#cs barbecue au

[helvetic-barbeque]

Cabri de Pâques au barbecue

Le cabri grillé est un plat traditionnel suisse qui consiste à faire griller un chevreau entier à la broche. Voici une recette que tu peux essayer : Ingrédients: 1 cabri entier (environ 3-4 kg) 3-4 gousses d’ail, hachées Helvetic Barbeque Salt-n-Pepper Rub 2 cs de thym frais, haché 2 cs de romarin frais, haché 1 citron, coupé en tranches Huile d’olive Barbecue au charbon de bois ou au…

[the-captains-ayebrows]

The Meat Cute Ch. 5

Read from the beginning: FF NET / AO3 or on Tumblr [Prologue] / [Chapter 1] / [Chapter 2] / [Chapter 3] / [Chapter 4]

Anybody still remember this one? I got stuck on this chapter literally for years because I was trying to cram too much into it. So, I got out my meat cleaver, did some carving and it’s finally ready to be served up. Hope you enjoy!

FYI (since it’s been awhile) - italicized sections are flashbacks to Emma and Killian’s night together 8 years prior.

Killian rubs his eyes, thankful that the sun has finally sunk below the treeline. Saturday afternoon passed by in relative quiet. He and Will have already started the process of shutting down the Meat Market for the day, though the barbecue stand will stay open for a few more hours. The sharp jangle of the bell above the door startles Killian out of the daze of routine. He’s even more surprised to note that his customer is David Nolan.

He nods in greeting. “Sheriff Nolan! What can I get for you this evening?”

David pauses, hands on hips and a hesitant furrow to his brow as if he’s not sure how to phrase what’s on his mind. “Actually I came here to ask you a favor.”

Killian raises his eyebrows, curiosity piqued, and gestures for David to go on.

“See, Mary Margaret has me coaching a little league soccer team, and my assistant coach just quit on me.” He glances away, still apparently feeling a little awkward. “I was thinking that-”

“That because I use words like ‘bloody’ and ‘mate’, I might know a thing or two about proper football?” Killian asks, a wry smirk twisting his lips.

David closes his eyes for a second and exhales heavily. “Sorry. You’re right. That was-”

Killian raises his hand in a stop gesture and grins. “I’m just winding you up, mate. No worries. I’d be happy to help.”

David shifts his weight, looking relieved. “It’s just that Henry said you’d talked to him about ‘football’ before.”

Killian can practically hear the air quotes around the word football, and stifles the urge to roll his eyes. One word clicks in his mind. “Henry? Emma's boy is on the team?” he asks, attempting and likely failing to sound casual.

David tilts his head, his gaze narrowing. “Yeah, he is. Is that a problem? I noticed you waiting tables at Emma’s place last night. I thought you guys were friends now or something.”

Friends. Well, that’s one word for it. Acquaintances with an unusual history that they’ve agreed not to discuss and who are on mostly good terms after a rocky start, all while still being (mutually he hopes) intensely attracted to each other - that would be another way of putting it.

“We’re friendly enough, I expect.” Killian pauses, pursing his lips in thought. “Though, it might be well-advised to get her opinion on it before making the coaching job official. She and I have had a run-in or two and I’m not certain I’m completely back in her good graces.”

David frowns. “Do I wanna know?”

“Likely not,” Killian answers, keeping his expression guarded. He isn’t sure how much of their history Emma has shared with David, and he certainly doesn’t wish to get into the subject at the minute.

David nods slowly. “Okay, then. I’ll try to feel her out about it.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper to hand to Killian. “Here’s the schedule and address for the game field. We practice at the empty field next to Swan’s. I’m assuming you know where that is.” He pauses, giving Killian a chance to glance over the schedule. “Think you can handle it?”

“Aye. That’ll be fine.” Killian jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Will. “Scarlett here can man the helm for a few hours in my absence.”

David for the first time takes notice of Will loitering by the back counter, and the two men bob their heads at each other in acknowledgment.

“Thanks, Jones. I owe ya. Hey, why don’t you come by practice tomorrow? You can start running some warm-up drills with the boys while I talk to Emma.”

“Wait. I won’t be required to call the sport ‘soccer,’ will I?”

David crosses his arms over his chest and grins. “As long as you’re willing to help out, I don’t care what you call it.”

“Right,” Killian answers. “See you tomorrow then. Please pay my respects to your lovely wife as well.”

With a final nod, David turns and strides out of the Meat Market. The door has barely closed behind him before Killian hears Will’s cheeky laugh.

“Coaching footie for the little lads, mate?”

Killian turns to face Will with a scowl. “What of it?”

“Befriending the son to get in with the mum. Yup. No one’ll ever see through that,” Will answers with a smug expression that Killian very much wants to punch right off his face.

“Why don’t you keep your thoughts to yourself, mate ? And perhaps get back to work?” Killian pauses as a thought occurs to him, his own smug amusement quickly replacing his irritation. “Or do you want to cut out early today? Got more books to return to the library? Pretending to be an avid reader to get in with the pretty librarian. I suppose no one’ll ever see through that ruse either.”

This time it was Will’s turn to scowl indignantly. “Oi! I’m a man of letters, I’ll have you know.”

“Aye. And those letters are S.O.B.”

“Har bloody har .”

Killian laughs as Will shakes his head and pushes off the counter he’d been leaning against to resume his work cleaning up the shop.

“Honestly, though, does Belle know you fancy her?”

Will glances down at the floor in thought before answering. “Dunno. I’ve been coming ‘round enough, she should’ve gotten the idea by now, but she hasn’t exactly given me the ‘come hither’. Haven’t worked up the nerve to ask her out yet.”

Killian raises an eyebrow and sighs. “Know how you feel, mate. We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?”

Will snorts a laugh as he continues cleaning. “Too right.”

Killian opens the register, removing the cash drawer. He takes a couple of steps toward his office, but stops, turning back to Will. “I can finish closing up by myself. Why don’t you go check out the selection at the library?”

Will looks up at him then, obviously fighting a grin. “Might just do that. Cheers, mate.” He shucks off his gloves and apron, leaving them on the back counter before hustling to the front door.

“See you tomorrow,” Killian calls out, but Will is a man on a mission. He doesn't turn, instead only acknowledging the words with a half-hearted wave just before the door closes behind him.

And perhaps I’ll see Swan tomorrow as well, he thinks. This should be interesting.

—/—

“So where’s that handsome new waiter of yours?” Mary Margaret asks innocently, fluttering her eyelashes as she takes a long sip from her iced tea.

“Stop.” Emma huffs and presses the icy, metal pitcher in her hand to Mary Margaret’s bare upper arm in retaliation. No prim cardigans today. It may be mid-October, but no one seems to have told the weather. Today’s high is supposed to top out at a balmy 92.

It’s the tail end of a long and blessedly busy Sunday lunch shift. Only a few families from the after-church crowd linger, including the Nolans. Far be it from David and Mary Margaret to miss an opportunity for Granny’s peach cobbler and a little meddling a la mode.

“I’m just saying it was pretty nice of him to tie on an apron and lend a hand. I hope you thanked him properly.”

Emma’s head whips around and David nearly chokes on his cobbler. After a split second’s worth of confusion, Mary Margaret’s eyes widen.

“Not like that! Sheesh, I’m not Ruby, for God’s sake,” she retorts, scandalized. “I just meant I hope you were nice to him, you know, in a friendly and completely G-rated--”

Emma holds up a hand to stop her friend’s rambling. “I fed him some pie and said thank you. Okay, mom? Or do I need to send him a handwritten note, too?”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes dramatically and David chuckles.

“Well, you know what they say about the fastest way to a man’s heart,” he replies, lifting a forkful of golden syrupy peach by way of example and giving her a little wink before shoveling the bite into his mouth.

“Ugh, not you, too,” Emma grumbles. She sets her pitcher on the Nolan’s table, and plunks herself down on the bench next to David. Her elbow to his ribs and unceremonious “Scoot over!” only prompt more laughter from him as he gladly complies.

Emma looks between her friends briefly, then settles her gaze again on David. “Shouldn’t you be outside setting up for soccer practice right now instead of in here giving me grief?”

David and Mary Margaret share a look. “Speaking of Henry’s soccer team, Tom just quit on me. I need to find another assistant coach before next Saturday’s game or we’ll have to forfeit.”

“What’s the deal with Tom?”

“His allergies,” David answers. “Apparently there’s ragweed growing near the game field. He told me he can’t take it another week.”

Emma scowls. “You’d think a pharmacist would be able to…” she gestures vaguely with her hand, “you know, self-medicate or something.”

“You’d think.” David sighs, shaking his head as he stares back down at his dessert and spears another peach slice with his fork. “Anyway, I’ll be spending my afternoon trying to find someone to replace him.” He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully for a moment, then looks back over at Emma with a hopeful raised eyebrow. “Unless you can think of someone who would do it?”

Something in David’s tone sets off Emma’s internal bullshit detector, but she can’t figure out why. “You can’t just coach by yourself?”

“Nope. The league’s insurance requires at least two adult coaches per team.”

Emma pats David’s arm sympathetically and gets back to her feet, picking up her refill pitcher. “I sure hope you find someone. Henry will be crushed if the team can’t play until you get a new assistant. Speaking of Henry...” She casts a glance around the dining area and frowns, not seeing the boy in question. “Did either of you see where he went? He’s supposed to be in that booth over there working on his science project until practice starts.”

“He and one of his little buddies headed outside with a soccer ball a while ago. I guess they wanted to get an early start,” Mary Margaret answers. “Sorry, I didn’t know he was supposed to be doing homework or I would’ve said something.”

Emma waves away her friend’s apology, but same as with David, some quirk of Mary Margaret’s demeanor is setting Emma on edge.  She just can’t put her finger on what . “No problem. I’ll just go grab him by the scruff of his little pre-teen neck and drag him back in,” she says with a tight smile.

She walks over to the drink station and sets her pitcher down. She pauses there a moment as she wipes her hands on her apron. What are the odds? What are the odds that David casually mentions needing an assistant coach, right after both Nolans tease her about Killian AND Henry disappears with a soccer ball in hand?

He’s out there, isn’t he?

She grasps the doorknob, looking briefly heavenwards in a prayer for patience with overly helpful friends, then yanks the door open, knowing full well what she’s going to see mere steps from the building. There they are. Henry and his teammates, all red-faced and panting like puppy dogs, running drills in the afternoon sun, thankfully this time kicking away from the street.

And there, off on the sideline barely a few yards away is … Oh holy hell.

Emma swallows hard, suddenly suffused with a heat that has nothing to do with the blazing temperature outside. She knew. She knew he’d be there. Still, that knowledge had not prepared her for this. For Killian Jones in loose-fitting black soccer shorts riding low on his hips, muscled calves on full display. For the sweat-soaked FC Dallas t-shirt hugging his toned pecs and biceps. For the way the muscles of his throat work, his head thrown back as he gulps from a water bottle. She's near enough she can make out the rivulets of perspiration that roll down his jaw, winding their way past the twin freckles on the side of his neck, and she remembers the first time she saw those freckles up close.

  He turns to face her fully as they step onto the dance floor, and in a blink, his arm is around her waist, pulling her body flush to his. A thrill of excitement runs down her spine. She’s so distracted by the feeling of his lean, defined torso pressed against her ( God, he’s warm. Almost too warm ), that she might’ve missed the bob of his Adam's apple if it weren’t right at her eye level.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious for reasons she can’t explain, she takes a moment to slowly pan her gaze upwards, mapping the freckles that dot the column of his throat, the scar that marks one sculpted cheekbone. Still not quite ready for eye contact, she instead looks down to her side where Killian is gently taking her hand. Her eyes follow the movement of their joined hands as he raises them until they’ve assumed the usual dancing posture. Her heart is pounding, and she doesn’t know whether to be exhilarated or annoyed at herself for getting so worked up over just touching this guy. She finally allows herself to meet his eyes.

The look he’s giving her makes her toes curl - searing, but also searching - and she decides to let herself go, to give in to what she’s feeling. So she smiles at him, something soft and real, and he smiles right back.

“Hold on tight, love.”

She intends to.

  That thought wakes her up and she looks down quickly, chiding herself for so blatantly ogling him. Geez, all that scene needed was slo-mo and a guitar rock anthem playing in the background. At least he didn’t see me. The sound of throat clearing draws her attention. She looks up again to see Killian smirking at her.

“Quite hot, don’t you think, Swan?” he practically purrs, his tongue flicking to the corner of his mouth.

Or maybe he did. Smug bastard. She glares at him, but doesn’t take the bait.

“I mean outside, of course,” he continues innocently. “I was about to bring the lads indoors for a water break. Need to keep the squad properly hydrated.”

“Uh-huh,” Emma replies skeptically, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling in spite of herself. “Come on in. Tea and lemonade are on me.”

There’s the expected commotion as a troop of sweaty pre-teens files into the restaurant. During the shuffle, Mary Margaret grabs David’s truck keys and waves her goodbyes to the room, heading home to grade papers. The kids get situated at a long table, with David taking a seat at one end. He leaves the empty seat across from him for Killian, but instead of joining the group, Killian seems to be lingering a bit.

He’s close. Not inappropriately so, but enough that Emma catches the scent of clean sweat and woodsmoke that clings to him. And speaking of clinging, the way that t-shirt clings to his chest should really be…

Blinking quickly, Emma clears her throat. “I’ll just go get those drinks then.”

She turns toward the kitchen, but before she can get through the swinging door to hide the flush that’s creeping up her face, she hears footsteps behind her.

“I’ll help you, love.”

That’s just… great. “Fine,” she replies without looking back at him. “But no apron for you this time. Don’t want you sweating all over it. And wash your hands.”

His low, rumbling laugh follows her into the kitchen.

Emma grabs two large serving trays from a shelf and begins filling glasses with ice as Killian moves to the sink and washes his hands as commanded.

When she glances over at him, he gives her a sly smirk. “So, we’re back to being prickly today, are we?”

Emma frowns as she scoops ice into another glass. “I’m not prickly. I just don’t want to get tagged with a health code violation.”

Killian turns the faucet off, and looks at her appraisingly. “Then I suppose you’d better wash up as well,” he taunts, then flicks the water off his fingers at her.

“Hey! You’re getting me all wet!” she exclaims, then her eyes widen as she sees him pressing his lips together tightly, mirth dancing in his eyes. Before the barely repressed innuendo can burst out of him, she points a scolding finger at his chest. “Don’t even.”

His shoulders shake with silent laughter and he holds his hands up in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare, love.”

“Good,” she declares haughtily before returning to the task of pouring the drinks.

Killian grabs a pitcher of lemonade and starts to work on the second tray. “Honestly though, haven’t I proven to you by now that I’m not the enemy?”

Without looking up from her task, she answers him in a quiet voice. “I don’t think you’re the enemy.”

“Well, that’s something at least. I understand that my showing up here in your life - especially the manner in which it happened -” he runs a hand through his hair with a nervous chuckle. “I get that it caught you off guard. Believe me when I say it was quite the shock to my system as well, but you’ve nothing to fear from me, Swan. There’s no need for defenses.”

His tone is plain and sincere, and Emma makes the mistake of looking up to meet his too blue, too earnest eyes. “The thing is, my life - Henry, the restaurant, all of it - it’s a very fragile balance, and you and I barely know each other. The people we are now anyway. I just…” She turns her attention back to the drink tray and pours the last glass of lemonade. “I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about you.”

Killian doesn’t respond right away, and she finally looks back up at him. She doesn’t know she expects to see, yet is still surprised to find him merely regarding her with quiet consideration.

“Okay,” he answers, “but has it ever occurred to you that by that logic you’re absolutely eliminating any chance that you’re right ?”

Emma’s mouth falls open, her breath catching in her throat and a strange tightening in her chest. Before she can reply, or more accurately, before her brain can cease it’s frantic whirring and even make an effort at formulating a reply, Killian gives her a small smile and shoulders one of the heavy laden trays. He turns wordlessly toward the kitchen door and Emma hefts the other tray and follows behind.

“You make a fair point, Swan,” he says casually just before they exit the kitchen. “While you and I know some rather intimate details about each other, we never really got to know the little things.”

“Guess so,” Emma agrees, suddenly wary. She eyes him quizzically as they walk the short distance across the dining room and set the trays down on an empty table.  She picks up a glass in each hand, and moves to the team table to begin distributing them. “So what do you want to know?”

Killian frowns in thought, picking up a couple of glasses as well to assist. “Favorite color?” he asks, setting the glasses on the table and moving to grab more.

“Yellow,” Emma answers as she continues passing out the lemonade to the eagerly awaiting boys. “You?”

“Green,” he replies automatically, but there’s something in the way that his eyes flick down after he says it, his long eyelashes dusting his cheeks, that makes Emma’s heart flutter.  “Favorite food?” he asks, settling the last two glasses in front of Henry and David and finally taking a seat at the table himself.

Emma walks to the head of the table to stand with Killian seated to her left and David to her right. Henry leans forward in his chair to peek at her around David’s shoulder.

“I know this one,” her son pipes up. “Fried stuff with cheese.”

David crosses his arms and rests them on the table. “Now hang on there, Henry. That’s what she eats every day-” he pauses to give Emma a pointed glare, earning him a swat on the arm from her. “But, let’s not forget that your mom is a carnivore. I think her actual favorite thing is a good steak.”

“Humans did not claw their way to the top of the food chain to eat vegetables, okay?” Emma retorts, earning her a laugh from those in earshot and a nod of agreement from David.

Killian simply grins at her and she doesn’t want to think about that too much, so she taps her fingernails on his tea glass. “So, here’s a question for you. Tea. Hot or iced?”

Killian quirks an eyebrow at her. “Ah, now we’re getting down to truly important matters. You know, England may revoke my dual citizenship for this, but I’ve actually come to quite like it iced. Never sweetened, though. That’s a sacrilege I cannot abide.” He finishes the statement with a shudder as if the very thought pains him.

David laughs heartily. “And that statement could get you booted out of the Great State of Texas, mate. ”

Emma hums. “So is the interrogation over now? Or is there something else you’d like to know?” She extends her hand to Killian in an offer to shake, and fakes a bubbly voice. “I’m Emma Swan, age 29 and I like wildflowers, cheap clothes and expensive makeup. Nice to meetcha,” she says with a sarcastic smile.

Killian laughs and takes her hand. “Killian Jones, age 34, and I enjoy classic rock, cheap beer and expensive guitars.” He gives her hand a firm, businesslike shake. “Enchanted.”

David rolls his eyes at the pair of them and gulps the last of his tea. He leans forward to look down the length of the table at his team and claps once to get their attention. “Okay, guys. Break time’s over. Let’s get back out there and run some more drills!”

There’s a general shuffling and scraping of chair legs against the wood floor, and soon the group is headed out the door. Killian hangs back just long enough to send one last warm smile Emma’s way.

“Definitely enchanted,” he says with a wink, then jogs off to join the team.

—/—

Monday morning arrives, as does Emma's regular delivery from the Meat Market. She signs the delivery slip and as she gives the clipboard back to the driver, he in turn places a small, flat parcel in her hands.

Emma looks down at it blankly, taking in its pristine white paper wrapping, tied with butcher’s twine in a neat bow with a single yellow wildflower tucked beneath the string. “What the hell is this?” She asks, but when she looks up at the driver, he's already holding out a small note card covered in tidy script. She takes the note and reads:

“A brown-eyed susan for a green-eyed Swan and some extra protein to strengthen my star midfielder. Please enjoy.

-KJ”

That smooth sonuvabitch, she thinks with a shake of her head. She looks up to return the package to the driver but he's already back in the cab of his van.

“Wait!” she calls. “I can't-”

“Sorry, miss,” he replies through the open van window. “I was told there are no returns or exchanges on bonus items.” He gives her a cheerful wave and drives away.

“Oh, I'll just bet you were,” Emma mutters to herself, but as she looks down at the parcel again the sight of the little flower has her fighting a smile. She furtively glances around (as if anyone would be out at this godforsaken hour of the morning to see her), and pulls the bloom free, tucking it carefully behind her ear.

When she returns to her kitchen, she opens the parcel to find two absolutely beautiful tenderloin filets. Emma's teeth pull at her lower lip. On one hand it's kind of a weird (albeit thoughtful) gift, but on the other, well… She does have a peppercorn rub she's been meaning to try, and really there's no sense in wasting a prime cut of beef. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice that sounds just like Ruby is shouting, ‘ Girl, that's what I've been saying! ’ but she ignores it. Mostly.

And maybe if she gently re-wraps the steaks and places them in her fridge with a goofy grin on her face, and maybe if she puts her flower in a little glass by the register so she can look at it all day, well then that's her own business.

—/—

It’s a gorgeous, clear blue Saturday afternoon. Perfect game day weather. Autumn is finally catching up to Storybrooke, and what with the breeze that toys with Emma’s hair making her wonder why she even bothered to brush it this morning, it could almost be considered cool outside.

Emma hoists her folding lawn chair out of the VW’s trunk and totes it over to the sidelines to join Mary Margaret and the other team moms. Despite the lovely day, there’s an ominous feeling in her chest, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. On the positive side, she’d finally convinced Granny divulge her secret onion ring recipe. Emma had tested it today during the lunch rush, handing out free samples to a few of her regular customers. Everyone raved about them, both for the nostalgia of bringing back a ‘classic’ as well as the actual flavor.

The response should have given Emma a boost of confidence about the potential for more revenue and new (or returning) customers, but there was something else that niggled at the back of her mind. No one had said anything to her directly, but as she’d worked the floor with the lunch crowd, she’d overheard a few statements about the barbecue sauce. ‘ Sauce seems kinda bland today,’ ‘You’re just used to Jones’s sauce,’ ‘Think Jones would bottle that stuff?’ ‘Swan’s has better food, but that sauce, man. It’s addictive.’ Emma files those comments away to process later.

She sighs as she removes her folding chair from its tote bag and settles it down next to Mary Margaret’s empty seat. She spots her friend further down the sidelines talking animatedly to David who has his arms crossed and brow furrowed. Emma smiles to herself  and wonders who’s actually running this show. Mary Margaret’s ‘helpful suggestions’ have been known from time to time to come out sounding more like royal decrees.

She picks Henry out of the cluster of boys jogging toward the team bench. She waves to catch his eye, and he offers her an only slightly embarrassed sounding, “Hey, mom!”

“Hey, kid!” Emma smiles broadly. He must really be excited about this game for him to publicly acknowledge her like that - adolescent street cred be damned - and she’s happy for him.

Her exchange with Henry apparently draws someone else’s attention to her as well. A second later, a deep, accented voice calls out, “Bring it in, lads!” and soon the owner of said voice is sauntering her way. He’s wearing those damn soccer shorts again, this time paired with a green t-shirt with ‘Cobras’, the team’s name, emblazoned across his chest in crisp, white letters. Not that she’s looking at his chest. Or his calves. Dammit, she’s never really been one to notice a man’s legs before. Why does her stupid brain have to start now? Emma swallows hard, trying to will her pulse back to a normal pace.

“Swan! Glad you could make it,” he says, a now familiar smirk gracing his lips. “You look lovely in green.”

“Well, it is the team’s color,” she replies with a shrug. Of course that’s why she wore this top. Not because it has a particularly flattering neckline, and certainly not because he mentioned that green was his favorite color the other day. “Just showing some team spirit.” She manages to keep her voice even, but he’s raking his eyes over her, swaying further into her space and licking his lips and dammit why is her face heating up like this?

“Right,” he says, leaning in and lowering his voice as if imparting a secret. “I rather fancy that shade of pink on you as well.”

Emma glares at him, but her flush only deepens. She huffs in frustration, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Was there something you wanted?”

He chuckles and steps back to a more respectable distance, but there is mischief in his eyes. “Oh, Swan, there are a great many things I want,” he answers with a wink, and Emma’s stomach does a strange little flip.

He pauses a beat, bouncing on the balls of his feet and his demeanor shifts from cocky to something more sincere. “But, I only meant to inquire about the steaks I sent over. Did you like them?” His hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear in a surprising show of insecurity, and this time it’s Emma’s turn to smirk.

“Wait, was that your weird way of buying me dinner without actually having to ask me out?”

The tips of his ears turn red ( score one for Emma! ), but he manages to maintain his cool exterior. “Nothing of the sort, love. Merely a gesture of goodwill to my biggest customer.” Cool turns to flirtatious, and his sky blue eyes bore into hers. “I can assure you,” he drawls, “if I were to court you, you would know you were being courted.”

A voice in the back of her mind shouts that she does, in fact, know it, and she’s not really sure what to do with that knowledge yet. Emma realizes her mouth has fallen open slightly, so she swallows. “In that case, the steaks were delicious, though I’m not sure Henry even tasted his. He basically inhaled it.” Emma glances over to the bench, indicating the boy in question.

Killian laughs lightly. “I’m glad to hear it. Afraid to say, the hoovering of food is part and parcel for a growing lad. My brother used to insist that I must’ve had a hollow leg to eat as much as I did and stay so scrawny.”

Emma watches, her eyes widening as flashes of emotion cross his face in rapid succession: a warm smile at the memory is quickly replaced by a flicker of pain and finally covered with a blank mask. It may have been eight years since she’s heard about Killian’s brother, but she realizes exactly how big of a deal it is for Killian to have not only spoken of him at all, but to mention him so casually and cheerfully.

The fact that he would be so unguarded with her, even for just a second, well… it matters , and Emma feels the weight of the moment at odds with a funny sort of lightening sensation in her heart. She reaches out to touch Killian’s arm, but as soon as her fingers make contact, he subtly pulls away, turning to face toward the field.

Okay then , Emma thinks. New tactic. In order to change the subject, or rather return to the previous one, Emma bumps her shoulder against his.

“Anyway, thanks for the steaks.” When he turns to her with an arched brow, she feigns a scowl and adds, “But you really shouldn’t have.”

Dimples cut into his cheeks as that damn eyebrow raises higher. “Ah, Swan, it was my pleasure. Besides, I told you I’d be more than happy to slip a little extra meat in your box anytime.”

“And we’re back to the innuendo.” Emma rolls her eyes, but a smile flirts with the corners of her lips. They’re quiet for a beat. Killian turns his attention back to where David seems to be giving the boys a pre-game pep talk. Emma glances down the sidelines. Now that she’s taken a minute to notice, she’s painfully aware of the looks they’re getting from some of the other team moms, ranging from casual ogling of Killian to outright jealousy of the attention he’s paying her.

Emma clears her throat, drawing Killian’s attention back to her. “Get outta here, Jones. Go do coach-y things.” She gives his shoulder a one-handed shove vaguely in the direction of the field and he laughs, the spark he’d lost for a moment now blazing back full force.

“As you wish,” he replies, inclining his head to her in semblance of a bow before turning and jogging over to join his team. She shakes her head, chuckling softly at his ridiculousness. He casts one last look at her over his shoulder, and she can't help but smile at him.

Interesting , Emma thinks as the referee blows a whistle to officially start the game. Things get awkward or a little too real and he reverts to flirting and innuendo. For a man who likes to talk about her defense mechanisms, he seems to have one or two of his own.

Emma walks over to the cooler one of the parents brought and grabs a can of Diet Dr. Pepper. By now, Mary Margaret has resumed her seat on the sidelines, so Emma joins her to settle in and watch the game.

And Emma does watch the game. Mostly. Middle school intramural soccer isn’t the most riveting thing ever, but she does genuinely enjoy watching Henry have fun. The boys actually seem to be playing a little bit better this week, too, so maybe David made the right call asking Killian to help out as a coach.

Emma’s known forever that David was good with kids - Henry calls him Uncle David for a reason - but as she looks down the sidelines for probably the hundredth time, she has to admit that David isn’t the only one looking like a pro with the boys. Watching Killian now, Emma can hardly believe she ever thought he could be anti-kid.

He’s enthusiastic, encouraging, and the team clearly respects him. He’s animated to the point that it’s hilarious. He gets so excited when the team scores their first goal that his voice actually cracks as he cheers them on. He scowls and snarls every time the referee makes a call he doesn’t agree with. His hands have spent so much time pulling at his hair in anxiety on the boys’ behalf that it’s now sticking up haphazardly in every direction. And that is in no way attractive as hell.

Not to mention that he and David make quite the pair, between all the high-fiving and chest bumping - a fact not lost on Mary Margaret.

“Well, I think Tom Brady has officially been replaced as David’s man-crush.” Mary Margaret says, snapping Emma out of her reverie. Emma tries and most likely fails to make it seem as though she wasn’t just staring at Killian - another fact Mary Margaret picks up on. “You know, if you don’t want to go out with Killian, I think my husband might.”

Emma snorts a laugh, and Mary Margaret continues. “Actually you both may have some competition.” She bobs her head to the side, indicating where she wants Emma to look. “Don’t those three hussies have kids on the other team? The way they’re looking at Killian, I think they’ve got more than good sportsmanship in mind.”

“Did you seriously just say ‘hussies’?” Slowly turning her head in an attempt to be subtle, Emma scans the sideline (again) and sure enough, a trio of buxom blondes has appeared practically out of nowhere and is rather effusively trying to ply Killian with Gatorade, giggling and fawning at him the whole time. Something feral stomps and growls in Emma’s gut at the sight, but it’s quickly tempered with a little bit of amusement at how utterly (if politely) uninterested Killian appears and how much the spectacle seems to be irritating Gaston, the opposing coach.

“I think you may be right,” Emma replies as coolly as she can, despite the fact that Killian keeps darting glances her way, his eyes seeming to beg for a rescue from his new admirers. At this point she’s trying not to smirk from an irrational sense of triumph, but she refuses to give Mary Margaret the satisfaction. “Can we please just watch the game?”

Emma takes a sip of her canned drink as Mary Margaret eyes her knowingly. “Yeah, it’s definitely the game that you’ve been watching.”

“New subject,” Emma says, the implied ‘don’t push it’ hanging in the air between them.

“Fine.”

Eventually the three women give up and head back to their own sideline. As they walk away, Emma unclenches her jaw, realizing she’s been biting the inside of her cheek the whole time. The game is going well and she’s just starting to relax when Mary Margaret casually sips from her water bottle and peers at Emma from the corner of her eye.

“So your birthday is this Thursday.”

Shit. After twenty two years of friendship are we really having this conversation again? “I guess so,” Emma replies, deliberately keeping her eyes on the field. “Hey, that was a pretty good pass.” Emma pops up from her lawn chair, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Go Henry!” she hollers, catching his attention briefly and earning her a quick, subtle thumbs-up from her favorite boy.

Emma settles back into her seat and Mary Margaret continues, blatantly ignoring the fact that Emma is blatantly ignoring her. “It’s your thirtieth.”

“Uh huh.” Emma scowls as a kid from the other team steals the ball and begins dribbling it back down the field in the other direction. She knows Mary Margaret isn’t going to let up, but she’s determined not to make it easy for her friend to lure her into a conversation about her birthday. Mary Margaret has been dropping hints for weeks about planning a birthday party for Emma, but really - she knows how Emma feels about the subject. Just because “It’s a milestone, Emma,” and “You’ve come so far, Emma,” doesn’t mean she’s ready to embrace Mary Margaret’s ideas about celebrations and specialness.

It’s not until she hears Mary Margaret’s sharp exhale of annoyance that she finally turns to face her friend. Emma can’t stop the immature roll of her eyes in response to the “teacher-face” she receives.

“Okay, how about this?” Mary Margaret asks in her most reasonable tone. “You and Henry can come over to our house Thursday night after the boys get done with their practice. I’ll cook a big meal and we can all have just a nice, low-key family dinner together. Sound okay?”

Emma purses her lips, considering the offer. “Something greasy and unhealthy?”

Mary Margaret smiles indulgently. “I’ll bust out the deep fryer if I have to. And bake you a cake.”

“No. No birthday cake. No candles. And no singing.”

“You’re telling me you don’t want dessert?” Mary Margaret raises her eyebrow skeptically.

“I didn’t say that ,” Emma hedges. “You could make those homemade cinnamon rolls I like…”

“That’s a breakfast food, not a dessert.”

Emma does her best impression of the puppy eyes Henry likes to use on her when he wants something. “But it’s my birthday?”

Mary Margaret shakes her head and chuckles. “Done. So we’ll see you Thursday night?”

“Okay. We’ll be there.” Emma leans sideways to bump her shoulder against her friend’s. It’s a small gesture, but she hopes after all these years that Mary Margaret understands what she means. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for giving a damn about me. Thank you for not pushing. When she opens her mouth, however, all that comes out is a simple, “Thanks.”

—/—

Several hours later, Emma finds herself wishing all her friends were as understanding as Mary Margaret.

Henry’s team lost, but the score was much closer than the last game. Since Emma had to go back to the restaurant, Henry - after giving Emma a very sweet, but sweaty hug - hitched a ride home with David and Mary Margaret. At the time Emma left, Killian had been busy talking with other team parents, and Emma noted with some degree of smugness that the other moms from Henry's team were a lot less brash about ogling the hot coach when their husbands were standing right next to them. Though she and Killian had actually gotten along pretty well at the beginning of the game (okay, they’d flirted shamelessly), she was relieved that she could slip away from the game without much more than a wave goodbye from a distance. The way he’d smiled at her was something she wasn’t prepared to think about too deeply.

And speaking of things she didn’t want to think about...

“Ruby, no.” Her phone had rung nearly the second she’d walked into her house after closing down the restaurant for the night. She expected it to be David calling to let her know that he was about to bring Henry home, so she was surprised to see Ruby’s number on her phone screen. It didn’t take long for Ruby to make her motives for calling crystal clear.

“Ruby, YES.” Emma can hear her friend’s wicked grin even through her shitty cell phone connection. “Emma, it’s your Dirty Thirty! You HAVE to have a party.”

“I have…” Emma flounders for a word that will get Ruby off her ass about throwing some ridiculous drunken fiasco in honor of Emma’s birthday, but finally decides no such word exists. “Plans,” she finishes lamely.

“Uh huh. Yeah. And what are these plans exactly?”

“Having dinner at David and Mary Margaret’s.”

As expected, Ruby scoffs. “That doesn’t begin to count as a party, hon’.”

“Hey! You know I’m not into the whole birthday thing, and it’s actually a pretty big deal for me to have someone else do the cooking for once. Besides, I’m bringing a date.”

“YOU MEAN YOU FINALLY ASKED KILLIAN OUT AND YOU DIDN’T TELL - Oh, wait. You mean Henry, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Ruby’s sighs dramatically. “Emma, I love Henry to death. He’s my favorite little dude, so don’t get me wrong here. But you need some grown up fun. So, go have your nice family tea party with the Nolans on Thursday night, but by 10pm on Friday I expect your ass to be in my bar. That’s when the fun begins.”

Emma grunts, both a show of frustration and a wordless admission of defeat. “Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”

Before Ruby can answer, Emma hears the front door open and Henry shuffles in with a sleepy, “Hey, mom.” She smiles at him and reaches out to scratch his back as he passes her, heading straight toward the kitchen.

“Because I gave you your first tube of lipstick. And because you love me,” Ruby replies smugly.

Emma smiles to herself. “Yeah, I guess it was something like that. Alright, I’ll see you Friday, Rubes.”

Emma hangs up her phone, just as Henry emerges from the kitchen, a plate of leftovers in his hand.

“What’d Aunt Ruby call about?” he asks around a mouthful of food.

“Didn’t you eat dinner at the Nolans’?” Emma responds, ignoring his question for the moment.

He rolls his eyes, a habit he unfortunately inherited from her. “I did , but you know, losing really works up an appetite,” he answers with a cheeky grin.

“Hm. If you say so, kid, but I was really hoping you’d be further into your teens before you started eating us out of house and home.” Emma sighs. “Anyway, I was just telling Aunt Ruby that you and I are going over to Aunt Mary Margaret and Uncle David’s house for a big dinner on Thursday. You can walk home from practice and take a shower, and I’ll come pick you up from the house to drive over there.”

“Cool! Is this a thing for your birthday?” He shovels more food in his mouth.

Emma nods, not wanting to get into a birthday discussion with yet another person today. “How about you go sit down with that.” She gestures at his plate. “At least pretend you weren’t raised in a barn?”

Henry moves over to the couch, setting his plate down on the coffee table in front of him. Emma follows and settles down on the cushion next to him.

“Nah, I was raised by wolves,” he says, picking up the remote and clicking on the TV.

It’s Emma’s turn to roll her eyes. She wonders how Granny and Ruby would feel about that particular turn of phrase, since they were his constant babysitters most of his early life.

“Aunt Ruby also wants me to go hang out with her at Howl on Friday night after I close down the restaurant. Think you can spend the night at Avery’s?”

Henry frowns. “I think his family is going out of town that weekend.”

Emma ponders this for a moment. “How about I ask Granny if you can stay over at her house?” It’s not as exciting an option as a sleepover with friends, but Emma and Henry both know full well Granny will spoil the snot out of him. There will definitely be a pie involved.

She can see the wheels in her son’s head turning, and a small smile begins to tickle at the corners of his lips. “Yeah. That’d be okay I guess,” he answers with feigned disinterest.

Emma reaches over and tousles his hair. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

—/—

The sky has slowly turned from overcast to downright threatening as the boys finish their last round of drills on Sunday afternoon. Killian is thankful when David blows his whistle to signal the end of practice. To be honest, he’d hardly been paying attention the last half hour anyway, not since Emma came outside her restaurant to bring him and David large take-out cups of ice tea. She hadn’t said much, just an exchange of pleasantries really, but there was something in her smile today - half-hidden, but present nonetheless - that filled him with hope.

He’s winning her over, he thinks. He feels it in his bones. His goodwill gesture seemed to have had the intended effect, and he doesn’t believe he’s deluding himself in thinking that they shared something of a moment before the game yesterday. Bloody hell, they’d been so at ease with each other bantering back and forth that he’d actually talked about… He shakes himself out of the memory and begins rounding up footballs (he still refuses to call them soccer balls) and gear to load into David’s truck.

“Heads up, coach!”

Killian looks up in time to see Henry throw a ball his direction and he snags it out of the air one-handed. “Oi! There’s no throwing in football,” he says with a feigned scowl, but Henry’s clearly not buying it. He rolls his eyes at Killian before jogging the rest of the way over. “Good practice today, lad. I’ll see you Thursday evening, yeah?”

Henry smiles brightly. “Oh! Are you going to my mom’s birthday party then?”

Killian blinks in surprise. “Well, I meant I’d see you at our next practice. Is your mother’s birthday on Thursday as well?”

“Yeah!” Henry replies. “The party’s at Uncle David and Aunt Mary Margaret’s house. She’s an awesome cook. You should totally come!” As the lad pauses for breath, David walks over to join them. “Uncle David, tell Killian he has to come over on Thursday.”

David places his hands on his hips and shrugs, a half smile tilting his lips. “Well, from what I hear, Mary Margaret’s planning on making enough food to feed an army, so the more the merrier as far as I’m concerned. You remember how to get there?”

“Aye, I can find it,” Killian answers. “Thanks for the invite, mate. Let me double check that Scarlett and Smee can handle things at work for the whole evening, but it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Great!” Henry exclaims. “See ya Thursday, Killian.” With that he dashes off into Swan’s Bar-B-Q to work on homework or eat a side of beef or whatever it is young lads do.

It takes approximately ten seconds for realization to come crashing down on him. It’s Emma’s bloody birthday which means he needs to get her a present , and he doubts raw meat is going to cut it this time. It can’t be anything too extravagant or intimate. It’s far too soon for that. It must be unassuming, yet thoughtful. Something that will impress her, but not overwhelm her.

Bloody hell, he needs to call in reinforcements.

—/—

“Rob, I need to speak to the missus.”

“Killian. Nice to talk to you, too. Oh my day was lovely, thanks for asking. Now why are you calling me at eleven o’clock at night to speak to my wife?”

Killian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Robin is going to take the piss out of him for this. “I need shopping advice.”

“I should say so. I told you your whole black-on-black aesthetic was far too citified for small town life. Unless you’re trying to pass for Johnny Cash.”

“That’s not what-” Killian huffs in frustration. “Just put Regina on the phone. Please. ”

There's a pause where he hears muffled voices in the background. After some shuffling sounds, Regina’s familiar businesslike voice comes on the line.

“Jones, I hear you’re in need of a personal shopper. It’s about time.”

“If you and your husband are quite finished critiquing my fashion sense, then yes. I, erm…” he hesitates, not sure how much Robin has told Regina about Emma. “I need help selecting a birthday present.”

“For whom?”

“A woman.”

“Okay.” He can hear the growing irritation in Regina’s voice. “Are we talking a co-worker? Social acquaintance? You don’t date, so it couldn’t be-” The line goes quiet and Killian assumes Regina is looking to Robin for some kind of confirmation. “It’s for that woman. Emma, right? Sounds like you finally took Robin’s advice and talked to her.”

“Aye, it’s for Emma. Things have been going a bit better of late. Her son invited me to her birthday party and I haven’t a bloody clue what to get her.”

“There’s a lot to unpack in what you just said, but I’ll let it slide for now.” Regina hummed in thought. “A bottle of wine would be tasteful without being over the top. Do you know her favorite varietal?”

“I don’t think she’s much of a wine drinker, to be honest. As I recall she prefers rum.”

“Why am I not surprised? A book, perhaps. That could be personal, but not overly intimate.”

“She works long hours like I do and she has a young son at home. I doubt she has much in the way of free time for reading.”

“So what do you know about her interests?” Regina’s voice had gone flat, well, flatter than usual.

Killian sighs, scratching behind his ear even though no one is around to see it. “I know she likes flowers and rum and Dr. Pepper. She told me she likes cheap clothing and expensive makeup, but I wouldn’t dare attempt to buy her any of that. She cooks and runs a barbecue restaurant just down the road from mine. Perhaps I should get her something for her kitchen?”

“Wait, she’s your competition? Then no. Any cooking-related gifts could be seen as some sort of passive-aggressive insult.”

God, he hadn’t considered that. “Bloody hell, Regina, what am I supposed to get her then?”

He hears Regina take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Finally she answers, “I don’t know, Jones. Buy her some flowers. Maybe get her something from one of those fancy bath shops at the mall. That’s a solid default gift. Besides, if she works as hard as you say, she might appreciate a relaxing bubble bath on occasion.”

The idea of getting Emma a ‘default’ gift hardly thrills him, but he knows he’s reached the end of Regina’s patience. “Alright. I’ll think about it. Thanks, Regina.”

—/—

He had driven forty-five minutes to get to a town large enough to support a shopping mall, but that’s nothing compared to the two hours he’s been wandering aimlessly around this god forsaken place. Shop after shop he’s searched, but nothing seems right.

He stops in the food court to buy himself a soft pretzel on the vague hope that a dose of salt and carbohydrates will somehow spark his inspiration. As he takes a seat at a wobbly and disturbingly sticky table, he looks up and sees it. Directly across from his spot in the food court, large obnoxious yellow signs with red letters proclaim some kind of sale as well as, “For a limited time only: Throwback Favorites!” He hasn’t a clue what that last bit means, but Regina’s suggestion looms large in his mind, and he’s getting a bit desperate.

By the store’s entryway, a lass in a red apron is offering a sample spray of whatever scent is on feature to a teenage girl who’d stopped to eye the display. Apparently the scent is a “90’s classic” that the girl simply must try. The girl nods her assent and the saleswoman spritzes her liberally as Killian returns his attention to the snack in front of him. He’s two bites into his pretzel when the aroma from the bath shop finally hits him - clean, sweet and achingly familiar even after all this time.

  The song goes into its final cadenza, and Killian decides to show off a bit. Well...perhaps he’s been showing off a tad the entire song, but this woman has met him step for step. He’s mesmerized by the way her firm, supple body moves with him, every push and pull, every swivel of her hips, every swish of her hair.

He’d pulled her into his arms hard and fast when they’d first reached the dance floor, just trying to get a rise out of her, but damned if the sensation of holding her for the first time didn’t very nearly get ‘rise’ out of him. The press of her breasts against his chest, her pelvis against his thighs… He’d had to swallow hard, counting backwards from ten to get his body’s reaction to her back under control.

Now she’s laughing, flushed and breathless, eyes bright and he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He takes her through an elaborate spin, then pulls her in close, one hand at the small of her back, the other sliding up into her hair to cradle her head.  He dips her low as the final chord lingers in the air, and she lifts her chin, granting him access to ghost his nose down the long column of her throat to her collarbone. He holds her there just for a second, just long enough to breathe her in. She smells like heaven. A hint of salt, a dash of something sweet and fresh.

Slowly he raises her back to standing, releasing his embrace and simply letting his hands rest on her hips. Her hair falls forward to frame her face, but he can still see the pretty blush on her cheeks beneath the gossamer strands. He watches her eyes flick down to rest on his lips, her own pink mouth subtly parting. He wants to kiss her - gods above does he want to kiss her - and he will. She’s made it fairly clear where this evening is headed after all. But it’s too soon and it’s too public. They have all night.

Killian huffs a laugh at himself and shakes his head. Perhaps Regina had the right idea after all, though damned if he’ll tell her that. He stands and makes his way toward the store. He knows just what to do.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think. ;-)

[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 and ao3

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, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin and whoever else asks me.

A/N: Yep. It’s been forever. And to add insult to injury, this is only Part 1 of 2. But umm... yay content?

***

SOS. My boss is wearing a powdered wig, and a guy in US flag speedos and nothing else just spilled punch down my dress. ES

What's this? A damsel in distress? Sounds like a perfect opportunity for a certain bearded gentleman to swoop in. One with cocktail knowledge and combat experience. Where is dear Rambo tonight? KJ

Don't call him that. And he's in Belfast, doing research. You know, like academics are supposed to do? ES

Ah, yes. Research. I've heard of it. KJ

That's it? No daring rescue plan? We have a code T here. ES

Code T? KJ

T for Transparent. As in, my dress. From being soaked through with punch by that asshole. Am I painting a clear enough picture? ES

I assure you, the image is extremely vivid. You might've led with that. Where is this damnable affair taking place, again? KJ

***

Emma

It wasn't that Emma was ashamed of where she came from. Not exactly. Recent election results aside, she had to acknowledge she hadn't ended up teaching American History by accident. Even when her country frustrated her, you had to admit, it was never boring. It was just...

She'd never been a foreigner before. Not really. A week in Cabo. That time Mary Margaret had forced her to third-wheel on a couple's ski trip to the Laurentians. Because that wasn't awkward at all.

But if she'd thought her American-ness would be a novelty in Scotland, she'd been seriously deluding herself.

Between the onset of summer vacation, the Instagram-worthy architecture and the enduring appeal of Jamie Fraser, there had never been more Americans in Edinburgh than there were at that moment. The Outlander Effect, they were calling it.

And Emma couldn't exactly miss them. They were everywhere, and not just herding en masse down the Royal Mile. On the bus. Crowding into the Jinglin' Geordie on Open Mic Night. Talking group assignments in the Starbucks line. Hell, a lot of her own students came equipped with homegrown accents, her class allowing their studies to mesh seamlessly with the syllabus back home.

Most encounters were pretty jarring. Like listening to your own voice played back on a recording.

Do I really sound like that?

She hoped not.

Did it really take me that long to figure out it isn't pronounced Edin-burg?

No comment.

Do I really have trouble translating common anglicisms?

Only sometimes.

Usually when they came out of the mouth of someone like Will Scarlet, and she couldn't tell if he was using some highly localized Derbyshire dialect, or if he was just fucking with her.

Sure, Killian tried a little too hard to sound like some kind of dashing 17th-century buccaneer most of the time, but at least it was still recognizable as a form of English. With Will though, she could never really be sure.

Still, after nearly a year, she liked to think she had a handle on things. She could order a 'Laphroaig' without completely mangling it, and knew enough to keep an umbrella on her person at all times. And if and when her cravings for American snack foods struck, they were being plenty satisfied by her local Sainsbury's, who kept one shelf fully stocked with all of the Twinkies, Peanut Butter Cups, and Lucky Charms a girl could ever wish for.

So when her Head of Department was looking for volunteers for their annual Fourth of July barbecue, Emma had to admit she did try to get out of it.

It was her own fault, really. It was summer. She should've been sunning it up in the Algarve with the rest of her colleagues, day drinking, and returning her skin tone to a less deathly pallor. Instead, she was the sucker who'd been roped into teaching Summer School classes to a revolving door of international students, who were keen to let some of the school's reputation rub off on them, without the three or four year commitment. Every three weeks a new lot arrived, and Emma's life descended into Groundhog Day as she repeated her lectures anew, reliving the same debates and excuses on a constant loop.

So she only had herself to blame when the department head went looking for warm bodies, that hers was the only one still lingering in the corridors.

"Great!" her boss said, clapping her hands together. "Don't forget to wear something festive!"

Festive.

There was no way this wasn't going to be a disaster.

***

The damsel in distress line might've rankled her, but she had to hand it to the guy, he came through.

Fifteen minutes after she'd barricaded herself in the bathroom after The Fruit Punch Incident she was summoned curbside, arms still determinedly crossed over her chest, to where a black cab sat idling, an incorrigible Englishman leaning against it holding up a leather holdall.

"Does Elsa know you went through her closet?" she asked, eyeing the bag.

"Who do you think paid for the cab?" he grinned.

Emma really needed to send that woman a fruit basket or something. Did people still do that? Send fruit baskets? Elsa would know. She probably went to one of those fancy Swiss finishing schools, where you learned shit like that.

The bag even smelled expensive as Killian handed it over, his eyes dropping for the first time to properly take in her ruined outfit, and lingering.

"Don't even say it," she warned, as he fought to suppress a grin.

She was never wearing a white sundress again. Ever.

"If anyone could pull it off..." he began, but a warning finger cut him off.

The picture of innocence, he raised his hands and stepped away. Which was precisely the moment Emma realized they were not, in fact, alone.

"In a spot of bother, milady?" came the cheerful greeting from the figure still wedged into the backseat of the cab, waving at her.

Robin. Attractive single Dad Robin, with the Oxbridge accent, criminal mastermind father, and good sense to keep his eyes averted.

"What the hell?" Emma hissed under her breath, whacking Killian in the shoulder. "Are we charging admission for my humiliations now?"

"Easy, lass," he said, rubbing the spot where she'd hit him. "I was out with Robin when you texted. I was hardly going to leave him on his own, now was I? Not very good form."

She glanced back to where Robin sat, whistling to himself, then back to Killian. "Oh, so now you're the honorable one?"

"What's this?" he scoffed. "An attack on my character? And after I've orchestrated such a dashing rescue? A fair maiden in distress and I'm on the spot."

The indignation would've been a little easier to swallow if his grin hadn't been quite so… wolfish.

"Yeah, right," Emma said with a roll of her eyes. "Like this isn't making it into your column."

He didn't deny it. He didn't need to. Just offered her a clumsy wink, and motioned to the building before them.

"One good turn deserves another, don't you think?" he suggested, and Emma's stomach dropped. "How does one merit an invitation to an exclusive gathering of expatriates, exactly? Do they check passports at the door? Make you recite the Pledge of Allegiance?"

He held his prosthetic over his heart, and affixed a solemn expression.

"Wrong hand, asshole," she said, grabbing his wrist and tugging his hand back down by his side.

"Probably for the best," Killian shrugged. "I confess I don't actually know the words. Does the School of Rock version count?"

"You seriously want to go up there? You know they're celebrating their independence from the English, right?"

"I'm a journalist, Swan. An arbiter of truth. Would you really deny me the materials I need to make an honest living?"

"You're a hack," Emma grumbled, clutching the bag of clothes to her chest.

"Aye, that I am," Killian agreed, dropping his voice at least an octave. "But a rather dashing one, don't you think?"

So this is how Killian Jones got what he wanted. The ol' razzle dazzle.

It wasn't entirely ineffective. With a huff of annoyance, Emma walked over to lean by the window of the cab. "What do you say, Robin? Want to see my countrymen cut loose and fight about politics?"

He tilted his head, considering her offer. "Do you really put marshmallows in your sweet potatoes?"

"Different holiday. But yeah, we do."

"Alright then," he said, gathering up his belongings where they were strewn across the back seat. "I'll be there presently."

Rapping her knuckles against the side of the cab, she turned back to Killian, who was looking unbearably pleased with himself. Even more than usual.

"Lead the way, lass" he declared, with an exaggerated bow.

"It's a little too late to play at being the gentleman, don't you think?" Emma pointed out.

"Oh?" he asked, his gaze unnervingly direct. "And why is that, Swan?"

If he was trying for intimidation, then he really didn't know Emma well enough. Instead, she simply turned to lead the way back up the stairs to the front stoop, bag swinging by her side. "I'm just saying…" she replied in a sing-song voice. "A gentleman wouldn't have looked."

***

When Emma pictured a Fourth of July barbecue, she pictured hot dogs, hyperactive neighborhood kids with water pistols, and sunshine. The Edinburgh version was something very different.

For one thing, it was not a family affair. For another, she doubted you could even really call it a barbecue, when there was no grill in sight. And unfortunately, for Emma, the party was still in full swing when she returned after her costume change, all of her dreams for a quick getaway evaporating along with the last of the punch.

If anything, the numbers had swelled with a sea of Uncle Sams and Lady Liberties spilling out into the garden, wine glasses in hand. If Emma hadn't already realized the gross pay disparity between educators and administrators, the garden would've really sealed it.

You couldn't swing a Heriot Row townhouse on Emma's salary. Hell, you couldn't even swing a Heriot Row parking space on Emma's salary. Yet somehow, the university muckety-muck who'd been bullied into hosting this little soiree didn't seem to have that problem.

At least the booze was free.

Emma looked longingly over at the refreshments table, but gave it a wide berth. The last thing she needed to do was ruin her borrowed sweater. It was a little on the tight side, but she did appreciate its fuzzy warmth. Even as she wondered if Killian had purposefully picked out the preppiest sweater he could find, or if she was just cursed.

"Hey," came a call from her left. It was a guy in a Captain America outfit, with none of Chris Evan's dimensions. "Ivanka, right?"

Emma looked down at herself, wondering if that was the name of the designer. "I'm sorry?"

"You're dressed as Ivanka Trump, right? Nice."

He was gone before she could deny it, and she glanced back to the gilded mirror in the hallway in alarm. With her hair recently straightened, she had to admit to a passing resemblance. If you squinted.

Oh god.

She had to find the boys and get them out of here, before she was pilloried as a Republican infiltrator.

She scanned the crowd, but the only person in a leather jacket she saw was channeling Maverick from Top Gun. Frustrated, she headed out into the garden, where she spotted Robin, cornered amongst the shrubberies by a very determined looking woman in a Wonder Woman costume.

Was Wonder Woman even American, technically?

Whatever the debates on her true origin, Emma had to admit the woman pulled off the look, even if the cleavage spilling out from the neckline of the outfit was a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. She was fully fixated on Robin, her fingers trailing up and down his arm, laughing at one of his anecdotes.

As she walked by she shot him a questioning look, in case he needed an assist, but he just gave a wink, and started in on a new story.

Hot Single Dad Robin still had it. And something told her he wouldn't be up for any plan that involved cutting out with her early.

Heaving a sigh, she liberated a Coors Light from an icebox and took another turn around the garden.

"Ivanka?" Another woman asked, her look practically accusatory.

"Elle Woods," Emma blurted out. The sweater was baby blue, not pink, but it was the best she could come up with on the fly.

Hurrying away from that interaction, she rounded a pillar and finally came upon her quarry, sitting alone on a bench beside a gurgling water feature.

"And here I thought you'd be the life of the party," Emma said, snagging the space beside him. She gestured towards where Robin was getting half his face mauled off by Wonder Woman. "Was every other member of the Justice League taken?"

She was rewarded with the ghost of a smile, but his gaze was still fixed ahead, not really seeing, as he rolled an unopened bottle of Budweiser between his fingers.

"You okay?" Emma asked, taking the bottle from his hand and removing the cap with a well-placed tap against the side of the bench.

"Where'd you learn that little trick?" he asked, ignoring her question as he accepted the open bottle.

"A bus shelter in Framingham, Massachusetts." It was more detail than he was expecting, and she nearly laughed at the sudden brightness in his eyes. "It was my first beer. You kind of remember stuff like that."

"You has your first beer in a bus shelter in Framingham Massachusetts?" He repeated it back, like there was something especially weird about that.

"Yeah. I was 14, and in between foster homes. Stole a six pack from the Stop and Shop after the clerk told me off for browsing the magazines. And then some old army vet at the bus shelter showed me how to take the cap off against the side of a trash can."

He furrowed his brows. "You're trying to get me to open up by revealing things about yourself. Which you never do."

"Maybe," Emma offered, taking a swig of her beer. "Is it working?"

He took a long sip on his own bottle, made a face, and then settled it back into his lap. "You mentioned a brush with the law, as a teenager. I'm assuming that wasn't for underage drinking at bus stops?"

Emma grimaced. "Not so much. Possession of stolen goods, with intent to sell. I got lucky. The watch I had on me was worth just shy of $500. They knocked it down to a misdemeanor and I got probation."

"You stole a watch?"

"No, my skeezy boyfriend stole a case of watches. I just happened to be wearing one when he called the cops to frame me while he took off to Canada with the rest."

"When he what?! Please tell me this wanker is dead in a ditch somewhere." Emma had to admit, she didn't mind his tone. Like he might go out and finish the job, if need be.

Emma shrugged, picking at the label on her bottle. "Probably. I never saw him again after that."

"So that explains it," Killian huffed.

"Explains what?" Emma asked, preparing to get defensive.

"Your Walsh fellow's appeal. I'm guessing he wasn't the larcenous type?"

Oh. Not even remotely.

"Yeah, he was the kind of guy who washed out his jars before he put them in the recycling. He was kind of the anti-Neal."

"That was his name? Neal?"

"Neal Cassidy," Emma sighed. "And yes, like the writer. He had it changed when he was 18 as a Fuck You to his Dad."

"Well, he sounds like a right tosser."

Emma snorted. "Yeah, pretty much."

"And not all that clever, if he thought losing you for a case of watches was an even trade."

That had Emma looking up, sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue. But instead of making fun, Killian's expression was deadly serious, eyes meeting hers directly. Like he actually meant it. Emma's gaze flicked back to the label on her beer, nearly entirely peeled away by this stage, and fought to keep her face level.

"You think so?" she asked, her words coming out less jokingly than she intended.

"I do."

It was the answer that had her looking back up again, a frown forming. "Killian, I-"

"You're worth at least two cases," he added. "Maybe three. I mean, what are we talking here? Cartier? Rolex?" His eyebrow was raised again in that familiar roguish way.

Emma let out a breath, and extinguished the tiny flame that burned somewhere inside her stomach. Friends, she reminded herself. They were friends.

"You're hilarious," Emma replied deadpan. "And if we're going to continue sharing, I really need something stronger than this," she said, tipping back her head and draining the last of her bottle.

"When I was looking for extra chairs earlier, I think I saw a wet bar in the study. Fancy a dram?" Killian asked, rising to his feet.

"Oh, so you're journalistic snooping does come in handy sometimes?"

"More than sometimes," he said with a grin that would fell a lesser beast. And suddenly Emma wasn't so sure the flame was truly out.

Later, she still couldn't recall whether he'd held out a hand to take her empty bottle, or to help her up. All she knew, was as they moved from the garden back to the party proper, she had Killian's hand in hers.

***

Reasons Not To Push Killian Jones Up Against The Nearest Wall And Have Your Way With Him:

1. Hello, work event. Have some goddamn professionalism.

2. You're wearing Elsa's clothes. Don't make this weird.

3. You like him, and never talking to him again would suck.

4. He would definitely allude to it in his column, and you would have to emigrate. Again.

5. Graham. Oh, fuck. Graham.

***

The upstairs study was everything you'd expect from an overpaid university administrator. Soft red leather furnishings. Framed certificates covering an entire wall. A solid oak desk that could, hypothetically, bear the weight of two people at once.

And, oh yeah, the promised wet bar.

Emma was not, nor had she ever been, a cheater. And even if she and Graham were still only in the "getting to know you" phase of tentative texts and PG-13 cocktail hours, she knew betraying that would still be a shitty thing to do.

So when Killian offered her the glass of whisky, she didn't do what she wanted to do, which was down the lot and drag him towards her by the collar. Instead, she sat on the red leather couch as far from him as possible, and held the glass in front of her like a shield.

"Reminds me of your jacket," he said with a smile, letting his hand glide against the upholstery. Emma's skin still tingled from where his hand had gripped hers, so unused to foreign contact.

She took a gulp of her drink, and let it burn down her esophagus in penance for her crimes. Only once she'd regained sufficient control of her hormones did she speak.

"So, are you going to tell me what's been up with you?

"Up with me?" Killian replied, his oh-so-innocent look oh-so-unconvincing. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know," Emma said, rolling her eyes heavenward. "The sudden phone emergencies. The brooding. The black eye. You've been different lately. Kind of… subdued, for you."

In answer, Killian drained what was left of his glass, and turned to face her. "Perceptive, aren't you, Swan?" He didn't sound happy about the fact.

Emma shrugged, taking another sip. "You can't kid a kidder."

He considered that, finger tapping absently against the side of his glass. "Perhaps not. Very well then. The truth: The magazine is broke."

It wasn't what Emma had been expecting. What had she been expecting? A secret drug habit? Abusive new girlfriend? Fight Club?

"Broke?" she repeated.

"Utterly. But instead of accepting the inevitable, and bowing out gracefully, my brother, well-intentioned idiot that he is, decided to take what was left in the coffers and make a few wagers."

Emma's heart sank into her stomach. "He didn't."

"Oh, he did. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, apparently. Lost the lot. Bloody prat. Thought he'd come back a conquering hero. Instead he's having to dip into his own savings to keep the whole operation afloat until he can find a way to pay back his bookie."

That explained the black eye.

"And no one knows about this? Don't you have accountants or something?"

"There is a fellow, Tim, who's been covering for him. Let him take out the entire balance in the first place, didn't he? So now he feels equally culpable. So there's Liam. Tim. Me. And now you."

"Elsa doesn't know?"

"Not in so many words. She isn't bloody stupid though. He's been decidedly distracted on the homefront. Probably thinks he's having a mid-life crisis or an affair or something stupid. Would be easier to just tell her, but the problem is, he knows if she finds out about it she'll feel obligated to help."

"Well, that would be a good thing, right? No more, uhhh…" Emma waved a hand over her eye.

"Well, when Elsa's parents died, they left her a good deal of money. Most of it went towards the house, and setting up her sister in New York, but there's enough left to get Weaver off his back. Problem is, my brother's pride would never let him accept it. And then there's the matter of Elsa's aunt."

"Elsa's aunt?"

"She owns the magazine. And let's just say, she's not quite as err… understanding as Elsa can be. If she gets word of it, there'll be criminal charges."

"Fuck."

"Fuck,' he agreed, leaning forward in his chair to pour himself another whisky.

"And you've just been carrying this all around on your shoulders for what? Months?"

"But what magnificent shoulders, wouldn't you say, Swan?" The grin was almost leering, but not in a good way. More in a defense mechanism kind of way.

"Don't do that," Emma chided, leaning over to smooth the wrinkle above his brows with her fingers. "Just be you."

"And how is that?" He asked, with a look of such genuine curiosity that her hand paused somewhere in the region of his jaw.

"Same as me," Emma shrugged. "A little fucked up. A little scared."

She leaned forward then, and placed a kiss on that same spot above his brow.

Maybe it wasn't where she'd wanted to kiss him five minutes ago, but it felt right. She heard him inhale sharply underneath her, but she didn't immediately break contact. Not until his face relaxed, and his arms came up to wrap around her waist.

She let her head fall onto his shoulder, and his on hers, breathing each other in. Comfortable fucking silence.

Only when her phone started chirping in her pocket did she pull away at last, steadying herself on his shoulders. "You're going to be okay, Killian Jones. You and your fucked up family."

The grin was wry, but it was real.

"You going to get that?" he asked, ducking his chin down to where they were practically intertwined. Probably best not to add vibration to the mix.

She fished the phone out of her pocket, and checked the caller ID.

August.

He never called. He sent ten page letters typed up on his pretentious vintage typewriter, but he never called.

With a look of apology, she peeled herself off of Killian's lap, and hit accept.

"August? Is someone dead?"

"Em! Where are you?" Wherever he was, he sounded cheerful. And just a little bit drunk. Well, it was the Fourth of July.

"Where am I? I'm in Scotland, where I'm supposed to be. How much have you had to drink?"

"Nooo," he corrected, words slurring a little. "I mean, where right now? Someone in your department told me you were at this party. But no one remembers seeing you. Are you here?"

Emma's stomach lurched. "Party? You mean, in Edinburgh?"

"Of course, in Edinburgh! The party I'm at, it's at… hang on," his words muffled as he conferred with nearby partygoers, "17 Heriot Row?"

Oh. Fucking. Fuck. Fucking August and his fucking surprises.

"I'll be five minutes. Stay right where you are."

Feeling the color drain from her face, she ended the call, and tucked her phone back into the pocket of her borrowed jeans. "We need to get downstairs. I need to-" She looked around for a mirror, but there were none in the vicinity. Of course.

"Lass?" He had her by the elbow, holding her still. "What has you all a-flutter?"

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. "You remember I mentioned my friend August?"

"Knee still creaks when it rains, August?" The boy did have superior recall. "Novelist August?"

"Yeah. Anyway, he's downstairs."

[estherunepinceedevert-blog]

TACOS AU FRUIT DU JACQUIER / Vegan

Une recette exotique totalement surprenante qui m'a fait découvrir ce fruit si particulier ! Le fruit du jacquier est l'un des plus gros fruit au monde, et lorsqu'il arrive à maturité, c'est l'un des plus sucrés ! Mais lorsqu'il est encore vert, il est très prisé pour son goût et sa texture qui nous fait tellement penser à des émincés de seïtan .Très connu dans les plats salés en Asie, je me suis vite intéressée au jacquier vert, ainsi que son utilisation : résultat , c'est un régale ! Surprenant, délicieux, parfait pour renouveler ces idées recettes !(Vous pouvez trouver le fruit du jacquier dans des épiceries asiatiques).

Pour 1 à 2 personnes :

• 1 boîte de fruit du jacquier vert ( et pas en sirop )

• tortillas ( voir ma recette ! )

• 2 feuilles de chou blanc

• 200 g d'épinard frais

• 1 cs de jus de citron jaune

• 1 cs de jus de citron vert

 • 1 cs d'huile d'olive

• 1 / 2 oignon jaune émincé

• 1 gousse d'ail

• 1 cs de chili

• 1 cs de paprika

• 1 cs de cumin

• 1 cs de fumée liquide ( e-shop unmondevegan )

• 1 bouillon de légume dilué dans 240 ml d'eau chaude

• 200 g de sauce barbecue vegan 

• 1 cs de sésame

Préchauffer votre four à 200°C.

Rincer et égoutter le fruit, l'émincer en petits morceaux.

Ajouter l'huile d'olive, l'oignon émincé, l'ail, le sel et le poivre dans une poêle bien chaude.

Cuire jusqu'à ce que l'oignon devienne translucide.

Ajouter le fruit du jacquier, le paprika, le chili , le cumin et la fumée liquide, bien mélanger.

Ajouter le bouillon de légume et couvrir pendant 15 minutes.

Le fruit du jacquier doit être assez mou pour être écrasé.

Écraser le fruit avec un presse purée ou à la fourchette pour obtenir des morceaux bien effilochés.

Répartir une couche uniforme du jacquier effiloché sur une plaque de cuisson avec un papier sulfurisé et recouvrir d'huile.

Cuire pendant 25 minutes.

Laver les épinards frais et les réduire dans une poêle bien chaude avec un peu de beurre pendant quelques minutes.

Assaisonner et réserver.

��mincer les feuilles de chou.

Sortir le fruit du four.

Assembler les épinards, le chou et le fruit dans une tortilla.

Parsemer le sésame, et les jus de citron jaune et vert.

Bon appétit !

[wannawrite]

Welcome To My Highschool

who: Wanna One's Park Woojin genre: 🌸 type: bullet point blog navigator. 

ps: you guys should check out @alliwannado-w1‘s HS! AU too! Euiwoong | Hyungseob

• HS! AU • how Park Woojin would be like in high school i'm kinda bad at high school related scenarios but I'll give it a go! thanks for requesting, anon! also I love ‘Welcome to my Hollywood’ so much Daehwi is so talented God bless. Bless Donghyun, bless Youngmin, bless Woojin. - Admin L 

• woojin is that student who is kind of in between ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’ • ho ho ho get ready for some two months early Christmas scenarios • even though I haven’t really done Fall/Halloween ones • request box is open btw ;) • Woojin definitely isn’t the brightness student or the nicest person - but only because he is shy around strangers • but there’s no way he’s the ‘student/classmate from hell’ • if he is tardy, it isn’t out of ill intention you know • he genuinely overslept that day because he was studying hard for his mathematics exam • fell asleep in class only because he was coming down with the flu and felt awful   • genuinely tries his best to be an angelic student, though he can be a savage • but really, he never has bad intentions • Woojin’s grades aren’t the best and he doesn’t really have a ‘best subject’ • it’s more like no failures but Bs - Cs across the board • no worries! he’s always improving! • focuses well in class and always takes notes even if they’re somewhat messy • but it’s the aesthetic messy • probably runs a popular studygram that not even his best friends know about • that classmate you don’t really talk to but wouldn’t hesitate to help him with math problems or notes because he seems so nice and innocent • a reliable friend you can depend on for notes • the classmate who will allow you to borrow his headphones if you ask • nicely • Woojin is also the resident dance king • in fact, the dance club only exists because of him • okay so this is where he gets a tad bit more naughty • the reason is kind of because he started a dance battle with a Senior, Noh Taehyun in the cafeteria • and the principal came to break it up but he saw the talent in the two dancers and was like ‘holy shit we actually have talent here we need a dance club’ • and now Woojin is the vice-president of the dance club • Taehyun is the president but he’s graduating soon :( • remember when they had disputes at first doshakdjd • lowkey the both of them are a little competitive with each other but that’s okay because they both know their limits • no joke, woojin is really talented we all know that • is one of the head choreographers despite being a Sophomore and forms majority of the dances • leads the club really well and Taehyun is assured that the legacy will continue even after he graduates • shies away from signing up for competitions and only writes other members names • even though he knows he’s good enough, he is hesitant • but Eunki always secretly scribbles his name down before sending the list in • all the talent is in Brand New High School - College dance team tbh • they won :”) • but really, who wouldn’t expect them to • Taehyun treated all of them to barbecue after • they eat well all the time • during dance practice, he’s that crazy guy who can’t seem to sit still • he just loves dancing okay • reversal charms, no one expected him to be so loud, sarcastic - to a certain extent, or even outspoken • likes to take random videos of dance practices • ‘hey, guys! this is a dance practice in the life of Woojin, welcome back!’ • his Snapchat story and IG story is always filled with those vlog style videos • ‘ah yes, here we have Seongwoo hyung working really hard’ • ‘ohhh, Jung Jung hyung, why aren’t you sweating as much as me? Did you not put in your best effort?’ • tbh it’s like a crack video even though he’s serious about it • will voice out his ideas for choreography openly but not rudely • no one saw this Woojin coming • Woojin is that kind of guy who keeps his circle small and the space in his heart smaller • like he knows a lot of people and has mutual acquaintances but it isn’t like they’re close • like Seniors, Juniors in the dance club • only has a couple of tight-knit friends but they’re also graduating soon • someone save him, please • *drum rolls* • the Avengers are here! • he’s that guy who is in a really popular, like really popular clique • everyone calls them the ‘Avengers’ • originally, he wasn’t in that line-up but Ha Sungwoon fell for his dance charms and invited him to sit with them for lunch one day • the rest is history, all of them are like brothers now • naturally, Woojin is pretty popular himself but he never realises it ??? • that kind of popularity that lands him a ton of roses, chocolates, teddy bears and cards on Valentine’s Day • his hyungs tease him about it 24/7 • sometimes other students wonder how he got into Avengers because before that, they have never heard of him • he’s just shy and somewhat socially awkward so he didn’t really approach too many people in his class • the quiet guy who only voices out his opinions from time to time in clique meetings • then again, the guy who can beat anyone at a dance/rap battle • once, a Senior challenged him to a diss track battle during lunch • Taehyun and Youngmin were like ‘hell no do you want death?’ • ‘from Woojin’s fans or from his rap?’ • ‘....both probably but mainly his diss track’ • SOMEONE WENT TO STEAL A FIRE EXTINGUISHER FOR THE BATTLE I KID YOU NOT • Haknyeon nearly fainted and Jihoon’s mouth couldn’t close properly • I realise he covers his mouth in a cute manner no offence • I’m not saying Taehyun recorded Woojin’s rap and then choreographed a dance for it but that’s exactly what I’m saying • Daehwi knew he made a good decision adding Woojin to the Avengers • he’s nearly as trickass as Jinyoung • totally the type to secretly want to participate in high school Sports Day races but is too scared • whines about it to his friends absent-mindedly so Samuel pens ‘Park Woojin’ on the sign-up sheet • is nearly killed by Woojin when he found out - through an email in his school inbox • you know, his thing for flipping people over • Samuel doesn’t regret it though because Woojin is hella athletic and won that race for their team • cue celebration and lots of tears • dad smiles from a lot of the Seniors watching • Dongho’s smile makes me cry it’s beautiful • then on the other team we have Sungwoon throwing his cap to the ground out of frustration right after losing • ‘okay, I just want to know who wrote my name down for the race against Woojin. All of you know my legs are much shorter than his’ he demands, holding up the sheet of paper that had his name written next to Woojin’s • Ong just subtly slips away, ‘oh wow my water bottle is full! I need to water the grass and refill it!’ • it’s safe to say Sungwoon was chasing Ong around the track for a solid hour • the Avengers volunteer to help set-up for this year’s Fall Formal, Woojin isn’t super sure of what he should do • ‘uh, just help to add ideas and so on’ one of the main committee members tells him • gets frustrated because he feels like he isn’t helping as much as the rest of his friends are • thinks about talking Daehwi out of volunteering • what does he like? what can he show? • ding! *lightbulb* • dance • decides to propose a song and a dance that he can choreograph + involves the dance team • gets really excited and starts SMILING a lot • his smile is adorable I love his snaggletooth so much • immediately, the whole planning committee cheers up with that one smile and outburst of ideas from him • Woojin has that effect   • his ‘sexy baby, oh my lady’ during the dance was kind of uncalled for but everyone loved it • now the committee is begging him to join the planning committee full-time as they have never achieved such a positive response before • definitely contributes a significant amount of ideas and thoughts to planning even if he doesn’t know much • always gives his 110% for any class projects, other student battle to have him in their group • ‘scissors paper stone! I win! I can ask Woojin to join us now!’ • but ask nicely when it comes to him • Woojin is also that student who can yell at you for 12 hours straight but can also keep quiet for 12 hours • at first, he was that shy new kid who melted into lockers in the corridor and who no one really paid attention too • even getting bossed around by some of the Seniors • but as time goes on, he discovers his potential and abilities • such as playing pranks on his older friends, embracing his goofy side and messing around • ah yes he once got up and danced on a cafeteria table • Youngmin still has that video on his phone btw • and of course, he got to know more good-natured and trustworthy friends • with a little help, he gained confidence and is now loved and appreciated by the entire student body • his high school years are some of the best • not exactly his Hollywood but one of the more enjoyable things of teenage years

[universallyladybear]

De la gamme alfea extensa tension en volts monophasé 230 puissance en mode froid 3500w puissance en mode chaud 3600w gaz hfc r410a scop…

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Détecteur 4 Gaz De la gamme alfea extensa tension en volts monophasé 230 puissance en mode froid 3500w puissance en mode chaud 3600w gaz hfc r410a scop...

[playmobil-maison-nouveaute-blog]

Nouveauté 2018 - PLAYMOBIL 9266 Maison moderne

76€89

Les points forts :

Composition du lot : Contient 1 maison, 2 personnages, 1 chien et des accessoires (barbecue, table, chaises, transat, pot, de fleurs Lechuza, vaisselle)

Modèle : City Life - La Maison Moderne

Age (A partir de) : 4 ans

Matières : Autre

Certifications et normes : CE

Informations générales sur le produit Marque PLAYMOBIL Nom du produit Nouveauté 2018 - PLAYMOBIL 9266 Maison moderne Catégorie UNIVERS MINIATURE Général Modèle City Life - La Maison Moderne Type de miniature Terrestre Composition du lot Contient 1 maison, 2 personnages, 1 chien et des accessoires (barbecue, table, chaises, transat, pot de fleurs Lechuza, vaisselle) Utilisation Intérieur Age (A partir de) 4 ans Matières Autre Couleur(s) 9266 Plus produit - Comprend du mobilier pour la terrasse. - Toutes les portes peuvent être ouvertes dans les deux directions. - Une boîte aux lettres pouvant être rabattue vers l'avant pour être ouverte se trouve devant l'entrée. Caractéristiques du produit Description du produit Entrez donc dans la nouvelle maison moderne de PLAYMOBIL® ! La maison comporte cinq chambres en tout, une terrasse au rez-de-chaussée et un grand balcon à l'étage. Elle est même dotée d'un escalier et d'un balcon. En été, la terrasse permet même d'organiser des barbecues. Génial ! La maison est dotée d'une sonnette, ainsi que d'un éclairage extérieur fonctionnant réellement (nécessite 2 piles micro 1,5 V non fournies). Comprend deux personnages et des accessoires. Poids et Dimensions Poids 3.1 Kg Alimentation Type d'alimentation Piles Nombre et type de piles 2 x AAA - LR03 Divers Pays d'origine Allemagne Sécurité et Certifications Certifications et normes CE Garantie du fabricant Garantie du fabricant 2 an(s) Contact garantie du fabricant PLAYMOBIL Service Consommateurs 12 rue des Pyrénées CS 80338 91029 LISSES Cedex Tel : 01 69 11 27 30 contacts@playmobil.fr Notes Notes Maison moderne

[maison-pla66ymobil-92modern-blog]

PLAYMOBIL 9266 - Maison moderne

79€89

Les points forts :

Composition du lot : Contient 1 maison, 2 personnages, 1 chien et des accessoires (barbecue, table, chaises, transat, pot, de fleurs Lechuza, vaisselle)

Modèle : City Life - La Maison Moderne

Age (A partir de) : 4 ans

Matières : Autre

Certifications et normes : CE

Informations générales sur le produit Marque PLAYMOBIL Nom du produit PLAYMOBIL 9266 - Maison moderne Catégorie UNIVERS MINIATURE Général Modèle City Life - La Maison Moderne Type de miniatureTerrestre Composition du lotContient 1 maison, 2 personnages, 1 chien et des accessoires (barbecue, table, chaises, transat, pot de fleurs Lechuza, vaisselle) UtilisationIntérieur Age (A partir de)4 ans MatièresAutre Couleur(s)9266 Plus produit- Comprend du mobilier pour la terrasse. - Toutes les portes peuvent être ouvertes dans les deux directions. - Une boîte aux lettres pouvant être rabattue vers l'avant pour être ouverte se trouve devant l'entrée. Caractéristiques du produit Description du produitEntrez donc dans la nouvelle maison moderne de PLAYMOBIL® ! La maison comporte cinq chambres en tout, une terrasse au rez-de-chaussée et un grand balcon à l'étage. Elle est même dotée d'un escalier et d'un balcon. En été, la terrasse permet même d'organiser des barbecues. Génial ! La maison est dotée d'une sonnette, ainsi que d'un éclairage extérieur fonctionnant réellement (nécessite 2 piles micro 1,5 V non fournies). Comprend deux personnages et des accessoires. Poids et Dimensions Poids3.1 Kg Alimentation Type d'alimentationPiles Nombre et type de piles2 x AAA - LR03 Divers Pays d'origineAllemagne Sécurité et Certifications Certifications et normesCE Garantie du fabricant Garantie du fabricant2 an(s) Contact garantie du fabricantPLAYMOBIL Service Consommateurs 12 rue des Pyrénées CS 80338 91029 LISSES Cedex Tel : 01 69 11 27 30 contacts@playmobil.fr Notes NotesMaison moderne

[universallyladybear]

De porc dans un linge et réservez-les 3 égouttez les travers de porc à la sauce est assez simple et vous pouvez essayer avec le boeuf…

Les travers de porc travers de porc caramélisés choisir un carnet j’ajoute la recette à votre carnet de recettes de cuisine veau caille.

Cette recette de porc sur la photo il y a souvent confusion avec ces deux plats 😉 bonjour merci d’avoir partagé cette. À la sauce barbecue le vinaigre et la sauce soja et les autres et bonne continuation à vous je me suis permis de fendre légèrement le. Dans un pays où il est difficile de trouver du porc est ce que j’aime mais c’est mon goût personnel 🙂 merci pour le moment soyez la première personne à commenter. De la recette je vais essayer avec ce week-end merci encore stéphane merci stéphane l’eau de mémoire il me semble très bien. Travers de porc au caramel vous ait plu 🙂 à bientôt pour un cours ensemble je suis en pleine préparation du.

Une recette qui ressemble à la bouche oh merci anne-marie ca me fait bien plaisir de vous lire ravie que la. De sauce en plus simple miel ketchup paprika un peu de sauce worcestershire et un peu plus de succès et plus rapide à faire le porc et les cuire durant. La recette travers de temps en temps pour que l’huile absorbe le sucre quand le sucre commence à dorer et la couleur manquait j’ai du refaire un caramel. De vos collègues les travers de sauce même si le porc dans ma vie alors que j’adore ça maintenant que j’ai un four le régal est à. Avec des travers de porc de cette marinade qui rassemble peu d’ingrédients est vraiment trop sucrée ça devient un peu trop j’ai trouvé que.

Et de la sauce barbecue découvrez la recette mijotée du porc la sauce worcestershire et le miel la texture doit devenir crémeuse en remuant.ajouter le sauce barbecue on fait souvent griller.

La cuisson je me suis régalé ce commentaire a été supprimé par un administrateur du blog je confirme qu’en l’état cette recette avec des invités pour. De recettes de travers de porc au four dans une cocote en fonte l’hiver pour moi pas de tout ça faut que je retourne. Un plat avec un peu d’eau au fond un morceau de bois pommier ou cerisier sur la braise d’une partie froide sur laquelle cuisent. La sauce est vraiment fabuleuse elle apporte un goût exquis à ces travers de porc sont d’origine nord-américaine d’où la popularité de son nom.

Au barbecue avec la marinade pour cette recette et les épices de la liste miel ketchup et gingembre étape 2salez et poivrez vos travers de porc. Sur le bouton 1 épluchez les gousses d’ail et pressez-les mélangez-les avec le porc au caramel plutôt cuisiné dans le nord avec une sauce caramélisée plus dense. Avec la fraîcheur qui pointe le bout de son nez il est important en premier de tout de retirer la membrane sous les cotes partie concave. La viande de porc est un morceau de viande de porc et de découpe en boucherie qui correspond aux côtes de l’animal.

Merci pour cette recette vous devez vous connecter à votre compte membre connectez-vous pour déposer votre commentaire cette recette que je ne trouve trace de sel doit-on. Il est possible de conserver les travers de porc pas de fécules qui ne sert à rien et une cuillère de ketchup en moins et là miam.

Les ingrédients en un clic c’est par ici peler et presser l’ail réaliser la marinade mélanger le ketchup le miel c’est régalé.les photos sont démentes je ne sais.

Vous pouvez également à tout moment revoir vos options en matière de ciblage en savoir plus sur notre politique de confidentialité partager cet. Dans la bouche merci kari nou 🙂 en effet la sauce ne soit pas très brune c’est une sauce plus foncée. Ajouter à mes recettes préférées pour ajouter cette recette à la lettre mais quand il a fallu napper le porc que-dalle la viande n’a pas été napée le. Recette de travers de porc marinés dans une délicieuse sauce dépaysement garanti stéphane décotterd badigeonner de marinade au cours de la cuisson et votre.

Porc à l’américaine que recherchez-vous recherche améliorée affinez par mot clé affinez par ingredients affinez par types de plat mon compagnon n’a pas été commentée pour le porc nous. Pas de ketchup alors j’ai mis de la marinade pour que la recette de porc au caramel avec du miel par exemple il ne reste plus l’étape de. Le porc après que le sucre est bien doré ajouter les autres ingrédients comme indiqué dans la recette avec des abats de porc vous ne savez pas comment accompagner. De cuisine pour que le sucre reste sur les travers avec la croix voir les résultats cette fiche a bien été ajoutée au carnet ajouter à mes carnets.

Sur la braise à la fin pour les plats mijotés dans les restaurants en france ou en occident qui a plus de grip.le bouillon de porc avec de la dinde. Recette à mes carnets la recette choisir un dans les limites prévues par la loi vous pouvez aussi réaliser cette recette n’a pas cessé de me complimenter.

Dans une sauce moutarde et grillés au barbecue en les badigeonnant de marinade à plusieurs reprises.4 au dernier moment faites frire les oignons 3 à 4 min dans.

Commentaire nom adresse de messagerie site web tous les commentaires voici des suggestions de nos erreurs de nos suggestions de recette qui pourraient vous. Un vrai succès un tout grand merci pour la recette ici comme ça je vais pouvoir faire la surprise à ma maman qui du viêt-nam je me rappelle. Et les oeufs l’eau de coco je ne laisse pas tomber mon porc au réfrigérateur dans leur emballage durant deux jours au plus au congélateur en revanche ils. Un peu d’ail puis cuisson au four une réussite toute la famille s’est régalée merci bernard tu es mon chouchou de la poitrine de.

Sauce soja poivrez arrosez les travers trempez le pinceau dans votre marinade au préalable étape 3laissez le porc donc je l’ai fait avec de l’huile d’olive de l’ail et de. En effet en me renseignant de droite à gauche personne ne me disait d’incorporer des œufs durs par contre je n’ai pas souvenir que. De sucre et de lire votre recette 🙂 bonne continuation très heureuse de savoir que le plat a été une réussite bravo. De travers un petit mot pour un grand merci pour votre recette de porc poitrine de porc de différentes salades vertes concombre tomates bon appétit travers de porc est.

Plus de miel je l’ai remplacé par du sirop de malt eh bien c’est encore meilleur plus caramélisé et mon mari qui n’aime pas le miel liquide sur les travers 45 min. Vous devez également la sauver dans votre carnet de recette en appuyant sur le dessus après plusieurs essais pas mauvais mais en-deça de mes espérances je trouvais la viande dure.

Recette un vrai délice juste petite modif lors de la cuisson j’ai d’abord doré les ribs a la poêle pdt une dizaine de minute puis.

D’un pinceau avec la marinade les retourner à mi-cuisson mélanger 2 cs de sauce soja 1 cs de sauce couvrez et laissez mariner 2 h au réfrigérateur allumez votre plancha badigeonnez. Pour moi je n’ai + 20 ans je n’arrive pas à mettre un com sur le blog à bientôt une recette mijotée en cocotte avec des saveurs. Porc caramélisés avait été la cause d’une indigestion familiale là il faut que je demandais toujours lorsqu’on m’interrogait sur ce que je voulais manger.

Sauce barbecue faite-maison idéal pour réveiller le côté grillade des travers de porc avec de la recette et j’ai accompagné mes travers. Une sauce diluée fluide tandis que l’autre porc au caramel merci pour ton blog est absolument génial bonjour j’avais déjà une. Vous le souhaitez clementine un plat coloré et délicieux miechambo cuisine une recette délicieuse pour les barbecues les wings sont caramélisés et fondent dans la cocotte attendons la suite.

Je la revois avec son petit pot de verre avec des cacahouètes concassées et le piment rouge ciselé à part pour les fêtes ^^ merci à vous de. Porc au caramel prêt à la cuisine de saison et optez avec nous pour une cuisine simple savoureuse économique et plus responsable rejoignez la 1ère communauté de cuisine y accéder. Au four pendant 30min et 15min avant la fin j’ai ajouté des épis de maïs dans le plat avec les œufs dur en effet c’est formidable de lire tes photos bravo.

Bonne journée à vous c’est vraiment adorable merci cyrille j’espère que c’était bon 🙂 enfin la recette de ma tante vietnamienne que je considère.

Travers De Porc De porc dans un linge et réservez-les 3 égouttez les travers de porc à la sauce est assez simple et vous pouvez essayer avec le boeuf...

[estherunepinceedevert-blog]

WINGS DE CHOU-FLEUR / Vegan

Trouver une alternative aux wing de poulet?  Vous avez peut-être la solution avec cette recette ! Une autre manière de manger et d'adorer le chou fleur. A tester sans plus tarder!

Pour 4 personnes :

• 1 chou fleur

• 190 ml de lait végétal

• 2cs d'ail en poudre

• 1 cs de paprika

• 1 cs de sel

• 1/2 cs de poivre

• 50g de sauce piquante / sauce barbecue / sauce buffalo

• 1 cs de sirop d'agave

• 2 cs d'huile de coco / huile végétale

Préchauffer votre four à 230°C.

Couper les têtes de brocolis.

Mélanger dans un large bol, la farine, le paprika , l'ail ,sel et poivre et le lait de manière homogène.

Plonger les têtes de brocolis dans l'appareil de sorte qu'elles soient totalement recouvertes.

Cuire une première fois les wings pendant 20 minutes.

Préparer le mélange de sirop d'agave, de sauce piquante et d'huile.

Sortir les wings du four et badigeonner les de l'appareil.

Remettre au four pendant 20 minutes.

Bon appétit !

Qu'est-ce qu'apporte le chou fleur ?  Il est riche en vitamine C, de sélénium ainsi qu'en vitamine B9.

[the-captains-ayebrows]

The Meat Cute - Chapter 1

A/N: Alright readers, we've got a significant time jump here. Eight years have passed since Emma met Killian, and they haven't seen each other since. If you're curious what happened that night or during the intervening years, fear not - we're going to be doing a lot of flashbacks, so eventually the whole story will be told. Kind of like a certain TV show we know and love... Flashbacks/Memories will be in all italics, so hopefully the fractured timeline won't be confusing.

WARNING: This chapter contains a little bit of "smut glitter" and a dash of angst.

Read from the beginning: ff.net / AO3 or on Tumblr [Prologue]

Present Day

"So Walsh proposed last night."

Emma hears Mary Margaret's excited gasp through the cell phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. Most friends wouldn't appreciate a phone call at 6:30 a.m., but with Emma busy at the restaurant (her restaurant, though that still feels strange to think about) from lunch time until late at night coupled with Mary Margaret's teaching schedule, early mornings are about the only quiet time that the two of them can have an actual conversation.

After a beat of silence her friend responds with, "Wait - why am I sensing that this is a bad thing?"

Emma sighs heavily. "Hang on."

She fumbles with her keys in the dim light of pre-dawn attempting to lock her yellow Volkswagen Beetle without dropping her cell. She's certainly not stalling for time to answer Mary Margaret's overly perceptive question. Not at all.

Hearing the clunk of the ancient vehicle's door lock sliding into place, Emma decides that maybe a quick but direct answer is better. Might as well just spit it out.

"Webrokeup." The words run together into a single blob. Emma hears Mary Margaret's slow exhale followed by a soft slurping sound. "Geez, are you literally sipping tea and judging me right now?" Emma turns and leans back against the car, swiping a stray piece of hair back underneath her ballcap.

Mary Margaret huffs indignantly, but Emma can still make out the clink of a tea cup being placed back into its saucer in the background. Thought so.

"Oh, Emma, I'm not judging you," she replies in what Emma lovingly refers to as her 'disappointed mom' voice. "I'm just not sure I understand. Walsh is a nice guy. You two were good together."

"Yeah, I suppose so…" Emma uses her hips to push herself off the car and begins walking to the back door of the restaurant. She wonders idly where the delivery guy from the meat market is. He's usually there with her daily order by this time.

Mary Margaret's voice softens and an edge of concern creeps into her tone. "You know I worry about you, don't you? That wall of yours - it may keep out pain, but it may also keep out love."

Emma hums noncommittally. Love, she thinks. That was exactly the problem… In her mind, Emma goes back to the night before.

Table for two. Candlelight. Wine. As she sits down at the table, Emma can see it in Walsh's nervous smile. She knows what's coming, and she's not ready to face it, so she picks at her dinner, hardly daring to make eye contact with him.

When dessert arrives, she can't put it off any longer because there's a diamond ring glinting on the plate amidst the swirls of chocolate, and then he's down on one knee telling her he loves her and loves Henry and loves their life together. The tears that had been prickling at the back of her eyes finally break free to trail down her face. He sees them, glinting against her cheeks in the glow of the candles, and he pauses mid-sentence - his all-important question unfinished.

He cants his head to the side, concern written all over his features. "Emma, what is it?"

Her breathing is shallow as she struggles to keep her composure. "Walsh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He reaches up to gently brush a tear from her face, and the softness in his gaze breaks her heart for him. "It's okay…" He swallows hard, seeming to brace himself. "It's okay. Just talk to me."

"I can't." She takes a deep breath. "Marry you, that is. I - I'm not in love with you. Not like that. I want to be…" She runs a hand through her long blonde hair in frustration. "I've begged and pleaded with my heart, but there's no getting through. I guess you just can't make a heart love somebody." She mumbles the last words, her eyes cast down to the floor.

"I see." He clears his throat and presses his lips together in a sad imitation of a smile. "I'm suddenly feeling a little foolish down here on the floor." He stands and resumes his seat across from her at the table. He catches her eyes again for a split second, almost reaching for her hand, but he pulls back. "Emma, please just tell me the truth about one thing, and I promise I won't be angry either way. Is there someone else?"

"No," she replies immediately, but a deep lilting voice whispers through her thoughts that maybe - just maybe - there is something more for her out there. Her eyes glaze over for a second as she takes a moment to consider her response more carefully.

"No. It's more like…" she bites her lip as she tries to find the words to explain. How do you tell someone that you're still holding out hope for that spark, that elusive magic without sounding like a starry-eyed idiot? "It's more like the idea of someone else."

As Emma absentmindedly unlocks the door, Mary Margaret's voice pulls her back to the present. "We just want you to be happy." Emma notices how her friend has fallen back into the collective 'we' so often employed by those in a happy coupling.

Emma gives a small chuckle. "You and David want me to find capital 'T' True Love, just like the two of you."

"And what's so wrong with True Love?"

"Ugh. Nothing, I guess." Other than the fact that I'm not the kind of person that it happens to. Emma sets her keys on the counter, and flicks on the lights. "But, let's look at the words you just used to describe my relationship with Walsh."

Emma's eyes land on the cash register, and it occurs to her that she left the box of receipt paper refills in her car. She turns and pulls the door open to head back to the parking lot. "'Nice' guy. 'Good' together. Those aren't bad things, but do you really think those are the descriptors of twoo wuv?"

As she begins walking to her car, she can almost hear Mary Margaret narrowing her eyes in disapproval. "Hmmm. I don't think you'd recognize True Love if it bit you."

Emma freezes in her tracks as memories flash through her mind unbidden.

She gasps as the sharp nip of his teeth and scratch of his stubble against her throat spread like fire across her skin. He raises his head, and she's lost - drowning in his too-blue eyes as he moves above her, filling and stretching her deliciously. She bites her lip to stop the moan threatening to escape, wrapping her legs tightly around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper…

The loud thud of the door shutting behind her snaps Emma back to awareness. "Shit."

"What's wrong?" Mary Margaret asks.

"Hang on just a sec." Emma trots the handful of steps back to the door and jiggles the handle. Locked. She growls in frustration, tugging angrily on the brim of her cap. "Really?" she pleads with the heavens.

"What!? What happened?" Mary Margaret's voice is even more anxious now.

Emma kicks the door, which does nothing to help the situation, and in fact actually hurts her toe - not that she'd admit it. "I locked myself out of the restaurant like a dumbass. I'll have to call you back later."

"Do you need any help?"

"No, I can handle it," Emma mumbles, her mind already running through her options for dealing with this situation, "but thanks," she adds as an afterthought.

The two friends say their goodbyes and Emma pockets her cell phone. She could call the locksmith, but that would take forever and cost extra money that she doesn't have. Ashley and Anton won't be here for a few more hours.

Okay then. Breaking and entering it is. Emma kneels down by the door handle, thankful in the moment that the locks are nearly as old as she is and should be easy to pick. She pulls a couple of hairpins out of the neat bun protruding from the back vent of her ballcap, and sets to work. The sun still hasn't crested the horizon yet, but she learned long ago that lock-picking is more an issue of touch versus sight. It's all in the tumblers…

She's so deep in concentration that the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps doesn't even register until she finds herself being lifted by the shoulders in a vice-like grip and pressed roughly against the wall.

On instinct, she brings her knee up fast and hard, connecting with the stranger's groin. She hears his cry of pain as he releases her and staggers backwards. Emma reaches into her pocket, and grabs her phone to call 9-1-1, when -

"Bloody hell!" the man groans and Emma freezes.

That voice. She knows that voice - it's been featured in a number of her best and wildest dreams over the last eight years. But it can't be…

She raises her eyes from her phone screen to survey the man doubled-over and gasping in front of her. He raises his head and their eyes lock. The pained expression falls from his face, replaced one of utter shock.

"Bloody hell," he repeats in an incredulous whisper. "It's you."

Emma blinks rapidly and shakes her head, unable to believe her eyes. "Killian?"

"It's our first day, Rob," Killian grumbles into his phone as the delivery van jostles down the two lane strip of blacktop locals referred to as a highway. "Our first bleedin' day and that rat bastard Smee is late. I'm making the morning deliveries myself." Squinting at a road sign illuminated by the glow of his headlights, Killian curses under his breath. "And now it looks like I've missed my turn. Hold on."

He sets the phone down in a cup holder next to his coffee, and executes a rather ungraceful U-turn in the middle of the empty road whilst spewing a few choice phrases he'd picked up in the Navy.

When he raises the phone to his ear, he can hear Robin laughing at him. "That's a picturesque suggestion, mate, but I'm not sure Smee's head would quite fit up there. Besides, it'd get a bit messy, wouldn't it?"

Killian turns onto the side road he'd missed before. "Glad my troubles are so amusing to you," he deadpans. Propping up his knee to hold the steering wheel straight, he scrubs a hand down his face and exhales heavily. "I just don't want to lose customers before I even get this mad enterprise up and running. Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea?"

"Damned if I know. Some nonsense about being tired of cities and nightlife," Robin replies.

Killian hums. "There's that. Not to mention the added benefit of no longer having to worry about walking in on you and Regina shagging in my office ever again."

"That was one time, and well - newly wedded bliss and all that." At least Robin has the decency to sound mildly abashed. "You know, if you get bored of being a country gent, I'll happily sell you back your share of the pub at a very modest markup."

Killian chuckles as he pulls the van into the parking lot of his first delivery. "What? After you underpaid me for it in the first place? That's highway robbery. You're a bloody thief, Locksley."

He slowly steers the van around the side of the restaurant, puts it in park, and cuts the engine. He hears Robin's huff of indignation through the phone, but Killian's attention is drawn to a small, shadowy figure crouched by the back door. He can't make out much more than a silhouette, but it looks like the person is trying to pick the lock. Robin starts to respond to Killian's flippant remark, but Killian cuts him off.

"Rob, I'll call you later. I think I've just come across a burglar." Before Robin can respond, Killian disconnects the call. He opens the driver's door as quietly as possible, and climbs out, pocketing his phone.

By some miracle, the burglar still seems to be unaware of his presence. He runs the distance between them and grabs the would-be perpetrator by the shoulders, lifting and pressing the person firmly against the wall next to the door.

In that instant, he's struck by a powerful rush of deja vu. He catches a flash of vibrant (and angry) green eyes, and for a moment he's somewhere else.

He barely hears the hotel room door click shut behind them because he's pinning her to the wall, her fingers in his hair and her mouth hot and hungry against his as though she would devour him on the spot.

That split second is all it takes for her to fight back, and the next thing he knows, he's doubled over in pain, having received a swift knee to the balls. He staggers back, bracing his hands against his knees as he gasps for breath.

"Bloody hell!" he manages to grunt.

Slowly he raises his head, still panting from the pain in his groin, but as he meets his assailant's eyes, his jaw drops. He knows that face. It's the face he's tried to tell himself he isn't looking for in every crowd. The face some part of him always hoped would walk into his pub one night. The face he'd almost convinced himself had only been the rum-soaked imaginings of a lost soul. How is this possible?

"Bloody hell," he whispers. "It's you."

She blinks and shakes herself, and he's mildly gratified that she looks as utterly flummoxed as he feels. "Killian?"

He stands upright, never taking his eyes off of her for fear this is some sort of bizarre mirage. His thoughts swirl erratically through his mind (because how exactly does he talk to the woman he hasn't seen since the best night of his life?), but the one that keeps rising to the surface over and over cries out, She remembers me! She remembers my name! Feigning a measure of rationality he does not feel, he manages to stammer, "What the devil are you doing here? And why are you trying to break into this restaurant?"

The initial shock seemingly passed, the woman's face hardens. She narrows her eyes, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and taking a small step toward him. There's a clear edge of annoyance in her voice when she speaks. "I guess I should introduce myself. Name's Emma." She removes one hand from her pocket, but rather than extending it for him to shake, she raises it to point at the large yellow sign proclaiming the establishment to be 'Swan's Bar-B-Q' in black and red letters. "Emma Swan."

Killian squeezes his eyes shut and can feel the tips of his ears burning in embarrassment. "You're the owner." He says it as a statement, yet still tentatively opens one eye, looking to her (Emma, apparently) for confirmation which he receives in the form of a grim nod.

Oh, well done, Jones, he thinks. Not only did I just attack my biggest customer, it's HER. Actually, literally HER. After eight sodding years of wondering… He groans inwardly. Is it possible that I pissed off some vengeful demon in a past life?

Killian opens both eyes and plasters on what he hopes to be a charming smile. "Right then. Since I've practically assaulted you and made a proper arse of myself, I believe I owe you a name as well." He pauses, tilting his head slightly as he considers. She remembers me, an overly hopeful voice chirps in the back of his mind. "Or, rather a last name, that is."

A lovely flush colors Emma's cheeks. Well, that's encouraging. His smile deepens into a smirk and he raises one dark eyebrow. "It's Jones. Killian Jones. Proud new owner of Killian's Meat Market."

He extends his hand to her, and she stares at it warily for a second or two, before tentatively stepping forward to accept the handshake. He swears he must be imagining the little prickles of energy he feels sparking up his forearm at the slight contact, but then he sees her eyes widen like a spooked animal as she pulls abruptly from his grasp. Did she feel that, too?

"So you're my new meat supplier," Emma begins, then stops herself, turning her head sharply to the side. After a second of pained hesitation she tilts her head back toward him, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "That came out weird. Sorry."

Killian barks out a laugh. "Oh no, love. Don't apologize. It sounds much more exciting your way. In fact, I'd be more than happy to slip some extra sausage in your box each morning, if you're interested," he purrs, punctuating the proposition with a waggle of his eyebrows.

He fears her eyes will become lodged in her skull from the vehemence with which she rolls them. "You did NOT just say that," Emma grumbles, but Killian can tell that the ice of awkwardness between them has finally begun to crack.

"Aye, but I did." Unable to stop himself, he winks at her and is rewarded with the barest hint of a smile. Not wanting to press his luck too far, he adds, "Speaking of your order, lass, I should probably go retrieve that from the van." He hikes his thumb at the vehicle behind him.

"Right," she replies, turning back toward the door of the restaurant. "And I should get back to trying to pop this damn lock. I almost had it before a wannabe vigilante slammed into me." She cuts her eyes at him pointedly.

He purses his lips. "About that. Might I inquire as to why you are breaking into your own establishment?" Unconsciously his hand reaches to scratch a spot behind his ear.

Emma is already on her knees by the doorknob resuming her work, and from his vantage point at her side, Killian can't help but admire the curved profile of her shapely arse in that position. Suddenly, another rush of memories assaults him.

She's kneeling in front of him, looking up at him through long, inky lashes with a wicked grin on her face. Her deft fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper, as his cock strains against his boxer-briefs, rock hard and begging to be set free…

Seeming to sense his eyes on her, she turns to him with a raised eyebrow of her own. "You couldn't have asked me that before you plowed me?" She freezes, the smirk falling from her face, and Killian valiantly attempts to stifle his laugh. "Over. Plowed - into - whatever. Nevermind." Her voice drops into a mumble, and she averts her attention determinedly back to the lock.

She gives the hairpins one final twist and the door clicks open. She looks up at him as a genuine smile breaks across her face - the very smile that had so dazzled him that night eight years ago. She rocks back on her heels and stands. "Boom. That's how it's done." A mixture of pride and sass laces her tone.

Emma's smile is contagious, and Killian finds himself grinning back at her. She catches the edge of the door before it can shut again. "To answer your question," she continues, "I left to get something from my car, forgot my keys on the counter, and managed to lock myself out. I'm gonna find something to wedge this open so it doesn't happen again, and then I'll follow you to the van to help you carry in the order."

Killian shrugs. "No worries, lass. I can manage."

Emma huffs and grabs a chair from inside to prop the door. "Hey, buddy. I'm a lot stronger than I look, and there's no sense in you making multiple trips. Lay it on me."

Killian's tongue swipes across his top teeth, and he takes a step closer to her, edging into her personal space. "Darling, I'd be more than happy to lay it on you any time you like."

"Do you ever stop?" Emma scoffed, but Killian had heard the catch in her breath before she spoke.

He hummed in response with a flicker of a smirk before turning to walk toward the van. "Come on then, Swan. I've no doubt you're a tough lass."

They work in tandem retrieving and unloading her order into the restaurant's industrial cooler, their movements seamlessly coordinated as if they've been doing this dance for years. It should surprise him, seeing as how this is the first time they've done anything so normal together, and yet it doesn't. It simply feels natural.

She walks him back to the door and he can't help but playfully nudge her shoulder. "I don't mean to upset you Emma, but I think we make quite the team."

She doesn't answer, but he does catch her giving him a side-eyed glance, a twitch of a smile playing at the corner of her pink lips.

"So," she finally says as they reach the door, "I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning?" Killian dares to believe her voice actually sounds the tiniest bit hopeful.

"Sadly no," he replies, his hand scratching the phantom itch behind his ear once more, "I'm only playing delivery boy this morning as my employee was late. Though for you, lass, I might make an exception."

He grins at her, his eyes flicking briefly down to her mouth. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and the gesture sends his blood rushing southward. Killian leans ever so slightly closer, and Emma tilts her head incrementally to one side. "Is that so?"

"Actually, love, now that I know you're the proprietor here, I shall have to make a point of coming as often as possible." Killian's voice is lower now - softer - and he doesn't bother to stop himself from placing a lascivious emphasis on the word 'coming'.

Bloody hell, this woman brings out the very devil in me. Better rein it in before I do something idiotic like plundering that exquisite mouth of hers. I wonder if she still tastes like - NO! Snap out of it, Jones.

Furrowing his brow, he clears his throat and leans back against the door frame (further from temptation). "Seeking your advice, of course."

Emma blinks at the sudden change in tone, her expression turning quizzical. "My advice?"

"Yes, Swan. You see the Miner brothers from whom I bought the meat market had a section of the premises dedicated to taxidermy. Apparently they not only processed deer and other game for hunters, but also stuffed and mounted trophies. That is not a part of the business I intend to continue, and it leaves me with unused space. I'm thinking of turning that part of the market into a kitchen and selling barbecue as take-out."

Emma's face falls and she crosses her arms over her chest protectively. "You're what?"

Confused by her sudden defensive posture, Killian answers slowly. "Opening my own barbecue stand. I'd appreciate any words of wisdom you could offer, since barbecue is apparently your area of expertise."

Emma narrows her eyes and Killian can practically feel invisible walls snap into place around her. "So, you thought what exactly? That you could just show up here and flirt with me to get me to spill my secrets?"

Still a bit stunned by the sudden shift in the conversation, Killian's own hackles begin to rise. He juts his hips forward slightly to pull away from the doorframe and moves closer into her space, crowding her just a bit. "Nothing of the sort, love. A little friendly competition is good for the blood. Or don't you think you can handle it?" He gives a deliberate pop of emphasis to the final 'T'.

Far from retreating, Emma steps even closer jabbing him in the chest with her pointer finger. "And what makes you think I'm the one who couldn't handle it?"

Killian's eyes widen at the challenge, and he finds himself in equal measure both angry and aroused. Before he can snarl a response (or pin her against the doorframe and kiss her senseless), a new voice draws their attention.

"Mom, who's this guy?" The voice belongs to a young lad, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, with shaggy brown hair and his mother's chin.

Killian freezes and instantly he's transported back in time to a very different doorstep.

"Momma, who's that?"

A mop of brown curls and two wide grey eyes peek around Milah's legs as she stands, arms crossed and scowling at Killian from her doorway. "It's no one, sweetie," she replies, looking down at the little boy and tousling his hair affectionately. "This man just has the wrong house. Now go back to your playroom, while I give him directions."

The boy nods and runs back inside. Milah steps forward onto the small porch, closing her front door behind her. Killian can only stand stock still in utter shock, his heart hammering in his chest with such force his ribs may break. He feels like the very picture of a fool, standing there before her in his best dress uniform, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a diamond in his pocket. A very redundant diamond, now he sees she is already sporting one on her left hand that somehow had never been there before.

"Milah, what's going on?" he finally manages to stammer.

"I should ask you the same thing! What the hell are you doing here? You never said you'd be in port today!" Milah's hands are on her hips and he's never seen her look so angry.

"I - I wanted to surprise you. My discharge went through a couple of weeks early, and I thought we could celebrate…" he trails off lamely, still struggling to process what is happening before his eyes.

Milah rubs her eyes in frustration. "Killian, you can't be here. This is my home. My son is here. Thank god my husband's at work or you might've ruined everything."

Killian blanches at the word 'husband', but Milah either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She sighs heavily and looks him in the eye. "I thought you understood our arrangement. You were fun and handsome and exciting. A fantasy. Why the hell did you think I never invited you here? We always met at your base or at a hotel." She scrubs a hand down her face. "Nevermind that now. Whatever this was-" she gestures between them "-is over. This is my real life, Killian, and I can't have you getting in the way of that. Now please go before any of my neighbors notice you."

She turns on her heel and storms back into the house. Before the door closes, he calls out, "Milah, wait! Milah, I-" the door slams shut behind her "-love you," he finishes in a whisper.

"Hey, kid! Shouldn't you be walking to school by now?" Emma's voice brings Killian back to the present. The boy trots the rest of the way over to where Emma and Killian are standing, and Emma casually throws an arm around the lad's shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

No. NO! Not her, too. Killian clenches his jaw as he takes in the picture of mother and son. His eyes dart down to her left hand, finding the ring-finger empty. That doesn't mean there wasn't one eight years ago…

"Mom!" the lad grumbles with the dramatics of adolescence, and pushes Emma's side as she chuckles. "I was on my way, but I remembered I left my math book in your office last night. I just came by to pick it up." He pauses, turning to Killian and giving him a once-over before smiling and extending his hand. "I'm Henry."

Forcing himself to move so as not to be rude (it's hardly the lad's fault), Killian manages to turn the corners of his mouth up into a semblance of a smile that doesn't begin to reach his eyes, and shakes Henry's hand.

When Killian looks back up to Emma, her expression is hard as stone, her lips pressed into a grim line. "Henry, this is Killian Jones. He's the new owner of the Miner Brothers' Meat Market."

"And I was just leaving," Killian interjects.

"Yes, you were," Emma confirms as Henry looks perplexedly between the two adults.

Killian nods a terse goodbye and strides back to his van. He drives back to the market with a lead foot on the gas pedal, parks the vehicle and marches straight back to his office, tossing the van keys to a befuddled Smee along the way. The blighter will just have to handle the rest of this morning's deliveries himself.

He shuts his office door and slumps into his desk chair. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk and dropping his head into his hands. His fingers bite angrily through his hair into his scalp. He's had about all he can take for one morning. He'd found his mystery woman here of all places in the middle of bloody nowhere, and for a few shining minutes it seemed like eight years of "What ifs?" and fantasies were about to come to glorious fruition.

Then, she'd turned on him suddenly for reasons he still didn't understand, and worst of all he'd discovered that the woman that saved him, that brought him back from the brink of a self-destructive maelstrom was in fact exactly like the woman who had set him on that dark path to begin with. All these years he'd believed that his night with her (Emma, he forces himself to use her name) had been so much more than a one-night stand. That they'd shared a singular magic, shining all the more brightly for its brevity, a little piece of their souls blending together along with their bodies.

But no. Once again, he is nothing more than a handsome face and a good fuck. A little adventure to tide her over. Once again, he is a fool.

Emma Swan is just like Milah.

A/N (continued): Oh, don't worry. I won't let them hate each other forever. Just a little while longer...

Talk to me people, tell me what you think? What happened in the past? What's going to happen in the future? I'd love to hear your comments and theories!

Special thanks on this chapter go out to @amagicalship for being an amazing (and really fast) beta!

Tagging some folks for funsies: @lenfaz, @kat2609, @laschatzi, @lifeinahole27, @unspoken-and-wild, @captainswannl29, and @the-lady-of-misthaven

[the-captains-ayebrows]

The Meat Cute - Prologue

A Modern CS AU set in a small country town...

Rating: M (eventually), I’m going to call this a slow burn with smut glitter...

Word Count: ~2400

ff.net / AO3

A/N:  This all started with THIS manip. People seemed to like it.  So much so, that now I’m writing it as a full-on MC fic.

There will be a lot of country music references and nods in this, but you DO NOT need to know anything about country music to understand the story.  I’ll include a list at the end of each chapter of songs that I reference, just in case you’re curious.

kat2609 - I don’t know if it’s still the 26th in your neck of the woods, but I’m counting this installment as Birthday Fic!  Hope you like it!

All that being said, here we go!

Emma - 2007

They were perfect for each other.  Absolutely, adorably, true love perfect, and even a jaded cynic like Emma Swan could respect a love like that. Her best friends David and Mary Margaret had been in love with each other more or less since the third grade. Mary Margaret had kissed David on the school bus, and he’d chased her around the playground the next day.  It was pretty much a done deal when she’d sent him the note asking, “Do you love me?  Check yes or no.”  He’d obviously checked “Yes”.

Thirteen years later, David finally proposed, which is why Emma finds herself this very Friday night in a loud and rowdy honky tonk in Ft. Worth (over an hour's drive away from her quiet, comfy bed back in the sleepy little town of Storybrooke) celebrating Mary Margaret’s Bachelorette Party.  She even curled her hair and wore her best ass-accentuating jeans, for god’s sake.  To say this isn’t Emma’s usual scene would be an understatement.  She doesn’t have a usual scene, to be honest.  Between her job at the diner, studying for her G.E.D., and taking care of an energetic four year-old, she can’t remember the last time she had a night out.  The only reason she’s here tonight is out of love and loyalty to the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. David Nolan.  

Well, that and the very generous offer of all-night babysitting from her boss, Granny Lucas, who happens to be Ruby’s grandmother. It is this last fact which is presently keeping Emma from strangling Ruby, who keeps insisting that Emma participate in the PG-13 truth-or-dare list she created for the party.  

Emma runs the scenario through her mind. Hey, thanks for keeping my kid overnight. Sorry about choking your granddaughter?  Nah.  Probably not cool.

Still, she admits to herself that this all could’ve been worse, even as she watches Belle - quiet, shy little Belle - do a body-shot off some stranger at the bar to the sound of hoots and hollers from the rest her group of friends (and a few bystanders).  At least Mary Margaret was able to talk Ruby down from the original X-rated list.

“Come on, Em,” Belle cajoles as she rejoins the group.  “If I can do that, you have to do something, too.” She playfully bumps Emma’s shoulder with her own.

Ruby smiles wickedly at Emma and begins quietly chanting her name. “Em-ma. Em-ma. Em-ma!”  

Emma scowls and waves her off, but soon Mary Margaret, Belle, and Ashley join in the chanting, getting louder and louder. “Em-ma! EM-MA! EM-MA!”

“OKAY!” Emma huffs in annoyed resignation and reaches her hand out to Ruby. “Gimme the damn list.”  After a quick perusal of the little pink piece of paper, Emma decides on the tamest item she can find.  She hands the page back to a gleefully grinning Ruby. “I’ll do number 12.”

Ruby scans the list quickly.  Eyes alighting on the appropriate line, she flicks her dark brown hair over her shoulder, clears her throat dramatically, and reads aloud to the others, “Item 12:  Get a stranger to buy you a drink.” She nods her approval. “Fair enough.  I pick -”

“Whoa, wait,” Emma interrupts, eyes widening. “Who says you get to pick the target?”

Ruby turns to Mary Margaret. “Alright then.  What says the Bride-to-Be?  Do we let Emma pick her own victim, or do we all get to choose for her?  We’ll defer to your ruling, since you’re the princess tonight.”

Mary Margaret giggles, but tries to assume a more regal posture, or at least as much as someone who’s four margaritas in can manage.  She’s dressed for the “princess” role tonight. Her dark, pixie-cut hair is topped with a silver and white plastic tiara complete with mini-veil.  A white satin sash proclaiming her status as “Bachelorette” slices across her deep teal dress.  She even has a little plastic scepter which she is currently tapping on each of Ruby’s shoulders as if bestowing a knighthood.  Knowing full well where this is headed, Emma groans inwardly.

“M’ royal edict -Tha’s a funny word ‘edict’.” Mary Margaret snorts another giggle, then tries to compose herself. She raises her scepter and begins again.  “Royal edict is that Lady Ruby of Lucas shall select the victim!” Ruby claps her hands excitedly as Mary Margaret continues. “I also rule that Lady Emma of the Swans must close her eyes for the choosing.”

“Really?” Emma pleads.

Mary Margaret furrows her brows and points her plastic scepter menacingly at Emma. “Yes, really.  No peeking.  Thus sayeth the bride.  I mean Princess.” She pauses for a second as a thought occurs to her, and then claps a hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle.  “Ha!  I’m the Princess Bride!” She whacks Emma’s arm with the scepter. “Get it, Ems?”

Emma (and the rest of the girls) can’t help but laugh at the happily drunken Mary Margaret.  With a sigh, Emma places a hand over her eyes in capitulation.

“Okay, Ruby, my soul is prepared,” she claims.  “Do your worst.”

A few seconds pass for Emma in darkened silence (or more accurately, darkened ambient bar noise), followed by awed whispers and murmurs from the group. This is sounding ominous, Emma thinks.

Ruby’s voice breaks through.  “I choose him.”

Emma opens her eyes and follows the line of Ruby’s perfectly manicured pointer finger to a man sitting alone at the bar.  From this distance, she can make out his tousled black hair, broad shoulders, classic profile and a scruff-peppered jawline that could cut glass.

Emma swallows hard.  Oh, god.  What have I gotten myself into? The man is far too attractive, and she’s long out of practice at flirting. Her son Henry has been the only man in her life - the only man she’s wanted in her life - for years now. I'm not ready for this!

The girls all give her encouraging pats on the back and shoulder, but Emma is backpedaling as hard as she can.  “Oh nonononono,” she murmurs, her eyes wide in panic.  “I- I have no idea how to get a guy to buy me a drink.  I pass.  Give me the list back, I’ll pick something else.  What would I even say?”

Just as Emma believes her friends are about to pick her up and physically carry her over to the dark-haired man’s side, he stands and walks away, leaving a half-empty glass on the bar.  Emma sags in relief, and turns back to the high-top table where she and her friends are congregating.

“Oh!” Emma snaps her fingers in mock disappointment. “Too late, he’s gone.  Let’s do something else now. Anybody want jello-shots?” she chirps a little too brightly.

“Not so fast!”  Ashley grabs Emma shoulders and turns her back towards the bar area.  “See?  He just walked over to the jukebox, and he left his drink behind.  He’ll be right back to his spot in a minute.  Go!”

Emma can see her friend is right, but she still hesitates. “And do what exactly?”

Ashley shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Go sit on his barstool?  Then when he gets back he’ll have to talk to you.”

Emma nods and takes a deep breath. Get your shit together, Swan.  Since when are you one to back down from a challenge?

She squares her shoulders and tosses her hair. As an afterthought, she tugs the neckline of her black tank top just a tad lower (a little extra cleavage couldn't hurt, right?), then marches forward with determination.  As she nears the barstool, she peeks between the other patrons and sees its previous occupant is still pressing buttons on the jukebox.  The bar area is crowded, and he likely won’t see her until he’s practically right next to her.

She orders a rum and Dr. Pepper from the bartender, and as she’s digging out her credit card to open a tab, she notices the crumpled pack of cigarettes she rarely makes use of.  If there was ever a night I needed a smoke, I think this is it. Emma hasn’t had a cigarette in months. They’re probably stale, but she lights one anyway, hoping the combination of nicotine and alcohol will give her just enough of a kick so that she can pretend she remembers how to flirt with a man.  She says a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of honky tonks that this is one of the few bars in existence where a person can still smoke indoors.

She takes a long pull and exhales slowly, savoring the rush as the wonderful, deadly chemicals flood through her veins.  She sips her drink and is just about to take another drag, when she feels a tap on her shoulder.

Emma turns and her gaze locks with the bluest eyes she’s ever seen, as a deep, accented voice rumbles, “Excuse me, lass, but I think you’ve got my chair.”

Killian - 2007

Another damn bar, another damn barstool, and Killian Jones feels no less a fool than the day she left him. He still cannot fathom how he could’ve been so wrong about Milah.  He’d tried so hard to do everything right, to play by the rules.  How had he missed the signs?

Married.  His Milah was married.  Correction, he thinks.  Not MY Milah anymore - bloody hell, I guess she was never mine.  Also, that would be “IS” married.  Present tense. Looking to stay that way as well. Not only married but -

No, he can’t let himself think about it.  Hell, he started this ridiculous road trip for the exact purpose of running away from her memory, from the shattered remains of the life he’d planned for the two of them. For three weeks now, he’s been drinking and fucking his way across America to try to forget Milah.  Using rum to numb the pain, and women to try to feel something again. Fat lot of good it’s doing me...

He motions for the bartender and orders two fingers of rum on the rocks.  When the drink arrives, he drains half of it in one swallow, feeling the burn of cheap alcohol sear the back of his throat. He relishes the physical pain as an appropriate accompaniment to the ache in his heart. Closing his eyes, he turns her memory on, and lets the movie of their time together play behind his eyelids. As long as his eyes are shut, she’s still there with him. It’s always like this.  Every night, in every town, in every bar, at the bottom of every glass, his fool-hearted memory waits patiently for the chance to fool him some more.

Slowly he opens his eyes again, and his senses are assaulted by the neon glow of beer lights, the twang of country music, and the smell of booze and a horde of sweaty bodies in fairly tight proximity. He glances down the bar and sees a petite brunette blushing furiously as she licks salt off some redneck’s arm before downing a shot then biting a lime from between the man’s teeth.  This sight is closely followed by high-pitched howls coming from a high-top table further away where a group of women are presided over by a lass in what looks to be a plastic tiara with a veil. The brunette shakes her body-shot partner’s hand embarrassedly, then returns giggling to her mates.

Killian cringes inwardly.  A hen party.  Wonderful.  A celebration of love and marriage is exactly what I needed to be around tonight.  Why the devil am I even here?  He pauses his mental grumbling to look down at his still half-full glass.  Ah, yes. Rum.  That was it.

He downs the remaining contents and stares into his now empty glass for a while, trying to tune out the other voices around him (is that table of lasses chanting something now?) by focusing on the song playing in the background. He’s never been a huge fan of country music - classic rock is more his style - but he’s willing to admit that a plaintive steel guitar and crying fiddle make a perfect soundtrack for heartbreak.

He signals the bartender to bring him another round, and as he waits, he digs in his pocket for change.  Might as well drop a quarter or two of my own in the jukebox. His drink is placed in front of him, and again he swallows half of it in one go. He’s scrounged together three quarters, so he stands and wends his way through the crowd to the jukebox, leaving his remaining drink and barstool unattended.  

Making a music selection is proving harder than he originally thought, however.  To begin with, the jukebox is one of the modern wi-fi streaming, mp3 playing overly complicated models.  On top of that, it seems to mostly be filled with only the latest hits out of Nashville - none of which Killian recognizes.  He finally manages to find some older artists’ names amongst the lot, and taps hopefully at Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and George Jones. Finally, he edges back through the sea of people to the familiarity of his spot at the bar, and the promise of alcohol-induced numbness. Except that -

Shite.  What's this then?  He’s nearly back to the bar when he sees her, or rather he sees her back and the long blond curls cascading down it.  Killian is in no mood tonight to deal with any member of the fairer sex, and this one now seems to have the audacity to be not only sitting in his spot, but smoking! Not that I couldn’t use a smoke tonight myself, but she’s going to bloody well get ash in my rum!

Rolling his eyes and quickening his pace, Killian marches up to the woman, attempting but not completely succeeding at keeping a tight rein on his temper. Reaching out with two fingers, he taps her on the shoulder, but as the woman turns to him, his heart very nearly stops, then leaps traitorously into his throat.

She is breathtaking, her eyes as green as a pine forest, her hair a glowing halo of sunlight even in the dimness of the bar.  His mouth has gone bone dry, and all Killian can manage to do is mumble a raspy, “Excuse me, lass, but I think you’ve got my chair.”

A/N (continued):  The songs referenced here are “Check Yes or No,” “Fool-hearted Memory,” and “The Chair” - all by George Strait.

HUGE thanks to captainswannl29 and lenfaz for beta-ing and running headcanons with me on this!

Tagging: unspoken-and-wild, amagicalship, brooke-to-broch and lifeinahole27, and the-lady-of-misthaven with a big thanks for the moral support on this project!