#this guy looks like a pirate with a minnesota accent | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

spartanguard · 5 years

Text

you ain't gonna be lonesome anymore

Summary: Emma discovers that there's more to the guy who lives alone in the woods than the town would lead her to believe—and may have just found a kindred spirit. (Modern AU inspired by "Joshua" by Dolly Parton)

A/N: In the spirit of Dolly Parton's Heartstrings, this piece was inspired by her song "Joshua", which I heard and immediately knew needed to be an AU. I had intended to wait until closer to the release of the series but...I couldn’t. Hope you like it!

rated G | 5.6k | AO3

On her way into town, through the narrow forest road that just barely held two lanes of traffic, Emma Swan saw it—a tiny little cabin hiding among the trees. It probably wouldn’t have caught her attention were it not for the light coming through the windows, practically a beacon in the dimming dusk, and the bit of smoke coming from the chimney.

And she probably wouldn’t have given it another thought were it not for the people of Storybrooke being the way they were. She just assumed it was normal for hermits to live in cabins in the Maine woods, but once she realized this town was full of busybodys who knew everyone and made everyone’s business their own, she saw the oddity of it.

Not like she was much of anything normal herself; this was just another stop on the road to wherever. Neal may have left her with a broken heart and jail time on her record, but she also couldn’t forget his words: “Home is the place, when you leave...you just miss it.” So far, she hadn’t missed anywhere; not Arizona, not Tallahassee, not Minnesota, New York, Boston—anywhere.

And she was pretty sure she’d be able to add Storybrooke to that list. It was almost too quaint to be true, and the people, while hospitable, were one step away from cloying. But winter was approaching, and this seemed as good a place to hibernate as any other before moving onto the next.

So she got a job at the diner and began putting names to faces of just about everyone in town. The grumpy miner, Leroy, liked his bacon; the cute sheriff, Graham, stereotypically enjoyed doughnuts. And so on. She got the gossip about the romance between the teacher and the recently divorced manager of the animal shelter, and the equally scandalous teenage pregnancy that prompted the young lovebirds to elope.

It was on a quick trip out of town—because Storybrooke had a terrible liquor selection and she’d be damned if she spent her birthday drinking the swill at the Rabbit Hole—that she saw the cabin again, looking just as cozy yet standoffish as it had a month ago, and it got her wondering. Now that she knew everyone, just who lived there?

“Hey Granny,” she asked a couple days later (once she was over her hangover). “You know that cottage in the woods, out by the highway?”

“What about it?” the diner’s owner barked impatiently, even though they were in the middle of the afternoon lull.

“Who lives there?” She could see Graham tucking away out there, or maybe it was Belle, the sweet but reserved librarian.

“No one worth knowing,” Granny grumbled. “And you won’t see ‘em around here, anyways. Good riddance.”

Emma frowned; that was antithesis to just about everything she’d learned about this town. Everyone was so keen to make sure she knew everyone else—so what was going on there?

“You talking about the Jones place, out on the ridge?” Leroy asked, the only other person in the diner.

“I guess so.”

“Yeah, don’t bother. He’s a dick.”

“What did he do?” she asked, making a move to refill Leroy’s coffee mug.

“He just...is. Anytime anyone has gotten close to his property, they’ve been run off. The one time I saw him, he was glaring at anyone who dared to get too close. There's all sorts of weird sounds and smells coming from his property. He’s just a nasty piece of work. Don’t you worry about him, sister—just keep your distance and you’ll be fine.”

Well, Emma had a terrible problem with doing what people told her. Now she was curious.

She tested the waters. She started to ask people when it was slow if they knew anything about the cabin in the woods, and got all kinds of responses.

“Stay away from him, dear; his heart’s as black as his hair.”

“My cousin got lost hiking and ended up near the property; guns started ringing out and he ran the other way as fast as he could.”

“I ran into him down at the docks one night. No clue what he was doing there but it didn’t look like anything good.”

“I heard he’s a werewolf, and that's why he lives all alone!” (That one was from one of the kids in town.)

“No, silly; he’s a pirate, with a hook for a hand! He’s got his treasure out there so that’s why he protects it!” (And that was said kid’s friend.)

“He’s evil, plain and simple,” she was assured by the pawnbroker—but given that man’s smarm and apparent Napoleon complex, she didn’t take his word as gold.

Emma had seen a lot more of the world than the residents of Storybrooke, and a lot more people; while she hadn’t had the best interactions with all of them, she knew that no one was as terrible as they all made this Jones guy out to be.

She also knew a thing or two about keeping your distance from people and the reasons one might have to do that—especially the people here; there were some days she figured he had the right idea, particularly after she’d heard some nasty things about the teacher said by the prudish old ladies. God forbid they ever learn Emma’s romantic history; it might kill them in their vinyl-covered seats.

And Emma had always been a bit of a rebel; that streak had gotten her kicked out of more than a few homes growing up and into several scrapes, but even at 28, she had no desire to tamp it down.

So on one of the last crisp days of fall, early in November, she decided she’d see what the fuss was about.

She packed up a few pastries purchased with her employee “discount” (otherwise known as “take them out of my paycheck, Granny”), a thermos of hot cocoa, wrapped herself up in her leather jacket and a scarf, and then headed off on what she told people was a “fall colors hike”. Which wasn’t entirely a lie, even if more leaves were on the ground than the trees at this point.

“Don’t go poking around that Jones place, you hear?” Granny called as she was leaving. “I’m not gonna drag your carcass home.”

Emma just rolled her eyes. She’d be fine.

Wouldn’t she?

She couldn’t lie—some of the stories started sending shivers down her spine the closer she got to the property. She’d never really been an outdoors-y girl, at least not by choice; there may have been a few nights spent on park benches, but only in the summer. And she generally preferred to stick to marked trails, but this forest didn’t have any—at least, not that went where she was headed. So it took all her concentration to make sure she didn’t slip on a slick patch or some protruding tree root.

Or maybe it was the trees themselves; they were tall and a tiny bit foreboding, as if they were telling her she wasn’t supposed to be there. (Maybe she wasn’t quite as rebellious as she thought.) Somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, the voice of Legolas was telling her how old the forest was. But then she laughed aloud when she remembered a meme that changed it to “old as balls”.

Her laughter was quickly cut off by a growl, though. Up ahead was a large, shaggy black dog—and he was standing his ground. Emma saw the clearing—and the cabin—beyond, and realized she’d arrived. Crap, had that kid been right about the werewolf thing? This dog was huge.

She remembered something about not looking a crazy dog in the eyes and was trying to avoid contact, but then a voice called out that drew both of their attentions.

“Who are you?”

Standing in the entryway of the cabin was who she assumed was the owner and—damn. She was not expecting a guy who looked like that to be living out here. The old lady in the diner had been right about black hair, but where she’d been expecting long and messy, it was short and slightly tousled. He had a bit of scruff and even from far away, she could see the way his piercing blue eyes and furrowed brows were studying her. And a strong nose, sharp jaw, and high cheekbones left him with a face much prettier than anything she expected.

He was dressed for rugged living, in a dark plaid button up and worn jeans, but the way they hugged his biceps and legs couldn’t possibly be practical. She wasn’t complaining, though—whatever he was doing out here was clearly good for him. He was probably the most attractive person she’d ever seen in person.

“Lass?” he called out again, and took a step out from the house. He had an accent that definitely wasn’t from Maine—probably from the other side of the Atlantic—and his voice was more than on edge. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t sound mean, though—just wary. She couldn’t blame him; she probably would be, too, if some strange person was standing in her front yard and staring.

Oh, right—she was the strange person.

“Hi! Sorry, I, uh, I’m Emma. Emma Swan.”

The dog was still growling; she hadn’t noticed in her ogling. “Easy, Smee,” he said, and the pup finally relaxed, then trotted back to the man. He gave the good boy a scratch behind the ears before ushering the mutt inside and turning his attention back to Emma. “Can I help you with something?”

She could think of a few lusty somethings but it was then she realized that she had no real plan for actually finding anyone out here, despite the fact that she knew the place was occupied. “Oh, no, not really; I, uh, just—”

“Just thought you’d come out and see if the one-handed old coot was real?”

Busted. Her eyes darted away, focusing on an old barrel standing in the yard—though not missing the prosthetic hook at the end of his left arm—and she was pretty sure she was blushing in shame. God, why did she think this was a good idea? He probably had enough gawkers and clearly didn’t like people and—and he was laughing. What?

She looked back up and he was chuckling at her, giving her a bit of a wry grin.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, starting to get worried that he really was crazy.

“You’re the first person who’s had the guts to do that in broad daylight,” he replied, still amused. “Do you want to come in?”

She could feel her eyebrows disappear into her beanie—that was not what she expected at all. There was still part of her waiting for him to produce a shotgun and run her off the property, or wondering if she was about to be chained to a radiator Black Snake Moan-style.

That said, this was also the most entertaining thing that had happened since she arrived here, and she’d certainly made it through shadier situations. That and there were zero creeper vibes from this guy—something she was all too good at noticing. “Sure,” she answered casually.

He smiled—a brilliant thing, really, brighter than the autumn sun shining through the mostly bare branches—and beckoned her to follow him into the house. Leaves and twigs crunched under her boots as she followed.

He paused at the door, though, and turned back to her. “Oh, you can call me Killian, by the way. Killian Jones.”

“Nice to meet you, Killian Jones.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Emma Swan.”

He led the way in and she was right behind him, stopping only to swipe her shoes on the doormat; she may be awkward, but she didn’t want to be rude and track mud in—especially once she got a look around.

It wasn’t a large cabin, she knew that, but it was surprisingly spacious inside and clean—much cleaner than the rural setting would suggest. The wood floors were immaculately waxed and there wasn’t even the haze of dust motes swirling in the light from the windows; she couldn’t say half as much about her cramped apartment.

There was a tidy living space with a couch, a recliner, and an inviting fireplace with a large TV mounted above it; a small kitchen area to one side; and a couple doors on the other that she assumed headed to bedrooms. Smee was draped over one end of the sofa, his furry head resting on the arm as he watched her—still judging, but not aggressive, at least. Then the sound of wood scraping against wood drew her eyes back to the kitchen, where Killian was sliding another chair up to the small table. “Take a seat,” he said with a nod.

“Thanks,” she answered, and complied; the furniture was well-loved but also in good shape.

“Rum?” he asked, but he was already pulling glasses from a cupboard.

“Only if it’s good.” If anything, she’d be glad to leave Storybrooke for somewhere with better booze.

“Trust me, it’s the best.” He set the glasses on the table and then went back to grab an old-looking bottle off the counter; vintage was putting it lightly: it was scuffed and scratched and had no label, only a cork in the top to protect the amber liquid.

She had to bite her tongue when he deftly pulled out the cork with his teeth, because the extra attention on his mouth just highlighted how supple—and likely kissable—his lips were. He poured a generous amount for both of them before setting the bottle down and taking the seat next to her.

He lifted his glass, but then paused. “I feel like I should toast to something, but I’ve no clue what.”

It did feel odd to be making a toast with an almost-total stranger, but Emma agreed; that and it felt rude to not make one, and she’d already been that enough today. “To good rum?” she offered.

“Works for me. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” She took a sip and— “Damn,” she sighed as it slid down her throat. “You weren’t lying.” It was the perfect blend of sweet and spicy, with a light amount of burn that warmed up the bit of her that had been starting to numb in the chill autumn air.

“I make a habit not to.”

“Good to know.”

They took a few more sips in companionable silence, until he set his glass down and stared into it. “So, um,” he started, then scratched nervously behind his ear. “What, uh, what are they saying about me in town?”

“Nothing true.”

He arched an eyebrow at her in disbelief. “You hardly know me, lass.”

“No, but I can tell that your heart isn’t as black as your hair.”

“Someone said that?”

“Yup.”

“Well, it’s poetic; I’ll give it that,” he chuckled. “Anything else?”

“Mostly that you’re rude and combative, although the kids tell some tall tales.”

“Such as?”

“Werewolf, vampire, pirate—take your pick.”

He laughed again (a sound she was finding she enjoyed quite a bit). “I suppose pirate is the most apt of that list.”

“You do have good taste in rum.” Damn good; this reminded her of the stuff she bought on her birthday. “But I thought pirates lived on the high seas?”

“I do have a ship.”

“Okay then.” That explained why people saw him at the docks. “But then why would you live up here?”

He shrugged. “I imagine you’ve seen what that town is like.” She nodded; that she had. “I wasn’t in much mood for company when I arrived here, so they took that as a slight on their perceived hospitality. They wrote me off from there, and if that was how they were going to treat a newcomer, then I wanted no part of it.” He took another long drag of his rum. “And given that I wasn’t much in the mood for company, this place seemed perfect. So I bought the property, fixed it up, and...here I am. Well, me and Smee.”

She understood that; it was easier to keep people at arms’ length than to let them in and risk them hurting you. Casual, passing relationships were fine; intimacy was off the table, even platonic.

The thing she couldn’t figure out, though, was what was happening in the present.

“And what about now?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you in the mood for company...now?”

He was still studying his drink, but glanced up at her through his long lashes, and the corner of his mouth ticked up. “I suppose I am.” He paused a bit, then added, “Are you?”

“Not usually,” she answered quickly. “But it doesn’t seem so bad at the moment.”

The fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gave her a sideways smile that, to her astonishment, made her heart skip a beat; she couldn’t remember the last time that happened. And—was it just her, or the rum, or were his cheeks pink? Was he blushing?

How did she stumble upon what might be one of the most adorable people on the face of the earth in the middle of the woods?

“So,” he continued casually, as if he hadn’t just possibly taken up residence in a part of Emma’s heart that she wasn’t sure worked anymore, “just how did you end up in Storybrooke?”

“I drove here,” she said nonchalantly.

“Ha. But really.”

She initially blamed it on the rum when she poured out her whole sob story to him, but in hindsight, the reality was that he was the first person she didn’t think would judge her too hard on it—which was confirmed when he relayed his own, which wasn’t terribly different: unstable homes, absent family members, and then broken hearts. When he found out about her nomadic lifestyle, he asked about the places she’d been; she followed suit when he told her he’d been in the Navy, which was where he lost his hand.

“Okay, but really,” she demanded, voice a bit louder than normal thanks to the influence of the rum. “Even if you’re not in the Navy anymore, you could go anywhere; why the hell are you here?”

He shrugged and licked his (delectable) lips. “Everyone has to make port somewhere at some point.”

She gave him a disbelieving look. “Yeah, but...Storybrooke? What even is there to do here? Why not go to a place like New York or Boston?”

Staring into his now-empty glass, he chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, then cast her a sideways glance. “Let’s just say...some ventures in life demand a fair bit of privacy, which is also something I quite value.” He was silent for another moment, but then continued, “If I show you something, do you think you can keep it secret?”

She held up her right hand in a Vulcan salute. “Scout’s honor.”

Killian’s jaw hung open at whatever the hell she was doing (frankly, she didn’t know herself, either), before chuckling, shaking his head, and coming to his feet. “Follow me.”

They headed back outside, Smee trotting behind them, over to the far edge of the property, opposite the way Emma had come from. Hidden between some trees was a small shack that was just as clean and pristine on the outside as the cottage was on the inside. As they got closer, she picked up on a smell that wasn’t the forest, but did seem familiar—and, she hated to say it, Leroy was right: there was a weird noise coming from it.

“What is this?” she had to ask.

“You’ll see,” he answered casually, pulling a key from his shirt pocket to unlock the door.

Inside wasn’t very big, and it was crowded with equipment on one end and bottle-covered tables on the other. The spicy scent overpowered her and almost stung a bit; it reminded her of her brief career as a bartender in a strip club and the smell of stale alcohol that wasn’t properly mopped after a spill. Wait—was this? “Rum?” she said, almost in disbelief, turning to look back at him.

“Aye.”

She assessed the operation once more; it looked more like the inside of the chemistry lab she was supposed to go to in high school than a moonshine operation. It was impressive, honestly. “So I guess you really are a pirate, huh?” she teased.

He gave a mock bow. “Captain Hook, at your service.”

She giggled, but then it was like a lightning bolt or whatever went off in her head. “Wait—Hook’s Rum?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of it.”

She snorted. “I got drunk on it on my birthday. Best rum I’ve ever had.”

“It’s always nice to make an impression,” he said with a smirk. God, he was a dork.

“How many times have people tried to break in?” she wondered as he slipped past her inside and grabbed an empty bottle.

“Are you trying to rob me?” he countered as he fiddled with something on the still, flipping a lever with his hook and letting amber liquid pour into the bottle.

“Nope.”

“Then none.”

She leaned against the doorframe as she watched him work. “So, using your legend of infamy to keep your illicit business practices under wraps. I like it.”

“I have a license,” he tossed back as he shut off the flow once the bottle was full, then turned to another surface where an odd machine laid. “How else would you have bought it in the store?”

“Fair.” He twisted the handle on the contraption, which turned the bottle. “But is that how you’ve managed to keep this secret out here?”

“Indeed.” Carefully, he wiped the bottle down, then turned and handed it to her; now it bore the semi-familiar label that had caught her eye in the liquor store on it. “I can autograph that, if you want.”

“But then I can’t drink it.”

“Guess I better give you two, then.”

He did—somehow raising his dorkdom to adorable (adorkable?) levels—and directed them back to the house. The sun was definitely lower than it had been when she left and her stomach was starting to grumble; hopefully, those pastries weren’t crushed. But hunger wasn’t the first thing on her mind, oddly enough. “So,” she started, “if you keep that hidden, why did you trust me with it?”

He didn’t answer until they were back in the house. “You’ve been honest,” he answered simply. “And you have that look about you.”

“What look?”

“The look you get when you’ve been left alone.”

“Pretty sure we established that.”

“Yeah. But it means...I knew you’d understand.”

She swallowed and suddenly felt like his intense blue gaze on her saw every thought she’d ever had. “Yeah, I do,” she said softly.

And then her stomach rudely growled, interrupting what had been a soft but heavy moment.

Killian’s low chuckle eased her mortification, but only slightly. “I was about to make some grilled cheese, if you’d like; unless you need to get back to town.”

That look he’d just been talking about creeped into his eyes, and she saw it for the out it was. But what kind of monster turns that down? “Grilled cheese is my favorite.”

“Excellent. Pick out a movie and I’ll get that going.”

His collection was extensive, but she found herself more drawn to his book selection. Most people were surprised to know she was an avid reader, given her life, but she’d learned long ago that libraries were an excellent place to get out of inclement weather, and when you were strapped for cash, it was cheap entertainment.

Something he must have figured out, too, given the stack with Storybrooke Public Library stamped on the edges. “Really? You go to the library?”

“Is that really so surprising?” he called back from the kitchen, where she could hear the familiar sizzle of buttered bread on a griddle.

“Seems odd that the town hermit would go to the second-most welcoming place in the city center.”

“Only second-most?”

“After Granny’s.”

“Ahh,” was all he said, but then she heard the sound of dishes.

A minute later, he was back in the living room with a delicious, gooey sandwich on a plate just for her. “Well, there’s little that can keep me away from a good book, and Belle is the only other person in town that I like.”

“Other than…?”

“You, obviously.”

“I moved up your list that fast?”

“You’re second of three; let’s not get too cocky, love.”

“Yeah? Who’s third?”

“Belle. Smee is first.”

“Oh, I see,” she threw back, amused. It was kind of insane how easily they fell into banter after only...wow, had it really been 4 hours since she showed up here?

He invited her to take a seat on the end of the couch opposite Smee while he settled into the recliner and they started to talk about books. Then movies, then TV a bit, but it moved onto their respective educations (Emma: GED; Killian: the equivalent of a master’s or something crazy that he got from the naval academy and was decidedly not using).

He got another bottle of rum out once they finished eating and continued to drink and talk through the night, about...oh, everything. Emma knew she had been talking a long time because she was trying to use the rum to rehydrate (which probably wasn’t working all that well) but it was hard to remember what all they had discussed when it was literally everything. And when she was honestly enjoying herself more than any time in recent memory. Even Smee had finally warmed up to her, resting his head in her lap as she scratched behind his floppy ears.

Had she ever fallen into conversation this easily? Probably not. But then again, no one else was like Killian.

She’d been vaguely aware of the changing color of the sky outside his windows as the night wore on—orange to blue to black—but when lavender crept in, she finally took a glance at her phone and was shocked to see the time.

“Oh shit—I have to get to work,” she cursed.

“At this hour?”

“Breakfast rush,” she explained, showing the clock on her phone.

Killian’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t realize...I’m so sorry to have kept you, Swan.”

“Quit being such a gentleman; I didn’t notice, either. The only thing is…” At this, she giggled for some reason. “I haven’t slept a wink and I’m slightly tipsy. This will be real interesting.”

He made a beeline for the kitchen and put a pot of coffee on while she gathered her things and shoved one of the day-old pastries in her mouth; she had enough time to walk back into town but she’d have to head straight to the diner. Assuming she didn’t stumble and hit a tree on the way. No—she was NOT giving Granny the satisfaction of knowing her warning had come true and actually forcing the old lady to drag her body from the woods. (She’d rather Killian do that, anyways.) (Or, you know, do her, but she got the impression he wasn’t the one-night kind of guy—or maybe she just didn’t want him to be that with her.)

She’d just zipped her coat when a thermos was being shoved in her hands; by smell alone, she could tell this was better than the cheap stuff Granny served. “Hope that helps,” he said softly.

“It already is,” she answered, then took a sip, not caring if she burnt her tongue. “Damn—is everything you brew amazing?”

“I try,” he shrugged arrogantly, but then the cocky facade washed away in an instant, replaced with something bordering on sheepish. “You know, if you wanted to come back later, or any other time, my schedule’s pretty clear.”

“Well, hopefully you’re going to get some sleep.”

“Well, yes, that. But, um,” he stammered, nervously scratching a spot behind his ear. “Don’t be a stranger, is what I’m trying to say. I’m...you’ll always be welcome here, if you want.” He was definitely blushing, the color visible even in the faint pre-dawn light.

“I might take you up on that,” she answered, trying to be casual but ending up much closer to sincere—because she had a feeling she would. She was already kind of dreading leaving, even if it was just because she didn’t like the idea of working on no sleep and with a questionable BAC.

“I hope you do.” The weight of the sincerity of that statement settled over both of them for an intense moment that in itself was enough to bring her back to sobriety, if the coffee wasn’t doing it, too. But then he was overtaken by a jaw-cracking yawn that effectively killed it.

“Go to bed,” she commanded, with a light shove on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, I will. Be safe.”

“I’ll do my best. See you later,” she farewelled, hoping he could tell she meant it.

“Until then, Swan.”

She let herself out the door and headed back the way she came, at first afraid to cast a glance behind her because she thought if she did, she might not want to leave ever. But she finally did when she was back on the edge of the clearing, and saw him watching her through the window on the door. She smiled and waved, which he returned, but she didn’t miss the bit of loneliness in his gaze as he watched her walk away.

It took considerable effort, but she managed to put one foot in front of the other and continue on her way. The sun wasn’t visible yet, so she still had time, but she needed to hustle if she’d make her shift.

Between the coffee and the gorgeous sunrise, it was definitely a pleasant hike, and was definitely helping her in the staying-awake department. Still though, there was a feeling she couldn’t shake—something completely foreign, yet vaguely familiar, and she couldn’t lie—it kind of stung. What the heck was that?

She took another sip of the coffee as she tried to figure it out, letting it warm her as it slid down her throat. She’d almost forgotten what good coffee tasted like, let alone when it had been made fresh and just for her. It was going to suck going back to Granny’s mass-produced bean water; she’d miss this stuff.

Wait—miss it?

Was that what she was feeling?

Not just for the coffee, obviously (though that was certainly part of it). Did she already miss Killian?

“Home is the place, when you leave...you just miss it.”

No. That was insane. She’d only been there for, like, 12 hours. You can’t find home that fast, can you? (Not like she’d really know.)

But she couldn’t deny that it felt like part of her had stayed behind in that cottage. Or that she was already counting down the hours until her work shift ended and she could come back. Or that the ache got just a little bit worse with each step that took her away.

Damn. That had to be it.

Who knew she’d finally find what she’d been looking for in the middle of nowhere?

The sun finally broke the horizon as she reached Granny’s front steps and downed the last drop of coffee. She still had a couple minutes, so she quickly stashed the thermos in her backpack and used the selfie camera on her phone to make sure she didn’t look too haggard, lest Granny get some uncouth ideas.

(Actually, Granny was probably dirtier than Emma was, in that regard; and she had the oddest sense that the old lady might be able to smell the forest on her, or at least the rum.)

With one last deep breath, if only to make sure she didn’t reek too bad, Emma smoothed her hair and headed inside, for what was sure to be an arduous shift.

But, unlike most days, she actually had something to look forward to at the end of it.

Hours later, she pulled her little old Bug up the semi-hidden driveway on the other side of Killian’s property, bearing sandwiches and onion rings. Killian came out to greet her, but she didn’t let him get a word in before she’d pressed up on her toes and stole his smile with a kiss. (That he quickly reciprocated. Until Smee interrupted with a friendly bark, looking for his own hello.)

A few weeks later, her belongings, stuffed into a few age-worn duffel bags, accompanied her on her now-daily trip to the cabin in the woods; she was spending all her time there anyways, as Killian had pointed out—may as well just make the move permanent.

It took a bit longer for either of them to admit it out loud, but they both blurted it one night while cuddled close, watching The Princess Bride with Smee at their feet: she loved him, and he loved her. There was no denying it. And then they couldn’t stop saying it.

Eventually, they grew tired of Storybrooke and its whispers. Eventually, Killian’s not-so-discreet rum business got more notice. So they went onto the next place without much fuss.

She felt a bit sad when they first left the cabin, mainly because it was where they fell in love. But her home wasn’t those four walls. No, it was with Killian—and Smee, and whatever other animals or tiny humans eventually joined them—wherever that might be.

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thanks for reading! tagging some friends: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @killianmesmalls @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis

#cs ff #cs modern au #dolly parton au #my ff

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chriscope · 6 years

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Daytona Bike Week is presently in full-swing, so it’s probably a little late for you to make this year’s event. It’s entirely possible that won’t bother you. If you’re like me, events like Daytona often carry a pretty bad reputation in your mind – chauvinism of all kinds perpetuated by fat, old white guys. But after attending last year’s gathering, I’ve had something of a change of heart and now feel that every motorcyclist should attend an event like Daytona at least once.

TENUOUSLY LINKED: How to Save Motorcycling in 5 Easy Steps

Taking place in Daytona Beach, Florida, in early March, Daytona Bike Week is the unofficial opening of the riding season in the United States. Folks living in more northerly parts of the country will be looking at the snow outside their windows and feeling such a claim is a bit ambitious, but remember that there are a hell of a lot of Americans south of the Mason-Dixon line (and the imaginary line that continues west along the same latitude), and many of them are already wearing T-shirts. If it’s warm enough to play baseball, it’s warm enough to ride a motorbike.

Never mind the bikes; Daytona Beach is worth visiting just by itself.

Like many events of its type – eg, Sturgis Motorcycle Rally and Laconia Motorcycle Week – Daytona Bike Week started out as a racing event. Back in 1937, a handful of moto nuts got together to duke it out over 200 miles on a 3.2-mile course consisting of beach and public road. These days, the races are held at Daytona International Speedway. The firm-sanded beach, stretching in either direction as far as the eye can see, is now untroubled by motor vehicles.

‘It’s not just fat, old white guys.’

Roughly half a million people attend Daytona Bike Week each year. And last year, I was one of them. I came as a guest of Harley-Davidson, who flew me out to crash its Street Rod and watch the first contest of American Flat Track’s inaugural season. Despite the fact I ended up sliding across a Florida highway at 70 mph, the three days I spent at Daytona were amongst the highlights of 2017 for me.

RELATED: Popularity of Flat Track Booming: Can Indian, Harley Take Credit?

That’s not just because Harley knows how to do a press event. Or because I was able to wear short sleeves on St. Patrick’s Day for the first time since 2003. Or because I got to hang out with ultra-awesome moto-journalists like John Burns, Lemmy, “Goober” Joe Gustafson, and Ron Lieback. Though, certainly those things played a part. But one of the biggest reasons I look back at that event fondly is that it helped me to change – or, at least, adjust – some of my very negative opinions about motorcycle events like this and the people who attend them.

‘Merica, y’all

The fat, old white guys were there, of course – many wearing three-quarter helmets and ferrying their equally mature and generously proportioned wives on American-flag-festooned Gold Wings and Ultras. But, firstly, why are we hating on these folks? I mean, take a moment to think about the root cause of your anger toward fat, old white guys. Is it because they have committed the sin of aging? Is it because they have more money than you? Is it because they think differently than you in a country founded on the belief that people who think differently can still get along? Is it because they are of your parents’ generation? Is it because you can feel yourself turning into them?

And, of course, if you interact with these graybeards face to face you discover that, by and large, they’re pretty cool. OK, the “brother” stuff feels a bit affected, but, hey brother, are you really going to shit on somebody for trying to be nice to you? Fact is, these guys are bike nerds, just like you.

Carrying on from that thought, it occurs to me that events like these are the Comic-Cons of motorcycles. One of the clichéd criticisms waged against Daytona/Sturgis-type attendees is the assertion that they are all a bunch of dentists and accountants dressing up as land-pirate bad boys. Wandering around Daytona Beach, I suddenly thought: “Well, so what if they are? Who am I to judge?”

Spot the rogue Yamaha Super Ténéré in this sea of Harleys

I mean, FFS, y’all. I’m a sucker for the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, where I will straight-up dress like an actual pirate. Or sometimes a pirate in a kilt. Because that makes all kinds of sense. And it’s definitely 100-percent historically on-point with medieval times. And the Britishy accents that people put on at Ren Fest are totally believable, and all of it – turkey legs and cloaks and tankards of Schell’s and jousting – is representative of how I live my life 24/7. Or… ah… maybe not.

In making this comparison in my mind I realized I don’t have firm ground to stand on if I try to criticize someone who wants to pretend that he or she is tougher or more rebellious or wilder than their minivan and suburban ranch home might suggest.

Secondly, it’s not just fat, old white guys.

Main Street at night

Watching the impromptu parades that roll up and down Main Street each night, I saw a whole lot of young white guys, as well – only a few of which were fat. Most were riding sportbikes with New Jersey plates, wearing flat-brimmed baseball caps and transporting Jersey Shore-like girlfriends who were Snapchatting from the passenger seat. There were also black dudes – considerably more than I would have ever imagined, since I had thought events like this were all leather chaps and sexism. Many were riding the most amazing and cartoonish baggers you’ve ever seen: sparkle-painted, enormous-wheeled mobile pieces of art equipped with 300-watt stereos. Their bikes’ lung-rattling bass was outmatched only by the mobile music festivals that were the blinged-out Slingshots.

RELATED: Polaris Slingshot Adds Roof, Becomes Even Less Like a Motorcycle

Visiting the various events taking place around town I ran into genuine outlaw motorcycle clubs, motocrossers, hipsters, weirdos, scooter geeks, and every other kind of person who’s ever thrown a leg over a motorcycle. With all this spinning around me – this huge, ridiculous, and disjointed mess of humanity that had rolled into this spot beside the Atlantic Ocean – I couldn’t help but begin think: “Actually, this is kind of… cool.”

Maybe “cool” isn’t the exact word I want there. I mean, I’m not sure I would make an effort to go to Daytona Bike Week again, but I am so very glad I went at least once.

Even though I write and think about all kinds of different bikes every single day, I’ll admit I can get a little too lost in what I like. And then I can get a little too lost in thinking that because I like something it must be the right thing to like. Being at Daytona helped me correct my thinking. It was a chance to see and interact with hundreds of thousands of people who ostensibly share the same passion as me – motorcycles – while not necessarily sharing my exact vision of it. Being reminded of just how varied motorcycling really is made me appreciate it all the more.

Tropical Tattoo custom bike show

A fine example of Busa brilliance

One of the highlights of large biker events is the opportunity to test ride all kinds of bikes.

Are Daytona Bike Week or Sturgis not really your kind of thing? You should probably still go at least once. Daytona Bike Week is presently in full-swing, so it's probably a little late for you to make this year's event.

#Cruisers #Events #Naked and Standard #Touring #United States

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