,” he starts as he hammers a nail into a post. “She helped me through a really dark time. She made me happy, and I guess that’s why I never questioned the fact that she didn’t like going out on dates in town or why we always slept at my place. Storybrooke is not a big town, and I was so dumb to not realize. I was also too drunk. But obviously I figured it out, we got into a fight, and then we broke up. I didn’t have any interest in being in a relationship with a married woman, even if her marriage was falling apart. I didn’t want to be like my dad, you know?”

“You’re not like your dad,” she promises, hanging the string for the banner and tying it off. “You never have been.”

“I was sleeping with a married woman and drinking far too much. I was exactly like my father. So I broke up with the woman who I thought was going to be the love of my life, and I quit drinking. Simple as that.” “You and I both know that it wasn’t simple.”

He shrugs his shoulders, but his focus never strays from the task at hand. “I’ve been sober for two years. It’s not simple, no, but it’s easier now than it used to be.”

And so their nights go. They work together and spend time together just like they did as teenagers, and little by little, the threads that have been holding their secrets together unravel as they reveal thoughts and dreams and what’s happened in the past. Their threads had been cut from each other seven years ago, but she thinks they’re starting to be knit back together. It’s not something she ever thought would happen, but she’s glad that it is.

Really glad.

-/-

By the time August rolls around, she accepts the fact that she may very well actually like Killian Jones. It’s not that difficult of a conclusion to get to, not really. They basically spend all of their time together. When she’s not working, she’s usually helping Killian work or chilling at the beach with him, and when he’s not working and she is, he’s always at the club. Last week he came to her parents’ house and had dinner with everyone, and even though it’s something that’s happened before, it felt…different.

The fact that her mom’s eyes lit up and she wouldn’t stop talking about how handsome Killian is kind of nailed home the fact that her mom wouldn’t mind if she and Killian started screwing like bunnies.

Woah. That’s not where she was going with that.

But it kind of is. She’s ridiculously attracted to him, emotionally and physically, and she kind of wants to sleep with him.

She should definitely slow her roll, though. She’s not just going to jump into bed with Killian. That would change…everything. That would change absolutely everything. Besides, it’s not like he wants to be with her.

She knows that it’s a lie even as she thinks it. She knows that Killian has feelings for her, that he always has. Hell, at one point he was apparently in love with her, and while she doesn’t think that’s true anymore, she can tell. Sometimes you just know.

And sometimes Ruby tells her that Killian looks at her like she’s responsible for hanging the moon in the sky and creating the waves of the ocean. Sometimes Ashely tells her that she looks at Killian like he was the one to hang the sun.

They’re not weird celestial beings, but the point still stands.

She’s got absolutely no clue what to do with it.

But it’s not something she really has to deal with as she stays busy at work and Killian does the same, tourism in town reaching its peak before everyone goes back to school and families stop coming on vacation. Yet, like she’s living in some kind of Hallmark movie where everything magically seems to happen during a big event, on the day of Summer Fest, a very aptly named festival where all of the local vendors set up booths at the docks and beach games are held along with swimming and boating competitions, something changes between she and Killian.

It happens slowly, really, as these things do. She’s spending her day running around in goddamn khaki shorts and a lime green t-shirt that Killian made her wear as she helps him to keep things running smoothly. She doesn’t really see him more than a blur of black hair and tan skin, and that’s okay as she doesn’t really have time to talk. So their days go on, separately and yet together, and by one in the morning, everyone has left the pier, the docks, and the beach, except for the two of them as they sit with their feet dangling off the pier and over the ocean, a bucket of cotton candy between them.

“I don’t know why more people don’t come out here to look at this view.”

“Because it’s one in the morning, love,” he laughs, sticking his hand in the bucket to grab some of the fluff. “Everyone is asleep.”

“We’re not.”

“Because we’re crazy.”

She laughs at that as she twists herself a little closer to him, picking up the cotton candy bucket and holding it in her lap as their thighs press together and her head rests on his shoulder, the smallest hint of his cologne still remaining. Mostly he smells like salt and sweat. It’s not an awful combination, but it’s not particularly pleasant either. She can’t imagine what she smells like after spending the day outside. Probably sweat and suntan lotion.

“Oh I don’t know, I think we’re geniuses for getting this view all to ourselves.”

“It is a beautiful view,” he hums as his arm comes to wrap around her waist, fingers toying with the skin just about the belt loops on her shorts.

His touch is electric, like lightening bugs inching over her skin, and she twists her head up to look at him only to find that he’s already looking at her, their lips so close that if she just pressed up the slightest bit she could…

“Emma,” he whispers, somehow inching closer so that his nose presses into hers, his lips ghosting against her skin as she whines at the lack of touch. It’s so much and yet not nearly enough.

“What?” she murmurs right back, one hand bracing her against the wood while the other lands on his thigh, his muscles twitching under her touch.

“What are you doing?”

“I was kind of thinking about kissing you.”

“So was I.”

And then they are. It’s soft, gentle at first. Really, it’s as sweet as the cotton candy that they were just eating. He tastes like that too. Killian’s lips taste like sugar, and they’re far softer than she ever imagined. She has imagined it too, far more than she’d ever admit. Seven, almost eight years ago, when she left this town with no intention of ever coming back, when she screwed up her life and hurt people she cared about, she never would have imagined knowing just how Killian kisses.

It’s a good thing to know as her heart threatens to burst through her ribcage with its pounding.

She thinks that he’s going to pull back from her, that he’s going to stop the kiss, but really his hands come up to cup her face, rough callouses covering her skin with the magic of his touch, and he drags his teeth against her bottom lip, his mouth forming into a smile at the little noise that she just let out as heat simmers below the surface of her skin. It can no way compare to the way the sun felt beating down on her all day.

It’s so much better.

Her lips part to let him slide his tongue into her mouth, the slick flesh exploring her as she does the same. He’s a damn good kisser, and she could do this for hours. She might have been doing this for hours. She honestly doesn’t know at this point as her toes actually curl within her shoes and as her skin tingles.

“We should go inside. Get some rest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she agrees, knowing that even though the two of them are going to end up in bed, neither of them are actually going to bed.

His apartment is only a five minute walk from the pier, but it seems to take them so much longer to get there as Killian keeps taking the time to push her into a wall and bury his head into her neck, hot puffs of air coming out onto her skin as he kisses her flesh. It’s thrilling and exciting, and she really shouldn’t complain with the heat that’s curling between her thighs and the way that it’s absolutely driving her mad.

But they do eventually get inside, Killian unlocking the door with his hands shaking the slightest bit, and she tries to comfort him by turning and wrapping her arms around his neck as she pays the same attention to him that he did to her earlier. His hands find her ass, and before she knows it, warm flesh is dipping below her shorts and squeezing her as he easily walks her backwards. She trusts him completely in so many ways, and she thinks that mostly shows with the fact that she never looks behind her as they move through the apartment.

She’s far too distracted by this little noise that he makes when she bites down on his clavicle anyways.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Is that so?” she mumbles, pulling back from him and lifting this ugly t-shirt over her shoulders so that it falls to the ground and her skin is exposed to his gaze.

“Aye. No one compares.”

“Oh I don’t know about that,” she teases, her voice lifting in pitch as his fingers work at the button on her shorts. His hands are so damn warm, and she imagines the rest of his body is as it holds the warmth of their day spent outside.

“I do.”

She looks up at him then, at the intense forget-me-not eyes, and the smile that was on her face falls at the seriousness of his. He means it. Really and truly, and she’s not going to take that lightly. Pressing her palm up against his chest, she lifts up on her toes and slants her lips over is.

“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”

It’s not quite the same, but she’s getting there.

Slowly but surely each article of their clothes is peeled off of their bodies. It takes far too long with how they’re stopping to explore every inch of each other’s skin with hands and lips and teeth. Killian is exceptionally good at riling her up, at making her want him, and after what feels like an eternity, he settles himself over her and between her thighs as he pushes into her in a thick slide of heat that makes her dig her nails into his arms, little red marks staying over his tattoo while she holds on tightly.

“Emma, God, I – ” he begins, his voice strained and yet light, as if he’s talking to that person who he thinks hung the moon. Maybe he is as he gently rocks into her, his hips deliciously sliding over hers while his lips hover just above her. “You are fantastic. I can’t – this is so much better than I imagined.”

She wants to make a quip about him imagining this, but she doesn’t. Instead she presses up to kiss him. “For me too.”

It’s slow, much slower than it ever has been for her, and it’s likely because Killian is taking the time to learn what she likes, to learn what brings her pleasure and causes her to whimper as they shift and move together. He’s brilliant at this, at making every inch of her feel treasured for the first time in a long time, and she wants to do the same to him, to show him that he’s treasured too. She wants to show him that she’s not leaving him, not again.

So she spends her time gliding their lips together, trying to coax out whimpers of pleasure from him. She does, and she wonders if she can memorize the sounds that he makes. She’s planning on doing this again, so she’s got the time. His hips snap into hers as her legs shift to allow him better access, to make him slip in deeper, and when he starts to get a bit shaky, she snakes her hand between them to rub at where they’re joined. She knows that she falls first, that her blood runs hot and that she can’t stop it as her eyes shut and Killian’s forehead rests against her collarbone. But she doesn’t want to stop it, not when this is so blissful and not when Killian is falling apart too, coming undone as the sweat on his skin falls to hers, his lips pressed against her ear as he whispers everything but “I love you” to her.

That comes two months later on a warm morning in October as they sit at his kitchen table drinking coffee after they spent the night trying to figure out what kind of job she’s going to apply for since she doesn’t want to keep working as a waitress. Killian suggests that she come work for him, and when she raises a brow at that, he shrugs and tells her that he’s serious. Whether she realizes it or not, she’s become quite adept at helping him plan events and set up for things, as well as answering calls and dealing with people who are upset that it’s raining and that their scheduled sailing lesson has been cancelled.

Plus, it means that she doesn’t have to work in an office all day, which is exactly what she’s been trying to avoid.

So the night after she figures out a way to maybe get her life on track, the man who has always been there for her even when she wasn’t there for him tells her that he loves her. She says it right back, meaning every word. She might not have deserved him for hurting him when they were young, but if there’s anything she’s learned lately, it’s that forgiveness, when deserved, is a very powerful thing.

She knows all of his secrets, all of his scars. She knows the ones that she caused, the ones that were left while she was around and the ones that were left after she was gone. She’ll get to know the ones that are left in the future.

She also knows that the ship wheel’s tattoo on his arm, the one that has his mom’s and Liam’s names inked into his skin because they were the people he loved most, gets her name inked into it three years after she officially returns home.

Because she is.

Home.

#unraveling the thread #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #one shot

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sunevial · 5 years

Text

The Pianist

Commissioned by @zephyrus-gryphon (or more accurately, my way of thanking him for donating to my glasses fund)

A bit of a thought experiment, this piece follows the character from Death Parade, the Pianist. What might she been have like in life?

---

The lights dimmed, bathing the concert hall in gentle shadows until there was only a single white spotlight shining down on the stage. Space filling chatter fell to nothing more than the barest of whispers as eyes turned towards the main attraction of the night. There were no dancers in colorful costumes, no actors ready to belt out emotional lines, just a simple grand piano and a woman in black. She raised her arms, slow enough that it seemed they were breathing deep, and placed her fingers onto the keys.

Light burst from the stage, grabbing audience members by the ear and demanding that they pay attention for just this short burst of time. It flowed, it swayed, it rose and it fell, it pushed them to the edge of their seats and flung them back until they were helpless to do anything except ride out the storm. If there was magic in this world, this was it, and they were getting perhaps their only chance to see it done by a master.

Perhaps it was lifetimes later when the spell broke; perhaps it was only minutes. The hall was left in stunned silence as the woman stood and gave a polite bow. Only then did everyone leap to their feet, applause breaking their stupor and reminding everyone that this was, in fact, not a dream.

Among the commotion, a young girl remained with her eyes on the stage, drinking in the sight of the woman in black and the instrument at her side. She closed her eyes, desperately searching in her mind for a place to remember the song by so that she would never lose this experience, this memory. Music had found its way into her life, and she could never go back down the path she had started down.

With wide eyes filled with wonder and resolve, the little girl tore her eyes away from a dream made manifest and tugged on her mother’s skirt.

“Mom, I want to do that too.”

Her mother blinked a number of time, face softening with each one as she realized the determination in her daughter’s words.

“It’s going to be a lot of work, you know. It’s going to take a long time. It’s going to be hard.”

The little girl simply nodded.

“That’s okay. I can do it.”

---

“Beside the bone fractures and the torn muscle tissue, not to mention you have a severe concussion and I still have no idea how you managed to survive a broken neck, there’s probably going to be quite a bit of nerve damage in your hands.”

The words jumbled together after that, meaningless strings of phrases that meant nothing and would mean nothing. Unable to so much as move her head, her eyes flickered without purpose between the harsh white walls and the harsher hospital lights. All manner of monitors for her breathing and her heart rate and who knows what else beeped in steady patterns, the sound maddening in its ever repeating loop. There were so many wires in and around her body that she was honestly surprised the doctors hadn’t replaced all of her organs with gears and cogs.

She was supposed to be grateful. She was supposed to count her blessings that she was so much as breathing after the car had rolled over five times, the same accident that left her mother paralyzed from the neck down and made her baby brother lose an arm. She was supposed to feel lucky that she would make a nearly full recovery except for some problems with fine motor control.

Piano was all placing fingertips to delicate keys, light touches or hard slams for different styles and genres and time periods, stretching wide for octaves or pinching them tight for smaller intervals, the quick dancing movements of jazz piano or the flowing runs of classical music, all turning precision technique into art.

Straining her eyes, the girl’s eyes fell on the black hands of a nearby clock. Seven thirty at night. She was supposed to be practicing an accompanist piece for her friend’s senior recital in a month. She was supposed to be hammering away at jazz charts for her band’s performance next week. She was supposed to be memorizing one of Mozart’s piano concertos for her college auditions.

She was supposed to begin learning the song that made her heart sing and fill the world with light and wonder.

The doctor kept rattling off her recovery plan, reading off lists of medicines she needed to take and the exercises she was supposed to do once everything had healed.

The girl said nothing. Shock had dried her tears.

---

Her daily walks to class forced her to pass the music school. At the very least, the practice rooms inside had soundproof walls.

Shrugging her backpack higher up onto her shoulders, the young woman put her head down and picked up the pace as fast as her legs would allow. Vines and moss held the old bricks and yellowing windows together, trailing up towards the small belltower. A small garden sat under the windowsills, white flowers clinging to the last bit of summer’s warmth. It was a refuge for stressed arts students, lost English majors, and environmentalists needing a quiet place to light up and let their minds wander.

Four weeks, and she hadn’t stepped a single foot closer to the building than necessary.

The accident had forced her to pull all of her college applications, spending an unintentional gap year remembering how to sit up and wiggle her toes, bend over and crawl and take her first steps once again, brush her teeth and brush her hair, get dressed and use a knife and fork again. Each day had been an opportunity to give up hope entirely. Each day, she made the choice to try again. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was simply trying to spite the world.

Whatever it was, the first time she walked around the block alone nearly made her cry.

It had been enough to send her applications in once again.

Not everything had returned. Shoe laces were hard to get right without a helping hand or a half hour of slow, painstaking work. After one too many balls were thrown in frustration, she switched to slip ons. Her handwriting was barely serviceable as chicken scratch, much less something that could be reliably used to take down notes for later. Thankfully, the professors didn’t mind being recorded that much. As for piano, well, there was nothing wrong with a career in education. Teaching the next generation was a noble pursuit, one that would end up doing good in the world.

Not that she had even tried going back, instead jumping at the chance to offload her piano paraphernalia to a neighbor. She shoved sheet music into every box she could find, tore her room apart until she was sure that not a single practice book remained, even offered her standup piano for far less money than it was worth. Trophies were stripped off the wall. Ribbons found a dark corner of the attic. In less than a week, all signs of the offending instrument were gone.

There would only be disappointment if she tried.

She had resolved to keep moving forward, even if something got left behind.

A window flew open, black shutters banging against the sides of the building and carrying the forlorn striking of a piano’s keys. The song tugged at the corners of her memory, winding around her like a siren’s call as images of a darkened stage came to life.

Eyes fixed to the ground, she plugged her ears and walked away.

---

“You know, I wish I had picked up an instrument as a kid.”

The woman looked up from her reading, raising an eyebrow at the other mother waiting in the dance hall. Colorful crayon drawings and messy coloring book pages covered up every inch of wallspace, turning every surface that wasn’t a mirror into a haphazard mess of color with patches of white paper strewn between. Little children bounded across the dance floor, feet moving somewhat in time with slow, steady beats of the man at a beat up piano.

She couldn’t help but tap her foot in time.

“Never learned?” the woman asked, eyes searching for her daughter amongst the sea of black leotards and bunned hair.

“Well, I played violin for maybe a year. Parents didn’t push it, and I thought it was dumb and boring, so I didn’t even bother trying” the mother said with a slight laugh, her gaze far off and filled with a longing sorrow. “But that doesn’t count. I don’t remember a thing. Can’t read music, couldn’t tell you what the strings mean or what one piece is from another. Now I’m just kicking myself because man, wouldn’t that be a cool skill to have.”

“You know, it’s never too late to learn.”

The mother laughed. “Says the teacher.”

She returned with a slight smirk, eyes flickering across the hall and trying to land anywhere else but the upright instrument. With each pass over, it was harder to tear her gaze away. “You know, I actually used to be pretty good at that when I was a kid,” she said, pointing a finger across the way. “Got a lot of awards for it, went to a couple of championships. Really could’ve gone somewhere big with it.”

“So why’d you give it up?”

“Car crash.”

Words died on the mother’s lips, only nodding in simple understanding as the simple beats faded to a close and a cluster of children ran across the room to waiting parents. There was no spell that had been broken, no masterful revelation of the arts for either the adults or the children.

And yet, her foot continued tapping.

Noticing her daughter more engaged with a gaggle of friends, the woman rose from her seat and crossed the floor, each footstep following the rhythm that had been playing all throughout the class. As a solo instrument, a steady beat was the hardest thing for any piano player to learn. There was no one to follow, no one to lead, just the speed the player wanted to take and the instrument.

She could keep time. The hardest step was already done.

With trembling fingers, she placed her hands on the keys, remembering the feel of a familiar chord, one she still remembered despite just wanting to move on and forget. But how could she forget something so utterly real and raw. One breath in, one breath out, and she struck them down.

The piano was horribly out of tune.

But the sound still rang true.

---

“Mom, come on, we’ve gotta go.”

“Let me just finish this up,” the woman said, fingers lightly dancing across the piano keys and filling the space with sound. The coffee shop was bathed in sunset’s glow, casting deep shadows on the faces of people buried in their readings and writings. Each table had a small vase of white flowers picked from the garden outside. Paintings from local artisans lined the walls, a motley assortment of picturesque landscapes, blurred street corners, and thought provoking portraits.

She came every Saturday at two, setting out a small tip jar on the antique piano and playing a number of tunes she had practiced throughout the week. They were never perfect nor polished nor something that would be worth paying money at a fancy venue, but it was good enough for the sleep deprived patrons of a small cafe. The owners were understanding, the people were polite, and she always came away with something by the time night fell.

As it turned out, grading papers for ten years had been almost better physical therapy than what the doctors prescribed. The finesse and grace of her youth was long gone, but she remembered where to place her hands and how to read inbetween the black notes splashed across sheet music. Speed and technical ability would come with time.

Time, patience, and a lot of practice books.

As her fingers danced to a gentle halt, the song faded into the evening until there was nothing left but the grinding of coffee beans and the occasional muffled cough. Some of the regulars looked up, giving polite claps and nods and finally checking the clock only to realize it was far later than anyone had thought to give attention. Others remained absorbed in their work, eyes focused on piles of papers or personal sketchbooks.

But even their ears twitched.

The woman stood up, gathering the music back into her satchel and pulling the lid back over the keys. With a gentle smile on her face, she shoved a handful of dollar bills and coins into her pockets and wove through the small mess of coffee tables. Her daughter was waiting outside, arms crossed placidly over a leather jacket.

“That sounded good” she said, flashing a smile and stretching out her arms. “Really good. When’s your concert debut?”

She laughed. “Oh please, I’ve got a long way to go before that happens.”

The two started down the road home, a familiar and gentle tune being hummed along by both mother and daughter alike.

Her daughter knew it as a bedtime lullaby.

---

Low heels clicked on the wooden floor, piercing the nearly silent hall with every step. The audience was hidden behind a curtain of shadow, the occasional face of an old friend or one of the many students she taught over the years just barely illuminated by the stage lights. They stared at a simple white backdrop, at an old woman in her best dress and hair done up nice, at a grand piano set in the middle of the stage.

With every step, the woman saw a new face in the crowd. Her daughter, now grown and setting off on her own path in life, sitting proudly in the front row with a gaggle of grandchildren. Her old colleagues from the school, gathered together and whispering about the after party and if there would be enough cookies and lemonade for everyone. Her folk band, waiting in the wings for their turn to join her on the stage. Students from nearly every class she had ever taught, each presenting her with a new stack of music at the end of the year. The baristas from the coffee shop, collectively deciding that the cafe could afford to take a day off if their Saturday entertainment couldn’t be there. The women from her church group, each having begged for nearly ten years straight before she gave in and took a place in the Sunday band.

The faces went on for what seemed like miles.

Every seat had an expectant face. Watching.

Waiting for something to happen.

She took a seat at the piano, hands gracefully running over black wood almost shining under the lights. Her music was already in place: classical, jazz, folk tunes, renditions of popular songs, a couple of pieces she had crafted over the years.

And before them all, a piece she needed no paper for.

She raised her arms with grace and beauty.

Magic sprung forth.

---

The lights were white. Her dress was black.

A woman sat at the piano, playing a song that she knew must be played in remembrance of the woman currently resting in the casket. The line of mourners moved with the slowness only the dead can command, winding its way through the pews and far out the door. Besides the ever present swaying and building music, there were only the sounds of choked tears and low confessions.

And still, the woman played on.

“What’s that song?” a boy asked, respectfully taking a seat on the bench. He was one of the grandchildren, old enough to remember the tune from the house but never old enough to learn its name.

“Moonlit Night,” the woman replied, never taking her eyes off the keys. “It’s a song of sorrow, of ages gone by that only exist in memory and will eventually fade away. Your grandmother loved it dearly.”

He nodded slowly, the light in his eyes wise beyond his years. His gaze flickered to the line of mourners, watching them with a curiosity and an understanding only a child could truly make manifest. “She was…really loved, wasn’t she?”

“Your grandmother touched the lives of a lot of people. She was a teacher, a mother, a grandmother, a good friend, a pillar of the community,” she said, the ghost of a smile appearing on her face. “What was she to you?”

The boy glanced over to the casket, heavily obscured with the bodies of the performers, then back to the grand piano before him. For the first time since the doors had opened and the family service had taken place, he seemed to be lost in thoughts that were no longer just sorrow. Minutes stretched between them, and still the song played on, sending out light and darkness, joy and sorrow, magic and the mundane out into the world

“She was a pianist.”

The woman smiled true.

The song began anew.

#commissions #commission #zac #my writing

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