#films like the lighthouse sort of flip this on its head

[cannibalmetaphor]

something interesting I think in cinema is how gendered the descent into violent madness is. generally, the man is cold, vacant, empty. he is violent in an emotionless way. I’m thinking patrick bateman, I’m thinking funny games. and yet the woman’s descent into madness is so full of emotion. it is a build up of feeling. its release is cathartic. you are rooting for her, you are empathetic for her, you understand why she does what she does. when you watch female centric horror films as a woman - such as the black swan, or may, or perfect blue, or possession, or phantom thread, or even pearl - you are always aware that in another world, they could be you. women’s violence in cinema is always subversive. male violence is often just a reflection of our reality.

[caligoascendant]

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYAH! THROWS QUESTIONS AT YOU LIKE NINJA STARS! What's your favorite book and movie? What piece of any kind of media has left the biggest impact on you? Have you ever encountered anything even YOU couldn't fully explain? Have you ever scared somenone more than you intended to?

Hello there, treasured and curious anon who peppers my inbox with delightful little messages now and again. I must say, it always is a pleasant surprise to see you, as it typically is quite the ancient tomb in here with all the long forgotten blogs who've sent messages my way.

Let me start with a preface in that my favorites do slip and slide and change on occasion, as in my nature. Further more, media impact of such a scale simply cannot be granted in such absolute quantifying terms with me, as I simply find so many myriad ways in which media has impacted me. Plus...there's a great many topics and entertainment that I feel would be difficult to hone out in the meager space provided for me here.

So let us begin with the first part of your question, favorite book and favorite movie.

My current favorite book is a a little tome called 'The Mirror in the Dark'. The book was written by a gentleman named Omir, Blazen in Salt. You see, Omir wrote the book about his experiences tending a lighthouse after he had extinguished a sacred flame. The tending of the lighthouse was his penance, a solitary exile of two years time where only a boat delivered supplies every few months. Omir's time tending the lighthouse was relatively uneventful until he discovered a door he could not open. Weeks turned into months as it gnawed on him before he finally broke in and found a stairway behind the door, which lead into a basement. The basement was empty besides two objects.

A chair.

And a mirror.

Noting this as strange, Omir left and relocked the door. He tended to the lighthouse as usual and turned in for the evening amidst the roaring wind.

Before finding himself awakening in the dark.

In front of that mirror in the hidden basement.

The story is quite the lovely tale of isolation and the delving into matters unknown and esoteric.

As for favorite movies, as of late, well...I'm very partial to 'The cat's day out.' Which is a film that Doppel was able to organize with all the feline Vassals within my Tower and them showing off the shenanigans they got upto. It is so very dear to me to see them so happy and confident. Naturally, Doppel's camera work and ability to capture the life of her subjects truly excels the works to other levels.

I've not yet encountered anything I could not deduce and figure out with time. But I've come across plenty of things I have not experienced yet! That's the thrill of existence, I must say. Finding new things...and figuring them out! What sort of Eldritch Overlord would I be for things to remain unexplained to *I*?

Finally, yes I have scared many more than I intended to. Indeed, I often have misjudged exactly how much my own natural kindness and delightful nature can put people at ease, especially upon first meeting. I know I do look to be the cutting image of otherworldly charm and utterly unnatural delight...but rest assured, the impact that is *me* actually being there, in person, has a tendency to overwhelm.

There have been many an occasion where I simply respected wishes and left. Though, just the same, there have been times I've rolled with the situation and promoted myself to higher realms of antagonism. Sometimes, one must roll with the role they find themselves cast in before flipping it on its head!

[unchartedterritoria]

Dangerous (Sam Drake x OC) - Chapter 31

NEW CHAPTER!!

Previous Chapters:  

Chapter 1 * Chapter 2 * Chapter 3 * Chapter 4 * Chapter 5* Chapter 6* Chapter 7 * Chapter 8 * Chapter 9 * Chapter 10 * Chapter 11 * Chapter 12 * Chapter 13 * Chapter 14 * Chapter 15 * Chapter 16 * Chapter 17 * Chapter 18 * Chapter 19 * Chapter 20 * Chapter 21 * Chapter 22 * Chapter 23* Chapter 24 * Chapter 25 * Chapter 26 * Chapter 27 * Chapter 28 * Chapter 29 * Chapter 30

As always, you can read the story thus far on A03  HERE

Tags: @jodiereedus22, @shambhalala, @missdictatorme​ @bechobbi​ @the-winchesterboys

Reviews and comments are always appreciated!

The first sign of dawn began to show itself on the open ocean of the Gulf. Like a sleeping eye tentatively raising its lid, a small hint of light shown in the east. A subtle blue pushing its way through the dark night. Lighter colors began to follow suit, an array of purples, pinks, and oranges that looked like sand art spread across the sky. Each new tone emerging quicker and transforming to another before the edge of the bright sun shone on the horizon.

It was breathtaking, and at that moment, Sam Drake didn't give two shits about it.

His mind was focused on revenge and redemption. He had made three promises. He had made a promise to Victor he was going to keep Faith safe. He failed. He made a promise to Faith; he would help her find the answers she wanted. He failed. Lastly, he had made a promise to himself that he wouldn't get attached to Faith, to the situation. Once again, he had failed. An angry red mist had settled over his thoughts, his plan to just storm through the front of the fort, guns blazing—a hail of bullets taking out everything and everyone in his path.

“There she is,” The gravel of Sully's voice over the growl of the plane engines pulled Sam back to reality.

Sam's eyes focused on the discolored blotch in the distance. A brick blob floating in the vast blue ocean. As they approached, it began to take shape, a massive brick hexagon, encircled by a moat and a ring of land that looked to serve as a port for ferries, seaplanes, and a walking trail for tourists. A cistern and weathered pikes, remnants of an old jetty no doubt, sat in the water along two sides of the path.

"You sure this is how you wanna go in, kid?"

Sam's vision remained unwavering on the approaching building.

"Just get me down to that dock," Sam answered, his voice almost zen-like.

The landing gear of the plane cut quietly through the crystal water as Sully brought the plane down gently with an experienced hand. Sam was up and out of his seat in an instant.

“How long you think we got til Jasper's guys get here?” Sam asked, checking the holster at the small of his back he slipped his 9MM in, securing it with a snap.

"Couple hours, if we're lucky. It's a lot of island to search, and he'll want them to get an early start. I'll monitor the chatter, update you if I hear anything," Sully said, driving the plane up to the dock. Sam nodded absently in agreement.

A small scrap of land a thousand meters from the fort stood its old, yet still maintained, lighthouse. Though even cared for, evidence by new dock planks and fresh paint, the island itself was overgrown thick with lush plant life. Mangroves and manchineel grew high and wide, obscuring whatever paths lay on the ground.

“Put the plane near the lighthouse, I'll let you know when we're coming out,” Sam said, taking his favorite gun in hand. He popped the door of the plane open.

“Wait, wait, wait a minute,” Sully pivoted in the worn vinyl seat.

“What?”

"That's all you're taking with you? You got all that firepower, and you're just gonna bring in those two pistols?" Victor jutted his chin towards the gun in Sam's hand.

“With any luck, that's all I'll need,” Sam let sardonic grin pull at the corner of his mouth.

“Since when have you had luck?” Sully snorted, making Sam frown momentarily.

“That's why I got Plan B.”

“And what's Plan B?” Sully asked, chucking a small walkie-talkie to Sam. He clipped it to his back pocket.

“Just trust me.”

Ready.

Sam clenched his jaw, a determined sigh jetting through his nostrils.

"I'm gonna make this right, Victor," Sam said, a quiet declaration to both Sullivan and himself.

“I know you will.”

Sam jumped from the plane down onto the dock below him.

"Just be careful of the crocodile," Victor added.

Sam's nose wrinkled.

“Crocodile?”

"Go," Sully commanded, revving the plane's motors, signal that any further discussion of this warning was over. Sam, albeit a little confused, slammed the metal door on the plane shut, giving the old girl a couple pats for good luck.

Alright, Drake, let's go get our girl. The last of the sentence in his head formed spontaneously. He wanted it to be right, part of him did, but the truth of the matter hit him like a mule kick to the gut. It was wrong. With what he had done, she would never be his. There could be no forgiveness on her part or even to himself. He was right; this was a mission of redemption, but with it would follow a hollow ending. Though he could make the world safe for Faith again, he could never set it right for her and give back what he had taken. His existence was like an unknown toxin in her life, corrupting each person around her he touched like a cancer, growing, consuming all grace. If he could take it, purge it from her system, purge him completely from her life. If he set this right and disappeared, it could finally be a cure where she could start over. She deserved that.

The building before him was old, massive, and intimidating, not to mention giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'middle of nowhere.' The delicate thwack of the water's waves mixing with the hissing winds through the giant archways echoed; A foreboding acoustic mix that did nothing but add to the feeling of intimidation creeping up Sam's back.

So, to fight it off, he did the only thing he knew to do. Sam Drake shook a smoke from his pack, lit it with a quick flip of his lighter, cocked his gun, and started walking forward.

He hiked over the packed gravel bridge that spanned the width of the fortresses moat, a large ring of water clear enough to call its identity as a moat into question.

The day's heat and humidity had already started to rise. He felt a damp film of cool sweat tickle his lower back as he entered the fort, the masonry retaining its coolness of the night. Sam passed in front of the empty guard station and a small sunken room off the central passage that acted as a gift shop. He reached the end of the main entrance, the concrete parting wide and grand to usher Sam into the fort's sprawling courtyard.

Scrub grass crawled over the sandy surface, yellowing or balding patches pockmarking the ground's attempt at healthy green growth. Ruins of red brick walls clawed up through the grass, trying to give shape to what was once some military building. The occasional palm tree swaying to its own music. It was a vast open space that had been stripped of anything useful to society over time, leaving the big building feeling naked and sad.

Sam stood quietly while he scanned the courtyard for any sign of Nox or his men. The smoke from the cigarette between his fingers swirled gently up his arm—the sounds in the air nothing but waves and the occasional squawk from an island bird. Sam allowed himself one last long drag before blowing large unsettled plumes out of his nostrils and crunching the rest of it under his boot. He took a couple of steps back into the main doorway and grabbed a glossy brochure from in front of the gift shop alcove, shaking it open while he walked towards the light of the courtyard.

Sam stared at the commercially colorized map.

"Faith does love a good map," He muttered under his breath as his eyes ran over the glossy commercial colors. The sound of her name dripping from his lips, a sweet rain that used to make him grin now single-handedly enveloping him in a cloud of shame. Sam shook it off. Like most touristy maps, it highlighted the main focal points and prominent locations within the fort, ruins of the artillery shed, the cistern, the officers quarters, and the second floor at the end of a long hallway, the cell of its most famous guest. Knowing Jasper's penchant for drama and theatrics, Sam already knew that's where he would find Faith.

He crumpled the map and shoved it into his back pocket and headed for it at a jog. Sam hurdled over the sill of one of the inner archways and inside the running ring of the fort. Dirt and sand crackled under his boots as he passed arches, all in different states of erosion. Some of the more decrepit reduced to nothing but a craggy, terrifying gap dropping off into the courtyard or the sea. Yellow caution tape had been haphazardly strung across their width and pieces of orange, plastic snow fence pieced across them—enough of a precautionary measure to avoid a lawsuit. Sam passed loose bricks and pieces of rebar, scant evidence of some sort of restoration effort that had occurred at a point in time. The hallway veered right, leading him to a way up. The staircase was dark, narrow, and spiraling, enough room for him but indeed not wide enough for two people side by side. Circling tightly and encased in concrete, it revolved only one and a half times before spitting the climber out on the second floor. It was a claustrophobics nightmare.

Before he could mount the stairs, the clatter of falling gravel on the steps above him gave him pause. Hearing faint movements but no conversation, he hoped it was just one guard. Slinking his way up the stairs, Sam kept his gun raised, and his back pressed flat against the wall. Reaching the top, he peeked around the corner.

One guard was pacing slowly around a set of arches, his sidearm still sitting idle in its holster. The guard dragged the toe of his black workboot through the sand like a mandala, creating swirls and patterns. He let out a sudden, vicious sneeze. His foot twitched and spasmed, ruining his budding work of art. Frowning in disappointment, he swiped his foot through the rest until all that remained of his art, just a pile of silt, dirt, and sand. Sam watched it all silently from the staircase.

Got some real winners employed here, Jasper, He thought, stowing his gun as he watched the guard leaning against the side of a stable arch, his gaze fixed on the ocean in front of him. Seizing the moment, Sam emerged from his hiding spot and, with one quick kick, swept the officer's leaning legs out from underneath him. He landed on the ground with a harsh thud, his face slack with surprise until a firm boot to the jaw from Sam rendered him unconscious.

Sam dashed soundlessly along the hallway, ears pricked up, eyes darting and alert. He reached the end of the hall and its staircase to the next floor without incident. Sam eagerly ran up the stairs, taking two at a time-

THUMP!

A solid mass of a man slammed into his chest, the moment catching both of them off-guard. Sam hit the back of the concrete capsule and rolled down along the wall, the edge of the stairs bit into his hip as he slid until he spilled back out onto the ground floor. Sam righted himself, scooting backward as the large guard emerged from the shade of the staircase.

“Jesus, you're a big fella now, aren't ya?” Sam quipped. The massive man approached, adjusting his belt.

"Well, you know what they say, 'the bigger they are...," Sam prompted raising one foot, thrusting it towards the guard's knee. A moment before he could make contact, the guard swooped down with quick cat reflexes and grabbed Sam's boot.

"Ah, shit."

The man jerked Sam's leg violently sideways, the tendons and nerves in his ankle and knee strained and screamed with pain. Sam yelled as his other foot shot out with pure reflex. The blow landed in the guard's ample stomach, making him double over. The burly man's retching gave Sam the window he needed to slither away from his grasp. He was trying to reach the closest archway to get himself to his feet when a large boot slammed into his lower back.

Sam wheezed a curse and rolled awkwardly towards the wall, trying to lessen the blows of the quick kicks being administered to his stomach. Able to reach the eroded bottom of an archway along the wall, Sam grabbed frantically for a rock, a pipe, anything useful. Settling on a grapefruit-size chunk of concrete, he whipped it at the guard. The rock thudded against the zipper of his crotch, sending him hard to his knees. Sam steadied himself upright. Back on his feet, he landed a right hook in the sweet spot, knocking the big guy out cold.

“Shit, why do they always have to go for the same knee?” He grumbled between heavy breaths. Sam worked it back and forth and tested putting pressure on it. He took a few hobbling steps as he batted the dust off himself and feeling for his gun still stored beneath his red overshirt. The pain amounted to all of a gnawing ache, nothing that his body hadn't felt and dealt with before.

The view from the arches passed like shuttering frames of film as Sam jogged towards his final set of stairs. The fort was still quiet, Jasper and the rest of his goons tucked away for now. Not knowing exactly how many men Jasper had already on the island, not to mention how many he had incoming that day, Sam planned on saving his bullets until he had no choice but to start shooting, something entirely not his style. He took the last staircase with more caution than the last; his ears were still raised for any sounds of people. The narrow opening from the stairs gave way to one last row of arches, all almost all intact. A massive oak door faced him from the other end, a large worn beam securely seated to hold the door closed.

An all too familiar sign hung above the door, the words on it making his stomach churn.

Whoso Entereth Here Leaveth All Hopes Behind.

Mudd's cell. Faith.

The realization of how close he was to her drew him like a high powered magnet. Sam raced towards the door, heart pounding, the ache in his knee forgotten. He just needed to get her out.

Sam grabbed just underneath the center of the beam that was keeping him out. The veins on his forearms strained against his tanned skin as he tried desperately to lift the substantial chunk of wood. Sweat coated his palms, and the erosion of smoothed wood worked against him, the locking beam barely creaked in its cradle.

"Shit!" He swore loudly. Sam looked around wildly for something, anything that could be used to aid him in opening the door. The quick search produced nothing but a couple chunks of masonry and the remnants of a bag of mortar, the bag torn and scratched open—Nothing at all useful.

Sam's frustration and anger grew with every attempt to open the door. He was so close, this godforsaken door his last hurdle. In one last rage-fueled action, Sam slammed his shoulder up underneath the end of the log. Phantom silver flecks flashed beneath his closed eyes as he strained against the wood.

"Please. God. Move...you...mother.." Sam commanded through gritted teeth, his whole body vibrating as he called on every ounce of energy he had. Sam finally felt the one side of the log begin to give. Sam slid himself under the end and, with all his might, and a groaning, yelling swear, unseated the beam as thunked to the floor, missing Sam's toes by a scant inch.

No wonder it took both me and Nathan to open doors and shit in Libertalia.

Sam grabbed ahold of the large, iron ring and pulled, the door coming open with the hinges offering only a minor protesting squeak.

The adrenaline in his veins came to a sudden stop, along with his breathing.

He thought he was looking at himself in Panama.

The cell was small, with one small window, like his. Instead of humid sweat and sewage, this smelled of ocean salt and mildew. No cot, no sink, no bucket. Just a cement drain to keep the blood from pooling. The cells they stuck you in after un achicalada, to reflect, to repent, and to bleed. Hideyholes for the guard's handiwork kept you all tucked away until one could stand, walk, possibly breathe through their own nose again. From experience, Sam remembered relishing in the coolness of the concrete and eventually passing out against it, trying like hell not to lose your mind.

Sam snapped back to the present.

Faith had passed out against the back wall at some point in the night. The side of her body leaned against the concrete, her chin tucked to her chest. Dried blood flaked around her mouth and her nostrils, which whistled desperately for air. Judging by the familiar sound, Sam could guess her nose was more than likely broken. Sam's brow furrowed as he gingerly lifted her arm. Her knuckles were red and angry while the meat of her hands was so swollen, her rings squeezed into flesh that was a massive purplish bruise. Her arms and legs were covered in welts, bloody, torn open raggedly, and blistering burns that already starting to weep and go raw. Sam bit the insides of his cheeks.

Jesus Sweetheart, what the hell did they do to you? Sam thought, his stomach knotted as he looked at every burn, welt, cut, bruise and puncture mark, knowing the amount of time this kind of pain took to inflict.

Sam put her arm back down gently against her legs, which looked to have gotten the same attention as her upper body.

I gotta get her out of here. If her outside looks like this, who knows what her goddamn insides could look like.

“Faith," He called her name quietly. His hand hesitated in the air, settling on the side of her neck and running his hand across her shoulder. A site that looked like it hadn't seen much damage.

He called her name again a little louder, resisting the urge to pick her up and just haul ass out of there. If they ran into trouble, he knew he couldn't shoot and carry her at the same time. And she was in no condition to shoot for him.

Faith's eyebrows twitched violently at the third call of her name. Her eyes flew open as she took in a breath and began to cough like a woman drowning in a dream. The pain in her head made her eyes shut tight again while she gingerly brought her hands to her temple, her hands barely making contact.

“Faith, it's me,” Sam said gently.

The cloud around Faith's brain made her ears ring, her head roar, and her face scream. Through it, she thought she heard Sam's voice. Truth be told, she had been hearing it all night in micro dreams where they were still in their hotel room, each with a beer in hand, none of this or any of what Jasper said, having taken place. All a bad dream. If I was only so lucky, she had thought miserably during the night. But this voice was clearer, closer, and was delicately stroking her neck.

Faith let her hands drop slowly, a curtain reveal to see if this was just another trick of her imagination. She saw his eyes, the hazel that was usually bright and bursting with golden tones now a deep green-brown like a muddy lawn.

"Sam?" Her voice croaked out his name, and Sam thought there was no sweeter sound on this Earth.

"Yeah, sweetheart, it's me. It's me. Let's get you out of here, alright?"

Sam saw Faith's face darken and knew something wasn't right.

Words flew through Faith's fogged brain. Some old. Some new.

Sam Drake caused this.

After all the misery Samuel Drake has caused to you and your family...

What happened to your father was his fault.

How in the world can you trust that man...

What happened to your mother was his fault.

Now myself, personally, I couldn’t do it...

What happened to you is also his fault.

Arthur Bixby and Jasper Nox's voice playing in her head. A hellish, harmony, doubting tune she couldn't shake.

Faith batted away Sam's hand and coward against the wall. A constant chant of 'no, no, no' dribbled from her lips as she inched her way back into the corner with her heels.

Sam backed away slowly as she did. He stood and watched as Faith returned herself into the safety of the corner of the room, her knees brought to her chest, her face cowering behind her arms. She looked like a kicked puppy, scared to move, untrusting the hand in front of it held out in friendship.

An onyx Eagle came from behind to rest of Sam's shoulder.

"Now what on God's green Earth makes you believe she would go runnin' back into the arms of a murderer? Especially yours?"

[stubblesandwich]

Return To Me

Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life. Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.

Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny. Author Note: Shout out to my home girls @welllpthisishappening and @bleebug for looking this over for me and being soundboards for my gushing feelings. They’re awesome. Find on A03 here.

------------------------------------

Chapter One. “Care to dance, captain?”

Killian had been staring at his wife, not bothering to hide the adoring expression on his face. She'd noticed. For her part, Milah found it sweet. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, crow's feet well-earned throughout the seven years they had been together, and nothing made her heart leap quite like the smile that reached all the way to her husband's eyes.

He rose, gave a slight bow, and extended a hand to her. “It would be my honor, m'lady,” he said, and she laughed, shaking her head at his theatrics. She took his hand, letting him lead her to the dance floor, where a dozen couples were already swaying serenely along to an old, sweet love song.

The Boston marina had been decorated exquisitely, hardly an expense spared, for the gala that evening. Museum heads, entrepreneurs and business executives alike had all been invited to the black-tie event, whether they had donated in the past or potentially would in the future, in hopes of raising both funds and awareness for the ship restoration program Killian manned. It was his passion, and this gala was the highlight of his year, as far as his career was concerned.

His eyes flit around the room, trying to make out the faces scattered throughout the immense ballroom to see if he recognized anyone. The turnout was phenomenal. This was fortunate for him, as most of the funding for the grandiose event had come out of Killian and Milah's own pockets. But, by the looks of things, it had been well worth it. The marina, as expected, held a pristine view of the harbor and sea. The wall facing the ocean was nearly all window, from floor to ceiling, and as night had fallen, the effect was absolutely mesmerizing. A lighthouse in the distance flashed, and the moon cast its white light over the water, the dark waves nearly as beautiful as the stars looming over it.

Most of the lights had dimmed after dinner, once the dancing began. Only the grand, ornate hanging chandeliers spread throughout the ballroom were lit now, casting a warm glow over the guests as the dance floor began to fill. Milah was a sucker for this sort of music, those crooning, golden voices that seemed to capture an entire era and take their listeners back to a simpler time. It made her melt, and Killian was fully aware of this. The song playing faded into one they both knew well, and Milah couldn't help the happy little sigh that escaped her as Killian began to sing along softly for only her to hear.

She wrapped her arms over his shoulders, hands coming to rest at the back of his neck. Her fingers immediately found the hair that flipped out just a touch over his collar and began to toy with it gently.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asked.

Milah feigned thoughtfulness for a moment. “You know, I don't think you have. Not in a few hours, at least.” A devilish look came onto his face. “Allow me to show you.” He leaned in slowly, sweetly, and took her mouth in a kiss. The world around them melted away, fading into soft light and a slow song. Usually, she wore her hair down, letting it do whatever the thick, unruly curls were going to do that day, and he loved it. He loved the wildness of her hair, found it to be just a small glimpse into her spirit. It had been one of the first things he'd been drawn to when he'd met her. Next, her eyes. He was lost in them then, as they swayed across the dance floor. The twinkling white lights around the room made her blue eyes shine brilliantly, even with the main lights dimmed. On this night, she had gone all out, especially with her usually untamable hair. The curls he loved were twisted and tucked delicately into an elegant up-do, similar to the style she had worn for their wedding day. Of course, managing this feat hadn't come without its qualms. After several frustrating attempts to figure out a style for herself in the days leading up to Killian's fundraiser, she had eventually given up and made an appointment with her hairdresser the day of the event. It was, in Killian's opinion, well worth it. She looked stunning. A tea-length navy dress—one of his favorites—hugged her shape, accentuating all the right curves, and he couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. Not that she minded. She certainly understood the sentiment, as her eyes had hardly strayed from him all night, glued to he tailored, blue-black suit he'd worn just for her.

“If you're trying to get laid tonight,” she'd said cheekily that afternoon, as they were both getting ready, “You're off to a great start.” He'd waggled his eyebrows at that and kissed the lipstick right off her mouth, despite her laughing protests. They were, undoubtedly, the most beautiful couple in the room, made only more alluring by the way they danced, and how they looked at each other. Eventually, the man of the hour was called to the microphone. With a swift kiss to his wife's cheek, Killian left her and made his way to the front of the room, where one of his event organizers was standing with a microphone. “Thanks, mate,” he told him, clapping him on the shoulder before he took the mic in hand. The lights had been raised, and he took a moment to find Milah in the large crowd. Once he did, he shot her a wink. Killian cleared his throat, testing the volume of the microphone. “Thank you all for coming tonight,” he began. “None of this would have been possible without my event coordinators, who secured this marina for us. I think we can all agree it's absolutely lovely.” There were murmurs and a few claps of agreement. He didn't have much more to add. The affair was extravagant, but its purpose was fairly simple. Donors who had given money to the ship restoration company in the past were profusely thanked and honored, potential donors were further wooed. Killian promised them all they would be able to see the fruits of their donations first hand, as some of the organization's more prestigious restoration projects—a gorgeous antique yacht, an old sailing ship circa 1800, and a small historical battle ship halfway through its restoration process—would be docked outside in the front of the marina within the next hour. This drew a few whoops of excitement and a raucous round of clapping. Killian beamed and found Milah's smiling face in the crowd again. “I wouldn't be standing here today,” Killian went on as the applause began to die down, “Without the constant love and support of my beautiful wife, Milah. Darling, you are the wind in my sails.” Her smile grew, stretching so wide across her face it threatened to split it in half, and he wore one to match. When he returned to her, he took her hand in his, issued it a kiss, and they danced the rest of the night.

+++ Emma lay nearly as still as death, face ashen, staring up at her hospital room's ceiling. It had been painted with that horrible “popcorn paint” that had been so popular in the 90s. Something about it made her smile. Her heart monitor sped up just a touch, its high pitched chirping picking up tempo. “What is it?” Mary Margaret asked, leaning in. She had been firmly planted by Emma's side since the moment she and David had brought her in a few days ago. She held her hand, stroking the back of Emma's with her thumb every now and then. Each brush of her fingers sent warmth spilling through Emma's terrible, useless heart.

Emma's voice was hardly above a whisper when she spoke, raspy and rattling and weak. She hated it.

“Remember...” she laughed, stopping to catch her breath. Mary Margaret smiled patiently. “... That time we—” A cough overtook her, and Mary Margaret squeezed her hand as she fought through it. “.. Tried to get that... stupid popcorn paint..”

“Off my ceiling!” Mary Margaret finished for her, and Emma gave her a grateful, albeit weak, smile. “Yes! What a horrible weekend that was!”

Emma chuckled as Mary Margaret sat back down in her chair, releasing her hand as she scooted it closer to Emma's bed. “Your worst idea,” Emma murmured, and Mary Margaret put her hands up in mock surrender.

“All right,” she said, “I'll give you that. But how was I supposed to know the popcorn was only painted on to cover that terrible salmon color?”

“Who paints their ceiling... pink?” Emma asked in a whisper.

“Crazy people,” Mary Margaret said, leaning back in her chair. They settled into a comfortable silence. The sound of Emma's monitors were oddly soothing, a rhythmic symphony of chirps and beeps helping to keep her alive. She had been listening to them for so long, attuned to the sounds each individual machine made in a day, that it was hard to remember what normal life sounded like without them.

It was a simple room, with outdated wallpaper and a sparse amount of pictures on the wall. The closest frame to Emma was an Anne Geddes original of a baby poking its head out of a giant tulip. The first time she had seen it, she'd found it creepy. Mary Margaret had loved it, naturally. After almost a week, it had grown on Emma, too.

Everything had grown on her. The hospital staff, with their infinitely perky attitudes, had been insufferable in the beginning. The room was drab, but after a few days, she had softened to its old-fashioned charms. The hospital itself was apparently one of the top in the city of Boston for cardiac issues. Naturally, with a heart that was practically useless, it was where she wanted to be.

Mary Margaret had suggested, quite rightly, that if the hospital was going to put their money anywhere, it should be in its doctors and technology, instead of updating its interior decorating. Emma agreed.

While she tried not to make complaining an unbecoming habit, internally it was a hard ritual to break. Life hadn't always been kind to Emma swan. Its knocks had turned her into something of a cynic. She had been born with a heart defect, a bleak prognosis looming over her life, a laughing villain threatening to come for her one day and take it all.

Eventually, she was told, her heart would give out on her. She'd had frequent checkups in her life, most of which she had attended. Some foster parents were better than others about getting her to her necessary appointments. Others took the extra funding they were allotted for taking on a terminally ill child and kept it for themselves.

She never found out what had happened to her birth parents, if they had given her up when they had found out about her condition, as so many would-be parents had done in the history of the human race, or if they had known from her conception they weren't going to keep her.

Eventually, she stopped wondering.

For all the horror stories she had accumulated throughout her time in the foster system, she had a few good stories to go along with them. If she hadn't liked a place, she ran. Her heart condition hadn't truly manifested itself until her teenage years, wherein running away from group homes was far less manageable.

Life had picked up a bit, though, when she was sixteen, and had been introduced to Ruth Nolan. It was her last home in the foster care system, and for everything she had endured throughout her life, she at least ended her time in the system on a good note.

With Ruth came David, her son. Ruth had been the mother of twins, David and his slightly older brother, James. Tragically, James had died as a baby, and the hole he left had never been filled in Ruth's heart. She doted on David, a sweet, hard-working boy who returned her affection ounce for ounce. When Mr. Nolan passed years later, Ruth opened her heart to foster care. She had a few children come and go, offering them a sanctuary in the only way she could, and Emma had been the last to come to her.

David was only two years older than Emma, but he eagerly took on the role of her older brother. She spent two years with the Nolans, and they became the closest thing to family she had ever known. David went off to college, returning a few years later engaged to a woman he had met in one of his childhood development classes, Mary Margaret Blanchard. They were sickeningly sweet together.

Emma had stayed in touch with both of them. But for all the support they had given her, she needed to go her own way. The pendulum swung, and with the good in her life inevitably followed the bad. She met a man she thought she loved, fell hard, and was let down.

As it turned out, most young men weren't interested in a woman with a death sentence.

Where Emma had begun to withdraw, David and his new wife, Mary Margaret, predictably sought her out all the more. They had both moved into Mary Margaret's apartment, a spacious loft just outside Boston she had been previously sharing with her college roommates, and promptly began begging Emma to come visit them.

Eventually, they wore her down. When her heart condition began to worsen to the point where she could no longer hide it from them, they were there for her, fussing like a pair of mother hens.

In time, she moved in with them. She was reluctant at first, but one night, as she was pouring herself her third glass of wine, Mary Margaret had let slip that she was terrified something would happen to Emma and they wouldn't find out about it until it was too late. Suddenly, their frequent check-in texts and daily calls weren't so vexing.

+++

Eventually, her doctor sent them all home.

The past week had proved a frightful scare. Emma's face, taut with constant, thrumming pain, pallid as a corpse, was enough cause for worry.

But, most alarmingly, was what had happened while she had been on a ride-along with David earlier in the week. They had just swung through a drive-through for coffee, and as David turned to his foster sister to get her order, Emma had gone into convulsions. With a flick of a switch, his sirens were on.

In the days she had spent under the hospital's care, they had made her comfortable. She would be sent home with a handful of new prescriptions she couldn't pronounce, some for the mounting pain, some for other things. There wasn't much else they could do; they told her as much. Most helpfully, her position on the heart transplant list had been moved to top priority.

While her doctor framed this as a good thing, it did little to assuage Emma's unease. She had just skipped over multiple others on the list, and it felt like cutting in line. The idea of getting a new heart more quickly was terrifying, in itself, and the fact that this jump in priority level was necessary in the first place was something she didn't care to think about. Mary Margaret, as expected, was thrilled at the news, clearly only honing in on the single detail that Emma could potentially be getting a new heart sooner, should the new donor arise.

Nevermind the fact that they had essentially issued her a death sentence. Make sure she's comfortable, were the unspoken words. She hasn't got much time left.

She's dying.

The wind whipped her hair as the hospital's automatic doors slid open, as air burst through the entrance like a reaper, its cold grip making Emma shiver violently. Tendrils of blonde hair kept whipping over her face, and she paused to tug a few pieces out of her mouth. David squeezed her shoulder gently.

"I'll get the truck and pull it around."

He jogged off, disappearing into the inky darkness enshrouding the parking lot. The nurses had insisted Emma be escorted out in a wheelchair. Mary Margaret stood just behind it, huddled into her tweed coat, chin tucked into her scarf.

"I feel really sorry for anyone who has to be out in this tonight," she murmured. "There's supposed to be a pretty bad storm coming in from over the water."

Emma squeezed the arms of the wheelchair anxiously, fingernails digging into the fake leather. They waited in silence for David to return, listening to the wind whistle around the building. After a few minutes, a pair of headlights came into view in the drop-off area, and David flashed his brights at them.

Mary Margaret nudged the wheelchair forward a bit, prodding the automatic doors to slide open. She offered an arm and helped Emma stand. David had come running up, clearly ready to help. Once she rose, Emma waved them both away.

"Guys, I got it. Thank you," she added, "But I got it. Let's just go home."

+++

"Keys, please."

Milah was watching him fondly, holding out her hand. Killian dug around in the pocket of his suit for a moment, fumbling a bit, before he looked up at her with wide, adorably panicked eyes. She scoffed playfully and reached into his other pocket, pulling out the keys to their car.

"Thanks, love." Killian said, with only a hint of a slur to his words. He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked, and she reached up to hold his hand.

She hummed. "You haven't had that much to drink in a long time."

"Mmm? Oh, yeah. Was a good party."

"Seemed like half the room wanted to buy you a drink."

A slow smile worked its way over his features, stretching languidly like a cat. She was absolutely right. His event had been a huge success, one likely to keep his chest puffed with pride for the rest of the week. Old donors were impressed, promising to keep their monthly donations to the program coming in steadily, and would-be donors were thoroughly wooed. Several had come up to him after he had unveiled some of their finished projects, pressing a drink into one of his hands and a check into the other.

The old ships stirred up something wonderful in people. Killian's love and passion for the projects was tangible, infectious. He spoke of them the way some men talked about women, their beauty unparalleled, potential untapped, taking people back centuries as he painted mental pictures of the ships in their prime. Even those who knew nothing about antique naval vessels and sailing ships wanted to see them brought back to their former glory.

"He would have been so proud," Killian whispered, his words almost lost to the sound of their footsteps as they made their way back to their car in the dark.

Milah had heard him. "Liam would be proud of you, Killian," she clarified. He only grunted in response.

Thunder rolled in overhead, low and ominous. They felt the first few droplets of rain as they slipped into their car. By the time Milah pulled out of the parking lot, it was pouring.

+++ The three of them settled back into the loft quietly, their only conversation a murmured, half-hearted debate about who would use the bathroom first. Emma won.

She was tired, could feel it all the way to her bones. When she caught sight of her face in the bathroom mirror, she gaped. There were dark circles cradling her eyes, her skin ghostly white.

Mummy, she thought in horror, I look like a mummy. The medicine cabinet door creaked as she jerked it open, and as its door swung out and away from her, so did the mirror attached to the other side of it.

An array of orange pill bottles met her eyes, seeming to stare her down, and she looked at them dejectedly, knowing she had more rattling around in her purse, fresh from her recent hospital stay, to add to her collection.

Pills for the invalid, given out like candy by doctors with pitying eyes and tight-lipped smiles.

The purple pills would keep it beating as long as it was meant to, the white ones would manage the pain, the round pink ones would keep the purple ones from thinning her blood too much, the long yellow ones would manage the nausea from the round ones, and so it went, in a diverse color wheel of prescriptions refilled at the end of each month.

This past week had been a scare, to be sure. The worst week of her life, in fact, as far as pain went. She could feel it getting worse, each beat of her crap heart thumping sluggishly and with more strain each day. There wasn't much they could do for her now, apart from sewing someone else's heart into her chest.

She took down a few of the bottles, uncapping them and setting aside the pills she was supposed to take before going to sleep. She brushed her teeth quickly, skipping the less vital parts of her night routine in favor of the soft bed she knew was waiting for her.

Mary Margaret shot her a sympathetic smile as she exited the bathroom. Emma didn't have the energy to return it. Mary Margaret had lit a candle, and its lavender scent wafted up and intertwined with the smell of chamomile as David steeped his tea. He worked nights most weeks, doing his time on third shift as a night officer before he could move up to first. It would be a while before he was ready to sleep, despite the late hour.

"Tea?" David asked, holding up an empty mug.

Emma shook her head, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a yawn with the back of her hand. "No, thanks, though. I'd be asleep before it could even cool down enough to drink." Mary Margaret stepped up to hug her, and Emma reciprocated, leaning into her for a moment.

"Thanks for being there," Emma murmured, and Mary Margaret nodded vigorously. When Emma pulled away, she could see tears shining in her friend's brown eyes. "None of that," Emma said, pointing a finger at her in playful warning. "Crying isn't allowed."

Mary Margaret laughed, despite herself, and nodded. "No crying in baseball."

Emma smiled back at her, as she always did when they quoted one of their favorite movies. "Goodnight, guys."

"Night, Emma."

She made her way up the open staircase slowly, taking advantage of the railing, trying to keep her steps as steady as possible, as they were definitely watching her. As Emma tucked herself into her bed, she could hear the distinct sound of Mary Margaret's quiet crying. +++

It was still dark when she awoke. Someone was shaking her gently, and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust.

"Emma. Hey. Wake up, sis."

David, she realized. She squinted against the onslaught of white light as he turned on his cell phone's flashlight. It was better than cruelly turning on her bedroom light when she wasn't prepared for it, but only marginally.

Emma groaned and leaned back into her pillow, throwing her arm over her face to shield her eyes. "What," she croaked, "Where the hell's the fire? It's not even morning!"

David's voice trembled when he spoke next, and it grabbed her attention by the horns, forcing her to pull back her arm and look at him. "No fire, just listen. You're getting a new heart, Em. The hospital called. They have one for you, right now."

Emma gaped at him, mouth hanging open like a fish. "They... what? Heart?" She said eloquently.

David laughed and put his hands on her shoulders, shaking her lightly again. "A heart! There's a heart waiting for you!"

Emma felt her mouth go dry, and her stomach did a jerking little flip inside her. "I... oh, shit."