#Every time I have gotten high Mari keeps me from doing admittedly stupid things

[janebonbon]

BFF that talks you out of the worst ideas imaginable

[welllpthisishappening]

Winning a World Series has its benefits. 

Backpage spreads in New York tabloids, a parade, a seemingly never-ending amount of champagne. And a trip to Disney World. Emma was fairly certain that was a joke. Until she’s standing outside of Hollywood Studios and Killian has done research about rides and that’s kind of messing with her head a bit. 

As is everyone’s determination to get the high score on the Buzz Lightyear ride in Magic Kingdom. 

Because while you can take the baseball player off the diamond, you apparently can’t take the competition out of the athlete. Even at Disney World. 

----

Rating: Honestly like the lowest level T. Mostly for the trash talk.  Word Count: 7.7K AN: Oh hai there, internet! Approximately a million years ago I asked for prompts before Justin and I went to Disney for Christmas and @distant-rose​​ sent me this: “Babes, love of my internet life, am I allowed to prompt you? In honor of Gerrit Cole becoming a Yankees, may I ask for a combo of Killian in pinstripes and a Disney World Christmas if possible? Bonus points for Captain Cobra goodness. Love you! Have I mentioned that?“ Because of who I am as a person, this is...only kind of that. Instead it’s in that one baseball ‘verse where Killian’s on the Yankees and David is on the Red Sox and this whole story is honestly almost too autobiographical. Anyway, I did this instead of work today. 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

----

She kind of thought it was an urban legend. 

Something spoken in hushed whispers, nothing more than a photo-op or overblown publicity stunt for corporate America with hats that no one really wanted to wear and t-shirts already damp from on-field champagne celebrations. 

Emma has never been happier to have been proved wrong. 

Even if she’s also pretty positive that her championship t-shirt will never be entirely dry again. Or smell like anything except champagne. 

She’s not sure she’s done anything except smile in the last forty-eight hours. 

Between the parade and the photo-ops that did happen, flashing lights and back-page spreads, she’s admittedly a little exhausted and just a little overwhelmed, but Killian’s arm also seems to be glued to her shoulders and that’s kind of nice. Especially because it’s a little colder in Florida than she thought it would be. 

They’ve won a World Series. 

And now they’re going to Disney World. 

Or, well—they’re already in Disney World. The specifics aren’t important. It’s very early in the morning, Emma figures that’s enough of an excuse. 

And they keep drinking champagne. 

And sparkling wine. 

Just a seemingly never-ending supply of sparkling wine. From the Italy pavilion in EPCOT. 

It keeps getting delivered to their room. 

“Should have brought a jacket,” Killian mutters, mostly into Emma's hair and she doesn’t have to glance up to know he’s doing that stupid thing with his mouth. Also known as smiling. Smirking, even. 

“No one likes a told you so,” she argues.

“Is that a phrase?” Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, flicking her finger against Killian’s chest when he actually has the gall to laugh at her. “Shut up, World Series champion. And stop moving so much. You keep shifting and shaking and then you take the heat with you.” “Am I the heat in this scenario?” “There’s a joke about the hot corner here,” David says. He’s got his own arm around Mary Margaret, her head drifting towards his shoulder every few moments and Leo fell asleep almost as soon as they left the hotel. 

Very early. 

Earlier than—actually, Emma has no idea what time it is, and she cannot quite wrap her mind around the number of people who are also here, all of them mulling around the still-locked entrance to Hollywood Studios with their phones out, like they’re waiting for instructions or something. 

Killian taps his thumb on his phone. More than once. And sighs, more than once. “Was that you making the joke?” he asks suddenly, as if he’s only just processed David’s words. 

“Slow on the uptake, huh?” “It’s because we haven’t gotten any coffee yet,” Mary Margaret mumbles. The words are difficult to hear when they’re mostly spoken into David’s t-shirt and none of them had explicitly decided not to wear team-branded merchandise, but they’ve only been stopped for autographs twice and it’s been kind of fun to just...celebrate. 

Emma’s not sure this exact scenario falls under that umbrella. 

“We had to do it this way,” Killian says, not for the first time and Emma knows she nods in something almost resembling placating spousal support. Her hair moves, at least. And the kid in her arms barely stirs, falling asleep a few minutes after Leo because it might not even be six in the morning yet. 

“So we’ve heard, babe,” she says. “Super serious business.” He scowls. Emma still hasn’t looked up yet. 

“If we got here after the park opened,” Killian starts, and David might groan weakly because they really have heard the explanation half a dozen times already, “then the boarding parties would have already been filled and we wouldn’t be able to get on this ride that—” “—TripAdvisor has called the start of a new generation of rides,” Mary Margaret and Emma say in tandem. 

Killian clicks his tongue. 

“Did we offend you, Mr. World Series MVP?” Emma asks, all innocence and her chin digging into Killian when she, finally, tilts her head up. 

He is, in fact, scowling. But it’s also kind of cute and also kind of endearing and Ellie keeps burrowing herself close to Emma, which does something to the overall state of her heart, so she can’t really be that upset about anything. 

People aren’t allowed to be upset at Disney World, anyway. 

By like—rule. Of humans, or whatever. 

“Can you say boarding parties again, though?” Mark Margaret asks, not quite able to get the words out without laughing. 

Killian huffs. “You guys are the Star Wars nerds, not me. I am doing this for you. Plus, the internet really thinks this is the greatest ride ever made.” “They said exactly?” “Who is the internet in this scenario?” Emma asks. “Is that just—like did they poll people? Babe, are you looking up polls about Star Wars rides?” “It’s supposed to be better than the Avatar one,” Killian reasons. 

“Yeah, well, no one actually remembers the plot of Avatar, that’s why. Just that one scene with the tree and Zoe Saldana’s character and—” Emma cuts herself off when Ellie moves again, a knee to her side and sleep-tinged words pressed to the side of her neck. There’s hair dangerously close to her mouth now. 

Mary Margaret’s shoulders are shaking. “And is the phrase boarding party better or worse than referring to the internet in the collective?”

“I don’t think you’re as tired as you claim to be,” Killian says. “If you can use the word collective like that.” “Feel free to be impressed by extensive knowledge of the English language.” “I absolutely am.” “And speaking of World Series MVP,” David adds, “couldn’t you have pulled some strings or something here?” “That’s a Pinocchio joke,” Emma mutters, the muscles in her cheeks threatening to stage some kind of biological mutiny when her smile stretches even wider. Killian’s expression changes slightly, not quite the smirk or even the put-upon frustration from their teasing because he really has researched this Star Wars ride more than all of them combined. 

If they don’t get a good boarding party, Emma’s going to force the Disney people to give them more sparkling wine. 

On principle. 

“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?” Emma shrugs. “I think I know I’m funny and David thinks you should have used your World Series clout—” “—Oh that’s a good word too,” Mary Margaret says. 

“To get first dibs on the fancy Star Wars ride,” Emma continues. “And then we wouldn’t have to get out of bed so early because the pillows here are ridiculous.” “Is ridiculous good in this scenario?” Killian asks. 

“Was that not obvious?”

“What do you think it is about the pillows, exactly? Overall neck support? Fluffiness? Just vacation-pillow characteristics?” “Vacation-pillow is definitely the lamest thing you’ve said so far today,” Emma laughs, a soft sigh of thanks when Killian pulls Ellie into his arms. There’s no threat of hair in her mouth anymore, and a chance to give her arms a rest, but it also means that she’s now responsible for Killian’s phone and whatever it will do once Hollywood Studios does, actually, open. 

“Maybe we can ask the Boardwalk people where they get their pillows,” Killian suggests. “Stock up or something.” “You say that like I’m not actually going to do it.” “Oh, no I’ve got every belief that you’ll one-hundred percent do it, but—” “—Why didn’t we tell the Boardwalk people that we were very athletic and very important and use that to get on Rise of the Resistance first?” David interrupts. “Also, I just want it noted for the record that the clown in the pool is super freaky.” “Super freaky is definitely a lamer string of words than vacation-pillow, don’t you think?” Killian asks Emma. She has to bite the inside of her lip to stop from laughing 

Cackling, maybe. 

It’s too early in the morning for cackling.

“And,” he adds, “while I do agree with the inherent creepiness of the pool-clown—” “—Oh, God, don’t say it like that,” Mary Margaret says, “that makes it even worse.” Killian lifts his eyebrows. Emma’s going to bite her lower lip in half. “We didn’t tell anyone that we wanted special treatment because then we’d have to act like we’re special.” “That’s decidedly self-effacing, World Series MVP.” “C’mon, now you’re just showing off,” Emma accuses, fingers reaching up to toy with the ring that’s fallen over the front of her shirt. Killian’s eyebrows shift again. 

“It’s not,” he says. “It’s just—do you guys want to be taking pictures the whole time we’re here? None of us are really going to wear team stuff and—” “—That’s just because David is embarrassed to wear team stuff,” Emma points. “Sucks to lose in the Wild Card, doesn’t it, Nolan?

David sneers. “I think I’m the heat in that joke from before. Depending on what I’m throwing. Definitely if it’s a slider.” “What?” “I”m too tired to go over this with you again. Also, your phone is doing something.”

Emma startles at the vibration she hadn’t really noticed before, arm practically flying into Killian’s bicep like he’ll be able to do something or fix something and it has been kind of nice to just be in their own Disney bubble for the last forty-eight hours. 

Even with the freaky pool clown. 

She can’t fathom the person who approved that. 

It’s enormous. 

And freaky as all fuck. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, and Emma is honestly impressed when he manages to find her hand and keep Ellie from waking up, tugging her towards the gates while Mary Margaret and David do their best to keep up. Leo is definitely awake now. And does not sound particularly pleased to be there. 

Killian is bobbing on the balls of his feet as soon as they get in line, an excitement that’s catching, even as they scan their MagicBands to get into the park — which may be the single most endearing thing Emma has ever seen, even with the World Series and the parade and the whole arm around her shoulder thing. 

Her face muscles are never going to recover from this trip. 

The ride is pretty damn cool. 

It’s long and requires more walking than Emma is entirely ready for, but she and Mary Margaret boo Kylo Ren like he’s actually there and not some computer fabrication and Ellie gasps and giggles at least fifteen different times when they start flying away from the First Order, so that’s just about the best thing that’s ever happened. 

And David gets yelled at by a Stormtrooper. 

“It’s because he’s short,” Emma mutters, tugging lightly on Killian’s shirtsleeve. “Get it?” Killian hums. “We’ve already decided you’re hysterical, love. You don’t have to keep trying to prove it.” “What’s that about the inherent competitive nature of athletes?” “Too many words.” “Right, right, right,” Emma nods. She tilts her head again, even as they file off the ride and their boarding party hadn’t been until that afternoon. They’re all well-rested and ready for more park and more wine and it doesn’t take long for her to press her lips to the side of Killian’s cheek. “And here I thought the playoffs were over. You’re all scruff over here, Jones.” “Who’s scruffy looking?” Emma rolls her eyes, but her heart is definitely threatening to explode in her chest and maybe there’s something to be sad for mid-day naps and vacation pillows. Like they make everything better. Winning the World Series probably didn’t hurt either. “I love you.”

That makes Killian grin. “I know.” “Idiot.” “Exactly that,” he agrees, arm finding its way back around her shoulder as he hitches Ellie against his side and kisses exactly where his lips land. On the top of Emma’s hair. 

They get a picture in front of Rey’s speeder. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to hold it like that,” Emma says. “Wouldn’t the ions cut off your arm pretty quickly?” Killian blinks. “Do ions make up a lightsaber?” “No,” David answers, but he’s also holding his lightsaber by resting it on his shoulder like it’s a makeshift bat, which Emma figures proves her point. 

“You are not a lightsaber expert,” Emma argues. “Plus you picked a dumb color.” “Blue is not a dumb color!” “Eh…” David huffs — like this is actually some sort of insulting conversation. Emma smiles. Like she’s won. Something. Maybe blue milk from that one drink stand. 

Killian claims the internet liked blue better than green. 

“Lightsabers are fueled by kyber crystals,” Mary Margaret announces, shrugging when she’s met with three identical stunned faces. She clicks her tongue when none of them show any sign of moving, frozen in the middle of the line for Smuggler’s Run and Emma is admittedly more excited to fly the Millennium Falcon than she is about—

Much of anything. 

Except maybe the World Series. 

Winning a championship is definitely better than flying the Millennium Falcon. Probably. She’s sure. Kind of. After all, she’s only done one so far. 

“Why do you know that?” David balks. “How do you know that?” Mary Margaret waves her phone in his face. “Killian isn’t the only one who can claim the internet as support for his argument. Also, now we have a dinner reservation.” “Where?” “The Grand Floridian Cafe, which means we can go to Magic Kingdom at night and—” “—Churros?” Emma finishes, and it comes out like a question, but it’s really more like a demand and Mary Margaret winks. With a rather pointed finger added for extra agreement. 

“You two are obsessed,” David sighs. 

“You ate an entire thing on your own the other night!”

“Only because Leo couldn’t possibly be expected to eat all of them on his own.” “Yuh huh, whatever you have to keep telling yourself. What was that about offseason workouts?” Killian has to duck his head against Emma’s shoulder to avoid drawing attention to them, but his laugh is still pretty loud and Mary Margaret’s shoulders are doing that thing again and—“You know what?” David challenges. “I’m going to make sure that I get to be captain of the Millennium Falcon and then I’m going to fly us directly into Hyperspace.” “Is that not the point of the ride?” Emma asks, eyes flitting towards Killian. 

He shakes his head. “Part of the ride. And you’re not captain of the Millennium Falcon, Nolan. Only Han Solo gets to be that.” “Babe, are you offended on behalf of Han Solo, right now?” “You get to be a pilot.” “God, that sounds like a lot of responsibility.” He hums again, another kiss to the curve of her jaw and fingers that dance up Ellie’s back. She giggles. “We”ll make sure you’re an engineer, huh, Swan?” 

“Pity role.” “I want to shoot something,” Mary Margaret announces. 

“I think we can do that.”

They do just that. 

Switching cards and they’re not really supposed to do that, but this is vacation and maybe everything that happens after that is some sort of vacation-type karmic retribution. 

Because the switch is the start of their problems — if that’s even the right term. It’s not, but Emma’s way too busy laughing and shouting and flying through Hyperspace is exactly as cool as she thought it would have been when she was nine. 

But there is something to be said for the inherent competitive nature of athletes. 

And Killian and David have always been on the close-to-insane end of that particular spectrum. 

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” David yells, sitting at the front of the cockpit, and that might not be the right term either. “We’re getting hit! Shields down! Shields down!” “Repeating it more than once does not reinforce your point,” Killian grumbles. He’s sitting opposite of Mary Margaret, stabbing his finger into the button that controls his makeshift gun and there are definitely tears in Emma’s eyes. 

Ellie is giggling again, all but slamming her hands flat against the console of buttons, while Leo’s concept of steering threatens to drive them into a black hole. 

Drive probably isn’t the right term for a spaceship anyway. 

The cockpit shakes again — David shouting some words and mumbling others, still aware of the kids and the overall Disney-vibe they’re going for, but Emma can see just how straight his shoulders have gone. He hits another button, twisting so he can yell— “Can you two just hold it steady, please?” “Captaincy has gone to his head,” Mary Margaret mumbles, and Emma can just make out the exact way Killian’s lips twitch. “Maybe we should stage a mutiny or something.” “Do you know how to do that?” “Get off the ride eventually?” “Oh, yeah good call.” “Watch out for that space garbage,” Emma yells, pointing at the screen and David curses again. Ellie laughs. Loudly. And she barely notices her own button, lighting up, which is apparently some indication that she’s supposed to do something, but Emma was never much of a video game kid and she’s not a professional athlete either, so she figures her hand-eye coordination is allowed to be less-than-impressive. 

They get hit by the space garbage. 

Even as they’re getting ready to go back to Hyperspace. “Emma, can you not be the worst engineer on this ship?” David cries. “Fix our shields!” “You are taking this way too seriously,” Emma shouts back, but she’s a little worried she’s actually going to break her button. So, maybe they’re all competitive idiots. 

Ellie is definitely a better engineer than she is. 

And they all gasp and groan as if they’re actually landing as soon as the ship skids to a stop at the drop-off point they’ve been trying to get to for the entire ride. Emma jerks forward, the seat belt digging into her stomach and her heart beating quickly, a mix of adrenaline and fun and—

“Best captain in the galaxy,” David announces.

Mary Margaret boos him. 

“Traitor!” “You come back here and fight the First Order then,” she challenges, Killian unbuckling so he can grab Ellie and they can get off the ride and Emma isn’t surprised when he mumbles—

“We’re going to have to take him down a peg, don’t you think, love?” Emma grins. “Game on, MVP.”

It goes from there. 

They’re all competitive idiots and this is an amusement park, so there’s not competition that’s immediately obvious, but they manage to find their fair share. 

And make it when they can’t find it. 

David eats more churros in Magic Kingdom later that night. 

And they discover Buzz Lightyear Laser Blast. 

Complete with its tallied score. 

And names for reaching certain levels of points. 

“Oh God,” Emma sighs when they get off, the closest cast member smiling at her and telling her to have a magical night. 

Mary Margaret hums in understanding. “How long do you think it takes for them to start looking up cheat codes?” “Killian looked up tips on how to pull that string thing faster on Toy Story Mania last night, so…” “I told you that in confidence, Swan,” Killian yells, a few steps ahead of them with his hand tangled in Ellie’s. Her sparkle-covered ears are threatening to fall on the ground. 

Emma shakes her head when Mary Margaret glances in her direction. “He thought he was being very secret, looking stuff up under the cloak of darkness, but—” “—David’s been practicing rope-tugging rhythm.” “Are you kidding me?” “Would I do that?” “We’re going to ride the People Mover now,” David announces, like that will end the conversation or distract Emma from how frustratingly and impressively competitive they all are. She had not been good at the Buzz Lightyear ride. At all. 

She’s not even sure where she’s aiming her laser thing in the picture. 

“No one is against that,” Mary Margaret reasons. “As long as we don’t have to ride The Carousel of—” “—Don’t say it,” Killian warns. “It’ll get stuck in our head and there’ll be singing and—”

It’s too late. 

The damage has been done. 

Mary Margaret at least has the common decency to look repentant — as both Ellie and Leo do, in fact, start singing at the top of their lungs, heads tilted back as soon as they step on the automatic track up towards the People Mover. 

“There’s a great big beautiful tomorrow,” they start, and Emma tries to get her phone out before anyone notices. Both Killian and David beat her to it. 

Stupid athletes. 

“Shining at the end of every day,” she joins. Killian’s eyes get bluer, she’s sure. Bright under the night-time lights of Tomorrowland, a place that is very quickly becoming one of her favorite spots in all of the parks. 

Killian slings an arm over her shoulder. And holds the phone in front of them. 

“There’s a great, big beautiful tomorrow,” he half-sings under his breath, grinning when Emma’s lips graze his cheek. “And tomorrow’s just a dream away,” Emma finishes. She nips at the side of his ear, only stumbling slightly when they twist into the cars and the carts and she’s really got to learn the right terminology for all these things. 

Killian looks up Buzz Lightyear cheat codes later. 

After they eat more churros. 

Obviously. 

“I can’t believe we waited in line for that,” Killian grouses, that particular string of words becoming something of a mantra as they make their way back towards Fantasyland.

“You’ve got to let it go, babe,” Emma says. “And technically we didn’t wait. We had fast-passes. Can you imagine if we had to wait as long as everyone else?”

That’s also not the first time she’s said that. 

Mary Margaret’s hand is over her mouth. 

“It was so dumb, though!” “It wasn’t dumb,” Emma argues. “It was—magical. We flew over London!” “We moved at a snail’s pace over London and saw vaguely racist depictions of that one part of Neverland while the sound of that cast member telling us to watch our step played on loop in every single corner of my mind.” “You’re very dramatic. Is it because you want a turkey leg?” “I do not want a turkey leg.” “No?” “No,” Killian echoes. “I want to know why anyone in their right mind would wait an hour and a half for Peter Pan’s garbage ride of garbage.” “You should suggest they call it that from now on.” “Don’t think I won’t. I’m a very important athlete, you know?” “If that’s how we choose to use our athlete powers, then I’m going to be really annoyed,” David says. “Plus—Peter Pan was not It’s a Small World, so let’s count our blessings, huh?” “You guys are ruining this,” Emma grumbles. 

“And,” Mary Margaret adds, “people wait even longer for the Seven Dwarves this is not actually a roller coaster ride. So, comparatively speaking.” Emma groans. “Where is your sense of magic, grown adults? Also, the queue line for Seven Dwarves was actually pretty cool.”

“The line for Big Thunder Mountain is shorter all the time. And a better ride.” “This is true, Swan,” Killian agrees, and Emma may be looking for as much magic as she can get on this trip, but she also wasn’t born yesterday. 

She narrows her eyes, twisting her lips with as much judgment as she can get until Killian’s eyes flicker towards his shoes and the tips of his ears go red. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with how much you enjoy Splash Mountain, would it? Mr. MVP? Or how much closer that is to Pirates of the Caribbean?”

“No comment.” “Yuh huh.” “Em,” Mary Margaret reasons, “we are this close to getting perfect photos on all of those rides.” “You’re a competitive weirdo too!”

Mary Margaret does an admirable job of looking legitimately hurt, and it really does smell very strongly of turkey legs in this part of the park. “Mama, mama, mama,” Ellie chants, yanking on Emma’s necklace until she nearly chokes and there’s a very well-placed shoe in her side suddenly. “Can’t we go see Rapunzel now?”

“That’s what we’re doing, kid,” Emma says. “We’ll get better pictures with her and Tiana than we will on any other ride, right?”

Ellie nods enthusiastically, and they’d been pretty good about the lack of team-branded so far, but she’s a kid and she wanted to wear Killian’s number that morning, which was honestly just more than Emma was capable of dealing with. So. Whatever. 

It’s cute. 

Magical, even. 

And there isn’t much of a wait at Princess Fairytale Hall, but they still have to stop in some kind of pre-meeting chamber, Ellie talking a mile a minute about Rapunzel and Flynn and do you think she’ll have a frying pan, mama?

Rapunzel does have a frying pan. 

Definitely magical. 

Emma’s mouth drops despite her own proclamations to adult, Ellie running forward as quickly as her legs can carry her. So she can immediately throw herself forward. 

Directly into Rapunzel’s arms. 

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, but Rapunzel is smiling and doesn’t seem all that surprised and Mary Margaret has her phone out. 

When she and David were very little, Ruth had taken both him and Emma to Disney World, but over the years her memories had grown a little fuzzy and a little distant and she’d never been particularly inclined to come back. She thought this whole trip was a photo-op not more than two weeks ago. 

And yet. 

In that moment, in the middle of goddamn Princess Fairytale Hall, with her daughter still hugging Rapunzel and David trying to get Leo to walk forward, Emma has to blink more than once to stop herself from crying over the memories she’s certain will plaster themselves on every corner of her brain from here on out. 

Except she’ll eventually think of a better way to describe that. 

“I think I may have a new favorite ride,” Killian mutters, hand on Emma’s hip and his lips half an inch from her ear and it’s all she can do to nod. 

And sniffle. 

“What was that about magic?” he adds. 

She swats at his chest, but he catches her around the wrist because he’s really a very good third baseman and has much better hand-eye coordination than Emma could ever hope to achieve. “I love you a lot, you know that?” 

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “And I want really good pictures of this.”

Rapunzel lets Ellie hold the frying pan. 

They fine-tune the Splash Mountain photo two days later. 

“Get ready,” David yells from his spot in the front row, and Emma sits up a little straighter out of instinct. 

The doors open and the vultures at the top of the hill make some kind of vulture-type sound, Killian whispering instructions in Ellie’s ear. 

Seriously, Emma’s smile is going to get stuck on her face. 

It’s not the worst thing in the world. 

“No.” “Come on!” “Absolutely not, Swan.” Emma pouts, but Killian doesn’t do much more than shake his head brusquely, the hint of something close to a smirk tugging at the ends of his mouth. “Nope,” he says, popping his lips on the word for emphasis. “Not until you stop reeking of something that would freeze a vampire in his and or her tracks.” “Gender inclusive, huh?” “Something like that.” “You really aren’t going to make out with me?” “No,” Killian says again even as the smirk wins out. “You ate nothing but garlic naan and dipped it in that one sauce that had legitimate cloves of garlic in it.” “It was good!” “I’m not suggesting otherwise. I’m just telling you that you—” “—Reek?” Emma suggests. She grabs another slice of naan, and Mary Margaret and David had taken both Ellie and Leo to see the animals from the windows on the other side of the restaurant. They’ve been here four times already. Mostly because Emma is somewhere in the realm of obsessed with this naan appetizer. 

Plus, Ellie and Leo both love Animal Kingdom. 

Ellie’s a big fan of giraffes, only she can’t quite figure out the word yet and that’s only kind of painfully adorable. And Leo’s eyes go wide as saucers every time they see some kind of new animal, hands flat on the glass a few hours earlier when they’d wandered around what Killian’s phone told them was actually called Gorilla Falls. 

“That’s rude, you know,” Emma says. “No, rude would be telling you that you aren’t very good at the ring toss part of Toy Story Mania.” “Tower of Terror is way more fun.”

“We’ll go on Tower of Terror later.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Killian confirms, sliding a package of gum he definitely didn’t buy at Disney World across the table. They don’t sell gum at Disney World. 

Emma turns at just the right moment on Tower of Terror. 

So her World Series-winning, MVP, definitely the best third baseman in the league husband can kiss her when the camera goes off. 

It makes David groan. 

Loudly. 

“I think we’re winning,” Emma murmurs, already saving the picture to her phone. 

Killian nods, still close enough that his nose brushes her cheek. “Absolutely. And you don’t reek of garlic anymore. Now, we just have to get you better at Toy Story.”

She finishes last in their car. 

Every time they ride that night. 

They ride four times. 

And the competition continues — as it’s apt to do, really, because of who they are as people, some fundamental something that also apparently requires them to play miniature golf. 

“This is pretty on point for offseason athletes, Em,” David reasons, and it’s not a lightsaber, but he’s got his club propped on his shoulder again. “Just think, it could be real golf. Now you get to battle for supremacy too.” “Do you hear yourself? Honestly? On this course that has hippos wearing ballet shoes?”

“That’s just a Fantasia thing,” Mary Margaret says. “At least there isn’t that Hell monster. That’d be a lot for me to deal with.” “I’m sorry what?” Killian asks. He’s crouched between Ellie and Leo, trying to show them how to swing their clubs and they’re really going to have to lock down on that six-stroke maximum. 

The guy at the cash register had recognized them. 

That’s three photos and one autograph for the entire trip so far. 

It’s not bad, really. 

“You know,” Mary Margaret continues, clicking her tongue when Leo’s backswing threatens to take out several bits of landscaping, “at the end of Fantasia. It’s like the devil or something.” “You’re making that up.” “I’m not! It was terrifying. Honestly, I used to hide behind my couch until the song was over and all the people started singing Ave Maria.” “You’re making this up,” Emma accuses. 

“I’m not! Look it up. Honestly screw Walt Disney for that part of Fantasia.” “I think you’re the only person in the world who has opinions on Fantasia.” “Look it up!” Emma sighs, but does as instructed, swiping away from notifications telling her she’s got even more pictures available on her MyDisneyExperience app. They really have gotten very good at trying to one-up each other on photos. 

Another competition. 

Seriously, they’re all so messed up. 

“Oh, wow,” Emma mutters, flinching slightly when she sees what can only be described as the devil or something. It’s got horns. “That is terrifying. Why is this in a children’s movie?” “Would we call Fantasia a children’s movie?” David asks. 

“It’s Disney, isn’t it?” “Screw Walt Disney,” Mary Margaret repeats slowly, making sure to emphasize every syllable. Killian almost falls over when he laughs. “Actually, you know what? This is how I’m going to get my revenge. I’m going to absolutely wreck the course record on this mini golf…” “Course?” Killian suggests.

“Yeah, exactly that.”

“Competitive weirdos, the lot of you,” Emma grumbles.

“Do you not want to see Mary Margaret take out her childhood anger on plastic hippos in ballet shoes, Swan?” “Well, when you put it like that.” “Let’s go,” Mary Margaret calls, already standing at the first-hole green. “I’ve got a vendetta to settle!”

And it’s not a course record — probably, they don’t really have the wherewithal or even the athletic pull to demand that kind of knowledge, but Mary Margaret beats them all soundly and makes Killian take her picture with the scorecard. 

And it keeps going. 

They ride more rides. They hum the song from Carousel of Progress without actually meaning to. They take pictures and meet princesses, eat their way around the world in EPCOT and then drink their way around the world, because those are the rules, toasting MVP awards and world championships and that makes David gag a little, but Emma laughs and kisses Killian and he gags again, but then she’s too busy making out with her husband to really be worried about...anything. 

Plus the sparkling wine selection in the Italy pavilion really is other level. 

The whole thing is something close to perfect. 

Emma is starting to wonder if anyone will notice if she just steals those pillows. 

David and Killian keep looking up cheats on Toy Story Mania. 

They trade top scores on Buzz Lightyear, and Emma isn’t entirely surprised that by the time their final night rolls around they’re locked in some New York-Boston battle, complete with mumbled trash talk and pointed glares, each of them demanding just one more time, c’mon, like they’re the children in this family 

The actual children are much more interested in getting back on the Dumbo ride. 

Or eating more churros. 

Honestly, the number of churros they’ve consumed in the last eight days must be some kind of Disney World record. 

And it’s starting to get late, both Ellie and Leo showcasing consistently fluttering eyelashes, heads on shoulders and fingers curling into the back of shirts and Emma hopes she doesn’t cry during the fireworks. 

That would almost be too cliché. 

“Just,” Killian says, grunting softly when Ellie’s chin threatens to dig into his collarbone, “one more time and we can break the tie and then we’ll have—” “—Bragging rights?” Emma asks knowingly.

“I mean…” He can’t shrug when there’s a kid draped over his right shoulder, but an attempt is made all the same and David is wearing a Sox hat. Emma figures that’s what tips the scales, so to speak. 

“I’m already getting in line,” David announces. “So, either Jones gets with the program, or—” “—That is the oldest sentence I have ever heard.” “I found a new spot to shoot at that will practically give me immediate Galactic Hero status.” Emma doesn’t freeze, per se. That would be insane. And the last thing she is is insane. Naturally competitive, maybe, and a little tired, but that good kind of tired that comes from good kind of things, a pleasant ache in the back of her legs and heaviness to her muscles and her eyes flit towards Killian immediately. 

He smirks. 

“It’s the hat, huh?” 

Killian tries to shrug again, Ellie grumbling at the movement. “Sorry, love,” he mumbles, resting his cheek against their daughter’s head so he can level Emma with that very specific stare. Like Game Seven and two outs with a runner in scoring position and probably some joke about hitting against the shift. “You did promise we’d bring him down a peg, Swan.” “I mean I thought losing in the Wild Card game would have done that already.” “I heard that,” David yells, impatience wafting off him while he waits at the end of the line. “And I think you guys are just stalling.”

Mary Margaret lets out what Emma can only hope is a fake gasp, and Leo has definitely fallen asleep already. 

Killian’s smirk gets more pronounced. 

Tommorowland is absolutely Emma’s favorite part of Magic Kingdom. 

“What do you say to a combined effort, Nolan?” Killian asks, not taking her eyes away from Emma. She might swoon a little. She’ll blame the smirk. “We add up the collective scores of your car and whichever team comes out on top has to buy a snack of the winner’s choosing.” “You just want more churros,” David says. 

Emma clicks her tongue. “We're also offering to buy you churros." “Which isn’t going to happen,” Killian says, nudging on Emma’s back until she starts walking again. “But it’s nice that we’re acting like you’ve got a chance.”

David rolls his eyes. “Wow, that’s scathing.” “And not an agreement yet. What’s the matter, ace? You nervous you can’t win when this becomes a team sport?” “Was that an insult?” “Honestly babe,” Emma mumbles, not sure if the animatronic Buzz Lightyear in line has always been this loud or it’s just because they may actually be the only people in line. It’s late. “Also, did you call him ace?” “That makes sense,” Killian objects. “Ace of the staff and number-one pitcher and—” “—Insults are not insults, if you have to explain them,” Mary Margaret says, sliding into the next available car and holding her hands up so the cast member can slam it closed. “Also, you guys suck and we’re going to win. We did research.” “David did research,” Emma argues. “You’re just hanging on for the glory.”

“Go Sox, go!” “That’s not even a cheer!” “I love when you get belligerent like this,” Killian grins, nipping at Emma’s lower lip when his mouth finds hers. 

“It’s bad trash talk.” “Mmhm, you’re a very good trash talker, Swan.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” “Aim for the Z, huh?”

Her muscles aren’t quite as tired anymore — an adrenaline that usually only comes when Killian takes a ridiculously large lead off second, but this is still kind of fun and maybe as magical as everything else and she really likes winning. 

With Killian. 

On, like principle or something. 

“Try to find the strike zone, Nolan,” Killian yells, but they’re already moving and Ellie’s head keeps lolling between his side and Emma’s. She starts slamming her thumb into the button. 

If asked, Emma will never be entirely sure if that’s what does it. Her vaguely over-excited thumb or the sheer determination to win, driving her to start shooting at things before they’ve even really gotten into the first room, but whatever it is proves to be important and some kind of game-changer because— “Shit,” Killian gasps, gritting his teeth as soon as the word is out of his mouth. Ellie looks up at him. “Don’t repeat that.”

She laughs. She’s got no idea what’s going on. 

Neither does Emma, really. 

“What’s your deal?” she asks, thumb still moving quickly enough that she’s briefly worried about dislocating it. “Are you not shooting things right now?” Killian shakes his head slowly before nodding towards the soft red glow of their respective score screens. “Oh shit,” Emma gasps. “Seriously, Ellie, do not say that around Uncle David.”

Emma blinks more than once — like that will get the score to change and not continue climbing. It does the second thing, a number she’s never seen on her side of the car before, already over seven-hundred thousand and they’re not even out of the first room yet. 

“What happened?” she snaps. “I—is it a glitch or something?” Killian clicks his tongue in reproach. “Swan, you’ve got to be more confident in your talent than that.”

“I didn’t do anything!” “I think you hit David’s secret big-money targets.” “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. Worse than vacation-pillows.” “I asked one of the people at the desk, they said we could get pillows online.” Her heart explodes. Like it’s been shot by Buzz Lightyear’s laser. She’s only slightly confident she’ll come up with better analogies at some point. 

And Emma’s score is cresting eight-hundred thousand now. 

“Just keep shooting, love,” Killian says, joy in the words and the overall width of his smile and something, something, magic. Or luck. 

Emma keeps shooting. 

And her laugh seems to soar out of her, ignoring the pain in her right thumb and the dig of Ellie’s shoe in her left thigh when she scrambles onto Killian’s lap, which is definitely breaking the rules, but can I shoot, daddy and Killian is nothing short of a pushover, so. 

Emma keeps shooting. 

With Ellie and Killian and she’s not sure who grabs the joystick when they reach that one tunnel that’s supposed to look like space, but then they’re spinning and there’s more laughter and it’s good, great, everything Emma thought vacation should be. 

Especially after winning the World Series. 

But then animatronic Zurg is yelling at them, the flash of the camera making Emma blink and Killian’s trying to direct Ellie’s hands on the laser gun, but she’s got her own ideas and—

“Swan.” Emma hums, shaking her right hand gently before she realizes that Killian is trying to take a picture of their score screen before it disappears. 

Nine-hundred thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine. 

“No way,” Emma laughs. “That’s—” “—Galactic Hero,” Killian finishes, grinning like an idiot. “You, my love, appear to be a Galactic Hero. And probably the savior of the Universe.” “Do those go together?” “Undoubtedly.” “What is this?” David shouts, standing at the end of the moving sidewalk. 

Emma beams. “What was your score, Nolan?” He scowls. 

“Only space ace,” Mary Margaret mutters, and Killian’s laugh threatens to do damage to Emma’s ear drums. “But that was better than me. I only got like two-hundred thousand, which is just—embarrassing, honestly.” “Seriously,” Killian nods, directing them towards the pictures so Ellie can scan her MagicBand. “I think you get a button, Swan.”

David’s eyes bug. “No.” “You going to be ok, over there ace? Space ace?” “Stop it. That’s not—” “—Excuse me,” Killian says, getting the attention of the nearest cast member. “What happens if we’ve got a Galactic Hero in our midst?” To her credit, Jenny the cast member — whose name tag informs them that she’s from Maine — doesn’t look anything but overjoyed by Emma’s recent achievement, gasping like this is a serious thing or they’ve won something equivalent to another World Series, but Killian’s smile suggests just that and there is a pin involved. 

“Congratulations,” Jenny says enthusiastically. Both Ellie and Leo cheer, any hint of exhaustion gone in the pomp of becoming a Galactic Hero. 

“Thanks,” Emma mutters. Her cheeks are very warm all of the sudden. 

Killian makes her put the pin on. 

And she definitely cries during the fireworks, especially when Tinker Bell flies out of the castle — something about memories and moments and beating Boston. Even when Boston is just her brother and his internet research. 

“You’re thinking,” Killian says, a few moments after the fireworks have ended and people have started to make a mad dash for the exit. “You ok?” Emma shakes her head, but her cheeks are still warm and Ellie’s head is on her shoulder. “Swan, c’mon, love it’s—” “—Did I steal your Buzz Lightyear thunder?” “What a sentence.” “I’m serious. I mean I knew we were doing joint stuff because you thought Mary Margaret would bring down the team, but—” “—Well that’s an accusation.” “Tell me I’m wrong,” Emma challenges.

Killian squeezes one eye shut. “The thought had maybe crossed my mind.” “Exactly! You’re—I mean, the inherent competitive nature of athletes is no joke and you and David have been going at it all week.”

“That was fun, though. I wouldn’t have been totally upset if he beat me.”

“Say that again with a straight face.” “Ok,” Killian sighs. “I would have been annoyed if your brother beat me, but I’m not even remotely upset that you did. Team New York has reigned supreme on whatever planet Buzz Lightyear is from.” “Star Command?” “Nah, that’s just where he works.” “I don’t know enough about the mythos of Toy Story,” Emma admits, not able to stop her laugh. Killian kisses her forehead. ‘You’re sure, though? You looked up stuff and I just started shooting things and got the high-score you couldn’t.”

He chuckles, fingers drifting dangerously high up her side. Especially when they’re still surrounded by so many people. 

And that Walt Disney statue. 

“Well, when you trash talk like that,” Killian starts. He has to shift Ellie so he can crowd closer to Emma, the toes of his shoes threatening to rest on the top of hers. “But, no, Swan. I am not upset that you hit a high score I didn’t. I am very proud of your ability to defend the galaxy and my own trash-talking honor. Plus, the deal was a team, right? That’s kind of how it works.” She may be crying. 

Again. 

Peak cliché. 

“I love you,” Emma says. “I’m glad you won a World Series so we got to come to Disney World.” “Yeah, that’s totally why I did it. And I love you too.” And it’s not like she’s not expecting the kiss, but there is a kid between them and that Walt Disney statue, so Emma can’t quite help the gasp she lets out when Killian ducks his head. But then her hands are moving and he makes that one specific noise when her fingers find his hair, tugging him closer, like he’d have any objections. 

Her back noticeably arches. 

At the same time she presses up on her toes. 

A flash goes off somewhere. “Damn,” Emma mumbles, mostly into Killian’s mouth and she’s going to blame David’s hat. He’s a few feet away. Buying churros. 

“Ah, it was only a matter of time,” Killian reasons. His fingers dance up Ellie’s back again, drifting across his number and his name and Emma’s blushing for a whole other reason. “Plus, if that’s the picture they want, I’m only too willing to start making out with you again.” “Yeah? No garlic, huh?” “Eh, post-celebration I’d even be willing to risk the garlic.” “Charmer,” Emma mumbles, but then she’s pushing up again and kissing Killian again and she can’t really think when his tongue sweeps across her lips. Something about a home run or bases-clearing double or Galactic Hero status on the Buzz Lightyear ride in Magic Kingdom. 

“Although,” she adds, “might not be a bad idea to give social media something to work with. I bet they’d appreciate it.” Killian arches an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

They take a family photo in front of the castle. 

With the lights of Main Street around them and Ellie’s shirt obvious. 

And Emma’s pin. 

She laughs when she sees the caption later, head already on pillows she won’t actually have to steal — 

World Series Champ and Galactic Hero. Talk about keeping up with the Jones’es. 

[charmingturkeysandwich]

I Could Use a Love Song Ch. 3: don’t need no reason or happy hour

Chapter 3 of my Country Singer!Emma AU is here. I added a tag on AO3 for alcohol abuse, because while I don’t think we have true alcoholism here... Emma’s coping mechanisms are shit and the heavy drinking isn’t the healthiest. I wanted to make sure that I added that warning here as well. Please don’t use alcohol like Emma does here. I know from experience it’s hella bad news. Find a therapist! This is actual advice, not a joke. For reals. Emma should have just gone to a counselor instead of making appointments with Jose Cuervo and Jack Daniels. If anyone has treated you the way this iteration of Neal treated Emma, talk to someone. If you can’t afford a therapist, talk to me. Seriously, no lie, no joke, I’m only alive today because I eventually adopted a dog and sought counseling to cope with life’s many traumas.

Mmmmkkay enough babbling. 

Also on AO3

Previous Chapters  1    |     2

Their next few gigs were some of the best in Emma’s (admittedly tequila-hazed) memory, and for once that glimmer of hope for that future of fame and fortune… well, it felt like a hell of a lot more than a glimmer.

The crowds had been rowdy, raucous, and ready to sing along to every song on their whole set. A few people even more some of the merch Killian had started selling at the door, nothing fancy of course, but it made her heart burst with pride nonetheless.

It had all gotten so real, so achievable, so close to everything she’s been dreaming about before she ever really knew that dreams were a thing that could come true.

So of course something was about to bring back the quasi-comfort of her life always reverting to being a waking nightmare.

That was a deeply melodramatic way of putting it – it’s not like she was being beaten or shamed or any of the daily torments her tiny town had ensured were burned into her brain. But that was the problem with the past, wasn’t it? It wasn’t over, even when it was. Those days were past but they would always somehow be present, replaying in her brain and aching in her heart no matter how far from Pennsylvania their little van puttered.

(Whoever said you can’t go home again neglected to mention how hard it was to leave it, even after you’d physically gone.)

It had been a Tuesday. In some chain grocery store outside Virginia Beach, the sun glowing through the big front windows and the icy chill of the air conditioning raising goosebumps on her bare arms. Emma had only echoes of a hangover, so Ruby’s constantly chatting wasn’t nearly as grating as it could be. They moved slowly through the aisles, tossing various food and supplies in their cart, more than fulfilling the list Graham and Mary Margaret had given them.

They were still struggling artists but some weeks the struggle was… less. This was one of them and if they decided to celebrate with Patron instead of Jose Cuervo and fresh, organic honeycrisp apples instead of Great Value brand dried apple chips, well, it’s because they damn well deserved it.

They couldn’t have been more than a few feet away from the checkout when the radio (a constant calming presence, most days, being the object of their ambition and all) caused her heart to drop to the deepest pits of her gut, twisting her insides until she was nearly dry-heaving to get the gross sensation of feelings out of her body and in the sewer system where it belonged.

They say scent is tied to memory, and it surely is, but there’s something, too, in sound. Music had a distinct way of tying itself to a moment, to a feeling. For some people that feeling was joy, was love, could be better than the best drug to intoxicate them with no risk of hangover. But for Emma, for this song in particular, it was all hangover, no high.

I’m set on cruise control

I’m slowly losing hold of everything I got

You’re looking so damn hot

The lyrics were innocuous enough. Sweet. Loving. There was certainly some couple out there – many, probably – who smiled fondly at each other when it came on. But for her, it was just a reminder of how pathetic she’d been, once upon a time, how deeply manipulated she’d been. And oh, the consequences she’d suffered for falling for a sweet voice and a pretty face and a moment that had felt like a country song.

And I don’t know what road we’re on

Or where we’ve been, from starin at you, girl

All I know is I don’t want this night to end

It had been a song she’d listened to in Neal’s truck, on a back road, the moon high and the stars bright and her heart hammering in her chest before he leaned over the center counsel parked in his daddy’s field and kissed her like she was precious, like she was, like he could love her through this life and the next.

And even today, half-hungover in a Piggly Wiggly or whatever the fuck this place was, she still felt the whisper of butterflies in her. She still remembered how much she’d believed the lies and even hoped the bad stuff wasn’t actually real, holding on to nights like that first one, her and Neal seemingly the only two people on Earth and all she’d ever need to feel whole again.

Emma Swan was a fighter, a survivor, a strong, badass woman that no man would ever hurt again.

But one Luke Bryan song on a clear Tuesday afternoon had her so torn up in shame, she almost forgot her best friend was standing beside her, her little “family” of a band and crew waiting for her back at the block of hotel rooms down the road.

She wasn’t in Pennsylvania. Neal wasn’t anywhere near her. But she could practically smell his cologne and the exhaust of his truck and the fact that there was a tiny part of her that truly still wished it had all worked out, that he’d been the happily ever after she’d wanted, and she wanted to slap herself silly for how stupid one smart girl could be.

“I think we can afford some Reese’s mix, right?” Ruby asked, already tossing two bags in the cart as they entered the self-checkout line.

“Yeah,” was all Emma could respond, her traitor brain still wavering between wishing for an alternate ending to her stupid, sad tale and coming totally clean to Ruby about what horrors she’d suffered and hitting the road with her on a revenge-fueled quest to keep that fucker from ever hurting another sweet, could-be-innocent girl ever again.

“Emma, you with me?” Ruby’s voice was hesitant, her eyes wide as she took in Emma’s likely ghost-pale complexion and battle-ready stance.

(She was always fighting those internal ghosts and damn could those things travel.)

But she didn’t want to think about Neal or the bruises long-healed or how she wishes she could time travel back and prevent the most painful part of what that monster had done to her, the part where for a pretty little minute she truly thought she’d loved him.

No. The past might be doing its damnedest to creep into today but she was not going to let it.

Fuck you, Luke Bryan, and all your pelvic sorcery.

“God, I hate this song,” Emma finally croaked out. “I think we should celebrate today.”

“Celebrate how much you hate a song that I’m fairly sure David would kill you for hating?”

“No, Rubes. Celebrate this,” Emma motioned all around them, somewhat erratically, only serving to further confuse Ruby. At least for a moment. “We’re really getting somewhere, aren’t we? I mean, three hotel rooms. That’s, like, a record. We’re getting somewhere. You and I, we came from some shit, right? And now we’re headed toward something good and I think we should celebrate.”

“And how exactly do you propose we celebrate this? Because if it’s by having a four-way with Graham and Killian I’m absolutely in, with just a couple ground rules – “

Emma cut off her teasing before her brain had enough time to make any visuals of that: “Ew. God, no. Why does your brain even go there? No. I just meant, you know, hitting some bars or the beach or something. Day drinking. It’s the ultimate in enjoyment and not giving a fuck.”

“So you’re suggesting we celebrate the good the same way we drown our sorrows in the bad?” Ruby mocked, tossing the groceries on the conveyor belt and a packet of mints at Emma’s head.

“No, you drink your sorrows in the dark. You drink your celebrations when the sun’s out,” Emma said like it was the most normal, accepted thing in the world, like she was reciting it from a code of conduct instead of having made it up on the spot to cover for the fact that she very much, one hundred percent was drowning her sorrows but just didn’t have the patience to wait for the sun to set.

“Sure, Ems. Let’s go with that.” Ruby clearly wasn’t buying her bullshit – she always did have an excellent bullshit detector – but she went along with it all the same.

Emma paid for the groceries and hefted as many bags to the car as she could possibly carry, the burn in her arms like the warmth of the sun as she flip-flopped her way to the awaiting van, a great day of drinking and forgettingahead of her.

The usual six of them turned into seven that day, Killian’s old buddy from the service having been stationed at the naval base in Norfolk and here for a visit. Will, that was his name, and he was a pain in the ass in the very best way. He had been matching her shot-for-shot in the hotel room before they hopped the Uber to The Cove, a beachside bar favored by locals and tourists alike. He would tease her and taunt her and buy her drinks, but with absolutely the energy of a brother and not a I’m looking to get into your pants kind of way.

David saw her as a sister, sure, but he tended toward the serious, the protective. He cared so much and knew too much, and it kept him from being totally lighthearted or even downright rude. And Graham, well he never paid Emma quite that much attention, always on his own quests and whatnot. She couldn’t blame the guy, and truly she didn’t usually want attention, but there was something about today, something about the casual nature of her exchanges with Will that allowed her to just be free.

Killian wasn’t quite on board, though. Ever since she and Ruby had floated the idea of some casual no-show-tonight fun, he’d been weirdly quiet. Mary Margaret and David were notably excited, seeming to view it as an opportunity for date night, even with the five other tagalongs. And Ruby was pretty much always up for a party.

But Killian seemed to be cranky at her and she couldn’t figure out why.

“Let loose, why don’t you, Jones!” Emma shouted across the bar, Killian nursing a rum and coke while Ruby, Will, and Emma had joined another group of probable-tourists in a limbo competition.

“Eh, let him sulk,” Will had suggested, stumbling a little after returning to the upright position. He was suspiciously good at the limbo. Maybe he’d been a gymnast in another life?

“I’ll get him, Em,” Ruby promised, having fallen flat on her ass after the last round (the responding ooooohhhhhhshaving more to do with her skirt riding up to her waist as she fell than it was about the fall itself).

Ruby had spent the next hour or so in the corner with Killian, both steadily drinking but never really coming to re-join the party. So Emma and Will kept socializing with strangers while Graham flirted hard with a pretty girl and Mary Margaret and David found another grossly into each other couple to apparently double date with, because of course they did.

After a few drinking games, a few messy dances, and definitely too much liquor for before 5pm, Emma finally took a break, she and Will sidling up to the bar and ordering some nachos.

“Y’know, you’re not nearly as pretty as Killian described you,” Will said after a few minutes of nacho-focused silence.

“Hey! I think you’re insulting me and I don’t appreciate it,” Emma responded, cheese dripping down the corner of her mouth.

“Way he talks, you’d think you were a bleeding fallen angel or something. I definitely didn’t expect a hot mess who talked with her mouth full.”

“Hah! You said hot. I still got it,” she joked, chomping down on another cheese and chili covered chip.

Emma had become pretty good at reading people – people tended to adapt after you suffering the consequences of falling for it – and Will definitely wasn’t flirting with her. At least not with actual intent. So why on earth had he brought up her looks?

She was happy to play along with whatever game he had going, was even feeling a little bolder and more confident than usual with his carefree attitude and his backward compliments.

But his next comment was the proverbial bucket of ice on any of those feelings.

“He’s a good man, Emma. I hope you don’t toy with him.”

“Excuse me?” What exactly was this fucker accusing her of? She hadn’t even talked to Killian since they’d been at the hotel and she certainly hadn’t been mean. No, even at her most prickly, she was never all-out mean to him. He was a good guy, the type to hold your hair when you puked and nearly the opposite of her initial assumptions about him. Of course she’d never ‘toy with him.’ The fucking nerve of this dude.

“I don’t think you know me enough to continue those thoughts, Scarlet,” she warned, shoving the nachos away and downing her fruity drink.

“Don’t get me wrong. I like you, Emma. You’d make a good mate. But I’m more like you than you realize, and I know how many people I hurt before I got myself straight. Just … keep that in mind, won’t ya?”

And then the bastard just… left.

He didn’t say goodbye to anyone – not even to Killian – and left Emma pissed as all hell and sitting alone at a tourist trap in the worst city in all of Virginia.

So much for that attempt at celebration.

But before her thoughts (and actions) could turn to the dark side, Graham and David were approaching her for a friendly tournament of darts and after a couple bulls eyes and a little light taunting, her carefree spirit had returned, just in time to kick Mary Margaret’s ass and move onto the championship game between her and Killian.

“So, that friend of yours is something,” Emma observed, tossing her first set of darts and landing them with soft thunks into the felt.

“Will? Aye. He’s… he’s been a friend for quite a long time. There for me for some pain. So I choose to keep his pain-in-the-ass existence around.” His tone was light and his words sincere, but there was a weight to his expression that Emma didn’t quite understand.

He took his turn, little glints in his eye and mini-fist pumps when he hit his intended target. It was adorable, to be honest. But there was definitely something wrong and despite Will’s seeming accusations about her and her abilities to be a good friend, she wanted nothing more than to take away whatever pain he was reliving at the moment.

So she lost – yes, intentionally – and dragged him to the bar, ordering him some straight whiskey to loosen him up and hopefully to help him forget like she already was.

“Why, Swan, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk,” he practically purred, breaking the flirty tone with a gentle boop to her nose. “Which is usually my tactic.”

“Easy, Captain,” she joked with him, fiddling with the prosthetic ‘hook’ contraption he wore when they went out (it’s a perfect beer holder, he’d said, to which she’d responded yeah, right, you just want to play pirate).

Despite the fog of the liquor, a few facts clicked into place. He’d suffered some bad shit in his past, shit Will apparently witnessed. Killian had also lost his hand, probably in the Navy. And this town, it wasn’t far from a navy base. Could that have been his navy base? Had they inadvertently brought Killian to the scene of the crime, so to speak?

The way she never wanted to go back to her ‘hometown,’ the place she’d lived the longest and suffered the most… what if that’s how he felt here? What if she’d suggested they celebrate over the grave of whatever and whoever he lost?

God, she was a hot mess and she was dangerous, the way she sank into her pain without looking into anyone else’s.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she wanted to apologize. Or something. “I’m sorry about this. Or, I guess, about whatever led to this. Or accompanied it. I’m just… I’m just sorry?”

“For the ungodly amount of liquor you’re pressuring me into drinking? Don’t worry, love, I’m a big boy.”

Ugh, the deflection. She knew that tactic well. “No, I mean this,” she said, gripping the elbow of his damaged arm. “I don’t know what happened and I’m not asking, but I just want you to know that I’m sorry. Not in the fault kind of way. Just the way where I wish it hadn’t happened and I know there’s pain and you didn’t deserve it. Or don’t. Currently. You know what I mean.”

“I think you’re drunk off your ass, darling.”

“Call me darling one more time and you’ll be the one on your ass.”

“So defensive, jeez,” he quipped, finishing another drink and slamming the glass back down on the table, his face melting into something a little more serious, if only for a moment. “Thank you, Swan,” he said finally, cupping her cheek with his right hand.

Her heart about stopped as his eyes bored into hers. It was much too much, the closeness, the feel of his hand, the heat of his body, the truth in his eyes, and all she wanted was to go back to teasing and laughing and strangers who didn’t have feelings or at least didn’t share them with her and why did she even bring it up, anyway? Just because Will had made her feel bad? Why shouldn’t they drink away their pain if it quieted the demons for one blessed day? Why should we have to suffer the same memories over and over when instead we could just fucking let go.

She should have just stuck to letting go.

But his intense sincerity washed away in a blink, his flirty near-pirate persona back with a vengeance. “Now, Swan, what game shall I best you at next?” His gentle caress on her cheek turned into a full grip, his fingers scrunching her face almost comically.

“Name it, Jones. You’re on.”

Turns out their little crew had signed them all up for a cornhole tournament out on the sand and Graham had called dibs on Emma as a partner, for which she was thankful. He was pretty boss at all bar games, and she had a competitive streak even without her BAC being higher than her high school GPA.

But get her drunk and she’d pretty much lie, cheat, and steal her way to bragging rights on whatever silly game they were playing.

So of course she and Graham had made it to the finals, their opponents two bikini-clad college girls who could trash talk like no other.

Which is why Emma was totally fine with the little plot she had brewing in her head.

“Graham, we need distractions here.”

“What do you mean, like have Mary Margaret set something on fire again?”

“Oh, come on. Pretty girls. Fun, happy, drunk, pretty girls. I saw them ogling you earlier so they’re probably straight. Take your shirt off. Now!”

“I always said I’d reject your advances when you inevitably tried to get me naked, Swan, but you drive a hard bargain.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but Graham did as instructed, stretching lazily and pantomiming sweat before pulling at the neck of his t-shirt and whisking it over his head.

The girls missed their next shots, and Graham had the chance to win it with this last toss and Emma was ready to bust out her victory dance just a tad prematurely.

Until the brunette untied her bikini top and let the fabric fall to her waist just as Graham was taking his shot.

He missed, of course.

Damn, these girls were good.

“Can I be of assistance?” a husky voice offered, his breath ticking her ear lobe.

Killian, of course.

“What exactly can you offer, Jones?” Graham swooped in to ask, clearly annoyed that his bare chest hadn’t yet won them the game.

“Well, Graham, Emma here assures me that you’re one ‘fine specimen of man’ but sadly to those girls you’re all talk and no action, across the beach from them, separated by this very game. I think they need something a little more… tactile.”

Killian was over-confident when he was drinking, but it’s not as if he were wrong. If she were one of those girls and Killian came up to her, with his sultry accent and his maddening smirk and the way he’d run his fingers through her long hair…

Yeah, it would work. Definitely. Yup.

“Go for it, Jones, but don’t come crying to us if they don’t take to your charms the way you want them to,” Emma warned, rolling her eyes and banishing all inappropriate thoughts of Killian Jones to the dark recesses of her mind with her knowledge of calculus and the memory of that time she walked in on Mary Margaret sucking David off in their shared kitchen back in Pittsburgh.

Killians voice alone proved distracting enough for the blonde girl to miss her shot and Graham, his ego now challenged, sank his with ease.

Emma cheered far too loud and leaped into Graham’s arms, her legs around his waist, Ruby rushing up to high five them and pass along a few more shots to keep the day rolling.

By the time the sun sank behind the bar, the ocean in front of them streaked with the deep blues and purples of twilight, Emma was well past drunk and definitely no longer thinking of any painful backstories or traumas or anything, really, but the cinnamon burn of the Fireball and the feel of Killian’s arm around her as they walked down a set of stairs to a fire pit so much like those that she’d built on the banks of the Allegheny and yet so different, the smell of the salt of the ocean and the leather of Killian’s jacket keeping her brain from connecting the present to the past.

“Jones, haven’t you ever heard you’re supposed to keep your hands to yourself in the presence of a lady?” she teased, wiggling her shoulders where he was grasping her.

“Aye, but I see no ladies here!” He chuckled and she elbowed him and he bowed his head to her ear as they stepped down the last stair. “Besides, love, what if you’d fallen and no one was there to save you?”

She rolled her eyes again, shrugging off his support now that there was no excuse for it, solid ground beneath their feet. “Oh, I’m a loud screamer. Someone would have come for me.”

“Oh, how I’d like to experience both of those things for myself…” Killian groaned, his mind of course solidly in the gutter.

Emma just laughed it off and stumbled toward the fire, joining Mary Margaret and David on a log clearly only meant for two.

Tomorrow was going to be hell, definitely more than just the echo of a hangover. But they had hotel rooms and each other and now and really those things alone made every minute of tomorrow’s inevitable headache more worth it than she could ever have fathomed in any stage of her life before this one.