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youare-mysonshine · 4 years ago

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heavy || bucky barnes

Summary: reader’s mental health has been taking a decline and bucky is there.

Requested: No

Pairing: TFATWS Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: talks of mental health, depression, anxiety, angst, cussing.

Word Count: 3.2K

A/N: Hey guys, I’m back I guess lmao. I’ve really been struggling with my mental health lately and I guess I kinda just wanted to put it into words, something productive? And I’ve been feeling our angsty emo boy bucky barnes. Most of you might’ve followed me for my Oscar fics but I kinda wanna branch out and I thought this would be a good time to do so. Anyways, I know that some of you have inboxed me or messaged me and I haven’t responded and I’m sorry. But I just want you all to know that if you’re struggling, I’m always here to talk. About anything, always. So, I hope you enjoy this. I might’ve cried while writing this lmao and I also might’ve ended it on such an awkward place but, i’m still getting used to writing again. (Flashbacks are in italics)

————

Bucky didn’t miss the dark circles under your eyes. He didn’t miss the way you sort of slouched as you approached him. He didn’t miss the way that your smile didn’t really meet your eyes.

“Hey,” You said in a breathless voice. “Sorry, I’m late. I got held up.” You said as you took a seat across from him in the booth. Held up. It was better than telling him that you were thinking of just not showing up at all. In the end, you knew that you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t just blow off your new friend who you had so enjoyed spending time with. So, in a rush, you got dressed and made your way to the small, quiet diner that you two had taken to frequenting together. Bucky Barnes was an enigma if you’d ever met one. The way that you had met was rather.. cliche and something straight from a story.

You had been trying to lay off of the caffeine for a while, realizing that you had nearly gone through an entire packet of 32 k-pods that you had just purchased. You realized that you might’ve had a problem. You had been going pretty strong with staying away from caffeine for the time being, until you passed by a coffee shop and got a whiff of coffee. You just couldn’t help yourself; you bought a cup of coffee. It was when you were walking down the street, holding the cup of coffee in one hand, looking down, that you didn’t see someone walking right in your path. You had collided into what seemed like a solid wall and the impact had caused you to squeeze the cup of coffee in surprise, the warm liquid burning your hand, staining your clothes and the other person. You had realized it was another person you had crashed into when you heard them let out a low cuss.

Bucky’s grumpy self had been fully prepared to tell you off for crashing into him, having just left his therapist’s office, but when you looked up at him with those bright eyes of yours, a million apologies spilling from your lips a mile a minute, he swallowed whatever harsh words had nearly sprung forth. He had apologized as well; both of you had been at fault. Bucky had been going over his session with Dr. Raynor that morning, completely lost in his own mind, and you had your eyes trained on the ground, something that was a bad habit of yours. The shock of realizing you had bumped into a man, a really really handsome man with the brightest blue eyes you had ever seen, had made you temporarily forget that you had practically scorched your hand with the coffee, and that you had gotten it on him as well.

“I’m so, so sorry.” You said once again, quickly averting your eyes from the handsome stranger’s face. Instead you focused on the smushed cup in your hand and the stains on his leather jacket. It just made you feel even terrible. “I, I can pay for you to get your jacket cleaned, if you want. Really. I wasn’t paying attention and I just, for whatever reason, squished my cup and.. I’m sorry.” You said, kind of breathlessly.

“It’s.. it’s alright.” His voice was like the coffee that you had been drinking. Smooth and rich. It was deep, something that reverberated deep in your chest and had your stomach fluttering with butterflies. “I wasn’t paying attention either. Really, it’s fine. And don’t worry about my jacket. No harm, no foul.” He said. “You should, uh, you should take care of that hand. Hope you didn’t burn yourself too bad.” He gestured to your hand, still clutching the cup, with one of his own gloved hands.

“Oh, I’ll be fine. It wasn’t that hot. Thank you, though. And again, I’m really, really sorry.” Sparing one, seemingly, last glance at the handsome stranger, you side stepped him and began to walk away, tossing the empty cup of coffee in a trash can on the sidewalk. But you didn’t get very far because that deep voice called out to you, halting you in your tracks.

“Can I buy you another cup of coffee?” Bucky’s mouth had opened and spoken the words long before his brain could even catch up. He didn’t know why he had asked you that, but something in his gut was just telling him too.

“What?” A look of total bewilderment had crossed your face and he had seen it.

“I just, well I thought that, since I bumped into you, I could make it up to you by buying you a new cup of coffee. If you wanted, I mean. You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or anything.” Bucky clarified, hand stuffed in his pocket, waiting for your answer. For a few seconds, you simply stood there, unsure of what to say because surely this wasn’t happening? The last time that you had gone out with a guy was.. well, shit, you didn’t even remember the last time. The little voice in the back of your head, that anxious, paranoid little voice, was telling you not to go off with a stranger. You’d watched too many episodes of Criminal Minds and other true crime shows and documentaries to know that situations like this never turned out well. However, you didn’t get a bad feeling from this particular man. He seemed just as awkward and slightly frazzled as you felt. So you agreed.

“I’m Bucky, by the way.”

“Y/N.”

That had happened about two months ago. Ever since then, you and Bucky had formed a strong friendship. Your first time getting coffee with him had been awkward, as were the next few times that you had seen one another. But things got easier. Becoming friends was easy. You kind of fell into this routine, almost as if you two had known each other your whole lives. That was why Bucky telling you who he really was had been terrifying for him. He carried around guilt and shame and just contempt for everything he’d done. Everything The Winter Soldier represented, and when he told you, he figured that you would think the same. He had asked you meet him at the diner that had now become your spot and and you remember how he nervously wrung his gloved hands together. You remember when you asked him what was wrong and he didn’t verbally respond but he took off his gloves; the right one first and then the left, revealing a shiny black metal hand, golden lines intricately placed.

He told you then. Maybe he didn’t tell you everything but he told you who he was and he had braced himself for you to get up and storm out. Or, to yell at him and tell him how much of a monster he was. But, it never came. Instead, you reached out and placed your hand on top his. Not his real hand, but the metal one. You didn’t say anything. You just gave him that smile that was quickly becoming his favorite. Sometimes, silence spoke a thousand words. To Bucky, you had become kind of a respite for him. Even in the late nights or mornings when he woke up after a nightmare. Or after a particularly hard session with Dr. Raynor. He had closed himself off from other people except you.

Bucky might not have known it, but he gave you the same level of comfort as you gave him. You found yourself craving his presence. Every time you were around him, you couldn’t help but to smile or laugh. In the time that you spent together, your mind was clear and free from all your worries. It all evaporated into thin air. Your mind, usually so active with all sorts of thoughts and worries, could finally rest when you were with Bucky. You could sleep. You could get up in the morning without that stress and anxiety drowning you. It was okay. It was great.

Until it wasn’t.

“No problem, doll.” He said, gloved hands clasped under the table on his lap. “I already ordered. Got your usual. Hope that was alright.” He added, to which you nodded absentmindedly.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. Thanks Buck.” You said, mustering up a half hearted smile that didn’t reach your eyes. It was like even smiling drained the energy from you. You were exhausted. Not even just physically but mentally and emotionally. You had been having such good days for a while now, since meeting Bucky. You felt like maybe you would finally be alright but.. this feeling of hopelessness, the feeling that nothing was quite right, it was heavy. It weighed you down. It suffocated you. You wanted to be alone, but you also couldn’t stand to be alone because when you were alone, you were just stuck in your head and being in your head was the absolute worst place to be.

The intrusive thoughts had started. They told you that you would do nothing but weigh Bucky down. That he didn’t need someone like you in his life, someone with clear problems of their own, when he was going to therapy trying to better himself. Even if it had been mandatory for him to go. You wanted to push him away, save him from yourself, but you also couldn’t stand the thought of losing him.

Bucky noticed the shift in you. Normally when you two met up, whether it was at the diner or anywhere else, you would usually talk his ear off. Not that he minded, he was content to just sit back and listen to you. Sometimes, you’d tell him about a new book that you had started reading. You had just started reading the fifth Harry Potter book and you were trying to get him to read them. You’d tell him about your day. You’d ask him how his day went, how it went with Dr. Raynor, though you never pushed for more information. You always let him share if he was comfortable with it and he appreciated that. Sometimes you teased him for being such an old man.

The food came soon after you had arrived and sure enough, Bucky had ordered your usual. It sent a pang through your heart when you realized that he had memorized your order, down to the extra syrup and whipped cream on the pancakes. Bucky always liked to make fun of you for ordering the same thing when you came to the diner. No matter what time it was, you always ordered the pancakes with extra syrup and extra whip cream, with the strawberries on the side. Secretly, though he found it adorable.

Today, you had barely even taken more than a few bites and that was what really let Bucky know that something wasn’t right. You kept your head down, eyes on the pancakes and you cut them up, bringing a few up to your mouth and chewing slowly, but you mostly just moved them around your plate with the fork in your hand. Bucky himself had barely taken only a few bites of the food he’d ordered for himself, but it wasn’t for lack of appetite, it was because of the growing concern. His bright blue eyes were now a stormy grey, kind of like the clouds that you see during a heavy storm. His brows were furrowed, giving him an appearance almost as if he were angry.

“You alright, Y/N? You’ve barely eaten your food and normally you finish before I do.” He attempted to joke, to bring about that smile that seemed to always fill him with warmth. He half expected you to look up at him with that cheeky little smile, a mischievous look in your eyes and say “You know, I would be offended by that, but I know why you eat so slow, Buck. I completely understand. You don’t want your dentures to fall out.” But it never came.

You don’t know what it was. Bucky asking you if you were alright or if it was simply all the pressure of just.. everything, finally breaking, but you could feel the hot tears in your eyes. They blurred your vision until you couldn’t really see the plate of the pancakes in focus. The dam had finally come apart and you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You set the fork down and buried your face in your hands, your shoulders lightly shaking as you began to cry. All Bucky could do was stare for a few seconds, alarm written all over his face. Alarm and distress because he had no idea what just happened and if he had done something to upset you.

“Woah woah, hey. Sweetheart, hey. What’s wrong?” In seconds, Bucky was out of his side of the booth and scooting in beside you. You felt the comfort of his warmth, you felt his arm tentatively, almost hesitantly, slide around your shoulders and anchor you to him. You shook your head, attempting to calm down, to stop the tears but the more you tried, the more they seemed to come.

“I-I’m sorry, Bucky.. I.. I’m sorry.. I-I’m fine. Really.” You said, sniffling. It was apparent to you both that you were not alright and he really just wanted to get to the bottom of it. Or at least attempt to comfort you. But doing that in the middle of a diner with other people around wasn’t ideal.

“Hey, my apartment is only a short walk away. Come on, let’s get you out of here and somewhere more quiet.” You didn’t protest. You just nodded and slid out of the booth after he did. Bucky took out his wallet and placed a few bills on the table, paying for the uneaten food, and then quickly led you out of the establishment. He kept his hand on you, almost like an anchor. Whether it was to reassure you or himself, he didn’t know and you didn’t mind either. It was probably the only thing that kept you from retreating inside of your mind and giving in to the panic that so desperately wanted out.

You didn’t even realize that you had reached his apartment until he had led you up the stairs and you were standing behind him as he unlocked the door. He allowed you to step in first and then quickly followed behind you, shutting the door as he did so. You didn’t really get the chance to take in his apartment because he had ushered you to sit on his couch while he knelt in front of you.

“Alright, you’re scarin’ me here, doll. What’s wrong? Did someone hurt you?” The sheer look of concern and slight panic in his face and those pretty eyes of his made the waterworks come back again. You shook your head, your face scrunched up in anguish. Hot bullet tears fell from your eyes and left a wet path in their wake down your cheeks. Bucky wasn’t one to pry; he hated it when people tried to pry into his life and he didn’t do it to you, but he couldn’t stand the sight of seeing you cry. He couldn’t stand the sight of your once bright eyes and cheery smile just.. gone. You eyes were sad and your lips were pulled into a frown. “Talk to me, baby.” He practically pleaded.

“I just.. I don’t.. I don’t know how to explain it, Buck.” You cried. “I-I.. I just feel like..” You let out a frustrated cry when you couldn’t find the right words but Bucky was patient. He reached a hand up, cupping your cheek and wiping away the tears that kept falling. “I don’t feel.. happy. Everyday I wake up and I just, I feel fine for like a few seconds and then everything just comes crashing down on me. I can’t ever stop thinking. I can’t sleep at night. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling like this, Bucky. And I feel fucking crazy. Sometimes I feel like you don’t even really like me. I feel.. hopeless, like nothing is ever going to be okay. I might feel okay for a few seconds but then it just goes away.” You explained, though you were sure that you probably sounded like a raving and ranting lunatic. “Before I met you, I liked being alone but I also hated it because when I was alone, I would just overthink and overthink and overthink about every fucking thing. If it wasn’t one thing it was another just giving me such bad anxiety and.. I don’t know what to do anymore, Bucky. I’m just tired of feeling like this. Feeling like nothing is ever going to be okay, like I’m never going to be okay. I just feel.. alone.”

His heart was well and truly broken. In the two months that he’d known you, he hadn’t known how badly you had struggled with your mental health. He hadn’t known the war that you fought within your mind, and how bad it had become. You were such saving grace for Bucky; you saved him from the wars inside of his mind. The constant feeling of guilt that he fought with on a daily basis, and now.. he just wanted to do the same for you. He wanted to shoulder some of the pain that you carried, the pain that seemed to be weighing you down. Both of his hands now cupped your cheeks so delicately, as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him. His blue eyes were shining, looking at you with not pity, but something like.. understanding. If anyone knew what you were feeling, it was Bucky.

“You’re not alone.” His smooth and rich voice was so soft, so gentle that it brought on a new set of tears. “You’re not alone, sweetheart. Not anymore. You know why? Cause you got me.” He said. “I know what it’s like to feel hopeless. To feel stuck in your head. To feel like nothing is ever gonna get better. I felt like that in Wakanda. Sometimes.. sometimes, we need help. And I know I’m not one to be talking considering that I don’t really like talking to my therapist or even going,” That roused the smallest of smiles from you. “I’m here. You know that, right? I’m here. You got me and I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I don’t care if you have a million bad days. I don’t care if you feel like you’re bothering me. I’ll be there every time.” You two have gradually gravitated close to one another until your foreheads were pressed together. Bucky was still knelt in front of you on the couch, his hands still holding your cheeks. Your eyes were closed and you could feel his warm breath fanning your face. The tears had stopped falling but you were still sniffling softly. “You’ve helped me. Even if you don’t know it. You’ve helped me.” He was whispering. There was no one but you two in his apartment but he was still whispering the words meant for only you to hear. “Now, let me help you. Please.”

“Okay. I trust you, Bucky.”

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fic #james buchanan barnes #sebastian stan #tfatws #mcu #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff

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padfootagain · 4 years ago

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The King And You (XII)

Part 12 : Heaven Sometimes

Hi everyone! I'm back with a new chapter for this fic of mine! I know it's been forever since I updated it (and any fic for that matter) but my mental health is not great rn, so I'm struggling a little to write. Now, that being said, here is a new chapter and I hope you will enjoy it :)

Only fluff for this one! Tooth-rooting fluff all over the place! Enjoy ;)

Pairing: Caspian x Reader

Word Count: 2534

The light was perfect. One of the reasons why you loved your flat was the view from your window, down onto the busy streets and, in the distance, the skyscrapers tickling the sky. And this afternoon more than ever before the light that came in from your window was perfect. Yellowish and yet bright. Charged in dust just enough to create rays falling onto glistening rooftops. The sky still blue was starting to turn orange around the edges, a line along the horizon that became golden.

You let out a satisfied sigh as you mixed the pigments and the oil with a brush, studying the painting you had started a couple of hours before. You still had some work to do, but the shapes were beginning to change into what you wanted to represent, the buildings now for the most part recognizable by anyone who would look by your window.

A record was playing in your living room, an old hippie music filled with soft guitar ballads that breathed of sunshine and spoke of love. Soft, calm, sunny. The music felt like the light bathing the city that afternoon. And from time to time, the soft rhythms were disturbed by shuffling sounds coming from the couch behind you.

Caspian was sitting on your sofa, he was reading one of your books he had picked up from your shelf. But he didn't seem very interested in the story, as he spent most of his afternoon watching you.

The way you moved your pencil across the canvas, and the little frown that settled upon your brow as you focused on your task, the hues staining your fingers and your old t-shirt as you made a mess, the way the light danced across your features and changed the colour of your eyes as time ran by… Yes, his view from the sofa was much more interesting to him than the piece of fiction he had selected from your collection. A dreamy smile brightened his features as he studied you, as if he were in a museum admiring an ancient statue. Not only through your beauty was he reminded of the feeling, but by the peaceful feeling that settled across his chest too. This soft and quiet peace of mind and heart that creeps through anyone who looks at a piece of art and can't look away, wondering whose hands had carved the stone to create them, or bathed the brushes in the right hues. There is a ceremonial, almost holy feeling that hovers over art pieces of that kind, a sort of respect that both draws you in and pushes you away from their world. Caspian felt exactly this way as he stared at you, like he had found the piece that moved him to his bones and yet that was unreachable, a kind of beauty he longed for and echoed through his soul, and yet he would never deserve.

You knew he was staring at you, and had it been anyone else, you would have felt extremely uncomfortable if subjected to such scrutiny, but coming from Caspian, it merely brought warmth to your cheeks.

None of you were talking, hadn't uttered a word since lunch over four hours ago, but none of you were bothered by the silence that filled the room. It was a soft kind of silence, the comfortable one that could only appear in a room filled with people in love. Affection sometimes makes even nothingness beautiful.

A few days had passed since your confession in the park, and a few more remained before you would both travel to London, but the journey ahead of you was for now out of your thoughts. For now, all that mattered to both of you was to spend as much time as you could together. To the excitement and happiness that came along a new relationship slowly coming into blossom was added the knowledge that, no matter how happy the two of you were and how right being together felt, Caspian would soon be gone. Your days together being counted, you didn't want to waste away the time you had left together by worrying. Instead, you chose to live your love for him day by day, you would take whatever the wind would blow your way in the end. For now though, you painted the street you had drawn a thousand times before with a new softness showing in every shade you chose and every stroke of the brush that you applied. Love has a way of making art better, after all.

Caspian seemed to have chosen the same path as you, and had not mentioned again the trip to London, nor what would happen there. You were both locked in a bubble that you knew would explode soon, but protected you for now.

Eventually though, Caspian stood up and walked over to your spot in the room, wrapping his arms around your frame to press your back to his chest. He kissed gently the top of your head, before resting his cheek right above your ear. His gesture made you chuckle, a grin appearing across your lips.

"Do you need something? Or are you just being clingy?" you asked with a playful giggle.

"I guess I am clingy," Caspian admitted with a chuckle of his own that made his chest vibrate against you.

"You're a hopeless romantic, that's not surprising," you teased.

"Maybe I am. Or maybe you are turning me into one. Although, I should point out that so far, you have not protested against this part of me in the slightest, and have rather encouraged it, in fact."

"What are you insinuating? That I'm as sappy as you?"

"I'm afraid so, my love."

You hummed contently, forgetting about the subject of the conversation completely as you settled more comfortably into his embrace.

"I like it when you call me like that."

"My love?"

"Hmmm… yeah, I love it."

Caspian chuckled, kissing your temple.

"Who is being a hopeless romantic now, huh?"

"Oh, shut up!"

Caspian tried to fake outrage, but could only smile instead.

You checked your watch, for the first time in this afternoon, realizing at last that time had been flying by faster than you had realized. You heaved a sigh, but put down your brush.

"I'm gonna prepare dinner, what would you like?" you asked Caspian, who tightened his hold on you as a response.

"Wait for a little longer."

"Aren't you hungry? It's quite late."

"Yes, I am. But… If you move away, it will mean that the afternoon is over and… this moment is too nice to end just yet."

You rested your hand on his over your shoulder, intertwining your fingers with his and drawing silly patterns of stars and circles over his knuckles with your thumb.

"You're right. Five more minutes, then."

You closed your eyes, and were quite certain that you had fallen asleep when Caspian moved away from you, although not without placing one last chaste and tender kiss on the side of your head. He walked over to your shelves filled with books, and seemed to be bruising across your collection. You guessed that the one he had picked earlier really wasn't to his taste, and the thought made you chuckle as you shook tenderly your head at him. You left him to his search for a better story to get lost into in favour of preparing a meal, your stomach now painful with hunger. You were almost done when Caspian came to join you in the kitchen, helping you to set up the table.

"Did you find an interesting book?" you asked as you brought the pasta dish you had prepared to your tiny table.

A mischievous and yet saddened smile appeared on Caspian's lips.

"You can say that," he elusively answered.

He was standing by the table, and by now you were used to having him not sit down before you. Some kind of extra-politeness, you guessed. He pulled the chair for you when you walked to your side of the table, and you thanked him with an amused smile while he was sitting down himself.

"Why so mysterious?" you insisted. "What book did you get?"

"Oh… huh… something about… robots? It's some kind of… machine, that… lives? Very strange but… interesting."

You shook your head at him, surprised that he would be curious about something so different from the world he knew. But then, he kept on surprising you a little more every day.

Caspian glanced at the clock up on your yellow wall, that seemed to glimmer in gold as the sun was setting, ending its course beyond the tall buildings of New York City. He heaved a sigh before speaking again.

"I should go back to Agatha's after diner, it will be quite late already by then."

"Oh… you want to go back there?"

Even if you had spent most of your time together for the past few days, Caspian had always spent the night at Agatha's, and you were fine with that. After all, it had been but a few days since your kiss in Central Park, and a few weeks since the two of you had met. And despite your time together being limited, you didn't want to rush into things either. You wanted to take things slow, wanted to simply enjoy the moments you had with him.

And maybe, despite how abundantly clear Caspian had been, there was a little part of you that still held to the hope that maybe all of this was just a misunderstanding, that perhaps Narnia, despite the odds, wasn't real at all. And then, if that was the case, Caspian wouldn't have to leave.

So you wanted to take things slow, but still, things were going so well with him, and there wasn't any denying that your new boyfriend was extremely attractive. And maybe you were ready to do a little bit more than hugging him and talking with him for hours.

Meanwhile, Caspian stared at you with a puzzled expression.

"Well… I hardly have any other place to stay."

"You… you could… stay here," you hesitantly stuttered.

Caspian considered your offer for a moment. He did want to spend more time with you, but your sofa was really too uncomfortable, and he knew he wouldn't be able to get any sleep if he had to settle there for the night. And that was even without mentioning that the knowledge of having you sleeping down the hall would make it impossible for his mind to calm down enough to succumb to slumber.

He offered you a warm smile, a little teasing, with one end of his mouth turned upright and an amused glimmer shining in his brown, almost black eyes.

"Thank you for your offer. I do have to admit that it is tempting, we would spend more time together this way. But – and I hope you don't take this remark badly – your sofa is way too uncomfortable for me to stay there all night."

He was expecting you to laugh, maybe to shyly get a gulp of your water to hide this divine smile of yours. But you didn't. Instead, you were frowning at him, as if you didn't understand what he meant.

"The sofa? Why would you spend the night on the sofa?"

It was his turn to look at you with puzzled eyes.

"Well… where else would I sleep?"

"I meant… I meant to ask you if you wanted to stay the night… with me…"

It's only by the look in your eyes that he finally understood what you truly meant. And his reaction was to fiercely blush, all the way up to the tip of his ears.

"Oh… I… I…"

"It's okay if you don't want to or… if you're not attracted to me or…"

You let your sentence suspended in mid-air to hover over the room. You were all shy now, closing yourself from him, and Caspian could recognize the signs of your uneasiness. Maybe he wasn't reacting to this the way he should…

"I… I can't…"

He took a deep breath, remembering that you were from another world. And so, he adopted a different attitude.

"Is it normal in your world? To… be this… intimate before… marriage?"

You frowned at him again, but seemed to make the same realization too that, despite the two of you getting along so well and understanding each other to such a degree, you were not from the same world, and your two societies worked differently.

"Yeah, it is… not… for you?" you asked back.

"No. No, it isn't."

"Oh…"

"It… it would be… disrespectful if I…"

"I understand. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

"It's okay. I… I just… I don't know…"

"Caspian, you don't have to justify yourself. I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable."

You seemed to be the one who was uncomfortable then though, and you stood up to clean your plate even if you hadn't finished your dish. Caspian followed suit though, not allowing you to simply drop the subject and flee so easily.

"Y/N… I…"

"It's okay, Caspian. I promise you, it's okay. I just… I guess I feel a little stupid to have offered to take a… a new step when it's not something your people does."

You seemed fragile then, your confidence quite shaken. Caspian heaved a sigh, forcing you to stop cleaning your plate as he took your wet hands in his.

"It is not our way. But I… I want you to know that… I… you are beautiful, Y/N. This is not the problem, here. But I was raised with the idea that being this intimate with a woman one is not married to is disrespectful. And disrespecting you is the last thing I want to do."

You nodded, notably relaxing, and when you looked at him again, there was a spark of mischief shining in your gaze.

"I understand. And I would never want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable or disrespectful to you. But… please, tell me your people don't condemn cuddling, because I love your hugs too much to give up on them."

Caspian let out a laugh, although he was blushing fiercely once more. He pulled you closer to him, capturing you in this brown stare of his you had quickly learnt to recognize like home.

"I cannot say that it would be… accepted without a few rumours and judging glances but… I will happily pay that price. To be honest, I could not resist holding you even if I wanted to."

You giggled in the most adorable of ways, hiding your face in his shoulder.

And as he breathed in the scent of your shampoo, sugary and delicate that reminded him of afternoons spent walking through the gardens, with the air filled with the fragrance of wildflowers, Caspian knew that he wouldn't have any rest tonight. How could he waste any minute he could spend with you?

His back would kill him the next day, but a few hours on your uncomfortable sofa were a small price to pay to have a chance to hold you close.

#Caspian #Caspian X #caspian x reader #king caspian #caspian x you #caspian imagine #caspian fanfiction #caspian fanfic #caspian series #narnia #narnia fanfiction #narnia fanfic #narnia imagine #imagine #series #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

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fiddlepickdouglas · 3 years ago

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Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 13 - Sketch/Ache

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, so close yet so far, 3k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

WARNINGS: death mention

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

October already? Looking at the work schedule posted on the wall, Willie ran a hand through his hair. The time really was just passing him by, huh? Another day over, he grabbed his skateboard and strapped on his helmet.

“Hey, Willie?” His manager, Kyle, called after him before he got through the back door.

“Yeah, man?” Willie turned to answer him.

“This Saturday we need some extra hands while we’ve got a group performing. Could you be there?”

“Totally, man,” he said, smiling with assurance before heading out into the street. Los Angeles was fresher than Vegas, at least for him. He loved the breeze from the ocean that swept in every evening and being near the water in general. There was so much more to do, as well, and he didn’t think he’d ever exhaust that list. Just the number of places to skate was constantly growing, without mentioning the rest. Of course, he had been hoping to do some of them with Alex by now, but that was easier said than done. Sunset Curve didn’t seem to be doing too many shows at the moment, and that was all he really had to track him with.

Stopping at an antiquated apartment building, he headed down a stairway into the basement and burst through the door.

“Guess who’s home!” he cried. Sheldon came pattering over with his ever-cheerful prrrp and rubbed against his leg. Kneeling to pet him, Willie chuckled. “Aww, I’m happy to see you, too.”

He immediately went over to the cat’s bowl and poured some food in, listening to Sheldon purr loudly as he ate his dinner. Willie grabbed some food for himself to snack on as he sat at his desk and looked at the unfinished drawing that had been left there early that morning. He’d begun covering his walls in sketches again, and this time he didn’t have to be afraid of everything being torn away. In fact, Willie couldn’t even believe he had convinced himself that his life was fine when staying with Caleb.

Things had changed entirely. Since his brief adventure out in the desert, Willie was fully independent. He owed most of it to Bessie, still, and he thought of that woman every day. She hadn’t left him any way to contact her, otherwise he’d want to send her a thank you card at least once a week. It even overshadowed the fact that he’d actually ridden in a plane with Harrison Ford.

Willie remembered how incredibly short the flight had been in comparison to the rest of his journey. Bessie had donated an old cat carrier that they strapped into the cabin for Sheldon while Willie joined Harrison in the cockpit. It was nothing like watching the man fly the Millenium Falcon, except that it felt like they had gone into lightspeed and landed not too long after taking off.

“You should be proud,” Harrison had told him. “You didn’t get sick.”

It had taken Willie until after they landed at the Santa Monica Airport to realize that he’d hardly spoken a word because he kept looking at him in pure shock at the reality of the man. His embarrassment must have appeared obvious, because Harrison Ford leaned down to look him in the eye.

“I’ve seen it a million times, don’t worry about it.” There was something sage about the resting expression on his face.

Chuckling in a flustered manner, Willie tried to think of the best way to thank him.

“Well, that was...that was really amazing, Mr., um...Mr. Ford. Thank you.”

The old actor smirked a little. Willie had seen a handful of actors come through the diner in Vegas before (at least, he’d been told they were famous, since he didn’t recognize most of them), and none of them were nearly as friendly.

“Willie, right?” Harrison had asked. It was enough to get him starstruck all over again, but he managed to nod. “Well, since I’ll never see you again, I’ll give you some advice.”

Willie listened intently.

“If you believe something is worth it, don’t quit. From what I already know about you, it doesn’t look like you do, so I have an extra piece of advice for you: planning and preparation is everything.”

Thinking back to when Bessie had scolded him about not riding the bus, Willie cowered inwardly. He couldn’t imagine how stupid he had sounded then.

“Do you know where you’re headed, kid? I can call a cab to take you anywhere you need.”

“How come you’re so nice?” Willie blurted. He hadn’t meant to.

Harrison Ford bowed his head, still smirking, and looked back up.

“I was twice your age before I really got anywhere. Now I’m just an old man who still does the job. Doesn’t mean I’m always nice, but sometimes….” He shrugged and gave him a wink.

Nodding, Willie had thanked him again. Harrison Ford held out a hand, which he shook with great enthusiasm before accepting the offer for the cab and saying goodbye. When he’d asked to go to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the cab driver had looked at him in confusion.

“You do?” the guy asked. Seeing the definitive nod from Willie in the back seat, he just looked resigned. “Okay.”

Shortly after being dropped off, Willie had realized why the cab driver had responded that way. Standing before Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the street was just another place covered in gum, surrounded by people dressed as other celebrities. He saw other people taking pictures with them, and saw that the ones all dressed up were being paid. Some young woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe was doing her best to catch his interest with a flirty pose and a wink. Awkwardly smiling, Willie turned away and went to explore that area of the city. It was a good thing he hadn’t owned a camera then.

Now, he had decided to get a cheap one, just to capture anything he found interesting when he saw it. He’d accumulated a handful of things in the past few months: the basement apartment, a mattress, his writing desk and chair, and his job at the record-store-slash-cafe, among other things. The fridge had already been in the room, which was a nice perk. It was cool enough that the owner of the building had been willing to rent to him even though he was still underage. Working at the record store was much better than both the diner and the hotel, although his hopes of having Alex or his friends chance to stop in were dwindling some.

For now, it was much like before he’d left Vegas, only without Caleb’s dark shadow constantly looming over him and a few more memories restored. And, of course, he could keep Sheldon with him. It was strange how meeting Alex and being at the Pearl already felt like a dream. Willie often had the thought that maybe he should move on and start planning out whatever he wanted now. Maybe Alex had just been the catalyst to get him out of a bad position and help him move forward.

Staring down presently at the drawing on his desk, Willie sighed. Alex’s smiling face (what he could remember of it) beamed up from the page. Sure, he could tell himself to be over it, but was he really? Sheldon began running about the apartment like he was being chased by an invisible foe, creating a distraction from Willie’s thoughts. After a while, he went to bed and lay awake replaying in his mind the last few moments he’d actually seen Alex. It was still so vivid. If it was no longer important, why could he recall it so well?

He watched as Alex stood up and held out a hand toward him. Taking it, he was impressed by the strength with which he was lifted off the surface of the observation deck. His mind returned to earlier that day when the situation had been reversed, and he wondered if Alex had felt the same exhilaration from that moment of closeness. He already missed the feeling of Alex’s fingers through his hair. Gaining his balance, he let go of Alex’s hand and a nervous giggle escaped as a bout of giddiness came over him.

“You alright there?” Alex teased, grinning.

Shaking his head, almost to clear it like an Etch-A-Sketch, Willie grinned back.

“I’m having a good time,” he told him.

The warm smile that spread across Alex’s face and the way his eyes lit up deserved to be captured forever. Willie was sure he could fill a thousand pages of sketches, even if they were all of that one expression.

“Me, too,” Alex said, eyes wandering all over Willie’s face.

Before Willie could blush too hard, he picked up his skateboard.

“I know some shortcuts that’ll get us back to the hotel pretty quickly,” he started, pressing the button for the elevator. He didn’t want to go back so fast, but he had to remember his early work day in the morning. Caleb always had some sort of laundry list on the days he didn’t immediately go in to work at the diner.

“You’ve been a good tour guide so far,” Alex said as they stepped into the elevator.

Casting a wistful look back at the splendid view of Las Vegas, Willie watched the doors shut. Once they got out to the street again, Willie looked up at the hat sitting on Alex’s head. Impulsively, he lifted it up and put it on backwards, grinning at Alex.

“How does it look?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Alex’s jaw hung open for a moment, his nervous smile betraying him.

“It looks good,” he said in a breathless manner. It was such a cute expression, Willie wished he could make it happen again.

Alex was wishing right then that he could keep a picture of Willie with the hat on. He usually didn’t let people just steal it off his head, but when the result was that handsome he wasn’t going to complain. He’d wait until they had reached the hotel to ask for it back.

“So,” Willie started saying. “Back to L.A. in the morning, huh?”

Ah yes, the feeling of being crushed by reality. Alex bowed his head. He wasn’t excited to address it.

“Uh, yeah,” he sighed. “You know, when I got here I was hoping to just get the gig over with and leave, but that...I kind of forgot about that.”

He glanced up at Willie, not sure how much he should go into detail about why he changed his tune.

“But then you met Sheldon and he was the coolest cat ever, right?” Willie teased.

A chuckle of genuine entertainment escaped his throat. Did Willie know how charming he was? Alex wished he knew how to tell him.

“Yep, it was definitely the cat,” he responded. “Although the owner isn’t too bad, either.”

He got a casual shrug in return.

“Well, I know I’m busy, but I could call you,” Willie offered.

Fear pinched everything in Alex’s chest. It almost made him stop in his tracks.

“God, I - ” he started awkwardly, forcing his body to keep moving. “I can’t. I seriously wish I could, but that’s just...not possible.”

He already hated the words the moment they’d been spoken. His parents suspected enough things about him and his activity with the guys in his band, but they would make his reality pure hell if they ever picked up the phone from a guy they’d never met who had shown as much interest in him as Willie. While he felt fine being open just about anywhere else, at home was where he remained most guarded.

Willie was looking at him with slight disappointment.

“That’s too bad, I guess,” he said. “At least I know I won’t be going anywhere for a while, so you know where to find me.”

It was the only consolation they could afford. Alex wanted to make plans right then and there.

“And what would we do if I did find you?” he asked, knowing he was prodding for signs that he wasn’t the only one with hopes. He tried to relax his stride to appear more casual.

“Lots of possibilities,” Willie told him. “I haven’t shown you my favorite museum, or seen you skate - ”

“Just putting it out there,” Alex interrupted, raising a hand. “I cannot skate.”

Willie blew a raspberry. “Maybe not now, man, but you will by the time I’m finished with you.”

The way he wiggled his eyebrows made Alex think of something much different than riding a skateboard. He cleared his throat nervously as he looked up at the street they were on. The hotel was already a block away.

“Whoa, how’d we get here so fast?” he wondered.

“I know my shortcuts,” Willie said proudly.

Unfortunately, he did. Alex wanted more time to figure out a way to see Willie in the future. There had to be a possibility in the future. His long legs could only go so slowly, however, and soon they were stopped outside the hotel doors.

“Are you gonna make it home okay?” Alex asked. “Wherever that is?”

“I’ll be fine,” Willie shrugged plainly. “It’s not too far.”

For a minute, they stood in awkward silence. Alex could feel his entire body burning to make some gesture that left Willie with the right impression. What would be too forward? A hug? A kiss on the cheek? He’d already checked off holding him and running his hand through Willie’s hair, so he wasn’t going to simply send him off with a hand wave or something.

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow before you guys go?” Willie said, smirking optimistically.

“Yeah, maybe,” Alex said, trying to return a smile with the same optimism.

“Oh,” Willie sputtered. He took off the hat and tried to place it back onto Alex’s head properly. It didn’t work, but Alex simply adjusted it into its comfortable backward position. His fingers twitched under the temptation to touch Willie’s hair again.

“One of these days…” he muttered.

“Hm?” Willie perked up curiously.

Oh, no, he’d said it out loud. Damn. There was no way he couldn’t follow up.

“Uh...one of these days I’ll be around here again,” he said, nodding to reassure himself. “I’ll come looking for you.”

Willie could only look up at him and smile.

“I…” Alex began to scratch the back of his neck, but forced his hand down into his pocket. It had to be said. “I definitely like you.”

He watched Willie’s face morph from surprise into a smile, and finally his trademark eyebrow raise.

“So do I,” Willie said, biting his lip.

They both giggled, now that their feelings were out there in the open. It only made Alex ache more to stay. Willie placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You take care, Alex,” he told him.

He nodded. “And you be safe, Willie.”

He got one more glance into those gorgeous brown eyes, longing to toss in a line and anchor himself in them. The dim lights from the street played off of the natural glimmer that was always present.

Feeling Willie’s hand slide off his shoulder and down his arm, Alex could’ve sworn there was a tiny squeeze he received at the end of his fingers before Willie let go and got onto his skateboard. He watched him leave until eventually he was staring out into the darkness all alone. Reluctantly, he headed back up to the hotel room.

Alex was lying awake in his bed, silent tears falling down his cheeks at the bitter memory. His last words to Willie had been powerless to protect him. What sort of sick and twisted universe would let that happen? He knew he had no control over those circumstances, but he still felt that if anyone died in a fire, it should be him. Willie had been too wonderful to deserve it.

Turning to his side, he still hated the sobs that wracked through his whole body months later. Most people would deem it pathetic to hurt this much over someone he’d barely known. It was strange, but it felt almost undeserved, like mourning as he did wasn’t allowed. What about the people that Willie had spent time with every day? How could Alex begin to fathom their pain? To them, his sorrow would appear as empty as if he were crying over Freddie Mercury. This hurt far more than when he’d cried over Freddie.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t tell his family. The guys had been okay at letting Alex have his space, but his parents kept making comments about his sudden upset over everything. They would only see death as something bittersweet, a “better place” to go for people who were doing the right things. Of course he was terrified of death - he wasn’t exactly considered worthy of anything good, by their standards. That only made the loss of Willie that much worse. He hadn’t bothered to explain himself to Abbey. He couldn’t put that emotional burden on her.

Before he could let his mind wander further into the dark, Alex tried to find something else for his brain to put on cycle. Oddly enough, it went back to singing for Julie’s mom at the hospital. The words immediately began to repeat in his mind: we all live in a yellow submarine…. It wasn’t a song that he truly loved, but it was catchy. It was the one Willie had suggested they do. Alex remembered how he’d imagined everyone in that room in their own world together, safe and free from worldly cares. Somewhere full of color and warmth and people could be happy as they were.

That’s all he truly wanted. Maybe he would have that with the band, and maybe he’d get away from his parents and finally be free from all of their pressure, and maybe one day he’d recover and find a guy like Willie again. He wasn’t sure what he really believed just yet, but there had to be something good worth holding onto. If it was just some stupid world where he and his friends lived in a yellow submarine, so be it.

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #fanfic #jatp fanfic #willex #alive au #sunset curve #alex mercer #willie #luke patterson #reggie peters #bobby wilson #julie molina #caleb covington #sheldon the cat #harrison ford #viva las vegas #sketch/ache #fiddlepickdouglas

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kelyon · 4 years ago

Text

Golden Rings 3: A Savior

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Ruby and Granny scramble to make rent before Mr. Gold comes calling.

Read on AO3

Ruby Lucas was going to lose her goddamn mind.

Ever since yesterday when Mrs. Gold had stopped by the diner, Ruby and Granny had been frantically trying to gather up enough cash to make rent before Sunday evening.

It wasn’t like this every month. Most months only had four Sundays, so Granny knew that the last Sunday of the month was rent day and she could have everything ready. They usually had a week that was dedicated just to earning rent money. But this particular October had five Sundays. So when Granny had planned out the spending for this week, she had spent that money on stupid shit like food and the electric bill. She had planned it like it was a regular week. Not the week that rent was due.

The worst part for Ruby was that they had the money! Friday had been a great day for business! Granny had deposited the cash at Storybrooke Savings and Loan on Saturday morning! When they checked the account balance at the ATM, there was more than enough to cover the rent!

But Mr. Gold would only take cash.

And the bank wouldn’t open again until Monday at nine.

And Granny could only take out $300 out of the ATM in a 24-hour period.

So the diner and the bed and breakfast had to net a four-figure profit--in cash--in less than one day in order for them to make rent. Mrs. Gold had made it clear that there was only one alternative if they didn’t have it all when Mr. Gold came for it at 8:15 PM.

And Ruby was damned if she would let that happen.

So it was time to get to work.

Normally, Saturday nights were her one guaranteed night off. Depending on how wild things got on Saturday night, she might need to take Sunday morning off too. But on that night, Ruby pulled a double and hustled like she had never hustled before.

The first thing she did was scrawl OUT OF ORDER on the back of some receipt paper and tape it over the card swiper. The machine was working fine, but it could take up to three business days for the company to deposit the funds from card purchases into their bank account. Ruby didn’t have three business days.

“What do you mean by this?” Albert Spencer said when he came up to the counter to pay for his meal of liver and onions and decaf black coffee. He held up his platinum credit card like it was the world’s tiniest battle axe. “Why can’t I use my card?”

“Sorry!” Ruby lied in her cheerful customer service voice. “We’ve got the guy coming in to fix it on Monday. Right now it’s cash only, but there’s an ATM right across the street.”

“I’m not going across the street!” The old man was so angry it was like she had told him the card machine was at the bottom of a full dumpster. “How dare you not accept my card? I’ve got a fifty thousand dollar limit!”

“But you don’t have ten bucks to pay for dinner?” The words were out of Ruby’s mouth before she could stop them. She was too busy thinking of all the problems in her life that would be solved with just five thousand dollars. Or even five hundred.

Mr. Spencer’s face went purple. “Who is your manager?” he shouted. “I demand to speak to someone with power!”

Then talk to Mr. Gold, Ruby wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, she told Mr. Spencer that the manager and owner of Granny’s Diner was, in fact, Granny, and that she would go get her now.

Granny had been in the kitchen. She was relieving stress by yelling at Tony, and the wait staff, and the food itself when no other target was available. When Ruby told her what was happening out front, she squared her shoulders and marched out for battle.

“What kind of slop house do you think you’re running?” Mr. Spencer spat when she came out front. “Why won’t you accept my credit card? Don’t you want my business?”

“Of course we want your business,” Granny lied. She didn’t shout at Mr. Spencer. But she kept her arms crossed over her chest and stared straight at him. Ruby had seen that look in her eyes every time she had ever been in trouble growing up. “But the machine is broken. I’ve already called the repair man. He can’t come in until Monday. So for the time being, we can only accept cash.”

“This is ridiculous! Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

Granny leaned forward and gave Mr. Spencer a tight smile. If he was steel, she was stone. She wasn’t going to budge.

“Right now we’re living by another motto. ‘Cash is king.’”

Mr. Spencer looked like he wanted to order them beheaded and then burn down the diner as a lesson to anyone else who dared question the authority of him or his platinum credit card. But instead, he just pulled out his wallet, counted out ten one-dollar bills, and dropped them on the counter.

“See if I ever come back to this shithole,” he said very loudly as he left.

“See if you’re ever welcome back,” Granny muttered. She looked around the diner. “Anyone else take offense to our technical difficulties?”

No one else did.

****

That was the night that Ruby perfected the art of up-selling. Sure, you could have a cup of coffee, but wouldn’t a latte just hit the spot? We’ve got pumpkin spice, for a limited time! And avocado! Just a dollar extra! Are you guys celebrating? You should get dessert! No, get separate desserts! None of this “one sundae, two spoons,” nonsense! Live a little!

And it worked. By the end of the night on Saturday, they had almost half of what they needed to pay the rent. It was a record profit for the day before rent day.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was less than half of enough.

So Sunday morning, Ruby dragged herself out of bed to keep the hot streak going. She hissed advice to the other waitresses, and threats to the ones who were slacking. She led by example and smiled, smiled, smiled.

The rush started as soon as the churches let out. The same rich people who had been there for dinner on Saturday night swung by in the afternoon for brunch--except for Albert Spencer. You would think that spending an hour in the presence of God would sweeten people’s attitudes, but no. If anything, they were more demanding and sour on Sunday afternoons. Maybe worship had made them uncomfortably aware of their hypocrisy. Or maybe they just hated squeezing into fancy clothes every week.

According to rumor, Mr. Gold always started his rounds at the Sisters of St. Meissa Convent. Every month, wealthy parishioners came into the diner chatting about how he approached the Mother Superior just as mass was letting out. Mrs. Gold always stayed behind in the Cadillac. Ruby could imagine Mr. Gold in his black suits, parting the seas of the brightly-dressed faithful. His presence would be a reminder to people of what was coming to them, the reckoning that would come due that very day.

Walking up to a church, Mr. Gold probably looked like the devil.

That was why it was only the rich people who came out for brunch on the fourth Sunday of the month. Rich old people got the same cheap meals they always ordered no matter what Ruby suggested. And they tipped badly no matter how much Ruby smiled and laughed at their stupid jokes.

Even worse than the rich old people were the rich young people. Technically, Sean Herman and Hunter Duke and their friends were all the same age as Ruby. She had vivid memories of them all going to Storybrooke High together. But in terms of experience, those kids had stayed in preschool their whole lives. Without asking, the group pushed two tables together and stayed for two hours. They ordered nothing but nachos and sodas and they didn’t tip anything.

Plus, when the housekeeping maid Ashley Boyd saw that Sean was in the diner with another girl, she started crying so hard that Ruby thought she was going to go into labor. It had taken fifteen minutes to calm her down. Fifteen minutes where Ruby had to let another waitress take her tables and her tips.

Somehow, she got through the day. The diner closed at seven and Granny went back to count the register. Ruby stayed out front with the door locked and half the lights off. She told everyone to go home and used her nervous energy to do all the cleaning up herself.

Would they have enough? Was this going to work? Or had Ruby just pushed herself to the limit for no reason? If they didn’t have enough, was there any way that Mr. Gold would work with them? Would he let them have one day to take cash out of the bank? Could he possibly be persuaded to take a check? Or her car?

But as Ruby sprayed glass cleaner on the bakery display case, she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Mrs. Gold had made it very clear what her husband wanted Ruby to offer--something red and sweet.

Herself.

Or at least her body.

“Fuck!” Ruby muttered as she scrubbed at her reflection with a paper towel. The cleaner fumes made her eyes sting and water. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

The dining room was as clean as it was going to get, and Tony had already taken care of the kitchen. It was seven-thirty on Sunday night, and Mr. Gold always came by at eight-fifteen sharp.

Ruby wheeled her bucket of dirty mop water to the utility closet and drained it out. That was all life really was in this stupid town, wasn’t it? Life just made people dirtier and grosser until they weren’t useful anymore and then they went down the drain.

Fuck.

When she got to Granny’s office, piles of cash were lined up on the desk in neat rows. Granny was bent over them, counting out loud.

“Five, ten, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen--”

That was bad. If Granny was counting out fives and ones, they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. When she got to twenty, the counting stopped. Granny straightened up in her chair and let out a long sigh.

“Do we still have quarters?” Ruby asked, trying to be hopeful.

Granny didn’t turn to face her. “I’ve counted it three times,” her voice was as wrung out as a dirty mop. “And every time it comes out the same.”

“We’re millionaires!”

It was a stupid joke, but she was so desperate for them to have the money. She would do anything to put off the inevitable. For just a few more seconds, she wanted to live in a world where she didn’t have to prostitute herself out to her landlord and his wife.

“You worked hard today,” Granny said. “Harder than I’ve ever seen from you. We had to come up with a lot of money in not much time. You--you did good, Ruby. I’m proud of you.”

Granny was not normally one to offer praise. For as long as she could remember, Ruby had never made her proud. If she was saying something nice now, it was only because something very bad was coming.

“But…?” Ruby whispered.

“But,” Granny agreed. “We’re still short. By a hundred and eighty bucks.”

Ruby’s stomach cramped, like she had been punched. She was so stupid. She should have never gotten her hopes up. She had known this was coming. But the hurt still knocked the wind out of her.

“A hundred and eighty dollars?” Ruby repeated weakly. “Is that all?”

Granny spun around in her office chair to glare at her. “Is that all? Do you have that much squirreled away somewhere? Because I sure as hell don��t!”

“No.” She shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I don’t have anything.”

She looked away from her grandmother. Without consulting her brain, her legs began to move through the kitchen from the diner to the bed and breakfast. She didn’t know where she wanted to go. All she knew was that she had to move. Some deep and primal instinct howled for her to run.

But she had nowhere to go.

A hundred and eighty bucks! The amount was the final twist of the knife. They were so close! Compared to how much money there was in the world, it was almost nothing! A hundred and eight bucks. Mrs. Gold probably spent that much going to the hair salon! Mr. Gold probably spent that much on a tie!

It was almost nothing.

But it was something they didn’t have.

So it was everything.

Ruby bolted through the kitchen into the other building that housed the bed and breakfast. She paced around the empty lobby, going in circles until she felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage. She was sure as hell ready to bite and claw and howl.

“It’s not fair!” She heard the tears in her voice when she spoke out loud. “We worked so hard! And we’re so close!”

Granny had followed her. She stood in the doorway to the lobby, looking at Ruby and wringing her hands.

“We could ask somebody?” Ruby tried. “It really isn’t that much money. Just twenty dollars from nine people. Or ten from eighteen! Don’t you have friends, Granny? Can one of them help us out, just until the bank opens?”

Granny took off her glasses and let them fall from the chain around her neck. “This afternoon I called everyone I knew. What we’ve got here--” she patted her sweater pocket where she had a wad of cash wrapped in a rubber band-- “is with all the help I was able to get.”

Ruby looked at her in disbelief.

“Don’t forget, everyone we know who’ll lend us money also has rent due today. But they dug in, and they did the best they could--”

“And it wasn’t enough,” Ruby finished, so quietly she could barely hear herself. “And the best we could do wasn’t enough. Nothing is enough. No one in this town can do anything, can they? I’m so fucked.”

She slumped against the front desk and covered her face with her hands. After a minute, she felt Granny’s hands on her shoulders. She was holding her, hugging her, giving her affection that Ruby hadn’t felt in as long as she could remember.

“It’ll be okay,” Granny assured her. “We’ve been in this spot before and we’ve pulled through.”

“Yeah, remember when he wanted your jewelry?” Ruby was trembling. “And the time before that, it was that old wolf doll from when Mom was a kid. He took those things, and now we don’t have them anymore. Think, Granny, what else do we have? What else would a man like that want?”

It only now occurred to her that she hadn’t told Granny about Mrs. Gold’s visit. Not about the specifics, anyway. But she must have seen the truth from the look in Ruby’s eyes. She could put the pieces together without Ruby ever having to say the words.

“Oh, sweetie,” Granny breathed. “Oh, Ruby Red, you’re not going to--”

“What choice do we have?” She backed away from her grandmother, wouldn’t look at her. If she thought about what she was doing, if she confronted this reality and then had to look into the face of love that she so rarely saw--she would scream.

Granny sighed and let her go. “At least it won’t be too bad for you.”

Ruby blinked. “What?” She turned her head sharply to the old woman. “What did you just say?”

Instead of backing down, Granny stood her ground. The moment of sweetness between them had passed, and all their old resentments were coming back to the surface. “Well it’s not exactly like you’re saving yourself for marriage. I know you’ve been around the block--been around every block in Storybrooke from what I hear.”

Her mouth dropped. For the second time in ten minutes, Ruby felt like she’d been physically attacked by something Granny said. But this wasn’t a punch in the stomach, it was a slap in the face! It was an insult. From her own goddamned grandmother!

“Is that what you really think of me?” Ruby whispered.

Face going red, Granny tightened her fists. “I think if this was a normal Sunday, you wouldn’t have woken up in your own bed--or at least not alone.”

Ruby opened her mouth, but no words came out. “So--so what, does that make me a hooker to you? Do you think I deserve for this to happen? You think because I’m such a slut I’ll be able to just fly through the act of selling my body for money?

“Ruby…” Granny tried to come closer, but Ruby just backed away.

“Don’t act like I’m the unreasonable one here! Yeah, I go out on Saturday nights. Yeah, I like to have a good time. Yeah, Granny, I like to have sex!” She hissed the word, like it was just as dirty as Granny seemed to think it was. “But that doesn’t mean I’m for fucking sale!”

“I don’t think--”

“You think I’m just like her, don’t you? You don’t think I’m any better than Mrs. Gold!”

“Well you certainly don’t look any different!” Granny snapped, clearly done trying to make things better. “Maybe that’s why Mr. Gold thinks he can treat you the same as her. Because you do dress like a hooker, Ruby. And before today, I wouldn’t have said you were much of a waitress.”

Ruby slammed her hand down on the counter. “I’ve worked my ass off my whole life for you! You’re the one that doesn’t know how to run a business!”

“What would you know about anything that isn’t boys and beer?”

“I know enough to know that a hotel in New England isn’t supposed to be empty on every weekend of fall! And I know that there are five Sundays this month, Granny. If you knew that, I wouldn’t be about to put myself up for rent just to save your shithole of an existence!”

“Don’t act like I asked you for any of this, young lady! You are free to sleep your way up and down the eastern seaboard whenever you--

“Hello?”

A new voice entered into the conversation. Ruby and Granny both looked at the door. There was a woman. She was blonde and pretty, but tough-looking. Her red leather jacket was amazing. She lingered in the entrance of the lobby, unsure of what was going on.

“Is… this place open? The bed and breakfast?”

“We sure are!” Granny recovered more quickly than Ruby could. She put on a smile and pulled out the hotel sign-in book from under the counter. There was a thin layer of dust on the cover, and Granny wiped it away with her sleeve before she opened it up to the woman. “How long will you be staying with us?”

“Just a week, I think,” the woman said. “That should be enough time for me to figure some things out. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“That sounds great,” Granny kept smiling. “Now, we have a forest view or a square view. Normally there’s an upcharge for the square view, but we can waive that--”

“If you pay in cash!” During the course of their conversation, Ruby had done some quick and desperate math. “It’ll be two hundred dollars, right?” She looked at Granny. “To stay for a week in the smallest room, that’s two hundred. But we can give you the best room in the house for the same price. If you pay up front. In cash.”

The woman looked skeptical of the bargain, but willing to go along. “Sure,” she said. She put her wallet back in her jacket pocket and reached down to her combat boots to pull out a wad of bills. “Two hundred, you said?”

“Yes!” Ruby squealed and reached out to take the cash. The precious cash--twenty whole dollars more than what they needed!

With a wordless look, Granny handed Ruby the roll of bills. Smiling more than she had in her entire life, she took out twenty dollars’ worth of measly fives and ones and added the blonde woman’s twenties to the roll. The twang and snap of the rubber band were the most satisfying noises she had ever heard.

Granny took up a pen and held it over the register book. “So what’s the name?”

“Swan,” the woman said. “Emma Swan.”

“Emma.” It was a man’s voice, deceptively soft and friendly-sounding. Mr. Gold walked into the lobby. “What a lovely name.”

Ruby glanced at the grandfather clock. It was 8:15. He was right on time.

But he was also too late.

Ruby slammed the roll of cash onto the counter. “It’s all here.” You son of a bitch.

If Mr. Gold was disappointed or angry that he wasn’t going to get his “something sweet,” it didn’t show on his face. There was something weird about him right now. His expression wasn’t sharp and calculating. He didn’t look like he was on the hunt for souls to buy. He looked at Ruby as he took the money, but he didn’t seem to see her at all.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” he said distantly. He turned his eyes back to the blonde woman. “You enjoy your stay--Emma.”

The woman, Emma, gave him a pleasantly blank look. The kind of look women all over the world give to men who seem too interested in their lives. “Thanks.”

And then, as quietly as he had come in, Mr. Gold walked out. Poverty and desperation passed them by for another month.

When the front door closed behind him, Ruby burst out laughing. She had never felt so light. Emma Swan was the first guest the bed in breakfast had seen in as long as Ruby could remember and right now she was the most important person in the world.

“Oh my God!” Ruby had been smiling all day, but now she meant it. “Thank you for paying in cash! You do not know how much you saved my ass!”

Literally.

Emma kept up the same cautious-but-amused half smile she had given to Mr. Gold. “Who was that guy, the local mafia heavy?”

“Mr. Gold is the landlord for just about every place in town,” Granny said as she wrote down Emma’s information.

“Including here, huh? Must be some kind of hardass.”

“You have no idea!” Ruby was still giddy with relief.

“Anyway.” Granny pulled out one of the keys from the wall and handed it to Emma Swan. “Welcome to Storybrooke.”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle fanfiction #ouat

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biillyhargroves · 5 years ago

Note

Sick!Steve PLEASE! As much as I love me some mom!Steve I'd love to see Billy take care of Steve. Like Steve dealing with some PTSD or something?

I know that this didn’t quite get into sick!fic terrority but the PTSD and hurt/comfort elements are still there and I can always expand it into something a little closer to sick!fic if you would want that!!! I hope you enjoy!!

when you think with your chest (there’s not a thing that you don't see)(fic requests open)

A flash- like a lightning bolt, a clap of thunder; some great cosmic force flips a switch that throws the clock back and shoves Steve tumbling backwards in time. He can smell the smoke from the fireworks, can hear them pop against the ceiling, spark and fizzle on the floor. He can taste the copper tang of blood in his mouth. Sometimes, he sees a shadow moving along the wall and he swears it is a demogorgon crawling on the other side. He can never take his eyes away, sure that it would soon push its way through. Once, he even took a kitchen knife to the drywall, an incident that he is still trying to cover up because he is not quite sure how to explain the huge gash to his mother.

The squeal of bus tires becomes the snarl of a demodog. He jumps when car doors slam. He plays defense every waking hour of his days, always on edge, always alert. On his worst days, his back aches from the tension wound tight across his shoulders.

Today is one such day. Steve’s heart is pounding and he cannot calm it. His body feels like he has run two back-to-back marathons after a line of basketball scrimmages, when in reality he has not done more than walk from the house to the car to the table at the back of Mel’s Diner. Billy sits across from him, and he is staring at Steve. He won’t stop fucking staring.

“Would you fucking stop?” Steve says, and Billy’s eyes widen- not in anger, not even looking hurt. If anything, he looks concerned, and somehow this upsets Steve even more.

“What the hell am I doing?” Billy asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“You know what you’re doing,” Steve says flatly.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Billy asks, and Steve groans.

“Where the fuck did you pull that phrase?” he says. “You sound like a fucking dad.”

"Untwist your fucking panties, man,” Billy says. “You’re making a scene.”

Steve cannot look at Billy too long. He glances over Billy’s shoulder to see the door every time it swings it open. He flinches at every little clank of silverware, every shout from the waitstaff, every call from the cooks. Billy notices, but where, on other days, his eyes followed Steve’s, trailed to whatever was demanding Steve’s attention, today his attention is zeroed in on Steve. Steve feels like he’s under a microscope. He tries to shrink himself down, to make his movements minute, to do anything that might draw Billy’s focus away from him.

It doesn’t work. Billy is, after all, not an idiot. He knows what Steve is doing, even if he hasn't quite pinned down the why. Steve thinks that this is what he is truly trying to deduce, and he doesn’t know if he wants Billy to find the answer.

“You’re still doing it,” he snaps, and Billy rises to his feet.

“That’s it,” he says.

“What’s it?” Steve asks. Billy’s hand closes around his bicep and he pulls Steve to his feet and shoves him not so gently toward the door. “What the fuck?” Steve says. A couple- two underclassmen Steve vaguely recognizes from Hawkins High -at a table near them turns, and when their eyes spot Billy and Steve, they turn quickly away. Billy nudges Steve forward and as they move away Steve can hear the two teens whispering to each other. He thinks he catches his name, but he isn’t quite sure, and before he knows it he is outside being guided toward his own waiting BMW.

“Who’s making a scene now?” Steve grumbles.

“Keys,” Billy demands, opening his palm.

“We didn’t even eat yet,” Steve says.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you starve,” Billy says. Then he raises his waiting hand. “Keys.”

“I can drive my own fucking car,” Steve grumbles.

“You don’t know where we’re going,” Billy declares, and again he says, “Keys.”

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Steve asks.

“I’m not playing,” Billy says sternly. “Keys. Now.”

Steve relents, but he is not happy about it. He fishes in his pocket and tosses his keys to Billy. When they get into the car, Billy rolls down all the windows. He tunes the radio to his favorite station and turns the volume up as high as it can go.

“You’re gonna blow my speakers,” Steve complains.

“Shut up,” Billy says. He peels out of the diner parking lot with the music blaring. Steve is sure that every single person they pass can hear the closing bars of The Four Horsemen as Billy powers down the street and makes a series of sharp, calculated turns. He drives through town and, when he hits the highway, Steve finds himself nervous.

“Are you going to fucking kill me?” Steve shouts over the music and the wind that gets louder through the open windows at Billy hastens the car’s pace. Steve glances at the odometer and watches as the little needle bounces higher and higher with every mile marker they pass.

“Not yet,” Billy says. He is drumming one palm against the steering wheel in perfect beat with the music. Steve watches every strike, finds himself drawn to it, even counts each slap of Billy’s palm against the wheel. One, two, three, four- in quick succession, then two slower claps before the pattern repeats. When the songs change, so does Billy’s drumming, and Steve is fascinated by the easy way he picks up the nuances of each new song. Eventually, he turns toward the windshield, still listening to that steady drumming through the rush of wind and the throb of the bass.

“Where are we going?” Steve eventually asks, but Billy either does not hear him or chooses not to. When Steve looks at him, Billy has one arm out the window and mouthing the words to Looks That Kill. “Hey,” Steve shouts, and Billy glances briefly at him. “Where are we going?”

Without answering- or perhaps this is his answer -Billy takes the next exit. Steve did not get a chance to read the sign before it blew past them in a blur of brown and white. Billy finally eases up on the gas. Steve doesn’t quite recognize where they are, but Billy seems to know his way. He glides across lanes of thinning traffic, turns down dirt roads that don’t really look like roads, and eventually parks on a strip of worn down grass. When he kills the ignition, the sudden silence almost hurts. It rings in Steve’s ears and, when Steve speaks, he still finds himself yelling as if competing with the music that is now gone.

“You are going to kill me,” he says, “aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” Billy says. He swings open the door and slams it behind him. He starts walking without looking to see if Steve is following. Steve thinks that this means he’s supposed to follow, so he lets himself out and does just that.

“Where the hell are we?” he asks. Billy does not answer. He leads Steve down a short dirt trail lined with trees. They walk for barely a minute before the trail empties out onto what Steve thinks must be the smallest beach in existence. Its shore is thin, the sand coarse and rocky, and the water fills up a lake so small that Steve thinks he could wade to the other side. Billy walks onto that small beach, moving down the shore like he’s done this a thousand times before (and, for all Steve knows, he has). He is looking at the ground as he walks, and Steve looks down, too, though he isn’t quite sure what they’re looking for. Eventually, Billy seems to find it. He plucks something off the ground and tosses it in his hand, then winds up his arm with the practiced technique of a major league pitcher and chucks the small rock at the water. It hops over the surface one, two, three times before sinking.

“That was shit,” Billy says, already kicking up some sand in search of a new rock.

“Why’d we come out here?” Steve asks. “There are lakes in Hawkins.”

“They’re all always crowded,” Billy says. “This is better.”

“Better for what?” Steve asks.

“To get away,” Billy shrugs. Steve looks at him. Billy meets his eyes and Steve finds something like compassion there, something like understanding, something like a question. “I don’t know what’s going on up there,” Billy says, pointing at Steve’s head, “but I can see the wheels turning. I know when you’ve got shit on your mind,”

“I don’t really want to-” Steve starts, and Billy shakes his head.

“You don’t have to talk,” Billy says. “But you weren’t thinking about it since the diner, were you?” he asks, and know there is something knowing in his eyes, and it almost makes Steve smile.

“Uh,” he says. “No,” he admits. “Now that you mention it.”

“You can pick the music next time,” Billy says. “I just went default, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks.

“Nightmares?” Billy says. When Steve creases his brow, Billy points just below his eyes, where dark circles that rival Steve’s own sit like fading bruises. “Flashbacks,” he says. At Steve’s confusion, he shrugs his shoulders. “Like I said, I don’t know what’s going on for you, but living in your head isn’t gonna do shit.”

“You sound like a Star Wars character,” Steve says.

“I’m going to have to ask you never to say that again,” Billy says, feigning anger. He then takes another rock from the ground and hands it to Steve. “Skip it,” he tells him. “Focus on the water like you focused on the music.”

Steve takes the rock. He turns it over between his fingers, then glances up the water. After a few seconds, he looks at Billy.

“I still don’t get what this is all about,” he says.

“You’re not focusing,” Billy tells. Steve exhales. He looks back to the water. He raises his arm, flicks his wrist, sends the rock skipping once, twice, three times before it drops to the bottom with a soft plunk.

“Where’d you learn this?” Steve asks. “This, like, focusing bullshit?”

“Honestly?” Billy asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Honestly.”

“Max,” Billy says. “Some shit her dad used to do with her, apparently. She and I started coming down here a few months ago. With all the shit after...well, you know. I guess I was stir crazy. I guess she saw. We’d go on drives. Found this place.”

Steve is only half listening. Billy had been cooped up since Starcourt, this he knows. He had visited him at Hawkins Lab and he had snuck in through Billy’s bedroom window at home. He had been with him, but he hadn’t noticed how cabin fever had made Billy so restless. He was too busy looking for monsters in the shadows, too distracted by the burnt smell of gunpowder he swears he can’t wash off his hands. He feels guilty.

Billy’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk,” Billy says. “But if shit gets too heavy to carry, just tell me you want to go to the beach. Okay?”

The sincerity in Billy’s voice, on his face, settled in the very depths of his eyes, is unlike anything Steve has ever seen in him before. Billy squeezes Steve’s shoulder and Steve thinks he might melt at the touch. Again, he sighs. “Okay.” They are quiet for a time. As promised, they do not talk. They skip rocks. They make it a competition; Billy wins, though Steve chalks this up to experience. The sun begins to sit and they quit their game, instead sitting together the sand. Steve leans against Billy. Billy secures on arm around Steve’s back. Steve rests his head on Billy’s shoulder.

Eventually, Steve asks, “What if I want to talk?”

“What?” Billy asks.

“About...everything,” Steve says. “What if I want to?”

“You can,” Billy says.

“Not now,” Steve clarifies.

“That’s fine,” Billy says.

“But maybe later,” Steve says.

“No pressure,” Billy assures.

“I will want to,” says Steve.

“I’ll be here,” Billy says.

“Promise?” Steve asks. Instead of speaking right away, Billy squeezes Steve’s shoulder. He tugs Steve a little bit closer and Steve lets him. He feels Billy press a kiss to the top of his head and, if possible, Steve curls up even closer to him.

As the sun takes its bow and the sky grows deeply dark, Billy says, “I promise”

#harringrove #harringrove fic #harringrove fanfic #harringrove fanfiction #lex writes fics #anon #answered

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nothingeverlost · 4 years ago

Text

Henry Gold (10/?)

Summary: Regina asked for Gold’s help in procuring a child, but when he held the wee boy in his arms he couldn’t give the child up. Ten years later it’s Henry Gold who arrives in Boston, looking for Emma.

This chapter: A thief, punishment, ice cream, and a story of tragic love. AKA The Skin Deep chapter.

It’s a monster at almost 11,000 words.

TW for mentions of suicide and for violence.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3/ Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9

Gold was not the most popular person in town. It had taken Emma less than a day to see that. With few exceptions people seemed to avoid him unless they had dealings with him. It was strange, really, how many people in town seemed to have dealings with a pawnbroker. Those that interacted with him willingly seemed to do so for Henry. After a couple of months in town she still wasn’t sure there was anyone she’d call Gold’s friend. He’d visited someone named Jefferson a few times, but Emma hadn’t met him yet.

She wasn’t used to seeing people yell at Gold, though. She was on her way to the diner when she saw him crossing the street, a red-faced angry man shouting out that Gold was ‘the lowest’ and wasn’t going to get away with it. Emma hadn’t noticed him before but she’d hardly met everyone in town.

“Isn’t that Dove driving away in the florist van?” Emma jogged to catch up with him. She’d met Dove a few times, and knew that he worked for Gold in some capacity. Henry had a wooden unicorn in his room he said Dove had made for him.

“It’s being repossessed. French is months behind in his payments.” Gold ignored the man still shouting. Ignored the mayor walking their direction as well, ducking into the shop the moment he had the door opened. Emma followed.

“You lent him money?” There was a bank in town. She knew that because her paychecks were direct deposited. Filling out the paperwork had been the first time she’d used Gold’s address as her home.

“I run a pawn shop, Emma. I lend money to a great many people. French is simply one of them.” Gold’s hands tightened a little when he said French’s name. It was a small thing, but Emma noticed it out of the corner of her eye. Money didn’t seem to phase him; she doubted he was bothered by a default on a loan. French meant something to him.

“What are you going to do with the van? It’s not exactly going to fit in one of the window displays.”

“I’ll figure something out,” he said with a shrug. “However if you know anyone that is in need of roses let me know. I apparently have acquired a few.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She wasn’t about to tell Mary Margaret. She might get ideas, and David getting flowers delivered would not go over well at home. “I’m going to get a coffee across the street. Can I get you anything?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine. I’ll see you this evening.” Without another word he vanished through the curtain to his office. Emma left him alone, crossing the street to Granny’s. She was unsurprised to find that David and Mary Margaret were in tables right next to each other.

“Hey David, did you find a home for the kittens yet?” After the storm Graham had found three abandoned kittens and after ascertaining that their mother wasn’t coming back he’d taken them to a shelter.

“Believe it or not a woman with triplet daughters came in yesterday and adopted them. They’re going to be a birthday surprise.” David’s grin was enthusiastic; it was impossible not to smile back at him. Mary Margaret kept smiling at him until Emma coughed to get her attention.

“Good morning.”

“Morning Emma.” Mary Margaret had barely greeted her when Ruby brought over her coffee. She put in her order of two muffins to go.

“I’m still getting to know everyone around here. Do you by chance know anyone named French?” Emma made sure to make it sound like a casual query.

“The florist’s name is Moe French. I don’t think there’s anyone else in town with the name. His place is over on Franklin.”

“He doesn’t have any family?” It seemed kind of sad, to sell flowers to other people and have no one to bring them home to.

“I don’t remember hearing anything about a family. He’s from Australia, so maybe he still has some back there?” Mary Margaret’s attention wavered. “Ashley is here with the baby. She looks exhausted.”

Emma looked over her shoulder; she hadn’t seen Ashley since the hospital. Sure enough it was her, pushing a stroller. If anyone had ever needed coffee it was her. Could you drink coffee when you were breastfeeding? Was Ashley the type to breastfeed? Emma didn’t have a clue. She’d only had milk for a couple of days before it had thankfully dried up. “Hey Ashley, how’s it going?”

“I don’t know. The baby’s great, I love her so much, but between Sean working doubles and the baby not sleeping I haven’t had a break since I got home from the hospital. We haven’t even had time to talk about our relationship. He said he wants to get married but we haven’t had time to plan anything.” Ashley collapsed into the chair David had just vacated. “I had to get out of the house. I don’t even know if I’m hungry.”

“You need a night out.” Ruby apparently didn’t have any questions about if Ashley was drinking coffee. She brought over a mug and put it in front of the blond. “Leave the baby with Sean and we can have drinks. Mary Margaret you could use a girls-only night, couldn’t you? And Emma, you should totally come too. Leave the badge at home, though.”

“Yeah, sure.” It wouldn’t hurt to get to know people better. It would be nice for Gold and Henry to have some time on their own too. They didn’t need her in their space all the time.

“Where should we…” The ringing of her phone interrupted her question. Since it was Graham she answered. “Hey.”

“I just got a call from a woman named Kravitz about a disturbance next door to her. She heard loud noises and the front door was left open. Emma, it’s Gold’s house.”

“Crap. I’ll go check on it. I’ll call and let you know what’s up.” She shoved her phone into her pocket and pushed away from the table. The coffee was too hot for a quick gulp before she left. She was going to miss the caffeine.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Sorry, work.” She ran out of the diner, hoping that when she got to Gold’s house it was nothing more than a prank or someone’s overactive imagination. It helped a little, knowing that Henry was already on his way to school and Gold was at work. But only a little.

Someone had broken into his home. More importantly someone had broken into his son’s home, the place where Henry should be completely safe. The door was ajar, just as his usually annoying but sometimes handy neighbor had informed him. As he stepped inside he withdrew the gun he’d brought with him from the shop; he wasn’t taking any chances that someone was still around. The first damage he saw as he rounded a corner was the smashed glass over a picture of himself and Henry from last Christmas. Tables were overturned, things missing, but it was the empty display case that told him everything he needed to know.

Moe French was going to suffer.

When he heard a sound he turned, gun raised, and found himself facing Emma.

“You have a gun?” she asked, staring at him.

“As do you.” He lowered his, slipping it back into the pocket of his coat after confirming the safety was on. “I assure you it’s registered. I keep it at the shop.”

“What happened here?” She lowered her own, but kept it in hand as she took in the destruction around them. “Son of a bitch.”

“It appears we’ve been robbed. I haven’t gotten any farther in the house. If you wouldn’t mind checking upstairs I’d appreciate it. The sooner you do whatever you have to do legally the sooner we can get this cleaned up. I’d rather Henry didn’t have to see it.” He looked at the smashed photo and tightened his hand into a fist. Bastard.

“Do you know who might have done this?” Emma asked as she walked around broken glass.

“I haven’t a clue,” he lied. If Emma was focused on the case she’d be less likely to get in his way. He was going to take care of Moe French on his own. They had things to settle between them, things that had already waited far too long. Decades too long.

“This morning with Mr. French…”

“He’s a florist and it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. What would he have to gain from this? If he were to steal anything it would make the most sense to try and reclaim his van, not a few trinkets from my home.” They were, of course, more than trinkets. Not including the sentimental value of what was stolen, the antiques from this world and another were worth thousands. Emma was too clever for his own good. At least she would have no reason to suspect that Moe’s actions were aided by Regina. He could see her fingerprints over the whole thing. Only she knew his history and could possibly know the importance of one single teacup.

“I’ll check the rest of the house and then we can head for the station. I need you to file a report so we know exactly what we’re looking for.”

“Emma.” He stopped her before she headed for the stairs. “Unless it’s necessary I’d rather Henry didn’t know. There’s no reason for him to worry.”

“As long as this looks like it’s a one time only thing I won’t say a word,” she promised.

“It won’t be repeated,” Gold muttered under his breath. It was a promise too.

“I know Gold said there’s no point looking at Moe French, but I think we have to look at him. He sounded pretty angry this morning when Gold repossessed his van. Is there anyone else you know that might have a reason not just to steal, but to trash the place?” Fortunately the thief didn’t have the time or the desire to go upstairs, and the bedrooms were untouched. It seemed odd to her that most of the house was untouched, not that she was complaining. There wouldn’t be much to clean up and if they were lucky Henry wouldn’t have to deal with the worry and fear of knowing someone had broken into the house.

“Regina hates him, but she’s not into larceny as far as I know. Most people around here aren’t stupid enough to try something like this, especially considering he’s the landlord for half the town.”

“So what do we know about Moe French? Is he…” Emma froze when she reached her desk and found a bouquet of wildflowers in a vase. Next to the flowers was a donut, chocolate glazed but covered in red and pink sprinkles.

“I know roses are more traditional but I’ve never been one for cultivated flowers and we’re not exactly traditional so far. I didn’t know we’d have a case when I put them there, and I thought about moving them considering but even if we can’t do dinner tomorrow I wanted you to have flowers today.”

“Dinner?” Emma was still stuck on the fact that he’d gotten her flowers. From the looks of them he’d probably gone out and picked them himself.

“I thought we could try this thing I’ve heard of, they call it a date. Sometimes it involves this thing called dinner. It might even include this other thing called kissing.” He wasn’t quite laughing but she could see it was close to happening.

“You’re such a dork.” Emma laughed because it was the easiest reaction. Though they’d been taking things slow for more than one reason, Emma had expected a date at some point in the not too distant future. When she hadn’t expected was Valentine’s Day. No matter how much she told herself it was a day like any other it meant something. She’d never had a date on Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t a day you picked for a casual thing, and that’s all she’d had except for Neal. They hadn’t been together in February; they met in the spring and by the following year she was pregnant and alone.

“It doesn’t have to be tomorrow.” Graham was too damn observant and she’d been quiet for longer than she’d meant. His hand on her cheek was warm; it wasn’t at all the way a sheriff should be touching his deputy but they were way past professional boundaries. “We can have dinner another time instead.”

“No.” Emma shook her head. This was Storybrooke, a place for new beginnings. “I have the perfect dress for dinner on Valentine’s Day. It’s red, sexy, and way easier to wear when I don’t have to worry about chasing someone in heels.”

“I promise I have no plans to run anywhere.” His thumb grazed the corner of her mouth before he pulled away. “I do, however, have a lot of incentive to find stolen property today so it’s wrapped up before tomorrow. Why don’t we start with French’s flower shop?”

“Okay, but I’m not buying you any roses.”

Emma frowned at the loot laid out on one of the spare desks in the office. She should be feeling better; she wasn’t even at the end of her shift and she had Gold’s stolen property back. It certainly looked like his stuff; little statues she might call paperweights that were probably worth more than her car, a stack of plates and three teacups, none of them the same pattern, a tapestry that might look better if it was washed, a silver tray, a wooden box.

Something felt wrong. She and Graham had found the stolen goods in the backroom at Game of Thorns. It was too easy. Nothing was hidden, but was laid out on a table as if displayed almost. Maybe that was what bothered her. Or maybe it was how deliberately Gold had tried to convince her that French wasn’t worth considering as a suspect. She needed answers.

Graham was still looking for French. She was waiting for Gold to show up. She didn’t have long to wait; ten minutes after she called him he was striding into the station. “Apparently your pal Moe was capable of more than you thought.”

Gold barely acknowledged her, his attention on the recovered items. It was strange; for all that his house was cluttered he didn’t seem particularly invested in things. When Henry had broken a china plate a few weeks ago he had only shrugged and cautioned his son not to touch any shards. He didn’t brag about his art unless it was something Henry drew. It never bothered him if his ties got dirty while cooking or playing. Something about this theft, though, had him more upset than she’d seen him ever, except the day that Henry had been missing.

“Gold?” She gave him a couple of minutes to look, but if his jaw tensed any more she didn’t know what was going to happen. Nothing good.

“It’s not here.” He dismissed everything on the desk curtly.

“What do you mean? These things are yours, aren’t they? The black lion thing is familiar, and the vase. The cups…”

“Something is missing.” He sounded certain. Emma wasn’t sure how he could tell, from the mess at home, just what was missing.

“There’s a lot of things here.” Maybe she should pick up a few of them and see if moving them around helped. After all he hadn’t touched them.

“And none of them matter. Where is Mr. French?”

“Graham is looking for him. If something is missing we’ll find it, Gold. I promise.” She’d always prided herself on her job. There weren’t a lot of things she was good at, but finding things was one of them. Knowing when people were lying was another, and Gold wasn’t lying. He was certain something was missing, and it was pretty obvious he didn’t want to say what.

“Not if I find it first.” Emma looked up, staring at him sharply. That sounded a hell of a lot like a threat.

“Gold, when you said you didn’t think French would steal from you…” He had tried to distract her when she’d asked him about French. He hadn’t ever outright denied that the florist could have been the thief. She realized that now.

“He wouldn’t, not unless someone else put the idea into his head.” He half-turned as if he was leaving. The whole time he’d been in the station he’d barely looked at her. It felt almost as if he was a stranger, rather than someone he’d lived with for the last four months.

“Who would do that?” It wasn’t a guess. He knew more than he was saying.

“Henry’s going to be home soon, and I’d like to be there. I’ll see you this evening.” he acted as if he hadn’t heard her question.

“Gold.” It was too late. He was gone.

He barely slept, watching the sun rise from his bed before giving up on the idea of more than a few restless hours. Moe French was hiding in some hole where the Sheriff didn’t know to find him. Gold wondered if it was self-preservation that had him cowering like a rat, or if he was simply celebrating his victory of stealing from the town bastard and lucky enough to escape Graham’s notice.

His luck wouldn’t last long.

The front parlor was restored; if one didn’t know to look for things that were currently being held at the sheriff’s station they wouldn’t know anything was missing. Henry hadn’t noticed the absence of bric-a-brac that didn’t usually catch his attention, and the one broken picture was tucked away until a new piece of glass could be purchased. Neither Emma nor Henry had commented on the empty display case. Gold had been careful not to look at it when either of them were around. After both were asleep he’d stared at it for more than an hour.

He would get his cup back, and someone would pay for the temporary loss of it. It was the only thing he had of his Belle.

“So just how much candy do you think Henry’s going to eat today?” Emma asked as she joined him in the kitchen. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting there, the cold cup of tea in front of him in an annoyingly chip free cup.

“The rule in his classroom is that you bring a Valentine for everyone in the class or none at all. So unfortunately I think the answer is quite a lot.” If only that was his main concern tonight. “I have a meeting tonight. Will you be home before six-thirty?”

“I, uh…” Emma uncharacteristically looked away. “I have a date.”

“Well well. The sheriff, I assume?” It took him a moment to react, to pull on a mask and play at the banter that would usually come so easily. He was honestly happy for her, and if it came to it for the sheriff as well. He was a good man, too long a prisoner of the queen. They both deserved the happiness that he never expected to have.

“Yeah. We’re, I don’t know, doing dinner or something. If nothing comes up.” She frowned. “It could wait, though, if you need me to watch Henry.”

“I’m certain Ms. Lucas doesn’t have plans for the evening. She’s always glad to spend time with Henry. You go on your date.” He had things to do, but he forced himself to take a breath and slow down. Emma was important because of Henry and the curse, but she was important as herself as well. Perhaps in the beginning he had only cared because she was useful, but she’d become a friend in her own right. “Don’t let the paper cupids and heart decorations seem more important than they are. It’s just a day. When other people make a lot of it there can be pressure, but tonight should simply be about the two of you being able to talk to each other. To share stories that get missed when daily routine and work get in the way. Just focus on that and don’t think about the rest.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” She smiled a little, still restless but hopefully feeling better. Gold nodded and returned his focus to the tea he was making. He honestly hoped for the best for Emma’s date, but mostly he was glad it meant the only law in town would be nicely distracted tonight.

Gold would have preferred to make his purchases with no one around. Mr. Clark, he knew, wouldn’t say anything. The man wasn’t very smart in any realm, but he was smart enough not to make any comments. David was a less certain element. In another time and place he would have been full of questions. Somehow the prince had always been able to get him talk about things he never had any intention of talking about. He’d actually confided in Charming more than once despite himself. Perhaps it had something to do with the fraternity of men who raised sheep.

He didn’t seem to be quite so curious here. Nolan, as he was apparently known in this world, didn’t ask about the rope and tape. He seemed more distracted by the cards in his hand. Two of them, for two very different women. Not surprising.

“Couldn’t make up your mind?” He couldn’t resist commenting on the cards; each one for a wife, though he didn’t know it. It amused him that one featured a castle that might be a cartoonist’s drawing of David’s home.

“They’re both so us.” The prince hesitated slightly. He’d had time to settle into his life since waking up, but he knew from a few comments Emma had made and his own observations that his interest in Mary Margaret hadn’t dimmed since the day they ‘met.’

“You’re lucky to have someone that loves you so much.” Kathryn, of course, was under a spell but Snow White’s love was strong enough to battle a curse. He was certain that Regina was raging over the rumors of the two.

“I’m lucky for a lot of reasons.” Gold had to smile at the sentiment coming from the recent coma patient. He didn’t know how lucky he really was, to be not only alive but awake. To have his love so very close. And his daughter as well. Gold almost laughed when it occurred to him that Henry was the grandson of the princeling behind him in line. Henry could do worse than having Charming as a grandfather.

“Love is like a delicate flame. And once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.” They’d spoken of lost love once before, when the pain was more raw but no less intense. Just as then he knew that Charming, at least, still had a chance. “Cherish what you have.”

Gold carried his purchases out to the parking lot, where the garishly painted van waited for him. He had some hunting to do.

Emma was really glad both Gold and Henry had left for the evening when she came down the stairs. She was nervous enough without any comments about her dress or questions about where they were going. She liked Graham. Really liked him. She couldn’t remember when she liked someone so much, which was a lie but one she could live with. Honestly it might be easier if she didn’t care so much. Graham’s friendship and their working relationship meant too much to her to screw it up, and once dating and sex came into the picture she always screwed things up.

And that wasn’t even taking into account his recent dating past and near-fatal heart attack.

Was it too late to cancel? She’d half convinced herself to head upstairs and change when a knock on the door stopped her. Too late. She opened the door to find Graham standing on the front porch, wearing a suit of light gray, his top button undone and no tie in sight. He held a small stuffed wolf.

“Wow.” It was the first thing he said, and certainly not the worst reaction. She knew the red dress fit her well, and it certainly wasn’t like anything he’d seen her in.

“Is that for me?” He didn’t seem inclined to say much, so she pointed to the stuffed animal.

“I didn’t want to do flowers again and I thought this would be funny because you know, you followed the wolves with me and everything, but now that I say that I worry that it’s weird. Or lame. Is it lame?” She wondered if he was aware that as he looked at her he was petting the stuffed animal.

“It’s sweet.” She’d had a stuffed tiger once, something some foster parent had probably given her. It had lasted a couple of houses before it had gone missing or been left behind in one of her many moves. Her blanket was the only thing she’d managed to hold onto from her childhood. No one since had given her a stuffed toy. “Henry will get a kick out of naming him for me.”

“Is he here?”

“Nope, he’s having dinner at the diner with Granny. Gold is… somewhere.” Emma frowned. Gold had been acting weird ever since the robbery, and she didn’t love how vague he’d been about his evening activities. He’d been pacing for a good half hour before he’d left to drop off Henry.

“Yeah, I knew that actually. I saw him when I was coming over here. Weird thing is, he was driving the Game of Thorns van. If he was moving things around for the shop I didn’t figure he had Henry with him, so I thought maybe…”

“You saw him with the van?” Emma’s bad feeling got worse. They still hadn’t found Moe French and Gold still insisted that something stolen from him was missing. Something he refused to talk about. “What way was he heading?”

“Northwest, towards the bridge I think. Maybe he’s just parking the van somewhere French can’t find it and take it back?” Graham still had the stuffed animal in his hands. Emma took it, and wished she could do more than toss it on a hall table; she didn’t want him to think it didn’t matter. But she had a feeling in her gut that something was very wrong.

“Gold’s cabin is out that way. I’m sorry if you made reservations but I think we need to drive by and see if there’s anything going on we need to know about.” It would be embarrassing if she showed up and Gold was there doing something completely normal, and she had to explain why she’d taken her date out to the cabin. It would be just as weird if she and Graham showed up to an empty place in the middle of nowhere. But she had to take the risk.

“You might want to change your shoes first,” he pointed out, looking down at her heels. Emma sighed.

“I’m sorry.” She might have been on the verge of canceling the date, but that hadn’t been about him. Well, only in the fear of ruining their relationship sort of way. But he’d dressed up and made plans, and since he’d been with Regina for so long and she was a manipulative bitch it was a pretty good chance he hadn’t made date plans in a really long time.

“Our job is important. Besides, if we miss dinner there’s still dessert and that’s the best part of a meal.” Graham drove to the cabin without asking any questions about where it was. Emma had to wonder if he’d been there or he just knew. When they rounded the last corner the van was like a beacon in front of the cabin, despite the shadows. Somehow she had known it would be there. Weirdly, though, there weren’t any lights on inside.

“I’ll go first. Give me a minute, okay?” Her shoes might be sensible, but she was still wearing the red dress under her winter coat and it felt familiar. Uncomfortably familiar, like the last months hadn’t happened and she was still skip tracing. But Gold wasn’t a bounty, he was a friend. And he might not be doing anything more than stashing extra storage at the cabin. Emma left her gun in her pocket and proceeded with caution.

The door was unlocked. She didn’t have to wonder if he was in the cabin.

“She’s gone forever – she’s not coming back. And it’s your fault! Not mine! You are her father!” She couldn’t call it shouting. It wasn’t loud. It was painful. Emma stepped into the room and found Gold leaning over Moe French, the cane she’d seen used as an aid to walk now used as a weapon to hit the larger man despite the fact he was tied up.

Shit.

“It’s your fault.” When he swung his arm backward to inflict another blow Emma was able to grab the cane.

“Stop.” It was only another moment before Graham ran into the room. Gold tugged once against the cane before half-turning and making eye contact with her. The fight seemed to fade at that moment. It was the first time she’d ever thought that he looked old. She looked at her partner. So much for their date. “I think we’re going to need an ambulance.”

“Do you want to wait with him while I sort out the rest of this?” Graham stared at Gold, somehow not seeming very surprised by what he had done to Moe French.

“I’m not that great with blood and I think Gold and I have things we need to talk about. I’ll see you at the station?” It would be easy to hand things over to Graham. It wouldn’t be right.

“Yeah.” Graham nodded as he knelt down at the wounded man’s side. It was probably a bad time to notice how nice his ass looked in the dress pants, but she had been in date mode half an hour ago. Emma looked at the door, and then at Gold.

“I’m going to let go of your cane now. I get that it works pretty well as a weapon but let’s not right now, okay?” She wasn’t really worried, except that Gold still didn’t seem very focused. She needed to make sure he knew that she wasn’t a threat. “We should go outside.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He didn’t look in Moe’s direction before walking out the door. Emma followed.

“I’m glad I was. Things looked pretty bad in there, Gold. It’s going to be hard enough to explain to Henry that I had to arrest you for assault. I’m glad to avoid the murder charge.” Would he have gone that far? After seeing him with the cane she didn’t know.

“You could just not arrest me.” Gold made the comment as he looked at the dark forest, but he didn’t sound like he considered it to be possible.

“French is going to have to go to the hospital, and there are going to questions. You know I can’t do that.”

“If you left me alone with him for another minute it wouldn’t be an issue. Do you really think anyone would miss him?”

“You don’t really mean that.” But when he looked at her Emma had to quell a shiver. The wild rage from earlier was gone, but she could see the anger still. Colder now, but no less lethal. “We should go before the ambulance arrives. I don’t have to do the whole handcuff thing, do I?”

“Where would I possibly go? I’m not abandoning my son.” She couldn’t go so far as having him in the front seat, though. She held open the back door for him, waiting until he was settled before closing it. He was silent for the brief ride to the sheriff’s station. Fortunately it was late enough that the street was almost empty; anyone on Main Street was settled in a restaurant or the ice cream parlor, enjoying their happy little dates. She wondered which restaurant she was supposed to be at right now. Emma frowned when she took off her coat and looked down at the red dress.

“So, first time in a cell?” She tried a bad joke, to break the thaw in the room. It was the first time she’d locked anyone in a cell before. Figured she couldn’t have an easy first time.

“You’d be surprised.” She half expected him to pace the small space, but he settled on the edge of the cot.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened?” Emma settled on the arm of the couch, facing him. There was paperwork, but that could wait. Besides, a lot of it depended on French’s prognosis and if he was pressing charges.

“You’re far too much like Henry to be content if I said no.” Gold sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“You were beating up a man without any plan to stop, Gold. And I get it, he stole from you but I don’t think that’s what this was about.” She had been shocked by what she’d seen, and how out of control Gold had been when he usually seemed, if anything, too reserved. Now that she had time to process everything she remembered the words he had used. “You said it was his fault, that someone wasn’t coming back. French has a kid?”

“Had. She…” He looked down at the floor, drawing in a breath slowly before looking up at her. Emma winced, pretty sure she knew what came next. “She died.”

“She mattered to you.” She stopped shy of asking if he loved her. She remembered what it felt, the first time she’d woken up in a bed with Neal wrapped around her, and the moment she realized he wasn’t coming back. She remembered what it felt like when she let down her guard and kissed Graham for the first time, and the fear when she was certain he was dying. The pain and love she could all but feel radiating from Gold felt like something beyond that.

“I loved her more than I thought I was capable of loving. When I met her I had been dead inside for such a long time and she brought me back to life. But I didn’t trust it. She was so beautiful here.” He touched his chest just above his heart. “So kind and smart and wonderful. Why would she want to be with someone like me?”

“What did Moe French think of you and his daughter?” She didn’t know much about French, but clearly something had gone pretty badly.

“He hated me from the moment we met. We had a fight. I knew one day she would figure out that she was too good for me so I drove her away before she could leave me. She was young and beautiful, she’d find someone else who could love her better. Someone who could give her more. She went to her father but he hated me so much he wouldn’t accept her even when it was over. He said things to her. Cruel things. And then he told her she was no longer his daughter. My Belle.” She could see the tears in his eyes, but knew he wouldn’t let them fall. Not while she was watching.

“Where did she go?” Graham would have mentioned if French had a daughter in town, even if they were estranged. She waited a full minute before speaking, gently reminding him that she was still waiting. “Gold?”

“She was found in the river on a Monday. Her neck was broken. A witness said she jumped off the bridge.” Once he stopped speaking he seemed completely motionless. Not just still, but as if he was a statue or a toy with the batteries taken out.

“I…” She’s gone forever, he had said. Not coming back. For all that he had yelled at Moe as he beat the other man, Emma had to wonder how much of that rage had been aimed at himself.

“You should go get Henry. It’s past his bedtime already.” Gold spoke in carefully measured words.

“I can call Ruby, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind keeping him for the night.” It might be the easiest thing to do, and they had extra rooms at the B&B.

“You don’t want him to find out about this from someone else, and he deserves to sleep in his own bed. Please.” Gold’s eyes flicked in her direction briefly.

“I don’t know if I should leave you alone.” He might not be interested in talking any more but that didn’t mean he needed to be alone. And telling Henry she’d arrested his dad wasn’t going to be the most fun conversation she’d had today, which was saying something.

“I’m not going to try and escape.”

“I never thought you would.” Strangely, for a moment she remembered how worried Henry had been about his friends leaving town. No one could leave, he’d said. It was nonsense, of course.

“I’m not going to do anything else either. If it would make you feel better you can have my belt and shoelaces, though.” He leaned his head against the back wall, his eyes closed and his voice drained of emotion.

“I don’t know what to say to him.” She’d arrested his dad. No matter how close they were going or what Gold had done she couldn’t imagine Henry was going to understand that.

“Nothing can prepare you for moments like this when you’re a parent. You just have to figure it out as you go and hope for the best.”

“I’m not a parent.” She’d never thought of herself that way, not even when she was pregnant. Even a moment’s daydream would have made it too hard to do what she’d needed to do. “Giving birth doesn’t make anyone a parent.”

“Being a parent has nothing to do with biology. You told him you would stay for a day. It’s been four months. Why are you still here, Emma?” She was surprised to find he was looking at her. Emma blinked, unable to think of anything to say. “He trusts you and he knows you’ll keep him safe. Right now that matters more than anything. Go home, Emma. Henry needs you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Even with everything else happening he put Henry first. As much as she dreaded it, she couldn't do less. Emma reluctantly stood up. “I’m sorry about Belle.”

He didn’t say a word as she left.

“You look like you could use a drink. How about I pour you one and then I can tell you all about how Sean showed up and proposed to Ashley. It was pretty sweet.” Ruby picked up a glass but Emma shook her head.

“I just came to pick up Henry.” The truth was she would love a drink. She was more interested in some solitude to work through what she’d learned tonight, though, then pretending to be interested in Ashley’s love life. And she really didn’t want to answer questions about her own Valentine’s date.

“He just finished up an ice cream sundae; Granny took his dish before he could lick it clean. He’s in the back booth.” Ruby nodded towards the back of the diner. Emma frowned when she saw that he wasn’t alone. The annoying stranger in leather was sitting with him. She was about the head back when her phone rang. She only answered it because it was Graham.

“Hey.”

“You still at the station?”

“No, I’m taking Henry home. I didn’t know where blankets and things were, though, if you don’t mind stopping by and checking on things.” She was careful, no matter how softly she was speaking, not to say anyone’s name. It wasn’t going to keep quiet for long, not in this town, but she needed to talk to Henry alone.

“Yeah, I’m about to head out of here. French has a broken arm and a couple of cracked ribs. He’s going to have some humdinger bruises tomorrow. All in all he’s pretty lucky.”

“Sure, everyone’s lucky tonight.” She shook her head. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? And I’ll pick up the donuts tomorrow.”

“Guess we’ll need an extra one.” Emma could hear the faint sound of someone being paged in the background. “And Emma? I really liked the dress.”

He didn’t give her a chance to say anything before he hung up. She had some thinking to do, about if she really would have canceled the date. About what she wanted. About if he was going to see the little red dress again. That all had to wait.

“Hey Emma. Is dad with you? We could have an ice cream before we go home.”

“Nice try, kid. Even if Ruby hadn’t ratted you out I can see the chocolate in the corner of your mouth.” She debated asking the stranger why he was talking to Henry, but she didn’t have the energy for another conversion where she had no idea what was happening. Instead she nodded her head with the barest acknowledgment and ignored the way he was looking at her dress. “Your dad asked me to pick you up. It’s past your bedtime.”

“Dad’s not home yet?” As usual the kid was way too clever, already suspecting something was wrong.

“I’ll tell you all about it when we get home, okay?” She might not know much about being a parent, but she knew a lot about needing privacy when rugs got pulled out from under you.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Emma glanced at the stranger who was way too interested in their conversation. The diner was empty enough that not many other people were around. Henry loved his spy stories and often pretended he was on secret missions. Emma decided to use it to her advantage. “There’s some stuff happening but it’s code word clearance only.”

“Okay.” Henry bit his lower lip as he slid from the booth and followed her to the front door. He was preoccupied enough that he didn’t notice he’d forgotten his backpack, which had somehow moved from his side of the table to the floor next to the stranger, along with the book inside.

On the short ride home Henry was quiet, looking out the window until they pulled into the driveway. His silence ended about two seconds after Emma closed and locked the front door.

“Where’s my dad?”

“Let’s sit down.” Emma would have loved a minute to run upstairs and change into something more comfortable, but it wasn’t like anything about the next couple of minutes was going to be comfortable.

“The only time dad doesn’t come home at night is when he’s at the cabin and he always takes me.” When Emma sat down on the sofa he didn’t join her, but remained standing. “What happened?”

“Have you ever gotten in trouble at school?” She doubted it. Mary Margaret’s concerns were usually about him being too quiet. He didn’t take after her, fortunately, in that regard. Thirteen different schools and she’d been sent to the principal in all but two of them.

“One time dad had to pick me up because I got into a paint fight with someone who ruined my art project. It was a Mother’s Day card.” Emma closed her eyes for a moment. Crap. She remembered plenty of mom and dad gifts made in art class. She’d dreaded those holidays.

“When you get in trouble at school you have to go see the principal. Me and Graham, we’re sort of like the principals for the town. We help people when they need us, and when people are fighting we have to tell them to stop.”

“My dad was fighting?” Henry sounded as surprised as Emma had felt. “He never fights. He usually says bad things about people after they leave if he’s mad.”

“He got in a fight this time.” Which wasn’t really accurate, considering the rope and tape that had bound his opponent, but she didn’t need to get into details.

“Emma, is my dad in time out?” Henry finally sat next to her, turned slightly so their knees touched.

“You could say that.” It sure sounded better than ‘hey kid, I arrested your dad.’

“For how long?”

“I don’t know, Henry. Graham and I are going to have to figure that out. But he’s not hurt and he’s safe. He’s just going to have to stay at the station for a little while.” She hoped ‘little while’ was at least close to the truth. She didn’t know what she was going to do if they had to hold Gold for any length of time. They didn’t have the facilities for a longer jail sentence and she didn’t have the ability to parent full time. Henry didn’t deserve that.

“He’s in one of the jail cells, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Emma nodded reluctantly.

“Can I see him?” Henry, who usually sounded old for his age, suddenly sounded young.

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow, okay? Right now you need to get to bed.” She couldn’t imagine he’d fall asleep anytime soon. She knew she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d call Graham and check in one last time for the night. Maybe they wouldn’t just talk about work.

Maybe she’d have that drink she couldn’t accept from Ruby.

“Are you going back to work?” Henry leaned in, his head on her shoulder.

“Not tonight. I’m staying right here, okay? You’re not going to be alone.” She could promise that much, at least.

The jail cell in Storybrooke’s sheriff’s station had more to recommend it than the dungeon under Snow White’s castle. It was cleaner, better lit, and the cot was more comfortable. That didn’t mean Gold was any happier about being behind bars. He didn’t blame Emma, no matter how inconvenient her timing had been the night before. No, the blame was split between Moe French and Regina. Moe French had taken the only thing he had left of his Belle. And he was certain that Regina was behind it.

His cup. It had been enshrined in his great hall for almost six years before the curse began. In this world it sat alone on the shelf of a display case. Like shadows from a dream he could remember his Belle dropping it in this world as well, her soft fingers caressing the broken bit. He could remember her being in his home, long before Henry entered his life. Curled up on the couch with a book from his library. Teasing him in the kitchen. Dancing with him in the garden. He knew it was all a lie, memories created by the curse, but like a double-exposed picture they were hard to separate from the real memories of a castle a world away.

When he had told Emma of the version of his Belle this world remembered he could see her walking down the steps of the pink house for the last time. He could remember the pale pallor of her skin when he had visited the morgue. Her father had refused to identify the body. There were many nights he’d stood on the bridge and thought about joining her, but he was too much of a coward. The memories were not real, he knew now, but the guilt and rage were no different here then they were in another world.

“You don’t look like you got much sleep.” The sheriff was back not long after the sun rose. He’d offered to stay the night, but Gold preferred the time alone.

“No offense, but the accommodations don’t suit me.” He wasn’t sure if he’d slept at all, or had only dreamed while still being awake. It didn’t matter.

“Leroy doesn’t tend to complain. He snores, though.” To Gold’s surprise Graham approached the cell with two paper cups in hand. The one he handed off through the bars smelled herbal. He wouldn’t have thought Graham knew or cared enough to bring tea rather than coffee.

“Yes, well not all of us can fall into a drunken stupor.” He’d seen the dwarf around town, his grumpiness taking on a harder edge being separated from his brothers. The only thing he and Leroy had in common, however, was a dislike for the local nuns. “I don’t suppose you have a place to shower this morning?”

“Sorry, not right now but we’ll figure that out.” Graham crossed the room to his office, shedding his jacket and leaving his coffee on his desk. He was back a moment later with a second offering. Gold frowned in confusion at the walkie talkie.

“Why?” He didn’t reach out to take it.

“Someone wants to talk to you. Channel four.” Graham turned it on and held it through the bars again.

“Dad?” The sound of static was soon replaced by the voice he wanted to hear the most, and most dreaded. He snatched the walkie talkie from Graham’s grasp and pulled it close.

“Henry.” His son had spent the night without him. Only a handful of times in the boy’s life had that happened. “How are you son?”

“I’m fine. Emma said I have to go to school. She made breakfast but the toast got burned. We’re having cereal.” Cereal was a rare treat; he didn’t think it was hearty enough to get a growing boy through the hours to lunch. It didn’t matter today; he knew Emma was doing her best.

“Emma’s right. School is important.” He knew that Mary Margaret would keep a close eye on him. She loved the boy, somehow instinctively knowing that he mattered more to her then she knew.

“I want to come see you but Emma said after school Are you really in jail? Emma said you got in a fight with someone. Were they a bad guy, like Saruman?”

“No, not like that.” If he only knew that it was his dad that had more in common with Saruman. “I got angry at someone I knew a long time ago, who hurt someone I cared about. But that doesn’t make what I did okay. Fighting is wrong, Henry.”

“Unless you’re protecting someone else, right dad?”

“If it’s really about protection,” he agreed. Like Bae, his Henry was already more of a hero than his father.

“But you were just fighting and that’s why Emma had to put you in time out, right dad?”

For the first time in more than a day Gold laughed. Time out brought up an image of Henry, three years old and covered in cocoa powder, trying to make his own drink after he’d been told no. “Yes, Henry.”

“Emma says it’s time to go, dad. You’ll be home soon, won’t you?”

“Let Emma know if there’s anything you need right now, son. I’ll see you soon.” He couldn’t lie, and he didn’t have an answer. His anger had gotten the best of him, and he didn’t yet know the cost. “I love you, Henry.”

“I love you too, dad.” The walkie talkie returned to static. Gold turned it off and set it down on the cot next to him. Graham had retreated to his office, giving him at least the illusion of privacy. He looked up and found the sheriff bent over paperwork. For a man currently without a heart he was kinder than most people Gold knew. He would have to find a way to thank him.

“You were supposed to go on a date last night.” By mid-afternoon Gold was going stir crazy. It took a lot of willpower not to pace the small space he was allotted. At least he hadn’t started trying to climb the walls. He’d done that once upon a time; it wasn’t a good thing. His day had been broken up very little. There had been a donut for breakfast and a pastrami sandwich for lunch. Other than that there had been a few conversations and a great deal of staring at the clock. Graham had escorted him to the bathroom a few times, the extent of his freedom. The station didn’t have a shower, though, and he still wore the suit he’d put on the day before. “Another regret from last night.”

“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.” The moment she spoke Emma’s face went carefully blank. He knew that look. She hadn’t meant to say that. Suddenly the papers on her desk seemed very interesting from the focus she was giving them.

“Having second thoughts about the sheriff?” He’d been gone the past hour with some vague mention of ‘rounds’ which might have been true or might have been about giving them some privacy to talk about Henry and how he was coping. Gold hadn’t noticed anything unusual between the two of them.

“More like second thoughts about me.” Emma gave up the pretense and came to sit on the edge of the sofa. “It’s not the date, it’s what comes next.”

“A second date?” He raised one eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, waiting. He had a pretty good idea what she meant.

“Two dates I can handle. Maybe even three. But after that it’s not just going out on a date. It’s something more. Graham is a really great guy whose last relationship was really bad. He doesn’t need another disaster.”

“And you’re certain it would be a disaster?” ‘You could’ve had happiness if you just believed that someone could want you. But you couldn’t take the chance.’ He could almost hear Belle, from a lifetime and a world away. She would have believed in Emma and the Sheriff.

“It always is. Casual I can manage. Anything else and I fuck it up.”

“You haven’t fucked up anything with Henry. And while I can’t say much for your accommodations here I have no other complaints about you as a houseguest.”

“It’s not the same. Plus the fact that I haven’t messed up too badly with Henry yet just means the other shoe hasn’t fallen.”

“Emma, there’s no one in the world I would trust with Henry more than you.” She didn’t see herself as a mother, not yet, but he could see it. It hurt to know that there might be a time when he was no longer the best parent for Henry, but at least he knew his son would have a fierce protector in his mother. “If anything were to happen to me…”

“You haven’t even been in here for a day yet, Gold. Let’s not get all dramatic.” Never overly comfortable with emotions, Emma shifted slightly. Gold could almost see the wall building around her. He knew a lot about walls.

“I shut out love when it was mine for the taking, Emma. And love is like a delicate flame. You can’t turn smoke back into fire. When it’s gone it’s gone” She looked so much like her father. He almost shook his head at the irony of giving them both advice in the same twenty-four hours. “One of us should learn a lesson from all this, and I’m afraid that it’s too late for me. It’s not too late for you.”

“I should call Graham. To find out when he’s going to be back,” she clarified. “It’s almost time to go pick up Henry.”

“Of course.” There was nothing else for him to say. Perhaps he’d said too much already.

Emma made her call and stayed at her desk, making it clear she wasn’t going to be talking anymore. Perhaps he’d ask Emma to pick up a few books when she took Henry home. It would at least alleviate a little of the monotony. He would need to start putting together his legal defense, at least. He was about to ask when Regina walked into the station.

Damn. If there were going to be bars between them he'd prefer she was the one on the inside.

“Deputy Swan, you may go. I need a moment alone with your prisoner.” She walked through the station as if she was still royalty.

“I’m not going anywhere.” It was nice to see, the way she stood between his cell and Regina. Nice, but not conducive to learning what Her Majesty wanted. She hadn’t set Moe French up simply for a laugh.

“It’s time to pick up my son, Emma. Why don’t you take him out for an ice cream?” He couldn’t help rubbing it in that Henry was his child. Regina had been desperate to be a mother once, a fate he was always glad Henry had avoided. Regina didn’t treat her possessions any better than she treated her enemies.

“I’m not leaving you alone with her.” He knew her concern for him was genuine, but as she looked over at the doorway he knew that she was worried about more than just him. Graham should be back any minute. All the more reason to get their little talk over with.

“She can’t do anything but talk, and that’s nothing to worry about. You can bring me back a cone.” He smiled to reassure her.

“Run along dear,” Regina commented dismissively. A poor decision on her part since it almost made Emma change her mind. After a moment’s hesitation, though, she went for her coat.

“Just this once,” she said as she left. Gold waited a moment before saying anything.

“Come to test out your reelection speech on a captive audience, Madame Mayor?”

“Perhaps I just came to admire the view. I could get used to this.” When she smiled she was every inch the evil queen.

“Please, sit.” He was careful not to use the trick too often, but the fact that she was forced to comply wiped the grin off her face. She sat on the edge of the couch where Emma had been not long ago.

“I heard you did quite a number on that poor florist. At least you didn’t break his legs; it would be tragic if he had to walk with a limp.” As usual Regina was not subtle, going for the easy hits.

“There’s no reason to start pretending you care about anyone else, dearie. Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here.” When she glanced at her purse he knew. Relief flooded him. “When two people both want something the other has, a deal can always be struck. Do you have what I want?”

“Yes.” She was so smug, so proud of herself. He was reminded of a child figuring out a task on their own for the first time.

“So, you did put him up to it.” He’d only had a small flicker of doubt. On his own Maurice might have smashed up his house. Might even have stolen. He wouldn’t have gone after the cup. He had no way of knowing the significance.

“I merely suggested that strong men take what they need.” He almost laughed at Moe French being called a strong man. He was a weak and insignificant person. How his Belle had come from such a man he didn’t know.

“And you told him just exactly what to take.” She had been more observant than he had realized, to understand the significance of his cup.

“We used to know each other so well, Mr. Gold.”

“Did we?” He understood her. She was the worst he’d ever done, molding her into the darkness he needed. The curse castor and the curse breaker, two women he’d manipulated into being. Both so hurt by his actions. But while Emma had his guilt and sorrow, Regina had his scorn. He understood her, but she didn’t know more than a fraction of who he was. “I know you well enough to know you have what I want. The question is what you want in return.”

Her eyes narrowed. He wasn’t playing her game. She wanted to gloat. But she wanted something else and that was what he needed to know, almost as much as he needed his treasure returned. “I don’t have all day, dearie. If you’re not interested in a trade…”

“I want you to answer one question. And answer it simply. What’s your name?”

“It’s Mr. Gold.” So that was her game. He hadn’t expected that, and had to work hard to sound as if he didn’t have a clue what she meant. It seemed his four-month advantage had come to an end. She knew that she wasn’t the only person who remembered.

“Your real name.”

“Every moment I’ve spent on this earth, that’s been my name.” He was stalling, trying to figure out the best way to play her and still get what he wanted. The fact that he was so clearly frustrating her was just a bonus.

“But what about moments spent elsewhere?” He wondered how long she had suspected. Did she know that he was the one that had hit her when she was trying to kill Graham? Did she think that he had known the whole time?

“What are you asking me?”

“I think you know. If you want me to return what’s yours tell me your name.” She knew. There was no way he could deny it. All he could do was use it.

“Rumpelstiltskin.” With a single word he could feel Mr. Gold and all his illusions of humanness shed. Decades fell away and he was in another cell hidden in a cave, feeling the bitter taste of an almost victory that would destroy everything he knew. When he grasped the bars he could almost feel the crackle of unusable magic under his skin. “Now give me what I want.”

“Such hostility.” Like a child poking a dangerous animal she couldn’t resist baiting him. She probably thought she was hiding the fear in her eyes.

“Oh, yeah.” He wanted her to be afraid. He needed it, to make sure she didn’t come near those he cared about. She had played her role in taking his Belle. She wouldn’t endanger Henry. He needed Emma safe too; the curse would be pointless without the Savior.

“Over this?” When he took the cup from his purse he stared at it, hating her fingerprints in the same place where Belle’s had once been. He forgot to breathe. At least he knew she hadn’t destroyed it. “Such a sentimental little keepsake.”

“Thank you Your Majesty.” The moment it was close enough he snatched it, pulling it from her hold. He slunk back from the bars and cradled it carefully in his hands. Other than the chip it was undamaged. Belle’s cup, safe again in his possession. He took a breath and pulled his gaze from it. Regina was already too aware of its significance. He looked at her. “Now that we’re being honest with each other, let’s remember how things used to be, shall we? And don’t let these bars fool you, dear. I’m the one with the power around here. I’m going to be out of here in no time, and nothing between us will change.”

It was a promise. It was a threat. And though he’d long since abandoned any gods it was a prayer.

“We shall see.” Always one to feel like she had the last word, Regina was quick to leave.

Gold starred at his treasure until he heard voices. Graham, Emma, and Henry all entered the station at the same time, just a moment after Gold slipped the cup into his pocket. He’d rather avoid explaining it.

“Dad.” Henry raced for the cell, his hands touching the same bars Gold had held onto just minutes ago.

“Henry.” He was grateful to see his son, as much as he hated that Henry would forever have the image of jail bars in his head now.

“We were afraid a cone would make a mess.” Emma unlocked the cell door and stepped inside, handing Gold a paper cup with a scoop of ice cream inside. He was certain the rainbow sprinkles were Henry’s doing. “If I leave the door open you’re not a flight risk, right? I think someone might like to keep you company.”

“Can I really?” Henry looked up at Emma, eyes shining bright and the remains of ice cream on his lip.

“I can’t see that it would hurt anything. I’ve got some paperwork to do.” She tried to head for her desk, but Henry stopped her with a fierce hug around her waist. Emma stiffened briefly before relaxing and returning the hug. “Go on, kid. I think your dad could use one of those.”

Henry ran into the cell and flung himself at his dad. Gold pulled him onto his lap, careful of the cup in his pocket, and held him tight. One love was lost to him forever. One son was still out of his reach. But he still had Henry. “My boy.”

#verse: henry gold #fic: henry gold #my fic #emma swan #graham humbert #henry gold #gremma #swan believer #mr. gold

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swanslieutenant · 5 years ago

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from the sea - chapter eight

Summary: When Emma becomes sheriff, the pressure of running a department with a dwindling budget becomes nothing but an exercise in frustration. That is, until she finds an unlikely ally in the town treasurer, a man who her kid Henry is convinced is not an ally at all, but rather a villainous enemy. Season 1 AU, Cursed!Killian.

Rating and Warnings: Teen.

Catch up: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7

Read on AO3

_____

Bright and early Monday morning, Emma jogs up the steps to Granny’s, hand raised over her head to protect against the slight drizzle of rain coating Storybrooke in a misty, cool fog. Inside, there’s a few people in the queue at the till, and Emma steps into the line, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

As she’s stepping forward to place her order with Ruby, her phone dings with a text message, loud and insistent. Emma flashes Ruby an apologetic smile as she fishes her phone out of her pocket to a text from Mary Margaret – can you get some more dishwashing soap on your way home later? We’re all out.

Ruby taps her notepad absently on the counter, her lips curling into a knowing smirk at her as Emma answers the message.

“Wes sending you his order?”

“Hmm?” Emma says, absently, focused on her phone. She frowns then, registering Ruby’s sentence, and glares at her. “No.”

“You sure?” Ruby teases, leaning closer and dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s strange to see you in here without him. I thought maybe you were getting breakfast for the both of you … to go.”

The implication makes Emma raise an eyebrow, and though she tries to keep her expression cool and unimpressed, her cheeks are starting to heat. She crosses her arms over her chest and clears her throat pointedly.

“A coffee and bear claw to go, please.”

“Just one coffee?”

“Ruby.”

She laughs as she writes the order down, ripping it off the pad and waving it pointedly at Emma, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I’m just saying, Emma. Wes is a nice guy. You could give him a shot.”

The words make Emma’s heart skip a beat, her throat closing in on itself at the immediate summoning of her growing discomfort and alarm. That’s not – she and Wes are friends. That’s it. That’s all.

(Even though she’s finding it easier and easier to be in Wes’s company, finding herself at ease with him in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. In a long time. Even though Wes is someone who defends her against his tyrannical boss and who spends his weekends humouring her kid’s outlandish theories. Who she finds herself thinking about more than she probably should be.)

Emma shakes her head firmly, tightening her crossed arms over her abdomen as if she could create a steel shield with their protection.

“That’s not – Wes and I are friends, Ruby. That’s it.” Ruby raises an eyebrow, smirking, and Emma hurriedly continues, as firmly as she can, “I’m here for Henry. Nothing and no one else, okay?”

Ruby regards her for a few seconds before she shrugs, raising her hands in surrender. “Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

She turns away to fulfill Emma’s order, humming to herself. Emma’s heart still feels like its beating half out of rhythm, and she lets out a deep breath to try to calm it.

Though those efforts are thoroughly squashed when her cell phone rings, shrill even from her pocket. Ruby sends her a pointed look over her shoulder as Emma fishes it out. She looks at the screen – now desperately praying it isn’t Wes, lest she has to see Ruby’s expression – and frowns. It’s an unknown caller, number obscured, and her eyes narrow in slight suspicion.

Who, with an unknown number, would be calling her, at quarter-past six in the morning?

“Hello?”

“Ms. Swan,” greets the silky voice on the other end, the voice of the one and only Mr. Gold. The way his tone curls around her name makes her stomach twist in unease, and Emma frowns.

“Gold? How do you have my cell number?”

He chuckles, a cool, dark sound. “I have a crime to report, Sheriff. Is it improper to call the sheriff when I have a crime to report?”

Emma grits her teeth. His smarmy voice makes her fists clench, but she makes a split-second decision that this isn’t a battle she wants to fight. Instead, she says, as sweetly as she can muster, “Yes, Mr. Gold. That is exactly what you should do. So, how can I help you?”

“I have reason to believe that some of the items I recently received from one of our fair citizens may be, in fact, stolen property. I would like to file a report.”

Something false echoes in his voice, and Emma’s lie detector piques. “Uh, okay,” she says, casting a look out the window to the pawnshop, the red closed sign in the door visible from here even across the foggy street. “I’ll be right there.”

“Wonderful.”

Gold ends the call swiftly, and Emma frowns at her phone as Ruby returns with her food and coffee. She puts her phone away, and shakes her head, already steeling herself for whatever nonsense Gold is about to present her with, and turns to go.

“Thanks, Ruby. See you later, I’ve got to run –”

“Wait, Emma –”

Ruby steps out from behind the counter, and Emma resists the urge to snap back at the waitress, her temper nearly spent from their earlier discussion of Wes and Gold’s smugness on the phone.

“Ruby, I really have to go, okay? And, no, that wasn’t Wes on the phone, that was Gold. I need to go see what he wants.”

“No, no, that’s not what I wanted to say – though it is interesting you just assumed I thought that would be Wes –”

Emma sighs, turning away. “Bye, Ruby –”

Ruby grabs her arm and tugs her back. “No, no. Listen – I’m sorry about bugging you. That’s not what I wanted to say.” She pauses, her usual confidence faltering, and her next words seem hesitant and more unsure: “I just wanted to see if you were interested in coming out to the Ladies’ Night tonight down at the Rabbit Hole with Ashley and I.”

Emma is taken aback, momentarily stunned. She – Emma is being invited to a Ladies’ Night? Her first reaction is to decline because Emma doesn’t do “Ladies’ Night.” She’s not a ‘let’s drink at a bar with girlfriends’ type of woman because, well, she doesn’t have girlfriends. For heaven’s sake, she doesn’t even have friends!

Though Emma can’t deny that that’s the case still; things have been changing since she arrived in this strange little town. She’s obviously friends with Mary Margaret now, and after all, she just spent the last few minutes trying to convince herself that Wes Newport is one of her friends too.

Ruby is looking at her expectantly, and Emma clears her throat, stalling for time. “Uh, tonight?”

Ruby’s eyes light up. “Yes! I was thinking that might be something you’d want to do. I – we go sometimes, not as often since Ashley had her baby, but I think it would be so nice if you came too! It’s always a fun time.”

Emma pauses again, considering. She likes Ruby, who always has a smile and a wry comment for her, even if the ones regarding the treasurer make her flush. Ashley is lovely too, and Emma finds herself wanting to know how things are going with her and her baby. She’s not sure who she’s becoming, someone who even considers going out to a Ladies Night, but first Emma has Mary Margaret as a friend, then Wes. Now maybe she can add a few more to that tally.

“That would be great, Ruby. Thanks – thanks for inviting me. I’ll see you there.”

“Great! Bring Mary Margaret too, yeah? I haven’t seen her in a while, she’s always busy these days. She must have some secret guy out there, keeping her busy.”

Ruby says it jokingly, seemingly unaware of just how true those words are, but Emma nearly chokes on her coffee she’d just taken a sip from. She quickly plays it off as the coffee being too hot and agrees to bring her roommate along too.

She hurries out of the diner, grinning to herself. Ruby spends her time teasing Emma about Wes, but if she only knew about Mary Margaret and David … Well, Emma thinks wryly, munching on the bear claw on the way over to the pawnshop, that will be something to talk about at this Ladies Night for sure.

_____

After another terrible, mostly sleepless night, Wes wakes up before his alarm clock, feeling as if he didn’t sleep a wink. Nightmares, revolving around a vaguely familiar man with curly black hair and a gleaming gold sextant identical to the one in the Maritime Museum, had woken him up on and off, until he’d finally drifted off from pure exhaustion at about four a.m. He scrubs at his eyes as he swings his legs out of bed, letting out a deep sigh, reluctantly rising to face the day.

On his way to work, he skips the coffee at Granny’s after seeing the large queue, instead suffering with the watery coffee at Town Hall when he arrives. He’s in the middle of setting up the coffee machine, finding he has to focus extremely hard to understand how to get it going even though he’s done it a thousand times before, when a voice speaks out from behind him.

“Have a nice weekend, Wes?”

Regina, in one of her striking black pantsuits and with her perfectly styled hair, is in the doorway of the staff room, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Her smile is pleasant enough, detached and cool like always, her question innocent and polite, but Wes is not in the mood to deal with whatever Regina wants from him today.

“Tiring,” he replies gruffly, turning back to the coffee machine.

Regina steps up beside him, leaning against the counter close enough to brush his shoulder. “Get up to anything exciting?”

Wes pauses, stir-stick half to his cup, glancing over to Regina. She’s watching him over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes dark and cold, a calculating edge to them that he doesn’t usually see directed at him.

Wes straightens, his instincts heightening and turning as hard as steel. Regina is waiting for his answer expectantly, and while Wes feels a strange compulsion to tell her about his visit to the Maritime Museum, he has a strong instinct that confessing that he went there, with Henry and Emma (obviously behind her back, he’s realizing now) to boot, would end only in disaster.

“No,” he says, and he lifts the cup in a gesture of departure. “Off to work. Goodbye, Madam Mayor.”

He feels Regina’s eyes on him the entire way out of the staff room, burning a hole into his suit jacket, and it’s not until he’s in his office, door shut firmly behind him, that he’s able to take a deep breath again.

_____

Gold’s pawnshop is still shuttered when Emma arrives, tossing out her empty pastry wrapper into a nearby trashcan as she draws close. She peers in through the windowed door, looking for any sign of Gold within. The shop appears empty, and Emma tries the handle – the door swings open at her touch.

“Gold?” she calls out, stepping into the shop, hand drifting to the gun at her belt out of habit. “It’s Emma.”

“I’ll be right with you, Sheriff.” His voice drifts out from the back room, through the gently fluttering curtain. “Please, come in.”

Emma walks further into the shop, rubbing absently at her arms as a chill rushes down them. This place gives her the creeps, with its dim lighting and random assortment of objects sprawled out over glass display cases and hanging from the ceiling. A broken globe, a crystal mobile, a pair of creepy handsewn dolls, a steel tea set, numerous items of jewellery and watches and broken dishes, to name a few.

Lying out on the counter near the back of the shop, in a blue velvet display case, the gleam of metal catches her eye. She approaches it, and her heart skips a beat.

Nestled in the case is a curved, gleaming, silver hook.

Emma stares at it, her heart race stuttering as it picks up speed. She glances around, but Gold hasn’t emerged yet, and against her better judgement of touching anything in this place, Emma lifts the hook out of its case, the metal cold and smooth in her hands.

Seriously? What the hell?

She knows Henry isn’t always discreet with his theories about the fairy tale personas of the Storybrooke citizens, but what is this? Why does Gold, who hates Newport, have a hook, the embodiment of who Henry believes Wes to be?

“See anything you like?”

Gold has stepped out of the back room finally, leaning heavily on his cane as he steps into the main shop. Emma regards him as levelled and balanced as she can manage, her dislike of the man in front of her palpable. His expression is unreadable, but Emma has learned pretty quickly since arriving in this town that Gold is a snake, one who tries to rile up everyone and twist things to serve some sick agenda of his own.

And whatever he’s playing with here, taking out a curved silver hook, of all things, most likely knowing Henry’s thoughts about his hated enemy, Emma isn’t going to play into it with him.

“You have stolen property to report?” she asks coolly, setting the hook back into its velvet case.

“Indeed,” Gold replies smoothly, limping over to stand behind the counter. He glances to the hook, his lips lifting slightly to a cool smirk. “Exquisite, isn’t it?”

Emma ignores him. “Where’s the property, Mr. Gold?”

“You know, I’ve dealt with my fair share of criminals in my time, Ms. Swan,” he replies, his words slow and measured. “I often receive stolen property as a part of my work, from desperate souls trying to scrounge together any meagre existence they can. But this … this I was surprised to receive.”

He gestures to the hook. Emma frowns, a prickle of unease rising on the back of her neck. It’s not a lie, per say, but there’s an edge of dishonesty to Gold’s voice too, just as she heard over the phone earlier.

“It’s stolen? How do you know?”

Gold sighs, grimacing. “Ah. Well, I was actually mistaken. I thought it was stolen, but … it seems that I’ve brought you here for nothing. My apologies.”

He says it so casually, now smiling at her, innocent and nearly apologetic. Emma isn’t fooled. Whatever this hook is, whoever it belongs to, Gold is trying to make a point here. And Emma really isn’t in the mood for whatever it is.

She shakes her head, and turns on her heel. “Fine. Whatever. When you have a real complaint, Mr. Gold,” she continues, half-way to the door now, “then you can call me.”

She wrenches the door open, casting a dark glance behind her as she goes. Gold is still at the counter, though now he’s lifted up the hook, its sharp point gleaming in the window light.

“Will do, Sheriff. Will do.”

_____

After a boring and day of little to no work being achieved, Wes drops onto the couch in his living room, exhaustion dripping from his bones. He has no energy to make a meagre excuse of supper or even change out of his stiff clothes – he lies flat on his back, staring up at the wide beams of his ceiling, before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

Unlike the previous night, this time the exhaustion is overwhelming, and sleep comes easy.

And, just as easily, so do the nightmares.

He’s thrown into the dream immediately. It’s the man from the dream earlier that day, the curly haired man with the golden sextant. This is a much different dream, darker and heavier even amidst the sun-soaked, white-washed cabin. He and the man are discussing reporting something to a higher command, when the man suddenly drops to the floor, calling out a name Wes doesn’t know.

Killian, help –

Or does he know it?

He can’t dwell on it, as the dream carries on, his dream counterpart cradling the man as he dies in his arms, crying out for help that never comes. The deepest feelings of loss and grief and pain swell in his chest then, nearly crushing in their hollowness, and when he finally jolts awake, panting and confused, the grief doesn’t fade.

For a wild moment, with his apartment awash in the bright lights of his kitchen and living room, the thick wooden beams of his ceiling make him wonder if he’s back in that cabin, and he sits straight up. It takes seeing his books and belongings scattered around the room to set his mind straight. With a deep sigh, he scrubs at his eyes, finding them damp and his cheeks wet. He rubs the tears away, unnerved, and takes a steadying breath.

The dream, like the one from that morning, had felt so real, as if he was really there with that dying man. He had felt the loss and grief at this man’s death deep in his soul, the gaping hole it ripped into his life, as if he’d truly felt the feelings once before.

The name the dying man had shouted at Wes’s dream-self slips through his fingers like water as he tries to put his finger on it. He fumbles for it, desperate to latch onto it, but it’s totally gone, a whisper on the wind.

He lets out another sigh, and shakes his head. These dreams – he has had enough of them. He’s going to have to go see Dr. Whale soon about them soon; maybe he needs some sort of sleeping pill to knock him out to get a good night sleep, dreamless preferable.

Though perhaps he doesn’t need Whale’s medication for help right now … he hasn’t thought this in a long, long time, but Wes really needs a drink.

Before Regina helped him get the treasurer’s job, an unnecessary and cruel death he’s still not sure he’s ever gotten over had taken him down a dark, dangerous path. He’d drank heavily nearly every night, wasted away years and years of his life at the bottom of a bottle. Since getting the job, the long nights of wallowing and the resulting painful mornings have tapered off; it feels like it’s been decades since he’s actually had a drink, though he strangely can’t think that that’s quite right. It hasn’t been that long, has it?

He rises from the couch, and pads over to the kitchen. The cupboards are devoid of alcohol, a testament to his usual mindset, and he heads to the front door instead. His hand hovers over his black peacoat, but something comes over him, and grabs a black leather jacket, one he hasn’t worn in what feels like forever. The jacket settles snugly over his shoulders, a familiar feeling of confidence and pride as fitting as the jacket, and he heads out into the early evening air.

_____

Emma, though she’s getting tired by the time her shift ends, having been up since nearly dawn that morning, heads towards the Rabbit Hole anyways. She would prefer going home to sleep, but she made a commitment to her friends and she’s going to honour it.

(Seriously, who is she becoming?)

Ashley ended up not being able to make it – new baby and all – but Ruby and Mary Margaret have already claimed a table near the centre of the bar when Emma arrives. Both of them have clearly had a few drinks already, giggling at each other, and when Emma arrives, dropping her bag onto the table to announce her arrival, they turn their giggles to her.

“You got here just in time, Emma,” Ruby says, her voice low and suggestive. “Look who’s over at the bar.”

Emma sighs, already sure she knows who she is referring to, but twists in her seat to look behind her at the bar. Sure enough, Wes Newport, in an uncharacteristic black leather jacket, is sitting slumped slightly forward on his bar stool, head bent over a half-empty glass of amber liquid.

“I didn’t take him for a big drinker,” Mary Margaret says absently, taking a long sip from her own glass. “I think that must be his sixth or seventh drink, and he was here even before us.”

Emma frowns. Wes is facing away from them, and unless they had pointed him out, Emma’s not sure she’d have realized it was him. His posture is like that of a different person, far more casual and laidback than she’s ever seen him, and his leather jacket is highly out of character. Emma considers going over to see what has led him to drink alone, but she changes her mind. This is Ladies Night, after all. She turns back to the table, smiling and pulling the menu towards herself.

“So, what were you two laughing about?”

They exchange a look, Mary Margaret shaking her head with a small smile, casting a long look over to Wes, and Ruby sighing dramatically.

“What?” Emma demands.

Ruby presses the menu to the table, tugging it out of Emma’s hands, and looks at her pointedly. “Emma, just go say hello. It won’t kill you.”

She shakes her head, trying to pull the menu back. “No, no. It’s Ladies Night. I came here to spend time with you guys.”

“And saying hello isn’t going to change that,” Mary Margaret says gently, resting a hand over the menu to flatten it to the table. “Go on.”

Emma hesitates, torn between her instinct to check on Wes and to stay. But Mary Margaret and Ruby are getting that look to their faces, and Emma sighs, getting to her feet.

Is this what it’s like to have friends? she thinks absently, feeling rather like a girl in high school sent off to go talk to her crush at the school dance. If this is it, she’s not sure if she likes it, not with the giggles following her all the way over to the bar.

Wes doesn’t notice her right away, preoccupied staring into his glass. Emma wipes her hands on her jeans, finding them suddenly clammy and sweaty, before clearing her throat.

“Hey, Wes.”

He turns, quite unsteadily on the stool, and smiles in surprise. “Swan,” he says, leaning back slightly to get a better look at her, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the bar. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He’s quickly put on that face of his, the one she’s associated with him using to mask something being wrong, just like at the Farmer’s Market. Still, there is something dark and sorrowful in his eyes he isn’t quick or sober enough to conceal.

“You okay there, Wes?”

He tips his glass towards her, the liquid inside nearly spilling out onto the bar, and he slurs, “What makes you think I’m not perfectly fine?”

“You’re alone, drunk at a bar and it’s not even ten yet.” She looks him up and down, eyebrows raising. ”And you’re wearing leather.”

“I am not drunk,” he protests, but the thicker edge to his accent roughening his words simply makes Emma snort. “And I like this jacket. You certainly like leather, don’t you, Swan?”

Emma’s mouth falls slightly open at that, the undercurrent of his question loud and clear to her, and she’s temporarily at a loss for words, a situation Emma doesn’t find herself often in.

“Uh –”

He smiles at her dumbstruck expression, a dark smirk that sends shivers down her spine and settles low in her stomach. He leans towards her, holding out the glass to her in offering, and says, lowly, “Here for a drink, Swan?”

“No,” she says, firmly, but she’s unsure of whom she’s trying to be firm for, her or him. He looks unconvinced, and she adds, even though she doesn’t own an explanation, “I’m working early tomorrow.”

“So otherwise you would have one,” he notes, taking a swig of his glass again, swallowing with a wince at the bite of the drink. “Interesting.”

Emma rolls her eyes – so this is who he is as a drunk: a flirty mess. She picks up the glass when he sets it down, drawing it close and sniffing.

“Straight rum? Wouldn’t have taken you for the type.”

He blinks, slowly, and suddenly he’s staring at the glass as if he’s seeing it for the first time. He shakes his head, and a dark shadow crosses over his eyes, his grin fading into a frown, brows furrowing.

“I’m not,” he mutters darkly. “Not anymore, anyways. Don’t know what came over me tonight.”

Emma narrows her eyes at him, slightly unnerved by the sudden change in his demeanour. “Wes,” she says softly, leaning closer so she can stare at him, noticing the dark shadows under his eyes, the paleness to his skin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? Come on. This isn’t like you.”

“What isn’t?” he snaps, and Emma blinks, taken aback at his sudden sharpness, and she cross her arms over her chest, hackles rising.

“The – well, the drinking until you’re almost unconscious for one. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

He lets out a cold laugh, low and dark, and this time the goosebumps that sends down her back are not as pleasant as before. “Oh, Swan. You don’t know me very well at all.”

“Right,” Emma says, her heart sinking. She’s not sure why that stung her so badly, and she shakes her head, taking a step back. “Okay, well, I’ll leave you be then –”

Before she can get too far, Wes’s fingers close firmly around her wrist, his hand strong and sturdy, tugging her back.

“No, wait – sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Emma.”

It’s the use of her first name that makes her pause, and she leans back against the bar. “Okay. But, Wes, what is going on? Is something wrong?”

He’s silent for a few moments, staring at the polished surface of the bar as if it holds answer to her question. Then he shakes his head, a wry chuckle escaping him. “You’ll think I’m mad.”

Emma doesn’t know quite what to say to that. She casts a glance over her shoulder to Ruby and Mary Margaret, who are watching her closely. They send her quizzical looks, and though Ladies Night is about making friends and having a good time with them … Emma know she can’t do that, not when Wes is sitting here, staring into the bottom of a glass.

After all, he’s her friend too.

She pulls back the seat beside him, dropping into it and bumping his shoulder with hers, as friendly as she can be.

“Try me.”

He smiles at her, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he closes his eyes, rubbing at them with his fingers. “You won’t like what I have to say. But … I think your lad’s stories are getting to me.”

Emma, who’d been adjusting her seat on the uncomfortable bar stool, bangs her knee hard against the bar. “He – what?”

“I told you you’d think I’ve lost it,” he mutters, and he opens his eyes again to meet Emma’s gaze. His eyes, half-blurry from all the alcohol, are dim and sad. “Even I think I’m losing it.”

True, Emma’s thoughts are headed in that same direction, or at least that he’s clearly heading into that crazy drunk phase, but she shakes her head in disagreement anyways.

“No, Wes. What do you mean? How has his stories ‘got to you’?”

He is quiet for a few moments, looking incredibly reluctant, before shaking his head with a dark grimace. “Just remember when you’re locking me up in the mad ward of the hospital – I was sane enough at one point to agree that I think I’ve lost it too.”

He drops his eyes down to focus on the polished bar instead of her and continues, “Ever since that day when you told me about your boy’s book, that day when we had coffee after the market, I’ve – I’ve been having dreams of pirate ships and swordfights and sailing and the like. Constantly. And I know it’s stupid, it’s crazy, but these dreams, they’re not just dreams. I don’t know how to describe it, they’re more like …” he pauses, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just – I just have trouble getting to sleep these days because of it.”

Emma stares back at him, her heart racing. It’s illogical and unreasonable, but her thoughts instantly jump to a man who also told her he was having bad dreams, days before he dropped dead of a heart attack in her arms. She’s never questioned Graham’s strange comments before, but now, with Wes saying similar things too …

But before she can even think of something to say, her mind stuttering and tripping over whatever conclusion it’s trying to draw, when Wes lets out a dramatic sigh, and nearly falls off the barstool in the process. Emma’s quick reflexes steady him, and he slumps forward against the bar, groaning. His momentary clarity in telling her about his dreams seems to have faded, and he’s back to his drunken self, slumped and muttering.

Though her mind is still stuck on his comments of the dreams, Emma’s sheriff-ing instincts kick in. He’s in no state to remain here any longer, and certainly not up for any questions about whatever the hell those dreams are.

She tugs on his arm to make him sit upright again. “Alright, buddy. I think it’s time for you to go home.”

He grumbles but allows her to pull him to his feet anyways. After rummaging in his pocket for a moment, he withdraws his wallet and places enough bills down to cover his tab and then some. “Fine.”

Emma hesitates, watching him stumble nearly back into the bar as he attempts to move away from her. She follows him a few more steps towards the door, side-stepping a few other patrons and nearly crashing right into Sidney Glass as he rises from his own table.

“Sorry, Sidney, excuse me. Wes, wait!” She hurries up to him, and grabs his arm, stopping him from leaving the bar. “How are you gonna get home?”

“Walk, I’spose,” he mumbles, stepping off into an unsteady teeter. “S’not far, I’ll make it.”

“You can barely walk two steps, let alone several blocks.” She shakes her head, and her mind is made up in an instant. “I’ll drive you. Wait here, I just need to grab my bag.”

He opens his mouth to protest but Emma is already moving away from him, and she re-joins Mary Margaret and Ruby at their table. To her relief, neither makes any dry comments, instead their brows furrowed in identical concern.

“Is he okay?” Mary Margaret asks worriedly. “He looks really out of it.”

Emma shoots a glance over her shoulder, gathering her purse. Newport has leaned against a table again, much to the apparent annoyance of its occupants, his head buried in his hand, and Emma frowns.

“I’m gonna give him a ride home. He’s … he just needs to go home and go to bed.” She starts to turn, but then faces Mary Margaret and Ruby again. “Sorry about Ladies’ Night. I – I really wanted to spend time with you both.”

“That’s okay,” Ruby says, smiling genuinely. “Next time.”

Emma smiles in gratitude, and then hurries back over to Wes. She rests a soft hand on his back, and he looks up to her with bleary eyes as she guides him out of the bar.

The cold air of the evening seems to sober him up just a bit, and as they approach her car, comes to a stop, scratching behind his ear, mouth in an uncomfortable grimace.

“Swan, thanks for the offer, but I’m fine, really –”

“Wes, shut up and get in the car.”

He turns his grimace to her then. “I really don’t –”

Emma, who is not letting him walk home in this state, sighs and unceremoniously shoves him into the passenger seat of her car. He protests again, but she cuts him off by slamming the door shut, and jogs around to the other end. Mercifully, he is quiet when she gets in, having settled himself against the cool glass window, his eyes pinched shut.

“Don’t pass out on me,” Emma says, elbowing him slightly to make sure he’s still awake; he mumbles something incoherent back to her. “Not until we’re at your place.”

She remembers where his apartment is from having dropped him off previously. He probably could have made it there himself, she reckons, but it is better to be safe than sorry. She’d much rather make sure he arrives and conks out there than have a call later about him passed out in the bushes.

When they arrive, Emma gets out of the car with him make sure he actually makes it into the apartment itself and he leads her to the third floor. He nearly wipes out twice on the stairs up, before finally stopping in front apartment five and leaning against the wooden door frame for support.

“Alright,” he grumbles. “I will concede that I may have had one drink too many.”

Emma snorts. “One. Try six.”

He pulls out a meagre key ring from his pocket, fumbling with them for a bit before finally finding the correct one to unlock the door. Emma hesitates at the door, before following him into the apartment. She figures she better at least make sure he’s got a glass of water and a couple aspirin for the morning before she leaves. That’s what friends do for their friends when they’ve had too much to drink, right?

His apartment is smaller than hers and Mary Margaret’s, and much emptier. A simple white couch is against the far wall, a faded wooden coffee table in front of it, cluttered with open books. Beside that is a white-stone fireplace, its mantle covered in even more books, and against the opposite wall is a closed door she assumes leads to the bathroom. Like Mary Margaret’s, a staircase leads up to a small loft area and Emma can see his neatly made bed up there, as well as a low set of drawers. Behind the stairs is his small kitchen, with a single white chair at the table against the wall.

As her gaze sweeps around, she notices Wes is standing somewhat uncertainly in the middle of the room, jacket half-off, as if he’s suddenly forgotten where he is.

“Wes?” Emma asks gently, coming up beside him. “Are you okay?”

He starts and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. “Aye. I just …” he trails off, and sighs. “I just need some sleep, I think. I haven’t slept a lot lately.”

He says it lightly, as if not remembering what he told her at the bar, and Emma swallows heavily. He’s in no state to discuss this dream business and saying that Henry is getting to him now, much as she wants to, and she nudges him towards the bathroom.

“That’s probably a good idea. You go get ready and I’ll get you some water.”

He moves away with a small nod, disappearing into the bathroom as Emma heads into the kitchen. She opens several cupboard doors before she finds the ones with the cups, and then starts the sink to get him some water.

As she waits for him to finish up in the bathroom, Emma looks around some more, unable to stop her curiosity.

It reminds her of somewhere, but where she cannot place. The apartment is as neat as she’d expect from Wes Newport, not even a cushion on the sofa at a wrong angle. But, it still doesn’t feel quite like what she thought. Apart from the sound of the running water in the bathroom, the apartment is entirely too quiet, and Emma rubs her arms against the sudden chill sent running down her spine.

She realizes, then, that it reminds her of her old apartment in Boston. It looks nothing alike, but the same emptiness fills the space. A place to sleep, to eat, to return to at the end of each day, but not a home. The only sign that this place is even lived in is the open books on the coffee table and a couple of dishes drying beside the sink. No loose sweaters strewn anywhere, no scribbled reminders pinned to the fridge, no pictures of any of his family or friends anywhere. In fact, the only picture at all is a large painting hanging above the white sofa. Looking at the painting further, a thrill of disbelief runs through her.

It is of a large, masterful ship at a rickety dock, and she recognizes it instantly: it looks exactly like the one from the museum and Henry’s book. The drawing has no colour, but it still has the distinctive bands on its hull that Emma knows to be yellow and red, and hell, even the rigging looks the same. She steps closer, and her hand rises up, almost touching the painting.

No way.

“Did you draw this?” she asks, before she can stop herself.

“Huh?” he calls from the bathroom, his voice muffled.

She searches the painting further, and finds the artist’s name in the bottom corner, declaring it the work of someone named Milah. She lets her hand drop, and she steps back, shaking her head.

“Never mind!”

Its likeness to the ship she’s seen multiple times now is stunning, and Emma is too unnerved to stay by it for any longer. First Gold pulling out a hook, Wes talking about pirate nightmares, and now seeing a picture of a pirate ship … Emma has had enough of that crap today.

She returns to the kitchen, gazing out the window over the sink. It has no curtains, and Emma can see the boardwalk and ocean outside. It’s a calm night, and the moonlight flickers brightly against the gentle waves of the water.

“It’s quite the view in the day,” Wes says from behind her, and Emma jumps a little, not having heard him exit the bathroom.

He’s changed now, into a loose black shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair damp and his face a little red from washing it. It’s the most dressed down she’s ever seen him; he has removed his prosthetic, the end of the sleeve of the long shirt hanging empty at his side.

“Nothing but ocean for miles.”

“Uh, I bet that’s nice.”

He nods, reaching out for the glass of water in her hand. “Thanks, love.”

Emma nods, and suddenly she’s not sure what to do with herself, standing in his apartment with him in his pyjamas and clearly ready for bed. “Um, do you have any aspirin?” she asks, if only for something to say. “For tomorrow morning.”

He nods and waves his left arm absently behind him. “Aye, upstairs.” He takes a drink from the glass, and then it towards her in a salute. “I’d ask you to stay for a real drink, but –”

Emma laughs, and his smile turns cheeky. “But you’ve had far too many already,” she finishes, smirking. “Maybe another time.”

“Another time?” he repeats, an eyebrow raising suggestively. “Is that so?”

She rolls her eyes, but inside she’s grinning despite herself. “Drinking turns you into a creep, got it. Now, are you able to climb those stairs by yourself or do I need to stick around to make sure you don’t break your neck by falling down them?”

He snorts at her. “I’ll be fine, Swan. Don’t worry about me.”

She smiles back, and with her job done – gotten him home, gotten him water, made sure he has pain killers for tomorrow – there’s no other excuse to linger.

“I suppose I better be going,” she says, and turns to face the door. “It’s getting late.”

He nods, walking with her to the door. As she opens it, he rests his hand on her arm, stopping her gently, and Emma glances up to him. He’s got an earnest expression to his face now, soft and warmer than she’s seen on him before.

“Thank you for getting me home safely, Emma. I appreciate it.”

Emma nods, and smiles warmly back at him. “Of course. That’s what friends are for.”

_____

From her car, parked across the street of Wes Newport’s apartment building, Regina watches Emma Swan leave the building about ten minutes after they arrived together. Emma doesn’t notice her as she gets into her own obnoxious yellow car and drives off, but Regina lingers, watching the lights remain on in Newport’s apartment.

She’s been unnerved by Newport’s attitude the past few weeks, ever since his friendship with Emma Swan had begun, and seeing Emma Swan leave his apartment, late at night, only makes her unease grow. She’d driven here to check in on this, after Sidney reported seeing them at the bar leaving together.

Not to make a pun, but this is getting out of hand. And not to make another pun, but she’d left this in Gold’s hands to handle, with no choice after he said the magic word – please.

So, she’d left her unease and discomfort with this situation with him, and look where it’s gotten her. Newport defying her wishes at every turn, lying to her about his whereabouts on the weekend, and now the two of them cozying up at the local bar before she drove him home after he drunk far too much, Wes acting more like the pirate he used to be than her treasurer.

Regina starts the car as the lights finally wink out in Newport’s apartment, content for now that there won’t be any more trouble this evening. She drives passed her house and out to her father’s mausoleum in the cemetery.

The cemetery is deserted, and as she steps into the vault, she takes a deep breath in of the damp smell, imagining it to be the tangy flavour of magic that she left behind so many years ago now.

Though, she thinks with a faint smirk, things are starting to change here. While she’s not pleased with that at all, the only advantage to this most unfortunate of situations is that with Emma Swan’s continued presence here in Storybrooke, Regina is finding that Gold’s pleases are losing their power. After all – she shouldn’t have been able to follow up on Sidney’s note of their presence together. His please should have kept her away.

But it didn’t.

And with that, with the final pun she’ll make about this, she knows she has the upper hand again, over Gold, over Emma Swan, over Wes Newport. Storybrooke is hers, as is everyone within this town, and she is not going to allow this, whatever this is between the sheriff and the treasurer to continue any further. Regina has had enough, and no matter the cost, no matter the price, she’s going to get her town back.

#cs ff #cs mc ff #cs fic #captain swan #ouat #from the sea #hope this one is ok #i had fun with it

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master-sass-blast · 6 years ago

Text

Found Family, Part One --Wade.

I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS ONE. I HAVE BEEN PLANNING THIS PIECES FOR M O N T H S.

Summary: A brief look at yours and Wade’s siblingship, and all that it entails.

Rating: T for adult language, mentions of abuse/mental health issues/suicide, and mild angst.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader and Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson.

@marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie

Some say that the two of you together are a disaster. A cruel joke by the universe unfairly cast upon the rest of society. A recipe for total destruction.

You know better than to buy into what any of the bystanders and onlookers say. The two of you, while admittedly destructive, are like air to each other; without one another, neither of you would be able to survive.

Wade Wilson is your –adoptive—brother, you’re his –adoptive—sister, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The technical beginning of your wonderful sibling-ship with Wade Wilson starts when you help him prank Scott Summers in the dead of night, but that’s not where things really started. At least, not in your view of things.

No, they start the next day, when Wade knocks on your door half an hour before noon. He’s dressed in the most outrageous, neon pink and green Hawaiian shirt, orange camo jeggings, and bright, ‘fuck you’ blue Crocs.

“You eat lunch yet?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to the way your eyes are blinking their protest at the amalgamation of colors he’s wearing.

“Uh… no?”

“Great!” He loops an arm around your shoulders and steers you down the hall. “Let’s go get some! I’m buying.”

Dopinder, as it turns out, is a sweet and gentle soul –despite his weird thirst for vengeance. He drives the two of you to a downtown diner –and takes Wade’s weirdness with considerable grace and stride, which isn’t something you’ve witnessed from anyone else yet—and drops you off with the promise to wait until the two of you are done eating.

“I’m pretty sure you’re shafting his ability to earn a livable income,” you say as a waitress seats you and Wade at a booth adjacent to a window.

Wade snorts. “As if. One, I tip him in chicken nuggets, which is more than anyone else ever does. B, I’m helping him get into the mercenary industry, which pays way better than driving a fucking taxi ever will. And four, he doesn’t mind.”

You open your menu, start scanning the options, then freeze.

There’s so many choices –fuck, you’ve never even eaten out at a proper restaurant before. Your parents were too focused on ‘keeping you safe’ to let you have a proper childhood, dammit.

“Don’t know what to do?” The corner of Wade’s mouth turns up when you give him a ‘deer in headlights’ look. “I figured you probably didn’t have much experience with this. Russell didn’t either. Consider today your crash course in ‘how the world works.’”

“…Thanks.” You look down at the menu quickly to hide the tears that are already blurring your vision. “Uh, what do I get?”

“Whatever you want! They do all day breakfast here, and –in my opinion—there’s no bad time to eat a pancake.”

You smile. Pancakes do sound good. You peruse the menu for a moment longer, and the waitress is back to take your orders.

Wade orders a mountain of food. If he notices the way the waitress’s eyes bug out while he rattles off his insanely long order, he doesn’t let it stop him. He just keeps going, and her pen keeps flying across the page of her little book.

When he finishes, she turns to you, looking somewhat shell-shocked. “And for you, sweetheart?”

You copy Wade’s method of ordering –but not the length of his order. “Pancakes, bacon on the side, extra maple syrup, please.”

The look of relief on her face is almost comical as she jots that down. She promises to have everything out “as quick as possible,” then takes your menus and walks away.

Wade grins at you. “Look at you. You’re a natural!”

You can’t help but grin back.

You spend the rest of the day with Wade –and Dopinder, since he has to drive the two of you around. Wade takes you to various stores, having you buy yourself something –a book, a movie, a scarf—at each place so you can get used to interacting with people and handling monetary transactions.

You’re touched in a way that you can’t begin to describe. Sure, Professor Xavier and his team of mutants can help you get your mutation-related abilities under control, but no one’s offered to help you integrate into the real world yet. It’s like Wade’s thrown you a life-line you didn’t realize you needed.

When Dopinder drops the two of you off at the mansion, Colossus is waiting for you on the front step, arms crossed over his massive chest and a disapproving frown set on his face. “Taking young ones of property without permission is not allowed, Wade. You know this.”

“Okay, first of all, she’s not a ‘young one;’ she’s over eighteen, which means she’s allowed to come and go as she pleases. Even I know enough law stuff to know that. Secondly—”

“We’ll try to give you a head’s up next time, Colossus,” you interject before things can too far out of hand. “Sorry for making you worry.”

His expression softens considerable as his gaze switches over to you. “That is reasonable. Did you have nice day out?”

You smile and nod. “Yeah. Wade showed me around New York. It was cool.”

“See? I’m cool. Relax, Chrome Dome. I know what I’m doing.”

Colossus shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “We will make X-Man of you yet, Wade.”

Wade’s full attention turns to you as the metal giant turns and heads back inside. “You were all smiles with him, huh?”

You narrow your eyes at Wade. “So what? Smiling is a normal human thing!”

“Sure,” Wade says, drawing out the ‘u.’ “You like him, don’t you?”

“Only as much as you like Cable!”

It’s Wade’s turn to narrow his eyes. “I do not like Cable. I merely have a ‘healthy fascination’ with him and his metal arm. And his awesome gun.”

You smile sweetly at Wade and step inside. “Glad we’ve got that all settled, then.”

Wade pretty well takes you under his wing after that. The two of you have the same penchant for wild mischief –and fucking with Scott Summers—so it’s no surprise that you get along like ducks and water.

But what no one else notices –which, admittedly, is probably because they’re so used to cleaning up after yours and Wade’s hijinks—is that Wade does more than just rope you into his nonsense.

The two of you need to run to a store to pick up supplies for your latest prankster endeavor? He has you make a list, estimate how much it’ll cost, keep track of the route on Dopinder’s GPS, and puts you in charge of navigating the store while you track down everything you need.

He gets bored of being cooped up in the mansion? He takes you out for an adventure, teaches you how to navigate streets and pick out safe places to duck into if you run into trouble.

He buys you your first laptop and cellphone, shows you how to customize everything for “maximum fun.” (And, when his knowledge runs out, he just sets you down in front of Ellie and has her teach you how to be safe on the Internet and how to avoid getting ten thousand viruses on your computer.)

The man makes sure you get a proper sex-ed course. Not one where he just cracks inappropriate jokes –though there are a lot of those going around—but a real one. The ins and outs of consent, how to avoid getting STDs, basic anatomy, how to spot cancer on both sets of genitals.

And it’s all of this that leaves you convinced that Wade Wilson is one of the smartest persons you’ve ever met.

It’s not hard to learn how to read Wade Wilson. Once you get past all the shock value of the jokes, vulgar language, and weird habits, he’s an open book that has its heart on its cover.

He’s lonely. Not the creepy, ‘I’m forty years old and I’m lonely so I spend a lot of time with people half my age’ lonely, mind you. He’s just… lonely. Sad, even.

He hates his skin. That much is obvious from all the long sleeves and layers he wears, even in the dead of summer. And while you don’t see anything wrong with the way he looks, he does, and that’s the only opinion that matters in his book.

Wade Wilson is also a man that wrestles with a lot of demons. His healing factor didn’t cure him of his cancer, so he faces excruciating pain on a daily basis. The loss of his girlfriend –who stuck with him after he got fucked over by Francis and turned into ‘an avocado that got fucked by an older avocado’—is a gaping hole in his chest that he doesn’t know how to plug. His self-loathing is a constant presence in his mind, and the amount of skin he covers is a decent giveaway for just how much he’s hating himself at a given moment.

He kills himself because he “can’t really die.”

And it’s when you watch Colossus and a few other X-Men deal with the aftermath of one of Wade’s “visits to Vanessa” that you decide that this crazy man might need you as much as you need him.

You happen to catch a glimpse of him in the hall a few days later, decked out in his Deadpool suit.

There’s only two reasons Wade wears that suit: he’s getting ready for a fight, or he’s in the pits of self-hatred (or both). But he doesn’t have his swords on him, which means he’s not gearing up for a fight—

You dart down the hall and latch onto one of his arms. “Hey, dude! I just had this great idea that we have to try.”

“Well, don’t keep me waiting, Aang!” Wade chirps back –but his voice is heavily strained, and, yep, you were right about his mental state. “What do we just have to try?”

You don’t actually have an idea on hand, so you just blurt the first thing that pops into your head. “Dessert burritos.”

Wade cocks his head back and considers the idea for a moment. “Dessert… burritos. Holy shit, you’re a genius.”

You grin –his tone’s brighter, lighter, which means you’ve managed to pull him out of his funk a little.

He grabs your hand and starts skipping down the hallway. “To the kitchen!”

Operation “Dessert Burritos” ends in nothing short of a disaster. You and Wade try to make pancakes to act as tortillas, and since neither of you can cook anything other than instant noodles, you wind up burning every attempt at you make. Three flaming skillets get chucked out the back door and two more are doused under the kitchen sink faucet before the two of you decide to call it quits on the ‘pancake’ alley.

So, then, the next logical step seems to be ice cream sundaes –except that Wade is still stuck on the ‘burrito’ concept, so he tries to wrap ice cream in a regular tortilla, which winds up tasting terrible for obvious reason, so Wade spits it out in the trashcan, except he misses part of his target and winds up spraying the front of the can with half his mouthful of ice cream and tortilla.

And then the two of you wind up unpacking the fridge and most of the pantry to find “sundae appropriate toppings” because Colossus is a health nut who keeps the kitchen stocked with healthy things—

And then Wade wants to try microwaving Gushers because why not, and you’ve never been one to say no to an opportunity to do something you’ve never done before—

And thus is all the chaos Colossus walks in on when he pops his head into the kitchen to see what the two of you are up to.

You’re eating fudge ripple ice cream straight out of the carton with a serving spoon, perched on the kitchen. You wave at him with the spoon as his face goes slack with shock. “Hey, dude! What’s up?”

Wade’s swearing up a storm while he tries to get molten Gusher remains off his face –he’d opted to take his mask off while he ate, and you’re suspecting that he’s regretting that decision now.

Colossus covers his face with both his hands and groans. “Wade—”

“Hey, man,” you interject before he can lambaste your honorary sibling too badly. “This was one hundred percent my idea. Don’t worry, we’ll get it all cleaned up. It’ll be like it never happened, I promise.” You pause, then add “Well, the gushers in the microwave was Wade’s idea. He’s on his own for that.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“Hey, I told you not to stick your face into the microwave, but no, Pikachu knows everything!”

Colossus just sighs and shakes his head. “You two are destructive.”

“Hey, at least we didn’t short circuit the microwave this time!” You offer him an impish smile. “We’re doing better than we usually do.”

He puts his hands on his hips, looking every bit the stern father –but the corner of his mouth turns up as he shakes his head again. “I suppose you are correct.”

“Yupp. Like I said, don’t worry. We’ll totally handle the clean up and everything.”

He casts a concerned, appraising look around the kitchen, but still favors you with a small smile when his gaze finally settles on you again. “Well, I suppose I leave you both to it, then.”

The two of you have to spend the rest of the day cleaning and scrubbing to get the kitchen back in order. Wade’s none too happy about it, but you do your best to make it bearable for him –music, banter, the works.

And, bonus, cleaning with him means he has to stay with you, which means he can’t wallow in self-loathing. He’s not his bright, bubbly self, but he’s not falling apart either, which is a win in your book.

It’s dark out by the time the two of you finish getting everything put away. Normally, you’d just call it a day, but it’s not hard to see the darkness swimming behind Wade’s eyes—

“Hey, man, you wanna have a sleepover in the rec room tonight?”

Wade gasps, and his eyes genuinely light up. “Sleepovers are my favorite!”

You grin. “They’re my favorite, too! Come on, go get changed and I’ll meet you there. You still need to catch me up on all the reality TV stuff.”

The two of you are getting the rec room set up for the night when you hear Colossus’s heavy footsteps in the hall.

You pat Wade’s shoulder before hopping over the couch. “I’ll deal with him. Pick out something for us to watch. I’ll be back in five, ten minutes max.”

The metal giant himself is in the kitchen, checking up on everything before he goes to bed, it would seem.

You watch him for a couple moments –you don’t miss the surprised expression on his face at the orderly state of the kitchen, either—before making your presence known. “Making sure we held up our end of things?”

The expression on his face is guilty when he looks over his shoulder at you.

“It’s fine,” you chuckle as you step into the kitchen, holding up your hands in a disarming gesture. “I would if I were you, too.”

He ducks his head a little, but he’s smiling. “I do not wish to seem judgmental.” He looks past you –or, rather, over you—and frowns at the glow of the TV. “You two are still up?”

You glance over your shoulder, then step closer to the man of metal and lower your voice. “Wade’s had a rough day today. I just… I don’t want to leave him alone, you know?”

Understanding settles on Colossus’s steel features; he nods. “Da.”

“We’re just gonna hang out for the night, have a sleepover,” you add. “No more kitchen adventures –speaking of which, one of the skillets was not salvageable.”

Colossus huffs out a gentle laugh, crosses his arms over his massive chest, and shakes his head. “Somehow, I am not surprised.”

“You gotta admit, it’s better than our usual levels of collateral damage.”

“I suppose.” He smiles softly at you for a moment before clearing his throat and looking away. “Well, I leave you both to it.”

“Thanks. Goodnight, Colossus.”

“Rest well, Y/N.”

You watch him go for a minute –watch the way the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple as he walks—before you shake yourself out of the daze Colossus never fails to put you in and head back to Wade. “All taken care of. We’re free to poison our brains with reality TV drama all we want!”

Wade doesn’t look up at you when you walk in. He’s seated on the middle of the couch, jaw tight and lips pursed as he stares ahead at the TV screen. “I don’t need your fucking pity.”

You blink, shocked by the sudden outburst and his surly mood. It doesn’t take much to put together that he probably heard your conversation in the kitchen –Colossus’s voice always carries—but even if he didn’t it’s not too far out of Wade’s “normal” for him to assume that he’s only getting the scraps of what decent treatment he deserves.

Either way, you’re not having this argument. Not now, not ever.

You put your hands on your hips and fix him with a stern look. “Good, because I’m not giving you any.”

Your sharp tone makes his eyes widen, and he actually looks away from the glowing screen to stare at you.

“I don’t know if you noticed, dumbass,” you continue, tossing in a mild insult to help him figure out you’re serious, “but I care about you. You’re the one person in this mansion that made sure I’d be able to function in the real world if I had to, and I’ll be damned if I’m just gonna let you flounder when you’re feeling down. And that’s not pity, jackass. It’s called being a decent fucking human being. Got it?”

“Pretty sure it’s pity when the person isn’t obligated to care about you,” Wade throws back, smiling bitterly.

And you understand where he’s coming from. After Vanessa died, all the help he’s been getting has come from the X-Men, and how can it not look like a pity handout when the people helping you have their lives and themselves so extraordinarily put together?

You’ve felt the same way about it on more than one sleepless night.

You let out an irritated huff and cross your arms over your chest. “Fine. I’m hereby adopting you as my brother. Now, as your new sister, I’m obligated to care about you. Are we doing this sleepover or what?”

Wade blinks at you, then grins. It’s tired, and it’s worn down, but it’s not bitter.

You’ll take it.

“Hell yeah we are.” He scoots over so you can sit next to him. “These are reruns of ‘Say Yes to the Dress.’ This one’s the ‘Bridezilla’ edition.”

“Sweet.” You plop down on the couch just in time to see a particularly distraught bride-to-be throw a fascinator at her mother. “Holy shit.”

“Just wait,” Wade says, all too gleeful. “It gets better.”

You wake up in the gray pre-dawn of the next day and nearly smack your head into Wade’s.

The two of you had taken half the couch each, with heads in the middle so you could hear each other talk and avoid kicking each other in the middle of the night.

Wade’s still asleep, one hand holding onto one of yours.

The sight makes you smile, makes you feel a little less despair over the state of the world.

You squeeze his hand, then nudge his head when he doesn’t stir. “Wake up, idiot.”

Wade groans. “Too early.”

“Yeah, which is why I’m putting you back to bed.” You tug him off the couch and walk him towards the main staircase. “Come on. Your ancient back needs a proper mattress.”

“Not ancient.”

“Yes, you are, you geriatric motherfucker.”

You manage to get him up the stairs and to his room without incident. He drops into his bed with a grunt, and you tuck a blanket around him and wait for him to start snoring again.

And then you get to work.

It takes a couple minutes, but you manage to find all the guns and knives Wade keeps on him while at the Institute. You tuck the numerous weapons into your arms, then pad out of his room.

Colossus is in the hall –already dressed for the day, the morning bird. He frowns, concerned, when he sees your armload of weaponry. “What—”

“Don’t worry,” you toss over your shoulder as you walk precisely one door to the left. “I’m not using them.” You kick the door a couple times with your foot, then step back and wait.

Nathan Summers, alias Cable, opens the door a few seconds later. He takes one good look at the guns and knives in your arms, then raises an eyebrow at you as if to say ‘what the fuck do you want me to do with those?’

“Wade’s been in a mood,” you say, as if that explains everything –which, technically, it does. “And you actually know how to store these properly.”

He sighs, but doesn’t look too put-out about it, and opens the door more. “Bring them in.”

You dump the arsenal on his bed when he motions for you to do so, watch as he puts gunlocks on the various firearms and tucks the knives and other bladed weapons into the top drawer of his nightstand.

Colossus watches from the hall, hovering nervously in a way that should not be possible for someone of his side.

“If you’re cool with it, I’m gonna leave a note for Wade to let him know to see you if he wants his shit back,” you say as Nathan tucks Wade’s guns into a duffel bag. “He probably won’t be up before noon.”

Nathan sighs, but nods anyway. “Not like I’m going anywhere else.”

“Thanks,” you say, and you mean it. “I wouldn’t have known what to do with all this.”

“Anytime, kid.”

Colossus watches you carefully as you walk back into the hall and close Nathan’s door behind you. “You… care a great deal for Wade.”

It’s not hard to hear the unspoken question, mostly because it’s easy to see how someone might confuse the easy camaraderie you and Wade have always had for something else. Something… less platonic.

You shrug and tell the truth. “He’s my brother.”

Finding out that Colossus –Piotr, his name is Piotr, and you think you could spend the rest of your life saying his name without ever getting tired of how it feels on your lips—likes you is a world-changing revelation.

You know by the looks Wade keeps sending you throughout lunch, the afternoon, and dinner that he’s going to want a full report on everything that’s happened with Piotr.

You can’t wait to give him one.

You also can’t help but notice the way that the door to Wade’s room is cracked open and the lights are on as Piotr walks you back to your room –ostensibly so you know he’s ‘in’ and will pop in to give him the full rundown, but probably also so he can eavesdrop, the little shit.

But you can’t find it in yourself to care all that much because Piotr’s hand is holding yours and you can’t imagine ever feeling anything better than what you’re feeling right now.

He walks you to your door, smiles fondly down at you. “I have work tonight. I doubt I will see you before morning.”

“So you’re ‘saying goodnight just in case?’” You ask, smiling back as giddy excitement coils in your stomach.

“Something like that, da.” And then he dips his head and presses his lips against yours.

You can’t help but gasp, just a little, and lift your hand to his shoulder to steady yourself.

The kiss ends all to soon –for your liking and Piotr’s, if the look he gives you is anything to go by.

He presses his forehead against yours before stepping back. “Goodnight, myshka.”

“Goodnight, Piotr.” You let your fingers slip from his as he walks away and watch him as he retreats down the hall.

He looks over his shoulder before he turns the corner to head downstairs. He smiles when he sees you watching, and blows you a kiss before disappearing from view—

And then, right on cue, Wade opens his door and grins at you.

You just cover your face with your hands and let out an excited squeal. You’re too excited to be annoyed with Wade, dammit.

He tugs you in his room. “I have snacks. Now, tell me everything.”

The two of you talk for hours, demolishing several bags of fun-sized candies and two packages of Keebler Fudgestripes.

“No fucking way!” Wade brays. “He was pet-naming you for the better part of a year? What a dork!”

“Well, he’s my dork now, so mind your mouth.” You grin stupidly, then squeal as you fall over onto Wade’s bed.

“Oh my gosh, you’re so cute I could die.”

There’s a knock on the doorframe, and Piotr –still out of defense mode, which is gonna take some serious getting used to—pokes his head into Wade’s room. “You are still up?” He frowns when he sees the numerous wrappers covering Wade’s bed. “Did you eat all that?”

You giggle at your boyfriend. “Kinda. We got carried away.”

He shakes his head in an all-too-familiar disapproving gesture, but an amused smile plays at his lips. “Is not good to consume so much sugar this late, myshka. You will be up half of night.”

“Unless I find a way to burn it off.” You grin at him. “Mind accompanying me on a late night stroll?”

He smiles softly at you. “Konechno –of course.”

“God, you two are so barf-worthy,” Wade gushes as you hop off his bed. “I love it.”

You catch Nathan in the hall as Piotr escorts you towards the stairs.

He smirks at the two of you, presumably having gotten an update from Wade and Ellie. “Going somewhere?”

“Just for a walk.” You jerk your head back towards Wade’s room, where light is still spilling into the hallway from his open door. “I bet he could use some company right now.”

Nathan shakes his head and mutters something that sounds like ‘clingy’ under his breath, but he stills strides over to Wade’s room anyway. He pauses at the doorway, frowning. “Did you eat all of that?”

“Yes, he did!” you shout. “You should have seen it; it was horrifying!”

“Lies!” Wade shouts back from his room. “Lies, lies, all fucking lies and slander!”

Piotr chuckles and tugs on your hand. “Come, myshka. Before you get into more trouble.”

You grin as you follow him down the stairs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Watching Nate finally –finally—kiss Wade is like getting to the end of a good slow-burn book. You’ve loved watching the build-up, loved placing bets with everyone else on when those two would finally get their heads out of their asses and realize they were basically dating already, but God it’s such a relief to see them actually do something other than flirt with each other.

And one good turn deserves another, which is why you dig a box of maple sugar candies that you’d been saving for Wade’s birthday out of your dresser drawer and head over to Wade’s room.

Nathan’s already in there, holding Wade in his arms as they snuggle on Wade’s bed.

You can’t help but grin. “God, you two are so barf worthy. I love it.”

Wade sticks his tongue out at you. “We’re gonna give you and Metallica a run for your ‘hashtag goals’ money. Just you watch.”

“Good fucking luck.” You gesture at him with the box. “Wanna give me the ‘full rundown? I brought snacks.”

“I never say no to snacks.” He makes grabby hands for the box, then gasps softly when he sees the label. “Where’d you get these?”

“Vermont. The school took the kids on a field trip to a maple syrup farm. They’re the real deal.”

Wade tears the box open with all the delicacy of a rabid badger. “You do love me.”

“Always have, bro.”

Nathan frowns down at the little candies shaped like maple leaves. “The fuck are those?”

“Only the best thing on the face of the damn planet.” Wade holds one up to his boyfriend’s mouth. “Open up, sweetcheeks.”

Nate bites off part of the candy. His eyes widen immediately, and he spits the lump of melting sugar out onto a tissue. “Fuck. Too sweet.”

Wade gasps. “I’ll have you know that, as a Canadian, you’ve just committed a heresy. I’m sorry, we’re gonna have to see other people.”

Nathan snorts as he chucks his tissue into a nearby wastebasket. “Can’t get rid of me that easy, gorgeous.”

You can’t help but smile as Wade nuzzles Nate’s shoulder affectionately. “I just wanna say: I fucking told you so.”

“Shut up,” Wade shoots back. “You did not.”

“Wade, how long did I tell you that he liked you? How fucking long?”

“Yeah, well how long did I tell you that our resident steel boyscout liked you?” Wade rolls his eyes, then raises the pitch of his voice. “No, he doesn’t, we’re just friends, he doesn’t feel the same way!”

“I do not sound like that!”

“Uh, yeah you do! That’s why I made my voice sound like that.”

“Listen, asshole—”

“Language, myshka.” Piotr leans against the doorframe, smiling fondly at you. “Be nice.”

You point imperiously at Wade. “He started it!”

“Yeah, and I finished it! No performance anxiety here!”

Nate rolls his eyes. “You’re both insane.”

“Yeah? So?” You pluck two maple sugar candies out of the box –ignoring Wade’s squawks of protest as you do—then nab a tissue from the dresser before turning to Piotr. “Here. Try this.”

He eyes the candy, then the tissue, with admittedly fair suspicion. “What is this?”

“Candy.”

He gestures with the tissue. “And this?”

“Call it a safe bet.”

He sighs, then takes a delicate bite of the candy –and, sure enough, promptly spits it out into the tissue. “Bozhe moi, much too sweet.”

“Saw that coming.” You pop your entire candy into your mouth and let out a moan of contentment. “So good.”

“I know,” Wade says as he pops another bite of sugar molded into the shape of a leaf in his mouth. He makes a noise that in any other context would’ve been downright obscene and flops against Nathan’s chest.

“You’re both sugar fiends,” Nathan grumbles, putting an arm around Wade’s shoulders.

“I like to think of it as ‘well-adjusted.’” You grin teasingly at your own boyfriend. “What’s the matter, babe? Can’t handle a little sugar?”

He latches onto your hand and draws you into his arms. “Perhaps, you are just only sweet thing I need in life,” he says as he drops a kiss against the top of your head.

“Ew,” Wade mock-whines. “Get your PDA out of here!”

You roll your eyes at him. “Says the guy who’s literally sitting in his boyfriend’s lap.”

Despite the banter, you’re legitimately happy. You’ve got your happy ending, and Wade’s got his.

Look at us, bro, you think as the four of you share laughs. Champions of overcoming the shittiest obstacles. Go us.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #nathan summers x wade wilson #cablepool #i know the warning look scary but this really is just a fluff fest #deadpool fanfic #x men fanfiction

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yuckitup-jwd · 5 years ago

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Historical people answer the question - Why did the chicken cross the road?

Douglas Adams: Forty-Two

Earnest Angsley: To be HAYELED! in the name o'Jayeeezus!

Marcus Antonius: The evil that chickens do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones.

Any Philosophy 101 Professor: Why not?

Any Calculus Professor: The road, if expressed in the form (y2-y1)/(x2-x1) is approximate for cases where lim(y2-y1)/(x2-x1) as (x2-x1) -> 0, is represented by the derivative, or rate of change, of the road with respect to the chicken, such that the value of the chicken may be assumed equal to the value of (y2-y1)/(x2-x1), for small values of roads.

Jane Austen: Because it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single chicken, being posessed of a good fortune and presented with a good road, must be desirous of crossing.

Aristotle: To actualize its potential.

Neil Armstrong: One small step for chickenkind, one giant leap for poultry.

Arthur, King of the Britons: What do you mean? African or European chickens?

Paul Atreidies: What name have you for the chicken shaped stain upon your road? That shall be the name that you shall call me!

Lord Baden-Powell: Because as a Chicken Scout, it needed the Road-Crossing Merit Badge.

Bilbo Baggins: Oh what I wouldn't give to back in my nice, warm Hobbit-hole! I hope I never have to lay eyes on such a thing as that chicken again!

Baldrick: It had a cunning plan.

The Band: To take a load off....

The Bandit, in The Treasure of The Sierra Madre: "Chickens? Chickens? We don't need no stinkin' chickens!"

Clive Barker: He was drawn to the road, and he didn't so much cross the road as the road crossed him. And once across, the chicken entered into a frightening void, filled only with the screams of a thousand agonized souls. The hands of doom reached out of the blackness, strangling the chicken, smothering him, suffocating him. He could not escape, as no one who crosses the road can escape. He was now a prisoner of the Cenobytes, doomed to an eternity of pain.

Roseanne Barr: Urrrrrp. What chicken?

The Beatles: To be free as a bird!

Lavrenti Beria (ex-head of the KGB): This is a State Secret -- we have informants everywhere.

Bill The Cat Ack. Thpppbt

Blackadder: Queenie: Because I told it to. Percy: To acquire a hunk of purest green Lord Flasheart: To DOOOOOOOOO IT!

Lucien Bouchard: So that it could be SEPARATE!

Ben Bova: To be reunited with beautiful grey-eyed Athena, the woman he has loved for all of time

Brisco (Law and Order): For A Bagel

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce and Bruce: To grab a Fosters and get away from the poofters!

Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.

Archie Bunker: I don't care what them there chickens do, as long as they stay on THEIR side of the street!

Bugs Bunny: What's up, cluck?

Robert Burns: Fair Fa Your Honest Sonsie Face Great Chieftain O' The Chicken Race The blackened road 'ahind ye said Ye best run quick ere ye be deid!

George Bush: If it did it was out of the loop

George Bush: (again) It could see the thousand points of headlights....

Rhett Butler: Frankly my dear, it didn't give a damn!

C3PO (1): Sir, may I remind you that I am fluent in 6,000,000 forms of communication and this chicken has not... shutting up, sir.

C3PO (2): Sir, according to my calculations, the odds of a chicken successfully navigating a road are 3,750 to 1 against.

Caesar: It came, it saw, it crossed.

Joseph Campbell: In primitive cultures, we can find many such examples of the chicken motif that cannot be dismissed as mere coincidence. For instance, I am reminded of an old Navajo legend in which a buffalo crosses a stream to "come" to the other side -- an obvious negative language devised to prepare tribesmen for a transcendental experience. Similarly, the Hindus believe in savanaya, or a sacred cow that leaps over a chasm on Thursdays. Through metaphorical interpretation, we are led to realize that all examples suggest an attainable higher state of consciousness like that of Nietzsche's ubermench, or superman, as outlined in his novel "Thus Spoke Zarathustra."

Albert Camus: Seeing that an indifferent world lied on all sides of the road, the chicken knew it would be absurd not too cross, and for that moment, the chicken knew what it was to really be alive. It was if the bird had been asleep its entirely up until this choice was put before him. So, with a newfound determination and a smile, the chicken valiently crossed the road only to be put out of its mercy by an eighteen wheeler.

Candide: To cultivate its garden.

Johnny Carson: Let me tell you, it was so cold at that farm... Ed McMahon: How cold was it? Johnny Carson: It was so cold, that the chickens were mugging the sheep to get wool for sweaters!

Raymond Chandler: Across these mean streets a chicken must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete chicken and a common chicken and yet an unusual chicken. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a chicken of honor - by instinct, by inevitability, withough thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best chicken in his world and a good enough chicken for any world.

Charlie X: Because it didn't want to STAY....STAY....STAY....STAY....STAY...

Cheech (or Chong): Just to be there, man.

The Chicken: I am crossing the road to block traffic as a protest against ..." (thump).

Commander Chikotay: I'm not sure but I can find out. That chicken is my animal spirit guide.

Noam Chomsky: To manufacture consent

Tom Clancy: The Mark 84 gargleblaster that the chicken carried, at the heart of which was an inferior ex-Soviet excimer laser system, had insufficient range to allow the chicken to carry out its mission from this side of the road.

John Cleese From Fawlty Towers: Manuel from Barcelona: "Que?" Basil: "You know, a chicken crossing the road...." Manuel: "Que?" Basil: [looking it up in a dictionary], "Un Pollo..." Manuel: interrupting, "No, No we out of chicken.." * WHAP!!*

John Cleese: Because it was very silly.

John Cleese: (again) This isn't a chicken license, you know! It's a dog license with the word "Dog" crossed out and "Chicken" written in in crayon.

John Cleese: (#3) This Chicken is no more. It has ceased to function. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. It's a stiff. If it wasn't nailed to the road it'd be pushing up daisies. It's snuffed it. It's metabolic processes are now history. It's bleeding demised. It's rung down the curtain, shuffled off the mortal coil and joined the bleeding Choir Invisible. This is an Ex-Chicken.

Bill Clinton: What?

Bill Clinton (again): The chicken was persuaded to cross the road by the Democratic congress. It is now returning to the middle of the road

Joseph Conrad: Mistah Chicken, he dead.

John Constantine: Because it'd made a bollocks of things over on this side of the road and figured it'd better get out right quick.

Alastair Cooke: Good Evening, and welcome to Masterpiece Theatre. Tonight, we present the epic British drama "How The Chicken Went," based on the 1843 novel by Herbert T. Poultry, and adapted for the screen by Joanna Drumstick. Starring Susan Hampshire as the Chicken, and Anthony Hopkins as the evil and unrepentant diner, Borstrom, this elegant period piece explores the mores and morality of a society in which ordinary chickens had to face their destiny of crossing the road to meet their fate at the hands of the monied upper classes, regardless of their own ambitions or desires...

Shiela Copps (Deputy Prime Minister of Canada): BECAUSE I SCREAMED AT IT REAL LOUD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sheila Copps: Okay, I know that the chicken promised it would cross the road if the Liberals failed to eliminate the GST, but it was a stupid promise to make and the chicken deeply regrets ever making it. However, the chicken will not be crossing the road because to do so would cost tax payers $500,000.

Sheila Copps (a few days later): Alright! Alright! The chicken will cross the road like it promised. But it'll be right back again. Now leave me alone.

Howard Cosell: It may very well have been one of the most astonishing events to grace the annals of history. An historic, unprecendented avian biped with the temerity to attempt such an herculean achievement formerly relegated to homo sapien pedestrians is truly a remarkable occurrence.

Jacques Ives Cousteau: Zee cheecken, unaware of zee dangare beehind heem, crosses zee street. Weezout warning, zee Porsche strikes, and zee balance of zee nature ees maintained.

Stephen R. Covey: When the chicken and the road can work together for the win-win, the result is synergy!

Jean Cretien, Prime Minister of Canada: "It wasn't a chicken, you know, it was an Inuit carving of a loon. But the RCMP should have been there anyway..."

Aleister Crowley: Because it was its True Will to do so.

Salvador Dali: The Fish.

Stephanie Daniels: It was the turtle's day off.

Darwin: It was the logical next step after coming down from the trees.

Commander Data: I do not know. Although I have compared all of my 437 billion data points relating to chickens and roads, there is no possitive correlation between the two.

W. Edwards Demming: But is one chicken crossing one road of statistical importance? Only once we have established an historical baseline of chickens with respect to roads, with calculated upper and lower control limits, can we make that determination.

Arthur Dent: Are you sure the chicken is from Beetelgeuse, and not from Gilford after all?

Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!

Rene Descartes: It had sufficient reason to believe it was dreaming anyway.

Descartes (again): The chicken was merely a machine and was crossing due to the deterministic nature of the universe.

Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.

Bob Dole: Do you know that before that chicken had gotten across the road, its cellular phone was ringing and there was a lawyer on the other end asking if it would like to sue the city for not putting up a traffic light.

Bob Dylan: How many roads must a chicken travel down, before they call him a man?

E.T.: Chicken, phone home

Ecclesiastes (1): For every fowl, there is a season. A time for garlic, a time for sage...

Ecclesiastes (2): This bird is meaningless.

Wyatt Earp: Well, chicken, are you gonna do something, or just stand there and bleed?

Eeyore: If it did. Which I doubt. Not that it matters.

Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road crossed the chicken depends on your frame of reference.

T.S. Eliot: It's not that they cross, but that they cross like chickens.

Harlan Ellison: Because he had no beak and must scream.

Emergency Medical Holographic Doctor on U.S.S. Voyager: Maybe it was trying to state the nature of a medical emergency.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn't cross the road; it transcended it.

Epicurus: For fun.

Basil Fawlty: Oh, don't mind that chicken. It's from Barcelona.

Sybil Fawlty: BASIL! Why is there a CHICKEN in my hotel?

Dr. Johnny Fever: To escape from the Phone Cops!

Fiver (from Watership Down): Don't you see it? The sky has turned to blood, the field has turned to fire... THE CHICKENS! DON'T YOU SEE THE CHICKENS?

Gerald R. Ford: It probably fell from an airplane and couldn't stop its forward momentum.

Sigmund Freud: The chicken obviously was female and obviously interpreted the pole on which the crosswalk sign was mounted as a phallic symbol of which she was envious, selbstverstaendlich.

Robert Frost: To cross the road less traveled by.

Barney Fyfe: Now Andy, let me tell you a thing or two about chickens. Chickens cross roads in those other counties, but not here in Mayberry. No chicken crosses no roads in Mayberry without Deputy Fyfe knowing about it!

Gandalf: O chicken, do not meddle in the affairs of roads, for you are tasty and good with barbecue sauce.

Bill Gates: For the money

Frank Bunker Gilbereth: To minimize its therbligs

Jim Gillis: The chicken crossed the road to show the gophers it could be done.

Newt Gingrich: To get to the RIGHT side of the road.

Newt Gingrich (again): The chicken had to cross the road, because, bogged down by the incredible debt burden, it was no longer able to fly.

Newt Gingrich (III): It was safety pinned to one of those damn punk rockers!

Ira Glasser (ACLU): The chicken maintains an absolute privacy interest in information as to whether or why he or she may have perambulated the thoroughfare.

Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe: The eternal hen-principle made it do it.

Sir Charles Grandiose: As surely as the golden hairs turn to silver, as surely as the sands drift silently through the slender neck of the hourglass, the last sunny days of summer flee soundlessly under autumn's chilly embrace. And with those last days of that warmest and most joyful of seasons, left the road's edge the sprightliest young chicken ever a Baronet did see

Hercules Gryptyppe-Thynne, (All-around Public-School Cad): That's not a chicken! It's a clever disguise, inside of which is Count Jim "Thighs" Moriarity.....

Gary Gygax: Because I rolled a 64 on the "Chicken Random Behaviors" chart on page 497 of the Dungeon Master's Guide.

Hamlet: Because 'tis better to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of outrageous road maintenance than to take arms against a sea of oncoming vehicles.

Thomas Hardy: The road was black, the sky was white (and so were the feathers) as the bright red mark on the top of the chicken's head gleamed in the twilight. It was a pure chicken and it was doomed.

Mike Harris, (Premier of Ontario): Like evrything else in this province, it was facing the axe.

Paul Harvey: And now... page two... a chicken... attempts to cross... the street... yes... the street... and is... run down by a... Buick! The Buick Roadmaster with it's powerful perfomance and elegant style! Yes... that poor chicken... hit by the Buick... it's true... it's... true... and speaking of true... your local True Value Hardware Store...

Hegel: Only through the synthesis of the dialectical chicken and road could the spirit transcend the experience of crossing.

Robert Heinlein: Because with the freedom the chicken was given, it was the chicken's responsibility to do so.

Robert Heinlein (again): The more widely dispersed chickens are throughout the Universe, the better the long-term prospects for the survival of the chicken species.

Werner Heisenberg: We are not sure which side of the road the chicken was on, but it was moving very fast.

Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.

Hippocrates: Because of an excess of light pink gooey stuff in its pancreas.

Doug Hofstadter: To seek explication of the correspondence between appearance and essence through the mapping of the external road-object onto the internal road-concept.

Sherlock Holmes: It crossed the road because it was going to catch a train at Victoria Station at 3:15, to Edinburgh. And how did I know that? Observe, Watson, the patina of dust on the chicken's feathers, which indicates that it had been spending time in a library, reading about Scotland. And observe also that it was humming "Bonnie Lassie" as it waited to cross. Finally, and most important, observe the train ticket marked Edinburgh, stuffed under one wing, and the fact that Victoria station was where the chicken crossed the street, and finally that the only train to Edinburgh this afternoon is the 3:15....

David Hume: Out of custom and habit.

Saddam Hussein: This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

Lee Iacocca: It found a better car, which was on the other side of the road.

Dr. Jack Van Impe: Well you see, here's the really exciting part, if we were to look at Revelation 17:3 we will see that the Whore of Babylon rides on a scarlet beast. A scarlet beast! What this means is a Rhode Island Red. And the truly glorious thing is that this beast, this Rhode Island Red, this CHICKEN has crossed the road EXACTLY as was prophesized in the Bible and this is all a sign, Revelation 17:3, that we're living in the End Time. Hallelujah! And if you would like more information on the significance of this chicken crossing the road as all part of God's great plan then send me $50 and you will recieve this set of video tapes along with a copy of my recent book "Chickens: fowl beast, or foul beast?".

John Paul Jones: It has not yet begun to cross!

Carl Jung: The confluence of events in the cultural gesalt necessitated that individual chickens cross roads at this historical juncture, and therefore synchronicitously brought such occurrences into being.

Franz Kafka: Dieter, now in the form of a chicken, was running from the government's torture machine. The machine, an instrument of death, slowly obliterated the souls of its victims. Dieter was alone. He was running for his life, his insignificant life.

Immanuel Kant: The pure transcendental concept of the road, having been deduced a priori and without dependence on intuitions, is given in the mode of the chicken as an end in itself, while crossing the road as a hypothetical imperative, namely, as acting towards some end allowed by Reason.

Casey Kasem: And now here's a hot new number from a hot young band whose drummer was so tragically killed in a freeway accident, it's The Hen House Flock singing "When You Gonna Crow?" hitting the charts at number 23!

JFK: The chicken chose to cross the road in this decade not because it was easy, but because it was hard.

Obi Wan Kenobi: To follow old obi wan on some damn fool idealistic crusade.

Jack Kerouac: The chicken hipster, high on tea and the soul groves of Charlie (the bird) Parker, strolled aimlessly on the road looking for his dharma.

Soren Kierkegaard: The chicken is dead. The road is nothing.

Colonel Kilgore: "I love the smell of chickens in the morning"

Martin Luther King: It had a dream.

James Tiberius Kirk: To boldly go where no chicken has gone before.

Ralph Klein: Because we gave it a one-way bus ticket to B.C.

Mark Knophler: How come Chickens got Industrial Disease?

Mark Lane: There is new, irrefutable evidence that the chicken did not act alone.

Gary Larson: Don't ask me. I am retired. Stan Laurel: I'm sorry, Ollie. It escaped when I opened the run.

Timothy Leary: Because that's the only kind of trip the Establishment would let it take.

John Le Carre: Because it knew, at the core of its being where none could ever reach, that its only course of action now that its cover was blown wide open was to try and slip away into the grey, foggy, bleak evening before Smiley came, accompanied by his silent shadow Peter Guillam, asking questions for which there could never be answers.

Dr. Hannibal Lector: So I could eat its liver, with some fava beans and a nice chianti .......thththththththth.

Leda: Are you sure it wasn't Zeus dressed up as a chicken? He's into that kind of thing, you know.

Foghorn Leghorn: To get to that damn Dawg, Boah!

Gottfried Von Leibniz: In this best possible world, the road was made for it to cross.

Vladimir Lenin: It is not the chicken's road. It is the PEOPLE'S road!

David Letterman: And the No. 1 reason - fricasee!

Rush Limbaugh: Beacuse of those damn bleeding heart liberals, trying to save one stupid bird while thousands of jobs are being lost. Dave Lister: Because of the smegging space corps directives.

Any Late Evening News Anchor: The chicken crosses the road. Film at 11:00.

Abraham Lincoln: Fourscore and seven eggs ago, our forefeathers...

Logan (Law and Order): To buy a plaid tie

Jack London: To answer the call of the wild.

H.P. Lovecraft: To futilely attempt escape from the dark powers which even then pursued it, hungering after the stuff of its soul!

George Lucas: Because the Force was with it.

Machiavelli: So that its subjects will view it with admiration, as a chicken which has the daring and courage to boldly cross the road, but also with fear, for whom among them has the strength to contend with such a paragon of avian virtue? In such a manner is the princely chicken's dominion maintained.

Marvin (the paranoid android): "Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and you ask me why the chicken crossed the road? I could tell you, but I really don't think it's worth while."

Marvin the Paranoid Android: Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and what do they ask me? Why did the chicken cross the road? As if their pathetic cerebelums could even comprehend my answer. Chickens, don't talk to me about chickens... they're SO depressing.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Karl Marx (again): To escape the bourgeois middle-class struggle.

Groucho Marx: Chicken? What's all this talk about chicken? Why, I had an uncle who thought he was a chicken. My aunt almost divorced him, but we needed the eggs.

Groucho Marx (again): This morning I shot a chicken in my pyjamas -- and lemme tell ya, that chicken ran out of my pyjamas in a second!

Jackie Mason: Whaddaya want, it should just stand there?

Perry Mason: Cross the road you say? But how can you be sure? No one else would have known the chicken crossed the road except for the real killer!

Dr. McCoy: How should I know? Damnit Jim, I'm a Doctor not an ornithologist!

Marshall McLuhan: The Road is the Medium. The chicken is the Message!

Gregor Mendel: To get various strains of roads.

A.A. Milne: I imagine that if I thought very hard I shouold come up with a reason. (also applicable to Winnie the Pooh)

John Milton: To justify the ways of God to men.

Indigo Montoya: It too pursues a man with six fingers on his left hand.

Michael Moriarity: To annoy Janet Reno.

Jim Morrison: To break on thruough to the other side, I am the chicken king

Ralph Nader: A chicken on a road is unsafe at any speed

Sir Isaac Newton: Chickens at rest tend to stay at rest. Chickens in motion tend to cross the road.

Jack Nicholson: 'Cause it (censored) wanted to. That's the (censored) reason.

Nietzsche: Because if you gaze too long across the Road, the Road gazes also across you.

Col. Oliver North: I do not recall any such events. I had no knowledge of these occurrences.

Peter Norton: It was a virus and it saw me coming...

Richard Nixon: That part of our conversation was accidentally erased.

George Orwell: Because Big Brother was watching to make sure that it did cross the road, although in its heart, the chicken never did.

Thomas Paine: Out of common sense.

Michael Palin: Nobody expects the banished inky chicken!

Emporer Palpatine: Foolish chicken! Only now, at the end, do you see the head-lights!

Dorothy Parker: Travel, trouble, music, art / A kiss, a frock, a rhyme / The chicken never said they fed its heart / But still they pass its time.

Patsy: Oh, F*&% the chicken. Run it over and lets have a drink.

Gen. George S. Patton: To get those yellow bellied chickens outta here.

General George S. Patton (again): The way to win a war is not to cross a road for you country. The way to win a war is to make some OTHER poor chicken cross a road for HIS COUNTRY!

Wolfgang Pauli: There already was a chicken on the other side of the road.

Frank Perdue: How the heck do I know? Do I look like a chicken to you -- don't answer that.

Marlin Perkins, on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom: Watch, as the chicken mauls Jim yet again...

H. Ross Perot: I'm crossing. I'm not crossing....

H. Ross Perot2: Crossing the road is that chickens primary concern! PRIMARY concern!

H. Ross Perot3: Chickens and roads, I'll tell ya what it means! It means 4 trillion dollars of dafficit, it means the end of our infrastructure, it means... look at this chart!

H. Ross Perot4: Let me tell ya, it's all about NAFTA. This chicken represents your job, and this road represents the Mexican border...

Jean-Luc Picard: To see what's out there.

Jean-Luc Picard (again): Because it's shields were down and it had no other options left...

Piglet: Because ch-ch-chickens are such very s-s-s-small animals.

Plato: For the greater good.

Edgar Allan Poe: Quoth the chicken,"Nevermore!"

Emily Post: When a chicken is confronted with a road, it is only proper for the chicken to stand erect, turn to face the road, look both ways and cross... remembering to send a sincere thank you letter within one month of the event.

Elvis Presley: You aint nothin' but a chicken, crossin' all the roads!

Psalms: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no road!

Pyrrho the Skeptic: What Road?

Monty Python: For Something Completely Different

Dan Quayle: "chicken" C-H-I-K-E-N "chicken"

The Red Queen: Who cares? Off with it's head!

R2D2: beep bleep be deep birp whirrrrrrrrr!

The White Rabbit: It was late!

Ayn Rand: The chicken crossed the road in order to get away from the flock that is stifling his creativity.

Ayn Rand (again): If not for the intransigently independent vision of that first chicken, none of the other chickens would have been able to cross the road. And they condemned him for his acheivement!

Ronald Reagan: I don't recall. What was the question?

Georg Friedrich Riemann: The answer appears in Dirichlet's lectures.

Pat Riley: The chicken crossed the lane in less than 3 seconds, so a "fowl" should not have been called.

Rimmer: Aliens!!!

General Jack D. Ripper: To maintain the purity of its precious bodily fluids.

Geraldo Rivera: Stay tuned as a panel of chickens reveals the shocking truth.

Tom Robbins: Well you see, that chicken was a special chicken who was a descendent of a parrot family that once built pyramids for tourist pharohs. This chicken liked the other side of the road whose shamanic whispers beckoned Anastasia, the parrot, like the popped cherry of a ritually consumated white wedding. That's the meaning of it all, baby!

Oral Roberts: He couldn't raise the $10,000,000.00 so God called him home.

Oral Roberts (again): And I said to the chicken: "Put your claw on the screen! Put your claw on the screen, upon the hand of Brother Oral, and you shall be healed. Make a love offering of $50 or more, and then touch the screen. And that chicken did put his claw on the screen. And the power of God, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, flowed through me and out through that television set, and that chicken was healed *PRAISE GOD!*. And then that chicken, stricken for so many months, rose up and walked across the road. But, since he had forgotten his love offering, God never warned him about the 30 ton semi barreling down on the crosswalk...."

Carl Sagan: To see the billions and billions of stars.

Col. Saunders: It Ran, Suh! I offered it a coating of 11 herbs and spices and it ran, Suh! So I shot it, Suh, shot it while it was trying to escape, suh!

Sappho: For the touch of your skin, the sweetness of your lips..

Jean-Paul Sartre: In order to act in good faith and be true to itself, the chicken found it necessary to cross the road.

Arnold Schwarzenegger: It was going back...

Mr. Scott: 'Cos ma wee transporter beam was na functioning properly. Ah canna work miracles, Captain, wi' no dilithium crystals left to speak of!

Agent Scully: There simply must be a rational, scientific explanation. Chickens don't just "cross roads"

Neddy Seagoon: WhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatWHAT?

William Shakespeare:

1: This is the road of chicken's discontent, Made ignoble abbatoir by this half-ton truck... (Richard II)

2: Bring me no more reports, let them fly all; 'Til a chicken remove to other side of road I cannot taint with fear. What is this chicken? Was he not born of hen? The spirits that know All fowl consequences have pronounced me thus: "Fear not, MacNugget; no chicken that's born of hen Shall e'er lay beak upon thee." (Macbeth)

3: If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly: if the crossing Could scoot across the dotted line, and catch, Beyond passing car, sidewalk; that but these feathers Might be the be-all and end-all here, But here, at this corner of street and avenue, We'd cross at the light to come. (Macbeth)

4: To cross, or not to cross? That is the question, Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The wheels and axles of the city's mass transit Or to take flight against a sea of motorists And by opposing, end me? To cross, to peep No more! And by that peep to say we end The chickhood and the thousand fender-shocks That chicken is heir to. 'Tis a perambulation Devoutly to be wish'd. (Hamlet)

Homer Simpson: ohhhhhhhh Chicken.....

Bart Simpson: It's outta here, man!

Mrs. Slocum: Now look what you've done, there's chicken all over my pussy!

Kenneth Starr: In view of President Clinton's dealings with the Tyson Poultry Company, the matter of the chicken crossing the road is under investigation for its possible connection with the Whitewater affair.

George Steinbrenner: Because I offered him a $4 million contract.

George Steinbrenner2: Because I fired him!

George Steinbrenner3: Because he's now my new manager.

George Steinbrenner4: Because I fired him again!

Dr. Suess: See the end of this document for the full Dr. Suess version.

Sisyphus: Was it pushing a rock, too?

B.F. Skinner: Because the external influences which had pervaded its sensorium from birth had caused it to develop in such a fashion that it would tend to cross roads, even while believing these actions to be of its own free will.

Mr. Spock: It was not logical for the chicken to do so, but I have frequently observed that the behaviour of chickens is not logical

E.E. (Doc) Smith: Your humble narrator can barely do justice to this climactic event that rent asunder the fundamental ether of space itself, as the chicken, embodying all that is good and hard and straight and keen in the Avain world, fearlessly approached, bridged, and conquered the road for Civilization.

Socrates: To pick up some hemlock at the corner druggist.

The Sphinx: You tell me.

Joseph Stalin: It was clearly a conspiracy. Take all the chickens out and shoot them. At Once!

John Steinbeck: The road baked in the relentless summer sun as the chicken, looking about, began to cross. It stopped occaisionally to peck at a grass seed that had become lodged in a crevice in the cracked macadam. The chicken reached the other side, then began making his way to the Salinas, which lay muddy and turgid in the July afternoon, all the while thinking of the cool shade by the river and how good the can of beans in his bedroll would taste tonight.

Ben Stone (Law and Order): Because the defendant made it, sir.

Oliver Stone: He went back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the..

Dr. Strangelove: Because it could not afford to be caught on the wrong side of the road-side gap.

John Sununu: The Air Force was only too happy to provide the transportation, so quite understandably the chicken availed himself of the opportunity.

Grand Moff Tarkin: Fear will keep the chickens in line, fear of this thoroughfare!

Tim "The Toolman" Taylor: This here bird'll cross that road in no time flat, now that I've made a few "special modifications! We've added the Binford 7100 Multi-Purpose power unit, which I've souped up by adding a United Aircraft PT-6 jet engine - Urrgh urrgh urrgh! Heidi, bring out the chicken, please....

Alfred, Lord Tennyson: So that it could sail beyond the sunset.

Old Testament: And rooster and hen were married. And rooster did begat chicken. And chicken did cross the road.

New Testament: He among you who has not crossed roads, let him cast the first egg!

Margaret Thatcher: There was simply no alternative!

Theodoric of York, the Medievil Barber: Because of an imbalance of bodily humors caused by an elf or small toad living in the chicken's stomach. What this fowl needs is a good bleeding. Dylan Thomas: To not go (sic) gentle into that good night.

Hunter S. Thompson: Why the &*%$#@ not?

Henry David Thoreau: To live deliberately ... and suck all the marrow out of life.

Tiggr: Because that's what chickens do best!

Tiggr: (again) That's the wonderful thing about Chickens, Chasing Chickens is FUN FUN FUN, And the Wonderful thing about Chickens Is that when crossing streets they RUN!

Tim, the Enchanter: It's got wings that... and a beak that... good god man, look at the bones!

Brian Tobin (new premier of Newfoundland): It followed the cod....

J.R.R. Tolkein: The chicken, sunlight coruscating off its radiant yellow- white coat of feathers, approached the dark, sullen asphalt road and scrutinized it intently with its obsidian-black eyes. Every detail of the thoroughfare leapt into blinding focus: the rough texture of the surface, over which count- less tires had worked their relentless tread through the ages; the innumerable fragments of stone embedded within the lugubrious mass, perhaps quarried from the great pits where the Sons of Man labored not far from here; the dull black asphalt itself, exuding those waves of heat which distort the sight and bring weakness to the body; the other attributes of the great highway too numerous to give name.

Thomas de Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I'll find out.

Anthony Trollope: Why, to avoid Mrs. Proudy and Mr. Slope, of course.

Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.

Darth Vader: Because it could not resist the power of the Dark Side.

George Washington: I cannot tell a lie. I was going to chop it with my little axe, so it crossed the road.

Mae West: 'Cause I invited it to come up and see me sometime.

Jerry White: Why does a chicken cross the road only half-way? So she can lay it on the line.

Walt Whitman: To cluck the song of itself.

Robert Anton Wilson: Because agents of the Ancient Illuminated Roosters of Cooperia were controlling it with their Orbital Mind-Control Lasers as part of their master plan to take over the world's egg production.

Major Charles Emerson Winchester, the Third: What do you two-bit quacks know about chickens? Did you learn about them in medical school, or did you just read the comic book?

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The possibility of "crossing" was encoded into the objects "chicken" and "road," and circumstances came into being which caused the actualization of this potential occurrence.

Wittgenstein #2: There are indeed things that cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest. They are what is mystical.

Wittgenstein #3: What we cannot explain we must pass over in silence.

Tom Wolfe: Kesey, muscles rippling under his shirt, a mysterious smile on his face, surrounded by the Merry Pranksters, placed the chicken at the road's edge. The chicken paused at the edge of the road, looking this way and that, and then rending the air with a tremendous, "ba-BAAWWWWKKK!" bolted across the road, its disheveled wings flapping uselessly about, leaving a trail of feathers and dander that, whenever two-ton chromium steel, 300 horsepower tail-finned symbols of Detroit's and America's supremacy passed, would swirl in a miniature version of a cyclone like the ones Mr. and Mrs. America see on the TV news every evening when he's come home from work and she's setting the table for dinner, both only half paying attention to the cyclones that devastate midwestern cow towns on sweltering summer afternoons. And the heat, dander, tornados, asphalt, tail-fins and the sweat of Mr. and Mrs. America as they move mechanically in their daily routine like the figurines in one of those huge medieval clocks on some cathedral in some European town, moving in the same way, every hour on the hour, it was all summed up by the "ba-BAAWWWWKKK!" of a scampering chicken accompanied by the "skritch, skritch" of its feet.

William Wordsworth: To have something to recollect in tranquility.

Mr. Worf: I do not know, Klingon chickens do NOT cross the road.

Molly Yard: It was a hen!

Yoda: Crossing the road makes not a chicken great

Henny Youngman: Take this chicken ... please.

Zeno of Elea: To prove it could never reach the other side.

STAR TREK CHICKENS CROSS THE ROAD TOO

Chakotay: Whatever its reason, whatever its goals, we should respect its right to cross the road and seek its own spiritual awareness.

Neelix: Actually, Captain, I'm not really familiar with the chickens in this system. But--if you can catch it, I can cook it.

Riker: I don't know why, but I do know how: with pleasure, sir.

Garak: To get to the other side? Of course not! Do you realize how ridiculous that is? I'm sure it was a simple matter of its farmer expelling it from the coop for...embezzling eggs.

Odo: I don't have the slightest idea--and I don't particularly care...but then, I've never understood you ornithoids' need to engage in such pointless behavior.

Quark: Now really, why would I have bribed him to do it so I could make a tidy profit in the station pool? Besides, all I know is that chicken tastes just like tube grubs.

Q: Wouldn't you like to know? Too bad your puny human brain wouldn't be able to comprehend the answer.

O'Brien: Well, it's nothing a good pint or two won't fix.

Uhura: Shall I open hailing frequencies so you can ask it, sir?

V'Ger: To join with the Creator.

Sulu: To get back to San Franciso; it was born there.

Troi: It was running...running away from...no, escaping...oh, Captain, it was fleeing from such -pain-!

Kira: I bet those damn Cardassians were after it!

Picard: Dammit, that's not for us to answer! It's his fundamental right as a sentient being to determine the time and manner by which he travels towards his goals!

Dr. Bashir: I suppose it wanted to play some darts.

The Grand Nagus: Stupid chicken! You don't cross the road all at once! You sneak across it quietly, without anyone noticing! (Inconceivable!)

Sisko: I don't care -why- it was crossing the road! All I want to know is -why- it left the coop! So it wanted to "get to the other side"--there is only -so far- that my tolerance will go!

Barclay: Uh, chicken?!! Where?!!! C-c-c-ommander, did I ever mention my problem with small feathered things?

Gul Dukat: Well, that's a very interesting question...I'm sure we can work out some kind of arrangement to obtain that information that will be to everyone's satisfaction.

The Borg: Crossing the road is irrelevant. It will be assimilated.

Hugh the Borg: Maybe it wanted to be my friend.

Geordi: Well, wherever it's going, I'm sure it'll be there in an hour or two--but any later, and it'll be absolutely impossible for it to make it.

Jake: To check out the babe that just came off that transport!

Gene Roddenberry: To boldly go where no chicken had gone before.

Kes: It was remembering back to the times when its ancestors crossed roads all the time! They lost those abilities because they stopped using them!

Wesley: I'm not sure, but I can figure it out if I reroute these systems and reconfigure the warp field and run a complete internal whootchacallit on the computers and...

B'Elanna: I'm sure it felt suffocated by all the [BEEP] regulations of [BEEP] Starfleet and just couldn't stand it any longer!

Worf: I don't know. KLINGON chickens do NOT cross roads.

Spock: Fasincating, Captain, it seems driven by a beam of pure energy.

HoloDoc: How should I know? No one tells me anything around here! I didn't even know we added chickens to the crew! All I know is that it would have been nice, BEFORE the chicken went off to the cross the road, if it had remembered to turn me off!

Data: The chicken, in observing that it was on the opposite side of the 20th century Terran paved roadway, was aware that its immediate goal should have been to traverse the distance without interception by an kind of combustion-propelled personal transport vehicle, but I am unclear as to why any kind of domesticated fowl should desire to perambulate upon a conveyance normally reserved for the usage of...yes, sir.

Sarek: Sometimes my logic fails me where chickens are concerned.

Dax: To get to the other side. Kurzon might have disagreed with me, Tobin I'm sure wouldn't have had a clue,and then there's...

Tuvok: That's not a question we'd prefer to hear from a senior officer. It makes the junior officers nervous.

Dr. Crusher: Maybe since he couldn't make the other side to get to him, -he- had to get to the other side....

Dr. Soran: His heart just wasn't in it. (Scenes of chicken torture with nanoprobes have been edited out.)

Scotty: Because she couldna take much morrrrrre.

Charlie X: Because it didn't want to STAY...STAY...STAY...

Kirk: You chicken bastard, you killed my son...YOU chicken BASTARD, you killed...my SON...you CHICKEN bastard....youkilledmy...son!

Bones: Dammit, I'm a doctor, not an ornithologist!

Tasha: That depends...was it fully functional?

Chekov: It must have been on its way to assist in saving my life for the billionth time..did I scream this time?

Khan: With my last breath I spit at the chicken...

Harry: I don't know, it's my first mission.

Paris: Well, I think that...say, that's a lovely shirt you're wearing.

Harvey Mudd: Chicken? I don't remember any chicken. No no no, there's been a terrible misunderstanding.

Crewman in red suit: "Captain, this chicken seems to have crossed the AAARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Nurse Chapel: Oh, Spock, I fixed you your favorite Vulcan plomeek and chicken soup!

Lwaxana: Oh, Jean-Luc!

Janeway: Its primary goal was no doubt to get back to the Alpha Quadrant...and it probably misses its dog.

Dr. Suess:

Would you, could you cross the street On your two small chicken feet?

I would not, could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you cross it in Japan To flee Godzilla and Rodan

Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not, could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you cross the road and cluck And jump to avoid the speeding truck?

Not with a cluck to avoid a truck Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not, could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you hop across the road As though you were a garden toad?

Not across the road as though a toad Not with a cluck to avoid a truck Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you cross it in the night Lit by passing car headlight?

Not in the night With car headlight Not across the road As though a toad Not with a cluck To avoid a truck Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Please dear chicken give it a try For across the road you can not fly.

Alright! Alright! I'll give it a try For it is true, chickens can't fly. Hey! It's not bad, infact it's neat! I truly love to cross the street. Across the road I LOVE to scram. I cross the road, a fowl I am.

#AnimalJokes #ChickenJokes #jokesonfamouspeople

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vexedtonightmares · 6 years ago

Text

La Fin Des Temps Chapter 16 (Elu Hogwarts AU)

Vendredi 19:25 - “C’est la fin des temps!”

Vendredi 15:30

srodulv: meet me in hogsmeade at 17h

When Eliott had told him to meet in Hogsmeade he thought, sure, this makes sense for a surprise date, but when he got there and Eliott just told him to hold onto his arm before apparating off school grounds he knew that he was in for quite the night.

It had taken a few stops, but they ended up in Paris, lights of Lucas’ favorite city in the world flashing around them. The moment their feet had touched the ground Lucas had looked to Eliott with nothing put pure love in his eyes. “This was your surprise?”

Eliott had nodded, clearly satisfied with himself.

“You were right,” Lucas had conceded, “I do love it.”

Eliott had grinned victoriously, pulling Lucas into a kiss right there in the middle of the street. Lucas wasn’t normally one for this type of PDA, but when Eliott had kissed him there, he hadn’t wanted to be anywhere else.

“Where to?” Lucas had inquired, and Eliott had just raised one eyebrow in response, smiling refusing to dull.

“You’ll see,” he’d said, and pulled Lucas along behind him.

Lucas’ cheeks hurt from smiling so much. They’d gone all over the city exploring places Lucas had never even been before. Lucas had almost gotten into a fight with a pigeon after it had come far too close to pooping right on his head. Eliott had laughed at that, far more than Lucas appreciated, but agreed to flip off the offending birds with him.

Eliott seemed like an entirely new person in his home city, alight with his usual life, but there was something more to it. It was intoxicating. Lucas would glimpse Eliott out of the side of his eye every once and a while and be utterly lovestruck by the smile that never left his face. They rode the metro together, sat at the bus station, did such mundane normal things that just weren’t possibly inside the world that was Hogwarts, and it was exhilarating. Even going to the Eiffel Tower didn’t seem touristy and cliché, it seemed special and romantic, lights twinkling just for them.

They couldn’t stop taking photos of each other either, wanting to document every minute of this perfect night between just the two of them. They even stopped somewhere to get a few photos taken together, such a cheesy coupley thing that Lucas would have been embarrassed to do if Eliott hadn’t been so enthusiastic about it. About everything. When Lucas made him try on nearly twenty leather jackets they’d never be able to afford, he did it willingly, giving his best ‘model face’, causing Lucas to double over laughing.

As revenge, Eliott made Lucas pose on a motorcycle they found and try not to get caught. In the end, the did get caught, but running away from the angry motorcycle owner was an adventure itself.

When they finally sat down to dinner in a restaurant that should have been far out of either of their price ranges, Lucas couldn’t help but stare lovingly at Eliott as he perused the menu with great focus.

“I love you,” he said, because he could.

Eliott’s eyes crinkled in their telltale fashion, giving way to a smile brighter than the dim room should have allowed. “I love you too.”

“So, monsieur,” Lucas said in the fanciest voice he could muster, “What delicacies are you going to try?”

Eliott tapped his chin, lifting it haughtily. “So many options… I say we order it all.”

Lucas giggled into his menu, trying very hard not to earn glares from the much more sophisticated diners. “If only,” he lamented, but Eliott simply leveled him with a stare.

“I’m serious. Let’s get it all.”

“Eliott we can’t,” Lucas said in a hushed laugh. The waiter was hovering nearby, likely wondering what the two of them were even doing in a place like that. Eliott rolled his eyes and Lucas wondered if he was actually upset Lucas had denied his request. There was no way they could have paid for it, especially since Lucas only had wizard currency in his pockets, not expecting the night to have turned out this way.

“Anything to drink?” the waiter asked, materializing at their side. Lucas was too busy searching Eliott’s face to answer, so Eliott took the lead and ordered a bottle of what was sure to be heart stoppingly expensive champagne.

“You’re not eighteen,” Lucas hissed when the waiter left, “How did he let you order that?”

Eliott merely raised his eyebrows. “You forget we’re wizards, Choupi.”

“But we can’t-- oh, right, I always forget you’re of able to use magic outside of school,” Lucas confessed.

“I’m full of surprises.” Eliott wiggled his eyebrows, jovial nature coming back in full force.

Lucas reached out to hold his hand on top of the table, smile splitting across his face. “And I love every one of them.”

Eliott pulled his hand away quickly as if he’d been burned, face faltering before lifting back into a wide smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said so softly Lucas wasn’t sure he was meant to hear.

“What does that even--” Lucas began before being cut off by the waiter returning with their champagne. He poured them both a glass before leaving the bottle with them, promising to return once they’d decided what to order, and Eliott raised his glass the moment he left.

“To us,” he said, “To the man of my dreams.”

Lucas forgot everything else on his mind in that moment. “I’m the man of your dreams?”

“Well, who else would I be talking to?” Eliott laughed, clinking their glasses together and downing his drink in one long sip. Lucas tried to do the same, but couldn’t quite keep up.

“Easy there,” he joked as Eliott poured another glass.

Eliott’s eyes hardened. “I didn’t bring you here to parent me.”

“Woah, chill, I was just kidding.” Lucas was taken aback once again. Maybe Eliott was just hungry, sometimes Lucas got weirdly irritable when he was hungry, and they’d done a lot without taking a break to eat since they’d been in Paris.

Eliott looked guilty, softening once more. “Sorry, I was too.”

“Ok.” Lucas accepted the explanation without argument, turning his attention back to the menu so they could order soon. Hangry Eliott was new, but Lucas could deal for the time being, especially because Eliott would definitely have to deal with hangry Lucas in the future. Even so, Lucas didn’t say much as they waited to order, letting Eliott go first when the waiter returned. He didn’t worry about all the things that Eliott was ordering, wondering if maybe he’d been saving up money for the meal or something.

When all their food arrived Lucas’ eyes widened as he took in the smell. This might be the most delicious meal he’d ever seen in his life. Eliott dug right in, smiling at Lucas between bites, and Lucas followed suit, nearly moaning as the food reached his tongue.

“That good, huh?” Eliott laughed. Lucas blushed, avoiding answering by taking another bite. It was just as good-- no, better-- than the last. Eliott laughed again. “You look like you’re about to have an orgasm.”

Lucas dropped his fork with a clang and reached over to hit Eliott lightly on the shoulder. “Dude! Don’t say that so loud!” But he couldn’t help but dissolve into giggles as well. The waiter returned with another bottle of champagne, frowning at them disdainfully. Lucas hadn’t even realized they’d finished the other one.

He began to shake his head at the offer, but Eliott accepted it gracefully with one of his winning smiles. Even their waiter couldn’t resist the sight of it, and warmed to them slightly.

“Eliott,” Lucas said slowly as the waiter walked away, “I should have said something before but… I don’t have any money with me.”

“So?”

“So… I can’t pay for this.”

Eliott laughed. “Ok? I was going to treat you anyway.”

Eliott was still laughing but Lucas shook his head. “No, Eliott, that’s way too much money… I can’t expect that from you.”

Eliott stopped laughing and sighed, wrapping his hands around Lucas’ across the table. “I’ll tell you what, I take this one, you take all the others for the rest of the year?” He laughed again. “Deal?”

“Ok, deal.” Lucas squeezed Eliott’s hands before letting them go. “In that case… what’s for dessert?”

“That’s another surprise,” Eliott said mysteriously, raising his eyebrows. Lucas didn’t push the topic further, barely able to contain his excitement for what Eliott might have in store for them next.

After Eliott paid the bill, which he refused to let Lucas look at, they departed from the restaurant at once, taking in the darkness of the sky as they roamed the streets. The sun must have set while they ate. No matter, Lucas would have plenty of sunsets to enjoy with Eliott as long as they were together. Forever, if Lucas could swing it.

He had a sudden image of the two of them sitting on the bridge above the seine, legs dangling from the edge, hands intertwined, watching the sunset on the water. Maybe they could do that this summer. The thought was exciting, he’d almost forgotten they’d be in the same city for the holidays. It sure beat hanging out alone at home while Manon visited Charles back in London.

Eliott could take him to the Louvre, and they could laugh at all the tourists or pretend to be tourists themselves. Lucas would tell Eliott that his art belonged up there instead of stuffy old Leonardo da Vinci’s and Eliott would take offense on behalf of one of the most famous artists of all time, though he would appreciate what Lucas had said. Maybe that was what Lucas and Eliott number two thousand twenty-seven were doing right at that moment. Lucas decided he would add this to his story of parallel universes later.

“Where to next?” Lucas asked, running his thumb in circles on Eliott’s palm where it was clasped in his. He was well aware he was looking at Eliott with the dopiest expression ever, but Eliott was equally dopey, just a bit more energetic about it.

“It’s a surprise,” Eliott sang, giggling through it. He tugged Lucas along by the hand turning their leisure walk into a jog, stepping in time with one another without trying. Running while holding hands was actually kind of difficult, but they made it work, ignoring stares from people passing by who had no idea what it was to be young and in love and alive.

They stopped in front of the Plaza Athénée, Lucas bracing himself on his knees to catch his breath. Eliott let go of his hand strolling towards the building. Lucas hurried to catch up. “Eliott, what are you doing? You know where we are, right?”

“Yes?” Eliott gave him a look of confusion, like he had no idea why Lucas was mildly stressed.

“Eliott we can’t pay for this,” he pressed, but Eliott just ignored him, beelining for the concierge’s desk.

“I called with a reservation yesterday, it should be under Demaury,” Eliott said politely, already winning the concierge over with his smile. She checked her computer, tapping a few keys before looking back up at him, then at Lucas.

“You wanted to reserve one of the deluxe suites?” she clarified, looking a bit more hesitant. Before Lucas could say anything to argue, Eliott nodded. “That’s right.”

She blinked once at him before returning to her computer, finding their room. Eliott slung an arm over Lucas’ tense shoulders. “It’s our five year wedding anniversary today,” Eliott told the concierge, and Lucas turned his head to look at Eliott in confusion so fast he almost got whiplash.

“Is that so?” she asked politely.

“It is.” He gestured between the two of them. “I know we look a bit young… it’s so embarrassing, everyone always thinks we’re in high school, but we graduated from uni nearly six years ago.” He spoke with such sincerity that Lucas almost found himself believing the story, and he could tell the concierge did as well.

“Everyone wishes they still looked that young, you two are lucky,” she said with a wink, handing Eliott back a credit card Lucas hadn’t seen him give her. “I hope you’ll enjoy your night here. Please, take advantage of our spa as well, it’s free for all guests to use.”

Eliott took the room keys from the counter and smiled at her. “I daresay we will. Have a lovely night yourself.”

The suite was, for lack of a better term, fucking exquisite. There were multiple rooms and everything in there looked so expensive Lucas even scared to touch it. It was absolutely perfect, but absolutely unnecessary. “Eliott…” He didn’t even know what to say.

Eliott read his mind. “Don’t say anything. Just live in the moment, forget about everything that’s worrying you. Tonight it’s just you and me and this beautiful suite, which we have all to ourselves. Tonight we can pretend we’re Lucas number six thousand forty and Eliott number eight hundred fifty-five. Tonight we’re invincible.”

Lucas was so in love, so very in love. This was why, despite his better judgement, he matched Eliott’s smile to the best of his ability. Invincible. That sounded nice.

“What about that dessert you promised me?” he asked innocently, noting the way Eliott’s eyes traveled along the lines of his body. Eliott didn’t answer, but gave Lucas a half smirk so intoxicating it really should have been illegal.

He stepped up to meet Eliott, chest to chest underneath an outrageous crystal chandelier. It looked a bit like a starry sky, manufactured solely for the two of them. “Forget dessert,” he decided, “This is perfect. Just you and me and the stars,” he said softer than he’d meant to, running a hand up under Eliott’s shirt, feeling the warm skin beneath.

“It was always a dream of mine to fall in love under the stars,” Eliott repeated what he’d said all those weeks ago, pulling off his shirt in one swift motion, Lucas replicating the action without a second thought. Lucas wrapped his hands around Eliott’s chest and onto his back immediately, breathing him in, placing a kiss on his collarbone.

“And is it still a dream?” Lucas asked as Eliott lifted him by his thighs and wrapped them around his waist, kissing Lucas softly just below his jaw.

Eliott started walking them to the bedroom, eyes alight with arousal. “You made it a reality,” he said, then dropped Lucas onto the bed, hovering over him a moment before Lucas gripped him by the back of the neck and pulled him close, never wanting to let go.

Samedi 1:11

Lucas was pulled from sleep by the tickle of Eliott’s mouth on his cheek, eyelashes brushing his temple. “Everything ok?” he mumbled sleepily, not opening his eyes yet.

“Mmmm,” Eliott hummed in response, nose brushing Lucas’. Lucas finally opened his eyes and saw Eliott’s staring right at him. This was how he wanted to wake up every morning for the rest of his life.

Once he got his bearings, fully awake, Lucas realized Eliott’s eyes were tinged with something that looked a bit like sadness, or maybe not sadness exactly, but there was a nostalgic glaze to them. “What’s up?” he tried again.

Eliott was silent a moment, brushing hair out of Lucas’ eyes, gazing into them like he was worried he would forget what they looked like if he glanced away even for a moment. “One day we’ll forget each other, you know? We’ll forget the nights like these and maybe even forget that we ever loved each other at all.” He finally looked away, adding in a softer tone, “And that’s why.”

“Why what?”

Eliott blinked back up at him. “That’s why we should go out with a bang right now, while we can still remember the taste of each other.”

Lucas stilled, not daring to look away. “Stop saying things like that,” he said with a quaver in his voice. What the hell was Eliott saying?

Eliott merely laughed. Lucas put Eliott’s face into his hands, steeling his voice before he spoke. “Eliott I’m serious. Why are you so certain we won’t last, or that the only way to be together is to die together?”

“Because I know that you’ll stop loving me. It’s not a matter of if, but when. I guess I’d rather be gone before we get to when,” Eliott said simply. Lucas tore his hands away, turning over to face the other side of the bed so Eliott wouldn’t see him cry.

“Hey.” Eliott patted the back of his head. “Hey. Lucas.”

Lucas didn’t answer, didn’t trust himself to. A single tear leaked down from his left eye and he brushed it away hastily, trying to make it look like he was just adjusting his sleeping position.

Eliott’s head appeared above him, and it took all of his willpower not to look up into Eliott’s eyes and get lost in them. “Lucas, I’m joking.”

“But why would you even say something like that? I told you that you’re my forever, at least I’d like you to be, but you still don’t believe me.” Was he sounding whiny? Did he even care at this moment? He was sick of Eliott doubting something he was sure of.

“Lucas,” Eliott said in a softer voice, “I’m sorry. I was joking.”

Lucas looked at him finally and was a bit taken aback by the grin on Eliott’s face. His tone had been earnest, but his face told a different story. It was almost like he just couldn’t keep a smile off his face, even though he was trying. “I’m sorry,” he said again, flopping back down on his side of the bed. Lucas turned back around to face him, but Eliott was laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll try not to disturb you anymore,” Eliott said. Lucas reached for his hand, squeezed it tight, and closed his eyes, deciding that this whole conversation must have just been a dream or something. Maybe his brain was still a little blurry from all the champagne.

Samedi 3:02

Lucas I’m hungry.

Eliott, we ate so much food. How could you ever be hungry again after all that food.

Nope. I’m hungry. I want pain au chocolat, don’t you? You never got that dessert I promised.

Tomorrow. Come lie back down with me.

No, can’t do that.

Why not?

What if the world ends tomorrow? This might be our last chance to eat pain au chocolat.

Mmm. I’ll take my chances.

Or… maybe we’ll live forever. Maybe we shine so bright because we’re the stars personified. Maybe we’re gods wearing human skin. What am I the god of, do you think? I think you’re the god of the ocean. I mean, look at those eyes of yours. I could drown in them any day. I can drown in them any day, actually. Because you love me. Ha. You love me. What a fool you are. Don’t you know I’m broken beyond repair?

Eliott… is this a dream? Am I asleep?

Is anyone ever asleep?

Wha… what?

Maybe at our wedding everyone will be asleep the whole time. Or maybe we’ll be asleep. Ha! Bet that’s never been done before, an unconscious wedding. Not totally sure of the logistics, but we can work it out later.

Our wedding?

What, you don’t think we’re getting married? We’re definitely getting married. Right here in this room, actually. We’ll invite everyone in the entire wizarding world, livestream the whole thing on Instagram. Wait, no, can’t do that anymore. We’ll get married right here on this bed and we’ll be completely naked. Everyone will be, actually, like in the garden of Eden. Do wizards believe in the same God as muggles, I wonder? There should be some overlap, I suppose, but this brings me back to my earlier point. If God can make miracles happen, and wizards can too, doesn’t that make us gods? Or is that sacrilege? Whatever, I don’t care. Lucas?

Mmmmmm…

Lucas? You awake?

Eli…

Just as well. Get some beauty sleep, mon amour, c’est la fin de temps.

Wha…

C’est la fin de temps!

Samedi 3:26

The next time Lucas woke up, it wasn’t because of a gentle kiss or a soft murmur. Something crunched under him as he shifted, lifting his head blearily. “What the--”

There were papers strewn all over the bed, torn from a pad of paper provided by the hotel. Eliott was nowhere to be found, which snapped Lucas to attention immediately. Relax, he told himself, He’s probably just in the bathroom.

He turned on the lamp beside the bed to get a better look at the mess on the bed, blinking his eyes a few times to adjust to the new light. Grabbing the sheet of paper closest to him, he studied it a moment. It was simple enough, just a sketch of a hedgehog under the covers, thought bubble next to his head with a raccoon inside it. Lucas smiled, despite himself. Maybe this was part of Eliott’s surprise, he’d made drawings for Lucas to wake up to earlier in the night or something.

When he grabbed the next one, his brows furrowed slightly. There was a raccoon standing in the middle of the street, smiling jubilantly, but no hedgehog in sight. Was this supposed to be some sort of scavenger hunt or something? Eliott wasn’t outside now, was he?

With more urgency, Lucas grabbed a handful of drawings, flipping through them as quickly as he could. A raccoon at the top of the astronomy tower, a hedgehog lying in a field of flowers with a raccoon taking a photo, a raccoon covered in what Lucas assumed was paint wearing a panicked expression, an animal Lucas didn’t recognize talking to a raccoon who was hidden in a box inside himself. When Lucas got to the last piece of paper in his hands, his heart stopped. There were no drawings on it, just words written-- no, scribbled-- onto the paper. C’est la fin des temps. Why did that sound so familiar? Why was Eliott writing about the end of time?

Something clicked in his brain. A conversation that had felt like a dream. Had it actually happened? Eliott hadn’t been making any sense at all, which was why he’d decided it must have been a dream. Eliott had been talking about gods, and getting married and how it was indeed la fin des temps.

Fuck. Something was seriously wrong. Where the hell was Eliott? Lucas scooped up his clothes from where they laid in a pile on the floor, tugging them on in a hurry. Heart sinking further, he realized Eliott’s clothes were still there as well. Did that mean Eliott was still in the suite? It was eerily quiet. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He checked every room in the suite twice, three times, really beginning to panic. Only taking the time to grab his phone and Eliott’s clothes, he ran out of the room, not even sure if he’d closed the door behind him or not. The elevators were slow, why were they so fucking slow? His wand felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket, unusable. Why the fuck did he have to be seventeen to use magic outside of school? Not that magic would help much right now, but maybe his patronus could provide a bit of comfort. Maybe his hedgehog could find Eliott’s raccoon.

The elevator finally opened up to the lobby, and Lucas took off at a run once more, sparing a glance at the concierge, the same one as earlier. He backtracked, rushing to her desk. She seemed to know exactly what he was going to ask.

“When?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Fuck!” He slammed his hand on the desk and she startled. “Fuck,” he said, softer this time, “I’m so sorry… I just… did he say where he was going?”

She shook her head, eyes still wide and worried. She gulped, gaze flickering to her desk before meeting his once again. He could only imagine how he looked. “I should let you know, I called the police.”

“You what?” Maybe he’d misheard her.

“He ran outside naked, yelling about how it was the end of time, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. I don’t think he, or those around him, are safe right now.” Her voice was cold, collected, no matter what her eyes said. Lucas opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. Instead, he ran out into the night, the night that had been so welcoming, so perfect, just hours earlier.

Samedi 3:55

He didn’t know how long he’d been running, where he was even running to. Eliott was still nowhere to be found. He’d called Eliott’s phone nearly thirty times, sent to voicemail every single time. He didn’t have a way to contact Eliott’s parents, which seemed crazy now that he thought about it. Sure, he couldn’t have anticipated anything like this happening, whatever this was, but he should have had some way to contact Eliott’s parents and get their help.

He sank to his knees where he stood on the sidewalk, all the thoughts in his head becoming too overwhelming. What if something had happened to Eliott? He could be dead for all Lucas knew. C’est la fin des temps. C’est la fin des temps. Had he meant the end of all time or just his? Was he at risk of hurting himself? Lucas would never forgive himself if something had happened and he was too stupid and lovesick to read the signs.

His phone buzzed in his hand, and he brought it to his ear immediately, not even checking to see who was calling.

“Is this Lucas?” said a voice he didn’t recognize. Lucas glanced down at the caller ID, seeing a number he didn’t recognize, but knew that it was Parisian.

“Yes,” he answered, or at least he thought he did. He wasn’t sure if any of this was even happening, hoped and prayed that it wasn’t and he was still sleeping soundly in bed beside Eliott.

“Oh, thank god. Where are you?” The person breathed out a sigh of relief.

Lucas swallowed once. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Shit, sorry. It’s Idriss. Imane’s brother.” Idriss. Yeah, he knew Idriss. Why was Idriss calling him? Wasn’t he supposed to be visiting Imane right now? “Lucas, you still there?” Idriss asked.

Lucas nodded before realizing Idriss couldn’t see him, trying to verbalize to the best of his ability. “Yes. I’m here. Sorry, but I don’t have time to talk right now--” he broke down into ragged sobs. “--I don’t-- I don’t know what’s happening-- I don’t know what to do-- he’s gone--”

“Lucas, Lucas, slow down, breathe,” Idriss said, voice soothing and slow. Lucas tried to follow Idriss’ instructions as he spoke them through the phone, steadying his breathing to a point where get could speak in full sentences.

“Better?” Idriss asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” A pause. “Eliott’s with us, Lucas.”

Lucas’ pulse spiked again. That shouldn’t have been possible. They were at Hogwarts. Eliott wouldn’t just abandon Lucas in Paris. He’d promised never to leave without telling Lucas where he was going. “I-- what?”

“He’s at Hogwarts, with us. He’s safe, in the hospital wing.”

“Fuck!” Lucas yelled, nearly at the top of his lungs, he could feel himself starting to panic again. Eliott had brought him to Paris through side-along apparition, how was he supposed to get back?

Eliott had abandoned him.

“Hey, hey, Lucas, it’s ok. Just tell us where you are. Sofiane is seventeen, passed his apparition test, he can come get you.” Idriss spoke like he was trying to make sure Lucas wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown which, at this point, seemed likely.

Lucas pressed his forehead to the concrete, not even realizing that he’d somehow ended up lying on the ground completely. “I don’t know where I am.”

Idriss, thankfully, had a solution to that too. “Send your location to this phone, I’ll let Sofiane borrow it to come find you, ok? Just stay where you are, and breathe. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” Lucas wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. Idriss assured him that everything would be ok, though he didn’t feel inclined to agree. Regardless, he thanked Idriss and said goodbye, sending his location as instructed and waited for someone to save him.

Samedi 4:10

“Lucas? Can you stand up for me?”

A shadow loomed over Lucas from where he still laid on the ground, frozen and numb. This must be Sofiane. Lucas tried to move his legs, arms, anything, but he couldn’t. It was like everything inside him had shut down.

Weakly, he shook his head, not knowing if Sofiane could even see the motion or not. A hand slipped under his shoulder, another under his leg and he flinched slightly before he realized Sofiane was picking him up off the ground. The action brought him back into himself enough to figure out how to move his body again, swinging his legs from Sofiane’s grip to stand on his own. They nearly gave way beneath him, but Sofiane held onto his hands for support.

“You’re ok. Everything will be ok,” Sofiane said with such sincerity that Lucas really wanted to believe him. He finally found the strength to look at Sofiane’s face and woah. Given different circumstances, he definitely would have taken the time to appreciate Sofiane, who was the second most beautiful person Lucas had ever seen.

“I’m going to apparate with you now. All you have to do is hold onto me,” Sofiane explained, but Lucas shook his head.

“I have to go back to the hotel… I don’t know if Eliott paid… We might still have some things there, I don’t know.”

Sofiane leveled him with a stare. “It can wait. Idriss or I can go sort it out in the morning. Ok?”

Lucas gave in, too weak to argue. “Ok.”

Sofiane’s apparition was so smooth Lucas hardly registered that it was happening. He let his mind go completely blank as they moved from place to place before resting upon the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade.

Neither one of them said a word as they made their way up to the castle. Lucas had a million questions he wanted to ask, but didn’t know where to start. Sofiane seemed to be on a similar wavelength, so the walked on in silence.

Manon was waiting at the door when they walked in, Imane a few paces away with someone that Lucas assumed was Idriss. She folded him into a hug the moment she saw him, tears staining her cheeks. “Lucas, we were so worried. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he sobbed, wrapping his arms around her so tightly he was worried he might hurt her. He loosened his grip a bit, but she just tightened hers in response. When she let go he turned to Idriss. “He’s in the hospital wing?”

Idriss nodded. “Yeah, but Lucas, I don’t know if you should--”

He ignored Idriss, brushing past them all and storming down the hall, not caring if any of the teachers or ghosts caught him out at this hour. He wondered vaguely if Eliott had gotten in trouble with the school, wondered vaguely if he’d been expelled from Beauxbatons for a similar reason.

A girl Lucas didn’t recognize exited the hospital wing as Lucas approached, short hair ruffling as she walked. He nearly brushed right past her until he realized she was trying to approach him, holding out a hand to his chest. “Not now,” she said, gesturing to the door.

Who the hell was she to tell him what to do? “Why?”

“It’s not good for him right now.”

He rolled his eyes. “And who are you to say?”

“I’m Lucille,” she said, eyes turning sad, “He hasn’t talked about me?”

“Once,” he said, examining the girl further now that he knew who she was. Why did she think she had any authority over Eliott? “I suppose you know what’s going on then?”

He knew he was being rude, but he really didn’t give a shit. Lucille dropped one hand from his chest, looking taken aback. “He hasn’t told you, has he?”

“Told me what?” This was getting infuriating.

“He’s bipolar, Lucas.”

He blinked in surprise and took a step back. So many things made more sense now. How he’d reacted when Lucas had talked about his mentally ill mother, the times he’d insisted he would ruin things between them, how he never seemed to believe that he wasn’t broken. Coming back into himself, he stared right into Lucille’s eyes. “Ok. I don’t know why that means I can’t see him.”

Her face softened. “He’s manic right now, Lucas. He shouldn’t be seeing anyone, he needs time to come down.”

“No,” Lucas argued, “I should be there for him, let him know I’ll always be there. I-- I love him. If I’m there, maybe he’ll believe me.”

The look Lucille gave him was almost pitying. “Lucas… I’m sure you do love him, and I’m sure he has feelings for you, but sometimes his judgement can be a bit clouded, like it is now. Things he’s said or done for you might be his illness talking, not him.”

Was she trying to say that Eliott didn’t actually love him? “Did Eliott tell you that?”

Eliott abandoned you, a voice screamed in his mind.

“No, but I’ve known him long enough to know that this is how it goes. Didn’t he tell you why he was expelled?”

He shook his head faintly, feeling sick. Eliott didn’t love him. If he did, he would have felt like he could trust Lucas with this part of him. The fact that he hadn’t said anything confirmed everything Eliott had been telling him all night: that this was never going to last.

Lucas took a step back, Lucille’s other hand slipping from his chest. He shook his head, trying to make it all make sense. Before Lucille could say another word, Lucas turned around and stormed away, not looking back once. When he passed Idriss, Manon, Sofiane, and Imane, he didn’t acknowledge them, taking the stairs two at a time. He didn’t know what to think.

Eliott had been right after all, it was the end of time, but not for the world.

For them.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

AO3

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