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fallinnflower · 5 years

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pink in the night

baron x reader (fluff, soulmate!au, non-idol!au)

a/n: this was requested by @randomkpopfiction, thank you for your support and for being so patient with me!! i hope you like this~ also here’s the song i’m referencing with the title the lyrics felt right for this song

The first time you were taught what a soulmate mark was, you were eight years old. You barely had more than a passing interest in boys, but somehow the tales the teachers wove for you about finding your soulmate still made your heart flutter.

The sensation quickly vanished upon your next encounter with your male best friend, who was more annoying than anything at that age. But that disgust couldn’t last long in the face of fate, and soon you were pre-adolescent and fantasizing about falling in love on your eighteenth birthday with the perfect boy and living happily ever after.

You’ve known Baron longer than you’ve known about soulmates.

The two of you had gone to daycare together, and become fast friends; your play dates only increased in frequency as you entered school, until eventually play dates were ‘uncool’ and you were simply studying together. Baron would walk to and from school with you every day, and the two of you would regale stories from your separate classes. Sometimes he would hold your hand, always seeking affection from you, and you really thought nothing of it.

Not until you were sixteen.

Baron was older than you by a handful of months, so rather he was on the edge of seventeen and you were still thoroughly sixteen, when you realized that maybe your feelings for Baron weren’t entirely friendly. The chubby-cheeked boy of your youth had grown into a slender teenager seemingly overnight, and you had to admit he looked particularly princely at one of your classmates’ birthday party.

Your classmate came from a wealthy family, and had somehow fallen in love with the American show “My Super Sweet Sixteen,” and had begged her parents to allow her to throw one. She was an exceptional student and extremely kind, so they granted her wish — everyone attended in the most formal wear they could scrap together, and attended the birthday ball in style.

You and Baron had gone with a group of friends, and when the first slow song of the night came on you felt yourself hanging back. Your friends all paired up, smiling bashfully, and you simply shrunk into yourself, sipping on punch from the refreshment table.

You convinced yourself you were fine being alone on the balcony, but you were certainly thrilled when your MIA best friend appeared with a gentle,

“Boo!”

“Don’t do that!” You snapped, though you couldn’t help but smile as you playfully punched him. “I could’ve spilled my drink!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, though he didn’t look sorry at all. You hardly had time to mind, however, since he was suddenly holding out his hand towards you with a more serious glint in his eye.

“Dance with me?”

To say you were shocked was an understatement. Baron was handsome, and he was popular — most people probably wanted to dance with him on a night like tonight.

And yet he chose you.

To your surprise, he didn’t lead you back into the main room; he simply pulled you closer to him and began to sway with the melody right out under the stars. With his gaze on you, intent and fond, you somehow felt as though this night was about you and not your classmate.

Baron spun you, sending you into a short fit of giggles which lasted until he pulled you flush against him and fixed you with a serious look you’d never seen before. You felt your heart begin to hammer as Baron slowly leaned in toward you, before it skipped a beat entirely as his lips pressed against yours.

Your first kiss was short-lived, gentle but a bit awkward, and yet it left you both with beaming grins and bright red cheeks.

That night, however, when you lay in bed, you felt a little crack split through your heart. You and Baron… you both had soulmates out there, somewhere, waiting for you. And if you took this chance with Baron, you risked hurting the both of you and your future soulmates — and losing your best friend.

You didn’t sleep well that night.

Two days later, on Monday afternoon, Baron was sitting across from you on your bedroom floor doing homework. Your heart was racing while you were around him, but the guilt lingering in the back of your mind made you feel sick.

“Hey, Y/N?” He asked. You pretended to be working very hard on your math homework as you replied.

“Yes?”

“Would you… go on a date with me this weekend?”

You nearly snapped the pencil you had in your hand. Baron was positively beaming, his eyes glittering, and you felt your heart split in two because you felt, truly and deeply, that any answer you gave him would hurt him badly.

You promptly burst into tears, and Baron held you until you calmed down. It never came up again.

Your eighteenth birthday is looming on the horizon, a mere two days away, and as you lay staring at your ceiling you’re shocked at how scared you feel. Excitement, of course, you expected — but you feel legitimately frightened by the prospect of receiving your soulmark. And you know why, but you aren’t exactly ready to admit it fully to yourself.

In the years after your first kiss, Baron had always let you know in small ways that he was available and willing should you change your mind. Even after getting his soulmark three months ago — an assortment of black lines which resembled almost a flower, but maybe almost a fish, on the inside of his right wrist — he had continued to flirt gently with you; to seek your affection as he always had.

Your friends like to tease that the two of you were meant to be and would definitely turn out to be soulmates (you aren’t entirely convinced Ayno and Ziu don’t have a bet running on it) and it’s precisely that certainty which makes you so anxious.

If Baron isn’t your soulmate, you know it will break his heart (and yours); despite pushing aside your feelings for years, you still love Baron dearly in every sense of the word, although you’ve never told anyone that.

As if sensing that you were getting too in your own head, your phone pings with a message. Baron’s name pops up on screen and you can’t help but smile at his text, which offers you ice cream and a walk around the local park if you come downstairs within the next ten minutes.

You’re down in less than five.

“So,” he says, as the two of you venture down the street. “One or two scoops today?” You sigh.

“Two, please.” Baron laughs and casually slings an arm around your shoulders as you walk. You allow yourself to lean into him, wondering if this might be one of the last instances where you can be this casually affectionate with him.

“Whatever you want,” he says, and you bite into your lip.

You wonder if it’s wrong to want to be with Baron, regardless of everything; if it’s wrong to wonder if fate had somehow cheated you out of something amazing.

You push it out of your mind as the two of you enter the ice cream shop, and do your best not to think too hard about it — but your heart sinks every time you catch a glimpse of the little tattoo on his wrist, wondering just what your birthday would bring.

Your birthday party was initially intended to be a surprise party, and you know this because Ziu is particularly bad at being quiet about anything, especially when he’s excited. Despite knowing, you do your best to act surprised because you know Baron and St. Van will be sad if they find out you know, and a sad Baron is hard enough for you to handle without poor, sweet Geumhyuk moping about too. So, you try not to dress up too much (but you know they’ll be taking pictures, and you want to look good), and try your best to ignore the sounds you can hear through your front door.

These boys. You love them, but subtlety just… isn’t their thing. You’re already smiling before you’ve even turned the doorknob, anticipating what lies beyond.

Shortly put, it’s a mess. When you open the door, multiple party poppers go off and the only distinct voice you hear is Ziu’s, yelling directly into your left ear. You laugh and teasingly admonish him as Lou sticks a very large, sparkling crown on your head. It’s pandemonium, all glittering and loud, but you can’t keep the smile off your face as your best friend appears to guide you through the festivities of the evening. For the first time that day, you aren’t counting down the minutes until your birthday officially happens, and your soulmark will appear.

Ayno convinces everyone to participate in a dance battle for your personal enjoyment — you, actually, are allowed to sit back on the comfiest seat in the house, eat as many snacks as you want (courtesy of Geumhyuk, bless his heart), and choose all the songs. The winner of the competition gets to give you their gift first, and Baron, unsurprisingly, is exceptionally eager at this prospect. In the end, it boils down to just him and Ayno, yourself and all the other guests watching with bated breath. Just as the song ends, a timer goes off on someone’s phone — you turn your attention to the sudden flash of movement that is Geumhyuk slipping into the kitchen, and catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall.

Your soulmark is going to appear in less than five minutes. You don’t really register who wins, too busy counting the seconds, until Baron places his hand on your shoulder. When you turn to look at him, you find a small box extended towards you, and realize he must have won the dance competition. It takes most of your willpower to smile and accept the gift, anxiety starting to gnaw at you once more.

Inside the box is a necklace with a delicate silver chain with a pendant made of a pale pink stone in a perfect disc shape. Baron doesn’t say a word as he plucks it out of the box, and you move your hair aside to allow him to clasp it on you; his fingers brush against the nape of your neck and you suppress a shiver, feeling that same guilt squeeze your chest as you gently brush your own fingers along the pendant resting above your heart.

What’s going to happen, if you and Baron aren’t soulmates?

As if he senses your worries, he hands you a little card you hadn’t seen at the bottom of the box that appears to be from the jewelry store. Pink Calcite, it reads, enhances the heart’s way of knowing — the wordless awareness that we mean when we say, “I knew it in my heart.” You turn the card over to find that Baron has simply written “영원히” and drawn a little heart beside his name. With your heart in your throat, you turn to look at him, only to find his attention directed at the clock. Suddenly, someone dims the lights, and Geumhyuk shoulders his way out of the kitchen holding your birthday cake. This is it, you think. All other thoughts leave your mind, and you can’t pin down quite how you feel.

Unable to think of a single other way to cope, you look to Baron for reassurance. He smiles at you, just like he always does, and reaches out to take your hand; you only just notice that his soulmark is covered today.

The candles flicker gently before your eyes, and you hear Baron’s gentle voice singing right beside you as you stare into the flames. The seconds tick down, and you close your eyes, wishing for just one thing as you blow out the candles.

Geumhyuk is serving the cake and your mark is very, very slowly making its appearance. Or, really, it’s not that slow — it took Ace’s mark almost four hours to develop fully, and yours is already starting to pick up pigment in some places, so it shouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t, if you could just stop thinking about how Baron has been tense ever since you blew out those candles and how quickly he let go of your hand to go help cut the cake. You fiddle nervously with the pendant he gave you, picking at your cake while everyone else gets theirs served, and hope this won’t take long.

You open gifts, and everything feels painfully slow. Just like at every birthday party you’ve ever had, Baron is the one who sits beside you on the floor and collects all the wrapping paper scraps so you don’t have to later — only this time he’s more quiet, and you can tell he’s just as nervous as you.

What you don’t realize is how intently he watches your wrist every time you peel back paper, or show off a gift, or pass him the trash. You don’t see how his eyes trace the shape of your tattoo every spare second he has, and how each passing moment seems to be enlivening him.

It doesn’t occur to you at all until everyone has left except you and Baron, and you’re cleaning up. The boys had the wonderful forethought to get paper and plastic dishes and utensils, and Baron is washing the cake cutter while you pick up cups from around the living area.

You accidentally glimpse your wrist and drop the entire stack in your hands, juice and soda spilling across the hardwood at your feet as you stare in shock at your fully formed mark. Baron’s doesn’t even dry his hands before he’s rushing out of the kitchen to make sure you’re okay, taking you gently by the shoulders to maneuver you away from the spill.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, understandably off-put, and you can’t even find it in yourself to speak — you simply hold your wrist out towards him, revealing your full mark.

Baron’s breath seems to leave his body, and everything falls silent and still until he slowly reaches up to trace his fingers along the lines of your mark. Then, in a sudden flurry of movement, he shoves the sleeve of his sweater up his arm and turns to stand beside you so he can reveal his as well, holding them side by side as though he can’t believe it.

They’re identical.

You turn to look at him, unable to think of a single word to say, and Baron’s eyes sparkle with unshed tears as he pulls you into his arms.

“I knew,” he says, though you aren’t sure if he’s speaking to himself or to you. “I always knew.” Just like that, you begin to cry, winding your arms tightly around him.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, and Baron is quick to pull back and look at you in concern, his hands not leaving you for a moment.

“Why are you apologizing?” He asks, and although his tone is light, teasing you for crying, you can see the anxiety in his eyes. It feels like sixteen all over again and you can’t help but sob harder.

“You were a-always so sure and I— I kept it f-from happening,” you lament. “All this t-time I’ve made you m-miserable and—”

Baron presses his lips to yours, effectively shutting you up, before kissing away the tear stains on your cheeks before pressing his forehead to yours.

“Don’t apologize for something like that, silly,” he says, nuzzling your nose with his when you gently sniffle. “We have the rest of our lives to look forward to.”

You look into the eyes you’ve known almost your whole life, curved into a smile broader and brighter than any you think you’ve ever seen, and you wonder why you ever worried in the first place. After all, if Baron is by your side, what could go wrong?

(You realize later, and you can’t help but smile: reality truly lived up to all your youthful fantasies.)

#vav fanfiction #vav imagines #vav scenarios #baron #vav baron #kpop fanfiction #kpop writing #kpop scenarios #kpop texts #kpop imagines #vav texts #my writing

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jarienn972 · 5 years

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The Right Place - Chapter Nineteen and Epilogue

For anyone who has been following this fic, you’ll know it was last updated in early October, 2018 and while my plans were to finish it at that time, it ended up being exactly one week before my mother passed away and I just couldn’t get myself into the right mindset to complete it. Then, a couple of months ago, the @csmarchmadness idea came along to help give us writers a little boost of confidence to finish those nagging WIPs and I decided to go ahead and tackle this story. (I’m a little late getting it posted today, but technically, it is still 3/22 here in FL as I’m posting)

I’ve loved this concept from the beginning as it took Emma out of her magical comfort zone to solve a real world crime, working alongside law enforcement colleagues in Portland, Maine. As I did with the opening chapters, I tacked the epilogue onto the end of this chapter to provide a fitting bookend.

This is the last installment of a nearly 80K word fic so it has honestly been a beast to write, especially since it ended up taking far longer to complete than I’d planned. You can read the entirety of this story on AO3 or FF.net or find the earlier chapters here: Prologue/Chap1 Chap2 Chap3 Chap4 Chap5 Chap6 Chap7 Chap8 Chap9 Chap10 Chap11 Chap12 Chap13 Chap14 Chap15 Chap16 Chap17 Chap18 I’m also tagging my cheerleader, @hookaroo who has been looking forward to the final chapter of this fic for a while now! (edited to add Tumblr link to Chap 18 after I realized it had never been posted on Tumblr. Oops...)

Saturday Morning – Portland Harbor

The tempest of the overnight thunderstorms had given way to a breezy, warmer Saturday morning. Hazy sunlight filtered through the window coverings of the McCallen's guest room as Emma was awakened by the persistent blip of notifications popping up on her cell phone, all of them informing her of the incoming text messages from Regina. According to the texts, Ursula would be waiting for them at the same Harbor front park at 9am with some updated news regarding her offer to return the Jolly Roger to her berth in Storybrooke's marina. While Killian wasn't keen on anyone else taking the helm of his beloved ship, he'd conceded to the basic fact that at the present time, he lacked the physical stamina to sail her back home himself.

Emma would have preferred another hour of sleep since it this was far too early on a Saturday morning by her opinion, but since they did have the drive home ahead of them, she begrudgingly swung her feet over the side of the bed. It wasn't a particularly long trip, but she still needed to be wide awake and she didn't want to get back too late. After nearly a week away, she was certain there would be a mountain of backlogged work awaiting their return. She noticed that Killian had already vacated his side of the bed, waking up before his wife to wander into the kitchen where McCallen had left coffee brewing for them and a note stating that he had ventured out the station to finish his paperwork from yesterday's major breakthroughs in the case.

Killian seemed a tad more upbeat this morning and even seemed to handle the walk from the parking lot down to the waterfront better, only needing to pause once to catch his breath. The Sea Witch was already waiting for them, scouting out a quiet bench away from the multitude of park visitors who were enjoying the pleasant start to what was shaping up to be a beautiful day.

"You're late," Ursula grumbled in greeting. "I thought you seafaring types were known for better timing?"

"My seafaring timing is as precise as ever," Killian replied, voice tinged with a hint of offense. "However, you should be aware that in this realm there's a thing called traffic."

"We would have called to let you know we were running a little late if we'd had a way to contact you aside from a conch shell," Emma reminded the witch.

"Cell phones simply aren't the most reliable where I come from," Ursula countered with a grin that Emma wasn't sure was intended to be jovial or sinister. "Anyway, I've made all of the arrangements to transport your ship as promised. My niece will not be allowed to interfere with the vessel's passage."

"May I ask what arrangements you've made?" Killian queried. "Who did you find to sail her or is the transport to be more of a magical variety? I prefer not to have someone inexperienced at the helm."

"I managed to round up a few of your remaining crew, led by your former first mate, Mr. Smee. It'll primarily be for show though as once it reaches open waters, I can push your little boat along a bit easier…" Killian frowned at her use of the term little boat in reference to his ship, but held his tongue.

"So, my ship should be back in the harbor by the time we reach Storybrooke?" Killian chose to ask instead.

"Should be. Your crew is on their way here as we speak. I managed to find a fisherman who was willing to bring them down here to retrieve the Jolly Roger, although you may need to round up some of those gold doubloons you have stashed to pay the man for his service."

"How generous of you to offer up my funds as payment," he quipped sarcastically, although he was secretly grateful for all Ursula had done. She'd already rescued him from a watery grave so having her assistance in returning his beloved Jolly Roger to her home port was truly going above and beyond.

"I assume you have plenty of funds hidden, pirate," Ursula responded while flashing a broad grin. "Anyway, I need to get out of here before this park gets any busier so that I can supervise the return trip. See you in Storybrooke, Captain."

"Aye," Killian responded with a nod and a smile as the Sea Witch turned to depart, leaving him wondering exactly how much gold she'd promised his crew. But as she began to stroll towards the water's edge, Killian recalled one additional thing he wanted to ask her. "Ursula?" he called to her before she was out of earshot, grateful when she turned to face him again. "One last thing, if I may?"

"And that is?"

"Would you have my crew sail a pass through the inner channel? Not too close to the harbor, but around this side of the islands so that I might see her off?"

"I suppose I could do that," she replied as she took a few steps back towards the Joneses so she wouldn't have to shout. "I would have to uncloak the ship though."

"For a few minutes, revealing the vessel should be fine. This far from shore, she may appear as merely an illusion to anyone who may catch sight of her," he offered, eager to garner even a momentary glimpse of his ship nearly a week after he'd left her abandoned offshore.

"I'll see what I can do. You may want to hang around the harbor for a while though," the Sea Witch suggested.

"Any idea of approximately how long it'll take?" Emma questioned. "We do still have the drive back to Storybrooke ahead of us."

"Give me an hour," Ursula stated, not waiting for Killian to offer his thanks as she departed without another word.

As they watched the Sea Witch vanish behind a pier, Killian dropped his weary body onto the bench before he collapsed.

"Guess we have a little bit of time to kill before we hit the road then," Emma chuckled before noticing the forlorn cast to his gaze when he stared out over the bay. "I know you'd rather be sailing the Jolly Roger back home yourself…"

"It's alright, Swan," he said with a faint sigh of disappointment. "In my current condition, I'm well aware that I lack the necessary strength and stamina to properly man the helm. I'd much rather that she be safely returned to port, even if not by my hand." She could hear the disparaging tone of his voice and decided to think of something to distract him.

"Well, I really don't want to sit here on a cold, hard park bench for an hour while we wait for your ship to appear. Can we go grab a doughnut or something? And how do you intend to see the ship from across the bay anyway?"

"I believe you have a set of of spyglasses – I believe you call them binoculars? Aren't they somewhere in the vehicle?"

"Uh, yeah, there's a set of binoculars somewhere in the back seat."

"Then those should be sufficient," he replied. "I do have to agree with you though that sitting here for an hour is probably not the best option. I know we aren't far from the ferry terminal so perhaps we might pay a visit to the shopkeeper? I'd like to let her know personally that I'm alright if it isn't too far out of the way?"

"I'm pretty sure it's only a few blocks down the harbor from here. I think Ms. Scott would be very happy to see you. Think you can handle the walk or would you prefer we drive?"

"I'm feeling far better today, but I still believe it would be more prudent to drive."

"Okay, then let's get back up to the Bug and we'll go see if Ms. Scott has the shop back open."

Ten minutes later, after the short walk back to the parking lot and a four block drive through busy weekend harbor traffic headed for the marina and ferry terminal, Emma parked her little yellow Volkswagen beneath the old service station overhang. Although there were lights on inside Scott's Mart, the Closed sign still hung in the window, but Emma noticed that it was now accompanied by a notice that the shop would be reopening Monday morning. Emma exited the car and strolled up to the entrance door, rapping forcefully on the glass to garner the proprietor's attention while Killian ambled slowly behind her.

"We're not open yet!" a female voice shouted from inside.

"Ms. Scott, it's Sheriff Emma Jones. I was here with Deputy McCallen a few days ago…" They heard some rustling from beyond the door and something akin to metal scraping against tile before the smiling face of Jean Scott popped up from behind the register counter. The shopkeeper's face lit up even more when she caught sight of the man in the black leather jacket standing behind Emma.

"Sheriff! My apologies for being so curt. Come on in!" Jean immediately unlocked the door and yanked it open for her guests, a mix of elation and gratitude expressed through her welcoming grin. "You're always welcome around here. Sorry it's still such a mess but I'm trying hard to get things straightened up and ready to get back to business. I know I owe you both a huge thanks. I heard from the other police officer – not the one who was here with you but the other guy… His name escapes me now…"

"Sgt. Haviland?" Emma offered.

"Haviland, yeah that's his name! He called me to let me know I didn't have to worry about Donovan Donleavy coming after my property any longer. He said there's a warrant out for his arrest, as soon as they can locate the slimy son of a bitch."

"Yeah, unfortunately it looks like he might have been tipped off somehow and slipped away on his boat sometime last night after the Toliver brothers rolled on him for having hired them to intimidate you, not to mention the kidnapping and stabbing of my husband," Emma explained.

"Well, when they find him, I hope they lock him up and toss away that damned key!" Jean exclaimed before turning her head toward Killian with a softening demeanor. "And you – I'm so glad to get a chance to properly thank you. If I'd have had any idea what those bastards planned to do… I don't think there are enough words in the whole English language for me to express my thanks. You may have truly saved my life that morning and I'm still mortified to think that it nearly cost you yours. I knew Donleavy was scum, but I had no idea he'd actually stoop this low."

Emma though she detected a faint blush creeping across her husband's cheeks as Jean Scott thanked him, but he was trying hard not to let it show. "It was the right thing to do, Milady," Killian assured her. "Neither of us knew that their nefarious plans went so far beyond robbery. I certainly must have had some luck on my side that morning, but the important thing is that the guilty parties are being held accountable and won't be able to harm you any longer."

Jean's head lolled to the side as she caught Emma's attention with a cheeky grin. "Is he always like this?"

"Pretty much," Emma replied, sporting a broad smile of her own as she watched the tips of Killian's ears redden as he flushed with an uncharacteristic embarrassment.

"How do I find one like him?" Jean sighed. "I'd love to have my own little British knight in shining leather." Emma found her husband's blushing even more endearing as he tried to brush off the compliment, realizing it was part of why she loved this man so much. Sure, he could be a total ass sometimes, but when the sweet, old-fashioned, chivalrous side would surface, she'd fall head over heels in love all over again.

"I don't know if there's a clone of him out there somewhere, but if I find one, I'll send him your way," Emma laughed. "For now though, we've got to get going. Now that the case is solved, we're finally heading home."

"Well, please have a safe drive back to your hometown and remember that anytime you're here in Portland, please stop by. It'll be coffee on the house! In fact, if you'd like one for the road, I'm pretty sure the pot is still hot. I've gone through plenty myself while trying to get this place cleaned up but there's more than enough to share. Would you like some?"

"I would absolutely love some coffee," Emma replied graciously.

"As would I," Killian said with a smile.

"Hang on a sec…" Jean scurried down a partially stocked aisle to her coffee shop counter and disappeared behind it. She popped back up a few seconds later with two tall paper cups of steaming hot coffee. "Either of you take cream or sugar?"

"No thanks," Emma replied. "We both take it straight."

Jean made her way across the shop to hand over the coffee cups to her guests. "Here you go. Hope it's not too strong for you."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Killian replied as he accepted her offering. "This wasn't at all necessary, but thank you."

"Anytime," Jean insisted. "Any time at all. I won't keep you from your drive home but I really do appreciate you stopping by. I'm so glad to see that you're alright."

"Good luck with getting your business back on track," Emma said as she shook Jean's hand before departing. "Hopefully things will go better now that there isn't a greedy developer breathing down your neck."

"Oh, there will be another," Jean chuckled. "It never ends around here, but hey, I know I'm in the right place for now. I'll manage."

Emma and Killian said their farewells to Jean Scott and had just started their drive back to the park when Emma's phone started ringing. Seeing that it was McCallen calling, she gestured for Killian to answer and as he did, he pressed the speakerphone button so that they could both hear the conversation.

"Hey, McCallen," Emma answered. "Sorry we missed you this morning, but we locked up before we left."

"I'm the one who should be apologizing," McCallen's voice responded through the speaker. "I had to run into the station this morning to finish up paperwork relating to this case and I was worried I might miss you before you headed home."

"Well, you haven't missed us. We haven't left Portland yet," Emma informed their friend. "Killian wanted to see Jean Scott so she could see he was alright and now we're on our way to the harbor front park so that he can see his ship off. The crew sailing it back to Storybrooke for us offered to make a swing through the bay."

"Alright then, can you hang around the park for a few minutes? I've got some new information you'll want to hear, but I don't want to deliver it over the phone."

"Oh, don't worry, we'll be there for a while. We still have about half an hour to kill before the crew sets sail," Emma explained.

"Oh, good," McCallen replied. "I can be there in about twenty minutes. I'd really like a chance to see that ship too."

"You'll see just how magnificent she is," Killian said proudly.

"If you can see it at all," Emma countered. "The ship is going to be clear on the other side of the bay and I have no idea whether or not my binoculars will be strong enough… You two can figure that out though…"

"Okay," McCallen chuckled. "I'll see you in a few minutes."

The stroll down to the waterfront from the parking area took a little longer this time but Killian had insisted on heading to the furthest pier where they would have the least obstructed view of the bay. There was still one barrier island that partially obscured the horizon, but Killian was certain that they would be able to see enough of the channel to get a decent glimpse of the Jolly Roger. He was quite certain of the route his crew would take and that it would provide a brief window as the ship emerged from the far side of the landmass, before she headed out of the bay and into open ocean.

A visibly exhausted Killian dropped his fatigued body onto an unoccupied bench near the end of the pier as Emma's phone buzzed with a message from McCallen asking where he might find them. She typed back their location and half-expected to see the young deputy arrive in full uniform. She found herself a more than a little surprised to see him approaching dressed in casual attire after he spotted them and waved from the boardwalk.

As McCallen got closer, Emma thought about how this inexperienced deputy had become such a pillar of strength for her this week. He'd been so involved from the beginning, eager to help her out in any way he could and always trying to learn techniques to help himself grow as an investigator. McCallen still had a lot to learn and of course, had some physical obstacles to overcome, but Emma couldn't help to think about what Jean Scott had said about being in the right place and how it applied to the deputy as well. What had begun for him as a seemingly routine case to identify a John Doe had blossomed into a multi-jurisdictional investigation of a corrupt land developer. While McCallen's role in the Donleavy case may have been minor, the deputy's name was forever attached to the investigation and it would likely make a huge impact on his career.

"Hi!" the deputy greeted them once he was finally within earshot. "I haven't missed anything, have I?"

"Not at all," Killian assured their young friend as he lowered the binoculars. "I've not yet caught sight of her but it shouldn't be long now."

"Don't worry," Emma added. "You'll know the moment he sees it. It's all he's talked about all morning."

"So, this is kind of a big deal, huh?" McCallen asked with a crooked grin, almost as a tease.

"She's been a huge part of my life," Killian replied. "In fact, she was my life for a very long time, before I met Emma." He failed to notice the way McCallen glanced at Emma with a look that seemed to ask Is he kidding?

"I think that what Killian meant to say is that he spent many years working on that ship before we met. He puts a lot of effort into keeping it ship-shape. But yes – sometimes I swear he treats that ship like a person…"

"It's a good thing she's not able to hear you speak such blasphemy," Killian feigned offense as his wife laughed it off.

"See - I share my husband with a ship," Emma chuckled, shaking her head. "Anyway, I know you didn't come down here just to talk about Killian's ship. You said on the phone that you had some new information to share with us? Is it news about Donleavy?"

"Well, yes and no…" McCallen began as he took a seat on the bench next to Killian. "We got a call this morning from the RCMP…"

"RCMP?" Killian interrupted with a confused query as he didn't understand the reference.

"Royal Canadian Mounted Police," the deputy clarified. "Sorry, I should have been more specific."

"It's alright," Emma insisted. "We usually just refer to them as the Mounties." She'd explain the reference further for Killian when they were alone.

"Oh, okay," McCallen continued. "As I started to say earlier, we, well, technically Sgt. Haviland received a call from the Mounties this morning letting him know that Donleavy's boat was located. Appears that it ran aground along the coast of Nova Scotia and by all accounts, was pretty beat up. Unfortunately, they found no sign of Donleavy. Haviland forwarded me a copy of the report. Guess he thought you'd already be back home if he didn't get in touch with you yet."

"I haven't looked at my email all morning," Emma confessed. "If he sent something there, I probably won't read it until we do get home – especially if it isn't giving us any whereabouts of Donleavy himself. At least we have an idea of where he escaped to."

"I do recall saying that he wouldn't get very far by sea," Killian reminded them. "The seas would have been far too rough for his minuscule craft. Even a sailor as experienced as myself wouldn't have fared well in that storm."

"Yeah, Donleavy was probably thrown overboard somewhere between here and Canada, before his ship crashed onshore," Emma suggested.

"There's still a remote chance he survived so the Canadians are going to continue their search to see if he turns up. They weren't entirely convinced that he'd survived either, but they're not giving up the search yet."

"Serves him right, if I do say so myself," Killian said with an eyebrow raised playfully. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes to survey the bay once again, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the Jolly Roger. He stood as he caught sight of a set of familiar masts and sails materializing from beyond the inner harbor islands. "Ah, there she is!" he exclaimed with a huge grin stretching across his lips. "Such a thing of beauty…"

"Alright – you know I'm dying to get a look at this ship I've been hearing about. I mean, you've got the rings, the tattoos, the skull and crossbones pendant – there's definitely some kind of pirate obsession there so should I be expecting a pirate ship too?" Killian gave him a slightly nervous smile and Emma was practically biting her tongue as they both began mentally scrambling for a plausible explanation for the fact that Killian did indeed have have a pirate ship, and a marvel of one at that.

"Of course," Killian said as he offered the binoculars to the deputy and pointed to a distant location across the bay. "If you look out there to the northeast, you'll see her riggings just beyond that island." McCallen raised the binoculars and pointed himself in the direction Killian had indicated, his jaw dropping the moment he spied the tall ship on the horizon. He didn't know a lot about classical ships - he wouldn't have known a schooner from a frigate or a galleon, but this vessel looked like it could have sailed straight out of any pirate movie he'd ever seen.

"Wow! That's really your ship? It's definitely not what I expected, but seriously – you can sail that all by yourself?" Killian had to chuckle at the deputy's excited rambling.

"Indeed, I can," Killian replied proudly.

"That is so cool!" McCallen gushed, unable to contain himself. "What did you name your ship?"

"The J-…" Killian started to reply Jolly Roger, but something made him stop and reconsider, responding with the vessel's original moniker instead. "Jewel of the Realm."

"That's a really great name," McCallen told him as he passed the binoculars back to his pirate friend. "How did you ever come to own a ship like that?"

"Killian repairs and restores these old ships to keep them seaworthy," Emma jumped in with the most logical explanation she could determine. "And if you haven't noticed, he's a bit obsessive about his job."

"History deserves to be preserved," Killian stated, going along with Emma's lead. "And what can I say – I immerse myself fully into my work."

"Well, by the looks of it, you're very skilled at what you do! How do you manage to find the time as a deputy?"

"Don't have as much time as I used to so sailing has become more of a hobby now, but if you're ever in Storybrooke, I'd be honored to give you the full tour and a run about the harbor."

"I just might take you up on that one day, but since I have a tendency to get seasick, just admiring her from the dock would probably be enough for me," the deputy admitted with an embarrassed chortle.

"Well, my friend, if you ever want to try for your sea legs, my offer shall stand," Killian laughed as he raised the binoculars one last time to see if the ship was still visible but it appeared as though Ursula had already reactivated the cloaking. "Appears as though she has sailed beyond our purview."

"Oh, sorry… I'm guessing you're hoping to get back home around the same time as the ship?" McCallen wondered, not wanting to impede their plans.

"Yeah, that's sort of the plan," Emma stated as she glanced at her watch. "We definitely should get on the road soon, but Aaron, we really want to thank you for everything – for your help with the investigation into what happened to Killian... for opening your home to us. You've done so much more than you ever needed to."

McCallen's cheeks flushed as he tried to figure out how to respond to her gratitude. "Honestly, not many people have put as much faith in me as you did. I'm grateful to you for including me when you could have brushed me off in favor of letting Sgt. Haviland take over. I'm glad you didn't."

"You've got the instinct," Emma assured him. "You're going to be a great investigator."

"I guess we'll have to see how far a man with an artificial foot can get," McCallen said sullenly.

"As far as a man with an artificial hand can get," Killian insisted. "And that's as far as you desire."

Epilogue

Saturday Afternoon – Storybrooke

It hadn't taken Killian more than a few seconds after they'd exited the interstate before the gloved, wooden hand was discarded to the back seat in favor of his preferred attachment. Captain Hook was back and on his way home. By the time they passed the Welcome to Storybrooke sign at the edge of town, he was certain he could already smell the marine air again and began to imagine the sound of crisp sails flapping in the wind.

They finally parked in front of the Sheriff station nearly two hours after they'd left the Portland harbor and Emma was eager to find some lunch to appease her growling stomach. Maybe as anxious for food as her husband was to get to the harbor.

"Are you really sure you don't want me to heal you?" she asked as they climbed out of the Bug.

"For the last time, Love, I'll be fine. Aside from a few aches and pains – and a bit of general tiredness, I'm honestly alright. I assure you, if I change my mind, I promise, I will let you know."

"Okay, okay… I'm gonna call the family and see if they want to meet over at Granny's for lunch. I'm sure they'll all be looking forward to seeing you."

"Sounds good, but allow me a few minutes first?" he implored.

"I know – you're heading down to the harbor. Want me to drive you over?"

Killian smiled and shook his head with a subtle No. "I think I'd like to walk."

"Alright. If you aren't back in thirty minutes, I'll come looking for you."

The quarter-mile stroll from the Sheriff station to the dock was normally a brisk, five-minute walk for him, but today, it took a few minutes longer and he was clutching his chest tightly as he reached the gangplank. He pressed on with stubborn determination, pushing himself up the ramp and onto the deck of his ship. Reaching the helm, he leaned his aching body into the wheel to catch his breath, fully aware that he was not alone.

"Returned, safe and sound, as promised," he heard Ursula's voice call out from below the quarterdeck.

"Aye, thank you for your assistance. I do appreciate all you've done for me."

"You are one lucky pirate. Although I suggest you try to stay away from sharp, pointy objects for a while. One of these days, your luck will run out…"

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Killian said with a half-hearted chuckle. "Am I also to thank you for last night's events?"

"Afraid I've no idea what you mean," Ursula replied with a feigned innocence.

"Of course not," he grinned, lifting a knowing eyebrow at the Sea Witch. "Pardon my error, Love. Guess I should make my way over to Granny's pretty soon. Emma will send out a search party if I don't make it back. Why don't you join us?"

"As pleasant as an afternoon eating greasy diner food with the Charming family sounds, I'm afraid I'll have to pass. But as for you, I'm serious – watch your back, pirate. One of these days, you'll find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time and there won't be anybody around to save you."

He opened his mouth to reply, but she was already gone, leaving the words caught in the back of his throat. As much as he wanted to argue, Ursula was right. He belonged at Emma's side and that was honestly the only place he wanted to be.

Early Saturday morning – off the coast of Nova Scotia

It was late in the season for such a powerful Nor'easter and perhaps it was a foolhardy decision to be venturing out in such horrific weather but Donovan Donleavy preferred to take his chances upon the stormy seas rather than face the tempest that would be brewing at home if he hadn't run. He'd slipped out of the marina under cover of darkness before the authorities had descended. His sport fishing boat wasn't really designed for these conditions so he'd tried to remain as close to the coast as he could, but the howling winds and torrential rain kept blowing his battered craft further out to sea.

He was only a few miles off of the Canadian coast, estimating his position to be somewhere near the Province of Nova Scotia, but he was beginning to doubt he'd be able to reach a safe harbor. Rain lashed at the deck, making visibility near impossible as the ten to twelve foot swells pummeled the tiny boat. Donleavy clung to the wheel as long as he could until a towering, fifteen foot swell sent the vessel listing hard to starboard and it never recovered, capsizing in the cold waters of the North Atlantic.

He bobbed to the surface, struggling to keep his head above the waves as his arms flailed in futile attempt to grasp for anything that would keep him afloat. After a few minutes, he found his muscles tiring rapidly and he knew he wouldn't be able to tread water much longer. Of course, he still believed that drowning was far more dignified than the humiliation of watching his empire fall apart.

He was gradually giving in to the reality of a watery death when he felt something brush against his leg. Probably just a fish or a piece of debris from his boat he thought – until the offending object slithered its way up body and wrapped around his torso. While moments ago he'd conceded himself to drowning, suddenly Donleavy was in a panic as he recognized that he was being enveloped by a giant tentacle. He struggled only for a few moments, trying futilely to free himself as the tentacle constricted tighter - just before yanking him forcefully beneath the unforgiving waves.

#csmarchmadness #csff #cs ff #cs fanfic #The Right Place

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hethrewmyheartinthecut · 6 years

Note

Tatiana/esme for coffeeshop au? Only if you feel like it of course!

Oh, I feel like it. I most certainly feel like it.

with your hair down, a Tatiana x Esme fic

read more like this on ao3 • or my tumblr masterlist

One morning Esme came to work, unlocked the front door, and found a dark-haired woman just sitting there on the edge of the front counter, heel-clad feet swinging back and forth, doing something on her phone. Evidently bored, but holding herself with the feline grace of an aristocrat, clad head to toe in clothing a sleek white pantsuit whose professional effect was absolutely ruined by the black lace crop top she wore underneath.

“I want a croissant,” she said. What accent was that? Russian?

Esme rubbed her eyes and tried to make sense of it all. “We’re not open until six-thirty,” she said. “How did you get in?”

“Two almond croissants. And a quad macchiato.”

“I don’t want to call the police.”

“Then don’t.”

Esme let her massive purse fall to the floor with a thud. “It’s too early in the morning for this. Tell me who you are, or I’ll kick you out myself.”

Without changing the position of her head, the woman looked up. Esme froze. A lesser woman would’ve stepped back. Suit or no, there was nothing civilized about those green eyes. They were purely feral, and nakedly interested.

But then the woman blinked, and it was if a blade had been sheathed. “That’s the level of dedication I like to see in my workers,” she said, giving Esme a sardonic smile and then returning her attention to her phone.

“Your?”

“Check your email.”

Esme pulled out her own phone, and sure enough, buried under an assortment of unasked-for grocery store coupons, sales advertisements for kids’ clothing, requests to schedule parent-teacher conferences, and the occasional chain email from Linda, there was an email from corporate that congratulated Tatiana Petrovna on becoming the youngest person to ever own a Moody’s Coffee. In the email there was a photo, unquestionably of the same woman that now sat on the countertop, with her curly hair swept up into a bun and her flawless face set in a smug smile.

Esme picked up her purse and made her way behind the counter. “What happened to Bob?”

“Who’s that?”

“The previous owner.”

“Dead.”

Esme felt like she should say something about that, like: oh, that’s too bad, but it wasn’t really. He’d been an old, unpleasant, and incompetent. Besides, Tatiana clearly didn’t give a damn. In fact, from this angle, Esme could see her phone, and it was perfectly obvious that Tatiana was just continually swiping left on a wide array of people, mostly uni students, a few professors.

“Two percent, skim, almond, soy?” Esme said.

“Do I look like a vegan to you?”

“That only eliminates two.”

“I don’t care.”

For one sweet moment, Esme fantasized about making the macchiato with half and half instead of milk, or better, just putting a glob of sour cream in a cup with espresso, but then, employment. Employment was good. Or if not good, then at least necessary.

“Skim it is,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, the croissants came out of the oven piping hot. Esme slid them into a brown paper bag, and handed the bag, along with the macchiato, to Tatiana.

Tatiana hopped off the countertop and landing so smoothly that her suit remained immaculate, unstained by even the smallest fleck of macchiato. “Tell Hansen she gets a ten percent raise if she doesn’t fuck up.”

“Tell her yourself,” Esme said, but by then Tatiana was already half-out the door.

In the weeks that followed, Tatiana showed up randomly, never at the same time, never eating the same thing, and wearing a succession of increasingly exquisite clothes, verging on couture. On the very same day that Esme’s oldest stepchild, Katie, got her first period, stained the backseat of their car, and cried about it all the way home, Tatiana showed up at Moody’s Coffee wearing Louboutins. That had Esme feeling some type of way. Nothing positive.

There were other changes, too: the old uniforms of ugly green polo shirts and black pants were replaced by graphic tees and jeans; the menu shortened but the list of weekly specials grew; the corporate décor disappeared overnight, replaced by cozy, eclectic, bean-bag-and-lamp style pieces. It all seemed utterly suited to the aesthetic of a hip college town, but utterly antithetical to Tatiana’s aesthetic in all its red-lipped, stiletto glory. But she clearly didn’t disapprove; the Saturday after the renovations, she appeared before even the bakers, somehow having managed to discover a way to lie languorously, elegantly even, across two beanbags with a bottle of wine and a massive Russian tome.

About three weeks in, Esme showed up to work an afternoon shift and Tatiana was behind the counter, leaning against the back wall, phone in hand, but watching with keen interest everything that poor Carter and Fiona were doing.

“Move,” Esme said.

“Why?”

“The three o’clock classes get out in ten minutes, and I won’t have the time to be reaching around you to get at the rack of syrups.”

“Mm.” Tatiana moved back into the corner and stood so still that in the midst of the rush, Esme forgot she was there at all, until a girl in a Canada Goose coat leaned over and tapped Tatiana on the shoulder. Now this, Esme wanted to see. If only because she loathed every fool who bought an $800 jacket when a $150 would do.

“Hey. Are you the manager?” the girl said.

“The owner,” said Tatiana, slightly through her teeth.

“Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble, but she misspelled my name.” The girl pointed at Fiona, who, bless her, looked petrified. “Sorry,” she said.

“What’s your name?” Tatiana had a way of making every word sound desultory, but it didn’t stop the girl a bit. She barrelled on.

“It’s not Claire, C. L. A. I. R. E., it’s Clare, C. L. A. R. E.”

“Ah.” Tatiana stared at her, magnificently, transparently bored.

“So?” Clare said.

“Would you like me to do something?”

“Tell your employees to spell my name properly, maybe?”

“I really am sorry,” said Fiona.

“Alternatively?” said Tatiana.

Clare’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Alternatively…” With the flick of one finger, Tatiana knocked over the cup, and it tipped over sideways, spilling a hot brown stream onto the girl’s winter boots.

The girl took a step back, and Esme could see the precise moment when denial turned to rage. “You know what? I’m going two blocks down, and I’m getting it from Starbucks! I’m getting everything from Starbucks from now on!”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Tatiana. Her red lips lifted in that feline smile. “Starbucks will be closing soon. I hear the building’s been cursed.”

The girl looked over at Esme, as if seeking reassurance that this was all a practical joke. Esme smiled a placid and flat-eyed smile right back at her. Clare left.

The next day, there was a plaque up on the wall with Tatiana on it. The bio underneath might have been printed in a cutesy font, the swirl of midnight blue might have been well in keeping with the whimsy of the coffeeshop, but there was no amount of design that could render Tatiana’s sheer magnetic arrogance and beauty into something friendly. Even in a photo.

That plaque got plenty of use. Tatiana showed up during every rush, morning, noon, and night, for nine days straight, expertly weaving between the workers and taking orders just like the rest with a smile about a hundred watts too bright for comfort. Clack clack clack went her heels on the tile. Her misspellings became too aggressive to be mistaken for a mistake. At every complaint, she pointed at the plaque.

Pay improved. A few people vanished, without any clear confirmation about whether they’d been fired or just quit. Esme didn’t complain. She found she was enjoying the reign of this new tyrant, even though the tyrant’s benevolence was still an open question.

Even after that nine-day sprint, Tatiana occasionally showed up during the rush. Sometimes she jumped in, doing everything from cappuccinos to taking out the trash; other times, she demanded (and received) free pastries.

“She’s so rude,” said Carter, late one Friday night, at closing.

“That’s exactly why people love her,” said Fiona.

“I’m just scared of her,” he said.

“She’s like a neighborhood cat that only bites,” Fiona added. “It’s fun for them. It’s a bit of personality.”

“But how long before we start losing customers?” said Esme.

“I don’t know, but month over month sales have gone up by six percent,” said Hanson. “I think it’s working.”

“We’ll see,” said Esme.

Except the next week, the Starbucks two blocks down closed and Moody’s got even busier.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Fiona gripped Esme’s arm hard. “Look. That’s the guy.”

Esme peered over the counter at the blonde man picking up a copy of the Wall Street Journal in the corner store opposite Moody’s Coffee. “You’re kidding.”

“Who?” Carter craned his neck.

“That’s the only man I’ve ever seen Tatiana swipe right on. There have been four women, and one man. That’s the man.”

All three stared breathlessly until he disappeared down the street.

“He was tall,” said Fiona admiringly.

“Not that tall,” said Carter.

“You’re five foot seven, what would you know about tall?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“He seems rich. Like sugar daddy rich. Do you think Tatiana has a sugar daddy?”

“Why would she need one?” Esme said.

“Why indeed,” said Tatiana, appearing as if by magic from the back room.

Fiona and Carter scattered.

“You might enjoy it,” Esme said.

“Mm, the long game’s much too much work, and men are not dependable. Take it from me, Esme, all meat tastes better when you’ve hunted it yourself.”

“Spoken like a true heiress, with no spouse, no parents, and no children.”

“Doesn’t make me wrong.”

Tatiana was right, of course, but Esme couldn’t bring herself to say it, so she just gave Tatiana one last look and turned back to the whipped cream.

Nobody ever saw the blonde man again.

This sexual harassment training video had to have been made in the eighties. At first, Esme thought she could tolerate the old graphics and the quasi-elevator music, but then the man in the example said honkers and she burst out laughing.

“Let’s just get through this,” said Hanson grimly.

“No, she’s right,” said Tatiana from the back, at her most sardonic. Hanson flipped on the lights.

“How long have you been here?” said Fiona.

“Too long.” Tatiana walked to the front of the room. “I’m taking over this education. The video’s far too complicated. It’s a simple calculation. Sexual harassment is just a flavor of bullshit with very specific consequences: if you do it, you lose an ear. If you don’t, you live your life.” She produced a folding knife and opened it up. “Bullshit.” She closed it again. “No bullshit.” Opened it “Bullshit.” Closed it. “No bullshit. Now let’s have a demonstration. Who wants to be sexually harassed today?”

The workers at Moody’s Coffee were almost acclimated to Tatiana to the point where the production of a knife and a few threats of bodily harm surprised no one. Still, only Esme raised her hand. She had really developed a taste for Tatiana’s nonsense.

“Are you sure?” said Tatiana, with a hint of amusement.

Esme leaned back in her chair. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“Esme Shelby,” Tatiana said, “The uniform replacements were worth every penny, if only because your tits were absolutely wasted behind those old baggy green shirts.” She turned to the workers and flipped the knife open. “Bullshit. You see?”

“Not sure I’d call that bullshit,” Esme said.

“For the purposes of your education. Now, let’s try a different kind of compliment. Esme, great job today. You really impressed me by getting every order out without a single spill.”

“Snore,” said Esme.

Tatiana flipped the knife closed. “But it wasn’t bullshit. Everyone’s ears stay attached.”

“Kind of mild, wasn’t it?” said Esme.

“What?”

“Your bullshit example.”

“You’d like another?”

“Sure.”

Tatiana stared at her directly. “Esme, every day that I come into this shop, I think to myself: I hope her husband has the stamina of an Arabian horse. Because if I were him, I would make it my personal mission to eat that pussy every single day, and twice on Sundays.”

“Oh, he’s been dead two years now.”

Tatiana, for once, had nothing immediately ready to say.

“But thanks,” Esme added lightly. “He did have a fantastic tongue.”

“I think you’ve got your point across, Petrovna,” said Hanson severely.

“Class dismissed,” said Tatiana.

It was soft and sunny despite the dreadful cold, and during an early afternoon lull, Esme was the only one behind the counter. Having already wiped down the counter, she fell into a reverie. It was broken all too soon by Tatiana saying, sounding for the first time a little anxious, “Did that woman just leave her baby behind in a fucking coffeeshop?”

Esme looked over the counter. Yes, there was a baby in a big black plastic carrier. Fussing. Oh, this was not good. Esme knew that sound. “They’re going to start crying any second now.”

“What do I do?”

“Just talk to them.”

Tatiana leaned over the carrier. Lit like that by the sunlight coming in rays through the windows, she could’ve been a Madonna. But then she spoke. “Ultimately,” she said, “I think you’ll find that life is far better without any parents.”

The baby began to cry.

“Jesus, not like that,” said Esme.

Tatiana shot her a scowl, then turned back to the baby and made her voice a shade softer and several notes lower. “Hello,” she said gravely. Then she blew gently into the baby’s face.

The baby started crying harder.

“Fucking hell. Switch,” ordered Esme, coming out from behind the counter as Tatiana, chagrined, did as she was told. “What was that?”

“It usually works on horses,” Tatiana said.

“On horses? What, have you never seen a baby before?” Esme picked the baby up and cuddled it close. It quieted down a little.

“I’ve seen them, of course, but they’re always other people’s babies.”

“Have you ever held one?”

“I couldn’t.”

“The mum’s not going to care whether it’s you or me. If she comes back at all. And they’ll be fine, as long as you don’t drop them. They’re old enough to hold up their head. Aren’t you?” Esme cooed. “You’ve got a good strong neck.”

The baby considered this, then sneezed into Esme’s shoulder.

“Tatiana, come here.”

Tatiana hesitated.

“It’s the best feeling in the world, come on. Come on.”

“Fine.”

Tatiana held the baby gingerly at first, like it might bite her. The baby looked quizzically at her with their enormous brown eyes.

“It doesn’t like it,” Tatiana said, trying to give the baby back.

Esme stepped away. “Just relax.” Rifling through the diaper bag, she found a soother neatly labeled Christie May and a cup of cereal labeled the same. But no kind of return address anywhere.

“Pardon me.” There was a customer at the counter. Esme’s old statistics professor, to be exact. Damn.

“I’ll be right with you,” she called. “Here.” She passed the soother to Tatiana. “Stick that in her mouth if she starts crying again. Pat her on the back a little too, babies like that.”

Esme had three customers to get through after the professor, but when another lull came, she looked over and saw Tatiana dutifully patting away. After a little while, the baby opened her tiny mouth in a big O of a yawn.

Peace reigned in the coffeeshop, or at least until the door swung open.

“Oh! Hello. Did you make a friend, Christie May?” the mother cooed, making a beeline for the baby and taking her back from Tatiana as if nothing had happened. Tatiana made a face of disgust.

“She was crying,” Esme said. She figured it was better to speak than to have Tatiana say anything.

“Say bye-bye to the nice lady! Bye bye!”

A muscle twitched in Tatiana’s jaw.

“There’s a daycare center just three blocks down Division Street,” said Esme.

“Oh, I know,” the mother said airily. “But I was only gone for twenty minutes. Wasn’t I, sweetheart? Wasn’t I?”

The baby gurgled.

“See?” said the mother, as if that proved something. She put the baby in the carrier, picked up the diaper bag, and headed for the door.

“I’m calling Child Protective Services,” Tatiana shouted after her.

“Well?” said Esme.

“It was alright,” Tatiana said grudgingly.

Esme rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Esme blinked blearily awake against the punishing morning light. Pounding head, dry mouth. What was this? A flashback to her undergraduate days?

“Here.” One syllable, but the voice was unmistakably Tatiana’s. A glass of water was shoved in Esme’s face, and Esme accepted it.

“Where are the kids?” she croaked.

“At your father’s house. It’s Saturday.”

“I thought it was Friday.”

“It was, but now it’s Saturday.”

“Oh Jesus.”

Tatiana was sitting on the nightstand, sipping apple juice from a kids’ juicebox and looking entirely unsympathetic. Esme went back in her memory to try and figure out if she deserved any of this.

“We got drunk last night,” Esme said.

“Yes. Kids were at your father’s, and it was your night off.”

That sounded about right. Tatiana had closed up shop with her, then offered to share a bottle of rum. That much made sense. “Okay.” Esme set the empty glass down, tried to dig deeper into her memory. “Did I drink vodka?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Why did I drink vodka? I hate vodka.”

“No, you like vodka. When it’s mixed with grapefruit juice and rum and curaçao.”

“What?”

“Get dressed.”

“Nnf.” It was all too much. Esme buried her head in her pillow, only to have it yanked out from under her head. “Why?”

“We have to go to the city. There’s that Christmas dinner with your in-laws.”

“Oh, fuck.” Esme sat up. “We?”

“You invited me to come along, last night. You said, and I quote: ‘I want to see the look on Tommy Shelby’s face when I roll up to his stupid mansion with a woman richer than he is on my arm.’”

“That does sound like something I would say.”

“And then you said you wanted to find his knighthood ribbon and flush it down a toilet.”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

“But you want to.”

“You’re not going to do it either.”

“But I want to!”

“You’re not coming.”

“What, you’re going to make the four-hour drive all by yourself?” Tatiana rolled her eyes. “Hurry up and meet me out front, or we’ll be unfashionably late.”

“Tatiana.”

“Mm?”

“Did we have sex?”

“While you were that drunk? Of course not, it would be cheating you of the full Petrovna experience.” With a wink, she shut the bedroom door behind her.

Thanks to the gift of single motherhood, Esme could sleep anywhere, anytime, for as long as she was allowed, so when Tatiana shook her awake, she found herself in Tommy’s neighborhood. God, the place was horrid, with its wrought-iron gates, manicured lawns, and unfiltered bullshit.

“We’re half an hour late!” Tatiana chirped. “This will be good.” She got out of the car. Esme stumbled out after her.

“Wait, shouldn’t we coordinate on–”

Tatiana had produced a garment bag from the trunk of her car. “It’s the holidays, Esme. Did you think I’d come underdressed?” She passed another bag to Esme. “Or that I’d let you?” She opened the car door. “Go on, the windows are tinted for a reason.”

Esme wanted to argue, but this was her only good dress, the same dress that she’d worn to the last Christmas dinner, which Polly would undoubtedly notice. And she was curious.

The bag turned out to contain a sleeveless dark blue sequined number and a matching set of diamond chandelier earrings and a necklace. Damn. Esme had been expecting something more like a shirt with a middle finger printed on it, but come to think of it, this was better. This was much better.

“How’d you pick the fit?” she asked, when she emerged.

“I’m observant.” Tatiana disappeared into the car and came out wearing a cream-colored dress embellished with seemingly dozens, maybe hundreds of tiny pearls. And a fur shrug.

“Good job Ada’s not coming, else you’d get an earful for that.” Saying it was really an excuse for Esme to poke the fur as they walked towards Tommy’s house. It was just as soft as it looked.

“I can take on all comers.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you’ll have your hands full with Polly and Tommy. And Arthur, if he gets offended.”

“And Linda.”

How much had Esme told her while drunk, exactly? Oh well, it was too late to find out. “Definitely Linda,” she agreed.

“We’ll have a good time. It’s always easier to ruin a party when you’re not the host.”

Tatiana rapped on the front door as Esme looked over the big white architectural monstrosity in front of them, with its stupid balcony and its myriad of windows.

“I hate this place,” Esme said.

“I’ve stayed in larger summer homes than this,” Tatiana said. And somehow, that did make Esme feel better about it all.

The door was opened by none other than Tommy himself, in his customary suit, looking every inch as infuriating as the last time she’d seen him, which by no coincidence was the last dinner.

“What, no butler?” said Esme.

He cleared his throat and gave Esme a meaningful look. “We’ve had trouble with servants before.”

She rolled her eyes and brushed past him. “You’re always having trouble.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he said.

“Tatiana, this is Tommy. Tommy, this is Tatiana.”

“Her brother-in-law,” said Tommy, sticking his hands in his pockets. For a second, Esme forgot that bringing Tatiana along was only a prank, and got more than a little annoyed that he wouldn’t just shake her hand.

But Tatiana tilted her hand and gave a lovely smile. “Her sugar daddy.” With that, she handed over the fur to Tommy, as if he were a footman, and swept down the hallway, latching onto Esme’s arm.

“What was that?” Esme murmured under her breath.

“Thought you said you wanted a rich woman on your arm.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s perfect. What better way to annoy them than to go over their heads?”

To be fair, there was nothing Tommy liked less than a competing power. And even if it wasn’t true, it would be delicious to make him think for a moment that the only hold he had on her (the trust he’d put together for the children’s college education) was no longer relevant.

“Just eat your food and enjoy the show,” said Tatiana, and then it was the dining room, and introductions.

Tatiana was at her most charming through the fourth course, and then, sometime during the fifth, Polly put down her fork and said, in that deliberate, clear voice that Esme hated: “So, Tatiana, what is it you do for work?”

“I sell coffee.”

“Ah.”

“And jewels. Art, books, cheese. Used to sell vodka. But now I only drink it.” She smiled brightly. “And I’m getting my master’s in psychology.”

“What is that, the study of psychos?” Arthur guffawed.

“Yes.” Tatiana didn’t look over; she and Polly were engaged in some sort of a staredown that left Esme on the edge of her seat and also possibly a little horny.

“Jewels?” said Tommy, breaking it up. It was the first he’d spoken for quite some time.

“All kinds,” said Tatiana, and all right, Esme did not care for the way her voice seemed to have dropped half an octave down.

“And what did you say your last name was?”

“I didn’t.”

Tommy pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and left. The east wing, Esme thought; his office. Maybe making a call. Maybe–

“Bathroom?” said Tatiana.

Polly pointed down the west wing. “Four downs the hall.”

“Thanks.” Tatiana got up and went in the opposite direction. Right after Tommy.

Polly was halfway out of her chair to follow when Esme said her name.

“What?” Polly snapped.

“There’ something I need to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“These mushrooms. They’re perfect. Could you share the recipe with me?”

“You know we have a cook,”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Esme said.

Finn, in a desperate attempt to rescue the situation, sallied forth. “Aunt Linda, have you seen any good movies lately?”

And then it was nothing but the most stilted of small talk while Arthur got drunker and drunker and Esme and Polly sniped at each other, until Tommy and Tatiana returned, Tommy with the faintest traces of bruises beginning to form on his neck, and Tatiana wearing lipstick two shades darker than the one she’d been wearing when she left the table. Less like scarlet, more like blood.

Esme had to hand it to her; she knew how to crash a party. Even Arthur, seven drinks in, looked absolutely horrified. Esme found herself feeling nothing but proud. And maybe a little jealous.

“What did I miss?” said Tatiana.

Tommy didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and was instead focusing all his attention on chewing a piece of beef.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Esme. “Finn wants to go see the latest Batman movie.”

When they got to the car, Esme collapsed into laughter. “So?” she said, when she had finally caught her breath. By then, they were on the highway. “Did you fuck, or did you fight?”

“Yes.” Tatiana glanced over. “Are you jealous?”

“Why?”

“He’s an eight.”

“He’s a five, and I bet he’s a rotten lay.” Childishly, Esme hoped this would yield some details.

“I can see where you’re coming from,” said Tatiana thoughtfully, fishing a cigarette from her purse with one hand. “Widowers, especially the sad ones, can be a drag. So weepy.” She lit the cigarette. “But if you get the right one, it can be delightful. They fuck with such desperation.”

“Ah.” And there it was, the core of the annual Shelby fight: there were too many empty spots at the table where the people they loved should be sitting, and hating each other was easier than thinking about it.

“Hey.” Tatiana caught her before she could slide too far down into that particular pit of horrors. “Cheer up. I got you something.”

“What?”

“Look in the zipper pocket of my purse.”

“Is this…?”

“I dub thee Lady Esme Shelby, Duchess of Cappuchino.”

“You know what?” Esme pinned Tommy’s knighthood ribbon to her dress. “I think I’ll keep it.”

“Merry Christmas, Esme.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Esme didn’t see Tatiana for two days, and then she showed up at closing, just after Carter had left and Esme was the only one in the shop.

“Hey,” said Esme.

Tatiana sauntered up to the counter. “I got you something.” She slid three envelopes across. In the first were two season passes to the orchestra. In the second, a key. In the third, cash. All in different denominations, twenties, tens, fives, ones. Nonsequential, too. Esme checked.

“You said Katie wants to be be a flautist,” Tatiana said. “So, orchestra.”

Esme looked up. “What is this?”

“Am I not your sugar daddy?”

“I thought that was a joke.”

“I could take them back and get a refund. But put it all together, and it’s still not enough to buy a bottle of 1811 Château d'Yquem.”

“No, I’ll take it.”

Tatiana smirked.

“What?”

“You’re proud about money with Tommy, but not with me.”

“Among his casualties, whether he admits it or not, is my husband. Among your casualties is nobody I care about.”

“You assume I’ve caused deaths.”

“I find it better to assume guilt than otherwise, at this point. Anyways, nobody who wears a five thousand dollar dress is innocent.”

Tatiana appeared to absorb this. Esme could see the wheels turning in her head. “What are you doing on Saturday?” Tatiana said.

“Why?”

“I could find you a babysitter.”

“And?”

“You could find out what’s underneath the five thousand dollar dress.”

Esme couldn’t read her. “Is this because widows fuck with such delightful desperation?”

“No.”

“Is this because you’re experimenting with becoming a sugar daddy?”

“No.”

“Is this some long-con sexual harassment example?”

“Esme. This is only because of you.”

Esme searched her green eyes for a hint of laughter, but for the first time, there was nothing but honesty. That was more terrifying than all of Tatiana’s bullshit smiles put together.

Esme leaned over the counter and kissed her.

Her hair was just as soft as Esme always imagined, and she licked and bit at Esme’s lips just the same. But it was good in ways Esme had never thought of, had not felt in a long, long time.

“You look different with your hair down,” Esme murmured, finally.

“I look different with my clothes off, too.”

“I’ve got kids at home, a babysitter that can’t do overnight. And in-laws that I can’t get rid of, and some other people that make me stick close to home, always get paid in cash, and keep my pictures off the internet. You know that?”

“I do. That’s what this is for.“ Tatiana tapped the second envelope. “I know when you’ve got a day off. I’ll be waiting.”

That was a good, dramatic moment for her to walk out, but she kept standing there, looking at Esme like a fallen angel, all lipstick and bad decisions, and Esme couldn’t help it. She kissed her again.

#Esme x Tatiana #Tatiana x Esme #Esme Shelby #Tatiana Petrovna #Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinders imagine #Peaky Blinders fanfiction #fic #mine #ask games #prompts #prompt #correspondence

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