#*mumbles grumbles* why is the new post editor such a pain in the ass

[welllpthisishappening]

Where You Can Still Remember Dreaming (1/35)

Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.

Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.

Rating: Mature Word Count: 9.1 this chapter. Lots total. Lots.  AN: Ah! Hey, hi, hello there! The thing is happening! After sitting in my Google docs for way too long, AngstFest2k17 is finally seeing the light of internet day. I’m super psyched for you guys to read this and fingers crossed that my video game knowledge is not too obviously lacking. I asked my husband a lot of questions. This is real different than anything I’ve written, so I hope you guys enjoy it. Tuesday and Friday updates because I am who I am. A million thank you’s to @madelainespetsch for reading this over.  Also on Ao3 & FF.net if that’s how you roll. Tag List: @jamif @alicerubyfloyd @kmomof4 @bmbbcs4evr @courtneyshortney82 @jennjenn615 @artistic-writer @onceuponaprincessworld​ @nikkiemms​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ (let me know if you want to be tagged!)

What was that thing Darwin said?

Survival of the fittest? Evolve or die? Something a little less harsh, probably. Or maybe not. The guy was, after all, obsessed with turtles. Tortoises? Maybe.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push thoughts of Darwin and turtles and how much he absolutely despised the island of Manhattan from his mind. None of those things mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting to the office in one piece with some sort of almost-believable smile on his face and a can-do attitude that everyone in a ten-foot radius would probably be able to see through immediately.

So maybe he needed to come up with a slightly better list.

And learn how to breathe through his mouth.

What was it about summer in New York that made everything smell slightly like sewage? It was probably a test. Survival of the fittest or something.

He’d circled right back around to Darwin.

“God damnit,” Killian mumbled, trying to weave his way through a crowd of tourists, all of whom had decided that the middle of Broadway was the perfect place to just stop and take photos.

They didn’t move. Even when he started muttering more curses under his breath and, maybe, didn’t turn his shoulder when the light turned green and the whole lot of them started pushing across the crosswalk and, well, they just deserved to get hit in the side at that point.

Rational. Reasonable. Survival.

Killian Jones was, at one point, at least two of those things and then he turned ten.

And then he wasn’t really any of those things anymore.

And, now, several decades removed from watching that very particular bubble burst right in front of his eyes, Killian Jones was nothing short of angry, frustrated and visibly fed up with just about everything.

Including tourists in downtown Manhattan.

Especially tourists in downtown Manhattan.

“The sign says walk, that means you’ve got to walk,” Killian grumbled, only to be met with the wide-eyed stare of a woman who, very clearly, had never seen a building taller than two stories before in her life.

“What?” she asked. She’d stopped walking. This was not going according to plan. He was going to be late. And maybe get hit by a cab. That would, at least, get him out of this meeting. But then he’d probably drop the coffee in his hand and that was just a waste of four dollars he couldn't really rationalize anymore.

“The sign,” Killian repeated, nodding towards the post on the corner of the block. “See that light-up person on there? It means you can walk. He wants you to walk. Or her. I’m not here to determine gender for a crosswalk sign.” “Just to be an ass.” He shrugged. He wasn’t really expecting that from the very-obvious-tourist with her I Love NY plastic bag, but she wasn’t really wrong. “Welcome to New York or something.” She might have muttered dick under her breath, but she did pick up the pace a little bit and they both managed to get across East 8th without a major traffic incident or possible hit-and-run, so the whole thing seemed like a bit of a victory.

That was, however, until Killian stepped back onto the sidewalk to find himself face to face with an enormous set of doors and a building with far too many windows and the heating bill must have been insane during the winter.

He probably didn’t have to worry about that.

He assumed he wasn’t in charge of the heating or cooling of the building. Just the writing. Maybe. Regina hadn’t been all that specific. And he absolutely hadn’t been listening.

He’d been far too worried about being pissed off at the entire world – her words, not his. She was right. Killian just wouldn’t ever admit to that.

Regina knew anyway. That’s why she’d called in the first place and offered him the job. Offered was generous. She’d demanded his presence in New York a week before, quick to remind him that he didn’t have anything else to do and, as much as it pained Killian to admit, she was right. That’s what he got for telling Robin anything.

Killian sighed, taking another sip – gulp – of coffee and wincing when he burnt the back of his tongue. It was way too hot out to just be standing there, staring at The Daily Caller emblazoned on the two glass doors he still hadn’t managed to open.

God, fucking damnit.

His phone rang in his pocket and Killian might have actually jumped at the sound, taking him by surprise and nearly leading to another dropped coffee incident. He moved the cup into the crook of his elbow, trying to pull his phone out while still keeping the bag on his shoulder from falling on the ground and, somehow, another tourist managed to bump into him.

“What?” he snapped when he finally managed to get his phone out and pressed up against his ear.

“Do you always answer your phone like that? That was incredibly aggressive.” Killian’s shoulders slumped and he heard the thud of his bag hitting the sidewalk. It was probably covered in garbage now, just by default. He’d blame New York. And Robin was practically cackling on the other end.

“Maybe I just knew it was you,” Killian said. “Trying to make jokes. Badly, for what it’s worth.” “Not much. I know my jokes suck. What I don’t know though is why you’re camping out in front of the door when you were supposed to be sitting in a chair in front of Regina’s desk five minutes ago.” “She’d let me sit in a chair? That’s awfully generous of her majesty.” “Don’t be a dick.” “You know that’s not the first time I’ve heard that today.” “And that doesn’t surprise me at all. You should really come inside though, you’re freaking out the receptionist. She wanted security to call the police because she thought you were a really well-dressed loiterer.” Killian scoffed, but he could feel the sweat starting to pool at the base of his neck and the bottom of his spine and maybe he should have taken the jacket off. Or not worn the jacket at all. Or ignored Regina’s commands completely.

That last one was, absolutely, impossible.

“How come you need security to call the police?” Killian asked, delaying the inevitable meeting and not even doing a very good job of hiding it.

Robin laughed again. “They’re security, Killian. They can’t actually arrest you for whatever lewd activity you were doing to scare our receptionist.”

“Lewd, huh? When’d you swallow a thesaurus?” “When I married a reporter.” “That whole being editor thing didn’t help then?” The laughing stopped. Killian smiled and took another drink of the now luke-warm coffee. “See, I want to call you a dick again, but if I do that, you’re going to make another quip about my vocabulary and its limited uses. So, how about you stop being a complete and utter bastard, actually find some kind of unspoken courage and show up to a meeting we’re only having in order to save your ass?” “Did you practice that?” Robin groaned and Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed that easily, probably the last time he’d been in New York and with Robin and Regina and...whatever. That wasn’t important. He’d started breathing through his nose again and he could smell whatever it was that smell was – possibly just the scent of the questionable steam that was actually coming out of the ground at the end of the block, funneled up with city-provided equipment and he’d never understood that.

He’d probably look it up later.

“Dick, ass, bastard, idiot,” Robin listed off, each insult sounding a little less insulting.

“I’m a little hurt by idiot, I’ll be honest.” “Come inside, Killian.” The doors in front of him actually buzzed and he had to admit, he was kind of impressed by that. Killian grabbed one of the incredibly ostentatious handles, kicking his foot back to step over the threshold only to be met by a pair of bright green eyes and even brighter hair and an incredulous expression.

“So you actually came in then,” she said slowly, resting her elbows on the top of the desk in front of her.

Killian narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips slightly and nodded. “So it seems. You guys have air conditioning. That won out.” “Robin said you were late.”

“Five minutes. The subway sucks.” “They’re calling it ‘summer of hell’ for a reason, I guess. Where’d you get stuck?” “Excuse me?” The woman’s expression didn’t change, but she sat up a bit straighter and brushed her hair off her shoulders. “Stuck. On the train. I’m assuming that’s the reason behind the five minutes.” “Well, it’s more like seven minutes now, but that was really Robin’s fault. And, no, had to transfer. He also said you thought I was loitering.” She shrugged. “You’ve got a look to you. And it wasn’t just me. Our security guy agreed with me. He’s the one who said I should call Robin.” “A look,” Killian repeated slowly. Another shrug. He glanced at the desk she was still leaning on, elbows just a few inches away from a nameplate that proclaimed her Ariel Golven. “What exactly constitutes this look?”

“Tall, dark, brooding. You kept staring at that coffee cup like you thought it was going to give you up for murder. Have you murdered anyone recently?” Killian quirked an eyebrow at her and she grinned in response. “Not that I’m aware of, although I can’t be held responsible for anything I do to tourists in the middle of crosswalks. Why, are you trying to turn me into a murderer?” “No, I don’t really want to deal with murderers,” Ariel said. “I’m assuming you’re Regina’s eleven o’clock? The one she and Robin keep talking about in hushed tones?” “Yes to the eleven o’clock, but I refuse to acknowledge tones hushed or otherwise.” He paused, licking his lips and downing the rest of the coffee. Ice cold in ten minutes, flat. “You have a garbage can back there, Ariel? And any idea what was discussed in those hushed tones?”

She laughed. Loudly. Enough to draw the attention of the previously mentioned security guard who, at first glance, appeared to be seventy-two years old and absolutely should call the police before deciding to do anything, if only for the sake of his health and probably several different joints.

“Here,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly and wiggling her fingers when Killian didn’t move immediately. “That’s a yes to the first question,” she continued. “And a vague sense of impressed that you know how to read and an absolutely not to gossiping about the people who sign my paychecks when I know you’re here for some great, big important reason.” “I don’t know about great and important,” Killian argued.

Belittling and just a bit trivial, maybe. Survival of the fittest, it seemed, meant agreeing to things you absolutely, positively would not do in any other situation – like agreeing to come back to New York and be Regina Mills’ eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning in August.

Ariel clicked her tongue. “Ah, but those hushed tones say otherwise.” The phone on her desk rang, a loud, shrill sound that cut through the lobby and seemed to shake off the glass doors and directly into the very center of Killian’s soul.

Darwin probably hadn’t been that emotional. The turtles wouldn’t have allowed it.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Ariel answered, some unspoken question that could only be Regina if the demanding tone of voice on the other end was any indication. Killian still hadn’t handed over his half-empty coffee cup. “Uh, no I don’t think so.”

Killian widened his eyes and Ariel rolled hers, mouthing dead at him. She wiggled her fingers again, finally just leaning over the top of the desk to grab the empty cup and dump it into the trash can behind her. “Thanks,” he muttered, just a bit stunned by the show of kindness and he was a jaded asshole.

Regina was still talking a mile a minute, what sounded like a very detailed list of demands that were only serving to make Killian even later than he already was.

The elevator at the other end of the lobby dinged and they needed to do something about the acoustics of that building because everything just seemed to sound louder, or maybe those were the nerves he’d resolutely refused to acknowledge in the last two weeks, and Killian didn’t even want to think of all the reasons he knew exactly who was walking towards him as soon as the footsteps fell on the tiled floor.

“Killian, seriously, what the hell?” Robin shouted, striding towards him like he was eighteen again and breaking curfew. “We, literally, just went over this.” Killian waved his hands through the air, the silent gesture more than enough to warrant the scowl on Robin’s face and maybe he was eighteen again because he’d absolutely done it for the reaction. “You told me to come inside,” he corrected. “I am inside. And I’m also a guest in your delightfully large office building. You want me to break protocol by not signing in or whatever you do with guests?” “Cretin.” “Oh, that was a good one.” Robin sighed, rolling his whole head in frustration, but there was a hint of a smile on the edge of his mouth and Killian knew he’d won. Ariel slammed the receiver back into the mount, mumbling a few words under her breath and she nearly fell out of her chair when she realized who was standing in front of her.

“Oh, Mr. Locksley,” she stammered. “I, uh, I didn’t realize you...I didn’t see you there.” “It’s fine, Ariel,” Robin promised, elbowing Killian when he couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing. “Killian’s not a guest. He should have a keycard, actually.” “What?” Killian snapped, turning on his friend and, maybe, mentor and pseudo parent-guardian in some sort of sign your permission slips kind of way. Robin brushed him off. “That wasn’t part of the deal. There was no deal.” Robin clicked his tongue, tapping a knowing finger against the strap of Killian’s bag. “Exactly. You gave her an in, Killian and now she’s got her tenterhooks locked in. If you tell her I said that I will push you off the roof.” “I wouldn't dare. “You would. I fully expect you to say something anyway.” Robin took the card out of Ariel’s hand with a smile on his face and promptly pushed it into Killian’s chest. “Take this. Guard it with your life. It’s the only way you’ll be able to get into the building from now on. Come on.” “Wait, what?” “You stop understanding English at some point?” Killian shook his head. “Come on. Gina’s pissed you’re late.”

“Right,” Killian muttered, following Robin back towards the elevators as Ariel shouted welcome aboard as soon as the doors clicked shut.

It took some kind of eternity to reach the twentieth floor, Robin’s smug smile making Killian reconsider every single decision he’d ever made that led him to that moment. Regina had the whole floor to herself. Of course she did.

“God, spare no expense, huh?” Killian asked, running a hand through his hair as they walked towards another set of glass doors.

Robin rolled his eyes. “You really have no sense of self worth at all, do you?” “To be fair, I have no idea what’s actually going on, so I guess I’m just stringing along for the ride at this point.”

Regina Mills looked older than she did when Killian first met her. The band t-shirts that had been some kind of uniform when she was twenty-four and a cub reporter on the entertainment beat were long gone, replaced, instead with a seemingly ever-growing pant suit collection that cost more than Killian’s last apartment in Boston. The curls were gone too and her hair was short, cut straight and business-like, a no-nonsense attitude that seemed to permeate every single inch of the expansive office.

The lights on her desk phone probably never stopped blinking and the pile of paperwork a few feet away from her right elbow probably never got smaller. She looked a bit like her mother.

Killian wouldn’t ever say that out loud.

Robin was absolutely wrong – he had, at least, a little self worth.

“Where have you been?” Regina demanded, not even bothering to get out of her chair. She just glared at Killian.

“And hello to you too, Regina,” Killian answered. “It’s super great to see you. Long time. Or something. How’s everything? How’s Henry and Roland?”

He nodded towards the few frames sitting behind her, decorating the tiny shelf and Killian couldn’t look too long – certain he’d get vertigo from staring out the massive window back towards Broadway. Liam would have made fun of him for that.

Oh.

Oh, well, shit.

He shouldn’t be surprised – jumping back into the deep end of memories and emotions as he was, it only made sense that, eventually, he’d think about Liam. He just wished it wasn’t in front of Regina when he was fifteen minutes late and she was absolutely doing him some kind of enormous favor.

“Can I sit?” he asked. “Or is that against the rules?” Robin groaned, flopping into one of the chairs in front of Regina’s desk and stretching his legs out. Regina might have smiled. “Yeah, you can sit,” she said. “After you answer my question.” “You know I think that’s referred to as aggravating your sources.” “An answer or I’m actually going to get Robin to move that other chair into the hallway and you can stand for the rest of this discussion. Your call, Jones.”

She was definitely smiling and Killian felt some of that ice he’d built up in the very center of him shift just a little bit, the nickname sparking just a hint of feeling. “An ancient callback, your majesty,” he muttered. “And I had to transfer trains. It took fucking forever.” "Why are you taking the train? Aren’t you staying downtown?”

Killian shook his head, sitting down and nearly sighing in contentment when his knees bent. There’d been no seats on the train – either one. “No, it’s too...downtown.” “That doesn’t even make any sense,” Regina countered. “Hip. Is that better?”

“That just makes you sound old,” Robin said. “You could have told us you were staying uptown. We would have sent a car or something. Avoided this whole thing.”

“And not done this get-to-know-you-again banter?” Killian asked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Robin laughed in agreement, but Regina pressed her lips together – a thin line of judgement and red lipstick and understanding that Killian didn’t appreciate at all. “Why are you torturing yourself?” she asked. “He wouldn’t want you to stay up there.” “Straight to the point then,” Killian muttered and Robin stopped laughing immediately. “It’s not like I’m staying in the apartment. It’s just quieter up there.” And maybe Killian wanted to torture himself a little bit.

It was easier to do that when he wasn’t living on Astor Place with 24-hour pizza places and several dozen bars and the incoming freshman class at NYU exercising their first few weeks of freedom from adult supervision.

Once upon a time, Killian Jones lived in a tiny shoebox of a Morningside Heights apartment in upper Manhattan with his brother and it was a mess. They barely paid the rent every month and God knew how Liam managed to feed them every day and, at one point, he only owned two pairs of socks.

It had been an unqualified disaster.

It was, easily, the happiest Killian could ever remember being.

But happiness, it seemed, was not something that was ever meant to be consistent. It was fleeting and easy to lose and, eventually, Killian just decided to stop expecting much of anything from anyone.

Which was why he wasn’t quite sure why he was reacting to Boston the way that he was. He wasn’t just mad – he was pissed off. And yelling at tourists about it.

Print was dead. There was no future in it. Or, more importantly, no profit in it. And he had the metaphorical pink slip to prove it.

An email. Years of work and bylines and ignoring everything else to get the story and the best The Herald could do was send him an email informing him that he was part of a round of staff cuts and he needed to have his desk cleared by the end of the week.

He did one better. He cleared out his entire apartment.

“There’s not really any sense in beating around the bush,” Regina said pointedly and shit she sounded like Cora. Killian rolled his eyes. “Liam wouldn’t want you up there. You’re not the ghost in this situation.” Killian let out a low whistle and even Robin mumbled something that sounded a bit like jeez, Gina, he was ten minutes late, no need to actually ruin his entire day. She just lifted her eyebrows and stared at Killian, waiting for him to argue and smiling slightly when he didn’t.

“What do you want me to say, Gina?” Killian asked, certain if he fell back on nicknames and familiarity maybe he wouldn’t be tempted to run out of the office screaming.

“Why you’re being so difficult about all of this?” Because my brother’s dead and I’ve avoided New York for the last decade and the one job I thought mattered very easily informed me that I was mistaken, again, and your windows are freaking me out.

It sounded absurd in his head, he could only imagine what it would sound like if he actually said any of those words out loud.

“I’m not being difficult,” he said, ignoring whatever strangled sound Robin made next to him. One of Regina’s eyebrows moved. “I’m not! Why are you so mad about ten minutes?” “This is a fairly important website, in case you haven’t noticed,” Regina said evenly. “Strangely enough I do have other things to do besides waiting for you to grace us with your presence.”

“This was your idea.” “And you’re being an ass about it.” “Robin already used that insult, come up with a different one.” “Bastard.” “Nope.”

“Dunce.” Killian grinned and Regina’s shoulders seemed to settle just a bit, spine not quite as straight and the tension in the office not quite as thick. “Winner winner,” he mumbled, ancient games matching up with ancient nicknames and Liam absolutely wouldn’t want him to stay uptown.

“Did Robin give you the keycard thing?” she asked.

“Super articulate, your majesty. And yes, he did. Before he actually coughs up a lung in a misplaced attempt to argue with both of us.” Robin snapped his jaw shut, glaring at Killian again and kicking at his ankle for good measure. “Although I don’t understand why you’re giving me one of these things if I’m just going to write breaking stuff for you.” Robin made another noise – it might have actually be a moan and Killian twisted in the chair, a wooden arm colliding with his side. “What am I missing?” he asked.

“See, this is why you should have gotten here on time,” Robin said. “Then we could have gone over all the reasons you shouldn’t freak out without having to rush over them.” Killian glanced back at Regina, an unreadable look on her face and the phone was probably going to explode at some point if she didn’t acknowledge all of those flashing lights. “Am I not your top priority, Gina?”

“Obviously not,” she responded easily. Robin was going to choke on air. “And you’re not going to do news either.” “What?” Killian’s eyes darted between the two other people in the room, desperate for some kind of contradiction or explanation and all but growling when he wasn’t provided with either.

This whole thing really was Regina’s fault. Not that she’d ever admit to it.

He was eighteen and a freshman in college, working two jobs before and after class and it had been a Saturday afternoon when a twenty-something woman with black hair and bright red nails strode into the coffee shop just off campus and ordered a large Americano with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso.

She’d been on her phone and there’d been a pen stuck in her hair and a notebook gripped tightly in one hand.  

He thought she was crazy. Whipped cream on an Americano was disgusting. Years later, Killian asked Regina about it and she claimed it was for the sugar, but he got the distinct impression it was some kind of rebellious act because Cora refused to admit that anything good in the world, like whipped cream, existed.

Regina could have done things easier – she could have lived up to her mother’s plans and demands and expectations and she probably could have gotten an above-the-fold story in The Times before she was thirty without having to do much more than mention her last name.

She didn’t want that.

She wanted to earn it. Or so she explained to Killian after she started showing up in the coffee shop  several times a day, saying that she’d moved uptown on her own and graduated with a masters in journalism and was covering music because she loved it.

He never forgot the way her eyes lit up when she started talking about it – the emotions and the feeling and the want and when she told him to come along to see her boyfriend play in Alphabet City that weekend, Killian wasn’t sure he’d seen anyone love anything as much as Regina loved her beat, literal and metaphorical.

He declared the week after, marching into the Dean's office at Hunter with a sense of determination that made Liam ask what he’d done with Killian Jones and it only took a few minutes to lock into some sort of future.

And Killian Jones, reporter was born.

“Explain, Gina,” Killian said sharply, doing his best to get the Mills demand into his voice. It didn’t work. “I don’t know how to do anything except news.” She didn’t look impressed. “Ok, that’s not true at all. You have a degree. I know you took a features writing course once. I fixed your grammar.” “If we’re just here to walk down memory lane…” “Obviously we’re not or I wouldn’t be so pissed off about you being late and screwing up my entire schedule for the day.” “Guys,” Robin cut in, actually standing up to move in between them and Killian didn’t remember shifting to the front of the chair until he was nearly falling off it. “There’s no space in news,” he said, staring intently at Killian. “We don’t have the byline.” “You’re a website,” Killian accused. “An enormous website mostly made up of freelancers. I’m not asking for a staffer job.” “Too bad,” Regina mumbled and Robin shot her a look over his shoulder.

Killian took a deep breath, sliding back until his shoulders collided with the top of the chair. He pressed his tongue against his cheek and stared back at Robin. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I’m listening.” Robin tilted his head slightly – an exasperated move Killian was fairly certain Liam taught him – and balanced on the edge of Regina’s desk. “I’m not even going to acknowledge that with an insult,” he mumbled. “And I don’t care about your reservations as a staffer. That’s why we got you the keycard. You already are one.”

Killian opened his mouth to argue, but Robin just widened his eyes and he’d gotten very good at that look. It probably had something to do with raising two kids. And Liam. Liam definitely taught him that. “This is not up for debate,” Robin continued. “You, Killian Jones, are now an official staff writer at The Daily Caller and, now, an official employee of Mills Media. There’s a shit ton of paperwork for you to fill out later, but we’ll get to that. You’ll be full-time, you’ll get benefits, you should move out of that hotel you’ve been staying in for the last two days. And while we can’t tell you not to live uptown, we can both strongly suggest that you consider moving down here to make the commute easier. And,” he said, eyeing Killian with a look that left little room for argument, “you should forget whatever misgivings you have about a beat that does not revolve intrinsically around death.” “Ok, breaking news isn’t just death,” Killian reasoned. Regina made a dismissive noise. “It’s not! It just ends up that way a lot because people are awful.” “And this kind of involves death,” Regina muttered.

Robin almost looked defeated. “Virtually.” “What the hell are either one of you talking about?” Killian asked, half shouting the question in the hope that, maybe, it would get him some answers.

“Video games,” Robin said. “A whole string of feature stories about video games. Or, well, one video game. And one team of...video game players. Is that what they’re called?” Regina shrugged. “I have no idea. Ask Killian in a week. He should know by then.”

Killian’s head was spinning – and he was fairly certain it wasn’t because of the vertigo he may or may not have been experiencing. He was breathing through his mouth again. And that time wasn’t on purpose.

He pushed out of the chair, walking back behind Regina’s desk and ignoring Robin’s quiet gasp of surprise that he even dared to move over whatever unspoken barrier he’d just crossed. Regina’s eyebrow shifted again. “What the hell is going on, Gina?” he barked. “The truth this time.”

And just like that, the facade cracked a bit – eyebrows returning to their biologically determined place and glare softening just a bit and for half a second Killian was almost convinced she was going to move her fingers to try and brush towards his left hand before she stopped herself.

“You called Robin,” Regina started. “And told him about The Herald and, well, you couldn’t expect that we wouldn’t do something. We had to do something. He would have wanted…”

“Stop it,” Killian warned, but she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Regina Mills wasn’t concerned with empty threats. Or ghosts.

She moved again and, that time, she did reach forward, wrapping her fingers around his left forearm and tugging forcefully like she was trying to get him to understand.

“We had to do something,” she repeated. “And it’s not like we’re not without money here. The problem is that the money isn’t in news. We’ve got that covered. There is, however, a staffer spot open in lifestyles.” “Lifestyles!” “Killian, if you interrupt me again, I’m going to cut your keycard in half.” “That doesn’t really mean much to me. And I can’t be official yet, I haven’t filled out a W-4. Nothing’s official until there are taxes involved.” “You’re very frustrating when you’re sarcastic.” “Charming.” “And it’s a defense mechanism,” Robin mumbled.

Killian shrugged. “That too,” he admitted. “Why lifestyles? Honestly. I’m not really qualified to write fluff.” “You’re qualified to write,” Regina said. “And I resent the implication that anything we publish is fluff.” “Is that you or your mom talking? And there’s a story in your lifestyles section today questioning the merits of merlot over other wines.” Regina’s eyes flashed, the mention of Cora having its desired effect and he’d absolutely done it as some kind of glorified defense. If he got her mad he wouldn’t have to talk and he could ignore the idea of what he’d wanted when he got into all of this.

Jaded.

He was jaded and angry and news was all of those with some homicides occasionally thrown in.

“I think what you’re trying to say is that you’re reading the lifestyles section of the site,” Regina said, bypassing any mention of her mother. “Did you click on the story? That’d help with hits.” “I did not,” Killian laughed. “Just skimmed headlines.” “You’re the worst kind of reader.” “Make me pay for content then.” “Don’t say that out loud, that’s like muttering Bloody Mary in the mirror three times. Any mention of the money automatically summons my mother.”

Killian barked out a laugh, leaning against the windows behind him and crossing his arms. Regina smiled. “Ok, Gina, I’ll bite. What am I supposed to be doing here?” “Lifestyles,” she answered, waving a dismissive hand through the air when he rolled his eyes at the repetition. “But not really lifestyles. It’s only going there because it doesn’t really make sense in entertainment and it’s not really sports, although they’ll probably argue with you on that front.” “It is called e-sports,” Robin said, twisting to join the conversation again. “It’s, technically, a sport. A tournament if you want to be specific.” “I thought you said video games,” Killian said. It sounded exactly like the accusation it was. He wanted the truth. And maybe another coffee.

“I did. What I didn’t say because you were too busy throwing a temper tantrum over what section your story would fall under was that the video games are insanely competitive and insanely popular which is why there’s even an interest in stories about them.” “There was no temper tantrum. There was...confusion.” “Temper. Tantrum,” Robin grinned. “It doesn’t matter. I knew you’d take it anyway.” “Because of the aforementioned health benefits?” “No. Because it’s going to be a good story and that’s all you’ve ever really wanted to do.”

Killian licked his lips, tilting his head back until he hit it against a pane of glass and that was good, if it hurt it meant he was actually there, in that office, with the only two people in the entire world who would dare say anything like that to him. It would have been kind of weird if that whole morning had been a dream.

“And trust me,” Robin pressed. “This is a good story. Plus, apparently Henry and Roland are thrilled at the idea of you covering it because they play this game and think you can get them insider info on how to level-up or something.” “And you said I was the old man before,” Killian muttered. “You already told Henry and Roland I was going to do this? That feels like coercion.” “A calculated bargaining technique.” “Ok, so what exactly does this entail? Didn’t you say it was a whole bunch of stories?” Robin nodded. “A year. With benefits. And the potential for job growth. Outside of lifestyles. So, you know, consider all of that. Plus, Rol and Henry are super excited.”

“Why?” “Why are Roland and Henry excited? It’s a super popular game.” “No, no, no,” Killian said. “Why are you guys doing this?” Robin and Regina stared at him like he’d suddenly grown sixteen heads and suggested that the Earth was flat. Or like they’d offered him a year-long gig covering an e-sports whatever he’d never heard of – with benefits – and probably ignored Cora’s objections to even the idea of him setting foot in that downtown office.

And the answer was so obvious it was like it had grown legs and then proceeded to smack each of them in the face.

Because Liam would have wanted us to.

“How come you wore a jacket to a not-real-interview that you didn’t even want to come to?” Regina countered. Killian glared at her.

Because Liam would have wanted me to.

“Fine,” he said, tugging on his hair again. “I’ll probably have to ask Rol and Henry how the game works.”

“They’re banking on that,” Robin smiled. “And you’re sure? I mean, contrary to popular belief we’re not actually forcing you to take a byline. Or benefits.” “You’re really pushing that benefits thing aren’t you?” “It’s a good plan.” “Sure it is,” Killian scoffed. “And, yeah, I’m sure. You already gave me the keycard anyway, seems a waste to have to cut that up or whatever you do to returned keycards.” “Probably cut it up.” “Then, yeah. I’m in. Let’s cover video games like that’s something people do.”

He spent the rest of the day signing paperwork and learning systems and actually reading that merlot story and by the time Killian made it back uptown to the overpriced hotel he was paying for, he all but collapsed on the over-starched sheets.

And he was fairly positive he’d only just shut his eyes when he heard the phone ring, jerking him out of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. Killian reached out blindly, refusing to give credence to the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and he nearly knocked the phone off the nightstand, mumbling a scratchy hello into the receiver.

“Mr. Jones?” a perky voice on the other end asked, as if expecting to find another person in the room registered to Killian Jones.

“Yeah.” That gave the perky voice pause. “Uh,” she stuttered and there was laughter in the background. Killian resisted the urge to groan. Loudly. “There’s a gentleman down here. Says he knows you and you’re expecting him.”

He hadn’t actually opened his eyes yet, but Killian squeezed them tighter anyway and the perky voice might have gasped when he did actually groan at her. He should have figured. If Robin and Regina were plotting, then it only made sense that Will Scarlet was in on it too.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” Killian mumbled, finally opening his eyes and immediately regretting that decision. “You can send him up or whatever.” “He, uh, well he says to tell you he would have come up anyway, but he was…” “Doing me a solid,” Killian finished. “Yeah, I bet he was. Thanks.” “Of course.” They were back to perky. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Jones?”

Scarlet was hysterical and Killian would have bet several thousand dollars he absolutely did not have that he was also resting on the lobby desk and possibly clutching his stomach in some kind of dramatic motion that he came up with when he was nineteen.

“No,” Killian said. “Thanks.” “Have a great day!” Not likely. He’d signed all that paperwork and agreed to dinner with Robin and Regina which also meant dinner with Henry and Roland and that meant several hours in some sort of whirlwind video game crash course discussing the rules of some game called Over...something. He should probably remember the name of the game.

And he’d fallen asleep quickly and easily, but only because he was told, in no uncertain terms by Regina, that he had a ten o’clock appointment in Midtown with this video game team that he absolutely, could not miss.

She must have sent Scarlet to make sure he didn’t.

Or...no, it couldn’t have been that. Even Regina wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t trying to drive him insane.

Probably.

Oh, shit that’s totally what was happening.

Will must have sprinted up the stairs or taken the quickest elevator in the history of the world, already knocking on Killian’s door. He groaned, resigning himself to whatever plan for his life was, apparently, being formed without his explicit consent, and managed to grab a shirt off the top of his bag before swinging open the door. Will was mid-knock.

“Hey, Hook,” Will said, a picture of sarcastic chipper nonsense that made Killian clench his fist. “Welcome home.” “You’re an ass,” Killian muttered. Will laughed again, pushing his way into the room with, at least, four different cameras slung over both of his shoulders. So, that was definitely happening.

Will sank onto the corner of the bed, a knowing smile on his face as if he’d just feasted on an entire table of canaries. “Dynamic duo or something,” he said. “I hate that, so don’t use that again.” “I’m only going to use that now,” Killian said, slamming the door behind him.

“Pot and kettle.” “What?” “You called me an ass, which is a great reintroduction after ignoring the city for the last ten years, by the way. So, pot and kettle.” “That’s not how that cliché goes,” Killian pointed out. Will shrugged. “And I saw you at Christmas.”

In retrospect, that was probably when Robin and Regina first started plotting this whole thing – he’d shown up to the Mills family estate in Vermont just a few hours before midnight on Christmas Eve, exhausted with bags under his eyes that were big enough to check, and complained about fewer bylines and a lack of ink and a lack of ads which all circled back to the fewer bylines thing. No one wanted to print the paper if no one wanted to buy the paper.

Will had tried to get him to take some photos, certain if he’d just expand his skill set he’d be more appealing to a wider variety of publishers and printing syndicates.

Killian had not-so-politely refused. And then called Will an ass.

“That doesn’t count,” Will argued. “You were in and out in, like, a day and a half. You’re in this for the long haul now, right?” “Because I’m being plied with an admittedly pretty good benefits plan.”

“C’mon. Don’t be like that. This is going to be fun. You’re telling me you’re not actually interested in professional video game players?” “Only in so much as finding out how they actually make a living.” Will made a face. “You wound me, Hook. This is a cool story. It’s totally in your wheelhouse of interests. Or, you know, it should be.” “Don’t do that,” Killian growled.

Will didn’t back down. And he shouldn’t have been surprised. Regina wasn’t going to put up with any of Killian’s shit, but Scarlet was a close second in being decidedly unamused by any of this. It probably had something to do with living together – answering a CraigsList ad because Hunter didn’t provide housing and Liam had already been sent overseas and Killian wanted out of the shoebox.

The apartment he and Will lived in wasn’t much better, didn’t even have an oven in it, but they were eighteen and it felt like some kind of palace at the time.

It also left Will positive he knew Killian better than anyone.

“Regina thinks you’re up here because you’re wallowing,” Will said, shifting so his half a dozen cameras were resting on the bed as well.

“Regina needs to stop gossipping.” “It’s the journalist in her, she can’t help herself. At least you’re not living in the Mills-Locksley household. Imagine all that talking.” “Terrifying.” Will grinned, shoulders shaking slightly with the force of his laughter. “All that support and mutual adult’dom,” he chuckled. “The worst. Plus those kids adding the adorable. It’s just disgusting.”

“No one needs that,” Killian sighed, running a hand over his face and he’d slept for what felt like days, but he was, suddenly, exhausted. “So, dynamic duo’ing, huh? She give you a choice of gigs or you volunteer to follow me around for a year?” “Please, I’m not following you around. I’m following a good story. Although watching you rejoin the human race is some kind of unexpected bonus.” “Did I evolve into another species without realizing it?” Will nodded. “Killian Jones, suddenly very good at coming up with adjectives for blood.” “Lacerations.” “See.” “How come you brought all that gear?” Killian asked. “I thought we were just going to meet with these people. Background or whatever.” “Yeah, but you never know when the mood’s going to strike and we’re going in the middle of a practice. It could be pretty good stuff, actually.” “Practice?” “What part of professional athletes are you not understanding here?” “See,” he shook his head. “That’s just not right. It’s not like they’re burning calories or anything. This is...this is not a real thing.” “I would suggest you don’t tell them that. And then do some basic research in the cab. Because they may not be running sprints, but they’re making money like they’re professional athletes. You know what the base salary for this league is?”

“It’s a league?” “Tournament’s probably a better word, but that’s also a question you should ask the athletes. Killian, did you even listen to a single thing Regina told you?” He hadn’t. He’d listened to what Roland and Henry said about the rules and the character sayings that were, admittedly, just a bit annoying when he heard them several dozen times in the span of a few hours at dinner, but he hadn’t really paid attention to the angle, fairly positive he could, at least, come up with his own in on a story.

“Idiot,” Will muttered, but there was a familiarity in his voice that sent a very specific pang of something down Killian’s spine. “Go shower, you look like shit and you don’t want to offend the sources as soon as they lay eyes on you.” Killian kicked him, blaming old habits or something that didn’t make him feel like he was a teenager. “They’re professional video game players,” he reasoned. “I highly doubt they’ll be offended by much of anything.” “You got to check those assumptions at the door, man.” “What do you know that I don’t?” “Trust me, it’ll be more fun if you just go in ignorant.” “For you maybe,” Killian accused, pushing away from the set of drawers he’d been leaning against. Will hummed in agreement. “Hey, what’s the salary? You said there was a base.” Will grinned like he’d suddenly found another canary he hadn’t stuffed in his face already. “Fifty thousand,” he answered simply. Killian felt his jaw drop slightly and he wished he was still leaning on something. “Yup,” Will said, popping his lips on the syllable. “Seriously, go shower. I wasn’t kidding about you looking like shit.”

Killian wasn’t sure what he expected when he heard professional video game practices, but he was fairly positive a Midtown Irish bar was fairly low on his list of ideas. He glanced skeptically at Will who hadn’t stopped grinning the entire time they made it downtown, even laughing once when Killian started grumbling about tourists in midtown.

“You’re an old man,” Will chuckled, pushing on Killian’s shoulder to move him towards the door of the bar. There were voices coming from inside – screams might have been more appropriate.

Killian swung open the door, closing his eyes when a blast of air conditioning rushed towards them and the screams were actually shouts of something that sounded a bit like triumph.

No one can hide from my sight!

Will was barely staying upright, arm wrapped tightly around his waist when he noticed the look on Killian’s face. He shook his head, not sure what to focus on – every screen sitting on the bar was hooked up to the game, six stools pressed up against the far wall with half a dozen women sitting there, each one wearing headsets and feet propped up on even more stools.

Their fingers were moving a mile a minute on actual keyboards and one of them – a brunette with bright, red streaks in her hair – was yelling at the woman three seats to her right, leaning forward to bark orders. “Don’t move,” she shouted and the other woman, another brunette, rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Belle. Do not move!” “I know how the game works!” “Oh my God, Rubes, shut up,” someone else screamed, kicking at air and Killian hoped she wasn’t aiming for the woman next to her. She didn’t really come close. “Belle knows how to play. We all know how to play.”

Rubes – that couldn't be her name – stuck her tongue out, but she didn’t pull her eyes away from the screen and something must have happened because there was more yelling and more orders shouted and a string of sound effects that came pouring out of the five TV screens above the bar.

“What is happening right now?” Killian whispered, leaning back towards a still-amused Will who already had one of his cameras pointed at the line of women in front of them.

“See, I told you it’d be more fun if you came into this ignorant. You’re going to want to come up with something good if you don’t want me to give Regina this picture of you reacting to that one blonde lady screaming.” “What?” “Phone camera. On silent. Deceptive.”

“No, I don’t care about that. What blonde one?” “The one you’re staring at. Still.” Killian blinked – he had been. He hadn’t even turned towards Will when he asked his initial question, not quite willing to pull his gaze away from the woman a few feet in front of him. There were spots of red on her cheek and a piece of hair flying across her face, moving every time she jerked her forehead and mumbled a string of curses under her breath and he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

That wasn’t part of the deal at all.

This wasn’t what he expected at all.

“They were supposed to be professional video game players,” Killian hissed, finally pulling his eyes away and glaring at Will like this was, somehow, his fault.

“They are,” he said slowly. And then he took another picture. “I’ll call this one, lovestruck Killian Jones. It’ll probably win awards.” “Shut up. Why are they…” “Women?” “Shut up,” Killian repeated. “But, well, yeah.” Will stuffed his phone back in his pocket and Killian was glad – until Scarlet used his now-free fist to punch him in the shoulder. “You know they still have opposable thumbs, right? I don’t think gender dictates an innate ability to play video games. And you seem suddenly very interested in your subject matter. Don’t say shut up again, I’m enjoying this way too much.”

“Shoot, shoot, shoot, Emma, God, shoot,” the red-streaked brunette yelled, elbowing the woman next to her and drawing back Killian’s attention.

Her name was Emma.

“Ruby, I know how to play the game,” Emma groaned, smashing a string of buttons. Bomb’s away! “Ha,” she shouted in triumph, punching the air as soon as the shot hit and, according to the sound effects, exploded. “Take that fucking assholes!”

Will laughed, not quite able to turn the sound into a cough or the silence it probably should have been since they’d been lurking in the doorway for the last five minutes. Emma spun at the noise, gaze sharp and shoulders straight and Killian couldn't see anything except how green her eyes were and how blonde her hair was, curling lightly at the ends that were draped over the front of an NYPD t-shirt.

“Can I help you?” she asked. “The restaurant doesn’t open for another couple of hours.” “No, no, we’re not here for the restaurant,” Killian said quickly, elbowing Will when he didn’t stop laughing immediately. “I’m Killian Jones and this is Will Scarlet. We’re here from The Boston... sorry, The Daily Caller. For the story?” Emma twisted her eyebrows. “Was that a question?” “Only in the realm of politeness. You know, ease our way into the conversation.” “Yuh huh.” “Did you not know about the story?” “I knew about the story,” Emma said, just a bit sharper than her original greeting had been. This was not going well. Killian ran his hand through his hair. “Did you say Boston?” “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Force of habit.” “The city of Boston is forcing you to mention it? Are they sponsoring you?” “That was funny. You know you haven’t actually told me your name yet.” “Ruby shouted it two seconds ago.” “First names are only half the story, love,” Killian said and he was an asshole because he was smirking at her and his hand was still stuck halfway through his hair and Emma was staring at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was actually standing there. Neither could he, really.

“Absolutely not your love,” she said, practically snarling out the words. “And my last name is Swan. I’m assuming you need that for the story.” “It does help with quotes when you can identify who’s talking.” “You didn’t give me an answer about Boston.” “Are you always so demanding?” Killian asked. “I feel like I’m the one being interviewed.”

The peanut gallery behind them snickered slightly, headsets pulled to one side so they could hear and Ruby had moved in front of the other brunette she’d been shouting at before. There were three other women – a petite blonde whose feet barely reached the bottom rung of the stool she was sitting on, another blonde with hair that was so light it was nearly white and an auburn-haired woman whose face looked a bit similar to the white-haired blonde and this was all very confusing.

Emma’s eyes were very green.

“When it’s my team, yeah,” Emma said, crossing her arms over her shirt and rocking towards him. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. That was, decidedly, dangerous thinking. “Why the Boston sponsorship?” “I used to work for a paper in Boston,” Killian answered. “I only recently started at The Daily Caller.” “How recent is recent?” “More demands, Swan.” She pressed her lips together tightly, rocking back on her heels and Killian regretted that far more than he should have. “You’ve got a nickname thing,” she accused. “That’s weird.” “You’re a professional video game player.” “And?” “And in the realm of weird…” “You know this is a pretty shitty first impression.” “Yeah, I’m getting that,” Killian admitted. “Backtrack?” Emma shrugged. “Ok,” he said, pushing his right hand towards her and that was the first time her eyes had dropped away from his. And landed, quite quickly, on his distinct lack of a left hand. Will made some kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat and the unnamed auburn-haired lady might have gasped.

Killian tried to smile, fairly certain it didn’t work as soon as he saw the look on Emma’s face. “Killian Jones,” he said, twisting his wrist slightly and he didn’t think he imagined the idea of a smile flash across her lips. “Lifestyles writer at The Daily Caller, here to profile your pro video game team for the foreseeable future. I think we can tell some really good stories.”

Emma’s eyebrows shifted, darting up her forehead as she glanced over her shoulder towards her teammates. They all smiled. Ruby nodded towards Killian’s outstretched hand, grimacing in what looked like pain, but might have been some kind of unspoken code.

“I thought we were backtracking, Swan,” Killian continued.

She scoffed, turning back on him and she was all green eyes and the headset was threatening to fall off her head, but she met his gaze straight on and he wanted to know everything about her. He couldn't remember the last time he wanted to do that with someone who wasn’t covered in several different adjectives for blood.

He probably shouldn’t say that out loud.

“See, that nickname again,” she muttered, but she was smiling. Honest to goodness smiling. And her fingers were freezing cold when they brushed across his. “Emma Swan, team captain. And we better tell some goddamn great stories.”