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silyabeeodess · 2 years ago

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Twisted Wonderland Analysis: Are the Housewardens (and Jamil) Truly Based on the Villains?

I’ve been doing a lot of (again, over)thinking since I wrote my post on Neige Blanche. In it, I mentioned that I didn’t think Neige was a good parallel of Snow White as a character due to the--albeit, likely unintentional--inconsideration he shows others. Ever since, the more I thought of that, the more it had me wondering if our leading bad boys are truly based on the Disney villains. I know this seems like an absolutely ridiculous claim: They look like the villains, their storylines follow the patterns of the villains’ arcs, and much of their behavior is also reminiscent of the villains.

However, what if I were to explain to you how much of that was surface-level only?

In some ways, I’ve noticed that there’s also quite a few similarities between the housewardens and the protagonists from the Disney films. This may in-part be due to the fact that they are TWST protagonists, as well as to how the villains could sometimes act as foils to the heroes; Still, there are some similarities in their backgrounds and personalities that make me think there’s more to it--especially after Book 6.

Since this will be a long post that contains some spoilers for the game’s English version, I’ll post my explanation on each of the housewardens (and Jamil sorry I feel compelled to add him like this, but I don’t want someone calling him out on a technicality) and how I think they’re similar to the Disney protags below the cut:

I’ll add a disclaimer to start: Some of these comparisons will definitely be stronger than others. Still, rather than begin with my strongest argument, I want to keep these explanations in-order of appearance. If there’s a character you’d rather read about first, I’ll have their names listed in bold.

Riddle Rosehearts

So, for Riddle, we have the obvious comparison to the Queen of Hearts, someone who was strict and unforgiving against anyone who went against her rule. Admittedly, it’s a perfect match for Riddle and his approach to leading his dorm...at first. The more information we learn about both Riddle and the world of Twisted Wonderland itself, the more the pieces don’t exactly fit. In the world’s “twisted history,” the Queen of Hearts is noted to be someone who brought order to the chaos that was Wonderland. However, as viewers of the Disney films and with our knowledge of Yuu’s (the player’s) visions, we know this wasn’t the case. Quote: “Most everyone’s mad here.” The Queen of Hearts wasn’t a figure of order: She was just as mad as everyone else in Wonderland if not more-so through her tyrannical ways. (A sane person doesn’t decapitate people for getting the color of a rose wrong.) So, who did represent order in Wonderland? Alice.

Alice was a person from a world much like ours and, as a child of a higher status growing up in the Victorian Era, had a background fairly similar to Riddle’s. At the very opening of her film, we see her conflict with her older sister as she tries to get Alice to pay attention to her history lesson when all Alice wants to do is relax and play. This is a less severe parallel of Riddle’s strict upbringing from his mother. While this first scene also illustrates Alice’s carefree and curious nature, let’s furthermore consider her opening song that led to the events of the film: “A World of My Own.” Alice wanted a world in which she didn’t have to follow the rules society placed on her and instead have a world where “everything would be nonsense.” This follows Riddle’s desire to live beyond the constrictions his family placed on him, as well as the wish for the state of things around him to fit his desires.

Then, what happens when Alice gets the world of nonsense that she asked for? She faces trouble at every turn and wants to go home. Everyone she meets in Wonderland treats her as foolish or odd for not playing along with their madness. The singing flowers treat her as a weed. The Caterpillar yells in her face. The Mad Hatter and March Hare won’t let her sit still long enough to take a sip of tea. The Cheshire Cat gets her in trouble with the Queen of Hearts and the Queen of Hearts tries to kill her. And the entire time, Alice never did anything wrong. She stood up for herself, but was never rude or hurtful to anyone. Most importantly, for us as the audience, she was the straight-man that brought some reason to a world we couldn’t understand. This is how Alice fits properly as someone representing “order.” She gave us what Riddle gives his dormmates: Structure in a world full of “rules” that are impossible to wrap one’s head around, but that we nevertheless had to play along with.

In further comparison, Riddle often acts as the “straight man” outside of the dorm as well thanks to his intellect and resolve to keep on top of his studies. He doesn’t tolerate Floyd’s “nonsense” when the latter picks on him, and is good at rationalizing/acting quick in response to whatever situation he’s thrown into at the school--such as at the school’s opening ceremony. Last but not least, Riddle’s fear of chaos could also nod to the trials Alice went through. Alice suffered thanks to Wonderland’s nonsense, and Riddle expects to suffer if he doesn’t follow the rules his mother gave him.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona might not have much comparison to Simba when the latter was a cub, but I can see some similarities to Simba as an adult that I can summarize in two words: “Hakuna Matata.”

Think about how Leona acts on a daily basis: He lazes around different hiding spots he has across the school grounds to escape from his schoolwork, yet can show a sense of responsibility when push comes to shove such as leading/instructing his underclassmen during Spelldrive club activities or emergencies at the school, something both Epel and Jack note about him. What did Simba do? He went into hiding after the death of his father and accepted the Hakuna Matata lifestyle of lazing around with no worries, but nevertheless rose to take responsibility as a prince when his pride needed him. Albeit for different reasons, both of them also turned to their lazy behaviors under the idea that they couldn’t change something about their lives and that it was better to just give up.

We can compare Simba's fake nonchalance to Nala when she begs him to return home and take his rightful place to Leona's nonchalance when his schoolmates encourage him to stay on top of his studies/training and continue to better himself. Both already have people who genuinely look up to and admire them, but don't see their own worth. For Simba, it was due to his guilt: For Leona, it's his constant feeling of being second in everything and to everyone else.

Spinning a little off that, there's something I noticed people bringing up in Leona's second birthday vignette. When asked who he'd bring with him to a deserted island, Leona said it would be Kalim because people would be looking for him as a member of a rich, important family, disregarding Leona's own importance as a prince and the love and respect he has from others. This can fit along Mufasa's line to Simba to "remember who you are," as a prince loved by others and worthy of his role.

We also have the name of Leona's signature spell to consider, "The King's Roar." While this can reference the Roar in The Lion Guard canon, which Scar had, I get the feeling it more closely references Simba's roar which he finds at the end of the film, the roar of a king.

Azul Ashengrotto

For Azul, the comparisons to Ariel are more minor as opposed to how the others compare to their protagonists. The main thing I see them sharing is a lack of belonging in their homelands. Ariel was the black sheep in her family for wanting to explore the human world while Azul, who lives in a point in time that thrives thanks to Ariel improving the relations between humans and mermaids in the past, was outcast for his appearance and followed her example by going to the human world. You don't really hear about him missing the sea either, his ambitions largely being focused on the land. Ergo, both get their new sense of home/belonging on the surface. Granted, his sense of exploration on land is more business-minded than Ariel's, but he's someone similar to her who's always ready to widen the scope of his knowledge--even sending the Leech twins to other places for research, like Jade's trip to Harveston.

By extension, the Leech twins also share this quality through their collections. Floyd collects shoes and various things with eels on them. In one of Jade's vignettes, he compares his collection of mini terrariums to Ursula, but really, that's an Ariel trait. Ariel was a collector who gathered things she simply loved and was curious of from the human world: Ursula's "collections" were only related to her spell/potion casting and the imprisonment of her failed contractors, which would be like calling the stack of school papers you haven't thrown out yet a collection--they're things she needed and used for her "work."

Jamil Viper

While Jamil might've grown up in a better placement on the social ladder than Aladdin, what's important to note in the comparison between them is how Jamil's role is still one of subservience that he feels trapped in. Take the line told to Aladdin by one of Jasmine's suitors: "You were born a street rat, you'll die a street rat." Well, Jamil was "born" to be Kalim's servant due to the relationship shared between their families, and he's been raised to believe he can't ever shake that position.

If we take the cut song from the film, "Proud of Your Boy," into account, the family aspect in between them plays a bigger role. It reflects Aladdin's desire to make something of himself so he doesn't fail someone who believes in him, even though he feels he can never really reach those expectations because of who he is. Jamil's situation there is only a little different. He has a family legacy to uphold and doesn't want to disappoint his parents, but doesn't think he can truly apply himself as he wishes due to who he is and their expectations for him to serve Kalim’s family wholeheartedly.

Even without his signature spell, Jamil is also still very clever and a smooth talker, another trait he shares with Aladdin as much as Jafar. An example of this with Aladdin is when he saved Jasmine when they first met from an enraged street vendor. Similarly, Jamil has had to use his smooth talk to get Kalim and others out of trouble several times.

Vil Schoenheit

I'll keep this one short because of my Neige post, but in summary, again, Neige's oblivious inconsideration of others is why I didn't think he paralleled Snow White well. However... this actually fits Vil pretty decently. Vil is harsh, but he is extremely thoughtful of those around him. He doesn't expect people to fit his idea of beauty, but rather knows how to draw out the beauty of others. We can take both his leadership roles in the SDC and Fairy Gala event as examples of this, knowing which qualities were best to draw out of all team members. He also expresses this in his relationship with Epel, enforcing a bunch of high-class mannerisms onto the latter, but also teaching him how he can use his beauty to his advantage. My main point when I call Vil considerate though is in his response when making a mistake. I referenced Snow White apologizing to the animals for simply scaring them when she herself was terrified for Neige, and I'll do that again here. At the start of Book 6, Vil does something similar to apologize for overblotting by paying the SDC team the entire prize money they would've gotten had they won from his own funds, which was then used to repair Ramshackle Dorm, and then takes in Yuu and Grim during construction.

Vil's and Snow White's backgrounds are also a little similar. Out of jealousy and in attempt to suppress Snow White's beauty, the queen forced Snow White to wear rags and treated her like a servant. Vil's was more situational, but his beauty/ability as an actor has been suppressed due to years of typecasting as a villain, which in turn caused him to be abused by his peers when he was a child.

Idia Shroud

Idia's similarities to Hercules are what really made me believe that the TWST boys shared more with the Disney protagonists than we would expect, because honestly, Idia is a better match to him than Hades. For starters, the fact that both Idia and Ortho as children wanted to go on adventures and become heroes couldn't have been drilled into your head enough throughout Book 6, which was Hercules' goal: To become a true hero. Heck, even their idolization of the Star Rogue game is one, big nod to Hercules himself. When deciding to recreate Ortho, Idia also references the story of Herc saving Meg from the Underworld as part of his moral reasoning on the matter of it being taboo.

There's also the matter of Idia wanting to be like others, wondering what it would've been like had he and Ortho been born into a normal family rather than the Shrouds. This perfectly matches the start of Hercules' journey and his estrangement from others, just with the two having very different talents that set them apart. Both wanted "to find their hero's welcome right where they belong."

Now, I've only seen a fan translation of Chapter 6, so take with it what you will, but for whatever reason, that last aspect was attributed to Hades in Yuu's vision than Hercules, so let me explain why the sense of belonging doesn't fit him. Hades didn't want to be "just like everybody else." As a matter of fact, he threw those exact words in Hercules' face in the movie. What Hades wanted was to dominate others, to rule overall. That element for Idia didn't occur until he overblotted with Ortho's encouragement--and even then, it was explained that he wanted to recreate the world to ultimately meet that ideal of just having fun with his friends as a normal person. Therefore, he still shared Hercules' goal, he just had a warped way of going about it from overblotting.

And the thing is, Idia does share the heart of a hero despite the weight of his guilt over Ortho's death when they were kids. When he puts his mind to doing something for the people he cares about, he'll move the stars for them. Literally, in one case. In the Stargazer event, he sent Ortho into space with everyone's wishes to make the event a success even though he personally didn’t care about it and didn’t want to attend. He only did it because Ortho was looking forward to it. In his Dorm Uniform SSR vignette, he stops some of his fellow dormmates from harassing a band he loves online by hacking them... in seconds. In a New Year event, when a group of students looked like they might harm Ortho in Sam's shop over a mystery bag, Idia leapt in his brother's defense despite his usual behavior.

Lastly, while Hades often uses cowardly tactics to get things done by using others, Idia prefers to take matters into his own hands. This is seen both in his acts of heroism that I mentioned as well as how he came to be the Ignihyde housewarden. Granted, he didn't want someone over him who he didn't feel was good enough for the position, but there's something worthwhile about a person who chooses to use their own strength to solve their problems as opposed to using others, which is another thing Hercules does. Hades sent minions to fight Hercules while Hercules leapt headfirst into danger himself.

Malleus Draconia

And, at last, we have Malleus and Aurora. Since Aurora didn't do all that much in her film and Book 7 hasn't released yet, you wouldn't think there would be too much to say, but from different info we've gathered across the currently released books as well as events, particularly for the Fairy Gala and Ghost Wedding, I think there's one massive similarity shared between the two: A strong sense of duty.

For a deeper dive into that concept for Aurora herself, I'd recommend first checking out the princess appreciation post I made about her a long time ago. In summary though, both share a duty as royals. For Aurora, it was accepting a role she didn't know she had and marrying a man she didn't know at all for the sake of her kingdom and parents she also didn't know at all because she was raised by the three fairies. For Malleus, he can't often participate in a lot of what occurs around the school not just because people fail to invite him, but also because he has to worry of how it might affect his status as the future ruler of Briar Valley. For instance, while Malleus was someone everyone considered to be the perfect prince to woo the Ghost Bride, both Lilia and Sebek agreed that Malleus wouldn't be able to help them since even a fake engagement could have negative consequences for Malleus as a prince. That status takes priority for him in almost every situation whether Malleus likes it or not.

A part of this comparison could also play into Malleus’ use of another name chosen by Grim and Yuu. Aurora also had a second name, Briar Rose, when her identity as a princess was being kept secret. However, while it was a matter of safety for Aurora, it seems to be more of a matter of acceptance for Malleus. It feels good to be treated normally rather than feared as “one of the strongest mages in the world” and Briar Valley’s heir, just as how Aurora was depicted as being much happier as Briar Rose than when she was told about her true identity.

More on Malleus in this post.

#twisted wonderland #twst #analysis #video games #leona kingscholar #riddle rosehearts #azul ashengrotto #idia shroud #malleus draconia #jamil viper #vil schoenheit #jade leech #floyd leech

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bonjour-rainycity · 3 years ago

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The Grandfather Clock Chimes | 1921

Pairing: Carlisle/Esme

Rating: G

Word count: 1977

Warnings: None

Summary: The first time Carlisle and Esme are alone together.

A/n Thanks to @jessicanjpa for the idea to do a solo Carlisle/Esme fic! I’m obsessed with them at the moment, so writing the first hopeful, awkward, thrilling moment when they’re on their own made my heart all kinds of happy!

In the entry way, the tall grandfather clock noted the hour.

Esme counted five chimes.

Carlisle was rarely home this early.

His arrival through the grand front door had startled Esme, who had become quite used to their little routine, but did not seem to shock the bronze-haired boy composing at the piano. No, Edward had merely smiled in that shy, all-knowing way of his, and welcomed the doctor home before announcing his intent to visit town. Esme had watched him go, shocked into physical silence, but inside, her mind raced, shouting panicked thoughts at the boy.

She had never been alone with the doctor, and had no idea what to say to him.

Stifling a grin, Edward had patted Esme’s hand in a half-hearted attempt to soothe before he took his leave, off to town to ‘collect supplies,’ whatever that was supposed to mean.

And that’s how Esme and Carlisle came to find themselves alone in an unnecessarily large house, sitting unnecessarily far apart in the unnecessarily spacious living room.

Esme sat straighter in her chair, if that was even possible.

On the sofa across from her, Carlisle mirrored her action.

The seconds ticked by.

“I was reminded of you while at work today,” Carlisle spoke suddenly. His voice disturbed the heavy silence between them, and Esme blinked to buy time while she found her voice.

“Oh?”

Though her response was minimal, Carlisle felt encouraged — the brief, thrilling moment when she spoke to him was much better than the silence.

“Yes,” he nodded eagerly, leaning forward in his seat in a futile attempt to close the space of the entire room that lay between them. “A woman visited her brother in our burn ward, and she had the same length hair as you do, with the same bounce to her curls. For just a split second, I thought it was you — but of course, it was ridiculous to believe it could be.” To illustrate this, he shook his head slightly, admonishing himself. “Regrettably, you are confined to the house and our land for the time being, so obviously, you could not have been visiting me at the hospital. Not to think I would presume that, were you to leave the house, you would visit me at the hospital,” he was quick to correct, glancing at her nervously. “No, you could be there for any number of reasons, I’m sure. Though,” his eyes darted to the wall just to her left, avoiding her slowly yellowing eyes, “those reasons are escaping my mind, at present.”

Despite nerves that made her wonder if she still possessed the ability to pass out, Esme smiled. Carlisle always seemed so proper, so put together — nothing ever flustered him.

Nothing, it seemed, until today.

Without Edward there, Esme could afford to be honest with herself in this brief moment of mental privacy. And, since she was being honest with herself, she could acknowledge that she quite liked seeing the doctor flustered.

In her silence, Carlisle continued to babble. “Once I got a better look at the woman, it became doubly clear she could not have been you. Her hair, while a shade of brown, was nothing like the unique caramel color of yours….” He trailed off once again, his gaze falling from the wall to a spot by Esme’s foot.

Esme pursed her lips against a smile. His nervousness had an unexpected effect on her — it seemed to embolden her, almost, to push past the uncertainty of her own. She attempted a slight change in topic. “How was your time at work?”

His perfectly golden eyes snapped to hers, a measure of relief in them. “Quite pleasant, to be honest. All easy fixes today. That is not often the case.”

“Is that why you were allowed to come home early,” Esme prodded, unable to fight the smile that tugged on her lips. She continued to be bold, watching his expression carefully as she spoke. “I admit, I found it a pleasant surprise to have you home before your usual time.”

Hope — beautiful, lighthearted, blossoming hope — lightened Carlisle’s eyes. He leaned forward, now in danger of falling off the sofa. “You did?”

“Y-yes,” she stuttered, caught off guard by his exuberance. She realized how her careless words could have been interpreted, and hurried to cover her tracks. For all his happiness at present, it was clear he did not share her feelings — best not to scare him off. “It is good for Edward to see you often — though he is older than me in our immortal years, he is still a boy at heart. He needs your attention, your guidance.”

Carlisle’s face sobered, though he quickly softened the lines into a small, understanding smile. “You are right, of course. I should spend more time with him. I am grateful for your insight.”

Esme’s useless heart could have melted right then. Always so polite and considerate, her doctor was, and it never failed to chip away at her carefully constructed reservations.

They fell into silence again, and Esme bit the inside of her cheek — a human gesture carried into this new life. Her hands laid over each other on her knee, touching the skirt of the light blue dress she wore — a gift from the man who sat at her opposite. Her fingers interlaced and tightened as she raised her eyes to his once more, trying to provoke her courage into gathering again.

“What did you and Edward do for fun before I arrived?”

Carlisle’s eyebrows raised, and so did Esme’s. She hadn’t planned on asking that.

Carlisle’s lips stretched into a nostalgic smile, and Esme decided right then that it was the most beautiful expression one could make.

“We spent a lot of time exploring the areas we lived in — visiting shops on cloudy days, hiking in the vast forests, even swimming in the lake sometimes.”

Then, his expression clouded, and Esme nearly had to sit on her hands to keep herself from rushing over and caressing his cheek, wanting to offer him every ounce of comfort she could.

“But I must admit,” Carlisle continued, sounding sad in a way that broke Esme’s heart, “those days were few and far between. Edward is…an introspective soul,” he decided on his phrasing finally, sounding like he chose the words with great care. “There are many days when he prefers to stay at home and lament over a choice he had no chance to make for himself.”

Esme had noticed this. Despite all the good times she and Edward had together, there was many an occasion when he would insist that they were all damned. Him and herself she could believe with little argument, but Carlisle? His damnation was a more difficult point for her to be convinced of — he seemed too pure, too wonderful, too good to be stopped at the gates of Heaven.

“I think he requires a push sometimes,” Esme reasoned, having gained great insight into Edward during these past few months of her new life. “He is intelligent, he needs something to stimulate his mind and take away from those dark thoughts. Perhaps visits to museums or—or an opportunity to play his compositions publicly, like at one of those galas you’re always being invited to.” The ideas came to her suddenly, tumbling out of some vault in her mind she wasn’t aware she possessed. “Maybe even school would be good for him.”

At this, the corners of Carlisle’s lips turned down, and Esme sucked in a breath — had she said something wrong?

But Carlisle shook his head, speaking gently. “It would not be right to leave you home by yourself, not while your control is…still in its early stages of success,�� he finished delicately, always hesitant to insult even the most deserving being.

“Right,” Esme agreed, looking at her lap as she thought. A new idea sparked in her brain, and her eyes snapped to the doctor’s with enthusiasm. “I could teach him!”

Once again, Carlisle’s eyebrows raised, this time in clear surprise. “Is—is that something of interest for you?”

“Oh, yes,” Esme nodded, excitement overtaking her. “Though I don’t remember much of my career, I know I was a teacher in my human life — I would love the opportunity to rekindle that passion.”

Carlisle grinned, and Esme had to amend her earlier thought — this was the most beautiful expression one could make.

“I think that is a fantastic idea,” he enthused, hands settling on his knees. “I will go into town tomorrow morning and order all the necessary supplies. Are there any subjects of interest you yourself would like to expand upon? I would be happy to pick up the materials.”

Esme tilted her head as she thought on this. There was something, a curiosity that had always played at the back of her mind.

“Architecture,” she answered, then surprised herself when a playful smile overtook her lips. “If I learned about it, maybe I would stand a chance restoring this crumbling mansion of yours.”

Carlisle dipped his head in a teasingly bashful acknowledgement and promised to find her the proper books and supplies.

Esme leaned back in her chair, mildly embarrassed to find how far she had extended herself in Carlisle’s direction. “Perhaps you could be a guest lecturer of sorts — when your schedule allows, of course.”

Carlisle blessed her with her favorite grin once more, and Esme basked in it. He tilted his head as if explaining some inside joke. “Esme, we do not sleep. I am sure I could find time to help with your project.”

If she thought his smile would do her in, it was nothing compared to hearing him say her name! How lovely it sounded coming from his lips, resonating in the gentle baritone of his voice. She wished she could pretend she did not hear it, to ask him to repeat himself, and have the chance of hearing him say it again. Then, perhaps, she could return by speaking his own name — his familiar name, as he had used hers — something she rarely allowed herself to do.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, when the front door opened and Edward’s scent filled the home.

The breath she would have used to speak tumbled from her mouth in a sigh. So soon…

But the clocked chimed again — six tolls, this time — and Esme was startled to discover that she and Carlisle had been together in that living room for over an hour.

How had the time stretched in an eternity, yet been over in mere minutes? What was this man’s presence doing to her?

Esme’s eyes sought Carlisle’s once more and she felt a pleasant warmth upon realizing that his eyes were searching hers with an equal fervor. They stayed like that for an immeasurable moment, locked in a gaze of unexpected intensity.

She hoped, down to the deepest parts of her useless heart, that there would be more moments like this, where it was just the two of them. Yes, part of her was relieved at being freed from this constant state of being unsure, but another part regretted Edward’s rapid return.

Part of her would have been perfectly content to sit in the hesitant, hopeful, awkward, thrilling silence with Carlisle for an eternity.

She didn’t quite know what to make of that.

Knowing their time for this evening was done, Esme and Carlisle stood and met the boy in the foyer, welcoming him home. While they inspected and praised the packages he brought — items for the house and gifts for the two he was quickly starting to consider as his parents — Carlisle and Esme avoided each other’s eyes.

Only Edward could know what the other was thinking.

And, out of respect for them both, he would not tell them that they were thinking exactly the same thing.

A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs make my day! You can find my masterlist here :)

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chibimyumi · 4 years ago

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Hi there! So I've been meaning to ask this for a while after realizing it, but don't O!Ciel's, Doll's, Alois', and Lizzy's color schemes kind of reveal their past and future a tad bit? I've know Alois outfits are bold yet kind of gothic colors like violet emerald green black and brown which all in the world of art are color forms of different emotions depending how you work with them, green being envy or disgusted but he hides it with royal purple, black means wounded which are his shorts & tie

Dear Blackbutlerfandomnerddomain,

While colour symbolism is popular, I personally don’t think the colours in Kuroshitsuji’s costumes are supposed to deliver any meaning other than aesthetic value. Especially with O!Ciel and Lizzie we can say with some certainty colour symbolism is not within the intention, because they change clothes in every single illustration, and every time they wear different colours. Yes, these characters do have tones they tend to wear, but that’s how real people dress themselves too. Somebody who likes calm colours is slightly less likely to have a rainbow assortment of neon, for example.

This is simply the way I understand Yana’s style, there��s not really ONE correct answer here. So feel free to read as much into the colours as it pleases you. But as I personally see it, Yana’s style of using symbolism tends to rely on objects rather than colours. Allow me to briefly analyse two artworks to illustrate what I mean and how I came to my understanding.

Case One

One of the most famous artworks is the front illustration of the second illustration book. Many colours including green, red, blue, white, gold are all present here.

One could make arguments for the black and white of the Earl’s attire being symbolism, but this meaning is quickly overshadowed by the ravens emerging from the Escher patterns. Red is the most eye-catching colour in this illustration. One might say O!Ciel’s gloves being red means to symbolise his hands being blood-dyed, or his shoes red because he walks a bloody path... but then how do we explain the inside of the drape or Sebastian’s waistcoat?

The setting is a place that appears to be a type of greenhouse; a place built to maximise the function of sunlight. And yet, while the illustration seems to suggest it is daytime, the sun is failing miserably in face of the heavy clouds. Rather than painting the sky ominous red or just dark, Yana uses the unsuccessful sun to set a mood or convey symbolism. “Is the white light against the dark clouds not also a type of colour symbolism?” Yes, it may be, but then one should also ask the question: "why choose a greenhouse then, and not any other setting that could have conveyed the light/dark contrast?”

Case two

Another famous piece is this 2014 artwork. The overall tone is gloomy and is mostly lacking in colours. Though held back in terms of colour, there is a lot to be unpacked here!

The first thing that catches the eye is indeed the overwhelmingly sombre palate of this illustration. Black can symbolise many things, but when 70% of the illustration is black, one could say this illustration is either incompetent in conveying symbolism in it being over-saturated with “meaning”, or that the black is merely here to set a tone.

Instead, we can see white lilies in O!Ciel’s hair as well as one stem carried by Sebas. Rather than colour symbolism, Japan has a long history of flower-symbolism (花言葉・Hanakotoba), and Yana herself is big fan of this style. When Western culture was introduced to Japan, black and white lilies were accepted as symbols for death.

The composition of the artwork leads the eye from the bottom left corner to the top right. This guides our vision to the empty plate at the top of the table, where a bright white saucer lies with a conspicuous bit of red sauce.

Red might symbolise blood here, and it is befitting. But more importantly we also need to consider this choice from an artist’s point of view. How many different colours of edible sauces are there? There’s chocolate sauce and other dark sauces, but that would just blend in with the rest of the illustration. Yellowy sauce is certainly a thing, but that’d be overpowered by the golden details. So red is the only bright colour that would make the empty saucer pop out. The Empty saucer has a fork placed diagonally on top, meaning that somebody had consumed food and is now finished. Rather than the colour of red, I think it is the now-empty saucer that is supposed to symbolise Sebastian’s goal of consuming his master.

Next to the saucer is the skeleton of a bird; presumably a crow judging from the size. Skeletons universally symbolise death, but it has nothing to do with the colour.

In Japanese native culture the topic of ‘death’ is big taboo. In older Japanese buildings for example, the 4th floor would often be skipped because ‘4′ (四・shi) is a homophone of death (死・shi).

In the past when Buddhism was introduced, the Japanese embraced this religion with open arms because finally there was something else that would deal with ‘death’ while native culture could stay in its comfort-zone. It was a bit like: “we do we... Hey, Buddhism, can you take care of that thing we’re too afraid of for us? Thanks dude!” Since the introduction of Buddhism, images of skeletons came to not just mean ‘death’, but more specifically ‘impermanence’ (無常・mujou). Impermanence is one of the core teachings in Buddhism, reminding humanity that everything will eventually come to an end, be it good or bad. With Buddhism introduced, skeletons were no longer only associated with pure fear, but instead gained an additional meaning of acceptance of change and the cycle of nature.

The origins of the meaning of skeletons have blurred through the years, many Japanese people probably don’t even know why things evoke certain meanings in them (just like in other cultures, I presume). But fact remains that though still macabre, in Japan a skeleton is now assumed to symbolise the naturalness of death.

That the skeleton of the bird is preserved in a glass dome is interesting. Glass domes’ function is primarily display. Out of all things, Yana chose to specifically display the symbol of impermanence and death, meaning that within this artwork that skeleton is the key object of display. In human subjectivity death is finite and fearsome. To a demon like Sebastian however (from whose perspective we view this artwork as he’s the only one awake here), he probably views death more akin to the way Buddhism views it; as just impermanence. I am NOT saying that Sebastian subscribes to a Buddhist philosophy, but I am saying that he must view death a lot more neutrally than most humans do.

Most Japanese people are not raised consciously religiously, but everyone is always influenced to some extent, Yana included. And therefore it is no surprise that Yana might have been inspired by the neutral view towards death (for at least Sebastian), even if she might not know where this inspiration comes from.

The casualness of ‘death’ in this illustration is further indicated by the coffin that is set up as a dining table. There is no respect, no ceremony, objects are scattered on top and around. The message is rather straightforward so I shall waste no more time explaining the obvious here. But I do wish to point out how this gives further evidence for how the meanings of this illustration should be considered from Sebas’ perspective, just like the crow’s skeleton as explained above. What is finite to us, is just a fact of nature to Sebas.

Conclusion

Yana has created many illustrations. Not all include symbolism, but the more elaborate pieces are usually packed with them. Of course I have only analysed two illustrations, and I would not blame anyone for calling this post insufficient evidence. But... I could just go on and on forever, and I need to draw a line somewhere, right? What I can say with confidence however, is that if you were to grab any artwork by Yana and see it for yourself, rather than colour, item symbolism is stronger.

Also, the way Yana uses colour is just not very symbolism heavy; she has a much stronger tendency to use colours purely aesthetically. Take any of the inside covers of this series, and one would quickly find out there really is no pattern to be found here.

In a nutshell, Yana’s colouring style is mostly aesthetic and used to set a tone for her illustrations. What carries the symbolism instead is in the objects.

Again, this is merely how I personally read Yana’s illustrations and an elaboration of how I came to this reading. There is not one correct answer to read illustrations, because art is subjective in its core. So if the colours do mean more to you than they do to me, please do enjoy doing so by all means ^^

#Kuroshitsuji #Black Butler #Art #Illustration #art analysis #analysis #I did study art for a bit and it shaped the way I look at art #but the core lesson of art analysis class is that art is always subjective #ALWAYS #symbolism

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myktchp · 4 years ago

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Top 6 Episodes of One Piece

If there's a series that attempts to test the diminishing return hypothesis, it's One Piece. The monstrous epic of Eiichiro Oda is the highest selling manga of all time, but its ridiculous duration still prohibits many people from checking it out, and that hill will only get steeper as we barrel towards its end (eventually).

The One Piece anime, which is a much greater commitment to time and does not boast the brilliant artwork of Oda as a selling point, is even more of a conundrum. Yet, for the first time, so many fans perceive the story this way and fall in love regardless... Over the course of many long binges, there is something special about cuddling up in front of a screen and getting lost in a world, and the powerful spirit that burns just below the surface, even during the not-so-hot days of the anime, still keeps us building up to a new "best" chapter. Everyone has their favorite shows, the ones they feel emotionally attached to, and we would love to share yours in the forums with you. Here are my own 6 best One Piece episodes, in chronological order (but not superlative):

Episode 19 - The Three-Sword Style's Past! Zoro and Kuina's Vow!

In the modern age, where the manga is so informative and comprehensive, it's hard to believe that there was once a period when the anime really successfully expanded on the plot. The anime version of Zoro's flashback is so amazing that it is the "true" version of the story in my heart, which comes a little later than it did in the manga. What once was a fast and blunt page is turned into a wonderful piece of sound, letting us live for an episode in the Japanese countryside as we hear the story of a young Roronoa Zoro and his original opponent, Kuina.

In its obsession with gender, this episode also ends up being easily the most empathic the show has ever gotten. It portrays Kuina, the prodigal swordsman, dissatisfied with the awareness that the gap in intensity between her and Zoro will increase drastically as they become adults. This is a moment for a young Zoro to take seriously his female rival, and in the present day, Tashigi finally takes up whatever thematic baggage is left behind by her death. This is One Piece's tender side at its finest.

Episode 119 - Secret of Powerful Swordplay! Ability to Cut Steel and the Rhythm Things Have!

This is another fantastic episode of Zoro that places us in the middle of the Straw Hats and Baroque Works' climate war. The adversary of Zoro is Mr. 1, who really isn't a swordsman, but a man who can turn his entire body into a weapon. Not only does Dice-Dice Fruit from Mr. 1 allow for some of the anime's imagination, but this episode manages to offer one of the coolest battles in the entire series. It's bloody, it's raw, and Zoro throws a guy into a building.

Towards the end, the episode is at its best, when everything gets quiet and builds up to the final blow. It sells the show with so much conviction that I believe it's cool. I believe this is one of the series's most driven episodes, and a great example of the show's cinematic narrative eye.

Episode 278 - Say You Want to Live! We Are Your Friends!

If 151 was the episode that made me a fan, the episode that made me a lifetime fan is 278. This episode and the one before it are older examples of "one-hour specials" from the series, which are gradually split into two episodes until released on home video and streaming sites. This episode is jam-packed even as just the second half of a special, as we conclude the tragic backstory of Robin and transition into the present where the Straw Hats make their greatest gesture yet to save their friend from the greedy World Government.

One Piece can become astonishingly sad for being such a vibrant and enjoyable series, to the point that it almost competes with itself to see how unhappy it can get. If the highs were not so gosh darn consistent, these lows would become tiresome, and Straw Hats' assault on the government flag, followed by Robin's major "I want to live!" One of the most cathartic moments you'll ever find in literature is the scene. At this point in the plot, the Straw Hats are still underdogs, so their bold "never give up" attitude in the face of their greatest enemy hits particularly hard. This episode illustrates the chasms that One Piece can jump to be the saddest and happiest tale it can be, from baby Robin surviving the genocide of everyone she's ever loved to adult Robin pleading for another chance at life.

Episode 396 - The Fist Explodes! Destroy the Auction!

In One Piece, Luffy punches a Celestial Dragon so hard that he knocks the color off the screen, still one of the most frequently referenced and applauded moments. If there is one thing that One Piece is unbelievably good at, it's payoffs. It sets the pins up so that in the most bombastic way possible it can knock them down. To this day, the Celestial Dragons are the most heinous villains we've seen in One Piece, and the repercussions of (again) defying the World Government are obvious, but Luffy still has to do his thing with Luffy.

The emphasis that the show places on Luffy's pledge to Hatchan not to intervene, no matter what, is what really captures me about this moment. You get the feeling that Luffy is the kind to keep an earnest promise, but watching a hero get pushed beyond that stage is always fascinating.

Episode 574 - Back to the Present! Hordy Makes a Move!

The general opinion, as far as I can tell, is that Fishman Island is the series' worst arc. With this sentiment, I don't agree. I think it's one of the heaviest, most three-dimensional instances I've ever seen of fantasy-world-racism-as-metaphor-for-real-world-racism. Basically, the mid-arc flashback covering the plights of Fisher Tiger and Queen Otohime is a film-length drama, and it's one of the series' best flashbacks, for which there's fierce competition. It's very underestimated.

Aside from being an exceptionally pretty episode, both halves of it are extremely strong, one at the tail end of the flashback and one coming out of it. Neptune mourning the death of his wife, distraught that the difficulty of race relations implies that he can not convey his frustration, is a great scene, as is the forgiveness of Jimbei by Nami for his connection to the pirates of Arlong. The push and pull between hope, cynicism, remorse, rage, and love is what makes this arc perfect. You just ever feel like you're halfway through everything life's going to bring you through, even at its worst. As for its place in the big picture plot, this episode is a significant step in the relationship of Jimbei with the pirates of the Straw Hat, and it establishes the purpose of the Ryugu Kingdom to join the World Government and attend the Reverie, a heavily built-up political event that is due in the manga any day now.

Episode 616 - A Surprising Outcome! White Chase vs. Vergo!

This is a particular stand-out episode in the series for fighting animation, since it's so much more physical than normal. Even with the powers of Smoker and Vergo flying every way, the effect goes down to their good ole fists. The personal investment between two marines duking it out is already very intense, but it's put over the edge by the great choreography and style, and that alone would put such an episode on my radar.

That said, once Smoker vs. Vergo turns over to Vergo vs. Rule, there is a cherry on top, with the real villain of the arc, Doflamingo, listening in from a distance. The rest of the series gives too much consequence to the law defeating Vergo in such an over-the-top manner.

So those are the episodes I feel are worth revisiting the most! Obviously, I'm expected to have skipped a few or omitted incredibly significant episodes in this top six list, with a series that long. If you enjoyed this top list of mine don’t forget to leave a like and share it with your friends. If you have any suggestions for my next top list just mail it to me at [email protected] and i will feature you for my next article. Stay tuned and stay safe everyone!

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thecrownnet · 4 years ago

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Season four began filming immediately after three wrapped. The ever-aggressive paparazzi snapped many scenes of Princess Diana (Emma Corrin) and former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher (Gillian Anderson) filming the penultimate installment, which just narrowly completed production before the Covid-19 shutdowns in the U.K. But the rush to finish didn't affect the costume department.

"With all those custom-made pieces, you have to be ahead of the game," explains Roberts. Her couture house-like department regularly operated on a three-week to one-month-ahead schedule, especially for the "ceremonial" pieces for principles.

"In fact, the last day, it was a huge scene with Diana and that was it," she continues. "We went out on a bang, you know. A massive scene with her in New York, and that was it. No more filming."

[Spoilers Ahead]

Season four extends to 1989, when Princess Diana embarked on a solo trip to New York City — actually shot in Manchester, England — prior to her 1992 separation from Charles. Playing the People's Princess, Corrin was photographed wearing a stunning re-creation of a gold-embroidered, pearl-embellished Victor Edelstein gown and bolero jacket that Diana wore to attend a Welsh National Opera Gala production of "Falstaff" at the Brooklyn Academy Of Music.

As "The Crown" stans anxiously await the announcement of a season four premiere date from Netflix, Roberts revisits some of the costume and behind-the-scenes highlights from three with Fashionista, including Colman's reaction to donning Queen Elizabeth II's intimidating investiture helmet, Princess Margaret's historically inaccurate White House visit dress and Prince Charles's and Camilla's imagined meet-cute outfits. And, yes, the costume designer drops more teasers for the upcoming season, including Princess Diana's "fantastic journey."

Your re-creations for Queen Elizabeth II were so accurate, like the fur-trimmed coat she wore to Aberfan (episode three) and her investiture suit — especially the hat. What was the most challenging costume to recreate and why?

The investiture costume with that extraordinary hat. In "The Crown," you have key moments with actual events that we know about. [The images are] very much out there on film and photographs and you are acknowledging those looks. I hate to say we're "copying" them. I think we're making a nod to them with hopefully a bit of us in there.

But that was quite a challenge because everybody knew that extraordinary medieval hat that the Queen wore. [We made ours out of] a very fine satin georgette and getting that color, that pale clotted cream color, [was a challenge]. For Olivia, that was quite a challenge to wear as well. She's a remarkable actress to work with, as you can imagine. She just lets you do your job. But even she looked slightly askance when that hat came out. But being Olivia, she went with it.

Which costume for Queen Elizabeth II allowed you the most creative freedom, because it wasn't a re-creation?

I'm really fond of when I imagine dealing with the real woman. There's a series of outfits [in episode five], when she is very involved with sorting out her riding stables and her horses aren't doing very well. And she leaves her [royal] role in the care of her mother and goes off [to Normandy, France and then Kentucky] with Lord Porchey [John Hollingworth].

I loved doing her like that. In macs [trench coats] and blouses and skirts and headscarves. The scarves are such a cool look. People can really relate to that now with that slightly Prada and Miu Miu-style shirts, blouses and colors that we went for. When she dines, for once, she's not done up in a long dress. She's in rather attractive — well, I think they were nice — floral silk dresses.

I loved being able to see or pretend or imagine that side of her; that kind of upper-middle-class country woman doing things that she loved. [Spending time with] her horses — not that there are many dogs in that episode — which I think she probably feels most at ease with. Olivia looked fantastic in those clothes. She's like glowing in a way.

Everybody assumes [my favorites are] all the big ball dresses, which are lovely to do. But I like doing that more real element of people. This other side. 'The Crown' gives you that fantastic opportunity — the big, glamour, out there moments — and there's a lot of very intimate personal stuff, where you don't know what they would wear or what they would say, but you can have let your imagination go with that one and that's lovely to do.

In episode two, Princess Margaret goes to the White House to see President and Ladybird Johnson, to help secure U.S. aid. You designed a floral, off-the-shoulder, arm-baring dress, which made sense for her to trade dirty limericks with POTUS. But in real life, Princess Margaret wore a pink, long-sleeved jacket over her gown. What was the inspiration behind changing the design, and what are the print and silhouette telling us about her?

I just wanted to be a bit bolder and more startling. I just remember when we saw that fabric in one of the shops, I thought, 'That's it. That's it! Let's use that for that [part].' Sometimes things jump out at you, don't they? Also, it's a portrayal of Margaret by an extraordinary woman, Helena Bonham Carter. So somehow you're also taking that on board. With Helena, you could push it a little bit further and she would just be bold and brave with it herself.

Princess Anne is considered a fashion icon and as young woman in the late '60s and '70s, she was able to push the fashion envelope and do things like wear jeans and mini-skirts. How did you use her costume to show her as the more independent one in the family?

I don't think she represented the wild '60s. But the mini-skirts — the short skirts — that she wore, represented the '60s in a kind of posh-girl way. The first image that we had of her [to work off of] was written in the script as Anne in jodhpurs. That blew it all apart, didn't it? Here's this girl, strutting through the palace in riding breeches and boots — I think that's how it was written — that was my big guide into how we would deal with her.

There's a little shot of her [in episode six], when she visits her brother, when he's performing the play and she's in the audience. She's got '60s baker boy cap on, but there's nothing extreme about her. It's sort of sensible. It's getting that balance of that youthful brashness, but still she's a princess.

I did enjoy the scene where a buttoned-up Prince Charles calls her from Wales because he's homesick. She's in her room at the palace — and it's all messy — and she's wearing high-waisted flare jeans and a Hawaiian-print, long-sleeved T-shirt.

[That] was a scene where you could do that. She's on her own and I quite like that because it was contrasted against Charles, who never gets to be relaxed. He's at university. He's still wearing those little old man clothes, like tweed jackets and sweaters. I mean he looks adorable, because the actor's quite adorable, isn't he? [Ed. note: Yes.] He never somehow lets his hair down. So it was quite fun that she was dressed like that and he was in corduroy trousers or slacks — they were called slacks then — and a jumper.

It was really quite funny, the director of that particular episode, Christian Schwochow, is quite young himself and also German. So his view on the Royal Family was quite refreshing and we wanted to blow it out of the water as much as we could.

What inspiration and process did you go through to design and create the costumes for imagined scenes between Charles and Camilla?

There's very little reference [imagery] on her in that early time. With Camilla, it's a sexy posh girl with, dare I say, not a huge amount of style. Why should she? Why should she have that? So it's just that Sloane Ranger girl. We were just trying to tune into that and her country pursuits. So after she marries [Andrew Parker Bowles, played by Andrew Buchan] in series four, suddenly she looks a whole lot more herself, really. She's living the life she wants to in the country, [as part of the] the country set. It was a little point to what she'd become, probably. She's fun, relaxed and not particularly into clothes.

In series three, you know that you'll see a lot of these people again in series four. So you're kind of giving little pointers to what they'll become when they're a bit older and more settled. And people have a style. You change, of course, but you are what you are. You just get a little more sophisticated or get a little more confident.

Speaking of, images of Emma Corrin as Princess Diana in famously-photographed outfits (or variations of them) have been caught by paparazzi. How does Diana's place as an international fashion icon influence how you designed her portrayal in season four?

Well, she was brilliant to do because she has a real journey in four. Most of them do, but she, in particular, has a fantastic journey — a real arc — again, like Camilla. We kick off with a nice little Sloane Ranger, wearing bobbly old jumpers, and you end up with a dramatic change. A complete manipulation of her look. Like, she puts on suits of armor to protect herself. So that's all we'll say about that.

What hints can you share about the other members of the Royal Family in season four?

The Queen grows in being steadier in her role and her marriage. I'm always saying this, but whatever issues she has — or had — in the marriage, [she and Philip, played by Tobias Menzies] found a way of dealing with that, like a lot of marriages. It's just everybody maturing.

And Margaret — that very tempestuous relationship she has with Tony at the beginning, it's just getting more and more toxic. Of course, in four, her life is really a real mess and we just illustrate that with her clothes. But the colors are much more dour and bruised and her flamboyance from three is slightly toned down now. Charles actually matures into a married man, quite stylish, but, again, an unhappy marriage. And good old Queen Mum stays the same. Lovely Queen Mum. I love her.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

#olivia colman #gillian anderson #helena bonham carter #josh o’connor #the crown #tobias menzies #ben daniels #erin doherty #emerald fennell #emma corrin #marion bailey #the crown netflix

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etherealwaifgoddess · 5 years ago

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A Good Night’s Sleep, Pt.2

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky finally gets you out on a date and you both find yourselves falling fast.

Warnings/ Content: nothing in this one, just witty banter and flirting.

Word Count: 3.6k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies, here’s part two as promised. Part three is coming as soon as this is up. Tagging the amazing @marinaaniseed as this series was born of her idea :)

You can read part one HERE if you missed it. XOXO - Ash

A Good Night’s Sleep, Part Two

Even with Tony Stark’s connection it takes a week to get a table at Sapori. Bucky hates the idea of waiting that long to see you again but is appeased by intermittent bursts of texts. He’s noticed you get lost in your work for hours at a time and then will do nothing but text back and forth with him for a while until you get distracted and lost in your work again. It’s sweet how much you love what you do and Bucky makes a point to read a few of your works. He’s impressed by the way you illustrate details in your writing, the way it makes him feel like he’s experiencing things for himself through your words. You screech happily to your cat when Bucky tells you that and you reply that it was the best compliment you’ve ever received.

The night of your date you pull out all of the stops, your best jeans and blouse that are just suggestive enough while still being classy. You let your hair dry naturally, letting it do it’s thing creating natural waves. Your makeup is minimal but you choose a dark, bold pink that makes your lips pop, emphasizing their size. It helps play off the way the jet black mascara makes your eyes seem a little larger too. You give yourself an appraising once over and decide that Bucky Barnes isn’t going to know what hit him.

Across town, Bucky can’t get his life together. Or so Sam says while he and Steve chuckle at Bucky’s growing distress. “Be serious guys!” he complains at his so-called best friends. Bucky is wearing his nicest black jeans and is holding out two sweaters, one pale blue and one charcoal grey, at them to help decide.

“Grey.” Steve chooses finally.

“With your black leather jacket.” Sam adds.

Bucky lets out an exasperated thank you, relieved they finally helped.

He pulls on the sweater and approves of the way it brings out the grey in his eyes. His hair is left down and it curls around his shoulders in a way he hopes looks artful instead of messy. There’s just enough time to grab his shoes and get out the door and he hurries past Sam and Steve with a more heartfelt thank you thrown in this time.

The lobby of Sapori is packed when you arrive. You’re fifteen minutes early, you found an Uber faster than you had expected, and you don’t feel like waiting outside for that long until Bucky arrives. Instead, you shoot him a text that you’re there and you’ll be waiting at the bar. You’re past the point in your life where you look at alcohol as liquid courage but it would be nice to have a drink to unwind a little while you wait. You flag down the bartender and order your usual drink, chuckling to yourself softly when you realize the irony of it. Bucky should get a kick out of it too.

After rushing past an obscene number of slow moving pedestrians, Bucky needs a minute before entering the dimly lit restaurant. He’s sure he’s sweating right through his clothes and his hair is sticking slightly at the nape of neck. The sweat isn’t from exertion, it’s just nerves. The man who took on HYDRA is petrified of sharing dinner with a beautiful woman. Oh how the mighty have fallen, he berates himself. Smoothing out his clothes and fixing his hair one last time, Bucky takes a deep breath and pushes through the revolving door.

It takes his eyes a minute to adjust to the low lighting but once they do, he’s searching for you immediately. He finds you standing at a hightop table by the bar, a lowball glass in your hand, reading something intently on your phone. Bucky freezes as he takes you in; you’re stunning and he suddenly feels like a schlub. Your dark jeans are molded perfectly to your body, emphasizing the curves of your ass and thighs. The cream colored blouse drapes around you like gossamer, highlighting your figure without being clingy, the neckline low enough that it promises a hint of cleavage if you move just right. And god help him, Bucky prays you move just right at some point this evening.

“What are you drinking?” Bucky asks when he finally approaches you.

You look up at him, pleasantly surprised to see him a few minutes early. “An old fashioned.” you say with a smirk.

Bucky chokes out a laugh. He can’t keep up with your wit, always unsure if you’re joking or serious. “You like old fashioneds, huh?”

Your smirk widens, “They’re my go-to drink. Though they seem a little extra appropriate now.”

“Well, even as a living antique, I can honestly say I’ve never tried one.”

“You’re missing out, old man. Let’s go fix that.” You step over to the bar, signaling the bartender who comes down and with a second drink for you. You hand over the glass to Bucky, anticipation written on your face. If he hates it you won’t mind drinking another but you’ll have to pace yourself.

Bucky sips the drink, realizing it’s just whiskey with a little sugar and a sliver of orange. It’s mostly whiskey though. “It’s good. Not sure what’s old fashioned about whiskey, but it’ll do.”

“They’re actually older than you. Back in the late 1800s the only cocktails were sugar, bitters, and a dash of water added to some type of brown liquor. As the times changed, newer more elaborate cocktails were invented and the varieties were endless after that. The older generation didn’t care for the new cocktails going around so they would order an old fashioned cocktail, the kind they were used to. After a while the name stuck and now we have old fashioneds.”

Bucky stared at you, amazed.

“And thank you for coming to my TED Talk.” you say with a self deprecating laugh.

“Sorry. I’m just. I’m impressed is all.” Bucky makes a mental note to Google what a TED Talk is later. He knows you’re making light of your knowledge but it was damn impressive to him.

“Nah, I just took a mixology class a few times for fun. I can also make a mean s’mores martini.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime.” Bucky checks his watch and realizes you’re now five minutes late for your reservation, “Ready to go eat? I should at least let them know we’re here.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Bucky leads the way, the crowd clearing for him naturally due to either his height or the width of his black leather clad shoulders. He’s an impressive specimen of man and you’re still a little floored that he’s here with you. Talking to him has been so easy, almost like old friends, and you forget most of the time that he’s not just a cute guy you met at a coffee shop, he’s Bucky Barnes: super soldier, former assassin, current Avenger.

The maitre d’ shows you to your table, a secluded little spot in the back, and Bucky adds thank Tony Stark to his mental to-do list. The table is far enough removed from the rest of the main dining room that he won’t feel overwhelmed by the large number of people, his back is to a wall and his sightlines are clear. He couldn’t have picked a better table himself and it helps his nerves relax just a little bit more. Bucky wants the date to go well but part of him, the part his therapist keeps telling him to not validate, reminds him it’s only a matter of time until he screws something up.

A tall, thin, man in a well pressed uniform arrives a moment later, before Bucky can even try to rekindle your conversation. He deposits a basket of warm fresh bread and fills your water glasses from a carafe. After reciting the specials of the day he disappears as quickly as he arrived.

“We’ll have to get another basket of this when he comes back.” Bucky tells you while taking two thick slices out of the basket. He layers on the butter, careful to leave you half but still enjoying himself immensely. “They make the bread and the butter themselves” he says with a dreamy smile.

You laugh lightly, taking a piece for yourself, “You really love it here, don’t you?”

Bucky nods, taking a bite of his bread.

You scan the menu while you chew. Bucky was right, you’re definitely going to need more of the bread, it’s incredible. The menu is simple and filled with long standing Italian classics. You’re tempted by the gnocchi since Bucky spoke so highly of it, but the chicken picata sounds good too. You tell Bucky as much when he asks what you’re going to have and he laughs. “Just get both, that’s what I do.”

You shake your head, “Yes, but you can eat two entrees. I can’t.”

“That’s what leftovers are for. Come on, get both. Tonight’s on Tony’s dime anyway, he owed me.”

“Tony Stark owed you dinner at Sapori?” you ask in disbelief.

“No, he owed me a favor, period. He’d be down another Iron Man suit if it wasn’t for me. A dinner out is a lot less money and hassle than a new suit, so don’t feel too bad for him.”

You stare at him a moment, his life is so surreal. “Okay, fine. Two entrees it is. Thank you, Mr. Stark.” you raise your glass in salute before taking a sip.

“Now, how do you feel about appetizers?” Bucky asks, flipping through his menu.

If the waiter is shocked by the mass quantity of food you’ve ordered he hides it well. You’re looking forward to trying a little of everything and having days worth of leftovers to enjoy. Bucky is working his way through the second breadbasket when the waiter deposits your appetizer, a large platter of fritta. It’s a mix of vegetables and seafood, all deep fried in a light, crispy batter. Various little pots of sauces are set around the platter, enticing you to try the different combinations.

Bucky is the perfect dinner companion. He is always willing to share bits of this and that, able to keep an interesting conversation going, and the quiet lulls feel natural instead of awkward. You learn about his childhood and family, about all the things he’s enjoyed since coming out of Cryo, and the the things he still wants to do with his life. Bucky’s approach to life is this irreverent enthusiasm that you can’t help but get swept up in. Yes, he’s lived through unspeakable horrors, but he’s not letting it define him and you admire him more than words can say. He’s also an engaged listener, asking you questions about your life and your job as a writer. The fact that he took the time to read some of your work still blows your mind and you can’t hide the way a blush spreads from your cheeks all the way down your throat when he starts talking excitedly about an article you wrote on the impact of social media on mental health.

By the time the waiter brings the check you’re both still picking at the remnants of your tiramisu, unwilling for the night to end. There’s a heaviness to the air that wasn’t there before, brought on by the impending goodbye. You don’t ever go home with a guy on the first date, nor do you invite them back to your place. You don’t see anything wrong with it, you just never felt compelled to rush into bed with a guy. Until now. But Bucky isn’t a modern man, and he likely won’t even think to initiate anything beyond a goodnight kiss. You wish he would though.

The conversation had shifted to one of Bucky’s many loves: engineering. He is endlessly fascinated by the robots in the Stark lab. Tony insists they’re just hunks of junk but Bucky still makes trips up to the lab to visit them; teaching them to make different types of smoothies and how to play catch with him. Bucky is trying to keep the conversation going, not willing to say goodbye just yet. He wants the night to stretch on forever, a perfect idyllic bubble where he can laugh and relax with someone who understands him. You’re the first person he feels like he can open up to in over seventy years.

“Why don’t you come back to the tower with me and see for yourself?” he offers after you laugh and question his story about teaching Dum-E how to dance.

You pause, fork halfway up to your mouth, wondering what his intentions are.

“You could meet Dum-E and then I could show you the night sky projector I was telling you about.”

“The one on your bedroom ceiling?” you ask, fork still in mid-air.

“Yeah, from the planetarium.”

Oh Bucky Barnes, sweet innocent nerd that he is. You’re fairly certain the offer is benign but you can’t resist riling him up a little. “Bucky, are you inviting me back to your bedroom to see your projector, or see your projector?” You raise your eyebrows suggestively, hitting your point home.

Bucky chokes on his sip of cappuccino, cheeks flaming red. “Oh. I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking. I would never assume.” he fumbles, helplessly. “That really came out wrong, didn’t it?” he asks finally, exasperated with himself.

Your grin is broad and understanding. “It’s okay.” you reassure him. “I didn’t think you meant it that way. And I don’t typically go home with a guy on the first date either. But honestly, after tonight, if something were to happen I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Bucky swallows nervously. Once. Twice. Get it together Barnes! He clears his throat roughly before responding with a voice he’s proud doesn’t waiver, “Well then let’s head back and see where the night takes us.”

You never thought he’d have the nerve. Hallelujah for his new found confidence. “Let’s.” you agree.

Bucky leads the way back to the tower he calls home. It’s a short walk, only a few blocks away, and you take your time, discussing the differences between modern Manhattan and the New York Bucky grew up in. The Avengers Tower, formerly Stark Tower, rises up from the concrete like a monolith, looming over the rest of the buildings on the block. You never expected to see the inside of it and as Bucky activates a body scan from the access panel you’re more than a little nervous. The scan runs quickly and a warm British voice announces, “Welcome back, Mr. Barnes. I see you’ve brought a guest.”

“That’s Jarvis,” Bucky explains, “Took me a while to get used to him, but he pretty much runs everything here at the tower. Jarvis, this is Y/N. She’ll be with me but give her basic clearance just to be safe.”

“Can do, sir.” Jarvis replies, seemingly all around you. “Miss, if you could please hold still I will run a biometric scan for your clearance.”

You’re not sure where to speak, looking upwards out of instinct, “Okay, sure.” The beam runs from your head down to your toes just like it did for Bucky and you do your best to hold still. Bucky is smirking and you’re sure he understands how odd the advanced tech is to you.

“All set, Miss. You will have basic access to the common rooms, main door, and I’ve added Mr. Barnes’ private quarters as well.”

“Thanks Jarvis.” Bucky says before holding his hand back out to you, “Ready to go meet my robotic friends?”

You laugh lightly, “Sure, why not.”

Bucky leads you up to Stark’s lab where Dum-E and U are busy tidying up bits of charred shrapnel from the floor. “Hey guys!” Bucky calls out as soon as you’re in the lab. The pair of silver robots abandon their dustpan and broom, hurrying over to Bucky. They’re making excited whirring sounds with their gears and you assume this means they’re happy to see him. “Now fellas, I brought a friend to meet you.” he tells them, and both robots turn their top arm pieces in your direction. It’s odd that you feel like you’re being inspected even though they don’t have eyes or faces. “Her name is Y/N and I expect you two to be on your best behavior.”

“Hi guys.” you say with a small wave.

The robot on your right, U, comes over, the top (or end?) of it’s long arm reaching out as if to shake. You look at Bucky questioningly and he nods. You’re not sure what to expect as you reach out towards the robot but it quickly takes your hand between it’s three metal flaps, moving it up and down rapidly as if to shake it. You can’t help but be charmed by the polite little robot. It makes a few tinny sounds and you say “It’s very nice to meet you too.” hoping you’ve guessed it’s intentions correctly. It’s whirring noises start up again and it rolls away quickly, it seems happy enough with your response. The other robot, Dum-E, rolls over to repeat the awkward shake and makes a similar series of noises after you greet him.

Bucky is grinning ear to ear watching you. It means a lot to him that you’re willing to entertain his love of robotics and the two little guys he’s grown so attached to. “How about we show Y/N what we were working on last week?” he asks them and both robots raise and lower their arm piece as if to nod. Bucky whips out his phone, bringing up a song to put on, and then sets it up so that music plays from the speakers in the lab. The clear, ringing voice of Ella Fitzgerald fills the room declaring “It don’t mean a thing if you ain’t got that swing”.

Bucky extends a hand to Dum-E who takes it with his little flaps like he had your hand. Fast and graceful Bucky spins the robot around the lab with him in perfectly timed swing dance steps. You’ve seen swing dancing before but never in person and certainly never with a robot. Dum-E does well keeping up with Bucky and halfway through the song U rolls over to butt in and takes Dum-E’s place. You’re amazed by the show, the way Bucky moves is so alive and joyous. You could easily watch him for hours. Being a clumsy child you doubt you could ever be an adequate dance partner for him but you wonder if you could learn enough for him to take you for a spin around the room. Maybe he would even teach you. It hits you that you’re already planning future dates, far into the future possibly. It’s foolish, you’re not even finished your first official date yet, but it’s going well and you can’t deny the connection you feel with him.

The song ends, Ella’s voice trilling off into silence, and Bucky gives you a cock bow. You clap for him and U who whirrs happily at the praise. “What do you think?” Bucky asks you as he crosses the room to your side.

“Very impressive. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” you tell him.

“It was easier than you’d think too. The guys really enjoy the classics and I missed dancing so it works out great. Do you swing?”

“Oh god no! I was one of those kids who tripped on their own two feet. Never tried learning anything more complicated than following a guy’s lead at slow dancing in the middle school auditorium.”

“I think you’d be a natural. You just have to move with the music.”

“No, really. I’ve fallen walking up the stairs, Bucky. I’d break your toes.”

“Pfft. You couldn’t so much as dent my pinky toe. But if you don’t wanna learn that’s okay too.”

He looks so earnest and unsure that it’s your undoing. “Okay, maybe some other time you can try to teach me. But if you lose a toe it’s your own fault.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take, doll.” He hits you with that megawatt smile and your knees turn to jelly. Damn him and that impossible charm that seems to seep from every pore. You’re no match for it and you suspect he knows it. Bucky takes your hands in his, tugging you close until your toes are almost touching his. That heaviness has returned to the air, like walking into a sauna. “You ready to go see the night sky projector?”

You chance a look up at his face again and you’re amazed you’re still upright at this point. “Yeah, take me to your room now.” Your voice is low and Bucky has to steady himself a minute before leading the way down to the living quarters. It’s obvious the dance you two are doing now. He’s not sure if he’s ready to be intimate with you, or anyone really. Despite months of therapy Bucky’s still insecure about the scars that litter his body. He can barely stand looking at them himself, he can’t imagine it would be any easier for a stranger. But a part of him woke up when he met you in the coffee shop, and it’s only gained strength after a week of frequent texting and a so far perfect date. Bucky isn’t sure he could silence it now if he wanted to. A tiny spark has flared into a wildfire and all Bucky can do now is let it burn.

Read part three HERE!

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes feels #nightmares #PTSD #original female character #reader insert #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fandom

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mittensmorgul · 5 years ago

Text

This Must Be The Place

timestamp for Lifetime Piling Up, 7 years later, but works as a standalone.

(2440 words, T, all the fluffs)

Read it on AO3

It’s the sort of day that leaves Cas desperate for some reminder that life isn’t all trauma and tragedy. He’s finished his shift at the hospital, where one of his patients lived and the other didn’t. It’s the reality of his life as a trauma surgeon, and he’s long ago accepted the fact he’s not God, that he can’t save everyone. It doesn’t stop him from trying.

He’s too worn out from five hours of surgery and a heart-wrenching talk with a man’s grieving family members to bother changing his clothes. Cas ditches his pristine white lab coat and slams the door of his locker. There was something he could do to turn the day around. Something impulsive, but something he’d also been planning for a long time; saving it up for the perfect moment.

Something life-affirming.

Cas pulls on his coat, the lapel catching on the hospital identification clipped to the pocket of his scrub shirt, and walks purposefully out the emergency room door. He waves to Alex the charge nurse at the desk and to a few other people who notice him leaving, but after the day he’s had nobody tries to hold him up when he looks so determined to leave. He’s grateful for that small mercy.

It’s raining as he pulls his car out of the parking garage and drives on autopilot. He sees the shop every day on his way to work and every night as he drives back home. Tonight he lucks out. There’s an empty parking spot right in front of the door, like it was meant to be. He pulls in without a second thought and shuts the engine off. He sits there for a minute, his head resting back against the seat as he basks in the welcoming glow of the blue and yellow neon sign in the window, the light streaked and shattered through the raindrops rolling down his windshield. It’s raining even harder now, and Cas just smiles to himself. It feels right. Everything feels right for once that day.

He pats down his pockets to be sure he has everything-- phone, keys, wallet-- and then readies himself for a mad sprint across the sidewalk through sheets of rain to the shelter of the shop’s awning. The familiar neon-lit window looks so different up close than it does when he’s driving past. The glowing Winchester Tattoo logo is clearly visible from the road, but the dozens of drawings that frame the sign and almost completely obscure the view into the shop from the sidewalk are another story entirely. On closer examination, each of them is easily worth a thousand words.

Cas thinks to himself that if the weather were being more cooperative he could spend hours giving every last drawing the attention it deserves. Then again, he also knows he’d only be delaying the inevitable. He’d talked himself into this months ago, and then waited so long for this moment. He wasn’t about to talk himself out of it now. This was definitely what he wanted, so why would the thought of actually going through with it fill him with dread?

He’s a surgeon, dammit. He has no trouble helping others deal with physical pain, but this is something potentially far more terrifying than that. This would be forever.

Cas closes his eyes, heaves in a fortifying lungful of cold, humid air and then opens the door. He’s greeted with a warm, inviting roil of heat and light and sound. The tinkling of a dozen tiny bells hanging above the door provides an uncanny counterpoint to Led Zeppelin playing on the stereo, several quiet conversations and the intermittent buzzing of a tattoo gun. It’s the strangest combination of things to inspire a feeling of ease and contentment, but as he looks around the warmly lit shop and acknowledges its occupants Cas can’t help feeling an inviting sense of home .

The man behind the front counter hunches over a sketch as a customer describes the artwork he’s commissioning, pointing out a detail that the artist erases and then redraws to the customer’s satisfaction. The artist sets his pencil down and continues to study his work, standing up straight and clasping his hands behind his back as he arches into a stretch. The sleeves of his incongruous white lab coat ride up revealing strong arms covered in vibrant tattoos, heaven and hell, light and darkness, somehow both perfectly at home together as if he carried a piece of each extreme in either hand. Cas can’t help the quiet laugh at the sight, how similar the coat is to the one he’d left at the hospital, and yet how startlingly different this one appears in context draped over the shoulders of this beautiful man who looks more like a punk rocker with his faded Metallica t-shirt and ink-stained fingers than a medical professional.

Where his coat is embroidered Dr. Castiel Novak above the pocket, the artist has chosen to create his own name tag in a swirling riot of color. The name Dean is written in a bold script across a hand-drawn banner surrounded by bird wings and wildflowers. Cas wonders what his colleagues would think if he showed up at the hospital with a similar badge, and laughs a bit louder.

He finally garners a glance from Dean, who gives him a little nod and a wink to let him know he’ll be with him shortly. Cas nods back and then distracts himself by observing the shop’s other occupants. One artist, a young blonde woman, is entirely focused on her work while the man in her chair whimpers through the pain of a shoulder tattoo. Another older artist meticulously sets up her station for one of the customers waiting on the sofa off to Cas’s left. The three girls look barely old enough to be getting tattooed at all, yet they eagerly flip through the photo albums labeled with each of the artist’s names-- Claire, Jody, Donna, and of course Dean-- commenting on the pictures as they wonder in equal measure at how good they look and how much each one must’ve hurt. He’s entirely bemused by the girls when he hears Dean finishing up with his client.

“So if you’re good with that, I can fit you in next Tuesday at four,” Dean says to the man, who nods and hands over fifty bucks as a deposit.

“Sounds good to me,” the man says. “Been wanting to get that done for years.”

Dean puts the money in the cash drawer and prints out a receipt that doubles as an appointment reminder while Cas sidles up to get a closer look at the artwork. It’s two birds in flight, circling around each other, that he recognizes as arctic terns. Cas glances up at the man, who catches him looking but only smiles back at him.

“For me and my wife,” he says. “Arctic terns mate for life, but they’ve got the longest migration of any birds in the world. Their entire lives are one endless road trip together. Well, in a manner of speaking.” The man laughs.

Cas glances at Dean to see him smiling curiously at him, as if he’s waiting to see what Cas has to say on the subject-- of tattoos or arctic terns or gruff old men deciding that’s how they want to commemorate the love of their life.

“Congratulations on finally going through with the tattoo, and for having someone you cherish to share your life with. It’s a beautiful piece.”

Dean’s smile brightens for a moment at Cas’s reply, his green eyes filling with a captivating mirth.

“So,” Dean says, leaning in and making a show of reading the identification badge still clipped to Cas’s shirt, “Dr. Novak, what brings a classy, upstanding doctor like you into my humble little den of iniquity tonight? Just getting out of the rain for a minute, or are you thinking about getting a tattoo?”

The customer belts out a startling laugh, but Cas pays him no mind.

“I noticed you’re still open, and I’ve had an idea for a tattoo for a while now. Would you prefer I schedule an appointment, or are you free right now?”

Dean looks him up and down and grins. “For you? I think I can spare a couplea minutes. What are you thinking?”

The girls on the sofa giggle at the unfolding drama, whispering to each other behind their hands. Mr. Arctic Terns says what the girls are either too polite or too shy to say aloud.

“Ooh, are you sure about that? You’re a doctor, you must know it hurts, and how painful the laser is for folks who regret their ink later.”

Cas smiles mildly at the man and slides off his coat, laying it on the counter beside Dean’s sketchpad. “Yes, I’m fully aware.” He continues stripping off his scrub top, the ID badge clinking against the glass countertop as he sets it down as well, leaving him in a heather grey long-sleeved henley that clings to the defined muscles of his shoulders, back and arms. Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t otherwise object to the strip tease.

The other customer nods seriously as Dean folds his arms across his chest and bites his lip to keep from laughing aloud. Cas appreciates it, as well as the mischievous glint in Dean’s eyes.

“I’m just saying, medicine doesn’t seem like a profession that looks kindly on tattoos.” He turns to Dean. “No offense to your profession, but I ain’t never seen a doctor with ink.”

Cas just sighs and casts a wistful look at Dean, who shrugs and waits to see what he’ll do next. Jody’s finished setting up her station but she stands back beside Claire, whose tattoo gun has gone quiet as they both watch and wait to see what will happen next. Even the three giggling girls are practically holding their breath at this unusual series of events. Cas barely even registers their presence as he reaches down and tugs up the hem of his henley, then whips it over his head.

“I dare say you’ve seen at least one tattooed surgeon,” Cas says, never taking his eyes from Dean and only peripherally registering the little gasps from the three girls at the unveiling. Not only is Cas a physical work of art himself, his skin is all but covered in glorious illustration.

“Well then,” Arctic Tern Guy says, scratching his head and then moving toward the door with a little chuckle. “Guess you learn something new every day. I’ll see you Tuesday, Dean,” he says, and then the bells tinkle and a gust of cold wind sends a shiver across Cas’s exposed back before the door shuts again behind him.

Cas’s shoulders settle again like a bird folding his wings, which is the visual illusion he gives with the broad set of wings tattooed across his shoulder blades and down his arms past his elbows. Above the wings and up to the base of his neck is an expanse of outer space, the black punctuated by bright stars and a glowing pink and purple depiction of the Heart Nebula, the greenish streak of a comet piercing it like an arrow. Below his wings blooms a garden of vines and wildflowers populated by a dozen or more frolicking bees. Heavens and Earth.

Through the entire show, Dean and Cas just smile at each other until Dean finally cracks. “Guess you told him, sunshine.”

Cas just shrugs and-- to the three girls’ dismay-- begins dressing again. “It always disappoints me when people assume that the appearance of someone’s skin has any bearing on their competence or their professionalism.”

“You’re a regular crusader,” Dean adds, also looking a little disappointed that Cas put his shirt back on. “So did you just stop in to fight social injustice?”

Cas steps up close to the counter, reaching into the back pocket of his dark blue scrub pants and shaking his head. “No, I really am interested in another tattoo, and I believe you’re the only person I’d trust with it.”

Dean’s smile returns. “Well I hope I’m worthy of that kinda faith.”

Cas nods, slowly edging his way around the end of the counter until he’s practically toe to toe with Dean. “You’ve proven that to me over and over again, every day for the last seven years. I hope I’m worthy in return.” He drops down onto one knee and holds out his hand, a simple gold ring in his outstretched palm. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t ever want to imagine a day without you in it. I love you, Dean. Will you marry me?”

Dean stares down at him for a second, and that terror that had held Cas back from asking sooner begins to creep up inside him. The pain of a tattoo needle’s got absolutely nothing on this. But Dean blinks and then pulls Cas to his feet, grabbing him up in a tight hug and planting an awkwardly sloppy and slightly frantic kiss on him as Dean tells him yes over and over again.

“Hot damn,” Claire’s client says and the rest of the shop erupts in a chorus of delighted awws.

Relief and joy flood through Cas, washing away his entirely baseless fear and making room for the certainty that Dean will always be his. Jody and Claire offer them fond congratulations, as do the three girls, before Jody brings one of them back to her station and she and Claire both get back to work.

“That was unexpected,” Dean says the minute everyone’s attention moves on from them, and admiring the way the ring looks on his hand before pulling Cas in for another kiss. “How long you been planning that one?”

Cas shrugs. “A long time. Years, maybe. On some level, probably since the first time I walked into your shop.”

Dean nods, too overcome to even tease him. He clears his throat and leans against the counter, pulling Cas close. “So did you really have another tattoo in mind? Or was that just an excuse to come see me at work?”

“I gave you a ring, and I was hoping you’d be willing to give me one too.”

It’s a ring he’ll never be able to remove, and one he’d never want to. When Dean’s finished inking it into his skin, he removes his gold band and teaches Cas how to give his very first tattoo. It’s the sort of day that’s marked indelibly in their skin, and all the way down to their souls.

(thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it and haven’t read Lifetime Piling Up, here’s a link to the whole series: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559668)

#spn fanfic #destiel #things i have written

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ethereousdelirious · 5 years ago

Text

I forgot to post this earlier, but yeah I kinda???? Fixated on E.ssek out of nowhere??? I started thinking about the period just after someone has been seriously sick and then I started thinking about E.ssek getting sick while the M.9 are in the Ball and it just spiraled out of control

No spoilers if you are like. Familiar with who E.ssek is.

Fic Contents: post-illness, dehydration, fainting, vomiting, caretaking

Anyway it contains vomiting but it’s not an emeto fic if that makes sense? Like it’s not the main focus of the fic

Everyone gets a mention, but the main characters are E.ssek, C.aleb, C.aduceus, and J.ester

Essek wavered on the threshold. Caduceus' chimes had stopped their singing and now Caleb stared at him in disapproving silence, studying his face with unabashed boldness.

Caleb let his eyes widen, his eyebrows raise in a solicitous expression. "Essek, are you well?" He had never seen Essek wobble in the air like this before. True, the shifting was limited to a mere rise and fall of no more than half an inch every few seconds, but it was unusual.

Even so, it might not have been a cause for concern had Essek looked like his usual self. As it happened, he didn't. The skin of his face and lips had paled to an unhealthy lavender hue. His eyes had an unusual dullness to them, like he was struggling to keep them open, and his mantle seemed to be weighing him down.

Still, he straightened at Caleb's inquiry, his hands rising almost subconsciously to brush imaginary dust off his front. "May I come in?" he asked.

Caleb backed up immediately. "Oh, yes, of course, excuse me."

Essek followed him in. "Where are the others?" he asked, looking about cautiously.

"I, ah…" Caleb hesitated, searching for the phrasing. "I asked them to give us some breathing space today."

"I appreciate it." Essek's voice was thin and reedy. He coughed lightly.

"Can I get you some water?" Caleb asked, eager to make up for his rudeness earlier, accidental though it was.

"I'm alright, thank you," Essek said. He swept a hand back through his immaculately styled hair. "To answer your question, I had been ill while you and your group were away." He spoke stiffly, as if he thought Caleb was going to shame him for it, and was determined to stop it before it began.

"You are recovered now, though?" Caleb asked pointedly.

Essek hesitated before answering.

"Essek," Caleb prompted.

"I am… well enough." Essek clapped his hands once. "Your lessons."

"Yes, of course." Caleb started to walk for the study, looking over his shoulder to make sure Essek was following.

"I'm not an invalid," Essek snapped, much to Caleb's surprise.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to offend--" Caleb started, but Essek put up a hand to stop him.

"My apologies, that was out of line." He sighed and bobbed dangerously in the air for a moment. "I may still be a bit tired."

"I hope you gave yourself some time to relax," Caleb said mildly. He opened the study door and followed Essek through.

Essek usually stayed standing for the greater part of these lessons, rising from his chair to sweep about the room as he spoke, illustrating his points with esoteric hand gestures. Today, he waited for Caleb fetch his notebook and sit down, then sat next to him.

Caleb threw him a sharp look, noting again just how pale Essek looked. Essek glanced at him sideways and raised his eyebrow until Caleb look away, blushing.

The heat faded quickly from his cheeks by degrees. Caleb glanced up again. Essek looked exhausted, but Caleb bit his tongue. Despite everything, they really didn't know each other all that well. If Essek said he was fine, then he was fine. It wasn't Caleb's business.

Essek produced a book of his own and flipped open to a diagram that Caleb could just barely begin to grasp.

"I understand you don't have much interest in gravity manipulation, but I thought you might find this spell useful in combat situations." He cleared his throat again, as his voice had gone thin again, almost rasping. "Excuse me." He coughed lightly into his sleeve, away from Caleb.

Caleb studied the page Essek had open, trying to piece together the glyphs and runes into something he could understand. Essek's handwriting had a tendency toward flourishes that Caleb's didn't, and many of the symbols he used were unfamiliar.

Essek stopped coughing and pressed his fingertips to his forehead. "My apologies," he said weakly. He blinked, his eyes staying shut for a fraction of a second too long. "The spell."

"Ja, the spell," Caleb said. Despite everything he did want to learn it. He pointed at the markings Essek had made at the top right of the page. "Verbal, material, somatic?"

"You're picking up Undercommon?" Essek seemed genuinely impressed.

"Not so much." Caleb lowered his eyes. "I just, ah, remembered. From the last time."

"Still," Essek said, "it's been a while. You have a good memory."

"Ja, that I do."

"Now." Essek pointed to a glyph on the page. His fingered wavered in the air. His hand was shaking. He tapped the glyph instead and drew his hand back. "This is the sign for mercury."

"Oh, mercury," Caleb said. He scribbled it down next to his own sign for mercury, taking care to transcribe it as faithfully as possible. "Your handwriting is, um, is more elegant than I am used to seeing."

"Thank you," Essek said. He muffled a cough behind his lips. "Now, mercury--" His voice grated. He coughed again, more forcefully this time. Then he took a sharp, shallow breath with just a hint of quavering vocalization behind it.

He was in pain.

Caleb looked sharply at Essek, the sickly paleness of his face and the shadows under his eyes. It was becoming stark and clear now that Essek was in no shape to be out of bed no matter how desperately he tried to mask it.

"You know," Caleb said with forced casualty, "perhaps we might, ah, continue this another day? Not that I don't appreciate the trouble, of course, but I…" He hadn't thought this far ahead, he needed some sort of excuse for Essek to feel alright about cancelling the lesson and he had nothing.

"Calm down," Essek said. "I am alright. The cough is lingering, that's all."

"Were you very ill?" Caleb couldn't help but ask.

Essek flushed. "I was bedridden for a few days, nothing more than that." He tapped the book again. "Please try to focus. We don't have a lot of time."

"That is true," Caleb agreed. "The others will return before too long as well. They did want to see you."

Essek winced and lifted a hand to his forehead. "I do, of course, want to see them as well, but perhaps today is not the best time for a social call."

"Of course not," Caleb said. "You should get some rest too."

"Subtle," Essek murmured. He pointed once more to the mercury glyph. "As I was saying the basis of this spell is mercury. This is an older spell; I do believe it was written before the harmful effects of long-term exposure to mercury were made widely-known."

"So mercury is one of the components," Caleb said out loud, wanting to be perfectly clear before he made any notes.

"Yes, but there are substitutions," Essek said. He muffled a yawn behind his forearm and shook his head slightly. Again, his eyes stayed closed for slightly too long. A slight crease appeared between his brows. He sighed through his nose and dipped his head so he could rub irritably at his temple.

Caleb swallowed. "Essek, if you're not feeling well--"

Essek seemed poised to disagree but his argument was disrupted by a full-body shudder and another pained exhale. He swallowed hard, collecting himself. "Very well, another day. I have other work that n-needs attending to." He got to his feet and started to hover.

Caleb didn't think it was possible for Essek to pale further, but his face was now ashen, a truly worrisome gray color where it was normally purple-black. Sweat had broken out on his brow. "Are you alright?"

"A m-moment," Essek slurred, his eyes far away.

Whatever spell was keeping him aloft broke abruptly and Essek fell gracelessly to the floor and didn't move.

Caleb knelt beside his head, muttering to himself in Zemnian. "Oh, shit, shit, shit. This is bad, this is bad." Essek was breathing at least. Caleb pressed the back of his hand to Essek's head and frowned in confusion. No fever. Then what…? Caleb looked Essek over, touching him lightly when he felt it was necessary, but Essek didn't appear to be wounded either.

He was just pale.

"You stubborn asshole," Caleb sighed, still in Zemnian. Just in case.

A few heartbeats passed and Essek started to stir. He murmured something in Undercommon.

"Open your eyes, Essek," Caleb instructed in Common.

Essek did. He sat up slowly, not seeming to realize that he had to lean on Caleb for support the whole way. He was shivering violently now, and speaking feverishly in Common. "...really don't have time for this, I have a meeting to get to and them I am expected--"

"Essek," Caleb said sternly. "You are currently on the floor in the study of my home because you passed out, and you are slumped against my chest like a doll because you are too weak to sit up on your own. You are down for the count. Please just admit that you feel terrible and can't do any more work today."

"I do feel terrible," Essek admitted, to Caleb’s surprise. "But I don't have time--"

"No." Caleb shook his head and sighed. "I sent away the two people who would actually be useful in this situation, natürlich. Come on, let me help you onto the couch."

Essek seemed too stunned by Caleb's sudden assertiveness to argue, and he let Caleb pull him into a reclining position on the couch.

"Try to sleep," Caleb said. "I'll get you some water-- Ah."

"What?"

"When was the last time you ate or drank something?" Essek looked away suddenly, which was all the answer Caleb needed. "You are dehydrated," he said with a nod, pleased at having worked out the answer.

"Ah," Essek echoed faintly. He leaned his head against the arm rest and closed his eyes.

"Essek," Caleb's voice was suddenly serious. "I don't mean to, ehm, hold you hostage here. You are welcome to leave if that is what you want."

Essek covered another yawn with his hand. "I don't want to be a bother but… You're right, Caleb." His head listed to the side and he rubbed his face with both hands, wincing.

"Water," Caleb said. "I'll ask Caduceus and Jester for advice when they get home."

"Oh." Essek tried to rise and failed, having to brace himself against the side of the couch. "Are they all going to… To come in here? I do not dislike them but there are so many of you, I don't know if…" He trailed off.

"We'll keep it quiet," Caleb promised. "Get some rest."

Essek watched Caleb walk out. Perhaps this was for the best.

Essek listened to Caleb's footsteps on the stairs and the clattering of dishes in the kitchen, shifting listlessly on the couch. He felt awful, barely well enough to string thoughts together. Even just lying there on the couch left his chest heaving with shallow breaths, and the room spun whenever he closed his eyes. His head pounded hard enough that nausea pooled high and frantic in his stomach, and he swallowed frequently against it.

"Are you still with me?" Caleb's voice came from the doorway. He had a glass in one hand and a pitcher in the other. He set the pitcher on a desk and knelt by Essek. "Can you sit up?"

Essek felt he had worn out his ability to speak for the moment, so he just propped himself up on his elbows and let Caleb press the glass into his unsteady hand.

"Try to drink it all," Caleb said.

Essek's stomach protested, but he kept drinking, not bothering to surface for air until the glass was empty. He panted slightly and wiped his mouth. "Th-thank you, Caleb." He gave Caleb the glass back and slumped back against the armrest. He didn't feel any better.

"I have a few questions, if you're feeling up to it," Caleb said softly. He sat down on the floor so he could look at Essek.

"By all means."

"Did you see a cleric when you were ill?"

Essek colored slightly. "Yes." He rubbed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself. "As I said, I was bedridden. Apparently my fever was quite high."

"It was a serious illness, then." Caleb looked thoughtful. "Did the clerics do anything that helped?"

"I don't know. I don't think they were able to use magic. I don't remember much." Essek shifted slightly, running his hand over his unsettled stomach, thankful that his mantle covered his arms.

"Ah." Caleb went silent for a moment. The only sound in the room was Essek's ragged breathing. "I am sorry."

"For what?" Essek demanded. He turned his head to look at Caleb, letting out a pitiful whine at the sharp pain that shot down his neck.

Caleb tactfully ignored this. "I am sorry that I cannot be more help. You are suffering and I am largely useless." He laughed humorlessly. "The others should return soon, I think. Hopefully Caduceus will have some miracle tea to cure all your ills."

Essek smiled faintly and closed his eyes. "It's my own fault. I shouldn't have left my sickbed so early."

"What?" Caleb said sharply. "Essek, when did your fever break?"

"Ah." Essek opened his eyes again, his head spinning. "Yesterday."

Caleb was silent, his irises twitching slightly as he made mental calculations. "And yet you offered me a lesson," he said softly.

"I wanted to see you," Essek admitted. He cleared his throat. "All of you."

The chimes above the door sang pleasantly. The door shut, not quite a slam but not gently either.

"Hey, Caleb, are you and Essek done boning yet?" Jester called from downstairs.

"Ugh, gross," Beau said.

Essek blanched and covered his ears.

"Caaaaleb," Jester called again.

"Give him a minute, Jester," Fjord said patiently.

Caleb walked over to the landing. "Ja, I'm coming."

He went down the stairs a lot quicker than he usually would and found the others waiting for him by the front door.

"Something wrong?" Caduceus asked once Caleb was close enough for conversation. Caleb indicated that they should step outside again, so they all piled out the front door and onto the porch.

"What's going on?" Nott asked, pushing past Fjord so she could cling to Caleb's sleeve. "Did Essek bother you? I'll kill him."

"No, no, nothing of the sort." Caleb shook his head. "He's unwell."

Predictably, Caduceus' ears pricked up, but he didn't say anything.

"You mean like he's sick?" Jester asked.

"Or do you mean like crazy?" Beau asked. "You know how, like, as a euphemism or whatever?"

"No, no," Caleb shook his head again. "He's… Ja, well, I suppose he's sick. Well." His hands bunched up in the fabric of his sleeves as he tried to think. "He was sick. He is recovering but probably should not have gotten out of bed today, I think. He collapsed but he's not running a fever. I think he's just dehydrated."

"That can be dangerous if left unchecked," Caduceus said.

"So where is he?" Beau demanded, like Caleb might be hiding the handsome, hovering drow behind his back.

"Upstairs in the study," Caleb said. "He's really not feeling well, I think it might be best if Jester and Caduceus just had a look at him."

Beau started to bristle but Fjord nudged her and she deflated.

"Let's go then," Jester said, making for the door. She pounded up the stairs with less delicacy than Caleb would have liked, leaving Caleb and Caduceus trailing in her wake like kite tails.

Essek was looking worse for wear. At some point, he had rolled onto his side and drawn his legs up a bit, curling up under his mantle. His eyes were open and his lips were pressed firmly together.

"Oh, Essek," Jester said softly. She knelt by his torso. "I need to touch you, okay? I promise it won't hurt, I just need your hand."

Essek extricated one of his hands from the tangled black of his mantle and presented it to Jester. In the moment before she took it between her own, it shook like a leaf caught in a strong wind.

Jester pressed her palm against Essek's and gently pinched the skin on the back of his hand, shaking her head when it didn't snap back to shape, but crawled slowly until it was flat again.

"It's a really good thing Caduceus and I are such awesome clerics," she said to Essek in a conspiratorial whisper. "We'll have you all fixed up in, like, no time."

"How we doing?" Caduceus asked, having evidently reached the study.

"Been better," Essek rasped. He stiffened momentarily.

"He's really dehydrated," Jester said.

Caleb shifted his weight guiltily. "I gave him a glass of water but I did not know else to do. I haven't had much experience…"

"That's good," Caduceus said soothingly. "You did good. Maybe try another glass, and I'll make some broth."

Essek stiffened again, a choked, involuntary sound sneaking past his lips.

"If you don't mind me asking, Mr Essek, what were you sick with before?" Caduceus asked, an uncharacteristic keen look in his eye.

"Fever," Essek said with a shrug. "Coughing. Started with a sore throat and got worse very quickly."

"I see." Caduceus scanned him silently, then turned away. "I'll make broth."

Caleb went over to the desk and poured another glass of water. "Can you sit up?"

"Here, I'll help," Jester said brightly. "Lean on me, Essek. It's okay, I'm, like, super strong and stuff."

Essek braced himself against her hand, which was still palm to palm with his, and slowly hauled himself upright. Jester sat next to him and let him lean against her.

"Oh, Jester," he said, blinking. "I was wondering. Could you send a message for me? I had…" He paused and stifled a noise of pain. "Other engagements that I won't be able to make."

"Sure!" Jester said. Caleb passed her the glass of water and she raised it to Essek's lips. "Drink."

Essek managed to swallow a bit without spilling. "I can take that, you know."

"Fiiiine." Jester handed him the glass. "So who do you want me to send a message to? The Bright Queen? I messaged her before and she was cool with it."

"Ah…" Essek took another drink of water, ignoring the low, angry growl his stomach made in response. "I had hoped you could send a message to one of the people I was supposed to meet with-- Mm!" A stab of pain shot all the way around his head and down his neck, causing a wave of nausea to rise in response. He waved his free hand in response to Jester’s concerned look. "B-but if it has to be someone you know, then I suppose we don't really have a choice."

"I mean, you could describe them to me?" Jester said. "You don't really seem up to it though."

Essek shook his head, his knuckles pale around the glass in his hand. Almost automatically, he took another long swallow and shuddered.

"Okay, I'll just send a message to the Bright Queen, then!"

Caleb perked his head up, a small smile on his lips in anticipation of what was to come.

"Okay." Jester adopted a look of concentration, her brows knitting and tongue poking out. "Umm." The scent of magic filled the air. "Hiiii, it's Jester! Please excuse Essek from," she hesitated, "everything; he's super sick. Not dying though! We'll take good care of him. Um, okay, well. See you later, then!"

Caleb chuckled to himself.

They sat in silence for a few moments, until Jester straightened again and looked sideways at Essek. "She says to take it easy and relax and totally don't worry about anything, just, you know, eat your vegetables and get well soon."

Even when sick, Essek was capable of a deeply penetrating, slightly judgemental stare, which he employed to great effect, twitching one eyebrow up just enough to convey his tacit disbelief.

"Okay, alright, she just thanked me for telling her and said to let her know if you get worse," Jester admitted, throwing up her hands. "Is that better? My version was nicer."

"Still, I appreciate the truth." Essek's head was spinning too badly for him to move and he still had half a glass of water left. He finished it and handed Jester the glass without thinking about it.

He exhaled, a small noise escaping from the back of his throat. Despite everything, he really didn't feel any better. He pulled his mantle tighter about his shoulders, ignoring the childish urge to duck his head beneath and curl into a ball with his face covered.

"Are you cold?" Caleb asked, the smile fading from his face.

"I don't know."

Essek's color hadn't improved at all. He was still squeezing his eyes shut every few moments and shifting around like he couldn't get comfortable.

Caleb watched, an ugly feeling of utter uselessness clawing at the edges of his psyche.

"Forgive me," he said from his position by the desk. Jester looked at him. Essek did not. "Essek, perhaps you might be more comfortable if you, ah, shed some layers. I'm sure we could find some nightclothes for you to wear."

Even after Caleb had directly addressed him, Essek didn't move. He stayed with his head on Jester's shoulders, his eyes glazed and far away. He murmured something in Undercommon, then cleared his throat. "I don't think… I'm not sure it's a good idea." His hands shifted under his mantle, but Caleb couldn't see exactly what he was doing.

"You are dizzy?" Caleb guessed.

Essek made a noncommittal humming sound.

"How about I read to you?" Jester suggested. "We could get you laying down again all comfy and then I could read to you from Tusk Love until you fall asleep!"

Essek was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Caduceus, who was heralded only by the slight creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet.

He was holding a tray with a mug and a teapot.

"Broth's going," he said to the room at large. He walked across the room and Caleb moved out of the way so he could set the tray on the desk. "It'll take a little while to make, but I've got Nott watching it while Beau and Fjord run out and grab some stuff for me."

"What do you have there?" Jester asked, eyeing the teapot with suspicion. "It smells weird. Not like bad weird, though."

"Unusual, perhaps," Caleb suggested. He leaned over and sniffed. "Is that… barley tea?"

"It is." Caduceus filled the teacup and handed it to Essek.

"Here, wait." Jester passed the empty water glass to Caduceus. "Since I'm trapped here."

"Oh." Essek straightened, seeming to just realize how heavily he'd been leaning on Jester. "My apologies." He made to scoot over but had to stop, hissing in pain and gripping the back of his head with his free hand.

Caduceus look at Caleb thoughtfully. "Maybe I should have made willow bark tea. Or mixed them."

"That sounds…" Caleb hesitated, searching for the right word. He didn't find it, so he let his silence do the speaking for him.

"Yeah," Caduceus agreed. "That would taste terrible."

Essek sniffed his tea and took a cautious sip. The taste was unusual but not bad, and the warmth helped quell the awful shivers that had been plaguing him.

"Do you like it?" Jester asked skeptically.

"I don't know," Essek said. He took another careful sip, wary of burning his tongue.

He decided he did like it. It was a small, pleasant thing in the vast world of unpleasantness he currently occupied. He held the cup close to his chest, savoring what little warmth managed to seep through his clothing to his skin.

He took his time drinking it, even after the liquid cooled enough to not scald his mouth. The tight, unpleasant feeling pooling low in his belly had not gotten any better with the addition of a second glass of water, and he doubted that drinking too quickly would do him any favors.

Still, it would be rude to not drink it all.

Essek lifted the teacup and took a bigger swallow, trying not to grimace when his stomach thrashed and tightened in response.

Caduceus straightened suddenly, and looked at him. "You don't have to drink all of that right now if you're not feeling up to it."

"I think I will finish it later," Essek agreed. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach and he pressed his lips together.

"Caleb, Jester, can you go check on Nott for me?" Caduceus asked them, turning his attention away from Essek for the moment. "See how the broth is coming along."

Caleb's eyes narrowed. "What, both of us?"

"Well, yeah, because I'll get bored if I have to walk all the way down the stairs alone," Jester said.

She stood up and Essek carefully lowered himself so he could position his head on the armrest without straightening his legs.

"Ja, alright, then." Caleb followed Jester out the door.

Essek listened to the stairs creak beneath them while clumsily rearranging the thick fabric of his cloak so he didn't get tangled in it.

Caduceus came over and sat by Essek's feet.

"You okay?"

"Not as such," Essek answered, confused. "I am half-conscious on a couch in the home of a group of people I honestly do not know all that well."

"Not what I meant, but fair point," Caduceus said, shrugging. "I meant about your stomach. You looked like you were feeling a bit sick there, so I thought you might appreciate some privacy."

"I'm trying not to think about it," Essek said.

"That's good." Caduceus ran a hand through his hair absently. "I think we gave you a bit too much a bit too fast. I'm sure you haven't eaten much lately."

"Correct."

"Which is why it's doubly important that you keep everything down today."

"That's.. a bit of a tall order at the moment," Essek admitted. He swallowed thickly as his stomach rolled, seemingly out of sheer spite.

"Normally I'd offer you some ginger or mint tea," Caduceus said, "but, well."

"Mm," Essek said, not trusting himself to say more. He swallowed again.

"Luckily, I do have some other tricks up my sleeve. May I have your hand?"

Essek nodded, though he privately feared he was past the point of no return. Reluctantly, he unwrapped his arm from around his abdomen and presented it to Caduceus palm up.

"I'm just going to roll your sleeve up," Caduceus said, doing so. He placed two fingers on Essek's wrist, and they were pleasantly warm. "There's a pressure point located--"

A sharp salt taste flooded Essek's mouth. He jerked his hand back and sat bolt upright, looking around frantically, both arms wrapped tightly around his stomach.

"Small setback," Caduceus said lightly, also looking around.

There was a small, unobtrusive wastebasket by the desk, where Caleb would often throw away bits of scrap paper during their lessons.

Essek stared at it, steeling himself. He was panting now, swallowing thickly every few seconds, unsure he was going to make it.

Caduceus followed his gaze. "I'll get it." He crossed the room in long strides and set the bin between Essek's knees. "I'd like to try that pressure point again, if you don't mind. It will be better in the long run if you don't vomit."

Essek held his hand out stiffly. It was shaking. Caduceus steadied it in his own and again put his fingers to Essek's wrists.

"I've never tried this so late in the game before, but it might help," he said. "I'm going to apply pressure to your wrist."

Essek nodded shakily, granting his permission. Caduceus pressed down gently on the inside of Essek's wrist.

"It shouldn't feel unpleasant, but let me know if you want me to stop," Caduceus said.

Essek squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, if his den mother could see him now, the great prodigy Essek Thelyss hunched over a trash can, gritting his teeth in a desperate attempt to keep from spilling the contents of his guts.

A few tears rolled down his cheeks, one dripping off the end of his nose. Perfect.

He barely registered Caduceus rubbing small circles into his wrist, no, there was just the cold, urgent inevitability of the awful nausea crawling up his throat.

He swallowed with difficulty. A few more tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his nose.

"You're doing great," Caduceus said.

Essek bit his tongue. This was awful. He hated being stuck here in this cruel liminal space of nausea too intense to ignore, but apparently not strong enough for him to vomit.

He considered drawing his hand back once more and sticking his fingers down his throat just to get the damned deed over with, but he knew that would only make things worse in the long run.

Curse him for not taking better care of himself. He should never have allowed himself to fall ill in the first place.

A pulse of pain shot through his head and it was all over. Almost before Essek realized what was happening, his stomach contracted and forced a wave of vomit past his lips.

He moaned, low and long in the back of his throat, a thin line of drool dripping off his lower lip, mingling with the tears that were now pouring down his cheeks.

He wiped his mouth and sat back, quietly furious with himself yet pathetically grateful to finally be free of the pain and nausea that had been dogging him for the majority of the day. Even his head felt better.

"That's alright," Caduceus said, somewhat absently. He let Essek's hand go and said "Oh, that’s nice."

Essek looked up. Caleb was standing above him, proffering a glass of water.

"Thank you," Essek rasped, taking it with both hands. He rinsed his mouth, then swallowed what few mouthfuls of water he could manage, out of breath as he was. Even sitting upright felt like work.

"Rest now," Caduceus said softly. He got up so Essek could arrange himself comfortably.

"Feel better, Essek," Caleb said.

Essek closed his eyes.

#ethereous writes

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famous-aces · 5 years ago

Text

Alfredo Guttero

Who: Alfredo Guttero

What: Artist and Art Promoter

Where: Argentinian (active in Argentina and throughout Western Europe)

When: May 26, 1882 - December 1, 1932

(Image Description: Retrato del pintor, Victorica, 1929 [a self portrait]. It shows Guttero in his apartment. Outside is a very geometric skyline of smokestacks, steep roofs, and a brown sky. His room is slate colored and he sits in a chair in the foreground. He has a jacket thrown over the back of his chair. His pose is casual and he looks as if we [the viewer] have just distracted him from painting. He sits with his legs to one side, turned almost unnaturally toward the viewer. One leg is lifted slightly and one hand is on the chair's seat as if he is in the middle of turning completely to the viewer. He is a man with a receding hairline and a high forehead. He has a dark mustache and dark hair and low eyebrows. He is wearing a white shirt and bowtie and has his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his collar is ruffled and loosened. The whole thing hangs very loose but you can still see some of his body's lines of musculature. His tie undone and hanging around his neck. His pants are ordinary and green/brown. His expression is calm but confident and he looks directly at the viewer. The colors are bold but not really bright. The style blends geometry and flatness and realism in a way I am explaining very poorly. End ID)

Guttero is not terribly well remembered today, which is too bad. Looking through his oeuvre I quite like his work. Maybe it is because he lacked the bombastic personality of many modernist artists, maybe it is due to his diversity of styles without one that seems to define his work, or maybe it is because he was one of so many talented artists of his generation. He was well renown in his era, however, and used his popularity and skill to foster the next generation of Argentinian artists.

Guttero's life began mundanely enough. He always loved art, appreciating it and creating it, but pursued a legal career instead. But he was unhappy with his life as a lawyer, so Guttero left it to become a painter. He pursued his dream and passion, inspired and pushed by other Argentine artists. In 1904 his reputation was good enough that the Argentinian government sponsored his move to Paris, then the epicenter of the truly exciting and revolutionary art world, its influence expanding outward. He studied there for a few years under Maurice Denis before appearing in the Salon.

He remained in Paris until 1916 when he began to travel extensively across Western Europe for more than a decade, first to Spain, then Germany, Austria, and beyond. He traveled to nearly every country in the area between the years of 1916 and 1927. His work was shown in various exhibitions around the continent from being featured in the Salon in Paris to a major solo exhibition in Genoa.

After that he returned to Argentina for the first time since his initial departure in 1904. Guttero remained active in his native country including creating free art classes called, aptly enough, Cursos Libres de Arte Plástico, with other Argentine artists. During this time he focused on his work as an art promotor, perhaps even more than his own art. During this time he introduced and showed new Argentinian artists to a wider audience. Indeed he created an organization for this purpose: the Hall of Modern Painters. He was dedicated to promoting and preserving modern art in the face of a world growing increasingly dark and reactionary. He died young and without much warning.

His art is undeniably modernist but trickier to pin to a specific movement. He has many different styles he utilizes with different degrees of naturalism and curves vs geometry. His scenes are by and large mundane and human, he uses bright colors, often huge central subjects, kinetic poses and positions, modern settings, and by and large human or urban subjects. He often painted on plaster using a "cooked plaster" technique of his own devising.

(Image Description: Martigues for Charles Jacques [1909], a brightly colored painting showing a scene in a Martigues canal. It is not completely realistic nor completely geometric and abstract. He favors color over outlines. In the background is a bright blue sky interrupted by yellow buildings with tile roofs, maybe houses, lit by the unseen sun. One of the building's lower doors is open. There is a small tree to the far right. In the foreground in the sparkling water of the canal are several small work boats, probably fishing boats judging by the silvery nets lying over the hulls. On the right a boat is coming in, there is a pale skinned, dark haired man working on one of the nets. His sail is red and white. On the left is a pale man in an orange hat and yellow shirt. He is stooped and just by his pose appears older, both of the men are too far away for many identifying details. End ID)

Possible Orientation: Mspec ace, gay ace, or aroace with an aesthetic attraction to multiple genders. (I am so unsure I have changed "probable" to "possible.")

I admit this one is a stretch on my part.

I am classifying Guttero based largely on absence, i.e. the absence of a remembered/recorded spouse, sexual/romantic partner, or liasian. I have no quotes or historical documents to prove my point. I have none of his personal philosophy or writings to draw from. Just the fact that he dedicated his life to art more than human relationshipa. That this is something I have seen before: Cause and its role in the life of many aros/aces/aroaces (outlined in Weil's entry the other day) and the fact that he had no recorded romantic/sexual partners that I can find in hours of research.

This illustrates why it is so, so difficult to find aspecs in history. We are not, as aphobes believe, impossible to locate, there is externally visible evidence, but it is less obvious than most other orientations. And cishets would rather we didn't exist so we are often buried under excuses. The easiest ways to find them are 1) if they were notably "married to their job" in their lifetimes (e.g. Jeanette Rankin and Carter Woodson), they talked/wrote about it in some capacity (e.g. T.E. Lawrence or Frédéric Chopin), they were distrusted because of it (John Ruskin and James Barrie), they made it part of their persona (Nikola Tesla and Florence Nightingale), aside from that I really need to search deep into their personal lives. Information not always available.

And often even when people essentially say "I am aromantic and/or asexual" the general population will not accept that. After all Newton is often remembered as allo and gay, despite never expressing interest in men. Chopin is often listed as allo and bi. Rankin is often considered cishet but too deeply concerned with her work. Barrie gets called a pedophile despite showing no interest in children. For eccentric aspecs like Weil/Tesla/etc. their being aspec becomes part of their oddness. If they weren't Like That they would be allo. Their being aspec becomes a symptom of their weirdness and would be unacceptable in a "normal" person.

History with a capital H does not want to acknowledge aspecs and, as with other queer identities, will go to insane measures to erase them. But even other queer historians will do this to aspecs. I am shocked how many people do exactly to Newton/Lewis/and the like what cishet historians do to Alexander the Great. In the case of Alexander the cishets ignore the obvious accounts that he loved Hephestian in nearly every way possible and queer historians and history buffs call them out, then often the non-aspec ones look at Newton and Lewis who had no interest in men and say they must have been gay. And it isn't really just history, Tim Gunn is by his own admission both gay and ace and the second part of that statement is either erased or, even crazier, I have seen aphobes say that he is mistaken about his own identity.

Anyway the root cause of this lack of nuance in the discussion of sexual orientation is a long sidebar that this is not the place to explore. I have left Guttero behind paragraphs ago. I have written a lot about how aces and aros end up getting erased from history and this isn't about that.

This is about Guttero and the difficulty of finding aros and aces. The presence of something is so much easier to find than the alternative, obviously, like if Historical Figure X exclusively slept with/courted men and was a man we can say he was (most likely) gay. But if Historical Figure Y didn't sleep with anyone/court anyone it is harder to prove. This is obviously severely simplifying identity but for the purposes of this example I beg your apology.

Long Story Short: the absence of evidence of something is not proof of the absence of something. A lot of aphobes will point this out and utterly ignore the fact that sometimes it is.

So, Guttero. The only thing I can say conclusively is that he never married and he was romantically or sexually tied to anyone as far as I can find. He was, in his time, very active in the art world. If he had been involved someone would probably have taken note. Especially considering his art is often very appreciative of the human form, especially the male one, it would not be hard to believe he was allo and gay or mspec.

I am going to take his art another way putting some dusty analysis/critique/art history skills to good use. Here's the thing, those who follow me on my personal blog or even here know I find the Death of the Author extremely important but it is also extremely complicated (it was actually the topic of my senior thesis). I don't want to use an artist's work to talk about their personal lives because art is often not reflective of life, but there is always some cross contamination in one way or another. I am going to explain what I mean on a superficial level, using myself as an example so I can say this is 100% accurate. I love the found family trope, and I think those relationships are the best in the world. So whenever I write something you can be damned sure if I can get some found family goodness in there I will. What I am saying is, I don't love or even approve of everything I write about, but I do write about some things because I love them and want to explore them and experience them on some level. The same may be true for Guttero and the subjects he painted.

Guttero often pays a lot of attention to human form. Look at his work The Market (I couldn't find a large enough image to put it in this post) and you will see his appreciation for amab musculature and on the other side of the male spectrum...

(image description: Retrato de Lucien Cavarry [1911] It shows a thin, lanky, and well dressed young man reclining on a green floral patterned couch and a black pillow. He is pale with neat, dark hair. He has a shadow of 5 o'clock shadow on his super hero jaw. His suit is white, his slightly rumpled tie is black, as are his socks and polished shoes. One arm is across the back of the couch and a red and gold pillow the other is dangling. This style is very different from the other portraits I showed/referenced. Still a modern but more realistic style, more flowing, less geometric. The man is drop dead gorgeous by Western beauty standards. End ID)

As for women...he seems to find them colder, more distant, but there is still a physical appreciation there. (Linking Mujeres Indolentes so I don't get flagged for "female presenting nipples" or whatever Tumblr's BS is. [The name alone tells you a lot]). Or the somewhat judgemental gaze of the woman below:

(Image Description: Georgelina. It shows a portrait of a pretty young woman sitting in front of a field. She is pale and long and beautiful. She has red hair, sharp eyes, a long flowing white dress with a gold sash around her waist, and a white hat with a black bow that is blowing in the wind. She takes up most of the frame and her expression is challenging and she holds eye contact with the viewer. The colors are bright and she is almost porciline in color. The background is mostly flat planes of color. In style it is somewhere between the self portrait and the portrait of Cavarry. End ID.)

Not all of his portraits of women have them so sour/distant but they all have a sort of challenging look. Beauty tinged with something dangerous, while the men always seem more innocent.

So here is why I say aspec rather than allo using his work alone, none of his work is particularly sexually inviting even with the sexiness/physical European attractiveness. The men are bashful or unaware of the viewer, the women are certainly not interested.

And back to the self portrait at the top: Guttero is in a fairly sexy pose, but it is sexy without being sexual. He is rumpled but the thing he was doing was painting, there is a sexless explanation. He is looking at the viewer, but you are distracting him from working. At first glance I thought his legs were spread, but they are simply in motion so he can face his guest more comfortably. This all could mean nothing, but I found it striking that this is how he chose to depict himself, at first he appears to be inviting the viewer in for a more physical interaction, but then it seems he is doing exactly the opposite, his passionate energy has been instead put into painting.

And in reality toward the end of his life that was what he did. He dedicated himself to his own art and the art of others.

So again, this could mean nothing. But...it could mean he is aspec.

And that is how the person I am least sure about got the longest entry.

(image description: Elevadores [1928]. A painting showing a factory complex. There is a raised platform running around it and several buildings in bright colors. There is a tree to the right side and a green hill. The building in the near-center [lightly left] is red. The sky is yellow and blue, perhaps the unseen sun is rising up behind the right-hand buildings. In style it is mostly geometric and flat color. End ID.)

#queer #lgbtq #asexual #ace #history #aromantic #aro #gay #mspec #20th century #artists #south america #Argentina #Argentinian #Alfredo Guttero

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alexswak · 6 years ago

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From Castlevania to Boruto: Spencer Wan Interview

I myself had all sorts of questions after watching Castlevania, and seeing that Spencer Wan was so active on Twitter I thought I might try asking him, what resulted in a long interview. The scene he is best known for is the abstract black-lines-only part of the opening, but he had remarkable participations in many other known projects despite his young age. Other than Castlevania, where he animated, AD’ed and directed episodes even, he also worked on Boruto and Invader Zim among others. My notes are in bold. Conducted on behalf of AnimeTherapy and originally posted on their website.

First tell me a bit about yourself and how you started with animation.

Spencer: You know, that might be the only question I wasn’t prepared to answer. I’m not great at talking about myself. Okay, I’m 25 years old and I’m from a small town in the Deep South. I got into animation after seeing Norio Matsumoto’s work on Naruto. I used to watch it with my friends in high school and I’d never seen anything like it before. I’d intended to major in illustration when I got into college, but I ended up swapping to animation at the last second because I couldn’t get his work out of my head. I thought maybe I could learn how to make animation like that at school.

Where did you start your professional career and how?

Spencer: So after I dropped out of school I spent a year sort of just wandering around and doing very little with my life. I was having a hard time finding any sort of work, let alone artistic work. I ended up working in a tire shop for a while, actually. Dana Terrace was the one who dragged me out of that. She’s the creator of the show I’m working on now(The Owl House). I’d helped her with one of her student films when we were in school, and she was doing way better than me as a professional artist. She gave me a sort of a pep talk and told me about this animation studio called Animation Domination High Def that was looking for animators.

It's worth mentioning that there aren't very many studios in the United States that hire traditional(hand-drawn) animators anymore. We were even told in school not to pursue traditional animation as a career because those jobs didn't exist. Anyway, I applied the next day, they had me do an animation test, and few weeks later I moved across the country to work for them.

The work I did there was very different from the work people expect from me now. It was mostly parody cartoons, and we had to animate 2-3 scenes a day so it was hard to make anything look very good. It was a difficult job, and it wasn't what I wanted to be doing with animation, but it taught me how to draw very fast.

An interesting backstory, really. So you stuck with traditional animation because you wanted to create something like what Matsumoto makes?

Spencer: That's how I started anyway, but he was just my first exposure to this sort of animation. When I got older I came across the work of Yutaka Nakamura, Mitsuo Iso, Toshiyuki Inoue, etc. They're all incredible in different ways, but I could feel that they were also drawing on something similar. There's a sort of feeling I used to get looking at the work of a really talented Japanese animator, and I really wanted my work to illicit that same feeling.

It would've been a lot easier to change tracks to storyboarding or design. I had enough technical skill to do it, and there were many more opportunities available, but I stuck with traditional animation because I was chasing that feeling. I knew I couldn't be satisfied as an artist until I understood it.

Alright, now to more specific stuff. How did you get involved in Castlevania?

Spencer: Well after working at ADHD, I ended up moving away from LA because I couldn't find anyone who wanted to hire me for animation. I went back to my hometown and spent a year freelancing for scraps. I actually tried to go to Japan for work at one point, but my visa was rejected because I'm a college dropout. It was around this time that Sam(Samuel Deats), the future director of Castlevania, had been emailing me to try to get me to work for Powerhouse. Actually, I rejected him the first time and tried to get my visa through again…

Obviously that didn't work out, so I told Sam I'd changed my mind and I moved to Texas to work for Powerhouse. He'd been telling me the whole time about this awesome secret project the studio might acquire soon. I completely wrote him off because as a freelancer you hear that sort of thing all the time and it's never as good as it sounds. That project was Castlevania. It ended up getting greenlit after I'd been working at the studio for a couple months. Sam plucked me off the animation team to work on it and I started storyboarding on the first episode. It was actually my first time storyboarding, so naturally I was given the scene where the crowd gets attacked by an army of creatures in an elaborate gothic city.

I see. Then can you give me a quick overview of the workflow the staff followed while working on Castlevania? From finished storyboards to finished scenes. I'm interested in the workflow you followed since Castlevania is obviously not your run-of-the-mill project.

Spencer: *laughs* Well in season one it was a constantly changing process. Powerhouse had never handled a TV show before, and so we were sort of creating the process as the show went on. We didn't even manage to standardize our storyboarding process until episode 4. Our background team doubled as our incidental and prop design team, with one of the background artists serving as a part time storyboarder. Sam was the director, but he was also storyboarding and designing all the main characters. His brother Adam, who's meant to be supervising compositor, became our editor. It was all over the place, but it allowed for a lot of experimentation. That's how I came to animate on the show instead of just storyboarding.

I'm getting kind of off topic though- the way it would usually work is that we'd receive an approved script and we'd have a few weeks to storyboard it. We didn't have any revisionists working with us, so if there was a problem, we'd address it ourselves and then Adam would cut together an animatic and add sound. It's worth mentioning that we didn't have any voice acting to work with in season 1, so we sort of had to guess at how the actors would read their lines.

After the animatic was approved we would ship it along with the designs and key backgrounds to MUA Film, our outsourcing studio in Korea. And then in some specific instances we would leave a note telling them to exclude a sequence, because Sam or I had planned to animate it ourselves. After storyboarding was done I jumped right onto animation. We were working with a pencil and paper animation studio, so even though I work digitally, I would have to write x-sheets(equivalent to time sheets in anime) for my work as if I'd drawn it on paper. At some point in the process we decided we wanted to do a much more specific compositing job on the show, and so we had the studio ship us back their cleaned and colored animation, and our in house compositing team would polish it with a mountain of after effects work. A lot of why the show looks so cinematic is because of them.

So I take it this is how it went with the average scene. But your scene in the OP, that got a lot of attention, is clearly exceptional. Can you tell me more about how you came up with this style and scene? Personally I have to admit, it’s one of the best and most striking animation pieces I have seen in a while.

Spencer: Thanks! We really slaved over that opening. It actually wasn't meant to exist- there was no time or budget set aside for it. Sam had done the storyboards for it in his free time and pitched them to the producers. They said we could do it if we could somehow find time for it. I think Sam originally intended to handle the entire thing himself, but when the time came to animate it, I was the only one available. So Sam pulled me into his office and showed me the storyboards, specifically the part at the end. He said something to the effect of, "I know I want this to look like fire. You can do it in whatever style you come up with, as long as it's done quickly." Never in my career had someone put so much trust in me. A lot of people like to compare the sequence to the music video for Take On Me, but when I was trying to come up with the style, the first thing that came to mind was one of Yutaka Nakamura's animations. It's from an anime I watched in high school called Soul Eater where the character goes to draw his sword, and the entire scene turns into this abstract looking sort of river of pencil lines on a red background(this scene). I thought maybe I could do something similar to that. It took me about an hour to realize I couldn't do it the same way, and my imitation of it was coming out far too abstract to tell what was going on. I ended up doing another pass on it, but instead of trying to copy Nakamura's abstract linework, I tightened up the drawings focused on the shadows. I thought I could try to mimic the look of how light shifts around on an ember, and that's where I got the shadows that constantly roll across the characters. The finished result still bears a lot of his influence, but I think I managed to put my own spin on it.

I remember that Soul Eater scene! Now that you mention it, I can definitely see similarities. But the Take on Me? Not really. How much time did you spend on that scene, if I may ask?

Spencer: It was something like two weeks? I don't remember that well anymore. I worked entirely through the last four nights, so it felt longer than that. I remember losing an hour to daylight savings time, and that put me in a really foul mood.

I've never mentioned this before, but it's unfinished. I ran out of time in the end, and so the part with Trevor and Sypha is just my rough first pass. I was devastated when we shipped it that way. At the time I considered it to be my biggest failure as an artist. Ironically it's the piece of work I'm known best for now.

youtube

Sypha's scene in the 2nd season is also yours right? Glad to see the same style made it into the show.

Spencer: Adam had wanted to have it in the show for a while, and I really didn’t want to do it. I was so upset about the opening before it aired that I swore I would never draw in that style again. But then the opportunity presented itself and I thought, “Well I guess it would only be for a second or so”. I felt the second time I did it it was a lot less inspired though.

Can't complain myself, it was pretty cool.

Spencer: Well I had more experience the second time *laughs*. I didn’t have to feel around for what the style was.

So moving on. The problem with your Alucard fight scene, that you had problems translating your digital motion guides into paper, you said that also happened for the Cyclops sequences. How widespread was this problem then? Did it only affect your work or the work of other animators as well?

Spencer: It would only affect animations that had large camera movements, that we sent overseas for clean up. It was a problem born from the fact that we don’t really do paper animation in America anymore.

When the camera moves around a lot, the field has to get bigger. You have to use something called panning paper in order for the drawings to maintain a proper size for clean up. But there was no one that I could learn that from. I had to teach everything to myself, and so my first instinct was to make the drawings smaller to fit them on the page. The clean up artists overseas fixed this by scaling the drawings up, but then they had to recreate my spacing from scratch and they didn’t have enough time to do it the same way. The result was that drawings would pop anywhere from a few pixels to a few millimeters out of position all the time. Adam ended up respacing everything, but it wasn’t a perfect match to the original, so drawings tend to pop around. Most people don’t notice it though.

Actually I’ve had a similar issue with other productions where if my spacing gets too tight, there’s a chance a drawing could pop out of place too. I’m still learning how to solve some of those problems.

I see! Shame you found yourself in this situation, but this is a nice segue to another traditional project I want to ask you about, Boruto. You worked on Boruto a few months ago, episode #65 specifically. How did you get involved in this project? You were an interesting case because you are not affiliated with studio LAN like most of other foreign animators in that episode, as far as I know at least.

Spencer Wan: *laughs* I could see why it seemed a little out of nowhere. It's because Chengxi and I had already been talking on twitter for a while. I consider him a close friend. He asked me to animate for him and I agreed. It was as simple as that.

Looking at your original work and the final version in Boruto, I see that it went mostly uncorrected. Why is that? Were you just given a lot of freedom in that episode? Because of Chengxi and your aforementioned good relation with him?

Spencer: Oh, it was nothing like that. I was a lot more concerned with doing the work properly than trying to stand out or show off. Chengxi's storyboards and the model sheets for Boruto were very clear. I followed them to the best of my ability, and my work ended up going uncorrected aside from a light fill being added. I should've anticipated the need for that light fill, actually. I wasn't thinking about how it would look in color.

Boruto is more of a traditional animation(paper) show, right? Didn't you have problems with that this time? I'm not too knowledgeable when it comes to Boruto specifically, so I don't know how much of its production is digitalized.

Spencer: The process was actually very similar to what I used on Castlevania, only this time there was no complicated camera movement to worry about, and I had Chengxi to help me with parts of the paper process that I didn't fully grasp yet. Some of the other foreign animators helped me out too- namely Guzzu. It was my first time not having to figure it all out on my own, and I was really grateful for that. I feel I learned a lot.

You are right, the nature of this scene is different. I thought maybe it was the Japanese industry being more used to this dual nature of digital and paper. So generally working on Boruto, although a Japanese show, wasn’t different from Castlevania and other shows you worked on before?

Spencer: There are differences in style when it comes to x-sheets. For example, the Korean x-sheets I've written list the layer order completely backward from the Japanese ones used on Boruto. Americans will write "truck out" when they want the camera to pull out, but the Japanese shorthand is apparently T.B for "track back" instead. It's a lot of differences like that, but the idea behind them is mostly the same. It was an adjustment, but not a very big one, and I was told I did an alright job writing them... I hope they weren't just being nice.

I was just watching Castlevania and now that you mentioned him, Chengxi did some animation! Also others such as Hero. Were you the one who invited them this time?

Spencer: I was the one who invited Chengxi. Sam invited the others after I’d left the production.

And you inviting Chengxi and working on #7 was after boruto, I suppose?

Spencer: Actually it was beforehand! He had to cut his work short to start working on Boruto. He did such a brilliant job regardless. That guy is a genius.

Aha, interesting. That was the last of my questions, I'm very grateful for the chance you gave me and for your amazing, detailed answers!

Spencer: No problem! I hope my answers weren’t too boring. That technical stuff can get dense.

#Spencer Wan #Castlevania #Boruto #Interview

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shireness-says · 6 years ago

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The Man Behind Glass

Summary: When Emma Swan moved to Storybrooke, Maine, she never imagined she’d end up living out a real-life ghost story. But then again, does anyone really expect to find a cursed mirror, or the 300-year-old pirate trapped inside? Rated T. ~12.5K. Also on AO3.

A/N: I’m back, with my second contribution to @cssns! @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 is responsible for that fantastic gif above - go tell her how awesome she is, because seriously, she’s the best (if its not working, that’s my fault, not hers). As always, thanks to my amazing beta, @snidgetsafan. She’s also the best. Additional thanks to @branlovesouat and @kymbersmith-90, who were 100% responsible for the brainstorming on the CSSNS discord that led to this fic, and helped me get it off the ground.

Tagging folks that were interested or I think would like this: @kmomof4, @hollyethecurious, @winterbaby89, @courtorderedcake, @aerica13, @teamhook, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @wingedlioness

Enjoy!

“Well, kid,” Emma Swan says, apprehension coloring her voice, “looks like this is the place.”

The house isn’t much to look at, to say the least. Truthfully, most of this little town isn’t much to look at. But when Mary Margaret Nolan, an old friend from college, had told Emma about the opening for a counselor at her elementary school, she had jumped at the chance to finally move Henry out of the city and into a place where they can have something resembling a support system. The house Emma purchased is older, shabby-looking, but is in surprisingly good condition inside, albeit dusty and outdated. The previous owner had died some months before, leaving her assets to the town trust. Having no real need for a shabby Queen Anne home, the town had been anxious to sell it, and Emma had snapped it up at a bargain price, some of the late owner’s furnishings included. A lot of it’s probably going to end up carted off to the nearest thrift store in the back of David Nolan’s truck, but Emma’s hopeful that there might be a few pieces they can use. The more she can save on furniture, the better.

At the time of purchase, it seemed like there were almost no downsides - furnished, affordable, with a nice sized yard for Henry to run around in - but looking now at the crooked fence and peeling paint, Emma’s a lot more nervous. God, what have I gotten myself into? she wonders with rising panic. No one has ever accused Emma of being handy, and by the looks of things, she may have quite a few projects on her hands.

It does help that Henry is clearly thrilled by the new house, practically skipping up the front walk with his backpack and all the energy a five-year-old can muster.

“This house is so cool, Mom!” he exclaims excitedly, bringing a smile to Emma’s face despite all her worries. “Can we put a play castle in the backyard? Can my room be in the tower? Oh! Do you think it’s haunted?” Frankly, Henry seems most excited about the last possibility, which Emma will take the time to be worried about later when her schedule is more open.

“Do you want this place to be haunted, kid?” she asks, a bemused smile gracing her face.

“I don’t know, I think it’d be kind of cool,” Henry grins right back. “Didn’t you say the person who lived here was dead?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she died in the house, Henry. Isn’t that some sort of prerequisite for a haunting?” In fact, Emma knows that the house has been empty for the past year or more, the previous owner having relocated to a care home. Henry doesn’t really need to know that though.

“I don’t know,” Henry shrugs. “We should definitely pay attention, though. Ghosts in stories always get stirred up when something in their home gets changed.”

“Alright, kid, we’ll keep our eyes and ears open,” Emma replies, trying not to chuckle at Henry’s fanciful suppositions. “Are you ready to go check out our new house? Maybe stake your claim on a room?”

Henry’s face lights up with fresh excitement at the notion, dashing up the porch steps as fast as his legs can take him, leaving his mother behind to shake her head in fond exasperation. With a final look at the shabby outside, Emma continues her way up the walk, ready to dive headfirst into this latest adventure.

———

They don’t find the mirror right away. That comes later.

The inside of the house is similarly aged and faded, but still in good condition; it just needs a thorough cleaning and some paint. Well, a ton of paint. Preferably not in colors picked out by a 5-year-old, or they’ll have a neon technicolored home.

They start with the cleaning, although even that is done in bursts. There’s a series of staff meetings ramping up to the school year that Emma’s required to go to, and executing a deep scrub of the sizable house was always destined to be a difficult undertaking with an energetic young child to watch and keep entertained.

Thankfully, though progress is slow, Emma doesn’t have to do it all herself. Mary Margaret has been an enormous help with all her Pinterest cleaning techniques, as well as conscripting her husband into tidying the yard and performing minor repairs. In addition, Emma had somehow hit it off with the school librarian, Belle, and the elegant brunette had graciously offered to lend another set of hands. Between the four of them, the layers of dirt and grime are slowly being peeled away to reveal what will be a very stately-looking house, if given enough love and hard work.

They’re tackling one of the unused guest rooms when Emma removes the dropcloth from an object propped against the wall, revealing a mirror with an ornate faux-gilt frame. The golden paint is flaking a bit, but the intricate carving is still evident on what must have been a beautiful piece in its time. Soon enough, Belle joins her at the mirror, a frown gracing her typically smiling face.

“I know, looks a little out of place in the middle of all this junk,” Emma says, but Belle just shakes her head.

“No, it’s not that,” she murmurs almost absentmindedly before correcting herself. “Well, yes, it does look out of place. But I could have sworn I’ve seen it before. Perhaps in a book?”

They stand for a moment longer, just contemplating this unexpected antique, before Emma turns back to the rest of the room. “Well, let me know if you figure it out,” she says to Belle before turning to a dresser with a fresh dustrag.

And that’s the end of that.

———

Except it’s not the end of that, because Belle shows up a week later in a flurry of excitement over some discovery she’s made.

“I had seen it before!” she proclaims excitedly, dropping a hefty tome onto Emma’s nice clean(ish) kitchen table. Legends of Coastal Maine, the cover announces in an intricate, curling font, and Emma finds her interest piqued despite her better judgement. Taking a quick peek to make sure Henry is still absorbed with his legos in the living room, Emma refocuses her attention on the pages just as Belle finds what she’s looking for.

“The legend of Killian Jones,” Belle reads off, like the title alone will explain everything. When Emma just stares back at her blankly, Belle finally continues. “It’s like Maine’s version of Bloody Mary. Legend has it that there’s a mirror - one that looks almost exactly like the one we found in your spare room, I might add - and if you stand in front of it and say his name three times, he’ll appear in the mirror.” Belle turns the book around and pushes it towards Emma so that she can see the illustration more clearly. Sure enough, the pencil drawing looks uncannily like the mirror Emma currently has propped on a table at the end of a hallway as a placeholder until she finds something more to her taste.

“So what’s his deal?” Emma asks, pushing the book back after examining its contents. “I know Bloody Mary is supposed to kill you, and so are a bunch of ghosts if you run across them. Is it the same thing with this… Jones guy?”

Belle hums speculatively, tracing her finger back down the page as she searches for the correct information. “There’s not really a clear answer on that,” she hedges after a minute’s reading. “The stories are a bit split. Some say he’s a specter of vengeance - so I assume that’s the violence or murder you were thinking of - but there’s just as many claims that he’s just a lonely shade. I suspect that the verdict would vary from telling to telling.”

“Huh.” Emma stares at the book in silence for a few minutes longer, arms crossed, before making up her mind. “I guess there’s only one thing to do, isn’t there?”

“What’s that?”

“Well test it out, of course.” And grabbing the book, Emma marches for the stairs to test the theory, Belle nervously trailing behind her.

“I don’t know that this is a good idea, Emma…” the librarian cautions. “The whole thing gives me the creeps.” Perhaps another person might have been put off the enterprise by Belle’s words, but Emma’s not one of them. She’s already made up her mind; they’re going to try this, either prove or disprove the myth, and that’s final. Personally, Emma doesn’t think anything will happen; the whole thing seems a little far-fetched, and anyways, Emma’s attempts at playing Bloody Mary as a kid never turned into anything. But she’s always been a bold type, willing to live on the edge a little, and even if nothing happens, it’ll be worth the short adrenaline rush. Plus, Belle seems nervous about the very idea that Emma might have a haunted mirror - it’d be nice to prove to her that the mirror is safe to walk past.

Striding up to the glass, Emma looks back at her companion for clarification. “So, what do I have to do? Say the name? Pace back and forth, Room of Requirement-style? What?”

“Just say his name three times,” Belle says hesitantly. “But really, Emma, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’ll be fine, Belle. See?” Turning back to the mirror, Emma quickly expels the words before her friend can make any more attempts to stop her.

“Killian Jones. Killian Jones. Killian Jones.”

A gust of cold air unexpectedly trails through the room, and it almost creeps Emma out, but the mirror remains stubbornly empty of anything but their own reflections. After waiting a minute longer without any ghostly action, Emma turns triumphantly back to Belle, who looks almost disappointed in the outcome despite her earlier nerves.

“See? Nothing more than a silly story.”

And once again, that should be the end of it.

———

Of course, it’s not the end of the matter - something Emma comes to find out in the worst possible way.

It’s a quiet evening in the Swan household, the house’s silence only broken by the faint noises of its inhabitants preparing for bed. Henry’s already been sent off to put on his pajamas and brush his teeth, though Emma knows she’ll need to double check the latter. In the meantime, Emma’s halfway through her own routine, rinsing off her face in the bathroom sink in an old college t-shirt and boxers. Faintly, she thinks she hears something in the hallway, but easily writes it off; if it’s not Henry, padding to his room or the bathroom, it’s probably just one of the old house noises she’s slowly growing used to.

That is, until she hears the scream.

It’s unmistakably Henry, and Emma knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that his shriek was one of terror. Blood running cold in her veins, she runs out to the hallway, not even stopping to grab a makeshift weapon in her haste to find her son, protect her son, keep him safe at all costs. Practically skidding into the hall, she expects to see intruders, or wild animals, or anything else to explain her brave boy’s scream, only to find Henry standing stock still in front of the hall mirror.

Emma almost relaxes, thinking that Henry was only startled by his reflection, before noticing:

There’s a man facing her son in the mirror.

He doesn’t look particularly threatening at first glance, squatting with his arms resting on his knees, but Emma’s not taking any chances. Moving on instinct, she steps between Henry and the creature in the mirror.

“Stay the hell away from my son!” she growls, herding Henry behind her.

Curiously enough, the man, ghost, thing, huffs a sigh, dropping his head as if in resignation. “As you wish,” she thinks she hears him mutter.

“Henry, go to your room and stay there until I say it’s ok,” Emma tells her son in as calm a voice as she can muster. As Henry hesitates, peering around her legs to get a better look at the thing in the mirror, her voice gets harder. “Henry, now. Please go to your room and close the door.”

As Henry finally scurries away, the ghost chimes in again. “I don’t mean any harm, you know,” he observes.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Emma snaps. “How dare you terrify my son. How dare you! What the fuck even are you? What are you doing in my house?” Halfway through her reply, Emma realizes she’s moving closer to the glass, finger pointed accusingly, but can’t bring herself to care. It’s in defense of her kid; she’ll do whatever she has to.

It doesn’t seem to have any effect on the mirror-man, though, as he stands to sweep into an old-fashioned bow. Passingly, Emma notices his clothes - a long leather duster, breeches, and a gauzy shirt, like something out of a different time. “Killian Jones, at your service, milady.”

“What, like the legend?”

Killian Jones, whatever he is, raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Ah, so you have heard of me, then.”

“You’re not real,” Emma insists. “Belle and I tried it earlier on the mirror. Nothing. It’s just a stupid urban legend.”

“Ah, but did you really believe I was real?” Jones asks. “That’s an important part, you know - I don’t appear for people who doubt I exist. Your son, on the other hand, seems to have belief in spades, thus -” he spreads his arms wide - “my presence here before you.”

“Yeah, well, take your presence somewhere else,” Emma retorts, “or I’ll… I’ll smash the mirror!”

“You’re welcome to try,” he smiles ruefully. “But as you wish. My apologies for causing such a disturbance and startling your boy.” And with a final dramatic twirl of the hand, he’s gone.

After waiting a minute to make sure Jones doesn’t reappear, Emma rushes to Henry’s room, where the boy himself is waiting on his bed with tears in his eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong, kid?” Emma asks, panic again rising in her throat. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” So help her, if her kid is hurt she’ll find a way to hurt Jones, mirror be damned.

“I’m sorry, Mama, I didn’t mean to,” Henry cuts in tearfully. “I just heard you and Miss Belle talking, and I wanted to try and… I didn’t mean to!”

“It’s ok, Henry,” she soothes, gathering his small body in her arms and rocking him back and forth. “I don’t blame you for anything, kid. I’m going to protect you from the scary man, ok? You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“I don’t think he was scary,” Henry mumbles in a minor protest, eliciting a confused hum from his mother. “I screamed because I didn’t think it would work, but he wasn’t scary. I think I scared him, though.”

“Sure, Henry,” Emma placates. Henry, thankfully, is winding down, worn out by the heightened emotions of the past half hour, and doesn’t argue the point further. Thankfully, he’s already in his pajamas, making it easy for Emma to transfer him back onto the mattress and securely tuck him in. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

Emma stays for a few moments longer in the doorway, watching her son slip off into dreamland, before softly closing the door and hurrying back down the hall. The mirror, she’s careful to check, is perfectly blank once again - just an ordinary decorative piece. Even in its blank state, Emma’s reluctant to get any closer to it than she has to in the dark, the whole thing freaking her out.

Collapsing onto her bed, cell phone in hand, she quickly dials, listening to the grating ring before a groggy voice picks up.

“Belle? Something weird happened. Do you think you could come over tomorrow?”

———

The next time she faces the mirror and any… ghosts it may contain, they’re prepared.

Or at least, they think they are, because Killian Jones snorts in skeptical amusement as soon as he sees Emma and Belle’s supplies, causing the latter to jump in surprised fear.

“Is that holy water?” he asks, almost scornfully. “Put that away ladies, you’ll just get the glass wet. And trust a man trapped in a mirror - there’s nothing more annoying than streaked glass.”

(It’s a little bit disappointing to hear, since Emma had to beg for some from the local Catholic Church, but something about his tone leaves her inclined to believe him.)

“That crucifix also won’t do anything, darling,” he nods towards Belle. “This isn’t an exorcism; I’m not a demon. And before you even try, Milady the Blonde, the funny thing about smashing my mirror is that it just reappears elsewhere. Same with burning, or any other destruction you want to try. Odd little side effect of a curse.”

“So you are a man, then?” Emma cuts in, stopping his little ramble. “Not some ghost or demon or… something?”

“I believe we’ve already covered that, but yes, I am a man. If I’m ever freed from my reflective prison, I’d be more than happy to show you exactly how much of a man I am,” he ends with a flirtatious smile.

“Yeah, that’s enough of that,” Emma deadpans. “Here’s what’s going to happen - you’re going to leave my family the fuck alone, and I’m getting rid of your mirror as soon as possible. Capiche?”

“I don’t suppose you’d rather help me escape this prison?” he asks hopefully, receiving only an unamused look from Emma in return. “Aye, I know that was a long shot. Alright, Milady, I’ll behave. No contact.”

“Great. Then… begone. Or however you’re sent away.”

“As you wish.” And once again, he executes an elaborate bow and accompanying hand gesture, and the mirror is just a mirror again.

After spending a last moment watching the mirror for any movement, Emma turns back to Belle, jerking a thumb back downstairs. “I’ll go call David.”

“I’ll get a sheet to cover the frame.”

———

That should be the end of it. David will be over tomorrow afternoon to pick up the mirror and drop it off as a donation to the local secondhand store, and all traces of the supernatural will be out of Emma Swan’s house.

But of course, life isn’t as she plans, and the matter isn’t closed like she expects, because Emma comes back into the house after dealing with some minor yard work to hear Henry chattering away upstairs. That’s not really abnormal; Henry is an imaginative child, and since he’s learned to read, he’s taken to reading picture books out loud to his stuffed animals. But when she climbs the stairs to peek in on him, he’s not in his room, but in the hallway.

In the hallway, reading to Killian Jones’ reflection.

“I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues…” Henry recites from his copy of The Lorax, and Emma can’t help but take a moment to be proud of how confidently her son reads, despite the current circumstances.

“Of course they don’t have tongues, what a preposterous idea,” Jones interrupts, brows furrowed in a way that might almost be cute if Emma wasn’t so steamed to see him at all. “And what the bloody hell is a truffula tree, anyways?”

“Hey!” Emma snaps, causing two dark heads to snap up guiltily to meet her eyes. “What is going on here?”

“Mom…” Henry starts, but Emma quickly cuts him off to turn her anger on Jones. “I thought I told you specifically to stay away from my son!”

“It’s not his fault, Mom!” Henry quickly cuts in. “I called him, he didn’t show up on his own.”

“Yeah, well, he should have ignored it. Or left immediately.”

“I do have to answer when called by a believer, love,” Jones reasons unhelpfully. “I likely should have departed immediately, but your boy was so excited to show me his book, made-up words and all, and I just…” He cuts off suddenly, a look on his face that Emma can’t quite place.

“He’s lonely, Mom,” Henry supplies, before stubbornly adding, “Aren’t you always telling me to make sure everyone’s included?”

“I meant the kids at school, Henry,” Emma tries to protest, but her big-hearted kid is having none of it.

“You never said that,” he insists. “Well, Killian is lonely, and I’m making sure he’s included.”

Looking at the man in question, Emma will admit that it’s hard to call him a threat. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, knees pressing against the glass in an effort to get as close as possible, Emma can’t find any trace of that confident, almost threatening swagger and attitude she’d spotted so easily in their previous interactions. He almost looks like he could be a visitor to Henry’s kindergarten show-and-tell, albeit an unusually dressed one. Even beyond the posture, there’s a look on his face that Emma can only think of as vulnerable - a small amount of hope in his eyes, mostly clouded by shame, hope for… something. Emma’s not sure what. Perhaps it’s like Henry says - he’s just lonely, and hopeful they won’t send him away.

Regardless, Emma has always been a sucker for her son’s puppy eyes, and today is no exception. “Fine,” she grumbles. “But step one foot out of line, and I’m finding a way to destroy this mirror, I don’t care what you say.”

“I swear, love, pirate’s honor,” Jones replies, executing a crossing motion over his heart with a grin on his face.

“Choose a different oath. You’re not helping your case.”

“I promise, Emma,” he utters solemnly. “You’ve nothing to fear from me for your boy.” The slight panic at the moniker must show on her face, as he hurries to clarify his previous words. “Henry made the introductions earlier.”

That makes more sense. Henry’s always been a sociable kid - lord only knows where he got that - and likely was more than happy to tell Jones absolutely everything that came to his mind.

“Fine,” she says shortly, still somewhat put out by this turn of events. “I’ve got to go cancel on David. Start thinking about what you want for dinner, kid.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Henry pipes, suddenly cheerful again, before turning back to the mirror, back to the glass so his new friend can see all the pictures. Walking away, Emma can hear their conversation, quickly receding.

“Do you remember what part we were at?”

“You were telling me about how the trees don’t have tongues, lad,” Jones replies, more gently and patiently than Emma would have given him credit for. Acting like that, she really doesn’t have any excuse to kick him out, one way or another.

For the time being, it looks like the legendary Killian Jones is here to stay.

———

Emma hates to admit it, but Killian Jones isn’t so bad. Sure, it’s still weird that they’ve got a resident ghost-person-thing, but Henry’s delighted to have a friend who’s always there to talk to, and Henry’s happiness outweighs a lot. Eventually, the mirror is moved to the living room, where Henry won’t have to sit on the hardwood all the time and Emma can keep an eye on him better. It feels a little bit like encouraging the whole thing, but her kid’s comfort is paramount, so the mirror is lugged down the stairs, where Henry is left to try and explain to Killian how the television works.

Jones, in return, seems thrilled that someone wants to talk to him, though there’s still a lingering sadness evident when Emma tells them it’s time to wrap up. Killian is a bit of a puzzle, Emma’s finding; in those first ill-fated conversations, he made it clear that he was only in the mirror because of a curse, but Emma can’t truly figure out why. From his interactions with her son, she doesn’t think he was cursed for being bad, but his more rakish interactions with Emma lead her to believe it probably wasn’t for being a paragon of virtue either.

When Emma finally bites the bullet and asks, he’s quick and willing enough to reply, albeit in a sarcastic tone. “Well, you see, when a man loves a witch not very much at all…” he intones, smirking at Emma’s unimpressed look. “I’m told this is an appropriate punishment for a man who doesn’t care about anyone or anything beyond his own nose. I probably should just be glad that she didn’t follow through on some of her comments about my lack of heart - I suspect that would have been rather more… fatal.”

Despite his cavalier tone, it’s difficult to hear his words and reconcile them with the man she’s coming to know. Of course, there was a bit of a rough start - Emma was maybe a little suspicious of the man who’d gone down in legend as a spirit of vengeance, so sue her - but he’s more gentle and patient with Henry than she ever would have thought, and that carries a lot of weight in her book. He’s certainly not the uncaring, heartless man he was supposedly cursed for being, however many years ago.

“It was warranted, for certain,” he admits quietly, traces of shame coloring his voice.

“I’m sure that can’t be true,” Emma tries to excuse, but Killian just waves her words away.

“No, I assure you, it was,” he says. “I was on a quest to avenge my brother’s death, and truly couldn’t see beyond that. It was all-encompassing. We’d stop in various ports for ale and supplies and women, but I was always moving forward, trying to exact revenge against the British Navy for taking him from me.” He sighs, suddenly sad. “Being trapped, isolated from everyone really changes your perspective on such matters. Avenging him seemed like the most important thing in the world at that time, you know? But looking back, now when it is far too late for me to accomplish what I set out to do… I think he would have been rather disappointed that I stopped living my own life.” With a sad smile and rather morose chuckle, he concludes on an almost self-deprecating note, “It seems rather ridiculous that it took such extreme measures for me to realize that, doesn’t it?”

There’s no real good answer to that, so Emma just offers a sympathetic smile. “Did you ever try to get out? Break the curse?”

“And how do you propose I do that?” he asks with impatience. “I promise you, I’ve tried just about everything. Probably bruised some ribs those first few days by repeatedly throwing myself against the glass. This mirror has been smashed no less than six times by men and women on your side, and yet I’m still here. After 250 years, I don’t have much hope of ever being free of these confines.”

“Well, that’s optimistic,” Emma comments drily. “Really? No lingering hope?”

“None worth dwelling on.”

Maybe Henry and his eternal fountain of hope and belief has finally rubbed off on Emma, but she struggles to accept such a bleak fate for the man who’s unexpectedly found his way into their lives. He’s certainly not a perfect man - from the sounds of it, he believes himself to barely be a good one - but it hurts something inside her to hear the way he’s just… acceptant of the idea that he’ll be trapped forever.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” she declares decisively. “And if we ask Henry, he’ll just say the same thing. You don’t want to upset my kid, do you?”

That finally coaxes a small smile back on his face. “No, I most certainly would not.”

And that’s that.

———

Belle may be a little nervous about meeting Killian Jones face-to-face again, but Emma knows that her friend can’t resist a good research project, and sure enough, her curiosity overpowers her hesitancy.

“I thought we’d go back to the original legend,” Belle explains, dropping far too many books of varying thickness and age onto Emma’s nice clean coffee table, “so I went and dug up all the books I could find that even mention it. Plus a handful on historic witchcraft. There’s another handful I requested through interlibrary loan and am expecting next week, but this should be more than enough to get us started.”

It’s an understatement, to say the least. Glancing over to the mirror, Emma can see that Killian is wide-eyed and looking vaguely overwhelmed, a feeling that she echoes, frankly. Belle French doesn’t do anything by halves, Emma’s learned in the weeks of their friendship, and this research project is obviously no exception.

“If you’re ready, this one looked particularly promising,” Belle continues, handing Emma a hefty volume, “and I’ll work my way through some of the less likely candidates, rule them out. Ok? Great!”

Meeting Killian’s eye, he offers a shrug, which Emma takes to mean as there’s no real point arguing - something Emma already unfortunately knows to be the case. Faced with the outcome of her own planning, and with a new unstoppable researching force in the form of a soft-spoken brunette, Emma stifles the groan of consternation bubbling in her throat and settles in to read in her favorite armchair, Killian over her shoulder attempting the same.

It’s slow going, and the whole while Emma is reminded of exactly how little she enjoyed writing research papers while in school. It doesn’t help that, while they’re armed with a specific question that needs answering, most of the books are either hopelessly vague or filled with wildly incorrect information. Killian, in particular, is put out by the repeated accusation that he’s a vengeful and murderous spirit, the furrow in his brow growing deeper with each new source and his outraged huffing becoming louder and louder.

After a particularly enthusiastic exhalation, Emma can’t help but cut in, jerking her head to the side to meet his eyes. “Jeez, you sound like you’re trying to blow the house in back there,” she grumbles, only half jokingly.

“Well you’d be upset too, reading this drivel about yourself. I’ll have you know that even if I could somehow break free of this mirror, I’d never take my anger out on any but the woman who deserves it. And she’s long dead. Vengeful, my arse,” he snorts, before continuing petulantly, “And it doesn’t even make sense, saying that my reactions could blow an entire house down. Preposterous.”

“It’s a reference, there’s a fairy tale - you know what, never mind,” Emma replies, cutting herself off. She’s not particularly in the mood today to explain “The Three Little Pigs” to a 300-year-old pirate. “It’s been, literally, hundreds of years since you were cursed. The story is going to get a little messed up over time, like a bad game of Telephone.” As his blank, confused stare makes a reappearance, Emma impatiently waves him off. “I’ll explain it later. I’m just saying, I hear you with the frustration and the dramatic huffing, but it’s not helpful, and driving me nuts to boot. Knock it off.”

“Sorry,” Killian mutters in a tone that only sounds half sincere, his eternally proper manners deserting him in his frustration. It’s a little refreshing, if Emma’s being honest - the attitude, despite being annoying, makes him seem less like a bizarre fairy tale or ghost story, and more like an actual man - albeit one trapped in a fantastical situation.

“If you two are done arguing,” Belle cuts in, her stern teacher voice on full display and causing both culprits to look over sheepishly, “I think I found the best rendition yet.”

“Well, let’s have it then, lass,” Killian prods, some of his previous roguish face back in place.

“The story in this one hews pretty close to what you’ve told us - that you got cursed for thinking only about yourself and your own problems, and not acknowledging that there are other people in the world that have feelings. But it goes on to say that you’ll remain cursed in the mirror until you ‘rediscover the missing piece of your soul.’”

It’s a cryptic answer, to say the least, and both Emma and Killian look at Belle expectantly, waiting for more information - or even better, an explanation. When none is forthcoming, Emma snaps, “And?”

“And that’s it, unfortunately,” Belle replies apologetically. “I’ll keep looking though. That’s more than we had before!” The last sentence is said with a bright note in her voice, clearly supposed to remind them of their meager progress as a positive thing, but neither member of her audience is much affected.

“Great,” Killian replies drolly. “That illuminates the whole thing.”

As Belle deflates at his words, Emma tosses Killian a dirty look, eyes hard with disapproval, and he at least has the decency to look guilty. “Sorry,” he mumbles, for the second time in as many minutes.

“That’s great progress, Belle,” Emma jumps to reassure. “It gives us something to go on, at least.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Belle says as if in excuse, “but if nothing else, it’s a jumping off point.” As she speaks, she starts gathering up the books, clearly making as if to leave. “I’ve go to get going, but we’ll meet up later?” The last part may not be phrased as a question, but Belle makes it seem as such with a polite tone to her voice, even if Emma does know that their research continuing is a foregone conclusion.

“Yeah, same time next week, if that works for you,” Emma replies, moving with Belle away from the living room and back towards the front door.

“Perfect,” the other woman beams. “I’ll see you then!”

And then the house is once again occupied just by the Swans and their ghost.

Working her way back to the living room, Emma can’t help but offer a sarcastic smirk to the man behind the glass. “So, any ideas about what the ‘missing piece of your soul’ might be?”

“Not a single clue,” he smirks right back.

Even if they are facing an unknown and confusing path to regaining Killian’s freedom, Emma can’t help but revel in their newfound comradery. Initial mistrust and periodic arguments aside, she thinks he just might be a friend - or at least as much of one as a mythical pirate can be. And Emma Swan will do anything for her friends.

They’re going to figure this out.

———

Emma does mean to sit down with Killian in the week following to try and talk through with him what this lost thing might be, but it seems that making those plans was just tempting fate. Unexpectedly, Emma’s faced with a much more stressful week than she had planned - an incident with one of her students leaves her with plenty of paperwork and stress, the first snowfall of the year shows that maybe the old house’s heating system isn’t working quite as well as it should, and to top it all off, Henry comes down with the flu.

Emma always hates to see her happy-go-lucky kid feeling so under the weather, but it’s not her first rodeo. She knows the dance that goes into taking care of a sick kid, knows that he’ll come out of this just fine. Killian, on the other hand, is more concerned, especially when Emma maneuvers the half-asleep Henry onto the couch downstairs.

“He’ll be fine,” Emma tries to reassure at the sight of those furrowed brows. “It’s just the flu. He’s an awful patient, though - keeps trying to hop out of bed and go back to playing with all his toys - so I thought maybe you could keep him distracted enough to stay tucked into the couch when he wakes up.”

Killian heaves a heavy sigh, and Emma thinks she can see his relief at having a useful job to do through his worry. With Henry resting under Killian’s watchful eye, Emma’s able to head back to the kitchen to attempt to clean up the ever-present mess occupying the counter space around her sink.

An hour and a half later, fully settled into her paperwork with her glasses perched on the end of her nose, Emma is startled to suddenly hear Killian’s low and smooth voice trailing back into the kitchen. Assuming Henry must be awake, Emma goes to heat up a can of soup. Sure enough, as she brings the steaming bowl and TV tray back into the living room, Henry is wide awake, though still tucked into his blankets and apparently enthralled by whatever tales Killian is telling.

“...and the water was the most stunning shade, blues mixed with greens and silvers,” he’s saying - an apparently child-friendly tale, Emma is relieved to hear - before stopping abruptly when he spots Emma standing in the doorway. “I think your mother is here with some broth, lad,” he says lightly, nodding in her direction as Henry squirms on the couch to see her more fully. “Why don’t you have a spot to eat, and then we can maybe watch one of your moving pictures?”

“How’re you feeling, bud?” Emma asks, moving to place the tray over her son’s legs before mouthing a thank you in Killian’s direction. “Any better?”

“A bit,” Henry shrugs. “Killian was telling me about all the places he’s seen!”

“Was he now? Well I’ll have to ask for the recap later. Can you have a bit of chicken noodle soup for me? It’ll make you feel better, I think.”

As Henry digs into the soup, Killian catches her attention again. “He slept for about an hour,” he tells her softly.

“Thanks, Killian. I appreciate you looking after him.”

“Any time, Swan.”

———

The anticipated meeting and knowledge swap with Belle gets rescheduled due to Henry’s illness and recovery, and with it goes Emma’s intention to sit down with Killian and attempt to brainstorm with him what the thing they’re looking for might be. It’s not that she decides it’s unimportant, or forgets, she just… gets distracted by the multitude of other things in her life. And maybe forgets, just a little. So sue her.

Killian, however, seems to have done that brainstorming on his own, as he’s already ready with a suggestion by the time the three of them finally sit down to talk and search through even more books.

“I was thinking about our previous discovery over the past days,” he says, slowly and hesitantly, “and I had a thought about what we may be searching for.” The words are uncharacteristically uncertain, coming from the cocky pirate, leaving Emma mildly concerned - both at the prospect of what he’s about to suggest, and for the man himself.

“That’s great!” Belle replies warmly, tangibly setting the entire room more at ease with her cheerful and encouraging demeanor. “Any ideas would be helpful.”

“I don’t know if it’s right,” he cautions, and Emma starts to understand his hesitance. He’s afraid - not of their reactions, but of his own. It’s something she probably should have recognized from looking in the mirror - no joke intended - as a fear she’s seen so often in her own face: a fear of raising her hopes too high, only to be inevitably disappointed. If what Killian thinks is correct, it could set him free from hundreds of years of imprisonment, a glorious prospect; if not, he’s still back in the same situation, but with a fresh pain born of believing, even for the slightest of moments, that a brighter existence was within his grasp.

He underestimates her though, because even if this fails, Emma won’t be deterred - won’t stop trying to find a way until he actually is freed. It’s what Henry would want.

(It’s what she wants too, she’s coming to admit to herself.)

“Tell us,” she prods gently, wearing the same smile she uses to set Henry at ease when he’s nervous about admitting to something, especially when it’s something he shouldn’t have done in the first place. Endearingly, it has the same effect on the 300 year old pirate, the tension in his shoulders visibly relaxing as he finally begins talking.

“You both know I was a pirate,” he starts, waiting to see Emma and Belle nod an affirmative before continuing. “Well, for a pirate - or any man of the sea - a ship is more than just some cobbled together pieces of wood, more than just a convenient way to get around. It’s… it’s everything. His home, his livelihood…” pausing for dramatic effect, he focuses his gaze on Emma before solemnly concluding, “Some might even call it a piece of his soul.”

“And you think your ship is the missing piece,” Belle finishes, knowingly. It seems to Emma that Killian is leaving something out, but brushes the thought aside. It’s not really any of her business.

Killian nods in response. “Her name was the Jolly Roger, and even though she was smaller than many of the ships other captains commanded, I thought she was beautiful from the moment I first set eyes on her, with her elegant lines built for speed,” he remembers wistfully. Quickly, though, his soft smile collapses in on itself to something more sorrowful. “Even if that is the mysterious piece we’re searching for, however, I doubt it will be of any use. It’s been so long, I’d be surprised if the old girl is even still in existence…”

“Hey, it’s something to start with,” Emma interrupts, cutting off his train of doubt. “That’s the least we can do, right? Try and follow that lead, see where it goes?”

“I suppose so,” Killian concedes, seemingly reluctantly, but Emma has spent far too much time in his company, and can see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll pull any information I can find about your ship and piracy in this area this week,” Belle says, jotting down the information on a yellow post-it with a weird smile on her face. Emma can’t quite place it - it’s more than an uncomplicated happiness, but not quite smug. Emma almost wants to call it a knowing smile, though knowing what, she has no idea. Before she gets a chance to ask, however, Belle is already straightening and briskly clapping her hands together in a gesture of excitement, an indicator that they’re about to dive into a major research session. “On that note, shall we begin?”

They shall.

———

Killian can’t really be considered a babysitter - even if he was able to move beyond his mirror, Emma doubts he’d be able to handle a phone in the event of an emergency - but he’s still an enormous help with Henry, all the same. In the years since Henry’s birth, Emma’s had to act as a sort of superwoman - simultaneously balancing the demands of her job with keeping her son happy and healthy and entertained, all while trying to keep their apartments from dissolving into trash heaps and desperately trying to hold her sanity and sense of self together.

Even confined as he is, Killian somehow manages to alleviate some of that load, happily keeping Henry distracted and watching over the boy as he plays. Henry, as it turns out, loves attempting to teach his new friend everything about the twenty-first century, giggling and laughing uproariously at Killian’s confused faces (some of them exaggerated for Henry’s benefit, Emma suspects, but she’s not telling). He loves hearing Killian’s stories even more than that, and it seems like the ancient pirate enjoys the telling just as much, turning each tale into a vast drama of thrilling adventure that leaves his young audience enraptured.

(Emma notices that he’s careful to keep his stories tame, choosing ones without the violence and booze and women she’s sure must have been a significant part of such a life, or at the very least downplaying and glossing over the details. She appreciates it, even if she’s never openly said it; there’s no need for Henry to learn about such things this young.)

It’s a pretty tableau they make, Emma thinks as she watches from the doorway, almost Rockwell-esque - the young boy, a book of fairytales propped across his lap, and the brotherly (or possibly even paternal figure) over his shoulder, helping him sound out the words in a learning ritual repeated every day across America. The only interruption to ruin the facade is that prohibitive pane of glass, preventing boy and man from interacting in more concrete and physical ways.

“Are you going to stand there all day lurking, Swan, or will you join us?” Killian calls, a teasing note evident in his tone. Emma may roll her eyes in response, but she willingly crosses the room to join them, ignoring Killian’s cocky smirk in favor of focusing on Henry’s sweet giggles at the exchange.

“What are we reading tonight, my little Giggle Bug?” she asks, before sweeping down to attack Henry’s head with kisses just to hear those giggles continue even longer.

“The Princess and the Frog!” he happily chirps back when Emma finally ceases her kiss attack to allow her kid a moment to catch his breath. “The princess looks like you, Mama!”

Sure enough, when Emma looks at the illustration, the princess’ head is covered in blonde curls - the feature she’s learned is most important in identification to a kindergartener. “She sure does,” Emma agrees affectionately. “Looks like she’s kissing that frog.”

“She’s going to turn him back into a prince,” Henry explains. “He just needed someone to kiss him, you see, and she said she would because he saved her ball and she’s so nice.”

“What do you think, Swan?” Killian cuts in. Somehow, Emma gets the impression that, were he free from his glass confines, he’d be elbowing her in the side. “Do you think a kiss from a pretty blonde would be enough to break my curse?” Mirth twinkles in his eyes, but beneath that, she can sense just a little bit of hope. It seems the ruthless captain still believes in fairy tales and all that comes with them.

“Please,” she scoffs, fighting a smile all the while. “You couldn’t handle it. It’d smudge the glass, give you a conniption.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it, love,” he taunts, playfully tapping a finger against his lips.

Emma looks at him appraisingly for one more moment, mouth fixed in an amused smile, before moving decisively, never one to back down from a dare. As Killian stares back in shock and confusion, she gestures impatiently. “Well come on then! Mosey up, or whatever. I can’t really kiss you through the glass if you’re not puckered up on the other side.”

Though he looks flustered - honestly, what did he expect from that teasing? - Killian finally moves to press his lips against the glass, eyes closed as if waiting for a real kiss on real flesh. Taking a final deep breath, Emma moves to do the same, and rising on her toes, presses her lips to the glass where Killian’s own are reflected.

Immediately, she knows it’s not going to work. Not only is there no fairytale-esque flash of rainbow light, but she can still feel the glass under her lips, eternal and unyielding. It reminds her faintly of dares made in middle school to make out with her own hand - that same lack of response, same feeling of why the fuck am I doing this, just colder.

Pulling away, it’s impossible to miss the disappointment on Killian’s face, though he quickly masks it by furiously wiping at the mirror with his soft linen undershirt, flashing Emma a glimpse of a trim midsection and treasure trail in the process.

“Do me a favor, Swan,” he says, brows furrowed in a valiant attempt at feigning deep concentration. “Go fetch that blue liquid you use.”

Emma snorts in amusement. “You mean the Windex?”

“Yes, the… Windex,” he replies with evident disdain for the newfangled product name. “Quickly, now, you know any impediment to my clear viewing will ‘drive me nuts’, as you and the lad so charmingly say.”

“Fine, Captain Neatfreak,” Emma concedes. It’s the least she can do in the face of his disappointment. “C’mon, Henry, let’s go hunt down some Windex before Killian blows a gasket.”

“Actually, Swan,” Killian calls, “I was hoping the lad might be amenable to reading another story aloud?”

Henry looks up eagerly, and even if Emma wasn’t looking to make amends, she’d be lost. “Of course he can.”

After all, as she said before - after the temporary defeat they just suffered, if hearing another fairytale from her kid will make Killian feel better, it’s the least she can do.

———

Despite Emma and Killian’s continued distraction - even though Henry is feeling better, the flu bug having run its course, he’s still rather lethargic and low on energy and is stuck in bed, having developed a nasty cough to boot - Belle arrives to continue their research bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“I’ve got excellent news!” she chirps, all smiles. Not even a delayed response seems to faze her, grin only growing wider in the face of Emma’s tiredness and the deep look of concern on Killian’s face. “Don’t you want to know what I found?”

“Of course, lass,” Killian quickly jumps in. No one particularly relishes the thought of dimming Belle’s cheerful enthusiasm. “What have you discovered now?”

“Well, I was finally able to hunt down what happened to your ship,” she beams. “As it turns out, after your mysterious and untimely disappearance - that’s how it was described in the book, by the way,” she laughs, “a man named William Smee took over as captain — ”

“Smee?” Killian interjects, leaving Emma to stifle her laugh at the look of horror on his face. “That buffoon?”

“Well, the history books don’t say anything about him being a buffoon,” Belle explains patiently, “but yes, William Smee became the new captain, renaming the ship the Siren’s Call — ”

“Gods, this just gets worse and worse,” Killian mutters, not quite under his breath. “Bad enough luck the first time.” Emma makes a mental note to ask him about that later. Killian, seeing the brunette librarian’s exasperated look at his continued interruptions, sheepishly apologizes. “Sorry, milady. Please continue.”

With a final fond glare at the outraged pirate, Belle picks up her train of thought again. “As I was saying, it was renamed the Siren’s Call, and actually managed to survive to the current day, mostly intact. She’s been turned into a piracy museum, and a very popular one at that.”

That perks him back up well enough. “My ship? She’s still on the water?”

Belle nods, her initial enthusiasm returning. “Majestically so. Now, for practical reasons, we can’t really bring you to the ship, so I brought the ship to you!”

Emma eyes Belle skeptically. “Unless I’ve missed something, I don’t see a massive pirate ship in my backyard. I’m pretty sure Henry would have been hollering about that by now.”

“Oh, of course not, I can’t actually bring the whole ship here,” Belle amends. “But, as it happens, the local historical society funded a major restoration about ten years ago, and a few of the overworn or fragile parts were replaced in an effort to make the ship properly seaworthy again, and the originals were put into storage at the historical society’s archives. And I might have made up a little fib about teaching a unit about historical piracy and its economic effect on the British Empire, just so I could reasonably borrow… this!” As she finishes on that enthusiastic punctuation, Belle produces a small item from her purse with a flourish.

To Emma, it doesn’t really look like much; just a small, worn and stained piece of wood, clearly carved to serve some purpose, albeit none she can easily recognize. It must mean something to Killian, though, as his face fills with a soft awe, fingers brushing the glass reverently in a desperate attempt to get that little bit closer.

“A piece of the rigging,” he all but breathes. “I can’t believe…” His wonder is so great that, while usually verbose in the extreme, he can’t even finish his sentence, trailing off into nothing more than a soft smile.

“Exactly.” Belle beams, obviously pleased with herself. Emma silently holds out a hand in request, and Belle hands her the small wooden piece in response. It’s in good condition for its age, though stained and worn from decades exposed to sun and salt and water and beginning to crack. Rubbing a thumb along the smooth, worn wood, Emma looks up to meet Belle’s eyes.

“And you’re sure this is from his ship? There’s no possibility it’s a case of mixed-up labeling or storage or something?” Part of the asking is to make sure they’re not trying this for nothing without any chance of their desired outcome, but the other part is in search of an excuse. There’s a significant chance that this won’t work; Emma’s not kidding herself on that front. That doesn’t stop her from searching for a reason this might fail that’s not pure dumb luck.

But Belle shakes her head confidently, negating that possibility. “Nearly none. It was only recently removed, and they’re a very meticulous organization, despite their small size.”

“Ok then. Figured I’d check.” Strangely nervous as she turns to face Killian, who is patiently waiting in the mirror for his companions to finish their debate, Emma takes a deep breath. “Ready?”

Killian nods solemnly, fingers still stroking the glass absentmindedly and eyes focused on the small piece of wood in her hand.

With a final determined nod, Emma raises her hand with the rigging to face the mirror. “Here goes nothing, then.”

Pressing hand and artifact against the glass, at first Emma feels nothing. The glass is just as cold and unforgiving as ever, now tinged even colder with the chill of disappointment. But as Emma presses harder, in a last ditch effort at refusing to relinquish hope, she feels… something. There’s a give to the surface that wasn’t there before - not enough to break through yet, but enough to feel that there is an effect, contrary to all logic and physics.

“I think something’s happening,” she mutters, barely loud enough for Killian to hear, as she pushes even harder against the glass, brows furrowed and mouth frowning in concentration. Sure enough, she can physically see her hand start to sink into the glass, the surface bending around the pressure like the surface of a trampoline. Glancing up quickly, she can see the way Killian’s eyes are blown wide in shock before he moves his hand to receive hers.

Suddenly, the glass gives way around her hand, not quite disappearing but reducing to nothing more than a film, and her hand with its treasure encased falls to meet Killian’s own. Briefly, there’s a muted sense of skin meeting skin, of callused yet tender fingertips just brushing the inside of her wrist, before there’s a sucking sensation around the wood piece in her palm. Without any warning, Emma’s hand is once again expelled from the mirror, only her quick sense of balance saving her from being sent sprawling on the floor.

She doesn’t even have the time to start contemplating everything that just happened before Belle is trying to get her attention, amazement coloring her voice.

“Emma, look!” she all but screeches, leaving Emma with the urge to issue a reminder about indoor voices. “It didn’t work the way we expected, but look!”

At first, as Emma focuses on the mirror, she doesn’t notice anything different. Sure, Killian looks a little shell-shocked, like his entire world has been jarred, but Emma’s a little freaked out by whatever experience they just shared as well, so honestly, that’s warranted and not especially surprising. However, as she looks closer, Belle’s exclamations are explained; inexplicably, Killian is holding the piece of his ship in his hand.

“How even…” Emma starts, but there’s really no point in asking. She’s unlikely to get an answer that makes any amount of sense anyway.

“Swan,” Killian says, voice just a little bit broken. “Look at this, this is… Swan.” He’s clearly in a state of shock and awe over this development - Emma thinks she even spots tears glistening in his eyes. She supposes that it stands to reason - this is the closest he’s gotten to freedom in literal years, and yet without true success. This seems to be an emotional reaction even beyond that, however, and Emma’s itching to ask him about it, and try to comfort her friend in any way.

Belle must sense that he needs a moment to collect himself, as she smiles knowingly and moves back towards the door. “I’ve procured an old spell book that I left in the car,” she explains in a weak excuse. “I thought there might be a few potions in there that might be worth a try - let me go grab that from my car really quick.”

Emma turns to fully face the mirror as Belle makes her exit, attempting to meet Killian’s eyes. “Hey, are you okay?” she asks, fully aware of the concerned tone of her voice.

“Aye, Swan,” he smiles weakly, wiping at his eyes. There’s a moment of quiet, filled only with the sounds of their breathing. Emma can’t help but notice the way he handles the weathered piece of wood almost reverently, running his thumb back and forth across the surface like that piece of the rigging, at first glance a humble and utilitarian object, is the greatest treasure imaginable.

“The Jolly wasn’t always mine, you know,” he finally says, smiling in a way that almost seems wistful, choosing his words carefully in starts and stops as he continues. “It was a proper Navy ship once - the Jewel of the Realm she was named in those days. And my brother… my brother was her captain, the best captain imaginable. I’d have followed him anywhere, even if he hadn’t raised me. And after he was gone…” Killian finally meets her eye again, glancing up from his hands with a smile that’s turned sad. “Well, after he was gone, it felt like that ship was all I had left of him. Even after I renamed her, even after I threw off the red coat to become a pirate… it felt like part of him was still alive on that ship. Attempting to avenge him is what got me into this mess, and I lost my last connection to him in the process. Having this little insignificant piece of the Jolly… it may seem small to you, like we didn’t achieve much,” he concludes, more confident now in his words, “but you’ve given me a little piece of my brother back that I’ve been missing for years. Thank you,” he finishes earnestly, the tears making a reappearance.

It’s not really Emma’s territory. She’s not great at accepting thanks, especially when she doesn’t think she’s done anything to warrant it. “I don’t know that you should be thanking me,” she mutters, eyes downcast. “It’s not like I did it on purpose, whatever just happened just kind of… happened.”

“Still, Swan,” he insists, “whether you intended it or not, you’ve given me a great gift. Take the thanks - they’re freely and sincerely given.”

“Well, I guess you’re welcome, then.”

Killian grins, and Emma can almost physically feel the emotional cloud lift from the room. “Now tell me, before the lovely Miss French comes back - do I look a fright?”

Emma can’t help it - she laughs, despite their previous seriousness. “Don’t worry, you still look devilishly handsome, or whatever you call it.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he winks - a move executed more with his eyebrows as both eyes close - just in time for the sound of the front door opening to trail back into the living room.

If he’s at all upset with the way things have gone today, Killian doesn’t show it, and Emma breathes a sigh of relief at that.

———

Emma hates to admit it, but as the weeks go on, the initial flurry of research starts to trickle off. It’s not that they’re falling into resignation - or, at the very least, Emma isn’t - but as it turns out, without knowing what this mysterious thing they’re looking for is, their little group is left just to read the same books over and over again, trying and failing to wring another drop of information out of the same tired words. In the immediate aftermath of what Emma’s started thinking of as the “rigging incident”, Belle had tried a number of spells and potions, but none had made any difference beyond annoying Killian with the various murky liquids trickling down the front of his glass. As the weeks stretch on, it seems like Killian is settling into resignation more than anyone else, albeit a content resignation. After years with naught but his own company and the occasional ill-intentioned summoner, Emma supposes this is likely as good a life as he ever expected to have after his drastic change in circumstances.

There’s a routine they’ve sort of settled into; come down, say good morning to Killian (who now comes and goes as he pleases, rarely choosing the solitude of the blank mirror over her or Henry’s company) and eat a little breakfast on the couch before school. After school, Killian happily keeps Henry entertained as Emma deals with whatever work she’s had to bring home before dinner - once again on the couch so their resident pirate doesn’t feel left out (something Henry is very concerned about). After Henry is put to bed, Emma usually takes some time to sort through her day with Killian, relishing the chance to talk and vent with an adult after dealing with teenagers and her own kid all day. Honestly, it’s becoming a highlight of her day; Killian is a fantastic listener, and Emma feels a kinship with him like she’s never experienced before, even with her closest friends.

This Saturday is like any other - Emma and Henry both sleep in a little later than usual, before Emma goes to try and figure out something they can eat for breakfast. Henry’s in the other room with Killian, as per usual, and Emma smiles at the thought of her kid attempting to explain the finer points of cartoon plots. As she tries to pry open a can of biscuits, she faintly hears Henry cough, but doesn’t pay much attention to it. The cough showed up not long after his flu bug disappeared; it’s just a little leftover cold, one they’ve gotten used to.

What Emma hasn’t gotten used to, however, is the note of panic in Killian’s voice as he calls for her. It’s so out of character that it strikes Emma dumb for a moment, and he’s already calling her name again as she rushes into the living room.

“What’s wrong - what happened?” she demands, attempting to analyze the situation. Despite the relatively early hour, Henry looks absolutely sapped of energy already, and Emma’s blood runs cold in her veins at the realization that the only thing that would leave Killian calling for her in a panic is Henry being at risk somehow. “What’s wrong with Henry?”

“He went into one of those coughing fits,” Killian jumps to explain, eyes a little wild as Emma meets his gaze in the mirror, “but after that passed… it was like he couldn’t catch his breath, Swan, just this horrible gasping.”

“I’m tired, Mama,” Henry cuts in with a mumble, as if to underscore that something’s wrong.

“Is he going to be okay, Emma?” Killian asks, painfully earnest.

“Yeah,” she says, voice uncertain, worry almost certainly splashed across her face. “But I think we need to go to the doctor. Right now.”

———

It has to be one of the longest mornings of her life, carrying Henry to urgent care and anxiously waiting for the doctor to tell her what’s wrong with her kid.

Even if it’s only early afternoon by the time she carries a sleeping Henry back into the house and straight up to his bed, Emma’s exhausted. Intense emotion and stress will do that to a person.

Coming back down the stairs, she’s ready to fix herself a cup of hot chocolate and maybe crash for an hour or two before Killian’s voice halts her in her tracks. He only calls her name - just a way to get her attention, really - but Emma is drawn up short by the sheer desperation in his voice. Changing her course towards his mirror, she notes that he doesn’t look much better - hair mussed from hands running through it and a permanent frown on his face, looking wildly out of place. It would have been easy enough for him to retreat from the mirror - Emma knows from previous conversations that time goes marginally faster for him when he’s not summoned in the mirror - but he’s clearly spent the whole time pacing back and forth in the glass, waiting to hear the news as soon as they returned. Truly, Emma’s touched by the gesture and obvious concern as a symbol of exactly how much he’s come to care for their little family.

“Please tell me he’s alright, Swan,” Killian all but begs when he looks up from his frenetic pacing. “He’s so young, so… please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

“He’s going to be okay,” Emma assures with a weak smile. At her words, Killian practically collapses in relief, tension visibly lifting from his frame. “He’s got pneumonia, so he’s going to be sick for a little while longer, but the doctor gave him some antibiotics - some medicine,” she clarifies. “But yeah, he’s going to be fine. Hopefully he’ll start feeling better in the next few days.”

“And these… antibiotics, they’ll cure him?”

“I think it’s more that they’ll help him fight off the little disease bugs, but yeah, basically. And they hooked him up to an oxygen tank at the doctor’s for a little bit, which was kinda scary at the time, but he perked up right away. Honestly, it was like baby’s first drug high, he was so energized all of a sudden.”

“I was so scared, Swan,” Killian admits, resting his hand against the glass. “Henry’s such a bright little boy, and when he was sitting there, gasping for breath, I was absolutely terrified for him.”

“I know you were,” Emma replies softly, moving to press her own hand against his through the glass. “I was too.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m overstepping, Swan, but I care about that boy. He’s… everything. I was lonely for so many years, trapped in this prison, and meeting you both… It was the first bright spot in my existence in a very long time. Both of you,” he emphasizes. “Seeing him this morning, seeing your bald-faced worry, I was forced to think of what life would be like without either of you in it again, and it scared me half to death.”

“That’s not overstepping at all,” she reassures him. “That’s just called caring. You care about us.”

Killian nods solemnly at her words, as if in a vow. “Yes. I care.”

There’s been a warmth to the glass between their palms for as long as they’ve been pressed together, but Emma had largely disregarded it, far more focused on the words of the very concerned pirate looking back at her. But with his final words, in a cinematically dramatic moment, the glass suddenly becomes almost too hot to touch, before Killian’s hand sinks right through, palms suddenly meeting skin to skin without their customary barrier. In another circumstance, Emma might laugh at the look of almost comic shock on Killian’s face, but in the moment she can only stare with her own matching expression.

“Is that…?” Killian begins before trailing off, clearly struggling to believe such a thing could be possible for him after years of dreaming. Emma only nods in response, but rotates her hand to grasp his and attempt to draw him the rest of the way through the glass.

Miraculously, it works. Emma steps slowly, disbelievingly backwards, lifting her other hand to meet his, until eventually he swings a leg over the gilded frame and into freedom.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmurs, looking around in astonishment, clutching her hands like a lifeline the whole while. In a way, perhaps it is; Emma’s the first human contact he’s had in hundreds of years. “I’m here? With you and… and the rest of the world? Truthfully?”

“You’re really here,” Emma smiles, her own vow. Then, as all the events of the preceding minutes sink in, she bursts into uncontrollable laughter, forced to release Killian’s hands to brace her heaving frame on her knees.

“I don’t understand what’s so funny, Swan,” he protests, though a small smile plays across his lips.

“You finally broke your curse because you cared, Killian!” she tries to explain through the laughter, before realizing that did nothing to clear the matter up. “It’s frickin’ Beauty and the Beast, how did I not realize that? Let alone Belle?” Killian chuckles along good-naturedly, but it’s easy to see that he’s still confused. There’s a lot she and Henry are going to have to catch him up on; Emma forgets that sometimes. “It’s a fairy tale. And a movie - one of Henry’s moving pictures. I’ll get him to show you. Trust me, this will be hilarious when you get it.”

“I’ll trust you on that,” he replies with a smile. He does that a lot, Emma realizes - both the trust and the smile.

Killian may claim that Emma and Henry are the ones to brighten his world, but Emma has a strong suspicion he’ll do the same for them.

———

Henry is positively thrilled at the breaking of Killian’s curse, only stopped from attack-hugging the man by Emma’s stern warnings not to get him sick.

(“He’s 300 years old, Henry, and hasn’t had all the shots we have. You could very literally kill him with your love.”)

Killian seems a little overwhelmed by everything, but that’s to be expected, she supposes. The last time he saw real daylight, not just through a reflection, the main method of transportation was horseback and electricity hadn’t been discovered yet. She can give him a little slack if he’s looking at everything suspiciously.

When Emma and Henry moved to Storybrooke, Maine, she never imagined she’d end up living out a real-life ghost story. But then again, there’s not really a how-to manual for living with a 300 year old pirate. What they learn along the way is that he makes an excellent roommate - clean and courteous and always willing to help out with Henry or whatever else she needs. There’d been a debate about procuring him his own place, but for the moment, this is just easier - no needing to find him money no one has to spare or sorting out the intricacies of figuring out some fake papers. Belle is able to get him a job at the local library, where he develops a reputation as a courteous and professional member of the staff and great with the children’s storytimes, if universally considered to be a little eccentric.

He even looks the part too, these days, courtesy of a shopping spree at the local Target and thrift stores, even if Killian is only talked down from continuing to wear his long leather duster by the purchase of a second hand leather jacket in a more recent style. Sometimes, Emma almost forgets that Killian is a man out of time with the way he stands so normally in her kitchen, pouring out a bowl of cereal in stockinged feet. Of course, he’ll then refer to the computer as the “information box” or something else so obviously out of the ordinary, and the illusion is ruined.

She’s not sure she’d want him to fully acclimate, anyway. There’s something adorable about his little confused pout, and especially the way that Henry’s taken the pirate under his proverbial wing, trying to explain the world to him and introducing Killian to particular highlights (the Reese’s peanut butter cups are a particular hit). There’s something to be said, too, for his manners, courtly and chivalrous in ways Emma’s not accustomed to but welcomes all the same.

Honestly, she thinks he might be attempting to court her - to borrow a phrase - even if he hasn’t definitively declared it. Emma certainly wouldn’t be opposed if he did so; there’s a connection between them, one that’s existed for longer than she likes to admit. Living together, it’s hard to ignore the tender looks sent her way - not that Emma wants to. In fact, she might be guilty of sending a few his way in return. Still, he never makes a move, never seeks anything else, and by the time he figures out how to use the toaster oven, Emma is tired of excusing it as him still trying to acclimate to the modern world.

“Are you ever going to do anything about that flirting?” she finally demands one night, sitting on the couch watching television with Killian after Henry’s gone to bed.

Killian looks flabbergasted at her outburst. “Excuse me?”

“You send me doe-eyed looks, like, all the time, not to mention the comments. Are you ever actually going to follow through, or…?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” he admits, flushing brilliantly scarlet as he ducks his head to scratch behind an ear. “I didn’t want to overstep my boundaries.”

“You didn’t think I wanted you to? Jesus, Killian, I never said that! Honestly, I’ve been trying to give it right back — ”

“ — well I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, a gentleman never — ”

But Emma never finds out what a gentleman never does, as she finally drags his lips down to hers.

It’s not much of a kiss at first, Killian’s shock turning it into two sets of lips ferociously pressing against one another rather than a proper, romantic gesture. It’s not much different from kissing the glass, really; warmer, softer, but similarly unresponsive. After a prolonged moment, Emma draws back, meeting his stupefied expression with her own fierce-eyed stare. When Killian doesn’t react - except perhaps to become more slack-jawed - Emma nearly takes her hands away from his face and resigns herself to the embarrassment of having unsuccessfully made a move on her roommate. Before she can move, however, he’s back, warm lips moving against hers, fiercely at first before settling into something more tender. It’s a good first kiss, a perfect one really, and Emma looks forward to many more.

As they finally break apart to regain independent use of their lungs, Emma rests her forehead against Killian’s. “That was…” she begins, breathlessly.

“Fantastic,” Killian finishes, before breaking into a shit-eating grin. “Really, Swan, you’re so much better at that without the glass in the way.”

“Shut up,” Emma retorts, but she smiles even as she smacks his chest with the back of her hand. Really, the man’s got a point.

“Make me,” he shoots right back, smirk permanently affixed to his face.

And really, can anyone blame her for doing exactly that?

(As it turns out, 300 year old legendary pirates make excellent kissers.)

#my writing #The Man Behind Glass #cssns #cs ff #captain swan

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commander-yinello · 7 years ago

Text

Trying to be better, part 2

If you haven’t read part 1, this story won’t make any sense! Below and under the cut, part of me sailing the crackship Echosung into slightly more serious waters. I hope you enjoy! <3

4:45 PM. She sighed as she held her phone in the air, time telling her how little she had done today. A soft whine and the scratching of nails came from beside her bed, Lady insisting that she needed to go out for a walk.

“Yes, yes. Gimme a minute to get ready,” she responded, pushing herself off her bed, blowing wavy hair out of her face. Lady didn’t seem to care for her owner’s prep time, running in circles in the hope time would go faster. Long used to her poodle’s antics, Kyungju dropped her phone on the desk next to her wardrobe.

It was right then a new notice popped up on her screen. She expected another meme from the chatroom with her overseas friends, but it was an e-mail. An e-mail with a particularly unexpected sender that made her swipe it away.

“Mom!” she yelled towards her open door while she attempted to brush out the creases in her dress so it didn’t look like she used them as pajamas. “Did you give the agent from Heart & Seoul Models my private email address?”

The gentle tapping of heels on marble followed, her mother’s shadow cast on the cream-colored wall. “Of course, I did dear! Why wouldn’t I?”

She groaned. “What the fuck, mom?!”

“Kyungju Choi, I told you to stop swearing!”

“And I told you, I don’t want these agents to be able to contact me!” Irritated, she brushed her hair down with her hands. Lady followed her every move, doing her best for constant attention.

“I don’t know why you’re so against becoming an idol again. You were so successful last time.”

She nearly lost balance, putting on her blazer and trying to win the argument. “I don’t want that anymore! It ended in a bunch of really bad bullshit, or did you somehow forget that we moved to Europe?”

“You made a mistake that you’re not going to make again. Your father and I agree that you need to be doing something other than loafing about and taking the odd modelling job. Or did you plan on finding a rich man and marrying him?”

“No!” Kyungju yelled. “God mom, I can’t believe you’re still suggesting that!”

Now properly dressed, she slipped her phone in her pants pocket and eyed the unpacked moving boxes in the corner as she left her room, making her way to the stairs in the hallway. Her mother stood on the ground floor, wearing a frilly apron, the only sign she was a housewife - unlike her hair in a tight bun and a face full of bold make-up. Kyungju glared as she ran down, but her mother had always been better in the glaring game. Lady hopped down the stairs, tail wagging from the noise they produced, noise she saw as fun and exciting like all noise really.

“God blessed you with a beautiful body and you’re wasting it,” her mom continued to nag as Kyungju tugged on her boots and jacket. “You may not have been able to charm that albino boy, but he’s young and poor - there’s plenty of older, richer, more interested men you should be aiming for.”

She couldn’t stand hearing more. “I can make it on my own, just give me time to figure out how. Come Lady,” she beckoned, and her poodle obeyed, trotting along while Kyungju grabbed the leash off the coat hook. “I’ll see you tonight mom,” she said, leaving her home for the city streets.

Her mother was merciful and closed the door behind her without another word. Kyungju sighed while Lady sniffed every possible corner and tree she could find, running back when she was called, allowing herself to be leashed. The fluffy ball of energy proceeded to pull Kyungju along the pavement while she pondered.

Her mother was making too big a deal out of this. They just moved here, surely she was going to find something, a job she could be proud of and that had nothing to do with Echo Girl. She nodded while pouting, ignoring the confused face the woman passing her made.

Rush hour had ended, and the once crowded streets slowly found silence as employees and students ran into their homes for dinner and relaxation. Kyungju turned the corner and ended up in a small shopping centre where everyone was closing up. At the end of the plaza Kyungju spotted the small building with illustrated cats and dogs on the windows, a sight that brightened her mood instantly.

Yoosung’s clinic. It wasn’t actually Yoosung’s clinic, he was just one of the vets working there, but in her mind it was. Conveniently close to her house, she had rushed Lady there - best idea she ever had. For once she was glad Lady was such a glutton.

Through the glass, she saw the blond behind the counter, busy with a customer, his red glasses nearly on the top of his nose while looking down. He’s cute, she thought. Against all of her expectations, Yoosung was understanding and warm. She smiled and began to walk over eagerly, feeling like Lady about to get a treat.

Guilt struck her, making her halt. Lady tried to run ahead and strained against the leash a few times before giving up and sitting down, scratching herself.

Kyungju bit her lip, continuing to stare at Yoosung who had no idea she was out here. Tempted as she was to enter the clinic and come up with some excuse to ask Yoosung out for an official coffee date, she couldn’t justify it. Yoosung was around her age and had his shit together better than her. No doubt her mom would be very pleased to know her daughter planned to hit it off with a doctor. An animal doctor, not that that would stop mother from counting in paychecks.

What was she even thinking? With a history like hers, it wasn’t right for her to ask him out. His friends, her parents, possibly even him, they’d all get the wrong idea. She had gotten a crush on another RFA member. What if she was responsible for causing a rift between Yoosung and the RFA?

And surely a guy like Yoosung must have a girlfriend as sweet as him already.

She spun around, fully intent on marching back to her house, only to be met with a man who obstructed her entire view. Startled, she took a few steps back. The man wore a typical gray office suit and his balding head was shiny from all the gel. His eyes widened as his amazement grew upon staring at her, dropping his suitcase next to his feet.

“Erm… Can I help you?” Kyungju asked.

“Echo Girl!” the man exclaimed in joy, clapping his hands together. “I can’t believe it’s really you! It’s me, Ben! I was- no, am!- your biggest fan, I used to send you a letter every month. Do you remember?”

Shit. “Ah… Not really. My agent let interns open the fanmail, I... didn’t.” Unpaid interns, she remembered. She didn’t want to bother with anything that wasn’t Zen back then.

Ben blinked at her. “What do you mean, you sent me replies back! They even had cute signatures! I really felt like we connected!”

“Automated reply letters,” Kyungju answered sheepishly.

“And the personalized autographed photo?”

“A copy. And the signature was never mine.”

Kyungju felt Lady paw at her ankles. Ben seemed lost, brows furrowing as he processed this new information. “I don’t… I don’t understand! We didn’t have something special back then? Why?”

“Because I didn’t care about anyone except me back then. Surely you must have read the scandal about me.”

The middle-aged man shook his head. “The magazines reported something, but it seemed more like a typical idol scandal. But then you disappeared. The fan club assumed you abandoned us.”

“It’s true, I did.” Better he knew now she was garbage. “It’s okay if you’re mad.”

His face completely fell. “I can’t believe this. I thought you had maybe some kind of family crisis and would come back in the future. I was hoping for your come-back! And then I could genuinely claim I am the number one fan!”

Lady reacted to his anger, growling as loud as a tiny poodle could. “God, I shouldn’t have wasted so much time on someone like you! Do you know how many you fooled with the fake crap you sold them? Was your singing even genuine or autotuned?”

“It was real,” she said, cruel words crash making her heart hurt. Lady was barking now, causing other shopkeepers to peer through their windows. Damn it, she swore quietly.

He jabbed a finger, nearly poking her chest. “Real my ass! You are supposed be pure, kind-”

“Hey!” came a sudden new voice, and they both turned towards the man with glaring purple eyes standing next to her. When had Yoosung snuck up on them?

Turned out Yoosung can be very intimidating, Kyungju discovered. His hands were clenched and his posture, wider from the white coat he wore, made him look ready to attack. The sweet, soft boy image of him she harbored since last time was nowhere to be found and she didn’t know whether to be fascinated or terrified. “What are you doing?!”

Ben bristled. “What am I doing? I’m giving this fake piece of shit what she deserves, that’s what!”

“How dare you talk to her like that - she’s still a human being!” Yoosung yelled back at him.

“It’s alright,” Kyungju said to Yoosung, who had moved in front of her, partially blocking her view of the angry fan. “I don’t mind, he has the right to.”

“Don’t say that!” Yoosung whirled around, expression equal parts anger and shock. “Kyungju, you can’t let him treat you like this!”

“Why not?” She bit back. “It’s true what he’s saying, isn’t it?”

“Why does that matter?!” He said, before pinching the bridge of his nose, calming down considerably. “I mean, yes, you did some bad things in the past. I don’t think anyone would dispute that.” He sighed, shoulders drooping. “But it’s obvious you’re genuinely sorry for what you’ve done. Letting yourself get verbally abused like this isn’t helping anyone. Why didn’t you tell him what you told me?” He gestured towards Ben, who stared at them considerably confused.

“This is different. He doesn’t know me.”

Yoosung gently took hold of her shoulders, and she recognized the same comforting gesture she gave him in the café. “Neither did I really, before we met. And even then, I was impressed by you. Everyone else would be too, if they knew. I’m sure of it.”

The dam she didn’t know she had inside her burst. Her eyes started to well up. Embarrassed, she rubbed them vigorously with the palm of her hand, feeling the heat of her cheeks. “Why are you so sweet?” she asked with a small pout. “I don’t deserve that kindness.”

“Of course you do. One day I’ll make you believe it.” Suddenly shy, he let go and blushed a little, aware of what he had said. Kyungju couldn’t help but giggle.

The sound of shoes scuffing the pavement brought about the startling reminder that they were never alone. Ben was still next to them, lost and hands raised awkwardly.

“Err…” he started.

“Look,” Kyungju intercepted, turning to him and clapping her hands together. “I can’t change the past and give you back your lost time. But I am genuinely sorry, and I have changed. I won’t be performing anymore.”

Ben returned to rage mode. “What does sorry do for me?! Do you think just cuz you’ve got a cute face that I’m going to forgive you?”

Kyungju grimaced. How long was this guy going to go on before she would have to threaten him? “I’m not asking for your forgiveness.”

“You should, because I’m done with you! It’s over!!” he yelled, grabbing his suitcase, walking off with his nose in the air. “Goodbye forever!”

Ben marched off, leaving the two blinking at the sudden turn. He had left the street before Kyungju and Yoosung grasped what had just happened, picking up the jaws that had dropped off. Then, she heard Yoosung attempt to muffle his snickers and before she knew it, they both laughed in unison.

“Wow, did you have to deal with his type all the time? I would go crazy,” Yoosung replied after he calmed down.

“Not all the time, thankfully.” Kyungju let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks Yoosung, I appreciate it.”

“No worries, when I saw you and that asshole outside, I couldn’t hold myself back.” Bashful, Yoosung scratched the back of his head.

How does he switch from scary to adorable so fast? Kyungju wondered. “I’m sorry for distracting you from your work.”

“We were closing up, so it’s fine. But what brings you back here again?”

“I live close by. And I, eh, I decided to pass by while walking Lady,” Kyungju admitted, blushing more.

“It’s good to see you still healthy! Haven’t been eating anything weird, have you?” Yoosung said as he bent down to pat Lady, who jumped to try to put her paws up as high as she could on Yoosung’s clean pants.

With things having calmed down, Kyungju followed Yoosung to his clinic, waiting inside while he locked up, his co-workers waving at them just like last time. She waved back as Lady chewed on her leash in boredom.

“Oh, Jaehee asked me to tell you that her café has new latté flavors. Maybe you’d like to try them?” Yoosung asked while he changed from his doctor’s coat to his leather jacket.

“Jaehee?”

“Ah, she’s my friend and the café owner. The café we went to last time.”

Is he asking me out? Kyungju thought, feeling the temperature rise. “Ah, sure, I’d love to try them. But won’t your girlfriend get annoyed with you hanging out with me?” she asked, instantly regretting how obvious she was.

Yoosung grabbed his keys on top of the front desk. “Girlfriend? I don’t think so, seeing as I don’t have one.” He shrugged, leading Kyungju to the front door.

It was hard for Kyungju not to let out any of the high-pitched squealing in her head. “Then, of course!”

“Great! I’m sure Jaehee would love your opinion on them,” Yoosung said enthusiastically, locking up the clinic behind them.

Kyungju wondered on whether this was a date or not. “Okay, but only if you choose a latte for me.”

“But… What if I choose something you don’t like?”

“I’m sure I will like anything you pick.” Kyungju smiled, Lady trotting by her side as they began to walk.

“You have varied taste, that’s good! I can be a bit picky sometimes,” Yoosung replied, placing his hands in his jacket pockets, practically beaming happiness.

Kyungju had a feeling Yoosung wasn’t getting it. But, either way, she was content being with him, at his side, feeling more comfortable than ever.

#echosung #fanfiction #mystic messenger #kyungju choi #yoosung kim #yoosung x kyungju #mysme #confession: I regret using the weird fan as a plot point #because I had no idea what to do with him after a while #but I had used him too much to remove him #sometimes fics have their own will haha #next one is gonna be much fluffier though #also probably the last one #I want this to be a short series #<3

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