#brennan has the best fucking improv with him too

[mangoes-and-mothman]

i forgot how much i fucking love jawbone

[liliability]

Day Two: In the hands of the enemy

(Eh, kinda. This piece is a nod to the prompt I wrote back in September, set in the same universe of Day One: Let’s Hang Out Sometimes)

CW: lady whump, pet whump, dehumanizing language, collar, caged whumpee, captivity, blood mention.

Timeline: Late 90's, 20 years before Max abduction

Every year, Emma attends Trevor Harding’s luxurious ball uninvited. A nice excuse, she thinks, to wear a tailored suit and flirt with absorbed ladies all night without bringing attention to herself. 

An even better annual excuse to keep her eyes on Harding’s closest friends, the infamous elite of magic timekeepers that hold all the cards in this part of the city.

Trevor had reacted with mild annoyance at the first, but quickly took up the challenge to surprise his most intriguing guest every year with his latest purchases. Usually, the acquisitions are older than the immortal host himself.

This year, unlike the last few decades, Harding’s precious asset isn’t on display in the main hall, and that’s enough to make Emma a little wary of the nature of his acquisition.

 ------------------------------

“Well, it’s not exactly a new acquisition, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it took me years to get improve my project. I wouldn’t settle with an unfinished piece of work.”

The loud Vivaldi that entertain the guests in the ball room is slowly replaced by a faint ringing in her ears as Harding leads Emma to the biggest cellar she had ever seen. The place looks more like a warehouse from a horror movie, or even an old-fashioned dungeon, than the underground of a sumptuous castle. She wonders if anyone can hear her if she screams.

The answer is probably no, or else Harding wouldn’t lock any living creature down there. Emma knows they’re walking towards a living thing, because the ringing is replaced for a low groaning as they run down the cellar.

“Don’t get too close to the cage. My girl has quite strong teeth.”

Emma notices the big cage hidden by the shadows in one corner of the cellar. The reinforced bars hold whatever pet Harding got his hands on this time, and it mustn’t be very well-trained, but this isn’t Emma’s biggest worry.

The cage is too big for a dog.

The dark Harding whistles to bring the attention of the creature. 

Emma hears a rattling of chains, followed by a loud growl, before the pet draws closer to bare it’s teeth at them and thrash violently at the bars of the cage.

The woman nearly falls back when the pet snarls at her, and in the darkness of the cellar it takes her a while to notice that the figure locked in the cage is not an it, but a bruised young woman, bound on her hands and knees, that thrashes back and forth against her restraints like a startled animal.

The sounds she made doesn’t sound human at all. Distressed and strangled whimpers come out from a throat that is as restrained as her limbs.

She’s wearing a fucking dog collar.

“What...What the fuck, Harding? This is a- fuck- how long do you have a person in your cellar?”

Trevor puts himself between Emma and the cage, doing quiet shush motions. Behind him, the woman stares at them with wide icy eyes and bared teeth. There’s a thin layer of sweat covering her face but no flush reddening her hollow cheeks. No freckles, no blush, despite the paleness of her skin. The only color in her face are the dark circle under her eyes and the dried blood spattered on her cheeks.

She looks sick. Damn, if she wasn’t panting so much, Emma would think she was fucking dead.

“I know, I know what you’re thinking, but let me explain. Do you see the runes in her arms?”

Emma lowers her gaze, looking at the elaborate knife-made marks in her arms. She had heard about the forbidden runes, made by greedy mortal beings who want immortality- or perhaps corrupt timekeepers who lost their powers. At the end, their craving is the same, but these years of life are not simply granted. They are stolen, and that’s the purpose of the runes.

The lines are neat and straight, the work was clearly slow and deliberate. The woman must have stayed still- or unconscious- but if the point Harding is trying to make is true, she did these runes of her own volition.

“So, the rumors are true. Are you sheltering strays now, Trevor? I thought mortals like her had their own gang, or something like that”.

“Well, what could I do? She asked me for help, and I turned her myself.”

The woman snarls at them again, pulling at her restraints with smudged red fingers and shouting something that sounds quite like “Go away!” Emma would guess she’s in her twenties, but there’s no way to know with the runes-

One awful question pops in her mind.

“How long... for how long do you have her?”

Harding grins at the question.

“Now, that’s a nice question! I found her at ‘91, so let’s say... seven years?”

Emma’s going to throw up. There’s no way the poor thing in the cage had known the fate reserved for her, there’s no way she would agree with this.

“This...this is wrong, how can immortality be worth all this?”

“Oh no, she didn’t trade herself for immortality, that was only a collateral. Do you see how the pattern in her arms is different from the standard rune?”

There’s a mark in her arms that resembles a chain, the rune used to bound a mortal’s life to a Timekeeper’s powers. No matter who this woman was, she gave herself to Harding to be able to extend someone’s life. 

Emma is paler than usual. “What could she possibly use these powers for?”

“About that...”

Harding leads her back to the crowded ballroom. The caged woman doesn’t seem to relax even when they got more distant. Instead, Emma can see her growl to a shadow and rub her face in the bars, removing the matted hair that gets in front of her eyes.

 Dozens of servants move around the room with plates full of champagne glasses. One of them is visibly younger than the others, and particularly nice looking. His icy blue eyes and messy dark hair caught her attention immediately, but she can’t stop thinking how similar he is with the feral prisoner downstairs.

He walks with his head cast down, a tired frown in his face, but despite his careless expression his uniform is flawless, except for the wrinkled fabric in his arms were the sleeves are rolled up to expose the runes. 

Anyone could see the carved marks at meters of distance, and Harding’s closest guests would certainly know about its meaning. A sign of danger and unnatural in any other place out of a timekeeper’s territory, but here? In Harding’s own ball, serving guests and cleaning tables? The rune is a sign of ownership. A brand marked with no iron.

“Is that a...?”

“A bound mark, exactly. The siblings made a deal with me, some years ago. His darling sister dropped dead in my door some years ago, and he came for me to trade his life for hers.”

“I won’t say he looks very alive, but he’s clearly not dead, at least.”

“I got a little turn in my arrangements. His sister wasn’t very pleased when she woke up. She begged me for a deal, and I granted her new powers to keep her brother alive, as long as she can buy him more time.”

Trevor doesn’t say the rest of the sentence. From someone, buy him more time from someone, harming innocent mortals to extend her own life- or someone else’s, in this case. 

“But she’s not one of us, she can’t steal without killing her targets.”

Harding’s smile widens. “I’m very aware of this” The trail of blood is no inconvenience for him.

This is absolutely sick. She knew some timekeepers could be corrupt, but Harding is in a whole new level...

“What would you get in return, huh? Betraying your own people, using forbidden magic? Brennan lost his powers for much less.”

“I beg to differ, as I was the one who removed his powers, in the first place. With your connivance, if you don’t remember.” Harding shrugs, following the dark-haired servant with his eyes. “But what did I get in return? As you could see, I got myself a gorgeous brand-new toy, and the best hunt dog I could hope for.”

Emma doesn’t think about all the laws Harding had broken behind her back. She doesn’t think about the inappropriate comments the half-dead man gets from the guests and their even less appropriate touches that only stop when the guests see the runes.

But mostly, she tries not to think about the bared teeth pointed at her, and kicks herself whenever she wonders about what Harding would consider a hunt.

[shardminds]

What were your thoughts on Colin’s American accent? I know you’ve said before it wasn’t great, but I was wondering if you could write about it more?? Just curious, thanks : )

Hi there, Anon! You’ve made my day. I LOVE STUFF LIKE THIS! 

Disclaimer: I’m not American and my understanding of the intricacies of their accents is slim. I’m not an expert on accents. Other than researching languages for travel purposes and fun, I am not linguistically trained. That being said, I’m still willing to give this a shot because I will take any excuse to waffle on about my boy Colin O’Donoghue. I’ll try to provide examples where I can! 

To start, in my opinion, Colin’s American accent is improving! 

His accent in The Rite is… not great. Correct me if I’m wrong, I think this was his first time doing an American accent on screen. It’s okay… but you can definitely hear it slip at points and, as adorable as that is, it breaks the spell a bit for me. For example, the boxing scene from The Rite. The line that really twigs it for me is “You don’t get it, in my family you’re either a mortician or a priest.” especially on ‘family’ and ‘priest’. 

That boxing scene… Thank you, Youtube. 

(Also, for those of you that are interested, here’s a 26 second clip of Michael Kovac crying. You’re welcome.)

His accent in The Dust Storm is HEAPS better, although still not without slips. I’ve been trying to scour the web for the scene where he’s accusing Nora of fucking that guy in the bathroom but I can’t find it. I remember catching a couple of slips in that the first time I watched, but I could be wrong. My first viewing of The Dust Storm was not exactly a sober one. I did find this little gem of a deleted scene though where, at the 00:34 mark, when Brennan says ‘He looked just like me’, it sounds a little more Killian Jones than Brennan Sullivan… not that I’m complaining. At this point, I’ve listened to the clip so many times I can’t even tell what an accent is anymore and, for that, I’m sorry.

I don’t want to talk about Carrie Pilby because of the sheer accent fuckery that was that movie… but I will. Colin, sweetie, I love you, but your accent as Professor Harrison was something. I can’t find any clips to hand, which is a shame, but I just… I remember laughing out loud at some parts just because of the accents. I remember the part where Harrison asks if Carrie wants to try his wine and he’s all “It looks good on you, the wine.” or something to that effect and, despite being said in an American accent, it just fell right into that uncanny valley territory of sounding not wrong but also not right. That could have been because he was providing a minor with alcohol but… also the accent thing… yeah… that.

It wasn’t just Colin either. Bel Powey kept slipping back and forth between the two (I think that’s because of her character’s upbringing, maybe? I did not pay much attention to scenes that didn’t include Harrison. Sorry, not sorry.) and William Moseley? High King Peter Pevensie, I expected better from you. To be completely honest with you… I didn’t even finish the movie. As soon as Harrison got his shit handed to him by Carrie’s dad, I jumped out of there as fast as I could. Byeeeee!

WHAT STILL REMAINS! We’re friends, Anon, right? I’m gonna be real with you. I’ve only seen this movie the once and I was definitely not focusing on Colin’s accent at the time. There were more pressing matters that demanded my attention… like, Peter looking FINE ALL THE DAMN TIME. So, given that I spent 90% of that movie distracted by Mr Peter who dies so beautifully, I went back to watch the trailer again and… Damn. Damn, damn, damn. DAMN… So sorry, I got distracted by Peter again. What were we talking about? Ah yes! Colin’s American accent. Ok. 

I caught some slips despite my state of distraction but I feel that’s because he’s not only doing an accent but he’s also deepening his voice quite significantly while doing so. Which, in turn, has him slipping up on a couple of words. At 1:31 in this trailer when he says “I just have your best interests at heart” something sounds off. I’m not too sure if that’s just the inflexion he gives it or if it’s just me. Again, I am not an expert. It might just be me. I want Peter to have my best interests at heart. I am getting distracted again. Long story short; I can’t remember if his accent was Bad bad because Preacher Peter is, for lack of a better term, thicc (Seriously, look at that NECK! Vampires will be lusting after that man for centuries.) and could curb stomp me into the ground and I would thank him. I do not accept constructive criticism on this matter. 

And now, probably what you were after in the first place, Anon. The Sneed. I really enjoyed the episode. I really enjoyed Colin’s portrayal. I could go into a million different things that countless people have said before me on just what makes it such a great watch for fans and non-fans alike. You know what I also enjoyed? HIS ACCENT. I have probably slagged it off before, that sounds like a Very Me Thing To Do but after watching the other projects he’s had an accent in (I didn’t see The Rite, The Dust Storm or What Still Remains until recently. The Dust Storm may have been pre-Sneed but the rest were all post-Sneed.) and rewatching JJ Sneed again, I have a newfound appreciation for it. That and hot hot hot hot hot. 

I was expecting it to be bad, to be this drawling southern cowboy and at the start it was a little odd to hear the accent that he’d obviously worked very hard to perfect but… the more I got into the episode and the more I rewatched it, the less I associated the voice with Colin and the more I associated it with JJ ‘Stick ‘em up’ Sneed. This is the first of Colin’s roles that has done that for me, outside of Killian ‘Hook for a hand, Carpet for a chest’ Jones. I think I noticed a couple of slips on my first watch but now… here I am almost three weeks after the damn thing released thinking about that peach juice on JJ’s chin… hahaha… hahahahaha… ha… damn. I don’t feel that I can make a judgement on this one either. I’ve been emotionally compromised by the Sneed beard.

Also, what is it with Colin’s characters and bodies of water? The ocean, the lake, the river? Hmm… further investigation is needed into if Colin O’Donoghue is actually the fish man from The Shape Of Water or not.

In Conclusion: I used to think his accent was not great in JJ Sneed but, compared to his older work, he’s really come a long way! Colin’s accent is definitely improving and I can’t wait to see what he does with it in The Right Stuff! 

I also love Preacher Peter a lot more than I thought I did and I think I need to unpack what that says about me as a person. 

I hope this answered your question! ♥

p.s. look at that NECK! (gif credit to my sweet @darkcolinodonorgasm)

[maleenhancementmd]

charles bronson penis exercises

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[bookstoreromantic]

Took My Love (took it down) 2/3

Summary: The tight-knit town of Storybrooke isn’t exactly the world’s most ideal place to be licking one’s wounds, but even a town where everyone knows everyone else (and their business) can still provide the odd surprise. (Or, the Tortured Musician fic featuring ex bartender Emma Swan.)

Rating: M (overall)

Part One

Also available on FFnet and AO3. With thanks to @swallowedsong and @initiala.

ii.

          He takes a cab home and makes for the kitchen as soon as he’s in the door, pulling open all the cupboards until he finds what he’s looking for — the full bottle of whiskey he picked up the last time he re-stocked his liquor supply. Killian takes it with him to the couch and doesn’t bother with pacing himself, willing the alcohol to do its work. He’ll get no rest otherwise, his mind an angry mess of Milah’s screams and Emma’s moans and bloody hell.

          It’s takes nearly half a bottle before he passes out and the sun is bouncing off the flat’s greige-ish walls by the time he finally rouses.

          He feels like shit. His head is pounding and his throat is dry but it’s not enough to make him forget any of the night before. To wipe away the memory of the stunning blonde he’d held in his arms, the way she’d kissed him like she was trying to prove a point, how he’d been so close to losing himself in her.

          How it had all gone to shit once he’d heard the ambulance.

          Killian gets himself some water and re-settles on the couch, stretching out and resolving to wait until the nausea passes before he figures out how to get his car back to town. He’ll probably wind up paying the garage to tow it back but he can’t even think about setting anything up just yet. It’s not like he’s in a rush. He’s quite certain that he’s not going to leave the couch until he has to open the store on Monday.

          He spends the afternoon alternating between napping and watching old movies on tv. Killian knows he should shower but he can still smell her — Emma — on him and he can’t bring himself to wash it away. Kissing her was the most alive he’d felt in ages. Perhaps all this time he should have been trying to fuck his pain away instead of drowning it.

          When Liam lets himself in sometime in the evening he startles awake, jolting up and pushing the hair out of his face.

          His brother just stands and regards him from the doorway. “You missed dinner.”

          Killian scowls as Liam enters the flat. He’s in no bloody mood for another lecture. “I’m sorry,” he drawls. “Did your culinary skills improve in my absence?”

          Liam frowns at him but heads for the kitchenette with a tinfoil-wrapped package that he assumes are leftovers. “You’d better hope so,” he says. Closing the fridge door, he looks around the apartment with disdain. “Bloody hell, Killian. I gave you this place so you could have your privacy, not so you could trash it.”

           “You gave it to me so I’d be out of your hair,” he argues, standing from the couch as his brother starts rinsing out the empties that litter the counter. If they’re going to have this fight again, best to get it done with quickly. “I only came to this sodding town because you asked me to. You want me to leave? Say the word.”

          “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to try.”

          Killian rolls his eyes. “Are you never going tire of giving the same bloody speech nearly every week? You asked me to come and help with the store and that’s what I’m doing. The rest of my life is none of your damn business.”

          “Of course it’s my business!” Liam explodes, slamming a bottle down on the counter so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t break. “You’re my little brother, it’s always going to be my business!”

           “Worry about your wife, Liam,” he sneers. “Worry about your son. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Killian yanks open the fridge door and grabs a beer, twisting off the cap. “Always am, eventually.”

          His brother watches him as he takes a swig with the same look on his face that he used to see on their father all the time. Anger mixed with just enough disappointment to make you feel like it’s your fault. The difference being, of course, that it is his fault now, whereas their father was an abusive shit who blamed his sons for the crumbling state of his marriage. Liam is twice the man that Brennan ever was; if anything, it’s Killian who inherited the Jones temperament, his anger getting the better of him more times than he can count. Which is probably why it’s always a shock when he sees flashes of it in his brother.

          Killian stares down the ghost of their father like he used to do the man himself and eventually Liam’s shoulders drop. Shaking his head and turning away, he takes another beer from the fridge and walks over to the couch. Killian hesitates a moment but follows, sitting down next to him but keeping his eyes on the television while his brother rests his elbows on his knees and sighs.

           “I asked you here because I wanted us to help each other. I need to believe that we can get through this.”

          Killian shuts his eyes for a long moment after the admission. “Jones boys can get through anything,” he says finally, resigned. “It’s just rarely pretty.”

          Liam snorts. “Cheers to that, brother.”

          He tips his beer to his and they both drink, a more comfortable silence settling between them.

           “I saw Michael Tillman bring your car back earlier,” Liam says after a minute or so. “You get kicked out of another pub last night?”

          He is never going to bloody live down getting banned from Granny’s.

          Killian shakes his head. He was in no state to drive but his brother doesn’t need to know that. “Didn’t even get drunk,” he answers. “Just didn’t want to risk a ticket from the good Sheriff Nolan.”

          “When you didn’t come to dinner I assumed you were hungover still.”

          “Oh no, I got home, then I got drunk.”

          “Pretty raven-haired lass hit on you again?”

          “A blonde, actually. And I’m fairly certain I started it.”

          Liam’s brows pop up in surprise. “Aye, blondes are dangerous,” he says, leaning back into the couch cushions. “They sneak up on you.”

          Emma takes her seat at the table in the loft and wonders from looking at the feast just how long Mary Margaret has been itching to do a real Sunday dinner. It’s the middle of June and the loft doesn’t have any air conditioning, but that hasn’t stopped her future sister in-law from making a pork roast complete with gravy, mashed potatoes, and three different veggie options. And if the rumours are true, there’s blueberry pie stashed away for dessert.

          She hasn’t had a meal like it since Ruth passed away and Emma quickly shoves a forkful of meat in her mouth to cover up the pang in her chest. Her foster mom had started family dinners when Emma came back from Phoenix in an attempt to make their lives normal again for Henry’s sake — although she’s still not sure what it is that infants are supposed to gain from everyone else eating a roast for dinner. Still, the tradition had stuck for almost nine years. She hadn’t realized she’d missed it when they moved to New York.

           “So, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, passing the beans and carrots over to David. “How was your night out with Ruby?”

          Emma sputters on her wine and sets the glass down to wipe her hand on her napkin. “Uh, it was fun. I think she met someone, so it was good.”

          “Oh, that’s nice.” She waits a beat and then, “Did you?”

          Emma bites her tongue on, do you mean did I almost have sex in the back seat of the bug until the guy freaked out and suddenly couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, to the point where he literally ran away from me?

           “Nope!” she squeaks, smiling brightly in hopes that it’s enough to hide her flush of embarrassment. “It’s a little quick to be looking right now, don’t you think?”

          “Speaking of looking,” David says, too casually for it to be anything but a segue into her breakup. He knows she knows it too, because next thing he’s holding up his hand in concession. “I’m not going to ask what happened with Walsh. You don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But do you guys have a place to stay when you go back to New York? Do you need any help finding something?”

          Emma’s eyes drop to her plate and she forks a carrot, dragging it through her mashed potatoes to buy some time. She’d made promises to Henry on the drive up of this being the start of a new adventure but they hadn’t really talked about it any more since then. And as far as her son or anyone else knows, she still has a job in New York waiting for her when they get back.

           “I… I was thinking we might go someplace else actually. Maybe Boston, or Philly, or someplace a little warmer?”

          She glances over at Henry to gauge his reaction in time to see him go from slouched and shoveling food in his mouth to sitting ramrod straight in his chair within an instant. Emma smiles and watches all the gears turn in his head while he chews.

          Finally he swallows and sets his fork down on the edge of the plate before turning around in his chair so that he’s facing her. “What if we just stayed here?”

          Emma’s brows pinch together and a nagging feeling takes hold in her gut. Henry had been so excited about moving to New York a few years ago — had called it a heroic quest and given it one of his secret codenames. And he’d loved exploring the city with her whenever she had time off. She’d thought for sure he’d be just as excited about moving now as he had been then.

           “I don’t know, kid,” she starts, knowing she has to try and dampen the idea but Henry leaps in before she can dig up an argument against it.

           “What about just for the summer? Choosing a new city, that’s a big decision. We should do research together and find a place that’s perfect.”

           “That’s not a bad idea actually,” David chimes in and Henry spins in his chair to face his uncle. “I’d sure sleep better knowing you’ve got something set up wherever it is that you go.”

          Emma hasn’t had to deal with her son and foster brother ganging up on her for three years and she’s unprepared for the full weight of their puppy dog eyes turned on her. She turns to try and appeal to Mary Margaret — even the scales a little bit —  but the other woman just meets her eyes with a knowing smirk that makes Emma suspect this ganging up is a regular occurrence during Henry’s visits.

           “I can’t just take the whole summer off work,” she argues. Very reasonably, she thinks.

          David waves a hand and goes back to systematically stabbing his green beans. “You’d quit your job to change cities anyway and I have the budget for an administrative assistant at the sheriff’s station.”

          I’ve already quit my job, she thinks. Going back to New York has never been in her plan. “Preferential treatment for your foster sister could work against you in the next election, you know.”

          He shrugs. “It’s just for the summer. I’ll clear it with the mayor, she owes me one anyways.”

          “Please, Mom?”

          Emma still wants to argue. David’s done enough and given up enough for her in his life, he doesn’t need to be calling in favours now too. But Henry’s so earnest and excited and she doesn’t… She’s uprooted their lives so abruptly. And it’s her fault for not seeing what Walsh was doing behind her back, for bringing him into their lives in the first place. Maybe she owes it to her son to plan their next steps a little more carefully.

           “Okay, fine. But I’m not working at the station. If I can find something else to tide us over for the summer, then we’ll stay.”

          There’s a yellow bug parked in front of Granny’s.

          Killian stares at it for far longer than he should. But it’s hard to look away when for the second night in a row his dreams featured flashes of blonde hair and a woman who was always just out of reach. He stands for so long — there’s no way it’s hers, it must be a coincidence — that he forgets he’s stepped into the road until Leroy honks, swerving to avoid him as he drives by. Cursing under his breath and shaking himself out of his stupor, Killian forces himself away from the little vintage car and sprints over to the bakery across from the shop.

          His mind must still be comparing the bug to his memories from Saturday night though, because as he pulls open the door to Storybrooke Country Bread he practically collides with a boy around his nephew’s age.

           “Henry! Watch where you’re going!”

           “Sorry!”

          “No worries, lad,” he says reassuringly, smiling down at the mop of brown hair before his eyes move up to the mother and — Oh.

          She’s dressed casually, just jeans and a t-shirt paired with some little black boots, but she’s just as gorgeous as she was in the leather dress and bloody hell he is so screwed.

          Emma’s eyes go wide in recognition and he winces, scratching uncomfortably behind his ear. Whatever chance he might have had with her he surely blew when he panicked and fled and yet he can’t bring himself to regret suggesting they step outside.

          “Um, hi.”

          Killian wets his lips and puts on a tight smile. “Hello.”

          He’s never felt so awkward in his life and the boy is looking between the two of them with an expression that says he knows far more than he should and maybe Killian should just turn around, get his lunch someplace else. He can call Liam — no, his brother would tease him mercilessly if he found out that the Great Killian Jones had run away from a lass not once but twice. He’ll bribe Erik into bringing him a sandwich instead. Eleven year-old boys are always interested in taking bribes.

          He’s so caught up in his escape plan that he doesn’t realize he’s blocking the exit until Emma takes a step forward and gestures to the door.

          “We’re just going to, uh —”

          “Right!” he says, jumping out of the way. “Right, sorry. I just… sorry.”

          If she realizes that he’s apologizing for more than being in the way, she doesn’t comment on it, just shoots him a bemused sort of look as she ushers her son out of the bakery. Killian groans as soon as the door clicks shut behind them, closing his eyes to block out the absolute fuckery that is his life.

          Twice now he’s bungled run-ins with the only woman who’s piqued his interest since Milah. That is, of course, if you can call what they did in her car two nights ago a “run-in.”

          (God, that car. She must be staying at Granny’s and he can’t help but wonder how long it will be parked there, next door to where he lives and works, torturing him.)

          “She bought bear claws.”

          He’s startled out of his thoughts by Tink, who’s watching him from behind the counter with a face that says while she’s not outright laughing at him, it’s a near thing.

          “I’m sorry, what?”

          “She bought bear claws. Said they were her favourite. Just in case you were wondering.”

          Killian blinks even as he tucks the information away. “I wasn’t.”

          “Right,” she drawls, clearly not believing him. “So, the usual then?”

          He fell hard for the bakery’s ready-to-eat quiche back when he was first exiled from Granny’s and manages to make it through the transaction and back to the store without embarrassing himself further. Part of him itches to find out more about his new neighbour — Storybrooke isn’t exactly known for its bustling tourism industry, after all. But that would mean either inserting himself into the small town gossip machine that’s so enjoyed picking him apart these last few months or asking his brother, both of which are abhorrent prospects. Liam can be a dullard at times but even he would be able to put the blonde at the bar together with the blonde from the bakery.

          Worse still would be if Elsa found out. Killian may be a miserable drunk half the time, but not even he has the heart to turn down his sister in-law’s more gentle brand of matchmaking. The fact that’s he’s actually interested only makes it worse.

          No, there’s nothing to do but suck it up, accept that she probably thinks him a fool, and pray to God that he doesn’t trip over his own feet should he see her again. It sounds great, as far as resolutions go. And if he could get her out of his mind for even just an hour it would sound a lot more convincing too.

          It takes Emma all of two days to land a job as the interim manager at Any Given Sundae. She’d scooped icecream back as a teenager the first year she came to Storybrooke and hadn’t exactly been looking to get into it again. But when Ingrid finds out that she’s looking for a job she practically falls over herself to offer Emma the position. Apparently she was supposed to spend two months in Norway visiting her sisters but her planned replacement got sick and pulled out and she was afraid she’d have to cancel the trip. Emma spends a couple days re-learning how to scoop the perfect ice cream cone and getting a feel for the business side of things and then she’s on her own.

          Somehow, very quickly, she’s wound up committed to this whole ‘Storybrooke for the summer’ plan… and everything that goes with it. So when Henry begs to be signed up for the house league soccer program even though the registration deadline was a month ago, she makes it happen. And when Mary Margaret requests (more like coerces) her help with wedding shopping, Emma goes along. Which is how she winds up following her future sort-of sister-in-law through each ribbon and bead and silk flower packed aisle of the local Crafts ‘n More on her lunch break.

          The school teacher’s plan to send each of her guests home with a handmade birdhouse is nice and all, she supposes, but if she gets roped into a favour decorating party later on she might have to reconsider staying in Storybrooke after all.

           “So this must be a little weird for you. Helping with wedding planning.”

          Emma stops running her fingers through the trays of tiny beads and frowns. She’s helping plan a wedding now?

          “Not really,” she answers carefully. “Walsh and I never got to that point.”

          “It’s okay if you had cold feet, you know. I know we only met Walsh the one time and that David can be… protective. But his heart’s always been in the right place and we only want what’s best for you and Henry.”

           “It’s not his heart that I’m worried about,” Emma says, half under her breath. Really, it’s a miracle that her foster brother ever got elected sheriff, given how many people he’s threatened to punch in the face.

          Mary Margaret has made a profession out of instilling life lessons in others and she’s half expecting to get one now but when the other woman doesn’t push any further Emma just sighs. The truth is she doesn’t know what’s best for her and her son. She’s never been able to see further than the problems that were always right in her face. The foster system doesn’t exactly create dreamers and long-term planners.

          “I didn’t want to get married,” she confesses. “I thought it was too soon. But I was happy and I didn’t want to lose him so we compromised. I would wear the ring, Henry and I would move in, and he’d never pressure me to set a date.”

          “But that changed? Once you were all living under the same roof?”

          “No, nothing changed. It was great. It was even better than it was before because I had someone to pick up after me. I started to think, y’know, maybe we should get married. Not, like, immediately, but — we were going to go away for a couple days, while Henry was here with you guys, and I thought… maybe I could surprise him by picking a date.”

          “What happened?”

          It’s just them in the aisle and Mary Margaret has closed the distance between them but Emma still drops her voice to barely above a whisper.

          “When we moved in, Walsh told me that he’d already given post-dated cheques for the rent, that I could just give him my share in cash each month for now and then when the lease came up we’d put my name on it.” She fiddles with the stem of one of the fake flowers that Mary Margaret had been holding and takes a deep breath. “The day I left, the landlord came by looking for rent. He said that we were four months overdue. There were never any post-dated cheques, he’d just been stealing from me all that time.”

           “Oh, honey.” Mary Margaret takes her hands but doesn’t try to pry the flower from her grip, just gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze before saying the most stereotypical thing a small-town elementary school teacher can say to someone who’s been living in New York for the past three years. “Was it… drugs?”

          Emma can’t even begrudge her for it, she just shakes her head. “Gambling. It didn’t take much digging to find out and once I did I just — I had to get out of there.”

          Mary Margaret wraps her in a hug immediately and Emma takes a moment to make sure she’s not crying before pulling back.

          “Promise me you won’t tell David,” she says. “He never approved of Henry and I moving to New York. I don’t want to give him any more reason to —” Emma stops short of finishing her sentence, and takes a moment to reset and blink away the still-threatening tears. Get a grip already, Christ. “I just don’t want it to be a big thing again when we leave at the end of the summer.”

          “I won’t tell David, even though you know how I feel about keeping secrets. But, Emma, you should. Your brother loves you, he’s not going to judge you for this.”

           “I don’t want anyone to know,” she insists. “Telling him’s not going to do anything but keep me thinking about it and I am so tired of thinking about it. I just need to find a way to… I just need to put it behind me.”

          Mary Margaret squeezes her shoulder and takes the poor mutilated silk flower out of her hands. “I think this summer is going to be good for you,” she says. “I think it might be just what you need.”

          He’s been dreaming of Milah lately. Actually of her, not just of her death. Killian dreams of her laugh, of the way her hips moved when she sang, how her face lit up the first time he let her steal the pickle from his sandwich. He dreams of Milah and when his alarm goes off in the morning it doesn’t sound like sirens. It’s been almost a week now that he hasn’t needed rum to blanket the sound of twisting metal and screaming at night. He’s not sure what’s changed, but God, he’s willing to give almost anything to keep it from going back.

          It’s made his days easier too and while he may have so far escaped unsolicited commentary from his brother he knows the shift has not gone unnoticed. Still, there’s some hesitancy on Liam’s part to trust it, which is how Killian finds himself having a very different argument with him come Sunday afternoon.

          “Honestly, brother, it’s fine. I can take the lad.”

          “It’s not just taking him to the field, Killian. You have to stick around for the game. We’re on orange and popsicle duty this week.”

          “I think I can manage two coolers and an eleven year-old.”

          “You’re sure?”

          He sighs and picks up one of the ice chests from where it’s sitting on the table between them. “Go take your wife to the hospital, brother. I’ve got this.”

          Elsa and Erik come down the stairs and Liam nods, stacking the second cooler in his arms. “Uncle Killian’s going to take you to your football game,” he says to Erik, wrapping a shawl around Elsa’s shoulders and guiding her to the door. “Score a goal for your mum, okay?”

          “Okay.”

          Elsa kisses her son’s forehead and the door closes behind them and then it’s just Killian and his nephew for the first time, really, since he came to town, watching each other from across the house.

          “Well, lad,” he says, resting his chin atop the two coolers. “I’m going to need you to either take one of these or open up the car for me.”

          Elsa was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia back in February on what was, to hear his brother tell it, the coldest, most miserable day of any winter he’d ever seen. Milah had died a few months before and Killian’s not sure which Jones had been more of a mess when Liam hunted him down and brought him Storybrooke a few weeks later. He’s never prodded for details on his sister in-law’s treatment, but he knows that the initial induction therapy she’d gone through before his arrival had been successful and that the chemotherapy she’s been undergoing every month since is to try and stop it from coming back.

          It’s not his first bone marrow biopsy day, in other words, and he knows from experience that test days always put his nephew on edge. The first round of chemotherapy had been a difficult ordeal for everyone, and Liam had struggled mightily with Elsa in the hospital. Summer sporting events might not be in his regular job description but the entire reason Liam brought Killian to Storybrooke was so that the elder Jones could try and keep things as normal as possible for his boy. And in the summer, normal means football.

          It’s killing Liam to not be coaching this year on account of Elsa’s illness, and his brother has not taken the demotion to honorary assistant coach well. It’s only the second game of the season and Killian’s already sick of his brother’s grousing every time the new coach calls it ‘soccer.’ A far worse offense, in his opinion, is the team’s name. While neighbouring towns get to be Dragons and Knights and Gorgons, his nephew is stuck playing for the Storybrooke Snowmen — which doesn’t fit the theme at all, no matter how many ‘abominable’ adjectives are thrown around by parents attempting to soothe their children’s pre-pubescent egos.

          The high school field that’s been adapted for 9v9 play isn’t far and ordinarily he’d suggest they walk but with the two coolers the car is a must. The pitch brings back memories of Killian’s own youth and makes him think that he almost wouldn’t mind sticking around for another year to see Liam coach a fleet of lads as they adjust to the full-size playing field. He’s not set any plans beyond staying through the course of Elsa’s treatment, isn’t even sure if his presence would be welcome once Liam’s able to return to a regular work week. He’s not exactly been pleasant to be around, after all.

          But perhaps orange and popsicle duty will start to make up for that. Erik’s out of the car and joining his friends almost as soon as Killian pulls into the spot which means he gets to unload the Snowmen’s half-time and post-game snacks on his own. The chests aren’t heavy but they are cumbersome — Liam probably couldn’t have found bigger ones if he’d tried. He’s still trying to adjust the bulky coolers when he trips on the curb, nearly crashing into someone as he recovers his footing.

          “I’m sorry!” he calls out around the load in his arms. They’d swung wildly in his attempt to avoid a collision and he lifts them a little higher, trying his best to shuffle them back into position.

          The top one is removed from his hold and with his field of vision clear he suddenly finds himself staring at the very woman whose car has taunted him all week.

          Killian knows — very well, thank you — that his mouth is hanging open and yet he can’t think of a single non-idiotic thing to say. A stammered “Uh...” is about all he manages.

          Emma seems as surprised as he is because almost immediately the cooler is placed back on top of the other one — nice and straight this time, mind you.

         “Don’t worry about it,” she says brusquely, snapping him back to earth.

         “Right,” he says. “Well, thank you.” Killian gives himself to the count of three before lowering the coolers to look but she’s already gone. He didn’t really expect otherwise given how she’d stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights but it stings nonetheless. He knows he let his issues fuck up their first encounter, but how much longer is he going to have to suffer through fumbling embarrassment over what was supposed to be a one-time thing?

          Killian shakes his head to clear it and makes his way towards the field, barely avoiding tripping over the curb a second time.

          David, Mary Margaret, and Ruby all tag along to watch Henry’s first soccer game and Emma manages to get through it without asking for the scoop on Killian, but it’s harder than she’d like to admit. She resists though, because she knows how Storybrooke works. The town loves an Emma Swan gossip and any amount of curiosity expressed on her part will get the whole rumour mill churning. She’s got a lot of suspicions, but all she’s sure of is that Killian’s been in town for less than a year and that’s only because Henry had no idea who he was when they bumped into him at the bakery.

          She’s got no business being curious. Except for the fact that the guy kissed her like his life depended on it last weekend and then ran away like she was about to kill him rather than suck him off. And really, if she’s going to be bumping into him all summer she should probably know what his deal is, if only so she can try and avoid sending him running into oncoming traffic next time and —

          Yeah, okay, fine. She’s curious. What can she say? Ruby was right. Going out the week before had gotten her mind off Walsh. Gotten her off, period. Really, really successfully. Who could blame her for wanting a round two? Or three. Or just plain trying to finish round one, for that matter. A meaningless summer fling would be the perfect distraction from the rest of her personal life.

          Killian, on the other hand… mostly Emma just wishes she could tell if he’s nervous or terrified around her.

          “Hey, what’s Other Jones doing on popsicle duty?”

          Mary Margaret looks up from her crochet project and frowns. “Elsa must have a doctor’s appointment.”

          Well, that’s interesting, Emma thinks. The Joneses moved to town around the time that she and Henry left so she doesn’t know all that much about them, but it gives her something to go on. (She’s heard about Elsa’s cancer diagnosis through the grapevine of course — she’d been Ingrid’s original replacement at Any Given Sundae so it’s a hot topic with her customers.)

          And if the way David is glaring across the field is any indication, Killian is not the same upstanding citizen that his — brother? Cousin? — has turned out to be.

         “Are we sure it’s popsicles in that cooler?” her foster brother grumbles.

         Neither of her friends answer him but Mary Margaret hums and Ruby flips one of her pigtails dismissively over her shoulder. (She’d put mini pom-poms in them to come cheer Henry on and it’s the very definition of a look that only Ruby could pull off.) Before Emma can ask what town gossip she’s clearly missed out on Henry comes bounding over to the bleachers, sticky red popsicle juice only half wiped off his chin.

          “Hey, Mom, can I go over to Ava and Nicolas’ for dinner? Mr. Tillman said it was okay.”

          “What, you’re tired of Granny’s cooking already? I’m gonna tell her you said that, you know.”

          Henry rolls his eyes at her and she shoos him off with a laugh. Her kid is obviously lapping up their extended stay in Storybrooke and as much as she might long for the buffer he provides she can’t begrudge him all the time with his friends that he wants.

          What Emma wants, on the other hand…

          Well, she’s never been very good at answering that question.

          She winds up going for a walk on the beach after dinner, the setting sun lighting up the town behind her in reds and oranges and golds. Out on the water twilight is taking hold, turning the sky a deep shade of cerulean. Someone further up the beach has brought out a guitar, and curiosity has her making her way towards the familiar strains that she can’t quite place.

          She wants to make a choice. Emma fell into her relationships with both Neal and Walsh more by happenstance than anything else. They seemed like good ideas at the time but neither one was her idea. If there’s one thing she’s ever chosen for herself it was moving to New York. But at the time running away from everything David had given her and everything she’d taken from him in return seemed like the only idea there ever could be. She’s missed him, she’s finally admitted to herself this past week, but she left for a reason. Storybrooke is better off without her.

          It’s Killian on the guitar, — of course it is — and she slows down to buy herself some time to decide whether or not she should let him know she’s there. He’s sitting on some rocks under the pier with his eyes closed, playing the same notes over and over like he’s both trying to purge them from his memory and commit them there for good. Emma’s just about to turn and start heading back the other way when he starts the song over to add vocals and his voice sends goosebumps down her arms. She was so sure he hadn’t seen her, but suddenly she’s compelled to stay, like somehow he knows and is singing the song just for her.

          But then, everyone who’s ever heard Landslide thinks that it could be about them.

          “That was beautiful.” He jumps when she speaks just like every other time they’ve run into each other in town and she winces. “I’m sorry,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest even as she tries to keep the hair out of her face. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

          Killian shifts to face her, taking the guitar strap off and laying the instrument across his legs. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

          She should probably leave him alone, she thinks, but instead she steps closer and joins him under the pier. “You should be playing for people instead of waves. You’re good.”

          His fingers are tracing idle patterns on the body of the guitar and Emma’s eyes follow the swirling patterns as he shakes his head. “I was, once.”

          “I’ve heard a lot of average acts over the years,” she says. “Trust me, you’re still good. Fleetwood Mac, right?”

          Killian nods. “My, uh, my ex,” he explains, “She loved Stevie Nicks.”

          “She left you?” The question is out of her mouth before she can pull it back and she bites her lip to keep from prying further.

          “In a manner of speaking.” He meets her eyes finally and his shoulders drop. “She died. Car crash about eight months ago.”

          “I’m sorry,” she says, so much of what she knows about him finally clicking into place. “It’s not easy being the one left behind.”

          “Your boy’s father?”

          Emma huffs out an exhale at the thought that she could be so easy to read and flips her hair back over her shoulder. “Yeah. I mean, he didn’t die but… he’s gone.”

          It’s weird talking about Neal to someone who doesn’t already know how it ended — even Walsh only got the bare bones of the story and she’d known him for almost a year before finally giving in and telling him. So it’s strange and yet it somehow makes perfect sense, that they would jump from trying to undress each other in the backseat of her car to trading heartbreaks on the beach.

          “Listen, I wanted to apologize for the first time we, uh, met,” she says, kicking at the wet sand with the toe of her boot. “If I did anything to make you uncomfortable —”

          “Wasn’t you, love,” he cuts her off, grabbing his case from where it’s sitting behind him and carefully tucking the guitar away. “That one’s all on me.”

          Emma smiles a little, one more thing making sense, and tilts her head as she studies him. “You haven’t been with anyone since her, have you?”

          He barks out a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “Was it that obvious?”

          “Well, y’know…”

          Killian chuckles again and she grins back, lifted by the change in mood. “Are you headed back to town?” he asks, climbing down from his perch and pulling the guitar with him.

          “Yeah, I probably should be,” she says.

          “May I walk you?”

          She raises an eyebrow at the question. “I’m a big girl, Killian. You don’t need to go out of your way.”

          “You’re staying at Granny’s right?” Emma nods and he tucks the thumb of his free hand into his pocket, gesturing with his guitar case up to the road. “I live next door. It’s hardly out of the way.”

          She watches him for a long moment, pulled between how much it feels just like that night at the bar and how it also feels very, very different, her thoughts of a meaningless summer fling quickly feeling like they’re being taken out by the tide.

          “Let me be a gentleman, love,” he says softly.

          He’s waiting for her and she so badly wants to roll her eyes at the word ‘gentleman’ but he’s being so fucking sincere that she has to take a breath.

         “Alright.”

          He hasn’t played in months, not since the crash took Milah from him, but the guitar feels as familiar to him now as it did when Liam presented it to him for his 16th birthday. Killian’s not sure what made him dig it out of the back of his closet and bring it down to the docks but it’s like an itch under his skin. He’d been watching Emma at the soccer game, wanting so badly to just go over and talk to her like an actual human being and not the fumbling sod that he apparently turns into when sober. But she hadn’t been sitting alone, had been with the sheriff of all people, and he just… never summoned the nerve. By the time he’d taken Erik home and gotten back to the flat he’d needed something. Anything that might break him out of this damned holding pattern he’s been stuck in.

          Landslide was one of Milah’s favourites and it was a standard on their old set list. He knows that she put it in his head, and when he finishes the song to find Emma standing on the beach just a few feet away he can’t help but wonder what if she sent her to him as well. He didn’t think Emma was going to accept his offer to walk her back to town — she didn’t look like she was going to and he worried he might have pried too much when he asked about her ex — but as they leave the beach walking side-by-side a sense of surety settles in his chest. Like this is right. This is what he’s supposed to be doing.

          “So, how long have you been in Storybrooke?” Emma asks as they cut through the alley next to the old cannery.

          “Since the spring,” he replies. “My brother, Liam, asked me to come and help with the shop when his wife got sick.”

          “Wow, sick sister in-law, dead girlfriend… you’re just sunshine and rainbows, aren’t you?”

          He gives her a mock incredulous look and she bumps his shoulder with hers in response. He’s not offended — if anything, he finds her playful sarcasm refreshing.

          “Alright, what about you then?” he counters. “What brings you to this lovely seaside town?”

          “I dumped my fiancé after I caught him stealing from me.”

          Killian snorts at her candour and she flashes him a smile.

          “I’ve got family in town, sort of,” she adds by way of explanation. “My son, Henry, comes for two weeks every summer. I just tagged along.”

          Two weeks, he thinks, but catches himself before disappointment can set in. She signed her son up for soccer and has taken over the icecream shop for Ingrid. She must be planning on staying longer than that this time around.

          “And where’s home when you’re not visiting?” Killian asks, choosing not to prod at this mention of a different ended relationship in favour of safer small-talk.

          A flicker of something passes over her face, but it’s quickly replaced. “Not sure yet.” She tucks her hands into the pockets of her jeans with a shrug. “Where’s home for you? When you’re not selling bait and tackle to grumpy fishermen, that is.”

          They’ve turned onto Main Street and Emma comes to a stop next to her ubiquitous yellow bug.

         Home was his mother, once. Then it was wherever Milah was. Liam is all the family he’s got left, but the town where his older brother settled down with a family of his own has always seemed like it’s missing something for Killian to consider it home. Still, it’s the best he’s got at the moment. And this moment, with her, is one he’s not willing to tarnish with his malaise.

         “Above all the bait and tackle, of course,” he says easily, nodding over to the shop.

         She rolls her eyes but smiles and Killian can’t help but turn so that he’s standing in front of her, raising an eyebrow and swaying just a little bit into her space. She’s right on the edge of the curb, the curve of her ass resting against the door that he tumbled out of not even a week ago. But he’s not thinking about how he fell apart at the sound of a passing ambulance. Not when he can be thinking about how easily they fell together instead.

          Emma’s eyes flick between his and he shuffles closer, setting his guitar down and leaning it up against the car. There’s a slight hitch in her breathing as he straightens and it keeps him from doing the honourable thing and stepping back. Killian remembers, vaguely, what it’s like to kiss her but all the drinks he’d had before and afterwards clouded his memory and this… this he wants to appreciate.

          When her tongue darts out to wet her lips he breaks, closing the last bit of distance between them. Their lips fuse on a sharp inhale and Killian crowds her up against the bug, cupping her face with his hand so he can brush his thumb against the apple of her cheek. Emma tugs him even closer and he goes eagerly, one hand landing on the car for support while the other snakes under her shirt to pull her in by the small of her back. She makes a sound in the back of her throat and her fingers are tugging on his hair and God, he thinks, why did he ever stop kissing her the last time? She tastes faintly like ketchup and he chases her lips when they break for breath, wanting more.

          “Come up for a drink with me.”

          His voice is wrecked even to his own ears and he presses his head to hers like it might keep the earth from spinning.

          “I, um,” Emma starts, her face flushed pink. It might be the prettiest colour he’s ever seen and he has a sudden, vicious regret for not having been able to see her properly when she came around his fingers. “I don’t know.”

          Killian bows his head, his breathing still heavy as he takes a step back. “Aye, of course. I shouldn’t have presumed, I—” He cuts his rambling short. He will not look the fool in front of her. Not this time, at least. “Have a good evening,” he says instead, pasting on a tight-lipped smile.

          She stops his retreat with a hand on his arm and he looks up to meet her eyes. “Maybe, maybe I could take a rain check? It’s just… I’m not sure either one of us is actually ready to…”

         Emma trails off, though her hand gesture completes the sentence well enough. Killian understands, of course. His life is still mostly a mess, and falling into bed with someone is only ever uncomplicated in theory. She’s got her own troubles, plus her boy to think about...

          “It’s not a problem, love,” he says, managing to make his smile a little more genuine this time. “A rain check it is.”

          Emma gives him a pleased little smile, and he gives in to the urge to tuck away a stray piece of hair, letting his fingers trail down the shell of her ear before forcing himself to take another step back and turn to leave.

          “Hey, Jones?” she calls out as he’s about halfway to the shop. Killian turns to look back at her and she shifts on her feet a little before raising a hand in a half sort-of wave. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

          “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

          After the week he’s had, he doesn’t think he could not see her if he tried.