#Emma would be so into it too. Emma is here to encourage all the pettiness and 'acting your age' behavior

[smiletimeisrunningout]

Ben's words and expression reminded Emma of the way he spoke of his youth, of his lack of experience with women, how he believed himself to be not quite the looker as a boy. He clearly didn't enjoy being easily embarrassed now, especially when it came to bedding people, and she knew as a man he'd hardly find people encouraging that side of him. It was so silly, to think of how they were encouraged to act like they had no weaknesses, and she may have felt the same about the matter, had she not been raised by a man like her father.

"Make no mistake, I would not want you to be any different," she decided to say then, bringing a hand to his cheek and cupping it gently, "Even the parts of you I can't read because I'm all sorts of confused by my own feelings. If you'll ever choose to come home with me, you'll be welcomed to spend your days reading to kids and looking for new poems and books. You'll never have to be calm and collected unless you wish to be."

Although there was something funny about thinking of Ben living the life of retirement and lazy days that she had planned for her hypothetical future old husband, and instead of that happening because she only needed a husband to have her throne it would be because she had a husband she liked.

"Or you could do whatever you want, I'm making it sound like I'm going to... hold you hostage like some sort of beauty in the tower." God, she had almost said 'marry you'. So much for going as slow as possible. "I just meant to say that I don't want you to change one bit for me, I like you the way you are. Besides the part where you grow double the patience you have now, so you can withstand my moods."

"Oh, come on, it can't be that bad, I would love for you to show me and prove me wrong."

"The side of my bed has a few canvas, you have my permission to check because they are landscapes and, unlike faces, they actually look decent," she offered, adjusting her position on the bed; it hurt, again, and Emma wondered how long it would take before she'd be able to just kiss him as much as she'd like. He was so interested, and so damn kissable. "The next time I'm not dying and we can go out, we'll find a place where I can sing, then. I doubt the rest of your army would be keen. They have more important things to deal with... you don't, anymore, because you have chosen to court me and you must act accordingly," she teased, giving his cheek a light tap.

"I'll finally convince you that books aren't so bad -- or at the very least, listening along to a good story?"

"See, the compromise is right there: you read a book you like, you tell me about it. Much better if you want me to pay attention from beginning to end. Plus, it won't harm me like reading. The headaches just aren't worth it, when I can be told the story." She was surprised whenever she met people who were so dedicated to books; her father loved reading, but he didn't have enough time to do so, so she figured he didn't have to battle with the inevitable headaches as much, but August and Ben? Masochists.

I'm not so sure I can reciprocate, but that's because I only tend to fall into bed with those I...w-well, I prefer meaning to my dalliances-" "Oh, sweetie," she whispered, smiling in reassurance. "-And clearly, I hadn't found that before you, since you were...y-you were my... My first."

"No, I know that, and that's lovely, really. I would never expect you to drop your values for me," she assured him, "There is nothing wrong with you waiting, you know that. In fact, you should be proud: you did it the way you wanted, when you wanted, and not because you felt you had to. That takes guts. I may not share the... uh... philosophy behind it, but I will defend it until the end of days." Though it was still odd to her that he hadn't been taken aback by her history. "I don't... I think I don't really kiss much, if there is no feeling behind it? Even if, in my case, generally the feeling was friendship, I suppose to me it's kissing that required some meaning. It feels so intimate. Like holding hands."

She took his hand, not just to make a point but to feel just how natural it was. She may lay with a stranger, but she certainly would not hold hands with him.

"In fact, I've been told I'm rather hotheaded, and despite my father's valiant efforts, I'm not the best with sharing, either. Not that I intend to."

Her gasp was far too intrigued, "You are jealous?" she asked in delight, "Oh, that sounds fun. We have to revisit that once I have healed enough... Naturally, you know you don't need to worry about me looking at other men, I find the thought of cheating repulsive." That and when she had met Selah Strong in passing and had properly ogled him, she had almost died on the spot after Caleb had explained he was married to their friend Anna. Her horror at having looked at the man for too long had even entertained James, who had apparently expected her 'not to care' on account of her being 'so carefree', which he had not meant as an insult, but had horrified her even more. No, taken men were off-limits, and so was she as a taken woman. "But if you wish to deck someone because they cross a line with me or something of the sort, please make sure I'm there."

"Perhaps my fear made you appear more... calm and collected about the whole ordeal than you actually were," she suggested, which wasn't an unfair assumption. "I do hope I'll get to see that... gollumpus you speak of. He seems just my type."

Benjamin grinned, his eyes shining self-consciously. "Trust me: no one has ever called me calm and collected, and least especially when it comes to protecting those I love. But if my gollumpus side is the one you're yearning for, I just might have some competition on my hands."

All the naked things?

Yet again, Benjamin felt a damnable spread of heat searing across his face as he laughed, darting his eyes in between her face and the ground. He wasn't sure why after all this time he was still shy at such talk -- especially since she'd never exactly been withholding when it came to her candidness -- but with a shake of his head, he softly reassured, "No, I...w-well, according to Caleb, I'm very much like an open book. If I like someone, or dislike them, it's plain as day... But apparently not to those who truly matter."

Emma was quick to dismiss any artistic pursuits. Despite her typical self-deprecation (something that he, himself, tended to mirror in his own behavior), Benjamin found himself laughing at the idea. "Oh, come on, it can't be that bad," he said. "I would love for you to show me and prove me wrong."

When she brought up singing, he perked up. "I've heard you were fond of it," he allowed, "but I've never actually been privy to a concert. I was always out and about, or busying myself with papers, and...other tasks."

It occurred to him then that Emma wasn't wholly privy to the ring. Perhaps he should tell her someday, he thought, if she wished to be given the ultimate sign of his trust and admiration.

Seemingly oblivious to his inner conflict, Emma continued, "Considering that, it's odd that I miss painting. But I... like the idea of doing that while you read... doing that sort of thing together, as in sharing a room. Or tent, in this case."

"I like that too," Benjamin softly reassured. "And maybe one day, one day, I'll finally convince you that books aren't so bad -- or at the very least, listening along to a good story?"

Emma appeared rather embarrassed, but before he could ask what he'd done, she was quick to turn around and embarrass him. "I assure you," she coyly said, "had you been inclined, I would have taken you to bed long before knowing you as a person. Just because of your looks. Multiple women being interested in you is not out of the realm of possibilities."

"I...thank you?" Benjamin stammered, his brows scrunching with a self-conscious chuckle. "I'm not so sure I can reciprocate, but that's because I only tend to fall into bed with those I...w-well, I prefer meaning to my dalliances. And clearly, I hadn't found that before you, since you were...y-you were my..." Awkwardly, he waved a hand before shyly concluding, "My first."

Emma rattled off all the ways other women could be jealous -- the idea seemed absurd to him, if he was being honest -- yet she was quick to denounce such thoughts. "That sounds horrible," she decided. "I hope my status will scare them away. You are lucky no one has tried to woo me here so you don't need to witness it, but I'll have to prepare so I can have a proper ladylike reaction, it's not as if I can fight them, they are ladies."

Benjamin scoffed. "You are lucky for that, too," he challenged. "I confess, I've never had to keep menfolk away from a woman, but I do know I'm not much for jealousy. In fact, I've been told I'm rather hotheaded, and despite my father's valiant efforts, I'm not the best with sharing, either. Not that I intend to." He flashed a lopsided smile. "I'll share your time here and there, but anything else risks that gollumpus we talked about coming into play."

[synth-dahl]

H2O: Just Add Water, Season 2, Episode 21, And Then There Were Four

Things my girlfriend and I thought during this episode:

- “I can’t stop thinking about mermaids.” Me, looking at my various mermaid tree ornaments, my new mermaid nail polish, mermaid movies, mermaid lockscreen picture: “Haha, what is she talking about?”

- Again, it is so clear that Charlotte desperately misses her grandmother, and finding new information about her, especially something that seems impossible, would of course make her want to know more about her. But of course the other girls believe it’s just about them, because god forbid they talk to or know about Charlotte so they could learn that

- GF: Oh my god, I just now realized they’re at school. I thought this took place over one gigantic Phineas and Ferb summer

- I made the mistake of looking at the comments again. Christ. I know it’s a well established rule that the YouTube comment section will always disappoint you, but man, imagine that much of a... I don’t even know what, to act like a teenage girl whose only crime is being a little too overbearing and dating their favorite character’s ex-boyfriend is on par with Hitler or something. It’s like no one watching it has any other opinion about this show other than, Wow, Charlotte is a fat gross loser that I wish would die

- Like, I don’t even hate Kylo Ren or Snape this much, and they’re monsters I hate very much

- My girlfriend keeps comparing the three main characters to Walter White in terms of bad people who think they’re the good guys

- And I want to get this off my chest, real quick: I don’t hate these characters, I’m just ticked off that they’re acting the way they are. You’re telling me that hard-working, level-headed, kind, fair play Emma would be totally on board with not giving people a chance, and bullying a defenseless girl? You’re telling me that super sweet, generous, heart of the group Cleo who was heartbroken watching her friends fight, would hate someone just because they’re dating her ex, and use her powers to make their lives hell while spitting venom every chance she gets? You’re telling me that Rikki, who knows what it’s like to be disliked simply because no one takes a chance to know her, who didn’t let her own friends go to her house and meet her dad until nearly a year after knowing them because she was afraid to be judged by them, would encourage and instigate the bullying of someone who has shown time and time again to be her friend, then give super villain-esque speeches about using their magic for petty revenge? I’m sorry, but no. I’m not asking everyone to simply be besties automatically, or for everyone to act like they’re Care Bears. I’m asking for these characters that we know and love, to be the characters we know and love. Because what are we gaining by just blindly hating with a ruthless amount of venom a teenage girl who has not done anything? Nothing. And no, I don’t accept that “They’re teenagers,” excuse. This isn’t real life, this is a television show where everything is scripted. They could have written this to have a genuine growth to everyone. Look at the YouTube comments and tell me that it’s not glaringly clear that not writing a scene where everyone recognizes their mistakes and behaviors and work to better themselves while apologizing to those they’ve wronged didn’t have an impact. I’m seeing comments by people who are apparently fully matured adults still hating Charlotte with gusto that they’re disgustingly proud of. And why? Because a scripted show where they controlled the framing and what is done, showed people being villainous as in the right. Cleo, Emma, and Rikki don’t grow this season, don’t mature except into characters I do not recognize. And the fact that I am apparently shouting this into a void that just makes me sad. I just... I loved this show. I do love it. It’s just... watching it again, I wish the second season was better. It could’ve been better, and where it’s not, we could have discussions.

- Okay, glad I got off my chest. My girlfriend was putting Halloween decorations up and we had to pause it for a little while.

- Oh my god, seriously, I don’t see pictures of mermaids and automatically think they’re real. These people are so paranoid if they went to one of those sea park shows with mermaid actors they’d probably lose their freaking minds

- Max is the only person who has treated Charlotte like a decent human being this entire season. She should’ve found him earlier, I bet everything would’ve turned out better. Like, he knew the importance of keeping the mermaid secret, yet he knew that she deserved to know the truth.

- OHMYGOD so much could be resolved if you would just TELL HER THE TRUTH

- I THINK SHE DESERVES THE TRUTH AT THIS POINT

- YES CHARLOTTE, LEAVE. YOU DESERVE BETTER. YOU DESERVE TO BE ANGRY ABOUT THE LYING. YOU DESERVE THE TRUTH. YOU HAVE A SUPERHUMAN AMOUNT OF PATIENCE TO GO ON THIS LONG KNOWING YOU’RE BEING LIED TO AND STILL STAY.

- GF: So far, all the drama could’ve been avoided by not contradicting her finding out her grandma’s a mermaid, instead of telling her it was crazy, they could’ve played along with the discovery Me: But then it could lead her to discovering there’s mermaids. GF: Yeah, but it doesn’t link back to the three at all Me: Good point. I mean, what does that give her? Knowledge that mermaids are real and that’s it. Not even plural mermaids. Just a singular mermaid. Then again, she would want to know how it happened, and probably find Mako anyway. GF: That’s still a very long stretch to link it back to the other three

- She’s making her way to the moon pool, and knows the way because of the one time Cleo was moonspelled and showed her the way

- God damn Don, I love you. “Don’t tell me, you’re here for the full moon too?”

- I know I said this before, but they are definitely freaking out more about Charlotte knowing about one mermaid but keeping it quiet than they are about Zane who in the first season was shouting off about mermaids and how he was hunting them every second he could. They’re freaking more about this than they did about Dr. Denman, who literally kidnapped them.

- Wow, Cleo, why don’t you do cartwheels over them almost breaking up

- Ugh. Will the show please decide if Lewis wants to be in this relationship or not? Because he constantly flip flops on the subject while his friends trashtalk her and it’s all blamed on Charlotte

- Lewis: I feel like I’m lying to her. GF: You are lying to her! Lewis: No, no, I am lying to her. GF: EXACTLY!

- See, if Cleo had been like this, like her actual character for the rest of the season this could’ve all been avoided.

- GF, as Charlotte sees the moon pool come to life: Oh, they’re not gonna c*ck-block her mermaid powers this time?

- Why don’t they go to bed with eye masks as soon as it gets dark

- Oh, see, she is practically doing her cartwheels at the idea of Lewis breaking up with Charlotte. I take back what I said, that wasn’t Cleo being her kind, supportive self. With that scene, it now kinda reads as Cleo hearing that Lewis wants to do the kind thing and break up with Charlotte to stop hurting her, and Cleo happy because now he can get back together with her. Which is, you know, gross

- GF: This has been an entire season of Charlotte standing sadly at piers

- Lewis: Charlotte, you deserve someone who can be honest with you.” GF: You’re damned right she does!”

- YESSS! Finally, MERMAID CHARLOTTE

- GF: (sarcastically) I love the horror music of Charlotte as a mermaid. WHY IS THIS BAD? What is she gonna do, take over the world? The only consequence is now they’ll have to hang out with her. Me: I think it’s because the show hates her, and god forbid she be happy, like literally everyone would be in this situation. At least she had a choice in being a mermaid

- Me, as the end credits roll: So, what do you think so far, about Charlotte being a mermaid? GF: About time. I hope she brings everything raining down on them like she’s Moriarity

[fericita-s]

Hard to Find Sweetness There Again

Deleted Scene from A Mansion House Murder on AO3 by @broadwaybaggins​ @sagiow​ @mercurygray​ @jamesknoxpolka​ @jomiddlemarch​

@jomiddlemarch​​ enabled/encouraged/goaded us all to write deleted scenes from our chapters, and this is what I envision as the backstory on Emma/Frank/Henry.  So, enjoy, and if it doesn’t fit with the murderous plots that the Mansion House story takes us too, this can just be an unrelated angsty piece to make us all sad.

Though We Travel the World Over - deleted Mary/Jed scene by @jomiddlemarch​

Thank you @the-spastic-fantastic​ for beta-ing and helping me decide why Frank Is In A Mood.

“I'm leaving.” 

Emma’s breath hitched at the sound of his voice.   She turned at the words, clutching the roll of bandages in her hands, her body half hidden in the supply closet as she stared at him. Henry hadn’t been the first to speak to her, even after Belinda’s wedding when it had seemed, amidst the singing and clapping and dancing and smiles all around them, that they could go on being friends.  Could maybe go on to be more.

“Where are you going?” She brushed some strands of hair from her face, catching her cheek and remembering when Henry had wiped a tear from it so gently that she had been startled by his nearness.  Now the chasm between them was so vast it seemed impossible that he would ever do that again.  That he had once done much more than merely brush her cheek to remove a tear.

He wasn’t looking at her.  He was looking at his own hands as they grasped his Bible, his thumb tucked into a passage she couldn’t guess at. He stayed silent.

“They're sending you away?”

He looked up and met her eyes and his face brought to mind those of the men and boys lying in agony in the beds nearby. How its lines and contours formed a map of worry and despair and she would have run to Dr. Foster for a diagnosis or medicine for the pain had he been a soldier just brought in. He took a breath as he answered.

“No, I asked to go.  To be a field chaplain. 120th New York Infantry.”

She said nothing.  She thought “Don’t go. Stay. You’d be a fool to go when so many need you here.  When I need you here. Want you here.”

“I can’t stay.”

She startled at his reply, wondering if she had spoken the words aloud.

But the words had not left her lips.  Nor had a kiss.   Nor had a word of goodbye. 

***

“I'm staying. I can't go back.”

Frank had found her on visit to Tom’s grave. She was clutching flowers and he approached, hands empty, head bowed.  He cried and said something about an Amish family and how tired he was and how he couldn’t shoot anyone anymore. He said how Tom had deserved better and maybe he didn’t, but he was going to try to earn it. And could he please earn it with her? Could he please show her how much he wanted to be a good man again?

Emma thought about how as children he had brandished wooden swords and pretended to be a pirate or a soldier or a spy, but cried when they found a dog, leg broken from a carriage wheel.  How he had carried it back to the house, desperate for someone to help, and had cried harder when his father had shot the dog.

And she thought of her friends who he could have killed with his plot.  Her friends - who had been her family when her own family didn’t want her.  But her friends had won the war.  And then they left.   They left the hospital.  Left Alexandria and the South. Left her.

So she said yes when he asked her to be his wife, and it was a small thing really, the wedding, not the affair Alice might have planned with peacocks and Apples a la Parisienne.  It was fine to only invite their families.  It meant so much to her mother and to his, and they were all still so tender around each other, unsure how to speak and what the rules were now that debutantes and hotel heiresses and Union nurses seemed to all be equally useless and outdated.  And would her friends want to come anyway, to see her marry the dentist who had nearly blown up the hospital?

She had written to Mary about it and Frank had read the reply before she had, his charming smile slipping to a frown, his eyebrows drawn tight in irritation.  He had read it in a mocking voice, the anger dark on his tongue, and she knew it would be hard to find sweetness there again.

“Jed remains shocked that Henry didn’t make you Mrs. Hopkins before Mr. Stringfellow took you for his bride, but we both hope you will be happy and well.”

There was little laughter in their house.  Emma laughed bitterly when she was alone.  She thought Jed and Mary would find it odd indeed that she had become a pastor’s wife, but not Henry’s.  That she led sewing circles and how when the ladies marveled at her neat stitches, she didn’t tell them it was from carefully piecing together the edges of wounds.  That even her Sunday School prayers felt petty and meaningless now that death was no longer a lurking presence. When she taught Sunday school, she wondered at the words and her fingers traced the Psalms, remembering how Henry had read them to dying boys and how she had found strength not just in the words but in the way he spoke them

Frank’s moods were unpleasant and it was exhausting to be poor. But it was worse to feel useless.  To be unimportant. To have no tasks each day that she both enjoyed and excelled in. Wasn’t it a good thing that there were no feverish brows to mop, no infected wounds to clean, no dressings to apply?  Shouldn’t she be grateful?  So why did it feel like a loss?

Even though she couldn’t bring herself to write after that one disastrous letter, she wondered about Mary and Jed and Anne and, most of all, she wondered about Henry.  Had he found what he wanted with the 120th New York? Or was he, like her, still wondering which words would have been better than those that had been their last?

[snowbellewells]

Savior’s Haven {Part Two of Two}

by: @snowbellewells

Here, at last, is the woefully delayed conclusion to my contribution for the @csseptembersunshine event. I hope it will still be enjoyable despite its tardiness. Thanks so much to @captainsjedi for introducing such a lovely event and allowing me to take part, and to all the lovely ladies on the @cssns Discord chat who offered a wealth of name suggestions to me back when I was working on Part One - particularly @shireness-says @profdanglaisstuff @snidgetsafan @darkcolinodonorgasm and @kmomof4. 

This continues from Part One (which can be found here) and is what I call “missing moment fluff”, meant to be taking place sometime post season six in Storybrooke, but before Henry leaves and prior to Hope’s birth.

{Well, I must say...I really didn’t intend to keep you waiting so long for Part Two to wrap this all up. Technically, now it’s October, but I hope you will still enjoy the conclusion of this fic all the same. Thanks so much for all the lovely likes and kudos on this story’s first part! They were very much appreciated…. And now, here’s Part Two…}

Savior’s Haven

Part Two

As it turned out, Rolly and Oliver were only the start of a train of outcasts and strays - lost souls one and all - who began to make their way to Emma and Killian’s home by the harbor in Storybrooke.  Even if there was some occasional wondering about having enough room or rearranging how all of the house’s occupants might fit, neither sheriff nor sailor had the heart to turn anyone, young person or beast, away from the only thing both of them had ever wanted and finally had to share - a home.

Not long after Oliver had left their house for college in the Land Without Magic and Henry had gone through the portal he’d procured to explore the realms and find his own story, Emma found herself feeling the loss of their once quite full nest. She would never trade the quiet evening strolls she and Killian took around the town, both in an effort to lessen Rolly’s boundless energy before he destroyed the entire first floor, and to enjoy the crisp scent in the autumn air and the crunch of fallen leaves under their steps. It was a genuine luxury to actually have downtime together merely to look at the Fall oranges and reds transforming their tiny town and take in the cool temperatures and the cozy smells of cookout bonfires on the air arm-in-arm with her husband, Emma’s head resting easily on Killian’s shoulder. Still, despite that priceless comfort and harmony, as much a novelty as it was, Emma couldn’t help missing the hum and bustle of a house full of life and action, crammed to the ceiling with the marvelous chaos that she had enjoyed for the last couple of years.

Yes, she had long been part of the shuffle of too many kids no one wanted in one foster home after another; all shoved in under one roof with not enough room, not enough food, and never enough attention or affection. But what a difference just a bit of love made, turning a crowd within four walls into a family. If she could give that to kids like her, so they didn’t need to spend years of their lives feeling unwanted, then she would do it. And she knew that Killian’s childhood had been even more scarring, and that he absolutely shared her desire to offer better where it was needed.

Granted, they had also been trying for a child of their own, but so far they’d had no luck. Emma didn’t want to stress over it unduly, but the doubt and fears couldn’t be fully kept at bay. Even if there were no real medical reasons behind it, she tormented herself wondering if the trauma of having Henry so young, shackled to a bed in as high a stress environment as prison, without the best prenatal care or nutrition, had done some damage she had been unaware of, or left some scar tissue that made conceiving again more difficult. In her guiltier moments, she struggled to dismiss the creeping voice that whispered, “You had a healthy, perfect little boy, and you gave him up.” Regardless of her unselfish intentions at the time for Henry being able to have his best chance, during the darkest hours of a late night or early morning, when sleep eluded her, Emma found herself fearing that maybe she just didn’t get a second chance.

Killian was unfailingly gentle, sweet, and patient with her; encouraging her that they had all the time in the world for a babe of their own, the rest of their lives together. Still, she knew her pirate had regrets and blame of his own that he shouldered when he thought no one was looking. He had lived in Neverland, completely outside the normal passage of time, and while he might appear only slightly older than her, in reality, he had lived for centuries. Was he too old to father a child? Was they why they kept failing to get pregnant?

It wasn’t something that could be easily answered, and making themselves crazy certainly wouldn’t improve their odds, so most times both Sheriff and her deputy tried to put their desire for a little one of their own out of mind and to focus on the many happy moments they enjoyed. They baby-sat the little prince - Emma’s brother was now nearly ten and a ball of energy interested in practically every sport, activity and skill under the sun, when her mother and father needed to get away for a date night. Killian took to helping Belle reorganize and reshelve the books in the library on free afternoons and evenings, and added an extra frisson of excitement for the regularly attending children when he dressed up in character for the storytime selection Belle read, or when he served as enthusiastic reader himself.

Emma discovered she found it quite therapeutic to go out to the beanfield Anton tended on the outskirts of town and burn up frustration or anxiety digging, shoveling, raking, weeding, or whatever the gentle giant needed done. He’d made himself a regular attraction by this point - especially in the Fall, since he also nurtured a pumpkin patch and sold berry preserves and cider from plants grown himself. She’d always had a soft spot for Anton, and many of the dwarves who often worked there as well were much more palatable in the fields than when they were running into the station yelling the alert about whatever new danger had arrived in town or forcing her to play referee in their own petty disputes. Even Leroy was markedly less Grumpy out in the brisk air with solid, dependable work at hand to do. His gruff ‘Mornin’ Sister,” if she was able to join them early in the day, and his handing her a shovel or hoe as she took the row next to him seemed to be his way of accepting her into their number, and though Emma wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, it did warm her heart each time. The bearded man who would have been an “uncle” of sorts to her in another life seemed less abrasive and more grudgingly affectionate the more time that passed.

Whatever the case might be, and whatever else they found to do or to fill their time, Emma knew the wish was still present in both their minds. Though Henry and Killian’s house operation, the place they had dreamed of sharing with her even in her darkest moments when she had felt almost lost to them both, had long since become each of them’s first true home, some part of her still wanted it full of giggles and mischievous whispers, shrieks of glee and the slap of little bare feet on the hardwood floors.

One night, about a year after Oliver had left for college and Henry had set off for other realms, Emma had gone down to the docks as evening neared, anxious to see her husband after a day spent at separate tasks, and to walk home with his warm, familiar arm wrapped comfortably over her shoulders. She had made a casserole that was one of Killian’s favorites from dinners with her mom, dad, and little brother; she had followed Snow’s instructions to the letter and was anxious to see how it had turned out. Home cooking was still not what Emma would call a strength of hers, but she was getting better… she hoped.

However, as she neared Killian’s ship, docked in its assigned slip at the harbor, Emma noticed the sky had gone rather suddenly dark, wind gusting distressingly through the sails and spars and whistling loudly. She had to genuinely lean into the breeze with determination as she reached the side and then took Killian’s outstretched hook when he saw her coming up the gangplank, pulling her into his arms as she clambered over and onto the deck. 

“Bit of a squall on its way, eh Love?” he murmured against her hair, brow raised in teasing question as he pulled back just slightly to study her rather anxious face.

She gave him a soft smile, reaching light fingers up to brush over the scar on his cheekbone. “Well, I came to walk you home for supper, but do you first need help battening down the hatches, Captain?”

Her pirate shook his head, chuckling lightly at her playful banter. He had already secured the Jolly as well as could be accomplished, having an innate, almost sixth sense for inclement weather after so many years on the sea. She might be tossed on the swells that were already beginning to rise and fall and to rock the hull wildly, but the old girl had withstood much worse in her time, and she would still be there come the morrow. “She’s all set, actually,” he answered, moving to grab his jacket, scarf and the other items he needed, ready to head home with her, but unable to resist teasing back at least a bit. “The Jolly’s a steady lass, Swan. She’ll manage the weather just fine.”

They were both prepared to disembark for the docks and be on their way, when a frightened howl of distress met their ears over the wind whipping the sails and the water smacking against the wooden sides.

Swinging back around in concern, they both sought the source of the animal cry for help in the rapidly darkening and turbulent surroundings. However, it was a sailor’s sharp eye which let Killian find the distressed and already bedraggled mass of wet grey and brown fluff somehow tangled in the rigging a few feet over their heads. Probably the poor thing was a stray, not long separated from its mother and littermates by the size of him, and might have begun the climb for fun, but was now both entangled and terrified, and nearly drenched from the rain which had begun pelting down around them.

“Oh, there he is!” Emma cried out once she spotted their poor feline victim as well; illuminated in his uncomfortable perch by a startling flash of lightning. “How did he even get up there?”

Both of them moved almost as one in an effort to reach the poor kitten wriggling valiantly to free itself, ‘mewing’ pitifully to beg help of anyone who would listen. However, Killian, with years of practice manuevering about his ship in all sorts of weather, and with a natural agility and grace that never ceased to leave Emma marveling, was quickly hopping up onto the railing, and had a foot in the rigging himself, a couple steps bringing him close enough to reach their unhappy stowaway, before Emma could even figure out how to proceed.

The yowling of the tiny creature intensified as Killian stepped onto the rope, probably squeezing the poor little guy, Emma realized, if he were tangled tightly enough. “Swan!” her husband shouted over the ever-increasing wind and rain. “I can’t unravel him! Get the knife from my boot and hand it up to me!”

Moving quickly, Emma did as he asked, and finally, with a few expert slices, the kitten was free, cradled to Killian’s chest beneath his jacket. The wretched squalling now lowering to a more plaintive and pitiful refrain. A few seconds later, her husband was alighting on the solid deck once more and holding out his rescued prize for her inspection.

Unwinding her own scarf and wrapping it around the nearly weightless seeming body of skin, bones, and fluff, Emma cooed to the tiny cat gently, hoping to soothe and reassure the frightened animal that it was safe with them now. She looked up at Killian, who was shivering slightly and fairly drenched himself, but all the same, appeared rather pleased with his efforts and watched the new critter - clearly already one of their own - burrow into Emma’s warmth and begin to purr with such gentle affection that it made Emma’s chest swell in response. 

“Let’s get you both home, dry you off and warm him up, and see what we can do for this little guy,” Emma suggested, squeezing Killian’s hand gratefully for his kindness and caring and wanting him to know how glad she was he had scaled the height for a poor, lost cat.  

*****~~~*****~~~*****

The next day’s trip to the veterinary clinic on Storybrooke’s outskirts confirmed what they had already nearly determined for themselves in the intervening hours - their scrawny but handsome new arrival was malnourished but otherwise quite well, except for the fact that he seemed unable to use his right front paw and leg, the appendage having been caught for too long with blood flow cut off, rendering it useless and mostly dead weight. 

Yet, even if they had suspected as much, the vet’s stark, unconcerned manner had Emma’s eyes immediately welling up, tears starting quickly with empathy, while Killian went tensely still and quiet beside her, his only motion to reach out and caress the kitten’s striped head in comfort. The vet went on to caution them that there was simply too much risk of infection and swelling, artery blockage or gangrene. It simply wasn’t viable to leave the leg. But he didn’t seem to realize what dangerous ground he was treading on when he suggested that the animal could be put down painlessly at little cost to them rather than their needing to take in a maimed stray and force it to live life on only three legs, until the sheriff’s eyes flashed a venomous, angry emerald at him when she gathered the cat to her chest protectively.

“And just what makes you think we wouldn’t care for a cat with a few more needs?”she challenged hotly, letting Dr. Terrence Doolittle know just how seriously he had stuck his foot into his mouth. “I don’t recall asking if you thought he was worth saving, or even what you thought we should do - just what he needed.”

The Savior was practically vibrating in her indignation, looking as though she might not even turn what was clearly their new pet over to him again to perfrom the necessary operation. He remembered belatedly just how powerful a magic wielder she was, as well as the upholder of the law in Storybrooke, and found himself hoping he wouldn’t end up a newt or a lawn statue before he could apologize and insist he had meant no offense. Before any of that could happen though, her husband gently took the kitten from Sheriff Swan - as it had begun to squirm and mew uncomfortably at her distressed and tigthening hold. A gently staying touch of his namesake brushed back her hair in what was clearly a familiar and soothing gesture, and the sight of the steely appendage suddenly made the cause of her ire all too clear.

Emma Swan visibly calmed at her husband’s caress, blowing out a harsh breath and stepping back before she answered in a tersely clipped but more collected voice, “If the amputation is needed, then please just do it. Whatever he needs to be as comfortable and healthy as possible. We’ll take care of him from there, alright?”

“Yes, Sheriff, of course,” the man agreed readily, nodding with vigor. Adding as direct a look at both of them as he dared, he added in stuttered uncertainty, “and my apologies for my earlier callousness. I meant no offense.”

While Emma merely huffed a sort of noncommittal sound in her throat, bobbing her head in a bare nod of acceptance, Killian Jones, took him by complete surprise when he kindly replied, “Apology accepted, mate. I understood that your intention bore no malice.”

But if Sheriff Swan stuffed their newest family member with salmon, the priciest treats, and as much catnip as he could stand the next evening when the newly dubbed Maelstrom returned home to stay, and cuddled and spoiled him within an inch of his life every day afterwards, well, she would challenge anyone to blame her. It wasn’t long before the well-fed and cared for cat sported a sleek, silky, long-haired and dark-striped coat and looked quite the handsomest feline in the neighborhood follwing right behind Emma anywhere she went in the house and yard like a contented little shadow. His rapid, balanced hopping gait didn’t seem to trouble him or slow him down in the slightest as time went on; for all intents and purposes, their little Maelstrom was every bit as agile, curious, and playfully quick as any four-legged cat.

*****~~~******~~~*****

When trick-or-treating season came around, and Emma’s stomach had at last begun to round with a babe of their own, Killian could only smile at her indulgently, his heart too full of happiness and love to gainsay or spoil her fun when she dressed their cat in a red vest and little black leather breeches of an animal costume, sewn by none other than her royal princess mother. Emma magicked her own tiny version of a hook that could be strapped around Maelstrom’s furry chest to sit where his missing leg would have been, and it was clear their cat was a rather adorable feline version of himself. 

His wife, meanwhile, sported a red stocking cap and a red and white striped T-shirt that stretched over her growing baby bump, a much more fetching version of Mr. Smee in all his traditional Disney cartoon buffoonery if Killian had ever seen one. For a moment, he was rather uncertain how to work himself in with their theme - not about to dress as his own insulting Disney likeness, nor as Pan or the crocodile. He did eventually feel a bit smug at getting the last laugh once he settled on a Victorian formal suit complete with tails, white ascot and silver-rimmed spectacles, making himself rather the most dashing Mr. Darling one could have envisioned. Emma’s mouth hung open, in fact a little breathless, as he joined her at the door. At least, that was until the shrill ringing of the doorbell broke the moment, announcing their first visitors seeking candy.

*****~~~*****~~~***

Two weeks later, two little girls, ten and twelve years old, named Sara and Anne, whom they had noticed hanging back from the rest of the group of trick-or-treaters, not seeming to be escorted by parents as the others were, but eager to come forward and get as much candy as they could hold at he and Emma’s insistence once the rest of the group had moved on, were part of their household as well. They had cooed over Maelstrom’s Captain Hook costume, giggled as he wended his way between their skinny legs, and petted him gently and admiringly.

“I’ve never had a pet,” the brunette named Sara had explained wistfully, her big doe eyes looking up to meet theirs and capturing Killian’s heart in an instant. He knew even before an official and thorough search proved that they were alone, that these two girls needed he and Emma. It seemed they had been brought over with the other Untold Story realm’s citizens, but rather than with a whole family, as most who’d even noticed them about had assumed, each had instead been separated from her parents and all alone. They had located each other at school, and found an abandoned building at the edge of town where they had managed to squat under the radar. But Emma’s stomach panged with remembered hunger and her heart beat rapidly at the fear and loneliness that would never completely fade. The two girls couldn’t have found any two other people more likely to know what they’d been through than she and Killian.

By the time Emma delivered a healthy baby girl in the early morning of a brand new year, Hope Lianna Jones had two big sisters in her family ready to greet her excitedly.

Their house was once again full of squeals and yelps as feet pounded down the stairs and peals of laughter at all sorts of odd hours. David might tease Killian about how badly outnumbered he was by women in their own little haven, but Emma could only think her prayers had been answered by their house’s fullness. The more the merrier was by now their enthusiastic motto. It was a view not held by nearly enough of the world when she and Killian were growing up on their won. And they were doing their part to change that - one kid and one animal at a time.

**Author’s Note: Again, I apologize for the length of time between Parts One and Two of this story, but I do hope that you will find this conclusion satisfying. You might have noticed that I strove to find literary/legendary orphans to use as potential new members of Emma and Killian’s family. Oliver from Oliver Twist, Sara from A Little Princess, and Anne from Anne of Great Gables.  And thanks once again to the lovely ladies on Discord for the animal names, I couldn’t resist switching one from dog to cat here in Part Two! ;)

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @scientificapricot @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @therooksshiningknight @laschatzi @effulgentcolors @ilovemesomekillianjones @thisonesatellite @profdanglaisstuff @snidgetsafan @resident-of-storybrooke @winterbaby89 @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @darkcolinodonorgasm 

[emospritelet]

second list prompt : 31) “Life is not a fairytale. If you lose your shoe at midnight, you’re drunk.”

Last time, Belle managed to tell Gold she was pregnant, and Gold managed to say the wrong thing.

Please send me a prompt from this list or this list if you want me to hurt the babies :)

[Ch 1] [AO3]

Belle ignored the phone when Gold called her back, sitting on the couch with her knees pressed together as she glared at his number flashing up at her. It gave her a strange sense of power to be the one sitting in cold silence when he was desperate to speak to her, and she told herself it was fair payment for all the nights she had cried alone after their break-up. Nights in which she suspected he had not lost a wink of sleep over her heartbreak. Eventually he appeared to give up on calling, the phone letting out a chime to indicate that she had a new message. She glanced at it, curling her lip at his curt request for a call, but opened up her contact list and entered his number. It wasn’t as though she could avoid speaking to him forever, and someone else might have to call him when she had the baby, so she needed his contact details to hand rather than simply burned into her brain along with the sound of his voice and the memory of his lips on her skin. Saving his number under the name Grade A. Arsehole gave her a certain petty satisfaction.

She dropped the phone into her bag, sitting back with a sigh and running a hand over the curve of her belly.

“Well,” she said. “That was your dad. Here’s hoping you don’t inherit his nature.”

She wiped the last few tears from her cheeks, taking a few calming breaths, and was surprised to find that she felt better for having spoken to him, however briefly. Odd, that it was his comment about the baby’s parentage that stopped her crying. Perhaps it had made her too angry to remember how scared she was. Perhaps rage was the best way to get through their interactions. She shook her head, slumping back against the cushions. No. It wasn’t good for her to hold so much anger. Heartbreak was more than enough to cope with.

Glancing at her watch, she sighed and pushed to her feet. A study session in the library awaited, and it would likely be a late one. She regretted not taking her friend Emma up on the offer of dinner beforehand, but she had decided that she couldn’t put off telling Gold any longer, and knowing what she had to do had stolen her appetite. Her belly still griped, but she knew she had to eat for the baby’s sake, and so she made a cheese and tomato sandwich, wrapping it in a paper napkin to eat on the way to the library.

She had not been two months into her Master’s degree in library science when she found out she was pregnant. Coincidentally, that had also been the day she met Emma, who had offered comfort when she found Belle weeping in the university toilets. Emma was twenty-seven, blonde-haired and pretty, and had an eight-year old son with her husband Neal. The three of them were crammed into a small two-bed apartment, but they were a happy little family, and Belle considered herself lucky to have them as friends. Emma was a mine of information on pregnancy and childbirth, and had already given Belle a lot of Henry’s old things, including a crib and stroller that Belle would never have been able to afford. She also made Belle think that perhaps raising a child alone wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world; Neal had been in prison when Emma gave birth, and had missed the first eighteen months of Henry’s life, a fact that he had regretted ever since. It had been Neal that had encouraged Belle to call Gold and tell him that he had a child on the way. Belle still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing in that regard, but it was too late to back out now.

When she reached the library, Emma was sheltering by the entrance, a beanie hat pulled down over her blonde curls and a padded coat keeping the bitter wind from her.

“Oh good, you’re here, I was freezing my ass off,” she said, and tilted her head to the side. “You okay? Did you do it?”

“Yeah,” said Belle tiredly.

“And?”

“Well, I told him.”

“What did he say?”

Belle sighed.

“He asked me if I was sure it was his,” she said dryly. “So I hung up on him.”

Emma winced.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

Belle pushed at the double doors, and Emma followed her in.

“Did he call back?”

“Yeah, several times.”

“You ignored him, right?”

“How’d you guess?”

“It’s what I’d do.”

Their footsteps echoed in the corridor, several students sweeping past them with books in their arms, and Belle turned into the main library area, where tables were pushed together and quiet group study was allowed. Stacks of books reached up towards the ceiling, carpets cushioning their steps, and she and Emma found an empty table, shrugging off coats and getting out books.

“So, how did you guys leave things?” asked Emma quietly, as she opened up her laptop. Belle pulled a face.

“We didn’t,” she said. “I was too angry to speak to him after that, so I - I guess I’m gonna have to call him tomorrow, or something. I needed time to think. Hearing his voice was…”

She shrugged uncomfortably, and Emma nodded.

“Still hurts, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Belle quietly. “Does it ever stop?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Emma wrinkled her nose. “It would help if you weren’t still in love with the guy.”

“I am not!” protested Belle, making some nearby students frown. She lowered her voice, leaning towards Emma, who was grinning. “I’m not, but - well, I guess it just brought it all back, that’s all. Back to when I thought we might have something. It’s - it’s stupid…”

“It’s not stupid,” said Emma gently. “If he’s too much of an asshole to see how amazing you are, he doesn’t deserve you anyway.”

“He doesn’t want me,” said Belle, feeling a stab of pain. “But that’s beside the point. It’s not about what he deserves. It’s about our child.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“I don’t know.” She slumped on the desk, chin resting on her folded arms. “I thought I knew him, right up until he ripped my heart out. Now, though…”

She shrugged, and Emma gave her a sympathetic look.

“You still think he’ll try to take the baby from you, huh?” she said knowingly.

“I - I worry about it, yeah,” admitted Belle. “I don’t exactly have my life together right now, do I?”

“You have your own place—”

“I have a one-bed on the third floor in a building where the elevator doesn’t work.”

“—and you’re studying for a Master’s degree!” went on Emma. “You have your life way more together than I did when I had Henry!”

“Yeah, well.” Belle sat up, pulling a face. “We’ll see if that’s good enough.”

“When are you gonna call him?”

“I don’t know.” She ran her hands over her face. “I kind of like the fact that he doesn’t know where I am and has to wait for me to call him. Is that petty?”

“Petty as hell, but I think you’re entitled.” said Emma. “Guy was an asshat.”

“Yeah,” sighed Belle. “Yeah, he absolutely was.”

Emma put her head to the side, rolling a pencil between her fingers.

“You think he’s seeing anyone else?”

Belle felt a sharp stab of jealousy at the thought, and told herself not to be an idiot.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t care, either.”

“Uh-huh.” Emma sounded unconvinced. “You might want to practice that one in front of the mirror before you say it to his face, honey.”

“I mean it!”

“Sure you do.”

Belle stuck out her tongue, and Emma bopped her on the nose with the end of the pencil, grinning.

“Anyway, I have more important things on my mind than worrying about who Alex might be dating,” said Belle glumly. “Like the fact that I’ll be giving birth in a couple of months. I can’t believe how fast the time goes. This time last year I was happy. I was in love, I had my whole future ahead of me. And now—”

“Now you have a different future,” acknowledged Emma. “But it’ll be awesome in different ways. Believe me.”

“I guess.” Belle folded her arms, leaning on the table again. “Maybe I was naive, thinking my first love would be some sort of - of - fairytale romance with a happy ever after.”

“Life is not a fairytale,” said Emma bluntly, waving the pencil at her. “If you lose your shoe at midnight, you’re drunk.”

Belle giggled.

“Can’t remember what that’s like,” she said, and Emma sniffed.

“Yeah, don’t worry, I got you covered. As soon as you’re up for it after the baby’s born, it’s girls’ night, okay? You, me, and enough booze to choke a horse. We’ll leave Neal looking after the kids.”

Belle laughed harder, and opened up her laptop.

“Okay,” she said. “You’re on.”

x

Gold had slept poorly, rising early and putting on a pot of coffee. He drank it seated on his back porch while he thought over his plans for the day. Belle had not called back, and he was moving back and forth between anxious concern and seething anger. He needed to find her. He needed to go to Boston. Which meant that he needed her address, and the one person he thought might have it was the last man he wanted to speak to.

Moe French had been surprisingly punctual with his rent payments since Belle had left town, which meant that Gold rarely had to interact with him. He prepared himself for the occasion by donning his three-piece armour, fine black pinstriped wool with a charcoal grey shirt and a tie in silk the colour of gunmetal. The two men had detested one another long before Moe had discovered Gold was sleeping with his daughter, and the manner of their break-up had only strengthened that dislike. Gold rubbed a hand over his freshly-shaven chin, remembering the punch Moe had given him the night before Belle had left town for good. It had hurt, but not as much as Belle’s final words, or the knowledge that he had pushed her away forever. He had deserved every bit of pain.

Shoving the memories away with a ruthless thrust, he took a final look in the mirror, straightening the knot in his tie as he shook back his hair, and drew on his overcoat before looping a cashmere scarf around his neck to cut the wind. The morning was fine, if bitter, so he slipped on a pair of dark glasses before heading out into the cold air of early spring.

When he reached the town, Granny’s Diner was already busy with customers drinking cups of the strong, bitter coffee and wolfing down fried eggs and bacon. The florist’s shop was open, Moe French setting out buckets of roses and carnations in a stand outside, red and yellow blooms tumbling together in a riot of cheerful colour. His eyes narrowed as Gold approached.

“Rent’s not due until next week,” he said curtly, and Gold showed his teeth.

“Oh, I’m not here for the rent.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to say to one another, have we?”

Moe stomped into the shop, and Gold followed, cane tapping against the floor. The interior smelled pleasant, of green plants and fragrant flowers, and he took his time, his stride almost a swagger by the time he reached the cash register. Moe was glowering at him from behind it, baseball cap pulled down over his cropped hair, thick fingers twitching on the counter, as though he wanted to put them around Gold’s throat. He was a tall, somewhat thickset man, with the baggy-eyed look of one who drank too much and had an aversion to green vegetables and exercise. Gold folded his hands over the cane handle, allowing himself a tiny smirk for no other reason than it would annoy Moe, and was rewarded with a scowl.

“What do you want?” asked Moe aggressively.

“I was wondering if you’d heard from your daughter,” said Gold.

He kept his tone careless, but watched sharply from behind the glasses. Moe’s nostrils flared, his jaw protruding a little.

“What’s it to you?” he snapped. “I told you to stay away from her!”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Gold quietly. “You see, I believe she left town with something of mine. Something very valuable. I’d like it back.”

Moe’s expression changed from angry to cautious.

“She didn’t say anything to me,” he said gruffly. “Last I heard she was heading out of town on some trip with her boyfriend. New York, I think.”

“Right.” Gold nodded slowly. “In that case, I’ll trouble you for her address. You know, for when she gets back from her - trip.”

Moe gave him an unpleasant smile.

“If you’re so sure she has something of yours, Gold, how about you call her and ask for it yourself?” he said. “I’m not being your bloody lackey. And I’m definitely not telling you where she lives!”

Gold shook his head slowly, tutting under his breath.

“You remember how unpleasant I can be when crossed, Mr French, I’m sure,” he said, and Moe curled his lip.

“You’re unpleasant every fucking time I see you,” he said. “Hit me with that bloody cane all you want, but the best decision my daughter ever made was leaving town, and I’m not gonna help you find her, okay?”

“You think you can keep me from what’s rightfully mine, do you?” snapped Gold, and Moe snorted.

“Seems to me you take whatever the hell you want, and screw the consequences,” he said. “Why don’t you just let her go? She’s moved on with her life, and you’re here, stuck in the past, doing what you always do. Slithering around town like a fucking parasite waiting for a host to latch onto.”

Gold gave him a twisted smile.

“I suppose you’d know all about that.”

“Insult me all you like,” said Moe. “Won’t make me give you what you want. You don’t change. You’re just a selfish piece of shit, Gold, like you’ve always been.”

“And you’re what?” drawled Gold. “Father of the Year? Must have escaped my notice.”

“Believe it or not I’ve only ever wanted what was best for her,” said Moe roughly. “For all the bloody thanks I got.”

“As much as it may pain you to hear it, that’s what I wanted too,” said Gold coldly, and Moe let out a hollow laugh.

“Bullshit!” he snapped. ”You’re not interested in anything that doesn’t turn a profit! If Belle’s dumb enough to let you back in, that’s her problem. I’m not being a party to it, is all. Now either buy something, or get the hell out.”

Gold wanted to grind his teeth, but instead he nodded curtly, turning on his heel and striding swiftly from the shop. There were other ways to find Belle.

Stepping out into the sunlight, he headed for his shop, feeling a strange sort of relief as he closed the door behind him and headed through to the dark quiet of the back room. He pulled off the glasses, slipping them into the pocket of his overcoat, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that stood next to the painted silk screen he had never managed to sell. Eyes flashing with anger, jaw tight, hair hanging around his face, streaks of silver at his temples. Exactly how Belle had left him, when she had walked out of his life and dragged his shattered heart behind her on the road. He had tried to go on as though it had never happened, as though they had never happened. Perhaps Moe French was right. Perhaps he would never change.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, checking to see if Belle had called before dialling her number again. This time it went straight to voicemail without ringing, and he growled under his breath. She was avoiding him. So be it. He called his associate Mr Dove instead, asking him to work his usual magic with the few details he had on Belle and her whereabouts. As he hung up, he glanced at his reflection again, his mouth twisting. Belle had moved on, had gone on with her life just as he had wanted her to. Perhaps it was time for him to make some changes of his own.

Nodding to himself, he tugged the overcoat around himself again and left the shop, heading up the road past the diner before turning off into one of the side streets. Rapunzel’s was his regular hair salon, and if his favourite stylist Ivy was there, he would see if she could fit him in. Perhaps a new look could give him a fresh perspective. A new start. A new life. It was time to stop dwelling on the past

x

Belle’s day had not gone well.

It had started with her waking late due to forgetting to set an alarm, and in her panic burning the toast she was making for a quick breakfast. Swearing under her breath, she had thrown the burnt toast away and gulped down some tea before hurrying to the bathroom to brush her teeth. It was then that she had found a leak coming from her toilet, a pool of water slowly spreading outward around the base and soaking into the mat she had laid over the linoleum flooring. She had called the landlord, who promised to send someone out to fix it, and she had run back into the bedroom to get dressed. Her belly seemed to have grown in the night, and she needed to do laundry, so the only thing that fitted was a pair of denim dungarees. Muttering curses at everything she could think of, she pulled them on over a white T-shirt before quickly dragging a brush through her hair and twisting it up into a knot. There was no time for make-up, but by that point she had been past caring, and so she had rushed out of the apartment.

Lack of breakfast made it hard to concentrate on her studies, and she was snappy and exhausted even before discovering that she had forgotten to bring the lunch she had left in the fridge the night before. It meant that she would have to dip into her meagre supply of money to buy something from the cafeteria. It was tempting to slink back home, crawl into bed and pretend the day was over, but the paper that was due wouldn’t write itself, and so she trudged to the library, trying to concentrate while worrying over whether her apartment had flooded.

It was after six when she was done, and she packed up her things with a sigh, desperately tired, hungry, and wanting to burst into tears. The baby had been kicking, which usually made her smile, but which was only reminding her that she still had to deal with its father. She had kept her phone on silent, but Gold had called half a dozen times or more already, and she knew she would have to speak to him eventually. Holding a conversation with him while tired, stressed and hungry didn’t seem to be the best course of action, and so she decided to leave it until the following day. She made her way back to the apartment, swearing when she saw that the elevator was still broken, and trudged up three flights of stairs to her floor.

When she entered the apartment, it was very obvious that the plumber the landlord had promised to send had not been there, and Belle growled under her breath as she threw her bag of books onto the couch. The laundry hamper was overflowing, so she needed to deal with that. She also needed to take a shower, as she had not had time that morning. At least dinner was a no-brainer; she could eat the lunch she had prepared. She decided to ignore the laundry until she felt able to cope with it, and so she went into the bathroom, frowning at the leak that was still spreading outwards from the toilet, and turning on the water. There was a dull, ominous clunk from the pipes, and Belle squealed as a jet of water sprayed out from one of the joints, soaking her. She scrabbled at the mixer tap, turning it off.

“Fucking thing!”

She was drenched, the entire front of her dungarees and the T-shirt beneath soaked through. Wet cotton was sticking to her skin and making her shiver, and she wiped water from her face, wanting to scream. First the toilet and now the shower? This day sucks! A knock at the door made her glance around, and she almost sagged with relief. The plumber! Thank God, he can deal with this bloody thing too!

Wiping wet hands on her dungarees, she hurried to the door, quickly peeking through the spy hole. She could see the back of a man’s head, greying hair cropped short above a black coat, and so she unlocked the door, wrenching it open.

“Oh good, you’re here!” she gasped. “I’m kind of having a situation—”

She cut off as the man swivelled on the toes of black, shining shoes to face her, the gleaming shaft of a cane coming to rest between his feet. Belle’s eyes travelled up from his toes, taking in the all-too-familiar three-piece suit and overcoat. He had cut his hair, silvery wisps just brushing the tips of his slightly-pointed ears, his eyes dark brown beads boring into her. Gold’s mouth was set in a grim line, and she felt her heart thump painfully in her chest.

“Miss French,” he said quietly. “It seems we need to have a conversation.”

[theonceoverthinker]

OUAT 3X07 - Dark Hollow

After the BEST WEEKEND EVER, I’m back! Just giving you a heads up -- to say on the timeline, I’m gonna pump these guys out a bit faster than usual, so my reviews may end up a lot shorter.

Anyway, I hope your week wasn’t too...HOLLOW in my absence!

The puns return!!!

Anywho, smart stuff under the cut!

Press Release

Mr. Gold and Regina send Ariel back to Storybrooke with an item that will allow Belle to locate a hidden artifact that could help take down Pan. But unbeknownst to them, two men have broken into the town with the intent to stop them - at all costs. Meanwhile, Emma, Neal and Hook attempt to find Dark Hollow, where Peter Pan’s shadow dwells, in order to capture it, and Mary Margaret is upset with David for keeping his poisoning a secret from her.

Main Thoughts - Characters/Stories/Themes and Their Effectiveness

Storybrooke

Conflicts where Belle gets to be in the role of hero always have the potential to be great, and while some *cough “The Outsider”* fail, this one does a fair amount better! Belle’s last conversation with Rumple and the little help she can provides makes her moping understandable (Albeit a little annoying) and Ariel’s encouragement and need for this to be successful acts as a great contrast.

I do wish that more went into Belle’s story here. As is, it’s Belle mopes, she hears a keyword or sees something, and she just solves the problem. There’s no either moment of realization on Belle’s part or a conversation that is communicated to Belle that states that she’s already a hero. Well, sort of scratch that because of her conversation with Archie at Granny’s, but it’s never reinforced by anyone. Because of that, while not badly put together, the problem that Belle had at the start of the episode isn’t really solved. It’s just dismissed. For an example of this done right, look at “Bear and the Bow.” There, Merida doesn’t believe that she can save her family on her own, needs to be pushed into solving the problem on her own, and when she does, there’s that moment of realization that she had that potential. This is a flabbier version of that story.

Neverland

“The fact that they both have feelings for you is dangerous, too.” Oh, the love triangle episode. Look, I’ll level with you. The best part of this segment is the end where Emma nips this in the bud and tells them both to fuck off until the mission is done.

And I get that the framing is supposed to be like that. Killian and Neal are so invested in their romances with Emma that they endanger everything, but it’s in no way anything less than an utter pain in the ass to watch. And it leaves such a bad mark on both men, having them prioritize a romance over Henry -- Neal’s son and the motivation of Killian’s redemption! What I would’ve done is stated that Dark Hollow would enhance feelings of bitterness towards one’s companions, making the pettiness here work better. That way, the almost cartoon-y and sabotage-y lengths that the guys went to would’ve been much better. As it stands, it’s annoying to watch and because the segment is from Emma’s POV, it doesn’t even serve to deliver a theme like some other stories of its ilk do for other characters.

Part of me feels like this episode was supposed to be a callout to shippers to tell them to focus on the main story over the ships, but for that to be truly effective and not make Neal and Killian come off so badly, there’d need to be either a lot more self awareness from the two guys (Which would end the story prematurely) or some agent that would artificially push those issues to a place of greater importance than Henry’s safety.

On the flip side, I love Pan’s gambit. It’s amazing seeing Pan and Felix plant the seeds of Pan’s next scheme in a way that makes it look like Henry’s solving the mystery. It’s such a treat seeing this and actually having the knowledge of knowing precisely what Pan is doing beforehand. We see how sharp Pan is as he checks the boxes of exploiting Henry’s goodwill (Wanting to be a hero, the connection between Henry and his father, the love of fairytales) and all the while making him feel clever. It’s not frustrating, but because of the POV, it makes an aspect of this kind of story that’s been so ingrained into our skulls at this point feel fresh! His use of Wendy to paint himself as a hero is fantastic, doing a great job to tilt Henry’s thought process.

Insights - Stream of Consciousness

-”They saved us.” I really love how much everyone cheers over the heroes saving them. Look, the heroes have their faults, but there’s a reason why the town at large stays loyal to them.

-I also ADORE scenes of Storybrooke at large working together. All of the major players are so great!

-I love the overall BIGNESS of the cloaking spell. It something that follows our characters throughout the rest of the series and it’s appropriately epic and not just in the sense that its an obstacle for our “villains.”

-I can’t look at that “Leaving Storybrooke” sign. I just can’t. It makes me so sad!

-”She’ll know exactly what to do.” Rum Rum, just because you can perceive vague shit doesn’t mean everyone else can!

-”Guess you’ll just have to trust me.” Reggie, you are lucky that Ariel is a trusting person because this is shady af!

-”Someone is leaving Neverland.” This line is utterly fantastic, especially with how subtly it’s said. You get a real sense of how embedded Pan truly is with Neverland as a whole.

-*Seethes in anger as fucking C*leman shows up* Fuck you, C*leman.

-”No giant stepping on my Miata!” If Anton were here, he’d take offense to that. ...Also, where IS he? Does he not show up for the rest of the series? If so, I honestly regret not honoring him in my last overview.

-I love how Archie was just anticipating slipping into therapist mode, hungry for that session like I am for that cheeseburger!

-”Now you’ve got a dress code? I seem to recall some Ruby outfits that are seared into my brain.” Grumpy! Bad!

-What is it with red-haired characters in this series ROCKING the color green? Ariel and Zelena just make it look so good!

-”He’s really into being cryptic, isn’t he?” Honey, you have NO idea!

-”It’s good to see you inherited his tunnel vision.” Snowy, you have NO idea.

-”I’m not holding your family prisoner.” I love that subtle bit of gaslighting. No, he’s not holding Henry’s family prisoner, but he is holding HENRY prisoner.

-”It’s a corkscrew, but it’s not what Rumple needs.” I don’t know about that, Belle. He could stab a Lost Boy or two. *shrugs*

-Wow! Some subtle acting from Emiliee! Look at her hands as she holds Pandora’s Box! The subtle shaking is amazing, saying so much about how powerful the box truly is!

-Pan is such a sneaky little bitch. I love how as soon as one plan is discovered, it only takes him another moment to create another plan that accounts for the failings of the last one.

-*Emma almost decapitates Killian with her sword* I’m pretty sure Colin said that that was a blooper that actually made it onto the show! XD

-Hey pre-Underworld Underworld filter! Good to see you!

-I can also understand why David wouldn’t want to tell Snow: For Emma’s sake. She just gets her parents back and then she’d have to lose at least one of them. David was trying to spare her from losing both of them too.

-”You want to tell me how that coconut works?” You should probably tell Jen too because WOW, she hated that prop!

-I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that 99% of Emma’s relief in that scene was Jen’s relief in finally closing that fucking coconut!

-”Providing motivation.” “For what?” “For doing what needs to be done.” Wow. Looks like Rumple’s cryptic-ness is rather genetic.

Arcs - How Are These Storylines Progressing?

The Mission to Find Henry - We now have a way back AND a way to defeat Pan! Things feel like they’re chugging along again, and it works pretty naturally with how the last two episodes went.

Killian’s Redemption - “Why would I have done that [Not tell the group about Neal]?” I like how even as he’s in this love triangle with Neal, Killian doesn’t regret saving him for even a second. That really speaks to Killian’s growth!

Regina’s Redemption - Regina keeping her part of their bargain is a BIG deal in terms of her redemption!

Rumple’s Redemption - Rumple actually says that he will do his best to honor Belle and Ariel’s request to help Wendy and that also is a BIG step! Also, Rumple pointing out that Regina’s jealous of having someone shows a fair amount of self-awareness!

Favorite Dynamic

Henry and Pan. I’ve gone on about them above, but Pan’s understanding of Henry’s personality and subsequent manipulation of that for his own gain is fascinating to watch! Despite only knowing Henry for less than a week, Pan’s got him pegged! He knows the qualities that Henry wants to see in someone he’ll trust and his own aspirations for himself. And though manipulated, Henry is so careful about Pan, showing a lot of intelligence. His “weakness” here is hs kind heart and it’s the perfect aspect on Henry to exploit once it’s clear that method of lying won’t work.

Writer

Kalinda Vazquez and Andrew Chambliss are up again, and I found their storytelling here to be a bit lackluster. The Storybrooke segment was enjoyable, but flabby in terms of delivery and the exact opposite could be said for the Neverland main story. It’s not terrible, but just a little half baked.

Rating

7/10. I wish things had been a bit tighter here. As it stands, this wasn’t OUAT’s best. BUT that’s not to say that there weren’t things I liked. Everything with Pan, Henry, and the Darling siblings was magnificent and Ariel (As usual) is simply a delight)! Also, Emma’s speech at the end where she put the issue of shipping to rest to focus on the mission was just fantastic and an utterly badass moment! I just wished they played more of (Or in the case of Emma’s speech, a better) a role in the main stories.

Flip My Ship - The Home of All Things “Shippy Goodness”

Grumpy Beauty - Once again, we get to see bits of these two working together early on and it’s just the best!

Captain Swan - Okay, I love how Emma’s big point in Killian’s favor was how he told her about Neal. That’s such an earnest, sweet, and Emma-like thing to adore. Also, “so when I win your heart, Emma -- and I will win it -- it won’t be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me.” I love that resolve of Killian’s to not only be with Emma, but to be with her honestly. It speaks to sentiments she values and shows his commitment to his own redemption. ALSO, “I’ve yet to see you fail.” Killian honestly does believe in her!

Swan Fire - I really enjoyed Neal’s apology at the end of the episode and I love how you can see how his returned resolve to focus on Henry had its effect on Emma and was so sincere! <3

Rumbelle - Just look at the way Belle basically blubbers as she first sees Rumple’s face through the sand dollar. It’s so beautiful. Honestly, this whole episode is a love letter to Rumbelle and just how much they mean to each other and trust in each other. “Tell Belle I love her. And that she’s right. I WILL see her again.”

Snowing - I love Snow and David’s argument. It’s so raw and it so clearly comes from this place of love.

Swan Queen - There’s really something to be said for Emma succeeding thanks to her understanding of Regina whereas both Neal and Killian sort of failed her! <3

-----

Again, thank you for your patience with these more rushed out reviews. I really want to stay on schedule and thankfully, there wasn’t a hello of a lot to say here.

Also, thank you to @watchingfairytales! It was lovely meeting half of you guys at the con!

Season 3 Total (66/220) Writer’s Scores: Adam and Eddy (19/60) Kalinda Vazquez (17/40) Andrew Chambliss (17/50) Jane Espenson (10/30) David Goodman (10/40) Robert Hull (10/40) Christine Boylan (10/20) Daniel Thomsen (10/30)

Operation Rewatch Archives

[itstimeforspring]

i can see the clouds are moving faster now (5 of ?)

title from ‘hold on’ by tobymac. so sorry for how long this took to get out into the world -- but here it is now. a thousand and five thanks to @love-with-you-i-have-everything for reading over this! also tagging @kmomof4​ and thank you so much for all of the encouragement, always!

previous installments of this fic are here. also find on ao3 and ff.net here!

“Mom, have you heard from Ashley Boyd lately?” Emma asked, taking a bite of her grilled cheese. Her face was perfectly bland and cheerful. For all her family knew, she was simply catching up on old friends and enjoying the extra cheesiness of the grilled cheese. She took another bite. It was very cheesy. Henry must have put in an extra few slices. Good kid, he was.

Mary Margaret canted her head as she thought. Henry reached for the wavy fries even though he’d already eaten a serving and a half from his and Mary Margaret’s plates. Emma reached out and lightly slapped his hand away from Killian’s share and the boy pouted. “From the last I heard of her, she and Sean had gotten married and taken Alexandra to New York. I’m not sure when that was, though, or what they’ve been doing since. Why do you ask?”

Killian reached for a single fry, shoving it into his mouth with a strange grace, albeit lack of manners. The only evidence of his tension was the tremor in his scarred hand. He finished chewing and swallowing before speaking, giving Emma some hope for the table manners of their future children. “Swan and I were discussing her old schoolmates, and she remembered what had become of all of them except for the aforementioned Ashley.” Mary Margaret nodded, fully accepting the truth.

David took a meditative bite of grilled cheese. His appeared to have a hamburger stuffed inside the fried cheese post-grilling. Emma took note; maybe Robin would appreciate that the next time the Hoods came for dinner. “Sean’s a good kid. Really great with Alex, last I saw them.” David caught a bit of mustard from his sandwich—it wasn’t even a grilled cheese anymore, apparently, or at least it didn’t deserve the simple title—with a fry and continued his lunch without a care in the world.

“Alex was sweet, at least when I watched her in high school,” Emma added, suddenly longing for her father’s calmness. There was only so much more of this skirting-around-the-real-topic she could take. Judging by the tremor continuing in Killian’s hand, he was about done with the conversation. They were used to being able to jump straight into their real topic, although that usually involved pointing a gun at someone’s head.

Mary Margaret made a noncommittal hum before her eyes darted to Killian’s hand. “Are you okay, Killian?”

Killian glanced down at his hand and noticed the tremors. His face smoothed out and he sighed slightly, staring at his hand and forming a fist, the shaking slowing almost immediately. Emma reached for his hand and he let her take it, although there was nothing she could do except squeeze his hand so that his muscles could focus on something aside from stress. “Aye, I’m fine. The nerves don’t really know what to do with themselves anymore, sometimes causing tremors. The doctor said it should stop eventually.”

The doctor had really said, “These tremors, man, it’s almost entirely psychological even with the nerve damage that’s technically causing it. From what you’ve described, it’s gonna show up when you’re stressed, so don’t risk too much in poker, you’ll lose. I also recommend therapy for theoretical PTSD.” Of course, Killian being who he was, Emma had noticed that the shaking really just manifested when he was frustrated. Not particularly stressed, but generally during interrogation.

“Anyway—” thank goodness for little brothers and their tendency to interrupt “—I was wondering who would like to take me Christmas shopping tomorrow,” Henry said, leaning forward. Mary Margaret and David both froze, glancing back and forth between each other, Henry, and Emma. “Unless you’re going to say I’m old enough to take myself, but I’m not expecting that yet,” Henry continued drily.

Emma thought about it. Today was December 20; Christmas was in five days. Only five days to find something for everyone, all the people she hadn’t seen in long enough that she had no idea what to get them. Henry would probably be help with that. “I’ll take you, kid, as long as you promise to help me figure out a present for whoever’s coming on Christmas.”

Henry beamed and nodded before trying to look cool again. Emma tilted her head as she looked at her little brother. The sheer joy on his face… what did that mean? Mary Margaret clapped her hands together. “That’ll be wonderful, Emma! And if you’re gone with Henry, that means Killian can help me with the decorations!”

Killian froze and stared at his mother-in-law. “What kind of decorations are entailed in that description?” he asked, and Emma tried not to laugh at him. He’d never really done a massive Christmas like the Nolans always put together, and they were masters at managing to do four weeks of decorating, baking, and shopping in five days. It had been quite the shock when David had explained how it all worked right before her first Nolan Christmas.

“So that’s settled,” David said cheerfully. “Emma and Henry will do their shopping tomorrow and Killian and Mary Margaret will get the decorations started while I go to work. The petty thieves wait for no one, not even Christmas.” Emma answered his grin with an uncertain one of her own, and Killian merely looked concerned.

--

“Killian,” Emma sighed as she flopped back onto the bed.

“Yes, my love?” he asked from the bathroom.

“Stop staring at your own face and get in here.”

Killian stepped out of the bathroom, looking decidedly peeved. She would have laughed at his precious face but his eyes were too serious and he held his hand stiffly by his side. “My hand’s getting worse, Swan.”

“Do you want to go to the doctor tomorrow?” He stared at her for ten seconds, not moving from the doorway. Emma rolled her eyes. “Call me optimistic, but I’ll keep asking. It’s like how you kept asking if we had to go to the hospital in Russia and I kept saying no even though you were about ready to drag me there. Remember that feeling and you’ll know how I feel.”

He took a short, exasperated breath before speaking. “You had been shot. I was being a proper partner, concerned for his girlfriend.” His voice was about as amused as his eyes, which were now throwing daggers at her. “This psychosomatic tremor does not compare, my dearest love.” Finally he turned the bathroom light off, letting the room drown in the sudden darkness. There wasn’t so much as a street light outside to light the room.

Emma sighed again as Killian gently nudged her under the blankets so that her back was to him. “What are you going to do about it, then?” His hand landed on her stomach without much grace and she started massaging the shaking hand. Killian sighed happily.

They were silent for ten minutes, soaking up the other’s warmth and relishing the fact that they were completely alone. “I love you, Swan,” Killian murmured, his voice already raspy with sleep.

“Oh, no, you can’t go to sleep yet,” she whispered back. He pulled her closer and kissed her shoulder.

“As you wish,” he groaned, just under his breath. “What is it, love?”

Emma took a big breath. “What are we going to do about Ashley and all of that?”

“Can we do anything right now?”

Emma raised an eyebrow even though Killian couldn’t see it. “We can track her down and find out what’s happening. We can look around town for whoever she’s taking orders from, assuming that they’re here too. There’s a host of things we can do, Killian.”

Killian kissed her shoulder twice, letting his mouth linger over an old scar from a bullet three years ago. Emma held her breath for a moment, wondering how much further he was going to go. “I know I was anxious to find out what was happening earlier, during lunch. Which is probably the reason I started shaking, incidentally one of the worst possible side effects from an explosion.” He tilted his head and kissed the base of her neck. “But Henry reminded me of something.”

“What’s that?”

“Christmas is in just a few days.”

Emma rolled over to face her husband in one smooth movement. He took that as an invitation to pull her even closer and she couldn’t really argue with his interpretation. Peering into the darkness of the room, she almost saw the grin on his face once he came into focus and she couldn’t hold her own smile back. They spent a minute smiling stupidly at each other—the smiles were the reason that Ariel and her husband Eric called them real-life Disney characters. Apparently even from the beginning they’d had some sort of lovesick gaze, and it had also been enough for Regina to make them partners—until Emma remembered their conversation.

“What about Christmas?”

Killian leaned forward enough for their noses to nudge together. “We came for Christmas, love. Your parents invited us for Christmas. Obviously whatever’s happening with Ashley is a problem, and we’ll deal with it. But we have to pretend that Christmas is the most important thing right now.”

“Because it actually is.” Emma finished his thought.

“Indeed,” Killian murmured sleepily. “You’ll go shopping with the lad tomorrow and I’ll assist my mother-in-law with decorating, which I’m sure will be a lovely bonding experience for all of us. I do hope that I’m at least capable of hanging lights. I think your mother would laugh at me otherwise.” He kissed her quickly.

“You decorated our tree last Christmas, even if it was only three feet tall, and it was beautiful. You’ll do just fine.” She kissed him, lingering a little longer, before closing her eyes and preparing to shut her brain down for sleep.

“We can find Ashley later,” Killian whispered. “We’ll do it together, later.” Emma nodded, squeezing her eyes closed. The last thing she felt was another kiss on her forehead and his whispered “I love you, Emma” before she drifted off to sleep.

--

“Come on, Emma,” Henry called from a few steps ahead. “We’re probably too late already, because someone forgot it was Christmas, but I want to make sure I can find something for everyone!”

“You’ll find something, kid, don’t worry. And it wasn’t just one person who forgot. It was all of us idiot adults.” Emma jogged a few steps to catch up with her little brother. They’d just dropped off their dad at the police station for his second-to-last work day before Christmas, leaving Emma and Henry to browse the town. “Who’s coming for Christmas, anyway?”

Henry looked up at Emma—not too far up, he was almost as tall as her and this line of thinking was going to make her depressed—as if she were the stupidest person he’d ever met. “Don’t you remember?”

“It’s been a really long time, Henry.”

Henry scuffed his shoe against the pavement. “Yeah, that’s true.” He lightened up as quickly as he’d gotten grumpy. “It’s you, me, Mom, Dad, Killian, Ruby, Granny, and Dad said he’s maybe inviting Graham and Leroy. Mom wanted to invite more, but Dad said we didn’t have any more room.”

Emma thought about the guest list for a moment. Graham, she’d known for forever; there would be some excellent faking involved there. Leroy, well, he never cared about her love life and they could probably wear their wedding rings and he wouldn’t notice. “Sounds great, kid. You didn’t want to invite Violet?” she teased. That would absolutely make the day, if she and Killian and her father got to watch Henry bumble around with his family and his crush at the same time.

Henry blushed as red as Killian did when he asked her out the first two times. “Mom told me to, but she said she and her dad were going down to Boston for the week.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Emma emoted. Henry only turned redder, so she let the thing go, even though she was rather longing to meet the girl of Henry’s dreams and fancies. Probably for the best, though, as Killian would have taken it upon himself to tease his younger brother-in-law quite mercilessly. He had no such qualms in making fun of his fellow species in regards to the fairer sex, as he’d termed them.

They turned into the first store of the day. Henry went immediately to the blankets in the corner while Emma trailed along behind him, eyes sharp for anything her parents might fancy as well as Ashley. She and Killian had agreed that they would spend the day with family, enjoying the time and the season and the frankly frigid temperatures, but Emma couldn’t stop herself from keeping a look-out. The last time she’d forgotten to keep her eyes open—Emma shuddered, the table of necklaces in front of her shaking as her hands clenched on the edge of the table. Killian was okay, and Henry would be fine.

They were fine. It would be okay. That would be her mantra for the day, she supposed, grimacing at the jewelry.

Emma already had a necklace for her mom in her suitcase, and she’d found a tie for her dad five months ago. Maybe she could convince Killian to go back out with her to get a present for Henry, so she didn’t have to try to hide it during the current shopping trip.

Her parents would have found something for Granny and Leroy. That left Ruby and Graham. Ruby would be tricky—a continuation of the “don’t tell everyone we’re married” bribe. Graham would probably appreciate a watch. She glanced over the watches and found a piece that looked sheriff-like. Success. Killian would probably also like it, since it looked relatively old and did not possess the “digital nonsense that prevents people from reading a simple clock,” as he had ranted on one memorable date night several years back.

With the watch in hand, Emma decided that it was time to return to the little brother. “What’d you find, kid?” she asked when she was a few steps away from Henry. He jolted visibly and Emma mentally sighed. She was wearing her most comfortable shoes, which meant they were perfectly matched to her feet in such a way that she was silent without even concentrating.

“How did you walk that quietly?” Henry half-shrieked.

“Sorry, kid, I think it’s the shoes,” she apologized as succinctly as she could, resolving to walk with a little less finesse for a while. “Find anything good?”

Henry let the shoe thing go after one last glare, then he turned to the blankets he’d been staring at. “Dad keeps complaining about how cold it is in the house, because he’s old. Do you think he’d like the red one or the blue one?”

Emma stared at the blankets. The red one looked more like their dad—a little more professional, didn’t look quite as cushy but was still soft—but the blue one would match the living room better, even though that really wasn’t a big deal in their house. “I don’t know, Henry. Try flipping a coin and, if you don’t like what the quarter says, go with the other one.”

Henry nodded solemnly as Emma handed him the coin. He assigned the blankets and flipped the coin in silence, finally reaching for the red one. “Good method, Emma.”

“Thanks,” she said as he laid the quarter back in her palm. She scrambled for something to say. “Tell me about Violet,” she finally decided on.

Henry flushed bright red and walked as quickly as he could toward the cashier. “Shut up.”

Emma grinned.

--

An hour into the shopping trip—they hadn’t found anything in the next quaint little store, so had switched to the next one in search of things for their mom and Ruby—Emma’s phone blared out its happy ring.

As she glanced at the screen, she handed Henry a twenty and the bracelet set she’d found for Ruby, waving toward the cash register. “Mom?”

“Hi, honey!” her mom’s cheerful voice rang out. Emma watched Henry purchase the bracelet and her mom’s new ceramic bird. “Just calling to check on you and Henry!”

“We’re fine,” Emma replied cautiously. Through the phone, she heard another voice.

“What are you doing? Are you calling her? For god’s sake, I’m fine!” Killian. His voice was muffled, since he was probably several feet away, but she could hear the frustration from miles away.

Emma motioned to Henry, and they abandoned the store for hopefully better reception. “Mom? What happened?”

“Your boyfriend was hanging some lights, and—”

Emma interrupted. “Is anything broken? Hand the phone to Killian.” She turned to Henry. “I think Killian’s broken himself. Do you mind if we head back a bit early?”

“I’m done,” Henry said, wide-eyed. “Is Killian okay?”

“I’ll know if he ever answers—”

“I’m fine, love. No need to cut the excursion short. I just fell off the ladder and twisted my ankle. Should be mended in a few hours with the sheer amount of ice that’s currently resting on the poor thing.” Emma grinned. Killian was probably only barely not glaring at his mother-in-law.

Suddenly, Henry laughed, apparently hearing Killian’s grumbles through the phone. And possibly from miles away, just like the frustration. “We’re on the way home, babe,” Emma added to Killian. “Even if just to save you from the frozen peas.”

And, amid manly protests, she hung up the phone. She allowed herself to seethe for a moment. How was it that Killian Jones, one of the CIA’s greatest on the East Coast, was able to get out of a firefight in Budapest with nary a scratch, or go on a jog through Chicago at night and escape all sorts of trouble, and yet the moment she left him alone with a string of lights and a ladder, he was laid up on the couch? It made no sense.

Emma breathed deeply, leaving the rest of the frustration for the husband’s ears. She turned to Henry, who was being ridiculously patient throughout the whole thing. “Did you find good stuff for everyone? I’m sorry that this hasn’t ended up being much of a bonding experience.”

Henry grinned up at her. “Are you kidding? You’re here, in Storybrooke. This entire Christmas vacation is a bonding experience.” He continued, leaving her to drown in guilt once more. “I think so. I got the blanket for Dad and the bird for Mom. Oh, and I found this for Killian—” he rummaged in one of the shopping bags “—if you think he’ll like it.”

Henry held out a compass, about two inches in diameter. The needle wasn’t pointing north and it looked vaguely like a small child had gotten ahold of it at some point in its life. It was perfect. Emma leaned in and pulled Henry into her side, suddenly overcome with how sweet her baby brother was. “It’s great, Henry. He’s going to love it.”

“Don’t tell him what it is.”

“Of course not,” Emma said, offended. “What’s the fun in that? Did you get anything for Violet?”

Henry blushed bright red again—she really needed to stop teasing him about this before he popped a blood vessel somewhere, but she was curious if Henry thought the friendship warranted a special Christmas present. He pulled out a small notebook, blue and purple colors marbled into a masterpiece on the cover. “She likes my notebooks, and she said she wanted one once even though she doesn’t like writing that much. So… do you think she’ll like it?”

He stared up at her earnestly, begging for some sort of reassurance. “She’ll love it. Haven’t met her, but I’m sure she’ll like anything you get her.” And there was the big sister reassurance and love she could provide.

They walked the rest of the way to the Nolan home in silence. Emma kept her arm wrapped around Henry’s shoulders, but she didn’t feel much need to talk. The faint smile on Henry’s face was more than enough.

--

Emma sat down on the couch next to Killian, trying not to let any emotions except vague concern channel through. Killian wouldn’t appreciate the amusement—but seriously, though, he should have been better than this—and her mom wouldn’t understand and wasn’t allowed to understand her frustration—this was also her partner, and they had important plans for the evening.

“How is it feeling?” Mary Margaret asked, her soft, sad eyes putting the average Labrador’s to shame. “Can I get you anything? How about some hot chocolate?”

Emma patted Killian’s hand as he replied, “I’m just fine, thank you, Mrs. Nolan. I really appreciate you caring for me when most of the house remains undecorated.”

Mary Margaret waved her hand about as she started work on the unsolicited hot chocolate. “No problem, dear! And call me Mary Margaret! You’ve more than earned it.” Within moments, she’d finished the hot chocolate and placed it in Killian’s hands. Emma just as quickly took it away to prevent accidental spills, since that seemed the theme of the afternoon.

“Mom?” Henry appeared in the kitchen. “I can help with the decorations, if you want.”

“Oh, that would be great, honey! You’ll watch Killian, right, Emma? I have more frozen peas if the first ones start thawing. Let me know if you need anything!”

In the blink of an eye, her mom and Henry had disappeared to finish with the lights and other decorations. Emma wondered for a moment how Henry was going to be much help with the whole endeavor, but then she remembered that Henry was taller than she was, and she’d helped their mom with the lights plenty of times.

She sighed. So much growing up had happened while the CIA kept her away.

Finally, she turned to Killian. He turned immediately after she did, no doubt fearing some sort of Emma anger at the fact that he’d managed to hurt himself when she wasn’t there to prevent it. “I’m not mad,” Emma said. She was a little frustrated, vaguely triggered by the last time she was too late, and slightly disappointed that she and Henry had had to come home a little early, but it wasn’t bad.

“Why would you be mad?” Killian scoffed softly, but he settled a little further into the couch cushions, glaring at his ankle. “It’s a two and a half.”

Emma relaxed, leaning into his side. The explosion and its aftermath had been a ten on the scale of Killian-you-have-an-excellent-pain-tolerance-but-sometimes-it-will-fail. The average hangnail made a solid one, and the time he broke his arm while under the influence had warranted a happily-screeched six. A two and a half wasn’t even close to bad by his standards, and he was probably right when he said he didn’t need a doctor.

“What happened, anyway? You’re normally better than this.”

Killian sighed and rested his cheek on her head. “We were having a wonderful discussion about the Christmas lights, my childhood traditions, and my intentions toward you when your mother asked a startling question that sent me to the ground.”

Emma tried to turn her head to see his expression, but Killian didn’t shift enough to allow the movement. They sat in silence for a moment, Emma picturing Killian’s face when Mary Margaret asked the question, whatever it was, that made him fall off a ladder. Or the roof. She wasn’t quite sure. She waited for him to say whatever the question was, but he remained silent. “Fine, I give up. What did Mom ask?”

Killian laughed and took her hand, moving his head just far enough that he could kiss her knuckles. Emma took the opportunity to move, facing him to get the full benefit of Killian’s story, which naturally included his face. “She offered her ring, if you must know.” Emma blinked. Killian laughed again. “Yes, my love. Both of your parents approve of me. Of course, I knew it would happen since I am devilishly handsome and overwhelmingly charming, but—”

Emma stopped him with a finger pressed to his mouth. “If your next words repeat how much of an idiot I was for not bringing you home five years ago, I will hit you. Regardless of damaged ankle.”

“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind,” Killian grinned. They sat there and smiled at each other for a minute. They were married; it was allowed. “If the ankle turns out worse than I imagine, how many death threats do you think Regina will send me?”

Emma rolled her eyes and stood to check on the state of the frozen peas. “So many. I probably won’t be able to save you.”

“Well, it’s been a nice run,” Killian sighed, wincing as Emma poked at the purple swelling around his ankle. He’d be able to walk on it perfectly fine in a few days, she guessed. She rewrapped it and leaned down to kiss him.

“I’ll avenge you,” she whispered when she pulled away.

Killian smiled. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Jones.”

--

Emma finished wrapping the last present and sighed. “They look fine, love,” Killian called from the bed.

She stood up and stretched, then leaned back down to gather up the gifts to take them downstairs. “But they don’t look as good as my mom’s, and you know it.”

She heard Killian searching for a diplomatic response as she skipped down the stairs to put the presents under the tree. That had been the after-dinner exercise—her dad and Henry went to get the tree, she and her mom moved the furniture around to make room for it, and Killian had limped around to try to help. Mary Margaret Nolan and her appreciation for her daughter’s boyfriend insisted that he and his twisted ankle stay comfy on the couch.

Emma was still reeling from the fact that Killian had been given maternal permission to propose. It’s not like he really needed it—the wedding rings secure in her purse proved otherwise—but it was still pretty awesome. Her dad’s unspoken permission a few days ago had been something, but her mom was a much harder nut to crack.

“I thought you’d be asleep already, Emma.” David’s voice broke out of the shadows and she started, mentally cursing herself for paying more attention to not letting Henry’s box fall instead of her surroundings. How was it that just a few days in Storybrooke, a town that was clearly hiding something, were enough to lower her defenses so much?

Emma finally saw her dad, sitting on the couch before the tree. “I wanted to go ahead and get everything wrapped and under the tree. You know, get something done before—Mom.” Her dad’s smirk gave it away before she even saw the giant pile under the tree. She sighed and started setting everything up, scattering her and Killian’s offerings in with the rest. “How does she do that?”

“I don’t question your mother, Emma,” David said, deadpan. “She’s too magical for that.” Emma leaned over and hugged him, ready to bid a goodnight and head upstairs for strategy. Before she could step away, David grabbed her hand. She glanced back down, just barely preventing herself from snatching her hand away. He met her eyes, searching as only he could. “Are you happy, Emma?”

“Mom’s happily ever after project for me can probably close down shop,” she answered. “Why?”

Her dad grinned, releasing her hand. “Just making sure. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, since we adopted you. That you’d be happy again.”

Somehow that made tears come to her eyes. She leaned down and hugged him again. “I am happy, Dad. So happy.” David kissed her forehead and she stepped away.

“I’m glad. Now go to bed,” he whispered. Emma nodded and took the remaining steps to the stairs, walking up slowly and glancing back down at her dad. He was still staring at the tree, but Emma thought he was smiling.

She stepped into her old bedroom with a similar smile. Killian glanced up when the door closed behind her. He grinned when he saw her. “What’s the smile for?”

“My dad’s pretty cool. All happy I’m happy and stuff.” Emma stepped over to his side of the bed and Killian tilted his chin up to meet her kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling.”

They smiled for another few moments until Emma thought about the clock. “It’s 9 PM,” she said, leaning over her suitcase. She hadn’t bothered to unpack it, even though her mom had emptied out the drawers for them, which really made it look like she’d hoped Emma would change her mind about New York and move back in. Which wasn’t going to happen.

“What’s particularly significant about the time except for indicating the time for sleeping?” Killian asked, stretching and sitting up straighter.

Emma pulled out her grey leggings, loose black shirt, and tighter black undershirt and waved them in Killian’s direction. She closed the bathroom door behind her and changed, wondering how she was going to find Ashley unless the other woman showed up first. Since Ashley supposedly didn’t even live in Storybrooke anymore, Emma didn’t even have an address to go off of. It probably wasn’t even necessary for her to go out tonight, but she wanted to do some scouting and remember the town when it was veiled in shadows.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, ponytail secured and gun tucked into her waistband, Killian was glaring. She leaned back a little, not quite expecting the level of vitriol normally kept for an incompetent rookie who hadn’t learned how to use the safety on a gun. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m looking for Ashley. We need to figure out what’s going on here, Killian, and—”

He interrupted, as expected. Emma mentally slammed her forehead onto a table. “You’re going without me?”

“You may not have noticed, but you can’t fit your foot inside your boots right now! How are you going to do anything useful?”

Killian winced, and Emma sighed. She’d gone too far. She opened her mouth to apologize but Killian spoke first. “I may not be able to go now, or be useful or anything like that, but I don’t want you going alone.”

She finished tying her best shoes. It wouldn’t take much, just a few more steps, and she could be out of the door. She was fully prepared to table the argument for much later, or never again. “I can do it—”

“Of course you can do it alone! I don’t doubt that! I also don’t doubt that without me with you, you’ll get yourself very badly hurt! Do you remember even a little bit of our first mission in Shanghai?”

Emma did. She had wandered away from Killian and gotten shot. The blood loss had been impressive, and they’d rapidly abandoned their mission. She was also not amused by the comparison. “It’s just a run around Storybrooke, Killian! The worst I expect to see is a cat fight, and if anyone sees me, I’ll just be the weird girl who left home more than a decade ago in favor of the big city.” She took another step toward the door.

“I don’t want you going alone,” Killian said, pressing his fingers into his temples. “We work best together, Swan. Or have you forgotten that we’re partners as well as husband and wife?”

Just as Emma realized that their voices had risen beyond what would be considered normal for a nighttime conversation, a door closed. She glared at Killian, who glared right back, and silently opened the door. The do-not-disturb sign that hung on Henry’s doorknob swung gently. She closed the door again and took a deep breath before turning back to Killian.

She pitched her voice far lower. “Henry probably heard most of that last declaration, just so you know. You get to work on the explanation, since you started it. I’m going out to look for Ashley, since there’s a possibility that she’s working for someone who tried to blow you up. Thankfully, you’re incapable of following me.”

With that, she stepped over to the window. She’d escaped out of these windows a thousand times in her less-than-squeaky-clean high school years, and her consequent career hadn’t discouraged such behaviors.

“Emma…” Killian said, almost under his breath. He moved to the edge of the bed, abandoning the latest ice pack. “At least promise me you’ll be careful, darling.”

Before Emma could step to the window, Killian leaned forward and pulled her to him. She met him midway with a furious sort of kiss, still too unrelenting for any sort of intimacy. It was Killian’s admonishment and Emma’s admission that it was probably not the best plan. But she wouldn't wait. She couldn't.

Emma pulled away as quickly as they'd clung to each other. Killian sighed, running a hand through his hair. She took the few steps to the window and swung a leg out, hunting for the brick she used as a foothold. “It’s been almost seven years, Killian. Do you really still need to tell me to be careful?”

By the time Killian replied, she was standing on the grass below her window. “Always.” Her window clicked as he closed it.

Regret and adrenaline coursed through her as she jogged to the street. But Emma couldn’t stop to wish that she had waited until Killian understood that she couldn’t stay. She had a woman to find.

[gch1995]

I want to watch new Drama/Fantasy TV series on Netflix and Hulu to get the bad taste that OUAT and TWD left in my mouth.

Here is what I want:

• A show that is more strongly driven by the characters consistently and believably, rather than half-cocked convoluted plots, and/or the creators/writers abrupt, blatantly biased, hypocritical, petty, and unfair preferential treatment of their favorite characters/ships, who they destroy other great characters/ships that they don’t care about as much to prop up their pet characters/ships up onto pedestals that they don’t deserve-

I dealt with six seasons of the continuity and logic of every rule of magic, relationships, storylines, and most of the timeline from S1 getting deliberately retconned left and right more and more inexplicably at the drop of a hat every season afterwards for (oftentimes disappointing) random plot twist convenience, and the writers completely stopped trying in 3B when they broke the rule of magic not being able to bring back the dead and decided “Fuck all the rules of continuity and realism in characterization and organic development in any of our remaining main characters, and fuck any and all sort of sort of storytelling integrity in writing a canon that consistently sticks to its timeline and rules of magic! We’re just going to reframe the entire narrative around Hook’s “redemption” arc and CS by ruining/retconning everyone else’s original characterization and development from S1-3A, and do whatever the hell we want with magic and the timeline on this show now because LOL, BOLD STORYTELLING! We’re really just too afraid to admit that we’re a team of horrible creative writers and show-runners, who didn’t know how to write more than two-and-a-half seasons of satisfying and original character development, who, thus, ran out of good new ideas for what else to do after 3x11, and who, thus,, would have done a lot better just ending the show with that episode because that’s clearly all we could handle before ruining everything that made this show genuinely entertaining to fans in the first place with our plot fuckery and character/ship favoritism!”

I quit watching OUAT after S5, but I still dealt with watching roughly four seasons of Rumple, Belle, Rumbelle, and Emma getting made OOC, and later on, outright destroyed in favor of cheaply emotionally manipulative “Gotcha” plot twists, and A&E and their team of hacks petty and hypocritical favoritism that led them to prop up Zelena, Regina, and especially Hook/CS onto pedestals that they didn’t deserve in their favor by ruining them to make them look better by comparison without really doing much to change them, or making them sympathetic characters in their own right, especially post 3A. I still kept up with the spoilers post S5, so I know about what they did to ruin all my faves to prop up Hook/CS, Zelena, and even the dark half of the EQ some more in 6A, past the point of no return this time around, basically.

It would be one thing if Hook/CS had always been a main character/ship on the show, and Rumple, Belle, Rumbelle, and Emma had always been framed/written as unsympathetic characters and a ship that the GA was supposed to consistently root against from day one. But that’s not how it was set up, no matter what A&E and these writers try to insist otherwise.

Hook was meant to be a guest villain, but A&E and these writers got distracted by him so much so that they decided to make him a regular by setting him up with Emma out of nowhere, having him take Neal’s place in the series, retconned the beauty of everyone else’s original characterizations, developments, and storylines on the show to make him look more “sympathetic” without actually doing anything to build him up that way organically post 3A, and made him the entire lead of the show.

Emma started out as a badass, compassionate, selfless, and sympathetic underdog for the little guy and the main protagonist on the show from day one until they forced her together with Hook, and ruined her to set them up post S3.

As for Rumple, he had always been written as a problematic fave from day one. I acknowledge that he had done horrible things that I could never realistically excuse, but from 1x08-3A there was a deeper sympathetic motive for why that was always explained on screen. He quickly became a fan favorite who the GA quickly sympathized with and rooted for as a sort of anti-heroic underdog, who with had a genuinely beautiful, believable, and consistent characterization and struggle for redemption that we saw, and expected to continue to see regularly once we saw his tragic and unfair backstory, and we learned about his love for Belle and particularly Bae and saw how everything he did he did out of love for them. We saw that he had a bizzarely adorable friendship with David, and we saw that he, Belle, and Neal were always willing to offer advice, compassion, emotional support, and understanding when he brokenly and honestly opened up to them for it by offering it in without enabling his bad choices, mercilessly judging him with negative assumptions without asking questions first, or giving him a chance to open up to them honestly, acting hypocritical, acting like they were so above him and incapable of having their own flaws and making mistakes, or making him feel guilty for not giving up magic for them. Belle had always had the short end of the stick on the show when they made her a regular because she often got fridged for Rumple’s man pain from S2-S3, but they outright destroyed everything that made her a great character to begin with from S4-S6 to prop up Hook/CS, Zelena, and Regina by turning her against Rumple, even when it didn’t make any sense for her to do so. When Hook/CS became the lead of the show, Neal was killed off. Rumple and Belle’s consistently sympathetic and complex original characterizations and development/redemption arcs in the narrative got so horrible butchered, and the two most important relationships in his storyline all got abruptly thrown under the bus and trashed on this show by A&E and these writers for roughly five seasons with bad writing, even in the final season when they decided not to fuck up Rumple’s redemption arc halfway through, just so they could prop up Hook/CS, Zelena, and Regina by shitting on him.

I don’t want to have to deal with watching another TV series where beautiful, complex, and relatable fictional characters and ships are abruptly made OOC, and/or outright destroyed in favor of stupid plot twists. I don’t want to deal with watching another show in which the creator(s), writers, and/or network have Gary Stu/Mary Sue pet characters/ships, who abruptly get unfair preferential treatment from the creators and writers in the narrative on the show with my personal favorite characters/ships getting abruptly, cruelly, and unfairly thrown under the bus for their benefit.

• A show that is run and written by a team of people, who don’t offensively enable, encourage, or casually dismiss ableism, abuse, rape culture, incest, racism, and sexism in the tropes they use in the writing for their individual characters, the relationships between them, the plot devices they sometimes make them use, especially if they let them get away with using them, and the plots they set them up in-

I had to watch every character and relationship on OUAT get tainted in canon with all of these offensively problematic issues in the the tropes in the writing for them in one way or another more and more from day one of this trash show of wasted potential in ways that disgusted me, including all of my faves, such as Emma, Rumple, Belle, and Rumbelle, just because A&E and their team of writers never learned from their mistakes, and refused to do so.

I don’t want to deal with that shit again on another show, or try to justify it, especially not in characters who often don’t get how problematic what they did or said is because the creators and writers behind them refuse to understand how problematic their writing for some of the things they make them do and say actually is in canon, and refuse to address it, no matter how many times the fans call them out for their shit.

I don’t want to have to deal with watching another TV series where beautiful, complex, and relatable fictional characters and ships are abruptly made OOC, and/or outright destroyed in favor of stupid plot twists. I don’t want to deal with watching another show in which the creator(s), writers, and/or network have Gary Stu/Mary Sue pet characters/ships, who abruptly get unfair preferential treatment from the creators and writers in the narrative on the show with my personal favorite characters/ships getting abruptly, cruelly, and unfairly thrown under the bus for their benefit.

• A show that is run and written by people who understand how to portray realistic reactions and fallouts to trauma and untreated mental illness in their characters by acknowledging that it exists and that it happened in the narrative, and allowing them to get help for it when they reach out for it. Instead of pretending that it never happened to vilify a character by refusing to allow them to get help, or emotional support from loved ones, even when they do try to reach out to them for it honestly, or work on being better to constantly make them feel like they have no choice but to revert back to self-destructive behavior, trying to prop up the character who traumatized them, or simply because the characters, who were traumatized in their narrative are the “good guys,” and the “good guys” aren’t allowed to have realistic reactions to trauma and mental illness because they are “strong” and the “bad guys” are “weak” from the ableist show-runners and writers point of view-

I dealt with watching this shit on OUAT for five seasons from season one, and from the spoilers I read about season six and seven after finally quitting, it didn’t get any better because A&E and these writers are hacks.

• A show run and written by people, who don’t make it so blatantly obvious that they are emotionally manipulating you with false hope by dangling a carrot before your eyes, only to abruptly snatch it away with a cruel “shock” value twist in their storytelling that becomes incredibly and disappointingly predictable when dealing with it as a viewer for five to six seasons-

Look, I get it, bad things happen in life. However, it becomes predictable bad writing and cruel storytelling when it becomes obvious that you are being emotionally manipulated by show-runners and writers with false hope for your faves. It becomes predictable bad writing and cruel storytelling when there is an increasingly obvious pattern in the narrative of the types of characters/ships that these writers abruptly and inorganically screw over out of nowhere after giving their fans false hope for them in the narrative, only to deliberately and cruelly screw them over for cheap “shock value, and/or to prop up their faves by displacing all of their shit onto their default scapegoat character through making him or her look bad without actually doing anything to have their Gary Stu/Mary Sue faves truly do anything to prove that they are reformed.

Were D&D and Scott Gimple too stupid to think to think that fans of their shows would ever realize that they often tended to abruptly kill off the purest living cinnamon rolls cruelly and abruptly in their show’s universe every season for shock value out of nowhere after giving their fans false hope on Game of Thrones and TWD?

Were Adam and Eddy too stupid to realize that Dearies/Rumbellers would ever realize that they abruptly and cruelly mostly turned their narrative against Rumple and his loved ones to prop up all their lame ass faves and CS after they killed off Neal and brought him back from the dead to make him an on-and-off-again trickster, even after spending the first two-and-a-half seasons of OUAT building up Rumple as a consistently sympathetic, emotionally complex, and redeemable character on the show?

• A show that is written and run by people who understand how to give their endgame romantic couples and familial relationships realistic, consistent, complex, healthy, in-character, and well-written conflict and resolution-

A&E and their team hacks often lacked the desire and ability to write realistic, consistent, complex, healthy, in-character, and well-written conflict and resolution between their characters, especially in later seasons. The only main living romantic couple, who remained mostly untainted in canon by their increasingly OOC, gross, unhealthy, and unrealistic character assassinating plot fuckery romantic soap opera angst in canon post 3A by S6, was Snowing, and that’s only because A&E and their team of writers didn’t care enough about them to give them any significany screen time, or any interesting storylines post 3A.

[spartanguard]

you belong among the wildflowers

Summary: Emma Swan's life has been far from easy. Neither has Killian Jones'. Through a handful of meetings, a couple tattoos, and some fantastic music, maybe they'll find a happy ending. (CS Modern AU heavily inspired by the music of Tom Petty) | Rated GA, 7k | tw: minor mentions of alcoholism

a/n: HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, HOLLI!!! aka @mryddinwilt​ I started planning this AU quite a while ago, in honor of our shared love of “Wildflowers”, but then it kind of spiraled when I sat down to write last Monday only to learn of Tom Petty’s passing. So this is kind of double duty as your bday present and an ode to one of my all-time favorite musicians.

thank you to @shipsxahoy and @optomisticgirl for looking at this!

Hope your day was amazing, Holli, and hope you enjoy this! Thank you for always being an encouraging, awesome person!! <3

“You belong among the wildflowers...you belong somewhere you feel free.”

She wasn’t sure when she first heard the song. It must have been on the radio when Emma was a kid, in one foster home or another. The memory was fuzzy, but the sentiment was clear: that she deserved to be happy one day, and to have love and peace.

Those all seemed like things well out of reach for a 16-year-old runaway orphan, but it was a nice thought. And a wildflower was as good as anything else to get a tattoo of, especially when the main goal in getting a tattoo was more just getting one out of rebellion than wanting it to carry any specific symbolism. Who knew, though? Maybe she’d eventually get that.

At least, that was what she told herself as the needle stung the skin inside her wrist. She liked to think she was tough, and she’d certainly been hit harder, but—ow. Oh well, it was probably due punishment for using a fake ID to get it in the first place.

On the other side of the dingy parlor was a guy who couldn’t be more than couple years older than her—fresh out of high school, probably, since it was early summer—also wincing through the work being done on his forearm. But when he realized she was staring, he sent a sly grin and a wink her way, making her blush. What? He was cute, even if his “beard” was patchy stubble at best and doing nothing to mature his babyish features.

He left halfway through hers being done, but was smoking against the building outside once she finished, with a guitar case propped against the wall next to him.

“Want one?” he offered, holding the pack out to her; she didn’t realize she’d been staring again. She also had never smoked before, but—eh, what the hell? She strode forward and, as expertly as she could manage, slid one out of the box and held it between her fingers like she’d seen done so many times. He deftly flicked his lighter and she lit the cigarette, then brought it to her lips and inhaled...and then sputtered and coughed once the smoke hit her lungs, which was received with a deep chuckle.

“First one?” he teased, blue eyes laughing. Her response was continued coughing. “Well, you never forget your first.” She glared. “Don’t breathe so deep,” he offered, his accented voice turning gentle.

Once she’d regained her faculties, she tried it again, doing as he said. She wasn’t a fan but it was definitely better.

“There you go, love,” he cheered, sounding almost proud.

“Not your love,” she threw back.

“Fair enough.” She joined him against the wall and they settled into an easy silence. He didn’t have to say anything for her to get the sense that they had more in common than being freshly tatted; the fact that he was alone, too, spoke volumes.

But then she nearly jumped when he introduced himself. “Name’s Killian; Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan.”

“Suits you.”

“What does?”

“Swan.”

“What does that mean?” Maybe things were better when he was quiet; this boy had no idea how to talk to girls, did he?

“It means you’re feisty and I’d rather not piss you off.” Well, okay; actually, that was probably the best complement she’d ever received. “Is that your tattoo? A swan?”

Oh, right—people asked what tattoos meant. Better get used to that. “Uh, no—it’s a flower,” she blurted out, shoving her wrist toward him and showing off the fresh ink. “It’s...well, it’s pretty, and it’s...a reminder, I guess.”

“Of what?” He was genuinely curious.

“That even though I’ve had a rough start, I can still have a happy life.”

He smiled at her, cutting dimples into his round, boyish cheeks. “That’s awfully brave, lass.”

She just shrugged; maybe it was, but if she gave up hope, what kind of life would she have? Unused to such praise, she turned the attention back to him. “What’s yours?”

He held out his arm, showing off the intricate heart design, deep red against his lightly tanned skin.

“That’s gorgeous,” she muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious of her colorless outline. “What's it mean? Are you in lo-ove?” she sing-songed—a well-used defense mechanism that she had a feeling he’d see right through.

“No, not yet,” he brushed off with a laugh. “But someday. Just like you, I have hope.”

She scoffed. “You really think anyone will love people like us?”

“Even the losers get lucky sometimes.”

They spent the rest of the night burning through the pack of cigarettes and wandering the backstreets of Boston, chatting under the light of the full moon. He was from England, originally, but he and his brother ended up in the states with a distant relative after their parents were gone. He’d just graduated high school and was headed west, just like her, but he was chasing a dream, just he and his acoustic. She just wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Let me know if you end up in Portland,” she told him once they’d found their way to the bus terminal. Funny that her last night in Boston was when she’d make her first real friend.

“Will do. Take care, Swan,” he goodbyed with a salute, boarding his L.A.-bound coach.

She waved him off, watching as his bus faded into the dark and silently promising to try.

“The last three days the rain was unstoppable. It was always cold, no sunshine.”

“Sounds about right,” Emma muttered to herself as she putted around the record store. More like last year, for her. As good as it was to finally be out of jail, she was quickly learning that not many places were eager to hire an 18-year-old ex-con with barely even a GED. Thank goodness there was a homeless shelter nearby, but the beds there sucked even worse than her prison cot and what she wouldn’t give for something just a little plush to sink her still-aching body into. Though, she supposed, that ranked pretty low on her current list of problems.

She’d just come back from yet another unsuccessful interview—who knew McDonald’s was so picky?—and had a stack of even more applications in her backpack to fill out and return. But her spirit was just a little bit more shattered after her shit morning, so she popped into the music shop to see if that could perk her up a bit. Plus, it was air conditioned, which automatically made it better than the Arizona oven outside.

She browsed the used vinyl, skimming titles both familiar and unfamiliar as someone sang and played somewhere in the store. Honestly, that was the main reason she’d stuck around; she certainly couldn’t afford to buy anything, but the free show was already helping her mood. And it was hard to feel unmotivated when that song was playing.

“There's something good waitin' down this road. I'm pickin' up whatever is mine. Yeah runnin' down a dream…”

She was halfway ready to pull out a pen and start filling out all those forms right there in the middle of the store, but then she realized that there was something oddly familiar about that voice. Cautiously, she followed the power cords toward the back of the shop, where a makeshift performance venue was set up.

And there he was, after all this time. Killian Jones.

He looked a little bit more worn, just like she probably did; the scraggly beard had filled in some; his dark hair was just as much a mess as it had been a couple years ago, and that tattoo was teasing her from under the rolled-up sleeve of a plaid shirt while he played his guitar. More than a few times, she’d wondered if he’d had any success. Phoenix was a far cry from Los Angeles, but hey, he was performing—and performing well.

She hung out near the back of the small crowd, just watching him pour his heart into his instrument and the microphone. The audience was bobbing along and tapping their feet to the familiar tune, and his acoustic rendition and soulful voice made it all the more endearing.

And then the song ended, he thanked the crowd, and they dispersed as he packed up his things. A few people slipped him some tips, and he flashed that dimpled smile that made her own mouth tick up at the corner. It was good seeing him happy, even if the odds were high he’d long forgotten her. Out of curiosity, she wondered if he had.

She carefully made her way to him. “Hey.”

He stood straight up at her voice, then slowly turned toward her, a grin forming on his face. “Swan?”

That answered that question. “Killian,” she answered with a small smile.

“Bloody hell.” To her surprise, he engulfed her in a hug, but quickly, she returned it. “How’ve you been, love? I’m sorry I never made it to Portland, but here you are and...wow. Do you want to get coffee?”

She was nearly whiplashed from the warm reception; she hadn’t been expecting that. “Uh,” she stammered, not sure how to approach the money thing.

“My treat,” he quickly added enthusiastically.

“Okay.”

They settled into a corner table of a quiet little cafe, and before he could ask her about the last two years, she quickly focused on him: “So, are you a rock star yet?”

He snorted. “Hardly. Only had enough bus fare to get me to Oklahoma, so I’ve been picking my way across the country ever since. But I’ve been playing bars and shops all the time, saving up. Actually, I’m catching a train to L.A. tomorrow. Care to join?” he offered with a wink.

“I wish,” she answered, laughing. “Looks like I’m stuck here for a bit.”

“Oh?” He seeemed genuinely disappointed. “Fancy job here?”

“I’d take any job, actually. I...I just got out of prison.”

“Oh. I see.” To his credit, he didn’t try to put any distance between them, like most people would. Actually, he was almost annoyingly in her space; if it was anyone else, she’d be the one backing away, but Killian’s presence was unusually calming. And, for some reason, she felt compelled to spill the whole thing.

“Yeah, I, uh, met a guy in Portland, and he got me in trouble. Set me up for the stuff he did. He ran off, I got caught. Ended up in jail for a year. Had a kid. So, here I am, a year later. Just giving it another go, I guess.”

“Wait—back up; you had a kid?”

Oh. She curled in on herself a bit; she hadn’t meant to say that part. “Yeah. Found out while I was in there. He’s...I put him up for adoption. No one wants a teenage jailbird for a mom.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand, turning it over to find her tattoo. As he rubbed it with his thumb, he said, “A couple of years ago, I met a fiery young lass who told me that even though she had a rough start, she still had hope for a happy life.” She averted her eyes, studying the floor instead; it had been a long time since she’d given that tattoo thought, going so far as to cover it with marker while in jail. Things had been pretty bleak then and weren’t looking much better. “Hope is a powerful thing, Emma; don’t tell me you’ve lost yours.”

“Hard not to.”

“Don’t, Emma. You deserve it.” She finally glanced up, and the resolve in his blue eyes was nearly intimidating. Slowly, she nodded, though she still wasn’t sure she believed it.

She nodded at his forearm. “What about you? Found your true love yet?”

He chuckled. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’re out there.”

“I hope you find them, Killian.”

“I hope you find your happy ending, too, Swan.”

Again, they spent the night together, wandering around Phoenix, him smoking and her not (she’d learned her lesson there), until they ended up outside the train station.

“Look me up if you ever end up in L.A., alright? I’ll be the one playing the Viper Room.”

She wanted to laugh, but he was so confident. “I will. Good luck, Killian.”

“You too, Emma.”

They embraced before he boarded the train, and she waved until it was a speck in the distance, before heading back to the shelter with a bit more determination than she’d had the night before.

“Well, the moon sank as the wind blew and the street lights slowly died…”

Man, what a night. It was 11 o’clock, but she was too keyed up to hit the sack, despite everything that had happened already. And the thought of heading back to the just-slightly-nicer-than-a-fleabag motel she was staying in quickly made her decide that if she was stuck in Nashville, she may as well enjoy it.

The nice thing about the town was that there was music and life everywhere, with no signs of dying anytime soon. She had her pick of the bars, and it only mattered what kind of music she was in the mood for.

The more famous venues were all packed, but there were plenty of holes-in-the-wall and dives to grab a drink and a show. A cozy little place stood out to her, and pleasing, upbeat, classic-sounding rock was escaping the open door. She gave her skintight dress a quick tug down (ugh, this thing loved to ride up); flashed her legal, 22-year-old ID at the bouncer (not that he was looking at it); and headed into the smoky, hazy bar.

The band onstage was good, and so was the whiskey. It was nice to just be able to chill for a moment; she hadn’t been able to do much of that with her new job. Not at night, especially. Spying a few plush couches toward the back of the place, she got a refill and headed back, hoping to put her feet up for a bit and maybe even kick off these impractical heels.

The eyes of just about every man in the bar landed on her as she passed through, but she’d gotten pretty used to ignoring that by now. Until one pair did a double take and called out for her.

“Emma?”

She stopped—no way it was him. His Facebook page hadn’t said anything about Nashville—did it?

“Swan, is that you?”

But clearly, her memory was unreliable, because she turned and there he was: Killian Jones, rockstar. Well, almost rockstar, but he certainly looked the part in his skinny jeans, black t-shirt, and—“Are you wearing eyeliner?”

“Good to see you, too,” he teased before wrapping her up in a hug, then stepping back and giving her a once over. “I’m going to guess you didn’t just get out of jail this time.”

“Nope,” she answered, laughing. “Just enjoying a night on the town. Are you performing here?”

“Yeah, I’m the next set.”

“I had no idea!”

“You say that as if you should have had one.”

“I mean, you do have a Facebook page.”

“Did you ‘like’ me, Swan?”

“Of course I ‘like’ you.” It was amazing to her how she could so easily slip into the same old banter with someone she’d only spent hours with, but it felt like so much longer. “I’ve gotta be able to tell everyone that I once had coffee with a rockstar.”

He ducked his head and laughed, cheeks growing adorably rosy. “I’m not there yet, but,” he jerked his thumb toward a professional-looking woman with dark curly hair, “my manager thinks I will be soon.”

“You will.” Emma had never been more sure of anything. Her own life was still in flux, but she’d always known that teenage boy from what felt like a lifetime ago would go on to big things, even if his face had lost some of that youthful softness now. “Do you have time for a drink?”

“Of course.”

They settled on a sofa and caught each other up on the last four years: he did finally make it to L.A., and worked as a bouncer a bit before finally catching a break—and the eye—of a talent scout, and then a record label. And now he was on tour, trying to drum up enough attention to be able to put together an album.

“I tried to catch you in Tallahassee, but it didn’t work out. Got too busy that night.”

His eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “And what are you up to now?”

“Using my good looks to trap guys,” she answered, only semi-sarcastically.

“Swan, beg your pardon if this is rude, but…” His eyes drifted over her outfit again, and he seemed oddly concerned. “Are...are you a hooker?” he asked quietly.

She was taken aback at first, but then could only laugh. “No, but I can see why you’d think that. I’m in bail bonds. This is honestly the best way to nab a skip.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I was near ready to offer you a job on my road crew,” he replied with a wink.

“You couldn’t afford me,” she threw back, smirking.

They kept chatting, and she had another drink, letting the warm buzz of liquor settle in her veins and relax her. Unconsciously, she found herself moving closer and closer to him, until her bare arm was lined up with his. If he cared, he didn’t say, or maybe his rum was having a similar effect.

He traced her tattoo with his index finger. “How’s this going?” he asked; he was still the only person who knew what it meant.

“Slowly. But things don’t suck anymore.”

“Sounds like progress.”

She followed suit, drawing her thumb around the edge of the heart on his arm. “And you? Found your love yet?” Her lips nearly brushed the pointed tip of his ear, they were so close now.

“No. Still waiting.”

“You’re a patient man, Killian Jones.”

“Aye, that I am.”

His voice dropped on that, with a seriousness she wasn’t used to hearing from him. She shifted away just enough to get a good look at his face, and his eyes were boring into hers, practically neon in contrast to the low lights of the bar. The words of the singer on stage swam into her consciousness; it was nearly comical how perfectly they fit the moment.

“But then somethin' I saw in your eyes told me right away that you were gonna have to be mine…”

The air between them grew heated very fast, raising goosebumps on her arm. And before she knew it, she was surging forward, crashing her lips into his.

Her hands found the nape of neck and his settled on her waist as she kissed him with everything she had. There was something just so perfect, so soul-satisfying about it as she nipped at his lower lip, that she didn’t know why she’d waited so long.

Their mouths and tongues fought for dominance as he held her tight, until finally they had to break apart for air. And then she realized what she’d just done, and who she kissed, and whose arms were holding her tight, and instantly backed away.

Hope was one thing, but the reality of a love—of a relationship—was still too daunting.

He rasped, “That was…”

“...A one-time thing,” she finished for him, not giving him another answer. She couldn’t; not with him. It was Killian. Their meeting was a fluke and the odds of it happening again were so slim; what was she thinking? Even if he was the one person who understood her; just—no. They couldn’t.

She hastily grabbed her purse and stood, a little too fast judging by the way the room spun. “Emma, wait—” Killian started, hopping up to stabilize her.

“No, Killian, I—I can’t.” She shrugged him off, not daring to look in his eyes. “Good luck.”

His plea fell on deaf ears as she raced out of the bar into the night, but one last line of lyrics caught her attention.

I'll never get over how good it felt when you finally held me; I’ll never regret…

But she would regret it, she knew. So it was better to run now.

“I'm so tired of being tired. Sure as night will follow day...”

It was raining—storming, really, and the power had gone out. So when someone started banging on her townhouse door from out in the dark night, louder than the battery-operated radio she had on, Emma was as terrified of an intruder as she was concerned it was someone seeking shelter.

Should have known it would be both.

The pounding grew quiet and a muffled voice was singing something unintelligible, which was then followed by a soft thud against the door and the hollow sound of a dropped glass that should have broken but somehow didn’t.

Baseball bat in hand, she cautiously tiptoed down the hall and peered through the peephole. Whoever it was was slumped against the door, soaked to the bone, and was dramatically raising their arm to knock again. As the sleeve of their leather jacket rode up thanks to gravity, she got a glimpse of a tattoo she’d recognize anywhere—though it was a bit different now. Just like him, she supposed.

“Killian, I’m opening the door; stand back,” she called, not wanting him to collapse in her entryway. Something told her he was going to regardless, but she heard a groan and the sounds of movement as she undid the locks and chains.

And then she swung open the door, and there he was. “Swan.” A tired smile deepend the lines around his eyes; she responded with a tentative one of her own. She honestly thought she’d never see him again after that night three years ago in Nashville—that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her, especially once he had hit it big.

But now a one-hit wonder was standing on her front porch, dripping wet and reeking of rum. Unable to come up with anything to say, she just stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.

“’M sorry to barge in on you like this,” he stammered, staring at the wood floor. “I...jus’ didn’ know where else t’go.”

“How did you even find me?”

“Same as you found me. Facebook. The internet.” It was her turn to cast her eyes down; she still ‘liked’ all his social media posts, but figured he’d never notice.

As a result of said stalking, she knew everything that had happened to him in the last few years, especially with his manager-turned-girlfriend. The celeb magazines loved him and Milah, going so far as to call them “Millian,” especially when his debut album was tearing up the charts. She’d seen the excess, the wild living, and the absolute love in his eyes when he was with her. She’d been happy for him, truly. And damn if that album wasn’t a rocker.

But then, in true rockstar fashion, he partied too much, lived too hard, and then the two of them got in a wreck. They weren’t at fault, thankfully, but Milah was killed instantly. He dropped out of the spotlight, was dropped from his label, and had seemingly disappeared.

Only to show up on her doorstep, on the other side of the country, clearly heartbroken and drunk as a skunk. Lucky her.

“Come on; you need a shower.”

“I keep crawling back to you...I keep crawling back to you.”

After getting him clean and dry—a feat in itself, given the lack of lights—and into the too-big clothes some one-night stand had forgotten, she had him wrapped in a blanket on the other end of her couch, where she sat watching him sip hot cocoa while the radio made background noise. Where he’d at least been a bit happy at seeing her when he arrived, now he just seemed like a kicked puppy, albeit a wasted one.

“So, how you’ve been?” he asked, in a tone that was too forced to be casual.

“Seriously?”

“What?” he threw back, glaring at her. “I’m sure you know all about me; isn’t it fair that I get caught up, too?”

“There’s nothing to catch up on.” There wasn’t, really; she just continued to catch skips and move around; it was pure luck that he caught her here in New York. “And I’m not the one abusing their liver here.”

“Be glad you don’t have a reason to.” He set his empty mug on the coffee table with a thunk and slumped against the cushions.

She scooted closer to him and gently took hold of his arm, running a thumb along his tattoo. He’d added to it since she saw him last: now, it had a jagged dagger down the middle, and a ribbon bearing Milah’s name. It looked fresh. “She seemed like an awesome woman,” Emma commented, hoping that might get him to open up.

“She is. She was. Bloody hell, I’ll never get used to that.”

Emma kept studying the tattoo, knowing that if she looked at him, she might lose her composure. “You got your wish, though: you had love.”

He just grunted. “Fat lot of good it did me. The high was better than any drug, and the crash is far worse.”

“The rum probably doesn’t help.”

“Doesn’t hurt.”

He fell silent after that, and she continued to massage his arm. The fist he’d been holding tight eventually slackened, and his breathing evened out. Finally, she dared to look at his face; he was asleep, but didn’t seem to be at peace. Dark circles nearly matched his thick eyelashes; his beard was scraggly again, but due to it being unkempt rather than juvenile; and hair was an uneven mess. How did someone who seemed to have everything going for them suddenly end up like this?

She stared down at her own tattoo. It seemed to be mocking her now. If things had gone so terribly for Killian once his dream was reached, then surely hers had no better chance of coming true. What a waste.

Killian spent the night on her couch and she made him breakfast the next morning, forcing food and water into him to help him detox. He was sober, it seemed, but she recognized the shaky hands that were gripping his fork with all he had.

“I can’t thank you enough for taking me in, Swan,” he finally said after the arduous process of eating was done. “You had no reason to; I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me,” she assured him. “But if you do feel like making it up to me: get help.”

He nodded solemnly. “I will.”

They both sensed the goodbye that was coming, but she had one more question. “Killian, why did you come to me?”

He just shrugged and smiled sadly. “You understand.”

She did.

The TMZ headline about his rehab stint lifted a weight off her, knowing he’d be okay—and making it that much easier to continue with her next move. It had been a minor blessing he’d been too far gone to notice all the boxes.

And then she made sure her address wasn’t listed online. For security—or so she told herself.

This place was certainly out of range of a Starbucks, but at least Storybrooke had some sort of coffee shop. It was one of those quaint, hipstery cafes that she generally made a point to avoid on account of being too homey—but, if Henry got his wish, that's what this little seaside town would become.

God, Henry—she was still pinching herself. Obviously, she'd thought about him a lot in the past ten years, but she never imagined he'd show up at her door the way he did, dragging her back here. He was a fantastic kid, better than she could ever hope for, and certainly better than she could have done.

His adoptive mother was obviously (rightly) uneasy with the situation, given that Henry basically blackmailed Emma into bringing him back and then into staying longer to get to know each other. It seemed he was a bit of a loner, and a generally curious kid, so it kind of made sense to her why he’d want to have her around. Assuming Regina allowed it, of course.

And hey, Emma could use a vacation. Two weeks away from the hustle and bustle of city life? She could do that, even if meant changing up her means of sating her caffeine addiction.

Thankfully, it was hard to mess up her coffee order, so she found a comfy corner of the shop and settled in with a book, killing time until Henry got out of school. The window she was seated by gave a stunning view of the Atlantic, and for a while, she got lost in the morning lights dancing on the waves.

“Well I started out down a dirty road…”

Emma stilled. She should have known this would be the type of place to have a guitar player. But that in itself wasn’t what froze her blood—it was that voice.

“Started out all alone…”

Impossible. Granted, he’d fallen off the radar since he went to rehab, so she just assumed he was back on the road somewhere. She’d never imagine he’d be here, though.

“I’m learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings. Coming down is the hardest thing.”

She was almost scared to look; she hadn’t taken her eyes off the ocean since hearing that first line. But she knew she had to.

And there he was: perfectly at home behind the mic with an acoustic guitar, perched on a stool in jeans and plaid, getting lost in the music like he did all those years ago in Arizona.

And he looked good. It was hard to look worse than he had when they’d last been together, but Killian appeared not just healthy, but happy. His ginger beard was neatly trimmed, hair was intentionally disheveled, and there was a brightness in his eyes again that sparkled like the sun on the water she’d just been staring at.

“Well some say life will beat you down. Break your heart, steal your crown.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she muttered. Unconsciously, she started rubbing her tattoo with her thumb, like she'd taken to whenever he crossed her thoughts. It was great to see him like this, but it also made her realize just how far she was from anything resembling the peace that showed in the relaxed set of his shoulders and gentle smile as he sang.

“I’m learning to fly around the clouds. What goes up must come down.”

Thankfully, the cafe had a side door. Calmly, she gathered her things and slipped out. At some point, she knew she’d probably run into him—this town was only so big—but she didn’t want to face that today.

Fate had other plans, though, when she wasn’t paying attention to her path while she and Henry headed to the diner for an after-school hot cocoa. While listening to Henry tell her about that day’s ornithology lesson, she collided with something warm, solid, and familiar that instantly braced its arms around her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, lass—Emma?” His mouth hung open in disbelief when he realized it was her, eyes growing wide as he studied her, then crinkling at the corners with a grin.

“Hey,” she answered meekly, with a shy smile of her own.

“Bloody hell, I’ve missed you,” he exclaimed, pulling her in for an actual hug that she couldn’t help but reciprocate. It was Killian, after all—he was still right when he’d said they understood each other. His arms felt just as good as they had that night in Nashville. And no one had ever missed her before. “Where did you go?”

“I moved right after—”

“Mom, you know Killian?” Henry asked, interrupting their reunion.

Killian pulled back with a quizzical expression on his raised brow. “‘Mom’?”

“Emma’s my birth mother!” Henry shouted before Emma had a chance to reply, so she just nodded. Recognition sparked in Killian’s eyes, likely thinking back to that conversation years ago. Henry continued, “How do you guys know each other?”

“We go way back, lad,” Killian answered. “Your mum’s me oldest friend.” She blushed, but he was probably hers, too.

“Oy, what about me?” a similarly accented voice protested. Killian finally let Emma go and stepped away, and a slightly taller man was standing behind him. (She refused to admit that she immediately missed Killian’s presence around her.)

“Emma, this is my brother, Liam. He’s my—I’ve been with him for the last couple years, since...since I last saw you.”

She could fill in the blanks. “It’s nice to meet you,” she started, extending her hand, but then was shocked to be pulled into another hug.

“Thank you, Emma,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. She was stunned, but nodded a response.

How was it she’d only been in this town a matter of days and already felt more wanted, more a part of things than anywhere else she’d been in the last 28 years?

Liam pulled back and cleared his throat; she pretended not to see the watery look in his eyes. “I’d love to stay and chat, but Killian and I have an appointment.”

“Can we get coffee sometime?” Killian asked quietly. “I’d love to catch up.”

“Yeah, me too,” she replied, unable to deny it anymore. She at least owed it to him.

Two days later, she arrived at the shop a couple hours before the time they’d decided on so she could catch him playing again. This time, she didn’t hide in the corner, and she didn’t run off before they could chat. He’d seen her, anyway, and knowing him, would just track her down if she’d tried to flee. She was tempted to, though, when he sang the last song of his set.

“I dreamed you; I saw your face. Caught my lifeline when drifting through space.

I saw an angel; I saw my faith. I can only thank God it was not too late.”

His eyes drifted to her more than once and she could feel her cheeks burning red. Add that to the list of firsts on this whirlwind trip: first time someone sang a song to her. And, of course, it was something super deep and heartfelt and she wasn’t tearing up, not at all, because how did this random friendship with a guy she’s barely spent 24 total hours with become so damn important?

“Now I'm walking this street on my own. But she's with me everywhere I go.

Yeah, I found an angel; I found my place. I can only thank God it was not too late.”

“How’d I do?” he asked seriously, once he was packed away and they were settled into plush chairs and fresh drinks. His sincerity took her by surprise—this was the guy who’d headlined some pretty major venues (including the Viper Room), and he was concerned over his performance in a coffee shop?

“You were fantastic; why would you be anything else?”

He blushed and ducked his head down in that sweetly embarrassed move she’d seen so many times. “I’m just getting back into it. Couldn’t while I was in rehab, and just...didn’t want to once I got here.”

“How could you not? It’s such a huge part of your life.”

He shrugged. “It was also a reminder of everything I’d lost.”

She knew that all too well, and couldn’t really blame him. That was why she’d been so transient in the last decade, and why she never got too close to people. They always left and let her down. Save for Killian, she supposed, despite his erratic presence in her life.

“So what have you been doing?” she asked. It was easy to fill a life with working and moving, like she did; it was hard for her to imagine what someone did staying in one place for as long as he’d been here.

“Helping Liam with his business—he runs the marina. Done a lot of sailing, a lot of reading. And I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

“Good.”

“Aye,” he agreed, nodding. “It’s been good, but it wasn’t quite...fulfilling, I guess would be the right word. So both Liam and my doc both encouraged me to pick up playing again, to see if that would help.”

“And?”

“So far, so good,” he concluded with a smile. “I was denying myself my own happiness by avoiding it, despite all the bad memories.”

“Even though you got your heart broken?”

“If it can be broken, that means it still works.”

His revelation hit her like a sword in the gut. Again, she started rubbing her tattoo, thinking of that far-off dream she’d once had. Had she been denying herself the chance at it?

Was she too scared of getting hurt again to go after her happy ending? Was it even worth it?

Or, more accurately, was it worth it not to?

“Swan?” His worried voice made her realize she’d zoned out, and the furrow in his brow when she looked up was a bit more concern than she could handle in the wake of massive personal epiphany.

“I...I’ve gotta go, Killian, I’m sorry,” she sputtered as she stood. “I’ll call you, or find you, or something,” she added on, babbling. “Just...I need to...go.”

She didn’t turn around to see the fallen, distressed look on his face; she just went. She needed to think. Her trusty yellow Bug was waiting outside and she just drove for a while, finally stopping at a scenic overlook with a panoramic view of the harbor. She didn’t even leave her car; the sight was impressive enough from where she was seated. And she let Killian’s words sink in.

She’d once dreamed of a life where she’d feel happy and secure. Not one where she’d want for nothing—just one where she had what she needed. And maybe even one where someone chose her.

But life had thus far proven that it was just a dream and she was better on her own, scraping by and making do. Had she just gotten so used to it that it was her norm? Or was she scared that by opening herself to that possibility of a happy life again, she’d inevitably get her ass kicked by the world and would never recover?

The last time she’d seen Killian, he was utterly defeated. Thankfully, she’d never gotten that low, but he managed to overcome it. He had hope—she could see it shining in those blue eyes. If he could do it, why couldn’t she?

The sun slowly fell and it grew dark around her as she sat with her thoughts. An ancient streetlight eventually flickered to life above her, rousing her from her thought-filled trance, and she knew what she had to do.

Because there was one person who had never left her. One who always had faith in her and understood her. And if she was going to go after that mythical happy ending, she wanted him at her side.

The next day found her at the coffee shop yet again. She was a bit late after having breakfast with Henry, but she arrived just in time for the last couple songs of Killian’s set.

“Had to find some higher ground. Had some fear to get around.”

There he was again, reading her like a book. She’d wonder how he did that, but again—they just got each other. And she was ready to turn to the next page.

“Square one, my slate is clear. Rest your head on me my dear. It took a world of trouble, took a world of tears—it took a long time to get back here.”

Once he was packed up, he cautiously approached her. “You alright, love?”

“Will you go out with me?”

If her straightforwardness caught her by surprise, it nearly knocked him off his feet. He practically fell in the chair next to her. “Beg your pardon?”

“Go out with me. On a date.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking?”

“Don’t tell me you’re that old-fashioned, Jones.”

He chuckled. “I heartily accept, Swan.”

The date was perfect: good food, good wine, and a stroll under the stars—so many more in Storybooke than Boston, and the nerd pointed out some of the constellations to her.

The gentle kiss outside her rented room was even better. There was none of the awkwardness of Nashville, or the altered inhibitions. It just felt good and right and somehow perfect, like she’d been waiting for it forever, but hadn’t been ready yet.

She got a job in Storybrooke. She grew closer with Henry. She made more friends in town—Mary Margaret, the teacher; David, the vet; Belle, the librarian (and Liam’s wife). Once she gave in, once she let herself go after it, her happy ending settled around her—or maybe she was the one who settled into it.

Whichever it was didn’t matter; it was hers and it was real and she was never letting it go.

The cool wind whipped against her face from where she stood on the prow of the boat, but Killian’s strong arms held her close and kept her warm, and she leaned into his solid, sure presence that hadn’t wavered...well, ever, even when they were apart. His sweet voice sang in her ear and she knew—she finally had made it.

“You belong among the wildflowers.

You belong in a boat out at sea.

You belong with your love on your arm.

You belong somewhere you feel free.”

If you’d like to hear all the songs referenced in this, check out this playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AldoDm2bV04&list=PL7YAlVeSin3Kq_1xtetAI0rovPvp-6Wdk

tagging some others who might enjoy this: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @its-like-a-story-of-love @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @fairytalesandtimetravel @disastergirl @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @jscoutfinch @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose

[ouathinktank-metacommentary]

Alright, due to general interest...

Almost two months later–we’ve been doing great, thank you for all your (overwhelming) inquiry. The life without the bottomless pit of crap that’s OUaT, as well as its cesspool of a fandom–can do wonders for your complexion. Ulcers, too. Watching actual good TV and doing actual real-life activism that does make difference, you know? So while we’re grateful for your concern, this is now a response to ALL of you who messaged us (or other people you thought were our ‘friends’ and ‘in the know’) wondering–why we chose to do this. The (long) answer would be–we were simply NOT interested in any more in…

1. New OUaT storylines, because we were there for the old ones–on which they shat on, at every turn. So, this reset/restart? Sheer desperation. Starting from the ”very special new gay character” (this time allegedly not the one to be quickly and happily swept under the rug after their cringeworthy five minutes of pointless tokenism? Wow. Groundbreaking!). All based solely on actors’ fanbase rather than characters and/or good storytelling, so the best one can expect plot-wise is just fanservice--more curses, more info dump, fast-paced shallowness and of course–retcons. Of retcons.

2. New characters/actors, because if five out of their six seasons gave us nothing more than inconsistent drivel where they broke about eleventy thousand rules of decent (see: something audience with an ounce of intelligence can watch) writing, the best one can expect character-wise is… well, what you got so far–inconsistent crap, serving just for one thing–to Mary/Marty Sue. Both on behalf of Kitsowitz as well as dimwits buying it.

3. Any new ‘modern fairytale’ they can try and sell as such, because no–we are NOT the audience for these hacks. Their target are the dim, superficial, limited and conservative (see: bigoted, racist, homophobic and misogynist) or just dumb Tweens and Twimoms.

4. New shit based on old tried and tested shit, when even bad promotion is good promotion. Shameful public behaviour from people like Aguilerra, YNB and Shatner fueling more fandom toxicity, and Kitsovitz of course kissing their collective arse despite them bullying/doxxing their fans (people who actually buy their product) because–free promotion.

5. Meta rehash – because for about four years now there hasn’t been anything out there that hasn’t been chewed up and digested, ad nauseam.

(and yes, again: not everything analytical/speculative is a meta, read up)

6. Systemic issues/intersectionality/ discussions–because as shown consistently (which yay, they DO know what ‘consistency’ is–after all?) during the past five years they simply DGaF. And besides, after all these years, please don’t tell me you still expect any decency from them in terms of acknowledgement, treatment or, godforbid–representation?

7. Either critical or hopeful, negative or positive theorizing and analyses, because–see #1, #2, #5, and #6.

8. The “other camp’s" aggressive bigotry and homophobia. Us wanting the story about two mothers sharing a son is about normalcy, about equality. Not our self-insertion because of ‘gay privilege’. Privilege would be gay people not having to pay taxes. You know, kinda like their churches don’t?

9. General idiocy of our part of the fandom, such as... “yeah, I used to ship Swan Queen, but Emma sucks anyway (and also it’s all JMo’s fault because she’s closeted and a homophobe while Lana is a faultless demi-goddess!) but I’m here just for Lana and hey, I did spit at their token lesbians because representation FTW but still, GIVE REGINA A FEMALE LI THIS SEASON!!I!” *rolls eyes* It’s okay when you’re a young queer person just starting to learn and gain their footing, but when you’re a 30+ yo? Not sure what’s more cringeworthy and sad, hypocrisy or actor idolatry.

10. General fandom bile in the same corner again, because we don’t know about you–but we here are done with the aggressive, ego-maniacal, self-centred and attention-seeking. Which unfortunately won, if you’ll just look at hat kind of individuals (quasi intellectuals who gain credibility and 'bnf' status by waving around either their academic credentials or industry insight connections, drowning the sheep in condescension--and them buying it nonetheless) you accepted as your fandom leaders, gatekeepers and authorities on all things Regina Mills and Swan Queen. Telling you what to think, what to say and how to behave? *rolls eyes* Fandom is supposed to be a FUN experience, not substitute for therapy.

11. Fandom gossip – general badmouthing, hearsay and other petty crap of such nature. Tumblr community, even one surrounding character larger than life such as Regina Mills, or the one supporting the beautiful idea of a modern fairy-tale about two mothers sharing a son (which should, by the by--be normal, not ‘progressive’ anyways?) should NOT be a microcosm of everyday human pettiness.

12. Anonymous hate in our inbox. Blaming us either for being too critical about everything, or not being critical enough (based on your own fandom ‘allegiances’) and being “a sellout, abandoning the critical/meta fraction when it was in a desperate need of level-headedness and reason”. You realise that it's not US you're angry with, right?

13. Last but not least, if you’re out ‘chaplain Anon’ with delusions of being a protector of naive, manipulated masses–whilst in all actuality being a highly-disassociative, obsessive stalker and a sociopath (in total, you’ve sent about how many, two hundred messages–about ten only last week?) I sincerely hope you’ll seek help. Professional. And then find a new hobby. Perhaps start training for a triathlon? It's great for general fitness as well as heavy neuroses, I hear.

(If you recognise self in any of the listed in #12 and #13, then you can fuck right off. In a wide circle.)

I sincerely hope that all these offer answers to ALL of the questions you’ve been sending us in the meantime. We’re grateful for all your concern, so the purpose of this update was to tell you that yes--while we ARE on an official hiatus, we did say that we’d be around. And we are, which a lot of you PM-ing us, know. We’re still here for you, and we still enjoy talking about all the great, positive things that this show and this fandom gave us. But... *drumrolll* ...

Anonymous posting will be switched OFF, as of this point.

We see no point in it anymore. Honestly, we never did because all civilized discussions and discourse we tried to encourage here--were supposed to be something you could and should have been proud to stand behind, without the greyface and shades. So if you’re going to send us a message and NOT stand behind it, then–it shouldn’t be considered worth reading, at all?

And yes. In the meantime, our decision remains the same. We‘ll be around, in other ways than doing what we used to. This is not a dramatic exit, just... a break, if you will. So if we happen to blink and miss something good happening, either in the ‘new’ show, or the fandom–please feel free to ping us.

Until then…

Your friendly neighbourhood ThinkTankers.

All four of us.

[supernovabucky]

Unknown King - part VIII

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Great Gatsby AU

Summary: After moving to New York, aspiring author Y/N gets more than what she bargained for when she befriends her mysterious neighbor. In a blur of riches and beauty, she finds herself falling for the man who remains unknown.

A/N: It’s been like what? 2 weeks? I am so so sorry! I’ve been really busy with work and school but here it is part 8!

Word count: 1.7 +

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Masterlist

You stood in front of the giant mirror on an elevated platform in your closet. You adjusted the skirt on your two piece dress. The black maxi skirt ended just above your toes, it's split thigh exposed your leg. The top was also black, it was sleeveless and had a plunging v-neck bodice, the rest was sheer.  The two-piece exposed a small portion of your stomach. Shea had picked out a gold armband to go with the dress. She handed you a pair of black lace-up heels. You slipped them and nodded in approval at your appearance.

This would be your fourth date with Bucky. So far you've been to three different restaurants and in each one, Bucky has done something unexpected. He went out to a business meeting early in the day and he hasn't arrived yet. Shea had reassured you that he'll arrive soon enough and encouraged you to get ready. Now you were all dolled up and no Bucky. You checked your phone for any signs of calls, text messages or voicemail, but your notifications were dry. You frowned.

"I was informed that Mister Barnes would meet you at the restaurant," Shea said.

You turned and stepped off the platform, "Then I should get going."

She nodded, "Trevor has been assigned to drive and assist you in any matter necessary. He will also serve as your protection."

You nodded meekly, already feeling like this was gonna be a terrible night.

Trevor opened the door for you. You thanked him and stared in awe at the restaurant. The sun was just beginning to go down, casting a golden hue on the reflective glass.

"I'll be a phone call away if you need me, Miss Y/N," Trevor said.

You nodded and walked up to the hostess who smiled at you. You forced a smile onto your face, "Barnes, table for 2."

"Follow me," She turned and led you to a lonely table at the edge of the restaurant. It was secluded from the other tables. "Will they be accompanying you later on?"

"Yes," You replied and sat down. "I hope." You mumbled the last words under your breath.

She nodded, "Would you like something to get you started?"

"Glass of water," You said.

She left you at the table, you checked your phone once again. No new messages. You huffed and attempted to fill your head with happy thoughts. He'll be here, you told yourself, he'd never miss out on a date. And even if he wasn't going to come, he'd shoot you a text. Bucky isn't the type of stand you up. Right?

After a few minutes, a waiter came back with your glass of water. He gave you a kind smile and asked if you wanted to order your food, you told him you'd wait until Bucky arrived. He nodded and left to attend another table. You picked up your phone and decided to text him.

You: Where are you? I'm at the restaurant

Delivered

You continued to stare at your screen, expecting him to immediately start typing. Instead, you started nervously drinking the water and in no time you found yourself reaching the bottom. You called the waiter over.

"Can I get a martini with extra alcohol and extra olives," You said.

He wrote down the order in his notepad and scurried away. You leaned back and felt like people were staring at you. You shuddered and looked around the restaurant. It was dimly lit. Its main colors were red and gold, bathing the room in a royal elegance. You looked out the window, pedestrians were walking by or trying to hail a cab. You turned away when the waiter came back with your drink. You thanked him and immediately began sipping on the edge of the glass.

Forty minutes passed and you were still alone. You had already guzzled down two drinks. Both were packed with alcohol. You sent him another message. In total there were three others that you had sent.

You: I can see that you're not coming, I'm leaving. See you tomorrow morning, if you're even there.

You knew you probably shouldn't have been that harsh but damn! He didn't even bother to say he wouldn't make it. He stood you up and you were disappointed, upset, bitter and a bit dizzy. The hostess came around, she gave you sympathetic smile and you returned a sheepish one.

"I think I'm done," You muttered. "can I get the tab?"

"It's already paid for," She said.

"By who?" You asked.

"A gentleman right over there," She pointed to a sharply dressed man who flashed you a grin when your eyes met. You turned back to the hostess and thanked her for the service. She told you that your two-piece was beautiful. You messaged Trevor to bring the car around. Just as you did, you received a message from the devil of the hour.

Bucky: doll, I'm so sorry, I wasn't able to make it to the restaurant, I'll make it up, I promise.

You left him on read. It was probably petty as hell but you were bitter and it was okay to be a bit petty. You felt humiliated as you walked through the restaurant, feeling like everyone's eyes were on you. You reached the door of the restaurant when the man who paid for your tab opened it for you.

"I'll get that," He smiled. "What's a girl as beautiful as you doing out alone?"

"Leaving," You said and walked past him, not having time for this flirty bull.

"Would you like to get some drinks one of these days?" He asked.

"I'm seeing someone," You replied.

"But you got stood up, right?"

You turned to him, "Yeah, and?"

He shrugged, "Just think you deserve better."

Trevor got out of the car and escorted you towards it. A smilies head of blonde hair made your head snap in that direction.

"Y/N?" It was Emma. She looked as shocked as you. Her eyes skimmed your figure. You turned and got into the car. Trevor closed the door and quickly drove away from the curve.

You lay in bed for a good hour before rolling off the bed. Your skirt was replaced by a pair sweats but you didn't bother changing out of the top. You went into the bathroom to freshen up. Last night Bucky came home at around 2 in the morning. You knew this because you told Shea to not let him in your room no matter what. Bucky wanted to go in and see you but Shea said you were resting. She knew that was a lie, you weren't asleep. You just didn't want to see him in that moment. You met up with Shea at the bottom of the stairs.

"How did you sleep?" She asked.

"Okay," You mumbled. "You?"

"I slept well, thank you," She replied.

Shea followed you outside where the doors opened up to one of the palace's patios. It overlooked a beautiful fountain and gave a view of the lake that was just in front of the house. You sat on one of the chairs, your hands rested on the glass table. The sun hit your skin, you closed your eyes and took in the heat.

"Good morning, Mister Barnes," Shea said.

You opened your eyes and raised an eyebrow at Bucky's figure. His hair was disheveled and it looked like he didn't sleep all night. He cleared his throat, his eyes never left yours.

"May I speak to Y/N alone?" He told Shea.

She looked at you. Bucky looked a bit agitated that he no longer had a say in what Shea did. She was your handmaid but you saw her as a friend rather than a maid.

"It's okay, Shea," You told her and closed your eyes once again.

You listened carefully as Bucky sat down on the chair opposite of you. You breathed in and exhaled, meditating quietly to yourself. Bucky cleared his throat once again and began talking.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry," He began. "I wish I could've called you but the meeting ran longer than expected. We just had to go over some plans in Chicago, I didn't think we'd take too long."

"It's fine, James," You said. "I understand." He winced. You almost never called him James. Only Bucky.

He reached out and took your hand, "Let me make it up to you." You looked at him. "Have you ever been to Los Angeles?"

You looked out of the plane window of Bucky's private jet. This was your first time in California. It looked amazing from the sky. Bucky had told you to pack a bag for a week and you did. You were excited to travel. Your first big trip was your move from home to New York.

After the jet landed Bucky escorted you onto solid ground. You were a bit taken aback by the humid, very sticky heat. It didn't feel good and you were beginning to regret wearing a black shirt. You practically attracted the heat. Two black SUV Cadillacs were already waiting. Four men stood guard. One stepped forward.

"Welcome back, Mister Barnes," He said.

"Good to be back, Eric" Bucky replied. "This is Y/N, my beautiful girlfriend."

You smiled and shook hands with him, "Nice to meet you."

The car door was opened ad you climbed inside, Bucky followed. The car door was closed and Eric got into the driver's seat and turned on the ignition.

"Where to, boss?" He asked.

"The house," Bucky replied.

You shouldn't have been surprised when the SUV rolled into the driveway of Bucky's luxurious Hollywood home. It was something straight out of the movies. It wasn't as big as his palace on West Egg, but it was equally extravagant. You gawked at the house the towered over you. The architecture was almost ancient. It had tall columns and a roof that seemed to resemble the Athena Parthenos.

"It's grand!" You exclaimed as you stepped out of the car.

"It's one of the first houses I ever bought," He replied.

You turned and had a breathtaking view of the city. The skyscrapers all seemed bunched together in one area. You've never been to California. The air smelled of smoke and humidity but it looked beautiful from up here. From the view of wealth.

"Will I get a tour?" You asked.

Bucky smiled at you, "I'll give you a better tour. C'mon, time for me to make up last night's event."

Tags: @i-want-to-fuck-that-dorito-man @jade-cheshire@caitsymichelle13@brooklynnewsie1899@brooklynnewsie1899 @nebulaeofpie @fave-fan-fic @avengerswitch @barnes-and-noble-girl @5-seconds-of-sebastian-stan @sheerio-styles@fearthedietcoke @lost-to-my-mind @buckys-other-punk @secrets-rain @theriumking@faithful-music@myhighanddry-blog @amrita31199 @nadialinett14@heismyhunter@marvelgoateecollection@imgettingmarriedtobuckybarnes @heyitsannexcx @crazy-attack@akaganhan @star-arm-and-shield @sebstan01@kcsavege4134 @t0ny-st4nk@virtualenemygalaxy@blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @seargantbcky@heytherepartner@falling-buxky @aweways @elisaramirez14 @xxhushaaxx @bucknastywinterbear @bucky–b4rnes @oopsmybagofplums@crazychick010 @rapunzxl @fangirl1029  @shannonfayee@sammiplier1 @slut-for-barnes @brooklhyn@multiple-fandomimagines @multiple-fandomimagines@annehansen1012@winter-in-wakanda @heaven-bound-angel@thesherlockblr @therealme13posts @im-a-wretched-human-being  @queenof-wakanda @njavezan @bvckys-bvtt@bvckys-doll@themermaidpirate @wolfseekerr @marvel-fanfiction@jimmysneutrons @payt-missj-n-loki@mllx-anazra@anbrax5553 @apeshit7x @edward-lover18 @disgustingpatdstan@theofficialsamantha @joyfullychiefmagazine-68866574 @hollycornish@accidentally-in-hell @kendallefire@hopelesslywaitingforfood @goodniight-my-sunshine @iamwarrenspeace

[brckenrecord-blog]

Sorry To My Unknown Lover

Eva wondered how she got in this situation, with her crazy hair from being basically bed ridden for a week, with her old girl squad huddled around her, whispering their own encouraging thoughts. She wondered how she got into a place to have them all so concerned, with Noora’s sad eyes, Vilde’s worried smile, Chris B.’s nervous laughter and Sana’s motherly arms wrapped around her. In reality, the answer was quite simple: Jonas Noah Vasquez.

Three years, two weeks, and four days ago Eva had made the worst possible mistake of her life: she said yes to Jonas Noah Vasquez for the second time in her life. Perhaps it was because the boy she’d finally decided to give a chance had gone off and did his usual thing. The words once a fuckboy always a fuckboy had whispered throughout her brain that day, and then somewhere along the lines she had found herself falling back into Jonas’ arms. Somehow she found herself locking herself into this cycle once again.

It wasn’t that Eva hadn’t been happy for Chris. She had been. She was. She was glad he could finally be happy, and apparently he was happy when he was doing typical fuckboy things - like hooking up with someone who was not the girl who invited him to a party. And he didn’t even need alcohol in his system to do it, there were no excuses to hide it.

But she did not blame Christoffer Schistad. Not now, and not then, because for a while things had been good between her and Jonas. Things had been running smooth, and she had been happy. Genuinely, purely, happy.

And then on September 19th 2018 she got something in the mail. An invite to a wedding. Christoffer Schistad and Emma Larsen’s wedding, to be exact. She didn’t reply. Didn’t tell Jonas. She threw it away, and disregarded it ever existed. Penetrator Chris getting married? As if.

And something changed that day, she figured. Something desperately changed, in her, she guessed. Because it had to be her fault, nothing would’ve changed Jonas like that other than her behavior. Suddenly he was gripping her hip too tight while they were out with friends, mocking her and putting her in corners, abandoning her feelings as if they hadn’t existed.

Three years, one week, and two days ago Noora Saeter, the worlds bestest fucking friend ever, had sat her down and told her what she needed to hear: first, Jonas had isolated her from them. Eva knew that was true: she hadn’t seen Vilde or Sana or Chris B. in a year. She’d been excusing it as them living too far away and her being busy with her own life. Secondly, Eva had reverted to valuing Jonas’ opinions more than her own. That, Eva did not know. Up until then she had been sure she was still confident, still sure of herself. But Noora had told her how often she just sat there and let Jonas have the wheel in conversations. And thirdly, what was probably the most painful: Jonas attended Christoffer and Emma’s wedding, to apparently give them both a fantastic wedding present.

Christoffers mother walked in on Jonas and Emma fucking before the ceremony.

Eva knew that Christoffer and Emma never got married. She didn’t know what happened exactly. Just that there was a fall out last minute, a major one, as Chris had went radio silent on all of his social media and deleted everything with her in it. It took three months before he posted again, and Eva had kept up ever since ; especially thankful for the videos he posted of his dancing, because she was glad to see he was no longer hiding the talent she knew he had. Even if he hadn’t pursued it as a career after.

However, the idea that Jonas had been the reason, hurt her. It wasn’t even just that he cheated, but who it was with. He could’ve chosen any other girl, any other about to be married woman. But it had to be Emma Larsen. It had to be Christoffer Schistad’s soon-to-be-wife. For some reason that hurt the most. Had it been a one last fuck you to Chris, or a fuck you to her? Perhaps both.

So she had called it off with Jonas, and took up residence in Noora and William’s guest room. William had gone to her and Jonas’ apartment a few days later to get her stuff after an argument with Eva about her going: neither he or Noora wanted her to go around Jonas for awhile. Probably because they knew Eva was weak right now, and would fall for his little I love you’s all too easy, and she’d be back in the cycle.

But the blow hit harder than she thought, and Eva had been bedridden since that. She’d showered twice, had a bath where she cried quite a bit until Noora had to come rushing in to hold her.

William promised to never tell anyone that he’d seen what he had.

And when she wasn’t doing that, she laid in bed. Wrapped tight in a ball staring at the oh so white walls, questions pounding off her brain, regret tickling her skin. It kept her awake. She only slept when she cried herself into exhaustion.

She wondered that perhaps, if she had been a better girlfriend, or a better girl in general, that Jonas wouldn’t have felt the need to go sleep with Emma on their wedding day. She figured if she had done something different in their time together, that such a disaster such as the wedding, would have been avoided. Or hell, if she had not been so jealous or petty or shocked, she could’ve gone to the wedding too, and kept Jonas in line, at least that way, she could’ve spared Chris the heartbreak.

Because she thought about him more than Jonas. Because she knew he had been so hurt by the fact that she thought he had still been a fuckboy while he tried to woo her. Because she knew that had to bug him as he carried on his relationship with Emma, because people still called him a cheating fuckboy. She’d even uttered the words ‘once a fuckboy always a fuckboy’ under her breath when she’d gotten the invite - out of surprise or jealousy, she wasn’t sure. She swore, at the time, she thought she wanted them to be happy. But Chris did so much to try to prove that wrong, he was not a fuckboy anymore, he hadn’t been for awhile now, and maybe the marriage would’ve been the final step in proving it: but either way it worked. He was no longer the cheating fuckboy, no longer the villain in the perfect couples story - but the victim. Because Emma was the cheating fuckgirl, the villain. The bad guy.

She also thought she could’ve spared him that if she had just given him a chance. She would’ve spared them both, had she believed that someone as beautiful as him - someone in general was incapable of loving her in such a way they wanted to change themselves for the better. Had she said yes that day where they were rolling around in her bed, or agreed over the texts, or when he showed up at her door with a bouquet of beautiful lilies. And maybe that was cringe worthy back then, but no one had ever done that for Eva. She’d never been given flowers before in her life.

Lilies were her favourite.

But if she had just agreed. If she hadn’t been so god damn scared, she wouldn’t be here, and Chris wouldn’t have hurt for so long. Maybe they wouldn’t have worked out, because she understood that they didn’t have that moment that made things different, because she understood they were from different words, understood that it was silly to believe it was possibly, but things would’ve been better in the long run.

She did not blame Christoffer Schistad, not for what happened to her, not for what happened to him. She blamed herself.

And sometimes, she swore she heard his voice. She heard lots of voices while she was held up in her room. She heard Noora and William, Eskild and Linn. That beautiful laugh that, when she had been younger, made her soul dance.

And maybe it made it twitch now too.

But a week had been enough for Noora. And that’s how she got here, crying into Sana’s chest, a shaking rumbling mess. Noora had left to get her water, and when she came back in, through the crack in the door she caught a glimpse of what she thought was an angel.

A tall, dark haired, broad shouldered, boy with the wide smile, soul dancing laugh, angel.

And then the door closed, and it was left to her girls once again.

They did good to get her back on her feet, too, because she was at Noora and William’s engagement party a few days later. Red dress cascading over her body, long strawberry locks curled around her shoulders with a glass of wine in her hands, laughing with Sana and Chris B. Now, now she felt herself again, and for the first time in years, she felt happy.

But Eva hadn’t been drinking the last few years. So she was admittedly a bit of a lightweight now. Since it was a house party, Eva had wandered back to her room. It was dark, silent. Eva was too drunk to care for lights since she was going to get in bed anyway. So she kicked her heels off, tip toed the rest of the way to the bed and threw herself down on it.

She didn’t expect to land on a firm chest, or the grunt that escaped said body beneath her. So she scrambled to turn on the lights, one hand clutching her chest as she stared wide eyed at the bed. There on the bed was Christoffer Schistad, looking a little more disheveled in a grey button up that was unbuttoned one too many buttons, and dark slacks. Messy hair and bursting with laughter.

She felt her soul shift and flutter in her chest. She swore it was just like before.

“What.. Ahm..” She rubbed the hand that had been on her chest up to her neck, through her hair. “What are you doing in my bed?”

If this had been three years ago, she knew he’d giggle at her. Send her one of those ‘I’m about to fuck you into next week’ smirks, and reply with some cocky comeback that would eventually lure her into bed with him. But Chris had changed. She had changed. And she was too drunk to stand up. So she wound up sliding down the wall.

Chris was on his feet in a matter of seconds, crouched before her, and god.. He looked so pretty. So beautiful, breath taking. Sixteen year old Eva thought Penetrator Chris was the most gorgeous boy in Nissen. Eighteen year old Eva thought Penetrator Chris was the most gorgeous boy in Oslo, twenty one year old Eva thought, currently, that Christoffer Schistad was the most beautiful boy in the world. She was sure of it.

But she was also drunk, and sober Eva, from somewhere in the back of her booze filled mind, reminded her that it was probably the beer goggles, and the wine.

“I have work in the morning. William said I could crash here for the night..” Chris had laughed quietly, soft smile settled on his lips.

Drunk Eva wanted to kiss him. Sober Eva reminded herself that they were no longer teenagers wrapped up in the ecstasy of lust.

“Ah… This is… This is my room.” Eva repeated weakly as she sat there, back pressed against the wall with this angel faced boy crouched in front of her. He laughed, again, and somehow Eva connected it to the way Jonas laughed at her. It wasn’t the same. She felt light when Chris laughed.

“Yeah, this is your room. Right, well.. Let’s get you in bed then I’ll go grab William and Noora’s room, yeah?” Christoffer had grown up, sober Eva noted, even if she wouldn’t remember it in the morning. Because Penetrator Chris would’ve made some coy joke about sharing a bed not being so bad..

She didn’t know what to say, though. So she just threw some goofy lopsided smile back at him and nodded her head, and before she knew what she was doing, she was tossing her arms around his neck, and his strong arms were scooping her off the ground. The moment she was in the bed, she was out cold. And she had unfortunately, not separated from Chris.

She thought he’d left, so one could imagine her surprise when she woke up to find him sleeping, on top of the covers, next to her, facing her.

At first, she wanted to shove him, accuse him of some coy game that he would’ve played when he was younger. When he wasn’t Christoffer, but Penetrator Chris. But then she looked at him. Really looked at him, and it felt like time stopped.

For the first time ever, Eva saw him for who he was. A man who had gone through a lot of shit, who had put up with being called a cheating fuckboy even when he was being faithful. Who had been degraded and looked down on while he was climbing to the top. A boy who, maybe hadn’t loved her, but once cared enough to want to change his ways for her. She saw the one person who had been consistent in her life. Even when they weren’t involved, they were. They liked each others posts, commented happy birthdays when it was needed. He had, unknowingly, been the only thing in Eva’s life that had not shifted. And he’d been the one person to build her up, always build her up. The only one remotely romantically build her, anyway.

Eva had never seen someone like this before. He looked so peaceful, unlike the Chris she knew, who was always a chaotic storm of charisma and jokes, who was a plethora of flirty smiles and wandering eyes. Who was stoic even in his caring situations. This was literally the calm before the storm, she decided. Seeing him vulnerable like this.

It wasn’t like this was the first time she woke up next to him, but now she noticed how he always draped his arm across her torso, how he slept with parted lips but didn’t snore. The way his nose twitched a little and sometimes he made little humming noises that sounded too familiar to his pouty whines.

Her fingers slowly reached out, feather light touches tracing up his jaw, until she could lightly trace her thumb over his eyebrow. Once, twice…

And he stirred.

His eyes opened and she recognized confusion, then delight. His lips curled back over his teeth, letting out a little chuckle. “Good morning, Eva.” He mumbled, eyebrows raising. Oh god, how he said her name.

Her hand stilled, her life stilled, and she felt her soul dance behind her chest, her heart ram against her ribs. Breathless, a loss for words, motionless in the moment, she just watched him, listened to his continuous laughter.

“Sorry,” she finally got out, and it meant so much more than he knew. A sorry for not saying yes back then, a sorry for being a shitty enough girlfriend that her ex had to go ruin his wedding, a sorry for suddenly, after three years, two weeks, and eight days, Eva Kviig Mohn had finally had her moment with him.

After three years, two weeks, and eight god damn days, Eva was suddenly in love with Christoffer Schistad.

And she knew she was royally fucked because of it.

[allyourdarlingswans]

the fourth overture - chapter iv: and fell in love

chapters - i: we were just children | ii: learning to grown up | iii: when we found each other through music | iv: and fell in love

MASTERLIST

*another beautiful aesthetic from @hopeandbeans

part a

The bell chimed brokenly as Emma walked into the Fourth Overture. Emma had been skeptical about the shop, its storefront displayed a broken violin and other equally worn instruments and it boosted even less foot traffic than Mr. Gold's pawnshop. But it was the only music store in town and she wanted to encourage Henry’s sudden interest in joining an after school music program. According to Mary Margaret, Henry had never participated in a group activity with children his own age. Emma didn’t want Henry’s childhood to be an echo of hers - lonely, without sound, without hope, without love.

Emma was determined to help Henry regain his childhood. She wanted him to have friends and interests and not be so wrapped up in curses and fantasies. Though she had never been inclined to music herself, she felt that this was exactly what Henry needed.

However, the inside of the shop was even less inspiring than the outside. There was dust everywhere, layers of it on the instruments but also, in the air, seemingly floating about aimlessly in some half-life.

"It's like fucking Phantom of the Opera," Emma muttered under her breath.

"Can I help you?"

Emma spun around, hand on her holster. "Anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on a cop?" she scowled before she even got a proper look at the offender.

"You must be the new deputy," the man replied mildly as he took a step into a stray ray of weak light. "I'm the owner of this...place," he said as though he didn't know how else to describe his poor excuse for a shop.

Emma had instinctively taken a half step back and tightened her hold on her gun. She had expected someone small and sinister like Gold but the speaker looked just about as different from the other shop owner as possible.

He was tall, enough that she had to tilt her head back, even from her position several feet away. And handsome, even strikingly so, with a strong jaw and deep blue eyes. His eyes even reminded her of Henry's. They were nearly the same shade.

But what distinguished him from Gold and her son and damn near anyone else she had met in this weird little town was the deep air of melancholy surrounding him.

Emma found it hard to believe that anyone in Storybrooke was cursed. Magic aside, the denizens of Storybrooke didn't seem to be any different than anyone else in small town America. Their lives were small, petty and somewhat vacant. Sure, to some, such a life would be a curse but that hardly meant some malevolent element was the cause.

But this man, though real and solid before her and present like any other citizen of Storybrooke, looked haunted, weighed down in shadows, a phantom in his own life. Cursed.

She shook her head at such fanciful thoughts. She had been reading too much into Henry's fairytales. She lived in reality. And she was here to help Henry live in this reality.

"Yeah, that's me. Emma Swan. And you are?" she replied, holding her head up high.

The man held his hand out and she reached out to shake it. "James Hook," he said as their hands touched.

Emma felt a jolt unlike anything she ever felt before. It stunned her - it was both foreign and familiar, and she pulled back abruptly, still feeling her skin tingle where they touched.

"It must be the stupid name," she muttered to herself.

"Pardon?"

"Yeah, c'mon man, James Hook? Really? Isn't that too obvious?" She crossed her arms defensively.

James cocked his head to the side. "I don't know what you mean."

"James Hook? As in Captain Hook from J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan?" she raised her eyebrows at him.

He raised one back at her. "Oh, I didn't know that was his first name. It's not like I named me," he said with a shrug.

Emma blushed, a bit embarrassed, in the face of his nonchalance. Of course, James was a perfectly normal name and it wasn't like he got to decide what his first and surnames would be. And even if he did, why would he care about fairy tale parallels anyway?

"Look, I think I'm at the wrong place," she said, as she dropped her arms.

"So you didn't mean to come into a music store?" he asked slowly.

Emma scrunched her face at him. "Well, I..." She didn't know what to say about his shop without insulting him. "I'm just not sure this is the right kind of music store," she finally managed to offer.

"It's the only one in town."

Emma sighed. She knew that but she supposed she could go to Boston on her day off. It would mean Henry wouldn't have an instrument for a few days but she could probably get him something that wasn't...broken.

While Emma was thinking, it seemed James had determined the direction of her thoughts. He opened the door for her and gestured at the exit. In that movement, she saw that his left arm was abruptly truncated. And she somehow knew, without having to ask him, that he was a musician who lived in the shadows of dusty instruments he could no longer play.

And she couldn't walk out.

"What about the violin in the window? How much will you sell it for?"

part b

When Emma arrived at Storybrooke Elementary, she was alarmed to find Henry considering a bunch of large brass instruments - trumpets and tubas and other things she couldn't name. She groaned internally, chastising herself for not consulting Henry (though she had wanted it to be a surprise) and not thinking more like a ten year old boy.

She hadn't been thinking of much at all while James Hook had been restringing the violin with his one hand and teeth, to be honest.

She had tried to hide the violin behind her back when Henry spotted her. But she was relieved and quite pleased with herself when Henry cried out enthusiastically, "A violin! How did you know I wanted to play this?"

"Just a hunch, kid."

"Cool! The school doesn't have a REAL one," Henry said in the most judgmental tone she had ever heard him use. She had to admit, when he showed her the school's offering, it even looked like a toy fiddle to her.

It had only been about a week but Henry was now dragging the violin around with him everywhere he went.   He was naturally talented at it. Okay, he didn't know how to read music yet and all he really did was draw his bow across the strings but with nothing but instinct, it sounded like music to Emma's ears. They were now having an early dinner at Granny's where the other patrons were politely ignoring Henry's unguided playing.

There was some muted clapping when Henry finally put down his bow and it took a moment for Emma to realize it was James, clapping using his right hand and left forearm.

He looked even more handsome outside his dusty shop and viewed in proper lighting.

"Quite a natural talent, lad," he was saying.

"Thanks," Henry beamed. "But I don't really know what I'm doing."

"I'm certain you will be a quick study. Who is your instructor?"

"Mr. Coleman."

"The parcel delivery driver?" James asked skeptically.

"Yeah, that's him. I don't think he really knows that much about music. He says a job is a job. But he lets us jam," Henry rambled along.

"Jam?"

Emma tried hard not to laugh. James looked horrified at the idea of Henry just sitting around "jamming."

"The kids are having fun. That's the important part, right?"

"Right, right, of course," he said after a moment though his tone clearly indicated his doubt. "Well, if you would like any lessons, lad...well, your mother knows where my shop is."

"Really?" Henry held up his violin in request.

"Hey, kid, Mr. Hook" (as if that didn't sound really weird) "is here to have dinner, not work."

But Mr. Hook was already sliding into the seat next to Henry, not even acknowledging her attempt to give him an exit. He launched into an explanation of strings and frets and things that were beyond Emma's limited musical knowledge. She just sat back and watched. With their dark heads bent towards each other, Emma couldn't help but think what a tableau they made, like they were father and son.

part c

Ruby cornered her while she was exiting the bathroom. "I want to hear all about it."

"Hear all about what?" Emma asked, bewildered by the predatory look on the waitress' face.

"You and Hook, of course!"

Emma breathed in sharply, trying to calm the swooping sensation in her stomach at the mere mention of her and James. As though they were together. "There is nothing going on between me and Hook," she managed.

"What do you mean there's nothing? The man was a recluse for ten years until a couple of weeks ago! No one EVER saw him after the accident."

"What happened?"

"What do you mean what happened? He's here at the diner eating dinner with you nearly every night!"

"It's every other night," she corrected. "And it's the only payment he'll accept for giving Henry violin lessons. Now tell me about the accident. About his hand, right?"

Ruby sighed, seemingly accepting there was no juicy gossip about her and James. "He was a musical prodigy, you know. He was good at everything, but that concert grand piano he has in the back of his shop?"

Emma nodded. She remembered it. It dominated the room, it was so huge. It was the saddest thing in that shop until James stepped into the light.

"That was his forte. He was really going to be something, make it big in Boston. Had a scholarship and everything. He was supposed to leave the next week when someone T-boned his car, caused him to skid off the road and over an embankment. He lost his hand, his music, everything. His girlfriend even left him. And they never caught the guy."

Ruby shook her head, her eyes a bit wet from the memory.

"What about his family?"

"Never had one. He was an orphan," she sighed, throwing a rare grateful look at her grandmother at the counter. "Hey, Emma," Ruby said as she turned back. "He’s a good guy but a really sad story, so just be gentle. You might not think there's something but he might."

Emma walked back towards the diner feeling weighed down. Not because of Ruby's warning but what she now knew of James. Perhaps what she had always known about James. He was heavy with loss and sorrow. Like her. Abandoned and cursed. Like her.

Emma didn't remember anything about her past. She didn't remember her parents, she didn't know who the father of her son was. And she didn't want to know. When she was found, wandering about at eighteen by herself in Maine, pregnant, they suggested she try therapy to unearth her memories. But Emma was scared. Maybe her mind had suppressed those memories for a reason. Maybe her loss was too deep.

Maybe that's why she recognized the haunted lost look in James' eyes the moment they met. They were kindred spirits.

But when Emma turned the corner, she could see James smiling softly as he watched Henry play "Twinkle, twinkle little star". Emma felt her heart swell. Even after everything that had happened to him, he could still enjoy music. He was not entirely broken. Maybe she wasn't either.

Emma was so busy watching the two that she ran straight into Graham.

"Whoa there!" he said, holding her by her upper arms.

"Oh, sorry, Graham. I didn't see you there," Emma said distractedly as she tried to maneuver around her boss.

"Actually, I'm glad I ran into you. Literally."

"Oh no. You're not going to ask me to work another night shift, are you?" Emma whined. She didn't want to miss a free night with Henry and James.

"Actually, I was thinking we could both be on call tomorrow. It's not like there's much happening in Storybrooke other than Henry running away."

Emma frowned at Graham's flat joke. "Okay, whatever."

"Great! Then I'll pick you up for dinner tomorrow night," he said loudly, catching even James and Henry's attention from across the diner.

Before Emma could even respond, Graham was out the door.

part d

James had been acting odd. While his behavior around Henry remained unchanged, he had become more tense around her. At first, she couldn't even pinpoint exactly what made her feel that way. But then she realized James didn't try to draw her into conversations anymore and only offered one worded response to her questions. He didn't look her in the eye and he would often clench his jaw in her presence. Once she started cataloging the changes in his behavior, she could not stop. She even caught him turning around twice when he saw her without Henry.

It wasn't as though they were friends or anything. Why should it matter to her that he disliked her? She didn't care.

But of course she cared. She had never been drawn to someone as much as she was drawn to James. She had never met anyone she thought could understand her as much as he did. And she thought she knew why he was pulling away, because she was scared too.

"So why the Fourth Overture? Isn't that a bit much?"

"Pardon?" James jerked his head up at her question. He had been composing something on a napkin for Henry to try when Henry saw one of his after school friends and asked to say hi. Emma was pleased for Henry - he finally had friends his own age - but she also saw this as an opportunity to speak to James. When Henry had left the booth, James had scrunched down further in his corner and continued scratching at the napkin.

Emma got up and slid into James' side of the booth. His blue eyes widened in alarm.

"Four overtures just seems like a lot."

The alarm in James' eyes receded and his entire face brightened with interest as her comment registered with him. "You know something about music?"

Emma wanted to say yes but she couldn't lie to him. "No, no, not really, just something I read on Wikipedia about overtures being like beginnings?" she responded, flustered by her need to impress him but her inability to.

But James smiled softly at her. "It's wonderful that you've taken such an interest in your son's hobby."

Emma couldn't help but stare at him. There was something about James' smile that touched the edge of her consciousness. She wanted to reach out and trace the corners of his mouth. She had already starting leaning towards him when she heard her name being abruptly called.

She moaned in irritation. "What now, Graham?" she bit out as she turned to glare at the Sheriff over her shoulder. "Are you going to con your way into another dinner?"

Graham actually stepped back. "It was just a friendly dinner. I thought we could both use a break?" He put his hands up and tried a conciliatory smile.

Emma wasn't buying it. "You're right, I could. From the people I work with. I told you from the beginning I wasn't interested. How about respecting my wishes?"

"People change their minds."

Emma felt her temper flare. She balled her fists up to prevent herself from getting up and throwing a punch. Graham was still her boss after all. "Good to know you think I'm that inconstant."

"Look, Emma-"

"I think the lady has made her point, eh, mate?"

Emma swung her head back to James, surprised he would say anything. But it seemed to work because Graham mumbled a half apology and retreated to one of the bar stools.

Emma opened her mouth to say something but James beat her to it.

"Apologies, I know you are more than capable of handling yourself but it seemed our Sheriff wasn't actually listening to you."

Emma blinked in surprise. James practically stated her tag line. She was a strong independent woman, she had always done things alone, she didn't need back up, but she had to admit it was kind of nice to have it, so she said the only thing she could. "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome, lass." James scratched behind his ear. “I had thought the two of you were..." He gestured in the air between her and the Sheriff at the counter.

"What? No, no, definitely no," she shook her head emphatically. "Did you think..." Did he really think that she and Graham were a couple? Was that why he had been pulling away?

She leaned forward again to ask when Henry plopped down in her former seat across the booth. "Hey, what do you have for me?" he asked James, pulling the napkin over towards him.

"Just something I've been, uh, working on from time to time. To be honest, the music is always in my head."

"Cool! Like your own personal soundtrack?"

"Um, something like that," he shrugged but Emma could see the blush high on his cheeks and she could hear the tremble in his voice. This music was personal and meant a lot to him. And he was sharing it with Henry.

But Henry seemed oblivious to James' reaction and just positioned the violin on his shoulder and started playing.

Emma enjoyed music, she did, but she’d never had a particular interest in it. It was just something to distract her from time to time when she was on a long drive or on a stakeout. But as soon as Henry started to play, she felt something unlock within her, like a door inside her had opened to allow the sound to touch to her soul. She unconsciously grabbed James' hand to steady herself but that seemed to amplify the feeling even more. It was like transcendence, like everything that she had denied for so long, kept pushed away, was breaking out and she was achieving a new level of consciousness. She turned to James and saw him intently studying her and she knew that she knew this song and that she somehow knew him.

part e

"I have new pages in my book!" Henry cried as he came barreling into the sheriff's office.

Emma looked behind her shoulder to see if Graham's office door was closed. It was possible that Graham already knew about Henry's obsession with the book but she didn't want him to know that she was, well, not exactly encouraging Henry in his theories, but trying to get to the bottom of the mystery at least.

"Shhhh, kid, Operation Cobra is a secret, remember?"

"Right," Henry whispered back but she could tell he was practically bursting with excitement.

At that moment, Graham exited his office. "Hi, Graham!" Henry said extra loudly.

"Eh, hullo, Henry." He turned towards Emma but didn't quite meet her eyes. "Um, patrol time."

"Yep, bye Graham," she replied shortly.

"Poor Graham," Henry remarked once the station doors had swung shut.

"What?"

"The Evil Queen has his heart so I think she's been using him to drive a wedge between you and your prince charming," Henry said as he swung his storybook on to her desk. "He also likes you," he added almost as an afterthought.

Emma felt her heart beat faster. "Wait, I have a prince charming? You've never said anything before."

"Because I didn't know before. Didn't you just hear me? There are new pages in my book!" Henry said as he flipped open the cover and started turning the pages.

Emma unconsciously held her breath in anticipation. How could she really believe in the curse? In evil queens and fairytales? In a prince charming?None of it made any sense. But what about her feelings for James and her son with no known father but eyes like the sea and a natural talent for music?

"Here. This first page showed up the day after I played the song James composed. At first I thought maybe I had missed it before but then, this picture showed up after James gave me more lines." Henry pointed at an illustration of a young boy playing the violin near some docks. He looked strikingly like Henry with a dark mop of hair and blue eyes. Standing in front of him was a girl with yellow hair and a red dress. "There was no way I could've missed this before. This means the more James Hook remembers of this song, the more will be revealed."

Henry smiled triumphantly at Emma. "His name is Killian Jones, by the way."

Emma felt a jolt at hearing that name, as though she knew it even though she hadn't heard it before. "What's his story?"

"It doesn't say much about him so far. Just that he was an orphan, he had been sold into indentured servitude as a child, and he used to sing for the captain of the Walrus. And he was singing once and caught the attention of Her Royal Highness Princess Emma of Misthaven." Henry looked up at her. "That's you, remember?"

"What about this picture? With the violin?" Her voice trembled slightly as she asked. "What does it say about that?"

"That page hasn't shown up yet. But don't worry, I've got this."

"You do?" Emma watched as her son took a folded envelope out of his pocket and laid it flat on the desk. It was more lines of music, in James' writing.

"I stopped by the Fourth Overture and asked Mr. Hook to write more of that song. He remembered some of the words too this time," Henry explained before he turned to carefully take his violin and bow from his case.

Looking up from underneath

Fractured moonlight on the sea

Reflections still look the same to me

Emma listened to Henry play and the feeling of being overwhelmed struck her again. She wanted, needed, to hold James or Killian's or whoever he was, hand again. Instead, she turned the page and gasped when she saw, instead of the blank page that had been there before, a story that described how the princess followed Killian's song around in whatever medium it was presented.

After Henry had left for dinner with Regina, Emma continued to sit and stare at the storybook. Henry had mentioned other instances of magic but Emma never saw them before. He had explained because she never believed before.  

Did she really believe now or just want to? Want to fill in the gaps and have James be the one to fill in those lost moments of her youth? Emma shook her head. It was impossible. Because if what Henry had been saying about the curse was true, that time had stood still for ten years, that David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard were really her parents though they were only in their forties, then Killian would have been seventeen still. James Hook was clearly a man. She didn't have the heart to remind Henry of this age discrepancy, she could hardly admit it to herself that it just didn't work. Emma sighed, grabbed her keys and took a lonely drive through Storybrooke.

part e

"Look, Mom, he spent TEN years looking for you!" Henry nodded to her significantly and turned the book towards her.

"Uh, oh." Emma felt her stomach clench. She didn't see anything but a blank page. Because she didn't believe. No, she corrected herself harshly. It was because none of this was real. "Henry..." she began.

"He was in a different kingdom, beyond the curse, when it swept the land. That's how he lost his hand too! He turned to piracy as a means to find you. Which is a dangerous occupation, you know!" Henry continued on, excited. "Whoa, he IS Captain Hook then!"

Henry was interrupted when the door at Granny's swung open and the man himself walked in.

"Apologies for my tardiness," James said as he hurriedly approached their booth at Granny's. He had cancelled all of last week much to her disappointment and Henry's. But Henry had taken it in stride and said he would practice even more and impress James with how much he had improved. Emma had just smiled tightly and hoped that the music shop owner hadn't tired of them.

But he was here this week, as promised, though she noticed he looked pale and had dark circles under his eyes. He even rubbed his hand across his forehead as he sat down.

"Everything okay?" Emma frowned with concern.

"Just fine, love," he replied too quickly with a smile that looked more like a grimace. "A bit of a head cold perhaps," he added at her pointed look.

"Did you write any more of your song?" Henry asked.

"Henry!" Emma gently chastised.

But James just smiled apologetically. "Ah, sorry about that lad. I seem to have writer's block as of late."

Emma watched with greater concern as he rubbed his head again. She was loath to part with James but it looked like he should be resting. She hesitantly suggested it but he waved his hand at her. "No, no, I just need to hear Henry play. I think it would do me a world of good."

Henry beamed, happy to help out.

James had fallen asleep right there at the table. She wanted to take him to the hospital but he waved her off and she had a night shift to catch anyway. At that moment, she regretted being at odds with Graham. She was sitting here in the stupid station when she could be...well, what? Watch her son's tutor sleep off a head cold? Still, maybe she could check in at the end of her shift.

Before she could stop herself, she entered James Hook's name in the town's database. It appeared the Mayor kept quite the record of everyone in town. It was a bit too Big Brother for her but now she found it useful.

Name, James Hook. Address, 444 Main Street. So he lived above the Fourth Overture. Great, she could see him soon after she got off. She was about to turn back to her paperwork when her eye caught his age. Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven. How old Killian Jones would've been if he had lived outside the curse, like her. Twenty-seven. Just like Henry had said earlier that day. Ten years. Killian Jones looked for his princess for ten years, losing his hand in the process, losing his music.

The thoughts were running circles in in her head when the phone rang, startling her.

"Hello?"

"Uh, Deputy, this is Mr. Clarke...uh, you know from the, the pharmacy."

"Yes?"

"You know this is like a 24 hour..." A loud sneeze interrupted him. "A 24 hour kind of place..."

"Okay..."

"I was awake. I mean, I AM awake..." Another sneeze.

"Mr. Clarke, do you have an emergency?" She asked, exasperated at the pace of this man.

"Well, no."

"Okay," Emma rolled her eyes and was about to hang up when she caught Mr. Clarke's "but..."

"Yeah?"

"The Fourth Over-"

Emma didn't wait to listen. She dropped the phone, grabbed her gun, and just ran. She was so frantic that she didn't even get into her bug or call backup. She just ran until she was outside the shop with all its windows now smashed in and glass everywhere.

She pushed through the door, her eyes taking in the scene before her. There was dust everywhere, heavier than before, because all of the dust on the instruments had been disturbed, all sent into the air, after whoever it was had smashed every single instrument in the store to wooden splinters. Emma swallowed heavily, feeling the loss of the sound they had contained, the memories made and to be made on them, but she quickly moved through the store, looking for James. He had to be alright. That was the most important part.

She found him near the back, sitting on the piano bench, in front of the only intact instrument in the room, the concert grand. He was slumped forward and she ran up to him in a panic. "Killi- James!" she cried, sliding on the bench next to him. She turned his face towards her. He had a cut under his left eye but seemed otherwise okay.

She asked anyway, wanting the reassurance. "Hey, hey, you're okay, right?"

James' sad eyes roved around the room, looking at all his broken instruments. His lip trembled for a moment, the only hint of what was about to follow, before he fell forward and started to sob at all he had lost. Emma pulled him towards her, placing his head to her chest, and wrapped her arms tightly around him. "I'm going to find whoever did this and I'm going to make them pay," she whispered fiercely into his ear as she used one hand to stroke his hair. "I'm going to punch them in the face. They are not getting away with this. I won't let them. I won't let anyone hurt you."

But James was beyond that. He had already been hurt and he kept crying and clinging to her. Emma didn't know how long they stayed there together but she refused to let him go.

After awhile, James finally fell silent though she could still feel his tears rolling down his cheeks and onto her skin.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he sniffed as he pulled away. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It's just, just stuff. It's not like I can even play any of it anymore."

Emma shook her head. "No, it's not just stuff. These instruments meant a lot to you. They've been a part of you." She cupped the back of his head. "Did you see who did this?"

"No, he, um I think it was a he, was wearing a mask. I was asleep upstairs when it started. I don't know why it took me so long to even hear it. I felt like I was drugged."

Emma took in a sharp breath. It was possible.

"But it's...it was probably one of Gold's hired hands. I owe him rent. Gold, that is." James sniffed hard again. "A lot of rent."

"Why didn't you say anything?" She knew Gold ran this town and everyone was scared of him but she wasn't. She would've done everything in her power to protect this man.

"I didn't want to bother...it's my problem. And I didn't think..." He gestured brokenly at the store. "I thought his goon would take me out with the crowbar too," he added.

"Crowbar?" Emma fumed. How dare this person take on a drugged one-handed man with a crowbar? That coward was going to have to deal with her really soon.

"Aye," he nodded, "when I stood in front of the piano. He took a swipe," he gestured at his eye. "I just only managed to save it." James' fingers hovered above the piano, trembling a bit.

"Height and build? Eye color? Anything?" She hated to be questioning James now but she knew the likelihood of him remembering anything with clarity later would be greatly diminished.

"I don't know. My height and build really. Or actually more like the Sheriff's."

The Sheriff. What had Henry said? Regina was controlling Graham, trying to drive a wedge between her and James. But why? Why would Regina care about her relationship with James? It was David and Mary Margaret who could break the curse, not...

Unless any True Love's Kiss could break the curse. Not that True Love could possibly be between just anyone but as Emma looked over at James, hunched over and staring at his piano, she knew he wasn't just anyone to her. She blurted out, "Play your song for me."

He looked up at her, startled. "I can't," he said after a moment, looking forlornly back down at the piano.

"Let me help." And she didn't know how, she never played piano before, but when she placed her left hand on the keys and wrapped her right around James', Killian's, her love's truncated wrist, she knew she could play the song.

Hook looked at her in surprise as she played the first few notes, and it took him a moment, but he too put his hand on the piano and played the right hand keys.

He never did finish composing that song on napkins and the back of envelopes but they ended up playing the song from start to finish, as though they've always known it, as though they knew it their entire lives.

and the arms of the ocean are carrying me

and all this devotion was rushing out of me

and the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me

ut the arms of the ocean delivered me

and it’s breaking over me

a thousand miles down to the sea bed

found the place to rest my head

never let me go

never let me go

never let me go

never let me go

As they finished playing, Emma looked over at James. She couldn't stop staring at his deep blue eyes. It seemed possible now - that even a Dark Curse that separated them across realms, that erased their memories of everything that they knew before, could not take away the song in their heart. "Oh hell, I believe," she breathed before leaning over to press a kiss on the tear falling from his eye.

It was like lightning striking.

Warmth spread from where her lips touched his cheek and it was like an ocean of memories and feelings crashing over her. Killian, his blue eye staring into hers, his hands over hers on their piano, their one night together.

"You broke the curse," Killian whispered in awe. "You-"

But Emma didn't let him finish, she had more pressing matters at hand to attend to first, such as pressing her mouth to his. He leaned back as she surged forward, she tried to crawl into his lap, into him, and they slipped off the bench and crashed to the ground. Still, she didn't stop kissing him, just pulled his head closer, scratched at the back of his scalp, drowned deeper and deeper into him, until she finally had to take a breath. Even then she continued to pepper his face with kisses as he laughed happily under her.

Emma had never been quite certain of Killian's feelings. She had been the one who chased him whenever he ran, patronized him when he was just scraping by, proposed to him when it broke all rules. She knew he was too good of a man to take advantage of her but had he accepted her affections out of gratitude or obligation? An eighteen year old princess hadn't cared. She knew she loved him enough. But she had also been naive enough to believe one day he would just love her too, if not as much, then at least with some genuineness, apart from what she gave him.

But that bit of doubt grew and manifested in her cursed state into feelings of abandonment and deep insecurity. Combined with an unknown father to the child she bore, she developed sky high walls to protect herself and her heart.

But now, she knew. He had crossed realms to find her, given up everything he had, even lost his hand in the process. She touched his left wrist where his arm ended abruptly. "I love you."

"I'm not your musician anymore," he said somberly in reply.

"Nonsense. You'll always be my musician. You can still sing, you can still compose, you can still play if you let me be your backup."

Killian smiled at that. But she also wanted him to be sure, to know her heart.

"But I don't care if you don't do any of that. Because I love you, no matter what. I love you for you, not your music. Your music is just a reflection of who you are inside."

"I love you, too." It wasn't just a declaration of love. He already demonstrated how much he loved her anyway. And really, only True Love's Kiss could break a curse like that, a curse that was already breaking down before in the face of their love as far as Emma was concerned. It was a declaration of acceptance, that he was worthy of her love and that he accepted that he was worthy not because he was high born or musically talented, but because of who he was.

"You found me this time," she smiled, sitting up but holding on to his hand and wrist.

"Bloody good that did. I was cursed the moment I crossed that town line."

"But we couldn't forget completely."

"Aye, we couldn't."

As they struggled to pull him up, footsteps could be heard running in their direction. "Dad! Dad!" It was their only warning before Henry barreled into Killian's arms and knocked them both over.

"How did you know it was me?" Killian asked as he held his son to him.

Henry pushed himself up on Killian's chest and rolled his eyes. Emma couldn't help but smirk at the look Killian gave her, a look that said, he got his attitude from you. "Of course I knew it was you, Dad. I mean, you've heard me on the violin, right?"

Emma laughed. "You do have your father's talent." She kissed them both on their foreheads and winked, "And good looks."

Killian couldn't accept all the credit though. "You have your mother's stubbornness. And the way you hold your head up," Killian thumbed Henry's chin. "That's definitely your mother's bearing."

Killian hooked his left arm around Henry as he sat up and Emma moved to her True Love's right side, wrapping her own arm around Henry.

"So our family is finally all together now? And we'll never be alone again?" Henry asked, looking at both of them.

"Never," Emma affirmed. "We will never let each out go."

Looking up from underneath

Fractured moonlight on the sea

Reflections still look the same to me

As before I went under

And it's peaceful in the deep

Cathedral where you cannot breathe

No need to pray, no need to speak

Now I am under all

And it's breaking over me

A thousand miles down to the sea bed

Found the place to rest my head

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

And the arms of the ocean are carrying me

And all this devotion was rushing out of me

And the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me

But the arms of the ocean delivered me

Though the pressure's hard to take

It's the only way I can escape

It seems a heavy choice to make

And now I am under all

And it's breaking over me

A thousand miles down to the sea bed

Found the place to rest my head

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

And the arms of the ocean are carrying me

And all this devotion was rushing out of me

And the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me

But the arms of the ocean delivered me

And it's over

And I'm going under

But I'm not giving up

I'm just giving in

I'm slipping underneath

So cold and so sweet

And the arms of the ocean so sweet and so cold

And all this devotion I never knew at all

And the crashes are heaven for a sinner released

And the arms of the ocean delivered me

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Deliver me

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Deliver me

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Deliver me

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

Never let me go

And it's over

(Never let me go, Never let me go)

And I'm going under

(Never let me go, Never let me go)

But I'm not giving up

(Never let me go, Never let me go)

I'm just giving in

(Never let me go, Never let me go)

i’m slipping underneath

(never let me go, never let me go)

so cold and so sweet

(never let me go, never let me go)

FIN

[newstfionline]

What Iceland Knows About Getting Teens Off Drugs

Emma Young, Mosaic, Jan 17 2017

It’s a little before three on a sunny Friday afternoon and Laugardalur Park, near central Reykjavik, Iceland, looks practically deserted. There’s an occasional adult with a pushchair, but the park’s surrounded by apartment blocks and houses, and school’s out--so where are all the kids?

Walking with me are Gudberg Jónsson, a local psychologist, and Harvey Milkman, an American psychology professor who teaches for part of the year at Reykjavik University. Twenty years ago, says Gudberg, Icelandic teens were among the heaviest-drinking youths in Europe. “You couldn’t walk the streets in downtown Reykjavik on a Friday night because it felt unsafe,” adds Milkman. “There were hordes of teenagers getting in-your-face drunk.”

We approach a large building. “And here we have the indoor skating,” says Gudberg.

A couple of minutes ago, we passed two halls dedicated to badminton and ping pong. Here in the park, there’s also an athletics track, a geothermally heated swimming pool and--at last--some kids, excitedly playing football on an artificial pitch.

Young people aren’t hanging out in the park right now, Gudberg explains, because they’re in after-school classes in these facilities, or in clubs for music, dance, or art. Or they might be on outings with their parents.

Today, Iceland tops the European table for the cleanest-living teens. The percentage of 15- and 16-year-olds who had been drunk in the previous month plummeted from 42 percent in 1998 to 5 percent in 2016. The percentage who have ever used cannabis is down from 17 percent to 7 percent. Those smoking cigarettes every day fell from 23 percent to just 3 percent.

The way the country has achieved this turnaround has been both radical and evidence-based, but it has relied a lot on what might be termed enforced common sense. “This is the most remarkably intense and profound study of stress in the lives of teenagers that I have ever seen,” says Milkman. “I’m just so impressed by how well it is working.”

If it was adopted in other countries, Milkman argues, the Icelandic model could benefit the general psychological and physical wellbeing of millions of kids, not to mention the coffers of healthcare agencies and broader society. It’s a big if.

“I was in the eye of the storm of the drug revolution,” Milkman explains over tea in his apartment in Reykjavik. In the early 1970s, when he was doing an internship at the Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital in New York City, “LSD was already in, and a lot of people were smoking marijuana. And there was a lot of interest in why people took certain drugs.”

Milkman’s doctoral dissertation concluded that people would choose either heroin or amphetamines depending on how they liked to deal with stress. Heroin users wanted to numb themselves; amphetamine users wanted to actively confront it. After this work was published, he was among a group of researchers drafted by the US National Institute on Drug Abuse to answer questions such as: Why do people start using drugs? Why do they continue? When do they reach a threshold to abuse? When do they stop? And when do they relapse?

“Any college kid could say: Why do they start? Well, there’s availability, they’re risk-takers, alienation, maybe some depression,” he says. “But why do they continue? So I got to the question about the threshold for abuse and the lights went on--that’s when I had my version of the ‘aha’ experience: They could be on the threshold for abuse before they even took the drug, because it was their style of coping that they were abusing.”

At Metropolitan State College of Denver, Milkman was instrumental in developing the idea that people were getting addicted to changes in brain chemistry. Kids who were “active confronters” were after a rush--they’d get it by stealing hubcaps and radios and later cars, or through stimulant drugs. Alcohol also alters brain chemistry, of course. It’s a sedative but it sedates the brain’s control first, which can remove inhibitions and, in limited doses, reduce anxiety.

“People can get addicted to drinking, cars, money, sex, calories, cocaine--whatever,” says Milkman. “The idea of behavioral addiction became our trademark.”

This idea spawned another: “Why not orchestrate a social movement around natural highs, around people getting high on their own brain chemistry--because it seems obvious to me that people want to change their consciousness--without the deleterious effects of drugs?”

By 1992, his team in Denver had won a $1.2 million government grant to form Project Self-Discovery, which offered teenagers natural-high alternatives to drugs and crime. They got referrals from teachers, school nurses and counsellors, taking in kids from the age of 14 who didn’t see themselves as needing treatment but who had problems with drugs or petty crime.

“We didn’t say to them, you’re coming in for treatment. We said, we’ll teach you anything you want to learn: music, dance, hip hop, art, martial arts,” Milkman says. The idea was that these different classes could provide a variety of alterations in the kids’ brain chemistry, and give them what they needed to cope better with life. Some might crave an experience that could help reduce anxiety, others may be after a rush.

At the same time, the recruits got life-skills training, which focused on improving their thoughts about themselves and their lives, and the way they interacted with other people. “The main principle was that drug education doesn’t work because nobody pays attention to it. What is needed are the life skills to act on that information,” Milkman says. Kids were told it was a three-month program. Some stayed five years.

In 1991, Milkman was invited to Iceland to talk about this work, his findings, and ideas. He became a consultant to the first residential drug treatment center for adolescents in Iceland, in a town called Tindar. “It was designed around the idea of giving kids better things to do,” he explains. It was here that he met Gudberg, who was then a psychology undergraduate and a volunteer at Tindar. They have been close friends ever since.

Milkman started coming regularly to Iceland and giving talks. These talks, and Tindar, attracted the attention of a young researcher at the University of Iceland named Inga Dóra Sigfúsdóttir. She wondered: What if you could use healthy alternatives to drugs and alcohol as part of a program not to treat kids with problems, but to stop kids from drinking or taking drugs in the first place?

Have you ever tried alcohol? If so, when did you last have a drink? Have you ever been drunk? Have you tried cigarettes? If so, how often do you smoke? How much time to you spend with your parents? Do you have a close relationship with your parents? What kind of activities do you take part in?

In 1992, 14-, 15- and 16-year-olds in every school in Iceland filled in a questionnaire with these kinds of questions. This process was then repeated in 1995 and 1997.

The results of these surveys were alarming. Nationally, almost 25 percent were smoking every day, more than 40 percent had been drunk in the past month. But when the team drilled right down into the data, they could identify precisely which schools had the worst problems and which had the least. Their analysis revealed clear differences between the lives of kids who took up drinking, smoking, and other drugs, and those who didn’t. A few factors emerged as strongly protective: participation in organized activities--especially sport--three or four times a week, total time spent with parents during the week, feeling cared about at school, and not being outdoors in the late evenings.

“At that time, there had been all kinds of substance prevention efforts and programs,” says Sigfúsdóttir, who was a research assistant on the surveys. “Mostly they were built on education.” Kids were being warned about the dangers of drink and drugs, but as Milkman had observed in the US, these programs were not working. “We wanted to come up with a different approach.”

The mayor of Reykjavik, too, was interested in trying something new, and many parents felt the same, adds Jón Sigfússon, Sigfúsdóttir’s colleague and brother. Jón had young daughters at the time and joined her new Icelandic Center for Social Research and Analysis when it was set up in 1999. “The situation was bad,” he says. “It was obvious something had to be done.”

Using the survey data and insights from research including Milkman’s, a new national plan was gradually introduced. It was called Youth in Iceland.

Laws were changed. It became illegal to buy tobacco under the age of 18 and alcohol under the age of 20, and tobacco and alcohol advertising was banned. Links between parents and school were strengthened through parental organizations which by law had to be established in every school, along with school councils with parent representatives. Parents were encouraged to attend talks on the importance of spending a quantity of time with their children rather than occasional “quality time,” on talking to their kids about their lives, on knowing who their kids were friends with, and on keeping their children home in the evenings.

A law was also passed prohibiting children between the ages of 13 and 16 from being outside after 10 pm in winter and midnight in summer. It’s still in effect today.

Home and School, the national umbrella body for parental organizations, introduced agreements for parents to sign. The content varies depending on the age group, and individual organizations can decide what they want to include. For kids aged 13 and up, parents can pledge to follow all the recommendations, and also, for example, not to allow their kids to have unsupervised parties, not to buy alcohol for minors, and to keep an eye on the well-being of other children.

These agreements educate parents but also help to strengthen their authority in the home, argues Hrefna Sigurjónsdóttir, director of Home and School. “Then it becomes harder to use the oldest excuse in the book: ‘But everybody else can!’”

State funding was increased for organized sport, music, art, dance, and other clubs, to give kids alternative ways to feel part of a group, and to feel good, rather than through using alcohol and drugs, and kids from low-income families received help to take part. In Reykjavik, for instance, where more than a third of the country’s population lives, a Leisure Card gives families 35,000 krona (roughly $4,000) per year per child to pay for recreational activities.

Crucially, the surveys have continued. Each year, almost every child in Iceland completes one. This means up-to-date, reliable data is always available.

Between 1997 and 2012, the percentage of kids aged 15 and 16 who reported often or almost always spending time with their parents on weekdays doubled--from 23 percent to 46 percent--and the percentage who participated in organized sports at least four times a week increased from 24 percent to 42 percent. Meanwhile, cigarette smoking, drinking and cannabis use in this age group plummeted.

“Although this cannot be shown in the form of a causal relationship--which is a good example of why primary prevention methods are sometimes hard to sell to scientists--the trend is very clear,” notes Álfgeir Kristjánsson, who worked on the data and is now at the West Virginia University School of Public Health in the US. “Protective factors have gone up, risk factors down, and substance use has gone down--and more consistently in Iceland than in any other European country.”

No other country has made changes on the scale seen in Iceland. When asked if anyone has copied the laws to keep children indoors in the evening, Sigfússon smiles. “Even Sweden laughs and calls it the child curfew!”

After our walk through Laugardalur Park, Gudberg Jónsson invites us back to his home. Outside, in the garden, his two elder sons, Jón Konrád, who’s 21, and Birgir Ísar, who’s 15, talk to me about drinking and smoking. Jón does drink alcohol, but Birgir says he doesn’t know anyone at his school who smokes or drinks. We also talk about football training: Birgir trains five or six times a week; Jón, who is in his first year of a business degree at the University of Iceland, trains five times a week. They both started regular after-school training when they were six years old.

“We have all these instruments at home,” their father told me earlier. “We tried to get them into music. We used to have a horse. My wife is really into horse riding. But it didn’t happen. In the end, soccer was their selection.”

Did it ever feel like too much? Was there pressure to train when they’d rather have been doing something else? “No, we just had fun playing football,” says Birgir. Jón adds, “We tried it and got used to it, and so we kept on doing it.”

It’s not all they do. While Jónsson and his wife Thórunn don’t consciously plan for a certain number of hours each week with their three sons, they do try to take them regularly to the movies, the theatre, restaurants, hiking, fishing and, when Iceland’s sheep are brought down from the highlands each September, even on family sheep-herding outings.

In Iceland, the relationship between people and the state has allowed an effective national program to cut the rates of teenagers smoking and drinking to excess--and, in the process, brought families closer and helped kids to become healthier in all kinds of ways. Will no other country decide that these benefits are worth the costs?

[ifishouldvanish]

For Art and Happiness

Chapter 7: Two Women

Summary:  A repressed Belle runs from home to pursue a life of freedom in a new city. To support herself, she turns to modeling for local eccentric painter, Ross Gold. Known as the Town Pornographer, Gold’s avant-garde work and lifestyle exposes her to the very ideas her father sought to guard her from. Rating: M, for sexual themes Tags:  Sexual Repression, 19th Century, fin de siecle, Art History, Body Image, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Miscarriage mention, sexual anxiety This Chapter: Ross struggles to make peace with Cora’s departure. Valerie = Cruella Previous Chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[Read on AO3]

Ross knocks impatiently on the heavy red door of the Schäfer’s home. There’s some shuffling about on the other side before he’s greeted by Mary Margaret’s voice.

“Just a minute!” She calls from inside.

“Take your time.” He sighs with petty annoyance, much to quietly for her to hear.

The door swings open a minute later, revealing Mary Margaret with the baby in her arms. She looks exhausted, but happy nonetheless. Ross is certain Mary Margaret grew up with every expectation that she would have midwives and house staff to help her care for any children she might have. But that isn’t the life of an artist, certainly not ones like he and David. She waved goodbye to such comforts when she married him, and while he might pity her naivete toward life amongst the city's lesser half, he has to admire her heart. Mary Margaret chose love. Unlike Cora.

“...Herr Gold.” Mary Margaret nods, putting on an uneasy smile.

Ross wets his lips. “Frau Schäfer.”

“What do you—” She cuts herself off and shakes her head. “Hi.” She says, smiling more convincingly this time. “Why don't you come in? David's in the studio.”

“Thank you.” He nods curtly, stepping inside. He looks at the baby in her arms with a smile. “Hello, Emma.” He says, poking a finger at her belly. She babbles and reaches for him, and Ross smiles.

“Things have been a bit chaotic here.” Mary Margaret admits with a chuckle, starting down the hall. “Everyone’s been in and out, preparing for the exhibition.”

Ross doesn’t say anything, his smile slipping away as he follows her inside. He hasn’t put much thought into the exhibition, despite all of Cora’s encouragement. If he’s honest, he always thought it was a bit of a dog and pony show, and a pathetic one at that— at least as far his circles were concerned. His colleagues were all vying for approval from the artistic elites and the Academy. No matter where he went— London, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague— there was always some new school of artists intent on showing the world the full potential of what art could be. But quite frankly, Ross never gave half a rat’s arse whether or not people thought his art was any good. As long as he was getting enough sales and commissions to keep food on his table, he was happy.

Happy enough.

Mary Margaret gives him another uneasy smile as they step into the studio where David is cleaning his brushes. He hears them walk in and smiles, walking over and planting an affectionate kiss on his wife’s lips, and another on his daughter’s head, before the two scurry away again.

“Ah, Ross!” David looks at Ross with a broad, genuine smile. “It’s been far too long. How are you?”

“Fine.” He answers listlessly.

“How's Cora?”

Ross clears his throat. “...Engaged to be married.” He says as he steps further into the studio space. He immediately turns his focus to the rows of canvases along the wall.

David's expression freezes as he tries to decide whether he should be offering his congratulations or condolences. “When’s... the big day?” He asks tentatively.

Ross stops thumbing through the paintings and clicks his tongue. “That’s a lovely question.” He declares, spinning around with the snap of his fingers. “Perhaps you could ask our esteemed friend Herr Berger the next time he drops by to express his grievances against the Secession.”

David blinks. “Excuse me?”

“She’s marrying Berger.”

David’s expression dampens and he looks at his colleague helplessly. “Ross. ...I— I’m sorry.”

Ross scowls and goes back to browsing his work. “Well it’s hardly your fault now, is it?”

“No, but...” David furrows his brows and steps closer. “Why?” He asks in a whisper.

“Oh, something about her father’s farmland being the only place this side of the Donau where he can set up shop for his steel operation.”

“Ach.” David frowns. “I’ve gotten more than a few offers on this place myself. But after how hard Mutti and I had to fight to hold onto it? I’ll die before I let some industrialist turn it into a factory.”

Ross sighs and moves to the next pile. “Yes well, I’m afraid the only loyalties Herr Mϋller has are to his Schnapps.” He mutters. He quickly thumbs through the canvases and spins on his heels to face David again. “Was she here?” He asks abruptly.

David reels back, furrowing his brows. “...When?”

“Last week.” Ross clips. “I’m damnably curious to know if there's anything else she's been lying to me about.”

“I—” David clears his throat. “Yeah. She was in on Tuesday.” He peers around the studio, his eyes widening as they land on something. “Here—” He says, snapping a finger and walking up to one of the canvases he has set out to dry. “We worked on this.”

Ross studies the painting with a mixture of awe and anger. Cora looks beautiful, her auburn hair stylized as a rhythmic stream of sinuous lines and spirals, accented with gold leaf. She proudly holds up a platter, gazing reverently at something which has yet to be executed— a blank area waiting to be filled with a severed head.

“Salome.” Ross observes.

“That's right.”

“...Fitting.” He says bitterly. Of all the models he and David work with, who better to play the part of the femme fatale than his beloved Cora? He just can't decide if he's her Herod— a means to an end, or her John— the object of some perverse affection of hers.

A little smile tugs at David's lips. “You know... If you aren’t busy this afternoon, I think you would make a great John the Baptist.” He chuckles.

Ross huffs out a bitter laugh. “Indeed.”

“Honestly. Would you mind?” David nods toward the canvas he’d been working on before he arrived. “I'm waiting for the latest coat to dry.”

Ross looks around the studio and shrugs. “Where would you like me to sit?”

David picks the canvas up and surveys the room for a moment. “Usual seat should be fine.” He smiles, carrying it over to his easel.

  “So how are you holding up?” David asks, peeking around the canvas to look Ross in the eyes. “You two were always so… I don’t know, inseparable.” He shrugs, returning to his work.

“Well enough, I suppose.” Ross sighs. After a moment, he scoffs. “Part of me always expected it, honestly. I mean, look at me. What she ever saw, I will never understand. I’m lame, beaten, used up, old—”

“Ach!” David shakes his head and Ross rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need to anyone’s pity. “Alright, alright.” David laughs, “So you are lame and banged up and older than most of us. But—  you are also brilliant!”

Ross tries not to glow under his praise. David is the kind of man Ross wishes he was. Warm, kind, open. Likeable. David may be much younger than he is, but Ross respects the man and the thought that he sees anything admirable in him is a comfort, as much as he hates to admit it.

“Prolific, passionate, experienced, wise ...Handsome?” David continues, wiggling his brows.

A little smirk tugs at Ross’ lips. “...Now I know you’re full of it.”

“You have a great face for portraiture!” David insists, “The angles, the way the light hits your features. It's very intense, expressive.” He puts his brush down and takes a step back to evaluate his progress. “Rembrandt and Caravaggio would have been very lucky to paint a face like yours.”

Ross allows himself a tiny smile at this, but quickly wipes it away. “My art is suffering.” He confesses, trying to change the subject. “Nothing I do seems to satisfy me. I’m becoming frustrated.”

“I think that’s understandable.” David shrugs, picking his brush back up and continuing to work. “You and Cora were quite the team. But you’ll find something or someone else to inspire you. You just need a new perspective.”

“It’s not just Cora though.” Ross mumbles. “I’ve felt myself slipping the past few months.”

“It happens. But you’ve got the soul of a true artist, Ross. You’ll come back from it.”

He considers this for a moment. He doesn’t hate everything he’s done the past few months. Looking back on the past few weeks, he can actually recall a few pieces he’s pleased with. There’s the charcoal he did of Belle, the commission for Herr Hutmacher, a painting of Belle—

He suddenly feels his mouth go dry and clears his throat. “Have you—” He sighs and wets his lips. “H-have you ever had a young woman by the name of Belle come by? To sit for you?”

“Belle?” David pouts and hums thoughtfully. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“She came to sit for me a few weeks ago. Comes by quite often.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I gave her your information last week. Told her you might have more work for her. Curious, is all.”

David frowns. “Could you describe her?”

“Petite.” He shrugs. “Brown hair, beautiful blue eyes… An accent you wouldn’t soon forget. ...She’s ah, French.” He explains with a cough.

David peeks at him from behind the easel and smiles. “...Nope.” He says, disappearing once again. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

 *****

 Ross’ visit to the Schäfer’s yesterday has left him with more questions than answers. He was hoping to catch Cora in a lie. To find out she never stepped foot in David’s studio last week at all, but had instead been plotting and scheming to leave him all along. It would make it so much easier for him to let her go. But now he just feels more confused.

His eyes dart back and forth between the two women sprawled out on his floor, and the drawing on his easel. He’s producing shite today again. The lines he puts down lack certainty, and his drawing altogether is nothing more than a mockery of the scene before him. Valerie and Ursula are women in love, lit from within by a flame they each ignite in the other when they touch.

He and Cora had such a flame, or so he thought.

Ross tears the paper from his easel and scrunches it up. “Verdammt!” He hurls the balled-up drawing across the room and it lands on the floor, joining the pile of all his other abandoned efforts from the past week. The two women finally stop caressing each other in favor of sitting up and glaring at him. He tries to ignore them, fixing his gaze on the floor and kicking a crate of supplies. The few inches the heavy thing moves aren’t even close to worth the pain that shoots up his leg, causing him to yelp in pain. The whole display is more embarrassing than anything else.

“It is incredible,” Valerie scoffs and leans into Ursula's ear. “So much anger in such little man...”

“Shut up!” Ross hisses, pointing his stick of charcoal at her threateningly. Both women let out a snort of laughter that makes him fume even more.

“Do not worry. I would be angry, too.” Valerie pouts, taking a feigned kind of pity on him. “If I were man who cannot draw, cannot paint, cannot keep woman, cannot— how you say— get it up.”

“Valerie!” Ursula says through a giggle, giving her a shove. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds.”

“Eh,” Valerie shrugs and stretches over to her pile of clothes, searching for her cigarette case. It’s an ornately engraved silver piece, an artifact from the comfortable life she’d left behind in Prague’s Dejvice district.

“You know,” Ross warns, “your friend has a point.”

Valerie tilts her head back and laughs, then lights her cigarette. “You want to threaten me? I get you soap box so you can look into my eyes when you do it. ...Little man.”

Ross clenches his jaw and lets out a huff. He should have fired Valerie the first time she started with the comments about his height and fragile ego, but he's not too proud to admit that he's a lonely man, and he finds himself enjoying her and Ursula's company for reasons that defy his comprehension.

“See, Ulla?” Valerie says, nodding toward him with an amused grin. “What will he do? Nothing.”

Ross relaxes his jaw and exhales slowly. She’s right. He won’t do a damned thing.

“Alright, I’m sorry.” Ursula sighs. “Sore subject, but... Berger?” She says, cringing as she says the name. Her forehead wrinkles from the way she raises her brows. “The same Berger who tried to pay off your landlord to kick you two out? And when that failed, reported you for harboring unregistered prostitutes?”

“Aye, that’s the one!” Ross says bitterly, dropping his charcoal into his tin and readying another sheet of paper on his easel. Perhaps he’ll have better luck with crayon today.

“Well, you seem to be taking it well.” She says dryly, eyeing the crumpled up drawings and deserted canvases that litter the floor. Several of Cora’s portraits have been torn off the walls and ripped to pieces, and one unlucky canvas seems to have been stabbed at least twenty times with a palette knife. “You really loved her, didn't you?”

“Well, I wouldn't let her live here with me if I hated her, now would I?” He snarls, and Ursula rolls her eyes.

“You waste your time,” Valerie says, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“And you— ” Ross steps over to her and plucks it from her lips, “waste your money.”

“Hej— what I use my kronen for is not your business,” she snips, taking it back.

“Ah...” he chuckles, wagging a finger at her. “And what I spend my time on is none of yours.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugs and puffs on her cigarette.

Ross waits, folding his arms and raising his brows expectantly.

“But I tell you—” She starts up again and Ross can't help but smile at the impending dose of unwarranted advice. “Cora is no good. Can smell it on her. Like corpse rotting from inside out.” She pauses and exhales a ring of smoke. “...You should get dog.” She says with sudden decisiveness. “They smell rotting flesh from mile away.”

Ross stops rifling for a crayon and narrows his eyes at her, bewildered. “What in the hell are you talking about? What the hell am I going to do with a fucking dog?!”

She wags her smoking hand about as she arrives at an explanation. “You don’t have such problem to begin with if you have dog. Cora works for you first time, dog growls, and you know—  Cora is no good. ” She puffs out a ring of smoke and wrinkles her nose. “Send her packing before you get penis involved.”

In his emotionally compromised state, Ross doesn’t think a guard dog for his heart sounds like too bad of an idea. Not that he’ll admit to it.

“...Just suggestion.” Valerie says with a shrug after his lack of response.

“Well, in case it wasn’t clear: I don’t pay you to make suggestions,” he grumbles, finally putting crayon to paper.

“You should,” She snickers, a sly smile shaping her lips. “I can teach you how to please woman— no dick necessary. Is that not right, Ulla?”

Ursula snorts. “I think that is the least of Ross’ problems.”

Ross clenches his fist and breaks his crayon in two. “I could please her just fine!”

“You’re so smart,” Valerie chuckles, leaning in to peck Ursula on the cheek. “This is why I love you.” She looks back to Ross and shakes her head. “My husband— thought same thing.”

“Oh? You mean the one you murdered?” Ross points out, digging through his tin for another crayon that hasn’t already been reduced to a nub.

Valerie draws back and puts a hand over her heart. “It was accident.”

“Sure it was.”

Abandoning appearances, she shrugs her shoulders and points at him with her cigarette. “I make it look like one. Police in Praha… very stupid. See no difference.”

Ross rolls his eyes and looks at Ursula. “And you sleep next to this woman every night?”

“Quite soundly.” She nods.

“See?” Valerie drapes an arm around Ulla’s shoulder. “Because I kill man, she knows I can protect her.” She smiles, leaning in and nuzzling her neck.

“So you’re saying—” Ross scoffs and resumes drawing, “I should have killed Herr Berger?”

“Jistý. ...If you want, I can show you how to make it look like accident too.” She offers boastfully. Her expression suddenly darkens and she hunches forward. “But I will be honest to you, Herr Gold— because you amuse me. Cora… she leave you either way.”

Ross groans and stares blankly ahead. “So are you saying she was just a good liar, then?”

“No, no. You do not understand. She loves you. But she leave you still. Such is the cruel bitch that is life.” She laughs and shakes her head. “You men, so naive.”

Ross groans and rolls his eyes. “Ursula, what the hell is she talking about?”

“Women like Cora are raised early on to forget about love. Marry for money, marry for status. Something silly romantic men like you don't understand.”

Ross raises his brows and blinks repeatedly in disbelief. “I'm silly and romantic?”

Valerie and Ulla look at each other for a moment and burst into laughter. “...Yes!”

He scowls. Silly? Ross Gold is not silly and romantic, he thinks. Ross Gold is… sensible. Hardened by the heartless world around him. Dark, even. And romantic? He’s anything but. Unloved and unloving. An enemy of love, and Cora had been his ally.

“I think Cora loved you.” Ursula finally says to comfort him, “but to her, the money and status is more important. I’m sorry Ross, but I don’t think you ever stood a chance.”

“Then what is the goddamned point!?” He snaps, giving his easel a shove. It's such a pointless act, doing nothing to quench the flame of frustration in his chest. He takes a deep breath to compose himself, and the frustration turns to sorrow. “Why bother getting attached to somebody just to… abandon them?” He slouches his shoulders and sulks across the studio to plop into the armchair.

“Well if I remember correctly, you never asked for her hand...” Ursula says. “Can’t blame the girl for moving o—”

“Of course I didn’t ask for her hand! She never wanted that!” Ross blurts as the frustration returns for a fleeting moment, leaving him again as quickly as it came. “We were just… fine the way things were,” he mutters under his breath, not sounding the least bit convinced of it himself.

“She must think about children.” Valerie says. “Place like this— no good.”

“She doesn't even like children!”

“Ne, she does not like street vermin you let in and feed like your own.” Valerie says, pointing in the air with her cigarette. “Woman must think about her children. But me? I decide very quick, no children.”

“I don’t understand.” Ross sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I asked her: ‘Are you happy, sweetheart?’ And she gave me every assurance that she was.”

Valerie plucks another cigarette from her case and offers it to him. After a moment's hesitation, he tucks it between his lips and leans in so she can light it. He smokes in silence in for a moment, his thumb rubbing over the crayon in his other hand while his eyes scan over the portraits of Cora that remain on the walls.

“When she didn't come back from David's the first night… It was like I could sense something was wrong, you know? I was going to visit and check on her, but I told myself no— she likes her space, leave it, she will come back when she’s ready… And now— And now...”

Ross’ lip quivers and he curls in on himself. The feeling is back. The emptiness. The shame. He takes a series of heaving breaths until the overwhelming panic subsides.

“...Now she’s gone...” He exhales slowly. His shoulders ease a little and he takes another deep breath. “...Now’s she’s gone.”

“See? It is okay.” Valerie hushes, patting a hand on his lap. “You will meet another woman. Maybe next one will be more young, bigger breasts, not so tall…” She snorts, “Next to her, you might almost feel like real man.”

“Have you any idea how many women I’ve met over the years?” Ross sighs. “Cora was… she was just different.”

Valerie scowls. “Like I say— you waste your time on that one.”

Ross rolls his eyes and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

“Listen, Ross.” Ulla says. “You just need to take your heartbreak and put it into your art. Suffer for the art, like the rest of your colleagues.”

“Oh, that's original.” He scoffs, carelessly throwing his crayon across the room. It strikes the wall and mars one of Cora's portraits with a harsh black line.

“David produced some of his best work while he was holding a torch for Mary Margaret.” Ursula points out. “That is all.”

“Exactly!” Valerie chimes in. “David's work now? Nothing special.”

“And Mal?” Ulla adds, “The work she did after her beloved Ružička was wed to that Stephan— some of the most inspired pieces I've ever seen.”

Ross presses the heels of his palms over his eyes and groans, slouching back into his chair. “Mal Fiala has not produced a single canvas in years.” He reminds them.

“Ich weiß...” Ulla sighs. “It is a tragedy.”

“Better to make no art than bad art, I say.” Valerie shrugs. “Or worse—  so-so art.” She adds sourly. “This is why now, we sit for you, Herr Gold. Ulla and I, we follow the talent.” She says proudly, making another dramatic gesture with her smoking hand. “People think we follow the kronen, but this is not true. We do not sit for just anybody. We have taste. Standards.”

Ross raises a brow at her and plucks the cigarette from between his lips. “Is that all? ...And after all this time, I was beginning to think it was because we were friends.” He jokes.

“...Friends?” Valerie tries to frown, but a smile quickly takes hold of her lips. “I do not know what this word means, Herr Gold! But I do know, if there are going to be portraits of me in museum fifty years from now, they will be damned good portraits. And when I am dead, if people think I am secret lover of yours, I say, even better.”

“My lover?” Ross tries not to retch at the thought. “Wouldn't you rather be remembered as the sapphic murderess you really are?”

“Eh.” Valerie snorts and taps the ashes from her cigarette. “People will look at your drawings of Ulla and me making love, read her poems to me, and say, ‘How nice it is, that white woman and black woman are friends!’ More stupid than police in Praha.” She snickers, “But! You do enough drawings of me, they will assume I am your Miláček. The scholars will wonder, ‘Who is enchanting woman in Ross Gold's art? So beautiful and free-spirited she is!’ I will become symbol, like Mona Lisa, and live forever.”

"I hate to disappoint," Ross sighs, “But at this rate, the only place my work will end up is in the trash.”

“Ne, ne, ne.” Valerie tuts. “Your work belongs in trash, I will be first to tell you. Like true friend.”

He raises a brow at her. “I thought you said we weren’t friends.”

She scowls. “You are one of least stupid people in Wien, so for you I make exception.”

Ross presses his lips into a thin line, trying to decide if he should be flattered or not.

“...Still pretty stupid though.”

He groans internally and rolls his eyes. “Go, both of you. Get dressed. We're done here.”

Both women roll their eyes and get up, plucking their clothes of the floor.

“I still expect full day's pay.” Valerie mutters as she dresses herself.

Ross waves the two of them away. “You know where I keep it.” He mumbles.

Valerie grins and saunters over to the little end table in the corner. “Yes, I do...” She hums, pulling the drawer open and grabbing more than her share of crowns. “Come, Ulla. We get drunk tonight.” She looks to Ross with a smirk. “Gold— What do you say you come with us? I feel generous. Let me buy you drink with your money.”

Ross shoots her a defeated look.

“Eh.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You are probably sad drunk, anyway.”

They finish dressing and head to the front door. Ulla pauses when she rests her hand on the knob. "Sure you don't want to come?"

Ross slouches deeper into his chair and lets out a puff of smoke. "Quite certain."

A/N:

In the New Testament, Salome dances for and seduces her stepfather Herod, who in return offers to give her anything she wishes, up to half of his kingdom. Salome’s mother tells her to request the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter, and Herod delivers.

Oscar Wilde wrote a play based on this story in 1894. In his version, Salome is infatuated with John, and demands his head after he rejects her. In art of this time, Salome was frequently used to represent the femme fatale, the dangers of seduction, and the world of vice and hedonism that developed alongside the industrial revolution.

Prior to this time period, Salome was depicted as an innocent girl unaware her sexuality, but the Symbolist Salome was a very witting seductress. The art is kind of amazing (tw for severed heads?):

“The Apparition” by Gustav Moreau, 1877. Oil on Canvas. (Moreau did a TON of Salomes and they’re all gorgeous)

“Salome” by Lucien Levy Dhurmer, 1896. Pastel.

“Salome” by Max Oppenheimer, 1913. Oil on Canvas. (NSFW, probably?)

[bffhreprise]

Entry 339

 “How much do you people play this!?” exclaimed Maxine, staring in shock once she realized that James and Alma’s characters were easily keeping up with her horse.  Numerous people in our guild were that fast.

 “Rather often.” admitted James, shrugging slightly.

 I had strolled over there to see their expressions between guiding my own character, but I was still mentally preparing for what was to come.  Dani had asked what James was up to and took offense at James not inviting her to join us on Ancient Tribes of Earth.  Though she was making splendid progress, she hadn’t mastered her guitar yet.  Unfortunately, they had all been discussing the idea of convincing me to play in their band earlier.  There were still ongoing scenarios of how terrible that could turn out running through my head.

 A thousand of our guildmates were traveling with us to help get additional rare ores for my shop, so I shouldn’t wander off right now, but the thought was tempting.  Emma and Iris weren’t having any luck convincing Dani to stay practicing, or even to put down her instrument.

 “I thought you were supposed to be incredibly busy.” accused Maxine in a bewildered tone.

 “You have no idea.  His schedule makes mine look laughable.” insisted Alma, obviously finding something amusing.

 “Then how do you have time to be doing this right now?” questioned Maxine, her impressive mind unable to stop questioning the oddities surrounding him.

 I shared her conundrum, unable to even make a guess as to what happened on the honeymoon for James and Alma to come back so… different.  Walking over to them, I once again looked them over.  They didn’t seem any different physically, but… the room of honeymoon questions spilled open in my head, dumping out thousands of tiny details that had changed in their behavior—well, tens of thousands with Alma.  She was nice now, practically all the time.  The only time I heard her using an even slightly annoyed tone was on a few of her business meetings, and she didn’t seem nearly as dedicated to those anymore, giving far more freedom to her subordinates.  Walking back to my seat and resuming my position, I knew my questions wouldn’t be answered.  Quest failed from the start.

 “I made time for you.  Having you moping about was depressing.” replied James to Maxine’s inquiry.

 Only Mila was likely capable of keeping an account of James’ time;  I knew he didn’t care for thinking about how busy he was.  I knew he spent a great deal of time in his office anymore, but sometimes he’d be elsewhere despite having entered there.  How I missed his departure was a mystery.

 “I’m g-glad… that… y-you’re playing with us.” I assured Maxine, who had just snapped her mouth shut without saying whatever she had intended.  She seemed a little scared of James today, and I couldn’t figure that out either.  She didn’t have the typical stench of fear, but her anatomy was more like Portentia’s than anyone else here.

 James had somehow blocked off my senses from Maxine’s room earlier, obviously wanting to have a private discussion with her.  When they emerged, she was shaking and unusually compliant.

 Maxine didn’t respond, but Portentia was quick to say, “This is still weird to me.”  Since she arrived home and heard that Maxine was going to be helpful from here on, Portentia had been slightly on edge.  Even in the game, her character was keeping near Maxine’s.

 “Oh, yes.  Helping Raine hunt down rare ores is exceptionally different than when we normally play and help our guild.” teased Alma, glancing back to wink at Portentia.

 Frowning, Maxine said, “I, for one, have never done anything with this many people at once in a game.  I still don’t understand how the game can operate this smoothly with such a crowd in a small area.  One of my old guildmates claimed the game ran smoothly for him in a city, despite playing on an archaic piece of junk that I wouldn’t have taken if he tried giving it to me.”

 “You wouldn’t have taken the machine to data mine it?  Surprising.” questioned James in surprise.  Sensing her displeasure, he quickly assured her “I’m only teasing.  I too was mystified by how this game functions, but I’m completely unwilling to listen to Aaliyah explain how she micromanages each type of processor through her code.  You’re welcome to ask her if you’re interested.”  His acting had improved dramatically over his honeymoon, which was one of the new oddities.

 “I’ll… consider the idea.  She might not be keen to speak with me on it, considering I attempted to hack the game.” replied Maxine, though she sounded as if she actually wanted to try.

 “Mother entered the contest as well, Maxine.  She’s not so petty as to hold a grudge for such a meager maneuver against her.” insisted Mila from where she stood nearby.

 Maxine opened her mouth, shut it for a moment, and then said, “Before coming here, I would have taken offense to someone mocking my technical skills, but I really can’t in this case.  Considering you, my efforts must have appeared meager, especially with her being fully aware of my endeavors.”

 I nodded with approval.  Only a great fool would doubt the Princess’ intellect after witnessing some of her miracles.

 “Daddy!” exclaimed Dani, charging into the room with her guitar strapped to her back.

 “Yes?” he questioned in a perfectly busy-but-listening-father tone.

 “I want to play too!  Why didn’t you ask me?” she questioned with a pouty look of distress on her face.

 “Mila said you were still practicing with Iris and Emma.  You really shouldn’t leave your band behind by the way.  Iris can’t keep up while you’re wearing your enhancement suit.” he gently chided her.  “How are you liking guitar?”

 Her lips exploded into a grin as she whipped the guitar around into her arms, hugging it affectionately.   “I love it!  Watch this!”  She started playing a new melody on the guitar instead of the one she had been practicing.  “The sound is better with an amp.” she commented with a tiny frown.

 “Still, you’re progressing well.” he told her, eliciting another smile.

 Dani started playing another tune as Emma and Iris caught up.  Poor Iris didn’t have an enhancement suit on, so she was a little winded, despite seeming to be in good shape.  Scenarios popped into my head as I considered what that would feel like.  The thought occurred to me off and on throughout my life, but the idea of exhaustion never really connected with me.  I mentally caressed the idea of feeling weak.  No one would have thought of me as a monster if I was normal.  Still, I couldn’t imagine life without being me.  If I was weak, I wouldn’t have survived my childhood, and certainly wouldn’t have ended up here.

 “P-Pretty.” I commented, glancing back at Dani as she played.

 “Really!?” she exclaimed, hugging her guitar as she dashed at me.  “Does that mean you’ll join us!?”

 I shook my head, knowing that couldn’t end well.

 “Even a little?” maneuvering her guitar into one arm, so she could squeeze my hand with the other.  Her amethyst eyes stared at me as if her happiness hung by the thread of my response, ready to break if I declined  “You wouldn’t have to play in front of people.” she claimed, apparently unaware of how bands typically operated here.

 “I’d like to see you play bass.” added Emma, smiling at me and probably guessing how dangerously potent Dani’s begging face could be.

 “Come on… we’ll have fun together.” insisted Iris, smiling as well.  Her enthusiasm for including me was somewhat surprising.  We hadn’t really done too much together yet, and I was certain that she still feared me a little… Most did, at least whenever they glimpsed my hybrid form.

 “If you don’t mind hearing my two cents worth, I agree that you should try, Raine.” encouraged James.  “When we first met, you would’ve ran away just from this much attention.  Playing music with them could be another step forward for you.  You’re incredibly gifted in many areas, and I would love to see you sharing those gifts.”

 New scenarios suddenly appeared, fighting back the depictions of my failures.  If James wanted me to play, he might actually be wanting to hear it.  I already was certain that Dani had him wrapped around her finger to some extent, but he wouldn’t give her just anything.  He always seemed to want things that he thought would be good for her, so he must think that me joining the band would be good for her, the others, and possibly me as well.  Scenarios of me disappointing James were trying to budge into the confrontation in my head, but I squashed them.  Disappointing James was much harder than I originally had guessed.  If we failed, he’d just scoop us up and get us moving once more.

 Alma nodded her agreement and said, “I agree with my husband.  You should continue broadening your horizons, and music can be a pleasant form of expression.”

 “M-Maybe.” I admitted, struggling to think of the new, kind Alma’s motives.  Not enough information was available enough for a proper scenario.  Despite being kinder, she was still secretive, and much more than normal was done in her head where I couldn’t see.

 “Y’rika!” exclaimed Dani excitedly, apparently considering the matter settled.  “Then we can make pretty music and get Maxine to play piano!  Mila showed me videos of pianos being played, and it was so cool!”

 A panicked part of my mind was struggling to find an acceptable out that wouldn’t hurt the feelings of anyone present, but there was a small part of my mind allowing the possibility of playing with them to grow.  If James and Alma were both for me joining a band, would saying no out of fear really be wise?  Even before Alma became kind Alma, she had started being friendlier, to me at least.  I believed she actually cared about me, despite what I am.

 “Did she just say ‘eureka’?” inquired Maxine about Dani’s exclamation.

 “She’s still learning English, but you could consider that to almost be a cognate, given the similar usage.” explained Alma.

 “You really should at least try playing piano with us.” encouraged Dani to Maxine as she strummed her guitar.  “We could become the coolest band in the galaxy!”

 Smiling, Alma said, “Start with the city and work your way up.”

 “Fiiiine,” replied Dani, “but we’ll be amazing!  I know it!”  She still stared at Maxine, waiting for a response.

 “Mila, find a concert Dani might like coming up and book tickets for anyone interested in going.” ordered James.

 I instantly had an email, requesting my consideration of a small vacation.  France…  I could be there in a blink, view the country in slightly longer, and return home with most everyone clueless that I left.  James would probably know somehow, but he was… different… than when we had first met.  I resisted the urge to go buy souvenirs right now.  Considering the excitement growing at the idea of seeing the sights, I accepted.

 “Yes, Master.  Invitations have been sent to everyone.” replied Mila, already responding to questions as I typed them.  Though Mila talked with the rest at a very human speed, she was capable of going much, much faster.  With her, we could have very long discussions in hardly any time by everyone else’s reckoning.

 “Wow.  Really?  That was fast.” stated Iris, pulling out her phone and growing excited as she looked at it  “This is in France just two weeks from now!  How did you write a whole itinerary already!?”

 “Please expedite getting Iris a passport if she doesn’t have one as well as one for anyone else who needs it.” ordered James, perfectly confident that Mila could manage.

 “Master, Deyanira is worried about getting excused from class for the trip.  Would you mind negotiating on her behalf?” inquired Mila.

 “Not at all.  Just add the meetings to my schedule.” replied James without a hint of concern.

 I too could easily imagine James walking into any building, talking with the people in charge, and getting whatever he wanted.  His Jamesness was irresistible.

 “Is this for real!?” asked Iris, staring at James with wide eyes.

 “Of course.  If your family has any issues, explain that it’s a company trip.  If that doesn’t convince them, I’ll come convince them for you.” he assured her.

 “Is Maxine going?” inquired Portentia, obviously not willing to leave Maxine unattended.

 “I will if you’re not.” replied Maxine sassily.

 “Mila, mind marking that as a ‘yes’ from both of them?” asked James, knowing neither of them would pick a fight with him over it, though arguments appeared in their expressions.

 “As you wish, Master.” stated Mila.

 Glancing at Portentia and Maxine, James said, “I have two weeks to convince you both that you’ll enjoy this trip.  Relax.  Things will be fun.”

 “France,” whispered Cosette wistfully.  As normal, her presence was practically non-existent as she had been observing everyone else.  When she wanted to be seen, she couldn’t be missed.  Otherwise, she was a shadow watching the world, often with great amusement.  She often made me smile.

 In this case, I was attempting to figure out the best way to approach her for a hug.  The wistful tone was probably a facade as thoughts of her parents once again entered her head, assuming they ever left it.  Cosette was bright, very bright, and she had endless sleepless nights to consider the loss of her parents.  I really would have loved to meet them.  Being oldish vampires was neat, considering they would have seen many things, but Cosette’s father had been a king!  The fairy-book-loving part of me would always gush over the idea of meeting royalty while imagining fancy balls and endless dances.  Of course, living here often seemed on par with living with royalty.  James did pull the sword from the stone after all.