#brb asking to be added to the tag list this is embarrassing

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 10 second part

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Meta)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Unclean Realm

Lan Wangji has a Louis Henry Sullivan moment on seeing the Nie family home, becoming enraptured by its overwrought monumental architecture after a lifetime of restrained good taste and single-story buildings.

He approaches the fortress with the expression of delighted wonder that he usually reserves for when he’s looking at the moon or at Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian is like, yep that’s a building, all right, but he supports Lan Wangji’s kinks.  

Meng Yao tells them about the Wen Clan directive, and has what appears to be a moment of genuine, affectionate amusement at Nie Huaisang’s reaction.

Jiang Cheng kinda blames the Lans for inventing the whole “indoctrination” thing and for encouraging his brother’s disaster bi tendencies. Wei Wuxian responds by complimenting the Lan Clan, almost like someone who met his true love got some real value out of the instruction he received there.  

(more after the cut)

One of the great ironies of this story is that Wei Wuxian sort of becomes a rogue Lan disciple because of his relationship with Lan Wangji. He relies on Lan temperament techniques, uses music as a primary cultivation method, has committed all of the Lan rules to his supposedly terrible memory and cites them on multiple occasions, and is an important mentor for the younger generation Lan disciples. Because Hanguang-Jun is just that good in bed.

Xue Yang in the background of this conversation is channeling OP’s church-enduring, school-enduring inner 10-year-old.

Nie Mingjue, Chifeng-Zun, appears, and couldn’t be more different than his brother. On first watching this episode, I saw him as a grumpy, sexy, very emotional leather daddy man who is quick to anger. Rewatching, I see someone who’s struggling with a growing illness...the resentful energy kind.

Nie Mingjue’s handling of resentful energy is very different from Wei Wuxian’s straightforward interest and acceptance. NMJ has a traditional cultivator’s view of it, regarding it as evil and as something to resist, while he is literally carrying it on his back. He’s like a secret alcoholic who is preaching temperence, and can’t find a way to be reconciled with himself.  

At this point of the story, Nie Mingjue is keeping it together, but is under a hell of a lot of stress, and Baxia’s blood thirst is already maybe a problem.

The Yunmeng bros think that Nie Huaisang’s fear of his brother is hilarious, because they don’t understand the situation. They think he’s just living in a hideously toxic family dynamic like theirs, when actually he’s in a loving, sorta healthy, if parentless, family that is being crushed under a generational curse.

Compliments for the Yunmeng Bros

I’m not the first meta poster to notice how happy Jiang Cheng is to be praised by Nie Mingjue.

He never gets this at home. Jiang Yanli praises him, but in that watery “you tried your best” way that doesn’t really stick.  Nie Mingjue’s praise really means something, because he is a fearsome warrior and stern authority figure. And this is a double compliment, because Nie Mingjue says he heard it from Lan Xichen, and agrees with it.

Let’s Make Terrible Decisions

Keep Xue Yang alive, says Wei Wuxian, and Meng Yao immediately agrees, although I’m pretty sure he would have proposed that even if WWX hadn’t.

So they do, not realizing that “kill him later” is never a good plan for someone who 1. super needs killing 2. has a whole lot of death-dealing skills.

Future clan leader Jiang Cheng notices how smart and talented Meng Yao is.  Xue Yang finds it hilarious when the trio praises Meng Yao, possibly because their evil team up is already underway.

Boss’ Bed Warmer Son of a Ho

The constant insults toward Meng Yao are about his mom, but there’s another level of leering implication, that Meng Yao seems to encourage in his conversation with the soon-to-be-murdered guard captain.

Nie Mingjue elevated him way above his expectations, and he is ridiculously pretty, which has to create rumors. In the Nightless City scenes when he’s fondling Baxia and telling Nie Mingjue’s family secrets there’s definitely a sense of intimacy that’s not just “loyal retainer.”

I feel like maybe this whole exchange is a bit of theater designed to show Xue Yang something without showing it to anyone else. Meng Yao didn’t need to have this conversation in front of his prisoner.

Let’s Do Exactly What We Said We Wouldn’t

Once the younger quartet are alone with Nie Mingjue, Wei Wuxian crosses the room away from his friends and practically into Lan Wangji’s pocket, if Lan Wangji had pockets.

He has no pockets and also has no personal bubble any more, when it comes to Wei Wuxian.

We could make a weapon out of Yin Iron, Wei Wuxian says, completely forgetting his entire conversation with Lan Yi, apparently. Lan Wangji doesn’t argue with this idea.

Nie Mingjue warns Wei Wuxian not to try it.

I stabbed a man in Qinghe just to watch him die

Nie Mingjue is like the Johnny Cash of the cultivation world, carrying the weight of his poor choices and trying to steer the young folk to the path of righteousness. But--like Johnny Cash--his bad choices have made him really fucking cool, so he isn’t very good at deterring anybody.

Meng Yao Didn’t Come Here to Make Friends

Immediately after Meng Yao’s fellow Nie clan people call him “son of a whore” again, Wei Wuxian meets him, is nice to him, addresses him by his military title, bows to him, asks why he’s away from the party, and thanks him for his service.

But Meng Yao has already decided to make friends with Xue Yang, so Wei Wuxian goes onto his list of people that he doesn’t give a crap about except if they can be useful to him.  Then Meng Yao goes to make out hatch a plot with Xue Yang.

I’ll Sleep On Your Roof

Meeting SongXiao seems to have done away with the last of Lan Wangji’s resistance to his connection with Wei Wuxian.

He hears a noise on the roof and, when realizing it’s Wei Wuxian, he smiles one of his tiny reserved smiles before heading outside.

When he sees Wei Wuxian drunkenly sprawled on the roof, limbs akimbo, wine on his chin and neck, mouth full of poetry about the open road, Lan Wangji gives him the most fond look imaginable.

Then he reluctantly leaves, with his signature “say goodbye, but only when he can’t hear you” thing.

They’ve both come a really long way since their first meeting. Wei Wuxian is openly and vocally attaching himself to Lan Wangji...but is not actually entering his space or asking for anything from him; he just wants to be near him, and wants to let him know that. “I’ll sleep on your roof tonight.”

And Lan Wangji just...loves him. Wei Wuxian is drunk, embarrassing, demonstrative, eager to make a hell weapon out of yin iron, touchy feely, and absurdly sexy. And Lan Wangji is pretty okay with all of that.

I Might Have Been Drunk

Wei Wuxian carefully avoids telling Jiang Cheng where he was last night.

Even if he did get blackout drunk, he would have woken up on Lan Wangji’s roof. And I don’t think he was as drunk as that. He just knows Jiang Cheng wouldn’t like the truth.

Wen Fucking Chao, Again

Wen Chao shows up to be annoying and boring.  This leads to a pretty good fight between Nie Mingjue and Wen Zhuliu. Note that when the chips are down, Nie Huaisang stands with his Gege without any cowering. Almost as if he had hidden reserves of bravery, and is not as helpless as he lets on.

Wen Zhuliu isn’t styled to be super hot, although he’s certainly compelling, and in Dance of the Phoenix he looks good with sensitive-guy hair wispies. I wonder what actor Feng Mingjing looks like out of character?

BRB, adding a tag to my follow list

Battle Bros

When the fighting breaks out, the Yunmeng brothers are decisive and united, with Wei Wuxian giving orders to Jiang Cheng and JC following without hesitation.

I feel like if these two could have gone through a few big battles together, instead of being separated during most of the Sunshot campaign, their whole relationship would have improved. On the battlefield, they respect, trust, and understand each other.  

The Pointy End

Nie Mingjue is holding his own against Wen Zhuliu, but he gets distracted by Meng Yao hollering “Xue Yang has escaped” and then shanking the guard captain right in front of him.

Wen Zhuliu takes advantage of the distraction to aim a very slow stab at Nie Huasang, and Meng Yao jumps in front to get stabbed on his behalf.

When the Yunmeng bros show up to help NMJ, Wen Zhuliu immeiately yanks Wen Chao back behind him and points his sword at Wei Wuxian. He absolutely sees these two as a serious threat.  Considering that eventually WWX is going to kill Wen Chao while JC kills Wen Zhuliu, this concern is not misplaced.

Wei Wuxian tells Wen Chao to stop being such a jerk, and Wen Chao menaces Wei Wuxian and gloats about the burning of cloud recesses. The burning, that is, of some part of cloud recesses that doesn’t include the library, the Jingshi, the main cultivation chamber, the rabbit warren, or Lan Qiren’s house, unless the Lan Clan is really really good at rebuilding things to very exact specifications.

In a rare moment of seeing Meng Yao’s internal thoughts, he is worried about Lan Xichen when he hears about cloud recesses.

The Yelling Part

Now we have the particularly nasty breakup between Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao. It’s...got some layers. Meng Yao is cowering on the floor, but is not apologizing.

He never apologizes throughout this encounter.

孟瑤無悔  - Meng Yao (has) no regrets

This scene is amazing and excruciating to watch, even more when you know what’s ahead.

What the Fuck is Meng Yao’s Plan

On one level this is Meng Yao, manipulative sociopath, setting up a cover story for his aiding and alliance with Xue Yang.  On another, this is Meng Yao, loving subordinate, being tossed aside by his lord because he dared to stand up for himself.

He uses the same “scout’s honor” gesture we’ve seen Wei Wuxian use to swear he’s telling the truth. Wei Wuxian is always lying when he uses this gesture.

I’m...not sure exactly what Meng Yao’s plan is, with all these chess moves? By stabbing the captain in front of NHS, he created an opportunity to plant a cover story about Xue Yang’s escape. He might be hoping that Nie Mingjue will forgive him and keep him on, while Xue Yang can stay in his back pocket to be used later.

Dry eyes? Try Visene

Or he might be intending to get kicked out, given his non-apology. In any case, Nie Mingjue is weeping during this encounter, and Meng Yao...isn’t. He is signaling distress in his voice, expression, and body language, but his eyes are dry up until the last moment, and even then they just glisten a bit. In a show where every actor is an expert at crying on cue, that’s got to be a deliberate choice.

Which isn’t to say that Meng Yao is faking being full of emotion in this scene. It’s just that the emotion isn’t necessarily sorrow.

What Does Nie Mingjue’s Head Think

Flip the view and this is about Nie Mingjue being betrayed by a subordinate, who has turned out to be a self-serving murderer. And on another level it’s Nie Mingjue being betrayed by his lover, who was just using him for advancement.

I rewatched the later episode where we get the scene as Nie Mingjue’s head perceived it, and he’s particularly brokenhearted and disillusioned from his head’s POV.  In that version there is a telling addition to the conversation.

Nie Mingjue asks about the guys who were roasting Meng Yao behind his back. He asks, if I hadn’t come, would you have murdered all of them?

Um. No, dude. Of course fucking not. That’s what a patriarchal authority does. That’s the way an angry Nie Mingjue/Baxia team might solve a problem.

Meng Yao has to use subterfuge to kill his enemies. And while he super hates being called “son of a whore” it’s absolutely not enough to make him kill someone, with the risk murder brings. Likewise, being treated well isn’t enough to make him spare someone. Nie Mingjue totally doesn’t get this, because he’s been the patriarch of this clan his entire adult life.

And Here’s the Actual Problem

There is a betrayal here, but Nie Mingjue is not simply a victim.  Whether it’s a sexual relationship or a non-sexual bond of affection, there can be nothing solid in Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao’s relationship within a feudal society, because it is fundamentally unequal. Even if they love each other deeply - which I’m not convinced either of them does - every encounter they have is tainted with power dynamics.

Meng Yao has been elevated by Nie Mingjue and quite probably taken into his bed, as well as being told many family secrets, but has not been given a new surname (like, for example, Wen Zhuliu was) or independent power. More importantly, Nie Mingjue has not used his authority to remove or punish the many people who disrespect his subordinate.  Lan Qiren would have had all of those gossipy fuckers kneeling in the snow, and Wen Ruohan would feed them to his mosh pit zombies.

Meng Yao is a murderous little snake, but he is right to be angry with Nie Mingjue about some things, and his pursuit of his own agenda is understandable.

Well, That Was a Slice

Meng Yao leaves, hurt, with a dignified bow; just as he did that one time when his dad kicked him down the Carp Tower steps.

Take note, both patriarchal authorities: that is his way of saying “I’m going to murder you one day.”

Nie Mingjue sits with his broken heart, as we realize that we’ve only spent 20 minutes with this guy and we’ve gone on an entire emotional journey with him. This episode packed in a LOT.

Soundtrack: Johnny Cash, Folsom Prison Blues

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU.

also on ff.net

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon, @ab-normality, @andiirivera and whoever else asks me.

Thanks always to the cool-as-fuck @lenfaz, for her tireless efforts in keeping me motivated.

Emma

One thing you could say about Emma, she knew how to hold a grudge. She knew how to hold them close, how to nurture and how feed them until they grew up big and strong, and there were no shortage of people on her shit list. For instance, to this day if a certain person with the initials N.C. ever came waltzing back into her life, even a decade after the fact, she was pretty sure she still had enough latent rage bottled up to cause serious bodily harm.

Forgiveness had never really been her thing.

And yet…

She could play the strong and silent type all she liked, but the truth was, life was better with friends. Even when they had been an ocean away, her life had still been a flurry of group texts and Skype dates, of close confidences and harmless gossip. And national laughing stock or no national laughing stock, she missed it. She missed them.

She was almost surprised by the intensity of it, as it rose up inside her. That unfamiliar longing, the one she’d thought she’d long buried along with the rest of it. But as she sat in that unheated sedan, watching the landscape disappear beneath a blanket of fresh snow with a virtual stranger, she couldn’t see the point in pretending anymore.

Emma Swan was not an island.

So yes, she’d forgiven them. Conditionally. There would be atonement, of course. Apologies, and care packages and promises to never, ever, ever, fucking do something like that again. And it felt like a good thing, like a salve to her wounded pride. Like the grown up thing to do.

That is, until Ruby started stalking Killian Jones on Facebook.

“You didn’t mention he was hot.”

“Who?” Emma asked absently, still trying to get herself situated in front of her laptop screen without spilling her cocoa or her bowl of popcorn.

“Your writer guy. Killian?”

Emma almost spat out her mouthful of cocoa, mental alarm bells ringing. “Rubes…”

“Chill,” the brunette advised. “Take a yoga breath. Yes, okay, I looked the guy up. Of course I did. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t an axe murderer. But, wow, you have been really holding out on us.”

“He’s not… It’s a professional relationship, Ruby. Don’t make it weird.”

Or professional enough. Not that any other of Emma’s professional relationships involved watching Pixar movies with nephews, or frank admissions of orphanhood, but hell, what did she know about journalism? Maybe that was standard.

“So you mean you haven’t noticed he’s sex on legs?” Ruby pressed, her tongue peeking mischievously out of the corner of her mouth.

Okay, so Emma had noticed. It was kinda hard not to notice, especially when he insisted on wearing such tight jeans all the time, and button downs with the sleeves rolled up to expose criminally toned forearms. She didn’t even want to get into the scruff situation. Or that smirk. Whatever else the man might be, he was not modest about his looks.

“Please don’t objectify him. Trust me, he doesn’t need the ego boost. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he already has like a harem of casual conquests for that.”

“Wow,” Ruby said, folding her hand under her chin thoughtfully. “That sounded almost catty. Are we perhaps a little jealous of Killian Jones’s harem?”

“I’m not jealous. I have…” Okay, so Emma’s love life comprised entirely of streaming Sex in the City episodes ad nauseum whilst snuggled inside her hideously unfashionable, but unquestionably warm Portland Pirates pyjamas. But that was fine, she was still fresh from the whole Walsh debacle. It wasn’t like she couldn’t go out and find a guy, if she wanted one. “…Other concerns,” she finished lamely.

“Right,” Ruby said, sounding wholly less than convinced. “So you mean you don’t want to see the guy’s embarrassing high school pictures then? Because I have hit the motherlode. We’re talking ponytail. Grunge phase.”

Emma groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t Friend Request him.”

A sheepish grin crossed her friend’s features. “I plead the fifth?”

“God dammit, Ruby.” The last thing she needed was Killian Jones getting yet more dirt on her. He already knew way too much as it was. And Ruby was second only to Mary Margaret in the blabbermouth stakes. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

There was a pause. “There’s a fang earring.”

“You’re kidding.” The gods couldn’t be that kind.

“I’m really not.”

Ruby looked like the cat that got the canary, and rightfully so. Maybe Emma had this whole thing backwards. Maybe it wasn’t about how many of her secrets Killian could extort from her and her friends. Maybe it was about how many she could extract from him.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Your friend Ruby added me on Facebook. Friendly lass. Very chatty. KJ

I know. Nice ponytail, by the way. ES

…

I knew I should have deleted those. KJ

I’m so glad you didn’t. ES

I bet you are. Well, laugh it up, lass. Ruby’s albums aren’t entirely devoid of compromising pictures either. The one titled Spring Break ‘10 has been especially… revealing. KJ

Oh god. I forgot about that. Brb. Changing my privacy settings. ES

A little late for that, lass. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me. KJ

Truce? ES

Truce. KJ

On her best days, Emma could pack out a lecture hall with nearly 200 warm bodies, but come Friday afternoon the numbers tended to dwindle as most of her students made an early start on their weekends. A good thing too or else she might not have noticed him there, seated in the back row, whilst she was mid-way into comparing the war of 1812 to its more modern counterparts.

She stuttered to a stop, put off by the sight of him, hand on his chin and apparently listening intently.

“One.. uh…” She shot him a glare as she fought to remember what she was saying.

“One might be tempted to draw parallels here, of course. The kind of hubris that led Thomas Jefferson to state that conquering Canada would be 'a mere matter of marching’ is hardly unique to American foreign policy. Think about it: Vietnam. Afghanistan. Iraq. All intended to be swift, decisive victories that were anything but. I know this is history, kids, but don’t be afraid to make connections. It’s true what they say: 'What has happened before will happen again. What has been done before will be done again. There is nothing new in the whole world.’ If I want you to take anything away from this course, it’s this: People don’t really change. Politics have always held an attraction for the arrogant and the short-sighted. Especially in the United States.”

As she waited for the laughter to die down, she glanced up at the clock above the whiteboard to see her hour fast drawing to a close. “And now that I’ve disparaged my country for your amusement, a reminder that next Thursday your argumentative essays are due. Was the War of 1812 just a footnote in the greater Napoleonic Wars, or was it a defining moment of a young and fragile nation? You decide. Either way, I want to be convinced!”

Killian waited for the last of the students to shuffle out before he approached Emma at her podium, still gathering up the last of her leftover handouts. His hands, the real and the plastic, were in his pockets, a grin stretching over his lips.

“You quoted Ecclesiastes,” he said by way of greeting, unable to completely keep the surprise from his voice.

Emma shrugged, trying to keep her attention on packing away her supplies and not Killian Jones’s opinion of her teaching methods. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest? Mixing scripture and history? In my experience, the two don’t tend to mesh well.”

Emma paused in her motions to raise an eyebrow. “Awfully philosophical today, aren’t we?”

He spread his arms, indicating the lecture hall they stood in. It was one of the university’s oldest, each row back even steeper than the one before it, which sometimes culminated in Emma feeling like she was performing live at Red Rocks. But she liked it, musty as it was, the wooden desks engraved with literally centuries worth of graffiti from bored college students. It had character. “Seems like an appropriate venue for philosophizing, don’t you think?”

“C'mon, Aristotle,” she said, pulling him towards the door by his sleeve. “You can buy me a drink.”

They didn’t go far, settling in the back of the closest Mexican restaurant to Emma’s office, two bottles of Corona sat on the table between them, a wedge of lime sticking out of each.

“So…” Emma started, absently picking at the label of her bottle. “Was there a reason for your visit, or was this just a standard evaluation of my teaching methods?”

“Eh, no. Not exactly, lass,” Killian admitted, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. “Actually I was hoping to run something by you.”

He was nervous. Emma could tell. And that made Emma nervous. In her experience, if someone was afraid to ask something of her, it was usually because she wasn’t going to like it. Not. One. Bit.

“Oh, really?”

“I wanted to change the format of our little…” He made a vague gesture in the air, “…agreement.”

Emma was wary. “Change it… how?”

“Well,” he began, pulling himself up straighter in his chair. “For one thing, if I have to read another one of those responses from your website, I will actually gauge out my own eyeballs. They’re creeps, Swan. Sociopaths. Perverts. People who still live with their parents. You can do better.”

She wasn’t sure whether she should be flattered, or horrified. “O…kay. So, what’s the game plan?”

“Just, hear me out alright? I’ve given this rather a lot of thought. What if, instead of just shooting fish in a particularly grimy barrel, we try a more… old fashioned approach?”

“Old-fashioned?”

He winced prematurely, as if already anticipating her negative reaction. “Well, not old-fashioned exactly. But certainly adopting more tied and true methods. I thought the column could double as a how-to guide, of sorts. How to make friends in a new city.”

“What kind of methods?”

“I thought we might ease into it. Mutual friends. Actually, it was your friend, Ruby, that gave me the idea.”

Considering recent events, Emma did not like the way this was going. Her displeasure must have shown on her face, because he was quick to correct himself.

“Well, not Ruby herself. But in befriending me, I couldn’t help but notice that she has a Facebook friend in my extended circle of contacts. Edinburgh based.”

“Really?” Before she knew what she was doing, she already had her phone out, her Facebook app booting up.

“Aye,” Killian said, leaning in to peer at the device upside down. “And she has rather more than 39 Facebook Friends.”

Emma snatched her phone back to her chest, eyes narrowing. “What? I’m not sentimental.”

If anything, he looked amused. “Clearly. So this friend of hers, her name is Belle French. Ever met her?”

“Belle?” Emma asked, scrolling through Ruby’s friends list until she hit paydirt. Belle French. The brunette in the picture wasn’t immediately familiar, but when she opened up the profile and saw the woman’s birthplace, something twigged.

“I haven’t met her, but I know who she is. She’s the Australian girl Ruby dated freshman year.”

She waited for some leery comment, some perceptible widening of his eyes, but there was nothing. Emma had clearly been spending too much time around college boys.

“But that was before Ruby and I were friends,” Emma continued. “I think she transferred to another college or something.”

“And would you have any moral objections to befriending an ex of your friend?”

Emma considered that. “I mean, I’m pretty sure the break up was fairly amicable. Ruby isn’t exactly the type to get emotional over something like that. Or she wasn’t. Maybe now. But, you said she lives here?”

“Aye, she works in a library in Morningside. Children’s librarian. She does all the little voices when she reads to them.”

Emma frowned. It was way too much information to be accidentally gleaned from the internet. “Stalker, much?”

“Journalist, Swan,” he corrected. “Journalist.”

So has your friend blessed our endeavours? KJ

You mean did she give me Belle French’s email address? Yes. ES

And she didn’t mention any glaring personality defects or mutations? KJ

Jfc, mutations? ES

Let’s just say trawling through your inbox these past weeks has been quite an education and leave it at that. KJ

Yeah, you can’t just say something like that and not back it up with pictorial evidence. ES

I’m only thinking of you, Swan. KJ

Jones. ES

Prepare yourself. KJ

-KJ has sent you an image file-

Oh my god. Why would they send me that? Why would, what even? ES

I DID try to warn you. KJ

That’s a tail, right? ES

I certainly hope so. KJ

Killian

“Texting your new bird?”

Killian looked up from his phone, only to see Will giving him a conspiratorial look over his pint of ale.

Truthfully, Killian sometimes rued the day he ever became entangled with the likes of Will Scarlett. There was something squirrelly about the man, and it wasn’t just his Midlands accent.

No, Will was more the the type of friend who liked to document each and every night out with a series of steadily more incriminating posts to social media, under the guise of 'havin’ a laugh’. Not to mention the fondness for off-colour jokes and mysterious disappearances whenever it came time to stand his round.

Your man in a crisis, he was not.

“No new bird,” Killian replied coolly, slipping his phone back into his pocket and taking a long sip of IPA.

Robin was taking far too long to arrive.

“Then an old one?” Will enquired, undeterred by Killian’s reticence. “Are you and that Kiwi chick still a thing? Because if you’re not, I was thinking of-”

Killian held up a hand, forcing the man into silence. “You’re not her type, trust me.”

“What?” Will demanded, affronted. “Two-handed? Worried she might prefer a bloke who can multi-task?”

If Killian wasn’t still nursing his first pint he might have punched him. Instead he settled for letting his prosthetic land on the table in front of him with a heavy thud. His false hand had fallen to the mercy of Lachie and a permanent marker the previous evening, so he’d foregone it today in favour of the more utilitarian hook. It had made him feel self-conscious on leaving the house, but now he appreciated the way the metal glinted menacingly by the low light of the overhead lights.

“Erudite,” Killian corrected, rather enjoying the look on Will’s face as he grappled with whether to be offended or not, the word ironically failing to appear in his own personal lexicon.

Mercifully, before Will could decide either way, Killian spied the third member of their party finally approaching, and turned to him in greeting.

“Sorry I’m late, lads,” Robin said, as he took a seat opposite Killian, shedding his jacket. “The in-laws were late to pick up Roland. Some tosser tried to drive his lorry over the Forth in this wind and it fairly well cartwheeled over. Both lanes closed. Bloody nightmare.”

Though they’d grown up together, Robin was in many ways the complete antithesis of Will. Where Will was flighty and irresponsible, Robin was dependable and steadfast. Though of course, Robin had a young son at home, and a wife not long in the ground. Fucking cancer. You could argue he’d come by his virtues naturally, but it was hard to say for certain. Many a man had managed to forge themselves into something altogether stronger under the flame of adversity.

He reminded Killian almost uncomfortably of Liam at times, if Liam had only managed to hold onto his sense of humour post-having kids.

“So who’s round is it?” Robin prompted, though he was already digging around for his own wallet. Killian didn’t need to look up to tell that Will’s chair was empty, and he breathed out a small sigh of relief.

“Cheap bastard,” Robin chuckled, almost fondly. Like Will was a chronically misbehaving puppy that he couldn’t quite stay mad at, no matter how many pairs of shoes it chewed through. Not an entirely erroneous description, now Killian thought about it. “Has he been giving you a hard time?”

“No more than usual,” he shrugged, but he knew the way he was currently grinding his jaw probably spoke volumes.

Robin considered him closely. “I think it might be time to switch to something stronger.”

“You just got here,” Killian pointed out.

“Well, I’ve got some catching up to do, haven’t I?” Robin said with a wink, clapping Killian on the shoulder as he made his way to the bar.

Lagavulin was his answer, coming back with three tumblers of amber liquid clutched precariously in his hands. Killian wasn’t a habitual whisky drinker, but he wasn’t one to turn down a dram of the good stuff. Let alone a double.

“You’re keen,” Killian noted, taking his tumbler with a grateful tip of his head.

“First night without the lad since, well… since just after the funeral, I suppose,” Robin said soberly. “Might as well get properly scuttered.”

The last time Killian had been properly scuttered he’d vomited in the back of a taxi and slept with his ex-girlfriend. Not the most promising of prospects.

“Do me a favour, will you?” he said suddenly, digging into his trousers pocket. “If I somehow get it into my head to call Tink tonight, do you think you can just throw my phone off a bridge instead?” he asked, tossing Robin the offending device.

“Whatever you say,” Robin agreed with a mock salute. But before he could tuck it away, the phone buzzed in his hands, causing a sly smile to appear on his face.

“You’ve a text. A few of them, actually. From an Emma?” He raised a significant eyebrow.

Killian snatched the phone out of his hands, and tucked it back into his pocket, sight unseen.

“American Emma?” Robin asked.

“Aye,” Killian grumbled out, taking the first sip of his whisky and letting it warm his insides.

“So it’s going well, then?” Robin ventured. “The column? I’ve been following along, for the most part.”

“S'fine. Well, alright, it’s been a disaster, actually,” Killian corrected. “The lass hasn’t taken to it, and most everyone who responded to the ad in the first instance was just a mouth-breathing creep looking to get laid. I’m going to have to tweak the entire format.”

“But you’re still setting her up with strangers, yes?”

Killian shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Already got the next one nearly lined up. A children’s librarian from Australia. Quiet lass. A friend of Tink’s, actually. She mentioned that her divorce just came through. Might be in need of some friendly distraction.”

“Emotionally unavailable librarian type, you say?”

Killian hadn’t even noticed Will slip back into his seat, but he already wanted to punch him again. He turned to him with a cold stare. “Don’t even try it.”

“She have a thing for the educated blokes, too?”

Good to know someone had googled 'erudite’ on his phone outside.

“Oh, c'mon,” Robin coaxed, in a rare show of treachery. “This entire thing is about Emma making friends, yes? So why keep her all to yourself? Why not make a group outing of it? I would love to meet her, and I’m sure this librarian can handle anything our Mr Scarlett dishes out.”

Killian wasn’t sure why, but something inside him twisted uncomfortably at the idea of Emma mixing with his friends. Not that he thought she might embarrass him, or vice versa. Though introducing her to Will might belay all of the efforts he was making to save her from Edinburgh’s creep contingent. It just felt… like it would go poorly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“Oh, really? And what were you planning on having them do?” Robin said, in a way that was far too reminiscent of Liam sat at his desk, dismissing Killian’ story pitches out of hand.

And god damn him, Killian caved. “They have a karaoke night in the pub up the stair. This librarian, Belle, apparently she’s quite into that.”

“Belle,” Will whispered dreamily, and Killian kicked him under the table.

It was stupid, now he thought about it. Supposing that Emma and this virtual stranger might bond over mutual humiliation as they warbled their way through a Best of the 80s karaoke mix. He was an idiot.

But Robin, on the other hand, merely grinned. “That’s brilliant. We could get a few more people together. Make a night of it.”

“You remember when I said it would be a bad idea?” Killian reminded him.

“Trust me,” Robin said. “I have it sorted.”

With a growing sense of foreboding, Killian finished off the last of his whisky, and pulled out his wallet to pay for the next round.

You really can’t spare ten minutes? KJ

Hey, if you want to sit here and grade forty nearly identical papers about Alexander Hamilton that use a factually inaccurate, albeit brilliant, Broadway musical as an academic reference, you’re welcome to switch places with me. ES

And you make it sound so inviting. KJ

Just spit it out, Jones. ES

Alright. But first, some caveats: 1) It was not my idea, 2) My hand was forced, 3) I am paying you. KJ

… ES

A few of my friends have taken it upon themselves to intercede in our Grand Experiment. Or to put it more plainly, in the interests of ruining my life they have decided to turn your friend-date with Belle into a “group-outing”, with both them and I riding shotgun. KJ

Scottish friends? ES

Mostly English. Or John might be Welsh, actually. He doesn’t say much, so it’s hard to know. KJ

Do you actually have any Scottish friends? ES

Fewer than you’d think. KJ

And how many people are we talking here, on this “group-outing”? ES

You’re being remarkably calm about this. KJ

How many? ES

Max 10. I promise. KJ

And you can vouch for them? ES

Most of them. Will is a tosser, but you can sort him out. Might be good for him, even. KJ

Just… ES

Just don’t leave me on my own with them, okay? You know I’m not good at small talk. ES

Roger that. KJ

Thank you. KJ

You owe me one, Jones. ES

Killian was already halfway up the stairs from the station when he felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, checking the caller ID. It wasn’t a number he recognised, though the area code was local. He was tempted to hit ignore, but in his line of work tips and sources came in all kinds. He answered.

“Mr Jones?” The voice on the other end of the phone was young, and to his ears, tearful.

“Aye?” No one ever called him Mr Jones. Not if he could help it.

“It’s Ashley. Ashley Boyd? The babysitter?”

Ah, yes. The lass that picked the boys up from school, and watched them until their parents came home from work. Barely out of school herself, from what he could remember. A blonde slip of a girl that even Lachie couldn’t bear to misbehave for. But why would she be calling him?

“Aye, I remember. What’s the matter, lass? Are the boys okay?”

“They’re fine. It’s only, Mr Jones… that is, the other Mr Jones, he was supposed to come home and relieve me an hour ago, and he’s not answering his phone. I called and left a message but…”

Killian’s heart leapt into his throat.

“…I mean, I don’t mind the extra hours usually, but I have an assignment due this week and…”

He tuned her out, his mind launching into a million terrible scenarios, each more horrific than the last. An hour late. Not answering phone. Not like Liam. Not at all.

“I’ll be right there,” he barked into the phone, taking the steps down two at a time, an arm already raised to hail a taxi.

He was halfway to calling Elsa when he remembered she was in London this week, meeting with potential investors for her next show. No need to worry her unnecessarily. Not immediately.

Instead he settled for dialling his brother’s phone on a loop, leaving a series of increasingly frantic messages.

“Where the fucking hell are you? Pick up. Pick up.”

“You’d better be in a bloody ditch, you bastard.”

“Please don’t be in a bloody ditch. Call me right back.”

By the time the taxi pulled up at the house he practically threw a handful of notes at the driver, and raced up the drive, gravel crunching ominously underfoot.

His stomach lurched to see Ashley was still there, pacing the kitchen with a stricken look on her face.

“Mr Jones?” She said, her relief evident. “Oh, thank god. The boys have been asking questions and-

"Aye, thank you,” he said, cutting her off before she started to spiral. He emptied out the rest of his wallet and pressed the cash into her sweaty palm. “Appreciate you staying, love.”

She looked uncertain for a moment, but after a coaxing nod from Killian she gathered up her coat and bag, and headed for the front door, visibly relieved to be absolved of responsibility.

He went into the living room to check on the boys, still bickering gently over a pair of action figures.

“Uncle Killian?” Callum asked, when he emerged from the hallway. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Just running a bit behind today, is all. You monsters hungry, yet? I was thinking pizza for dinner. Just while your Mum is away.”

In Killian’s experience, very little served to distract quite as well as the prospect of pizza. The boys seemed happy at least, moving on to arguing over toppings. Whilst they hotly debated the merits of pineapple vs no pineapple, he snuck back into the kitchen, phone already at his ear.

That was when he heard it. The crunch of gravel outside. Throwing his phone down on the counter, he sprinted towards the front door, pulling it open just in time to surprise the hell out of the person on the other side.

Liam. Liam. He was looking a little weary, and visibly sweating despite the chill, but otherwise no worse for wear.

“You fucking wanker,” Killian said by way of greeting, pulling his brother into a forceful hug against his will.

“Ger'off me,” Liam complained, and Killian released his hold on him, still shaking with leftover adrenaline.

“What time do you call this?”

“I’m so sorry. Are the boys-?”

“They’re fine. Oblivious. Expecting pizza, because I had to give them something. Might have overpaid your babysitter to the point of bribery though. She was freaking out. Hell, I was freaking out. Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“I didn’t mean to worry you. My phone died. I was already running late…”

At that Liam gestured towards the clock above the stove, and Killian had a momentary panic all his own.

Emma.

He’d forgotten to text Emma and tell her he would be late.

Shit. Fuck.

I am so sorry. Family crisis. Now resolved. I’ll be there as soon as I can. KJ

Swan? KJ

By the time he made it back to the Jinglin’ Geordie it was already half nine, and karaoke night was in full swing. Or it was for one lass, anyway. Belle. He recognised her from when he’d scoped out the library, now currently sobbing her way through the first verse of Wild Horses.

He’d thought she was almost pretty the first time he’d seen her, in a fussy librarian kind of way. Now it was hard to tell either way, with her face blotchy and the mascara streaming down her cheeks.

Bloody hell.

He looked around for Emma, for any of his compatriots, but the place was nearly empty, save for a handful of barflies at their usual posts. If he had to guess, he’d say the crying woman might have had something to do with that.

There was only one other customer, sat at the furthest table from the stage. She sat nursing a gin and tonic, reading from a stack of paper s in her lap by the light of her phone.

Killian slid into the seat across from her, his hands already steepled in front of him. He startled her as he did so, the red pen sliding from her grasp and disappearing somewhere on the grimy carpet.

“So it’s going well, I see.”

Sarcasm hadn’t been in his original plan, the one he’d been slowly forming in his mind on the taxi back into town. He’d had every intention of returning in a shower of profuse apologies. Free drinks. A bit of grovelling if necessary.

But upon seeing the fucking joke of an evening it had turned out to be, Killian could feel the apologies turn sour on his tongue. Why should he feel badly, when Emma clearly wasn’t even going to try? She was marking essays, for chrissakes. On an evening out. And who the bloody hell knew where his friends had got to?

As if sensing his mood, or simply projecting one of her own, Emma’s eyes narrowed.

“You think this is my fault?” she hissed, her stack of papers scattering as she leaned forward. “You think I wanted tonight to turn into Moaning Myrtle’s Greatest Hits? And who are you to talk? At least I showed up!”

He couldn’t say that their harsh whispering was attracting an audience, but the bartender certainly shot an annoyed glance their way.

Swallowing back an angry retort, Killian motioned for Emma to follow him, and lead the way to the side door. It opened out into a small designated smoking area, empty save for a derelict set of garden furniture and empty kegs. He motioned for her to take a seat, and she did, hugging herself against the cold.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said evenly. “But I really did have an emergency. I thought Liam- Bloody hell, it doesn’t matter what I thought. The point is, my nephews needed me.”

“I’m not mad about that!” Emma said, her voice gradually softening as she spoke. “I get it. Family stuff. It’s important. What I’m mad about is you sending me in blind! I know you know she got divorced this week. You’re you. Stalking people is your forte. So why not warn me? Why let me sit through two hours of this poor girl just unravelling before my eyes?”

She was right. He had known. Tink had warned him, in fact. And he’d simply dismissed it, figuring it wasn’t relevant. Clearly he’d underestimated the potent cocktail of alcohol and song, and all the ways it could dredge up the worst possible feelings.

He should have known. He’d paired them often enough, once a time.

He decided on a new strategy: contrition.

“How long has she been crying?”

“Since about half way through Tiny Dancer. No one could get the microphone off her after that. Not that a lot tried…”

“And my friends?” Killian asked gingerly.

“Ditched about half an hour in. I think they said something about the pub downstairs. Not that I blame them.”

“Bloody traitors,” Killian snarled.

“To be fair, they did ask me to go with them. But I thought I should… stay.” She shot a regretful glance towards the door they’d just exited, as if even now she felt guilty for leaving the girl inside.

“And Will behaved himself?” Killian asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, Will is definitely a jerk. Major jerk. But Robin’s okay. And your girlfriend is nice.”

Killian nearly choked on his own saliva. “My girlfriend?”

“It’s Tink, right? The one from New Zealand? Is that really her name?”

“Not my girlfriend,” Killian wheezed out, still fighting to regain his composure.

“Really?” She looked almost amused. “Will said…”

Next time he thought about punching Will Scarlett he was actually going to follow through.

“Will is a wanker. As discussed. And Tink is a lovely lass, but she and I have always managed to make a right mess of things. So to say she’s my girlfriend is viciously overstating what we have.”

“So you do have something?”

Killian groaned, wondering how he came to be explaining his not-even relationship to Emma Swan, of all people. Was this payback for interrogating her about that Walsh fellow? Was this karma come back to bite him?

“We used to date,” he admitted. “Now she mainly just yells at me. Which she used to do before, only now there’s very little make up sex involved. Barely any, unless there’s been far too much alcohol consumed.”

“Sounds healthy,” Emma said, patting him on the shoulder in a way that could only be condescending.

“Says the Queen of Healthy Relationships. How close were you to marrying a guy you didn’t even love, again?”

She gave him a shove, and he elbowed her back, but neither of them put any feeling into it.

“So, Swan. How about we go put Ms French in a taxi and fetch our compatriots. I feel a song coming on.”

“You’re going to sing?” she asked doubtfully.

“Aye, if you will.”

“I’m not really a singer…”

“I somehow doubt that. I can tell about people, Emma Swan, and you are a singer at heart.” He wasn’t sure how he was so certain. But he knew he was right.

“Yeah, in the shower, maybe…”

“A duet, then?” he suggested. “How do you feel about Sonny and Cher?”

“Please, god no.”

“A Whole New World?” he offered.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Elton John?”

“Better.”

“Elton John it is.”