#I’m sure they’re fine and just want to be rid of this cesspool of a site *affectionate*

[haleigh-sloth]

I'm glad you finally finished naruto so i can talk about the main reason why this fandom so pissed about a possible redemption for shigaraki, ever since ch 295 came out fans became furious that we will get another naruto situation like "so deku is gonna talk no jutsu shigaraki and call him cool guy after everything he done?" "another talk no jutsu BS why can't the hero just kill the villain for once" "another naruto and sasuke" and many other dumb comments but these are the most common.

These people act like naruto invented redemption just because horikoshi said he's a big fan of naruto and star wars that's why some fans think a redemption for tomura would ruin his character like obito and some think he will have a redemptive death like darth vader (their characters are kinda similar) because they think he can't have happy ending and forgiven for everything he has done and his life is just miserable, that's basically how the majority of the fandom think about tomura's redemption dabi and toga don't have this issue though compared to shiggy.

Sorry I talked too much but this is something I wanted to talk about with you for a while now.

I’ve seen these comments myself even before I read Naruto. And my question is—what do these people think made Naruto so successful as a manga?

There are so many stories/movies/shows that are punitive in nature and tell stories where the hero kills the villain. There’s plenty to choose from. The world is their oyster.

Those people who like stuff like that should just watch cop shows and shut the fuck up.

One of my favorite things about Naruto was that no villain in it was really a villain. In fact half of them didn’t have a “redemption” arc as much as they ended their involvement in the story showing the compassionate/human side of themselves. The villains in Naruto were just people. And Naruto’s role was to show us the human side of everyone, regardless of what they’d done.

Sasuke is my favorite from Naruto and even though I knew Naruto would bring him back, I was still so invested in their story line together. Those types of stories where relationships and friendships are focused on heavily make me, and I’m sure other people, feel really good. I loved Sasuke’s arc, and I loved his and Naruto’s friendship reconciling. It was my fav 💙

And for the record, the talk no jutsu fucking slaps. It works for stories where relationships between characters are so important, such as in Naruto and BNHA. Both of those stories are about connections between people and people being able to reach and understand each other’s hearts. Naruto and Sasuke at the end both mentioned how they knew what the other was feeling when they were fighting, and because of those feelings Sasuke still felt he had to get rid of Naruto. That was heavy and powerful and moments like that only work well when words are exchanged.

People like happy endings. And those who don’t? Well, okay, fine, but go read something else. Don’t bitch because a story that obviously isn’t a miserable tale from the get-go isn’t going down the dark miserable path you want. Ugh.

But anyway—BNHA is….definitely Naruto. It is. There are so many things in Naruto that brought me to very specific things in BNHA, and were structured in such a way that just showed me that Hori really was inspired by Naruto and he used a lot of what was in it. That’s not a bad thing, because they’re both different stories, but they have the same skeletal base. And people can deny that all they want by saying “this isn’t Naruto!”, but where has that gotten them? They’ve been wrong time and time again because they don’t wanna just admit that BNHA IS another Naruto. Chapter 295 pissed people off, I remember. And then chapter 305 just drilled nail in the coffin on their little “Deku would never wanna save Shig after what he did” argument. Lol, guess again. When those chapters came out I was euphoric 😂.

But like idk why people even bother reading stuff like BNHA and Naruto if they just want a punitive ending like…go watch cop shows and movies. They’ll give you exactly what you want. Shounen manga is not gonna be what you want so maybe idk, find different material to read. Also American super hero comics/movies are what they’re looking for too. Go watch/read those and shut up and let us have our corny “love and friendship fixes everything” story ending please. There’s a reason it’s used in manga a lot. It makes people feel good and hopeful about real life, because real life sucks and we read to fiction to escape it. Why would I wanna read something grim dark when my real life is grim dark every fucking day lol.

Needless to say I agree. And yes I used to see those comments everywhere, until I realized that Twitter is a cesspool and stopped getting on there.

[welllpthisishappening]

Out of the Frying Pan (35/?)

God, they even had to use a cart – the theme of this show was absurd. Emma tried to maneuver the thing around the corner of an aisle, wheels scraping painfully on the floor, the noise making her squeeze her eyes shut and that was a mistake.

She heard the sound of colliding carts before she felt it, arms shaking a bit as they desperately tried to hold on to her cart.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbled, taking a step back and yanking the cart with her. And of course it was him.

Whatever, world.

AN: I just have to again say how much I appreciate the response to this story and how psyched you guys are about it and I make my husband read every single message like it’s show and tell. Honestly. @laurnorder makes this 800 times better and @distant-rose reads all my words and makes gorgeous aesthetics. They’re the best. 

Living it up on Ao3 & tag’ed up on Tumblr.

“I need to talk to you.” “I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Ruby,” Emma said, muttering out the words through barely-moving lips so she wouldn’t frustrate the human being currently trying to put makeup on her face.

“You’re done now.” Ruby glanced at the makeup artist, leveling her with a look that bartered no debate. “She’s done now.” She didn’t even wait for Emma to argue, just grabbed her hand, pulling her forcefully out of the chair and out into the hallway, staring at her with a look that was somewhere in between anxiety and excitement.

Ruby tightened her arms across her chest, narrowing her eyes at Emma – it felt a bit like a threat. “What’s your problem?” Emma spat, not even trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

She was frustrated

And tired.

Exhausted.

She was frustrated and exhausted and she probably should have talked to Ruby before walking into the network offices to film a show that was actually based on buying groceries. She should have talked to Killian too.

There were a lot of things Emma probably should have done – and she’d considered all of them, alternating from her couch and a one-man intervention with her brother, to the couch in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, holed up in the corner with a cup of hot chocolate in her hand and a sympathetic smile on her sister-in-law’s face.

It was, for all intents and purposes, the same message David had tried to press into her brain earlier that afternoon, but Mary Margaret was a bit softer and easier and not quite as up front with the use of the word stupid.

So as soon as Henry had requested ice cream, David had volunteered to take him and Mary Margaret had made hot chocolate, forcing it into Emma’s hand with a word and an encouraging nod and Emma had cried.

For at least five minutes.

And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that.

It meant something.

“I’ve got a plan,” Ruby said, matching Emma tone for tone and she should have expected that. It was her show as much as it was Emma’s. “And you’re not going to like it and I absolutely don’t care. This is going to work.” Emma’s eyes widened quickly, breath catching in her throat just a bit as she waited for Ruby to continue. “We’re doing an interview,” Ruby said.

“What?” She was right – Emma didn’t like it. She hated it.

Ruby nodded deftly. “Hear me out,” she said, holding her hands up lightly, but her foot was tapping and the impatience was practically wafting off her. “I know you don’t want to talk and I get it, but if you looked at the response, you’d also get it. People aren’t upset. They’re impressed. You’re some kind of hero on the internet right now.” “What?”

Ruby sighed dramatically, tilting one eyebrow up as Emma repeated herself. “Think about it, Emma. You’ve completely rebuilt your life. You took a shitty situation, the shittiest situation and you made yourself a TV star. It’s the perfect redemption story. People are eating it up. You talk about it a little bit on the record and you’ll be back on the air in no time.”

Emma considered that for a moment and, as much as she hated it, she couldn’t figure out a way to disagree.

It made sense.

“People like you,” Ruby continued, oblivious to everything that was going on in Emma’s head. “They’ve always liked you and now they like you even more. Just, do me a favor, ok? And think about it? I’m not asking you to bring Henry on the show or anything except for ten minutes with a reporter. That’s it.” Emma nodded slowly, back pressed up painfully against the wall behind her. “What about the rest of it?” she asked.

Ruby’s eyebrows fell quickly, lips tilting down in confusion. “You’ve lost me. What rest of it?” “There was another part of the story. It wasn’t just about the jail time.” Killian.

She was asking about Killian and it only took half a second for Ruby to understand, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ when it hit her. And there was a tinge of sadness in her smile before she answered the question Emma hadn’t really asked.

“That’s up to you, Em,” she said softly. “But for what it’s worth, I think you should talk to him. Soon.”

The heels practically running down the hallway stopped Emma from answering – or possibly diving face first back into a cesspool of emotion and want – nearly making her fall over when she spun around to put a face to the sound.

“Regina’s losing her mind,” Anna said quickly, trying to catch her breath as she stared at Emma and Ruby. “You guys were supposed to be on set two minutes ago.” “Jeez,” Ruby mumbled. “Tell her to relax.” “She’s a little on edge.” “Yeah, I can imagine.” And so could Emma – because she was just as much on edge. Or possibly over it. Dangling there. Several thousand feet above the ground and totally unprepared for impact. And if she felt half the way Emma did, or had to deal with Killian the way Ruby had to deal with her, it was a more than understandable frustration.

“We’ll be right there,” Emma said and Anna nodded once, darting back down the hallway. Ruby glanced speculatively at Emma and she just shrugged in response.

“You going to be ok?” she asked, voice finally losing that bite as she fell back into friend, eyes softening just a bit.

“Yeah. Probably. Maybe after this interview.” Ruby nearly fell over, body colliding with the side of the door that led onto set and Emma appreciated that for a moment, grabbing an apron from the outstretched hand of an assistant, tying it tightly around her waist and trying to keep her steps measured as she moved towards her station.

Everything had changed.

And it wasn’t just this story or the rumors or her show.

It was what she hadn’t told anyone else – David or Mary Margaret or Ruby or Killian. Especially Killian – the words echoing in her brain ever since he’d said them and she hadn’t answered. He had changed everything.

It felt as if every eye on set turned to her when she stopped walking, hands pressed flat against the counter as she took a deep breath through her nose.

They hadn’t put her next to him – his station on the other side of Belle’s to her right – but Emma knew he was looking at her, could feel his eyes on the side of her face and she didn’t turn. Film first. She had to film first.

And then she’d talk to him.

She’d tell him.

She’d fix it.

Regina was barking out orders, explaining rules Emma was only vaguely aware of and entirely uninterested in. She bit the side of her tongue tightly, running through all the reasons she absolutely could not turn to her right and meet Killian’s gaze.

Her fingers tapped nervously on the formica and now a different voice was talking – Jefferson Hatter, an explanation in the back of her mind provided, host of the show, and Emma tried to focus on that. “You’ll have ten minutes to shop,” he said. “But you’ll be on a budget. $20 dollars for the entire meal. You go over and you’ll have your entire cart confiscated which, you know, will make it just a bit challenging to actually cook a meal. So I hope you all can do some basic math in your head. I want bolognese. Ten minutes to shop, thirty minutes to cook, $20. And, go!” An air horn sounded from somewhere in the back corner of the set and Emma darted forward, cutting in front of a slightly stunned Graham who, she was certain, had never set foot in a grocery store in his life.

And for as much as she wasn’t listening and entirely preoccupied with half a dozen other things, Emma was more confident in this challenge than she had been throughout the entire, stupid competition ��� memories of shopping with a two-year-old strapped to her chest and a limited list of options clutched in her hand flashing in front of her eyes.

Olive oil, garlic, beef, tomatoes, basil, parsley, pasta, romano.

No, she thought quickly, get rid of the basil and the parsley. Spices were expensive and unnecessary.

Salt and pepper. She needed salt and pepper.

God, they even had to use a cart – the theme of this show was absurd. Emma tried to maneuver the thing around the corner of an aisle, wheels scraping painfully on the floor, the noise making her squeeze her eyes shut and that was a mistake.

She heard the sound of colliding carts before she felt it, arms shaking a bit as they desperately tried to hold on to her cart.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbled, taking a step back and yanking the cart with her. And of course it was him.

Whatever, world.

“It’s fine, Swan,” Killian said softly, eyes widening when the endearment fell out of his mouth, like he wasn’t sure if that was allowed.

Fuck.

She had fucked up.

Cook first. She had to cook first and then they could talk.

Emma nodded slowly, lips parted just a bit and she hadn’t expected the reaction to be that strong – the slow pull in her gut making her want to knock both of their carts out the way, push him up against one of these aisle and kiss him senseless. He was absolutely unfairly good looking. And staring at her like...she couldn’t think that.

Like she was the goddamn sun.

There were cameras everywhere.

“Were your eyes closed?” he asked softly, one side of his mouth tilting up. She shrugged. God, say something back.  “You do that a lot, don’t you? Like it’s all instinctual.” She shrugged again and a voice called one minute and they stared at each other over carts chock-full of inexpensive Italian food for half a moment, matching nervous smiles on their faces and Emma tugged on the bottom of her hair.

His smile widened.

“We should, uh, probably go check out,” Emma said. “Or whatever they call it on this stupid show.” “It is kind of ridiculous isn’t it?” Emma nodded again – like she’d lost complete control of all of the muscles in her neck – fingers loosening their grip on her cart. “Although, it will be vaguely entertaining to watch Graham try and cook bolognese. That’s worth showing up for alone.” Killian’s eyes flashed and Emma’s stomach flipped and they were absolutely wasting time. She didn’t care. This was the longest minute in the history of the world.  

“Absolutely,” he agreed, nodding towards the mock check-out line a few feet away and Emma took the hint, pushing her cart away from him.

She heard him follow behind here and that felt like something – a lot bigger than this dumb, themed show.

Eighteen dollars and seventy-two cents.

Emma was a grocery shopping wizard. Or witch? Why were these things gendered? She shook her head quickly, eyebrows pulled low as she grabbed a pot and a pan and flipped a switch on her oven, which was all very impressive considering she still only had two hands. She chanced a glance two stations over to find Killian shaking something in a frying pan and he must have been able to feel her or something because he looked up nearly as soon as her eyes moved towards him and smiled.

And she was going to win.

Thirty minutes had never gone by so fast – or with so many stolen glances – and Jefferson was counting down and Emma was dumping food onto plates and trying to figure out some way to make pasta look appealing without just being a mound of food and sauce and meat.

“Looks good,” Graham muttered, nodding towards Emma’s dish and flashing an encouraging smile at her as Jefferson called out the end of the round and upcoming judging.

“Thanks,” Emma answered and she’d absolutely tied her apron strings too tight because she couldn’t quite feel her kidneys anymore. “I couldn’t tell you the last time I made bolognese. Probably school.” Graham shrugged and he was still smiling and somehow they’d made it in front of the judge’s table – Killian’s eyes darting towards hers no less than five times as they crossed from one side of set to the other. “Still,” Graham continued. “You wouldn’t know by looking at it.”

Emma didn’t say anything, not entirely certain where this was going, and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, resting her weight back on her heels.

And it went about as well as she expected – Graham’s complete lack of knowledge when it came to Italian cooking doing its job and getting him cut in the first round. This all-star thing hadn’t been to kind to Graham. Emma almost felt bad, but she could still feel a stare boring into the back of her skull and something bumbling in the pit of her stomach that felt a bit like want and a lot like need and she still had more food to cook.

Regina was back in front of them, laying out ground rules for the second round and their ten minute break and it would probably be weird to ask Killian about his food.

Right? That would be weird.

It didn’t matter – Emma didn’t even get the chance to consider how exactly she’d start the conversation and the banter and the flirting before Regina wrapped her hand around Killian’s forearm, casting something that might have been interpreted as a glare in Emma’s direction and dragging him back towards the corner of the studio, marching him towards the catering table like some kind of producer-drill sergeant.  

His shoulders stiffened at the movement, muttering under his breath so softly Emma couldn’t hear what he was saying. He looked angry – mutinous . Regina just shook her head, a mess of raven-colored hair and heels clicking loudly on the tiled floor despite the dull roar of the jam-packed set.

A few weeks ago – and one character reference and saving several hundred wedding appetizers later – Emma was certain she was making headway in the befriend Regina Mills-Locksley road she’d been walking, but that seemed more impossible than ever now.

She absolutely deserved the glare.

Emma slumped against the edge of the judge’s table, feet stretched out in front of her and Graham shot her another smile – something she was certain was supposed to be understanding, but only served to leave her frustrated.

They should have talked before.

She should have answered her phone.

“You doing alright?”

Emma’s head snapped up and she nearly dropped the plate she had her in hands – eating her own food to make up for the breakfast she’d neglected and the lack of post-filming conversation with Killian.

Belle smiled sympathetically at her, brown eyes soft enough that Emma felt her lip shake a bit in the middle of this supermarket. Fake supermarket. It wasn’t real.

“I’ve been better,” Emma said honestly, working a laugh out of Belle as she stopped next to her, leaning back against the table with her arms crossed.

“I’m so sorry.” And that caught Emma short. “What?” “I'm so sorry,” Belle repeated, shoulders dropping as she tapped her heel against the tiled floor under her feet. “I just...I never thought Robert would go that far. I did try to tell Killian. For whatever that might actually be worth.”

She looked distraught and Emma wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh. Well, I mean, it’s ok,” she mumbled, tongue heavy in her mouth when she spoke. Belle raised her eyebrows in disbelief and Emma practically stabbed her pasta with her fork, working out all her excess emotion on her first-round bolognese. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, swallowing slowly so she didn’t inadvertently choke herself. “It’s not quite ok,” she admitted softly, staring at her sneakers.  

“Yeah, I kind of figured.” “Ruby got me some sort of interview. You know, like with an actual reporter who won’t make it seem like I’m some sort of convict who broke out of jail and forced my way into cooking school. She thinks that’ll help get me back on the air.” “All of that was stupid to begin with,” Belle said with an intensity Emma had never quite heard in her voice and she silently wondered when she’d started being open enough to have these kinds of deep, emotional conversations with the pastry chef.

“They shouldn’t have taken your show off at all,” she continued, “if I was better at confrontation I would have marched into Zelena’s office and demanded she put it back on. It was an overreaction. To the highest degree.” And Emma nearly dropped the plate again.

She wondered when she’d managed to get so many people in her metaphorical corner, bound and determined to keep her show on the air. And she wondered if Killian would have told her the same thing.

Probably.

Definitely.

He had tried. And that stupid voice in the back of her mind was far too opinionated. He’d tried to tell her, to promise her that they could fix this together and she’d responded by walking out the door and ignoring him for two weeks and then crashing her shopping cart into his.

A shopping cart.

Goddamn it, what an absolute mess.

“That’s more than I’ve done,” Emma said, grinning at Belle with a slight tilt of her head. “I’ve been driving Ruby insane, too stubborn for my own good.” Belle narrowed her eyes at her, confusion written across her face. “I wouldn’t come into the offices,” she explained, voice dropping slightly with the weight of her embarrassment.

She was a stubborn idiot.

“I probably wouldn’t have either,” Belle said and Emma felt her smile widen. “And,” she added quickly, glancing back towards the catering table like she was making sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “You’re not the only one who’s been driving producers insane.”

Emma put the plate of half-eaten food behind her, twisting around painfully to make sure it stayed on top of the table and didn’t end up on the floor, doing her best to stop her hand from shaking.

“What?” she asked, croaking out the word like she hadn’t spoken in weeks.

Belle scrunched her nose, the edges of her eyes narrowing like she was sharing a secret she wasn’t supposed to. Her eyes shot back towards the catering and Emma followed her that time, gaze landing on the back of Killian’s head and the hand wrapped around his neck and Regina standing close next to him, a phone in her hand and her lips moving a mile a minute.

He didn’t look back at her.

“He hadn’t been cooking,” Belle said, whispering the words.

Emma’s heart might have actually cracked or snapped or something physically impossible as soon as the four words had worked their way into her brain and her consciousness and this was her fault.

“Will told me,” Belle said and either she was completely unaware of the way Emma’s spine had snapped into place, a perfect vertical line of bone and cartilage and tension at that single statement, or she simply didn’t care, certain Emma needed to know what was going on in the restaurant three blocks away from her apartment.

Probably the second.

Emma took a deep breath and Belle shot her a look that practically screamed pity, but she didn’t stop talking and, somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind that obnoxious, incessant voice that had tried to get her to stop being so goddamn stupid,  nearly did cartwheels.

She needed to hear it.

She needed to know what had happened.

“It was bad, Emma,” Belle mumbled, the sides of her mouth tilted down. “I was only there once and then Will told me I probably shouldn’t come around anymore and, well, just take my word on it. It wasn’t good at all. I don’t think he even walked into the kitchen once for a week and then he lost on IC.” “Wait, what?” Emma asked sharply. Belle’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second as she took a step back.

“What do you mean, what?” “I mean the story ran almost two weeks ago. And he lost on IC? He’s never lost on IC. Does Regina know? Has he been back on since then? What was the secret ingredient?” Belle nodded slowly, that sad, pitying smile hardly playing fair and Emma wasn’t certain which question she was agreeing to exactly. Emma’s stomach churned at that look, disappointment settling in the bottom of her gut. “Oh,” she said, drawing out two letters into one, vaguely emotion-filled syllable. “Yeah, well, things changed a bit when Robin and Regina got back. They won.” She had to come up with another word. Emma bit back her latest surprised what , mouth hanging open as she tried to comb through the back of her mind for something else to say and Belle just kept staring at her, only taking a step back when she heard a pair of heels walking back towards the middle of the set.

Regina ushered them back towards their stations a muttered time to film shot their direction and Emma could feel Killian’s stare on her back again.

Jeez.

And fuck. Jeez and fuck.

Emma was practically a thesaurus.

Belle’s words echoed in her head. They won. And that meant that her character witness – or statement, a letter typed up quickly two days after the wedding and far later than she’d promised to write it – had worked.

Or maybe they hadn’t actually needed it.

Maybe it hadn’t gotten there in time.

She had no idea.

No one had told her anything. That seemed to be a trend. It was infuriating. Her apron ties were absolutely too tight – Emma couldn’t breathe.

“You alright, Swan?” Killian’s voice was soft and it didn’t help that he hadn’t actually moved stations after Graham got cut, an entire counter in between them as he looked at her questioningly.

“Fine,” she said sharply.

And she knew he didn’t believe her. She didn’t even need the quick eyebrow raise or the way one side of his mouth ticked up at the word, fingers tapping against the top of his brace quickly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pursed his lips, eyes darkening for a moment before nodding deftly and turning back to his station, attention rapt at an instruction-dispensing Jefferson.

Emma didn’t run him over with her cart in the second round and she counted that as some sort of victory. They had to make chicken and dumplings. In forty minutes with ten minutes to shop. Emma groaned as she tried to rack off ingredients, tossing food into her cart with one eye on the giant LED clock they’d hung from the ceiling.

This was a mess of a show.

They’d blocked off one aisle – the one with butter and milk and she was openly groaning now, body falling against the handle of her cart with enough drama that she hoped the camera hadn’t picked up on it. Henry would have made fun of her for it.

Emma heard Killian’s cart come up short behind her, wheels squeaking and he sighed loudly, no doubt also frustrated by the apparent lack of milk and butter and eggs that the blocked off dairy aisle ensured.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, glaring at the yellow tape in front of them like it was some sort of crime scene.

“Part of the show, I guess,” Emma said and she knew her voice sounded as exhausted as she absolutely was. She slept better when he was there.

She was as much of a mess as this show was.

“This show is, quite possibly, the worst thing on television.” The laugh felt unnatural when it fell out of her lips, body shaking slightly with the sound. It was too easy – too easy to fall back into this with him, this natural comfort and ease that had sparked all of it to begin with, let him dry dishes for her and hold her hand and come on her show.

And for whatever kind of mess of emotions Emma was, whatever kind of mess of emotions they both were on this disaster of a show, it still felt easy.

Killian grinned at her. “You think I could just break in?” he asked, nodding towards the single line of tape blocking them off from the dairy. “Grab some buttermilk and no one would be the wiser.” “The cameras might catch you.”

“I think I’d be willing to risk it.” “You wouldn’t win then.”

He didn’t laugh at that and Emma bit her lip tightly, resisting the very strong urge to rock back on her feet or grab her hair or kiss him. There were cameras.

“That’s true,” Killian muttered softly, fingers tugging on the hair behind his ear.

Jefferson called out one minute and Emma’s head fell forward softly, disappointment coursing through her system and, probably, settling on her face. “We should probably get some food,” she said.

“Seems like a fairly good plan.”

Emma nodded once, yanking her cart towards her so quickly it collided with her ankle and the metaphorical pain had turned literal and this show was the, absolute, worst.  She cooked with a kind of focus she hadn’t felt in years, the banter from the first three competitions left to the metaphorical wayside with a station in between them and Belle’s voice ringing in her mind.

Her eyes darted towards Killian more than they should have – curiosity getting the better of her again as she tried to figure out what he was making. Emma gave up on traditional – and that felt like some sort of TV cooking milestone – opting against the usual biscuit recipe stored in the back corner of her classically-trained brain for something that included cornbread and a distinct step out of her comfort zone.

She didn’t, however, count on going up against him in the final round.

That just seemed unfair.

Somehow.

As if the world was somehow going to get fair for Emma Swan.

Mary Margaret had asked about it – muttered words and questions spoken over mugs of hot chocolate and tea respectively and Emma hadn’t come up with an answer for her then, unsure of what she’d do if this situation laid itself at her sneaker-wearing feet.

She didn’t have an answer for it now either.

Killian, for his part, looked as uncomfortable as she did, hand practically glued to the back of his hair, tugging behind his ear as Regina dragged him away again and practically forced a glass of water towards him, making him pull his hand away from his head.

Emma didn’t move an inch – no Belle to talk to this break after Anna had ushered her off set to do her talking head.

She ate her own food again, picking apart the cornbread that the judges had raved over – words like ingenious and a really smart way to get around the aisle obstacle – until it crumbled in between her fingers.

Regina marched Killian back towards his station, still a counters-length and a few feet away from Emma’s, eyeing her pointedly before letting Jefferson hit his scotch-taped mark and fall back into host mode, rattling off instructions with a seemingly never-ending burst of enthusiasm.

“Well,” Emma said pointedly. Killian’s head snapped towards her as Jefferson continued to talk about grocery lists of must-be-used food and no carts allowed and things that hardly seemed as important as the way his eyes furrowed when he looked at her. “Here we are again. Final round and all that.” “And all that,” Killian repeated and maybe it was good that they kept them a counters-length away from each other.  He smiled at her and Emma’s heart pounded traitorously in her chest, beating against the inside of her ribs quickly and forcefully, a quick counter-point to the singular sound of the air horn that announced the final round had started.

This show was the worst.

“Is dessert pizza actually a thing?” Killian asked, stopping short next to her in an aisle chock-full of candy.

“Maybe if you’re five,” she said, grabbing a bag of mini Hershey bars she could probably melt to make some kind of chocolate, not-actually-pizza sauce. “And if you’re willing to wait an hour for a table at Max Brenner’s.” “You still wait for tables, Swan?” he asked, eyes flashing and the smile on his face made it feel as if Emma hadn’t actually ignored a dozen phone calls for the last two weeks. “Let me know when you want to go to Max Brenner’s. I’ll get you a table.” “So confident.” “Something like that.” Emma tugged on the inside of her lip, pushing the bag of candy bars into the crook of her elbow so she could hold more food. “Don’t pile the chocolate on your pizza,” she said, trying to keep the smile on her face as she walked around him.

“Noted, Swan.”

And he was definitely still smiling at her as she all but sprinted back towards the produce aisle, determined to get something that wasn’t prepackaged and air-tight on her final-round offering.

For some reason, this stupid show only let them cook for twenty minutes and Emma was bordering on sweaty mess when Jefferson shouted out time , hair plastered to the back of her neck despite the ponytail it was in, chest moving quickly as she made her way to the judges table.

He was still smiling at her.

And his hand was back behind his ear.

“You seem to have reigned in your chocolate habit,” Emma said softly, hands stuck in her pockets again.

“Yeah, well, someone told me I should reconsider my dessert approach,” Killian said, smirking at her and it sounded like someone sighed from out of frame. It might have been Regina. Or Ruby. Or possibly even Belle.

Emma rubbed her hands on the sides of her jeans, nerves working their way out of every single pore in her body and she didn’t even hear the judge’s comments, voices blending together until they sounded like they were coming from a children’s cartoon – which made a lot of sense considering they’d been ordered to make dessert pizza.

But then she heard her name and Ruby might have actually screeched from out of frame and Emma had, somehow, won.

“Congratulations, love,” Killian said softly – the first time he’d called her that all day and the word settled in the middle of her body like it was a small flame or something equally romantic and ridiculous.

“But you didn’t use chocolate,” Emma argued and his smile widened, rocking towards her, maybe, unconsciously until his fingers brushed over the turn of her elbow, shirt pulling underneath his touch.

“And you still won. Looks like you’re fairly good at cooking.” Emma huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh or the actual, living embodiment of her entire nervous system and Killian’s eyes practically sparkled when he grinned at her. “David will be thrilled,” he added, reaching behind him to yank on apron strings.

“What?” “Your charity? You won the most competitions, Swan. Isn’t that what Zelena said at the very beginning? Ahead of the final cooking thing. You won, love.”

He said the words with a very particular look on his face, eyeing her nervously and emotionally and Emma had absolutely forgotten about that part.

She’d won.

She opened her mouth to say something, ask to try his dessert or tell him something that wasn’t focused on the food or the cooking or anything about grocery shopping, but Regina was by his side in an instant, words low and insistent and Killian’s smile faltered for a moment, an apology written on the corners of his mouth.

And for a moment Emma thought he would argue, would tell Regina to back off, as he took a step towards her, hand reaching out again. “Don’t leave when you’re done,” he said. “Please?”

Emma’s barely-functioning kidneys – still hurting from apron strings and a slew of emotions she should have been better prepared for – seemed to give out in the middle of the set and she wasn’t sure how she managed to nod, let alone mumble a quick yeah , but it must have happened because Killian squeezed her hand and smiled at her before following Regina back towards the studio down the hall.

Emma took a deep breath, shoulders sagging and she couldn’t take this makeup off until she’d filmed her own talking head and she hoped Killian hurried up – and not just because of the makeup. Her eyes snapped up at the sound of heels sprinting across the floor and for one moment of paralyzing-fear Emma thought Regina had come back to actually yell at her and not just glare at her meaningfully across set.

It wasn’t Regina – it was Ruby, a smile plastered on her face and a phone pressed up against to her ear as she practically screamed Emma’s name at her.

“What’s going on?” Emma asked, hands coming up to prevent Ruby from skidding into her.

“I need to talk to you.” “Didn’t we do this before?” “This is different,” Ruby said. “And better.” She rolled her eyes and huffed out a frustrated sigh at the vacant look on Emma’s face, pushing the phone into her hand and nodding impatiently at it. “Talk,”

“Hello?” Emma asked cautiously, leaning against the side of her station.

“Em? Em!”

David’s voice shot through the phone and Emma felt her eyebrows draw low at the sheer panic in his voice. “What’s going on?” she asked, repeating her question again and hoping, this time, someone would answer her. “You’re done filming?” “Yeah, just now. David, tell me what’s going on.” “Mary Margaret went into labor.” Emma nearly dropped the phone. Her right foot skidded against the tiled floor, sneakers making noise as she moved and Ruby smirked at her. “What? When? How?” “Did you just ask me how?” “No, no, I mean, yes, and I know how, shut up.” David laughed and Emma wasn’t positive she’d ever heard her brother so happy – even across the phone and several dozen city blocks. “Get down here. Like as soon as possible.” “Yeah, yeah,” Emma said, muttering almost incoherently. David laughed at her again, a picture of self-assured impending fatherhood. “I’ll grab a cab and I’ll be there soon, ok? Tell her to wait until I’m there, ok?”

“I don’t think that’s how these things work, Em.”

“I absolutely don’t care.” Emma hung up the phone, David still laughing as she hit the end button and handed it back to Ruby. “He knew you wouldn’t have your phone on set,” Ruby said, answering a question Emma hadn’t actually asked. “And Henry’s already there. He called the ambulance from the apartment. That probably won’t scar him for life or anything.” “You’re no help at all,” Emma shot back, yanking the strings of her apron and tossing it on top of her counter. “I need to get out of here.” “I’ve already taken care of that too,” Ruby said, pushing her towards the far door of the studio and Emma almost felt guilty. “Or rather Regina did. She got you a town car that’s waiting downstairs. Hit like two buttons on her phone during judging and it’s, apparently, already there.”

“I thought she hated me.” Ruby rolled her eyes, heel tapping impatiently as the elevator didn’t move fast enough. “I think she got over that when Killian told her to relax in between rounds.” “What?” “Stop saying that.” “It’s because no one will actually tell me anything.” Another set of rolled eyes and a dramatic sigh and Ruby and Emma were on the sidewalk on 6th Ave, a car parked just outside the network offices with a driver already behind the wheel. “Let’s worry about the newborn before we delve into the dark corners of your relationship, yeah?” Ruby asked, yanking the door closed behind her.

Emma nodded, focusing on newborn and relationship and the tiny flash of hope on Killian’s face when he’d asked her to stay.

Oh, shit.