#finally!!! my first wives art!!!! just needed the right inspiration and fuck me if i can't resist a good cottage au

[mrghostrat]

catch me monching on @chernozemm's cottage wives like an everlasting gobstopper

[lutethebodies]

hey just letting you know, I really enjoy your Cannor/Minthara ship posts. You're one of a handful of the regular shippers I know who thinks about, like, long term relationship stuff with your oc and Minthara, beyond the puppy love years and actually considering how they'd manage to live/work/survive together without it all breaking down.

keep it up, you're appreciated ^_^

I hope anon will forgive me if I jump off their very kind note to mention a few reasons why I think I might be good at what they noticed about my character pieces like the one they mentioned.

First, age. I was recently told in no uncertain terms (by people much younger) that it's both hilarious and pathetic for me, a 47-year-old person, to post on Tumblr about anything at all, let alone BG3 character ships. I think someone even said "you're as old as my parents, just stop." And, well, whatever. I made a dumb and needlessly negative mistake (which earned me a lot of other weirdly reductive and untrue assumptions, and because this is the internet, all of it will of course live forever somewhere) on a topic I'd already covered better in non-negative ways. But it ultimately doesn't matter, because life is cringe and self-flagellation is performatively silly and nobody who cares about me judges me for blogging on Tumblr anyway.

However, I think my age (at least in terms of life experience) helps me think about interpersonal behavior and relationships in ways that younger people might not. I don't wanna go full Joe-Biden-in-denial about this—because who the fuck am I, really?—but the fact that I'm still married to the same person after 18 years (with 8 more together before that) speaks to what I've been able to learn and know about how these things work. (Pro tip for a successful marriage: don't have kids; we don't and we're very happy about that.). So that's a bit of an obvious self-insert in what I write for Cannor.

Second, employment status. After decades in the professional design/marketing world, I'm very fortunate to (post-quarantine) be able to freelance part-time as a creative professional and stay home as a house-spouse. I can make art and record songs and write posts and bike for exercise pretty much when I want, as well as take care of housework. It's really inspiring and I like to spread inspiration whenever I can. I also think it's important to be a proud house-spouse as a cishet USAmerican man because even now (get your tiny violins ready) we are still mocked as unmanly and societally useless if we don't have the right job title or don't make more money than our wives or don't have 6 kids or whatever it is that a man's man's man is supposed to be like. Fuck that noise.

I have no problem being a man who is, in many ways, overshadowed by what my spouse does in her life and with her career. She works hard, she's really good at what she does, and is really patient with a flighty artist guy at home. That's how love works for us. (She would probably be annoyed at the mere fact of me getting hung up on all this shit, btw). Most of my "career" work has been ephemeral (that's marketing for you), and I value my decades of making art and music way more anyway, even and especially since it's a hobby and I'll never be celebrated for it. So that vibe goes into my Cannor-Minthara headcanon as well (remember folks, self-insert is not a sin).

Finally (and I say this as a reminder to myself as much as anyone else): think before posting. Don't put needlessly negative things out there, because the world will oblige you in return a hundredfold. Perhaps obvious, but always a lesson worth re-learning. Believe it or not, some old people do realize when they need to re-learn shit.

Now, if you don't mind I'd like to go back to being laughably cringe on main.

[unfolded73]

How Do We Get Back (3/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one.

Rating will be explicit in later chapters. This chapter 3.8k words. (ao3)

Notes: As previously warned, this fic includes adultery. But as someone messaged me to ask, there are no kids involved.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

________________________________

Chapter 3

The first thing David saw when he got out of his Uber in midtown was a big red sandwich board on the sidewalk that said ‘99¢ PIZZA!’.

“Ew.” He shuddered and turned around, seeing the bar he was looking for a couple of doors down. The Distillery, it said in an understated serif font. Doubting that any distilling actually took place there, he took a breath to steel himself and went inside. He opened his Tinder app and quickly sent a message: I’m here.

The hostess took in his Neil Barrett shirt with black lightning bolts adorning the shoulders, and her haughty expression shifted into a smile. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet someone, but…” He looked down at his phone again. “I don’t think he’s here yet.”

“Well, you’re welcome to wait at the bar.” She pointed it out, her wrist jangling with bracelets. On a Tuesday, even this tourist-hell adjacent bar wasn’t completely packed, but there were only two empty seats that he could see. With a fluttering hand wave to indicate he’d do as the hostess suggested, David made his way over, taking the stool between a group of bros in business suits and a lone tourist.

He’d been browsing Tinder for a lack of anything better to do that afternoon, and after swiping left on half a dozen guys who listed Crossfit among their interests, and as many women who listed ‘influencer’ among their jobs, David had matched with a guy who appeared to be a nice balance of bookish and handsome. Andrew’s tortoise-shell framed glasses and his flirtatious smirk raised David’s hopes that he might get a decent conversation out of this hookup. The fact that Andrew suggested they meet in midtown had almost been enough for David to call the whole thing off, but then he’d looked at the smirk again and agreed.

The bartender approached David. “Get you a drink?”

David looked up from his phone. “I’d love a French 75 if you have Hendrick’s.”

The bartender nodded. “Can I get you another one?” he said to the man beside David, pointing to his almost empty beer glass.

“Sure, thanks.”

David saw that Alexis had posted a selfie with Stavros in a New York club the night before. He hadn’t even known she was in town.

“Gotta say, I don’t really know what to do with my eyes when there’s no TV behind the bar,” the tourist next to him said suddenly.

David looked up, frustrated that someone was trying to make small talk with him, and blinked a couple of times. “That’s what your phone is for.”

The man talking to him smiled sheepishly. “My battery is terrible so I try not to use it too much.”

“Okay.” David opened his Tinder app but without read receipts, he couldn’t tell if his date had seen his message or not. He glanced around the bar, looking for a man who looked like Andrew’s picture, but he still didn’t seem to have arrived.

“I’m Patrick,” the guy next to him said, holding out his hand for David to shake.

David looked at his hand for just a beat too long before tentatively taking it. “David Rose.”

While he was far from famous, David’s name did inspire a spark of recognition in certain circles. Patrick showed no such recognition. His handshake was firm, skin dry and fingertips calloused. David extracted his hand quickly just as the bartender delivered their drinks.

“What do you do, David?” Patrick asked.

“What’s it like, being from a town small enough to strike up conversations with strangers in bars?” David said, trying to shut the conversation down with a dollop of cruelty.

Patrick didn’t take the hint or if he did, the hint only served to amuse him. He just grinned back at David. “It’s pretty nice, actually. What’s it like living in New York?”

David finally looked the guy up and down. Mid-range denim jeans, wash-and-wear cotton weave light blue shirt, too-short haircut that emphasized the roundness of his face. Cute, with big brown eyes that in the right context could be devastating — the eyes were definitely his best feature.

“In answer to your first question, I’m a gallerist.”

Patrick nodded as if he was considering that. “Hmm, okay. What’s a gallerist?”

David squinted at him, his glass at his lips. “Pretty sure it’s right there in the name. Or do you need me to explain what an art gallery is?”

Laughing and flushing with embarrassment, Patrick held up a hand. “Okay, I deserve that. I guess I’m asking what exactly is involved in being a gallerist?”

“Why?” David asked, his whole body recoiling at the questions from this earnest stranger.

Patrick shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“I cultivate an aesthetic that centers around outsider art, mostly.”

“And what does that mean?” Patrick asked in an overly patient manner that made David feel like he was being made fun of.

Huffing out an impatient breath, David continued, “I arrange to display artists’ work in my space, I cultivate relationships with buyers, host cocktail receptions for special exhibitions, that sort of thing.” His rings flashed in the dim light of the bar as he used his hands to enunciate each point.

“Sounds like interesting work,” Patrick said, his eyes never leaving David’s. It was unnerving, and a little sexy.

“Let me guess, Patrick. You’re in town on business,” David said, already looking back at his phone to show how disinterested he was in the answer. Trying to get the upper hand again.

Patrick chuckled. “Guilty. I’m attending a tax seminar in Hoboken, and I took the ferry over. This is my first time in New York.”

David’s head whipped up at that. “Well, that’s adorable. Why are you at this bar, though? Shouldn’t you be… going to the top of the Empire State building or something?”

“That’s a bit cliche, isn’t it?”

“Everything about you screams tourist, you may as well lean into the stereotype,” David responded.

“Everything about me screams tourist?”

David rolled his eyes. “Yes. Your whole…” He gestured to encompass all of Patrick. “... vibe.”

Patrick looked down at himself and then back up. “Is that what you’re doing with that shirt and the rings and that drink and with checking Tinder every two minutes? Leaning into the stereotype?”

David gaped at him. He’d been trying to insult this guy a little bit, just enough so that the conversation could be over. He hadn’t expected Patrick to be able to match him.

“Wow, okay.”

Patrick suddenly looked regretful and a little scared. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that in a… homophobic way. I’m not used to talking to people so much more sophisticated than me.”

Sniffing, David looked back at his phone. “No, I imagine not. Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

David turned us phone over on the bar and drank half his drink in one gulp. “My date is flaking on me. And after he made me come up to midtown.”

“Is that bad?” Patrick asked. “Not the flaking part — that’s obviously bad — I meant the midtown part.”

“Not if you’re a tourist trying to get your poster on camera for the Today Show.”

“Ah.” Patrick’s lips twitched. “That would be during the… day though.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Only barely.”

David drummed his fingers on the bar. “You’re from Canada,” he said.

“Come on, I only said ‘sorry’ once.” Patrick said with a grin.

“Your accent is unmistakable,” David said, and then indicated himself. “I have dual citizenship. I was born here, but my parents are Canadian. They still have a place outside of Toronto.”

“Oh, yeah? Where did you spend your childhood?”

David rolled his eyes. “Everywhere. My parents are Moira and Johnny Rose.” When Patrick looked at him blankly, he continued. “My mother’s an actress. My father founded Rose Video.”

That made Patrick’s face light up. “I worked at a Rose Video in high school!”

“How fun for you.” David finished his drink and pulled out his wallet. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to make my escape.”

“Oh.” Patrick’s face betrayed his disappointment, which was interesting. “Who am I going to talk to now?”

David looked over his shoulder at the men in suits who’d been getting louder and drunker. “Those guys?” he said, cocking his thumb at them.

Patrick made a disgusted face. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

It occurred to David for the first time to check Patrick’s left hand. A simple wedding band sat unassumingly on his ring finger. Not that wedding rings said anything about a person’s sexual preferences anymore (if they ever had), but it did say something about this Patrick’s motivations. Either he was just alone and bored in New York and looking for someone to chat with, as it appeared on the surface, or he was looking to cheat on his wife or husband with someone he wouldn’t have to see ever again. David had been on the receiving end of that kind of attention from more than a few wives and husbands over the years. It never felt great, in the end.

On the other hand, those brown eyes were a little bit devastating. And under his cheap Oxford shirt, Patrick’s arms did look nice and strong.

“I guess I could have one more drink,” David heard himself saying.

~*~

“I’m sorry, but that is the most boring fucking job I have ever heard of. If you say it again, I will literally fall asleep at this bar,” David said, tipping the last of his third drink into his mouth.

Patrick grinned widely. “Business manager at an electrical supply company,” he whispered close to David’s ear.

David masked a shudder by theatrically letting his forehead hit the polished surface of the bar, trying not to get distracted by how sexy Patrick’s voice could apparently be, even when he was talking about his dull job.

Patrick laughed and picked up another slider from the plate they were sharing.

“I mean, I know it’s not as glamorous as being a gallerist—”

“You’re right, it isn’t. It isn’t glamorous at all,” David said, debating if he should order one more drink. If he did, he’d cross the line from pleasantly buzzed over into drunk, and that was probably a bad idea for a number of reasons.

“I mean, I’m not the… what was it? ‘Rembrandt of Wall Street’?” Patrick said, referring to something they’d overheard one of the finance bros say before they’d cleared out to go hit another bar. They’d barely suppressed their giggles at the time, and now David allowed himself a full-out laugh, Patrick laughing right along with him. David leaned over in Patrick’s direction in his mirth, losing his balance slightly and catching himself with a hand on Patrick’s denim-clad thigh.

He let his hand stay there just long enough that it still plausibly fell within the realm of an accident, but he took careful note of a tiny catch in Patrick’s breath, and the way he licked his lips as David righted himself. Interesting, he thought.

Patrick had had only had two and a half beers over the last few hours (counting the one he’d almost finished when David arrived), so at least David knew he was in full possession of his faculties. Not that it mattered; why was he worried about whether Patrick was drunk?

Because you want to fuck him, his inner voice supplied. Which was depressing because this very funny, surprisingly attractive button of a man was definitely married, likely to a woman, and nothing good was going to come from going down that road. Best case scenario, Patrick would reject him immediately, being the upstanding person that he was. Worst case scenario, something would happen between them and David would end up getting his heart stepped on.

Patrick was looking at his phone. “Wow, I had no idea what time it was. You don’t have any idea how late the ferries run, do you?”

“Do I look like I ever go to New Jersey?” David asked, taking a bite of the last slider.

Laughing, Patrick flagged down the bartender and asked him the same question.

“You’ve already missed the last one,” the bartender told him. “Separate checks?”

“Shit,” Patrick said at the same time David said, “I’ll take the check.”

“What? No, you don’t have to do that,” Patrick said.

“Please, you saved me from a shameful retreat when my date bailed. It’s the least I can do.”

“I guess I can take a cab back to Hoboken?”

“A cab through the Lincoln Tunnel will cost you at least seventy-five dollars,” the bartender said to Patrick as he handed the little black folder to David.

“Oh,” Patrick said, and David could tell that was a lot of money to him. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for picking up the check.

“I could call you an Uber,” David offered.

“You’re already paying for the drinks and the food, David; I can’t ask you to do that.”

He started to say that the money meant nothing to him, but then he had an idea. “Well, then you can crash at my place and catch the ferry in the morning,” he said as he stuck a credit card in the little pocket and set it on the edge of the bar, trying to seem nonchalant.

He wasn’t looking at Patrick but he could feel his surprise. “Oh… I don’t… I can’t…”

“That’s not a pick-up line, I literally just mean you can crash there. I’m not trying to—”

“No, I know,” Patrick said quickly. David finally looked at him and his eyes were very wide. “It’s just too much of an imposition for someone I just met. And what if I’m an axe murderer?”

David tried to suppress a smile, his lips twisting. “Well, are you an axe murderer?”

“Are you?”

The bartender put the check in front of David, and he quickly filled out the tip line and scratched out his illegible signature. “Yes, but I’m taking a sabbatical from the murdering.”

“What a coincidence, me too,” Patrick said.

“Then it’s settled,” David said, pulling on his leather jacket. “Come on.”

He didn’t really expect that to work but when he headed for the exit, Patrick pulled on his own (much more weather-appropriate) winter coat and joined him.

An Uber appeared like magic a mere minute after he summoned one, and David held the door open for Patrick, letting him get into the car first. Patrick sat silently as they crawled down 9th Avenue, looking out of the window at the storefronts.

“Is there traffic like this at any time of the day or night?” Patrick finally asked.

“It clears out eventually,” David said, watching Patrick. He was fidgeting with his hands, playing with his wedding ring, and David felt a stab of guilt. Yes, there was a level on which this was innocent, but there was another, more true level on which it wasn’t, on which the touch on Patrick’s thigh had been calculated, and the invitation to his apartment a tactic. Still, he could back out and let the innocent explanation for inviting Patrick back to his place become the true one. It wasn’t too late to be honorable for once in his life.

They finally arrived, and David tried to look a little more graceful than he usually did shoving on the sticky vestibule door of his building. He mostly succeeded.

“I can find you an unused toothbrush,” he said as he led Patrick up the stairs. “And if you want to shower tonight or in the morning, I can get you a towel.”

“Thanks again, David. This is incredibly generous.”

David unlocked the door to his apartment and opened it, gesturing for Patrick to go in. “Please, I have a spare bedroom, it’s really no trouble.” After taking Patrick’s coat and carefully hanging it up in the hall closet, David moved deeper into the apartment, flipping on lights as he went. “Do you want a glass of water?”

“Uhh… yeah. Thanks.” Patrick walked over to the living room windows. “This is a really nice apartment.”

David filled a water glass from the pitcher in the fridge and carried it back out to Patrick, standing at Patrick’s side and following his gaze out the window. “It’s not as nice as the apartment I used to have, but it’s fine.”

“What happened to the apartment you used to have?”

David raised his shoulders in a sort of shrug. “Turns out my father’s business manager was embezzling from him a few years ago. He was caught, but he hadn’t been paying taxes for a while so we had to pay…” He suddenly couldn’t think of the word.

“Penalties?”

“Right, penalties. So we had to sell off some stuff, including that apartment. Also, as you can imagine, the video business isn’t what it used to be,” he said with a smirk.

“Yeah. So do you not have a Netflix account out of, like, solidarity?”

David laughed. “No, I have a Netflix account. Why, did you want to watch something?”

Patrick shook his head and set his water down on a glass end table. “I should probably get some sleep. I’ll need to be up pretty early in order to make it back to the seminar for the morning session.” He continued to stand rooted on the spot, though, making no move away from David’s side.

“Did you need to charge your cell phone?” David asked. “You mentioned earlier—”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Patrick pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over. David made a face at his cheap Nokia phone with the chipped edges, but he opened a drawer under his coffee table and pulled out a tangle of different chargers, some of which had been left behind by people he’d dated. He quickly found a suitable one and plugged in Patrick’s phone.

“Okay, well, spare bedroom is right over there,” David said, returning to Patrick’s side and indicating the door next to the one that led to his own room. The atmosphere between them felt heavy, and David knew he should move away from Patrick, go get him a towel or something to defuse things, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Then Patrick made a tiny move of his head, infinitesimal really, in David’s direction, and that was all David could take. He met him more than halfway, mouth on Patrick’s and hand coming up to cup the back of his head. The kiss was relatively chaste, but there was no question that Patrick was on board for it, his lips nipping at David’s bottom one, one of his hands clutching at David’s bicep. David felt a bit like a dam was breaking on the desire that had been building between them all night, and he let himself enjoy the few blissful seconds of that kiss.

“And when I said I wasn’t trying to pick you up,” David whispered when they parted, “that didn’t mean I was averse to picking you up.”

Patrick’s still held onto his arm, but his facial expression was pained. “David, I’m married.”

“Yeah, I noticed the ring.”

“To a… to a woman. I’ve never done that before with a guy. So…”

“Oh.” David did take a step back then. So that’s what this was. A small-town closet case who’d gotten married under false pretenses. Not exactly what he’d hoped he was signing up for. “Is it a religious thing? Are you one of those guys who’s been scarred by conversion therapy?”

Patrick shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. I really thought…” He ran his hands over his face. “Holy shit, how could I not know that that’s what kissing someone is supposed to feel like?”

David couldn’t help preening a little bit at that. “I don’t think I’ve ever been a sexual revelation to someone before.”

With an uneasy chuckle, Patrick let himself drop onto the sofa. “What am I doing? Why did I come here?” he murmured, almost to himself.

David sat down on the sofa too, leaving a space between them. “Look, it can end right here. You go sleep in the guest room and I’ll go sleep in my room, and…” He threw up his hands. “And in the morning you won’t even have to see me, because I’m not really a morning person, so…” He trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.

Patrick was fidgeting with his hands again, twisting his wedding ring. “My intention wasn’t to… treat you like an experiment, and that must be what this seems like. As if I set out this evening to go to a bar in a big city and meet an anonymous man so that I could test drive a… another sexual orientation.”

David gave him a sheepish shrug. It didn’t not seem like that.

“I started talking to you for the exact reason you said: I’m from a small town where you make conversation with the guy sitting next to you at the bar. But David, I…” He looked up finally then, and fuck, those brown eyes were exactly as devastating as David had feared they could be. “Thinking about it now, I was attracted to you from the moment you shook my hand, and I honestly don’t know if it’s just you or men in general, but if it is men in general that would certainly explain a lot of things about my—”

David put a hand over Patrick’s to stop his manic motion, and it simultaneously stopped his mouth from moving, the tumult of words drying up as rapidly as they had started. It was a relief. Patrick’s openness was turning David inside out; he wasn’t used to being around people who said exactly what they were thinking, who didn’t play games, whose every word wasn’t calculated to manipulate.

“It’s okay. Whatever you’re feeling is okay. And whatever you want to do is okay,” David said, and then winced. He was definitely going to regret this, but he couldn’t help himself. The idea of helping this man discover a new side of himself was too tempting to resist. “I can be… if you need to test things out and see the way you feel with a man, then I can be that. For you.”

Patrick’s eyes widened, then dropped to David’s lips. “Why would you do that?”

“Umm, because you’re hot?” David said flippantly, trying to lighten things up. “And because it seems like you need a push in the queer direction,” he added with a gentle laugh.

A quick smile flashed across Patrick’s face before his face turned serious again, his eyes still trained on David’s mouth. And then he leaned in.

Chapter 4

[justanotherwannabeclassic]

Apparitions

Gifted with the ability to see ghosts, Emma Swan considers this more of a curse than a blessing. When a pair of ghosts named Milah and Liam request her help in befriending a loved one, Emma is introduced to a heartbroken Killian Jones. Easy enough, right? But somewhere along the way, Emma begins to see Killian as more than a friend, and must wrestle with realities of dating while hiding her secret while also helping his loved ones move on.

Rating: T

Author’s Note: I'm so glad to finally be posting my "ghost fic", as its been named in my Google Drive for months. Originally inspired by a conversation in the Hub, and written for the CSLB/ @captainswanbigbang, this is my foray into writing the supernatural. Many, many thanks for this story go to the Hub, which inspired me, and to my wonderful beta, @lenfaz, who is a delight in so many ways. (Especially considering I broke Rule No. 1 with Dead Liam.) 

I'm so excited for you all to see the art by @bleebug and @welllpthisishappening. They're great artists and cheerleaders. This story doesn't really have any triggers, however if this might be upsetting to anyone who has experienced the loss of a loved one or for those who struggle with death, in general, because ghosts are dead people and the concept of dying comes up a lot. 

Warnings: This might be upsetting to anyone who has experienced the loss of a loved one or for those who struggle with death, in general, because ghosts are dead people and the concept of dying comes up a lot. 

Art: [Photoset by @welllpthisishappening] [drawing by @bleebug]

Read also on AO3!

Apparitions 

"I see dead people."

Emma hates The Sixth Sense. She hates the jokes people make in reference to the movie. She hates how the movie portrayed the ghosts, all gory and terrifying. But most of all, what Emma hates is that she can see dead people.

-/-

Her gifts first developed when she was child and attended her first funeral. It had been that of her foster mother's father, a portly old man that Emma thought to be charming, the type of man she had thought a potential grandfather should be.  

She was five and didn't understand the concept of death completely. Was it like abandonment, she would wonder, like what her parents did to her on the side of the road. Death, she was told, was forever. 

So imagine her surprise when she saw the deceased wandering around his own funeral!

Emma had pointed out the old man to her foster mother, insisting that the woman's father couldn't be gone forever because she was right there! What Emma didn't realize at the time was that no one else could see the old man, resulting her in foster mother believing her to be crazy.

-/-

 Crazy (adjective  cra·zy  \ ˈkrā-zē \) not mentally sound : marked by thought or action that lacks reason

Used in a sentence: Emma is crazy because she sees dead people. Not.

 -/-

 Ghosts look like the living. Well, mostly. Ghosts look like the living, only a little blurred around the edges, almost as if someone had shifted the lens of life while taking a picture.  

They aren't bloody. In all honesty, they look how a person would want to on the best day. They're not malevolent. Well, mostly. Emma's encountered an angry one or two, but they're in the minority.

More often than not, they're usually sad.

 -/-

 Emma is at the bar when she sees a group of them. Normally, ghosts don't flock in packs. It's not how they operate. Usually, ghosts are solitary creatures, hovering around a loved one or place they aren't ready to let go, or vice-versa.

So imagine Emma's surprise when she sees two ghosts following the man who had just walked through the door. She takes a long sip of her drink as she studies them. The two of them, a man and a woman, appear concerned for the man, both looking impossibly sad and reaching out to him.

He won't reach back. The living never do. Why would they? They can't see the dead.

How sad the afterlife must be, Emma thinks.

Surreptitiously, over the course of the hour, her eyes keep flicking back to the man and his ghosts. She wonders who they are to him. Siblings? Friends? He is important to them, if they keep hanging around him like this.

She considers talking to them. The thing about seeing dead people is that she can also interact with them. She's done her fair share of communications with ghosts over the years. As a young girl and teen, she tried to avoid it, fearing that families would be afraid of adopting her if they caught her talking to air. But Emma was never adopted, the young girl as lost as these ghosts that hang around the living.

As a detective, she's learned the usefulness of these ghosts. They can point her in the correct direction of a case, and every now and then, it'll be the victim she meets. They can't testify, of course, and "a ghost told me" isn't the best evidence, but they help her build cases. It assists them in moving on, Emma's come to learn. 

At any rate, her spectral assistance gives her quite the reputation as a detective. No one at the precinct except her partner, David Nolan, knows about her abilities. In that regard, it feels a little unearned, but crimes are being solved.  

That's all that matters at the end of the day.

 -/-

 Lily is the first person Emma ever confesses her abilities to. Lily's eyes go wide, and tells Emma that she can see ghosts too. It takes awhile, but Emma eventually figures out that her friend is lying, playing along as if it is a some silly game and not Emma's reality. Emma stops speaking to her after that, embarrassed, hurt, and afraid.

The second person she tells is Neal, her first love. She believes she is going to marry him someday, and since she also believes that husbands and wives shouldn’t keep monumental secrets from one another, she shares everything. He doesn't believe her, this much Emma can tell, but he humors her. In the end, it doesn't matter, he still leaves her anyway. 

She is forced to tell David out of necessity. He's a detective, and her behavior is erratic and strange when it comes to ghosts. He asks her questions, mostly about the deceased. "Are they hurting?" "Do you help them?" "Are they able to move on?" No. Yes. Sometimes. David Nolan is a good man, a caring one. Emma is proud to have him as her partner.

David tells his wife. One evening over dinner, Mary Margaret lets it slip. At first Emma is mad. It's not his secret to tell, and he really does look ashamed. Emma is angry, because this feels like just another betrayal. It's the next day that Mary Margaret hunts her down at the precinct, insisting that they talk.

"He's amazed by you," she says. "And he's worried about you. It must be an unbelievable burden to carry alone. And I know I won't ever understand, but we'd like to help you carry it, if you'd let us."

And as afraid as she is to do it, Emma lets them. It's one of the best damn decisions she has ever made.

 -/-

 Emma's mistake is going to the bathroom. The ghost of the woman moves into her direction, and Emma sidesteps to avoid her, making eye contact.

Fuck.

The living don't make eye contact with ghosts. They can't see them. Thankfully, the ghost woman waits until after she pees -- but before she washes her hands -- to confront Emma.

"You can see me?"

There's no use in denying it, so Emma doesn't. "Um. Yeah. It's a thing I can do. Think of it like my superpower."

She tries to sidestep the ghost woman, but the ghost moves in front of Emma. Emma considers walking right through her. Ghosts are incorporeal, after all. But she's heard enough ghosts complain about how frustrating and rude that is so she refrains. 

"I need you to speak to my husband," the woman requests. "It's our anniversary, and he's...not dealing."

 "I don't think your husband would react well to someone telling him his dead wife is haunting him," Emma replies. Even though she utilizes the help of ghosts for her cases, she's really not about the whole Ghost Whisperer thing. Jennifer Love Hewitt, Emma is not.

"I don't need him to know I'm here. He just needs someone to talk to. Please." The woman looks at her with pleading eyes, and Emma feels tempted to give in. She hates these types of situations.

"Who's the other guy? Your ghost friend?" Emma asks, nodding toward the bathroom door.

"It's his brother, Liam."

Emma feels a pang of sympathy for the man. She can't imagine how it must feel to lose both a brother and wife. "He's worried then too?"

"As I said, he isn't dealing well," the ghost woman responds bitterly. "Killian's hurting especially bad right now. He's new to the area, and he doesn't have many reliable friends right now."

"You've been haunting him pretty closely, then," Emma replies, finally moving around the woman. She flips on the water, waiting for it to grow warm. Ghosts always make everything feel colder. 

"I prefer the term 'watching over'." 

"How do you know he even wants company?" Emma asks, and god, she's considering honoring the ghost's request. She remembers how the man looked hunched over the bar, defeated and alone. It's a feeling Emma knows well.  

"I was in a relationship with him for five years. I think I know him pretty well."

People change, lady, she thinks bitterly. Instead she replies, "So his name is Killian, right? Anything else I need to know?"

The other woman smiles. "He likes sailing."

 -/-

 The ghost woman's name in Milah. Not that she tells Emma that. Instead, she reads the name inked on Killian Jones' wrist. Unconsciously, she fingers the buttercup tattoo on her own wrist.

"Hey, sailor," she greets.

His brother's ghost looks at her questioningly, and Milah waves him off. Killian looks equally confused, raising a brow carefully, "How did you know I'm a sailor?"

"I didn't. Lucky guess," Emma replies. It's better than telling him that his dead wife told her. However, knowing she needs more than that answer, she points to the keychain beside him. "The anchor there might have helped me."

He laughs, but it's a hollow sort of thing. "Perceptive, you are."

"I better be. I'm a detective."

"Are you here to interrogate me for a crime?"

"Should I be?"

"No, lass, you shouldn't. Not that I would tell you if you ought to."

He winks at her, and Emma wants to laugh. She would under normal circumstances -- if she were just a woman and him a man meeting by chance in a bar. But this isn't a normal circumstance. She's talking to him request of his dead wife, and he is here impossibly sad and more than a little on his way to being drunk. His words are slightly slurred. Emma can tell he had likely been drinking before he even came to a bar. There's also a bit of an accent, and Milah's words about him being new to the area flicker through her mind.

"You're not from around here are you?" 

"It sure sounds like you're interrogating me," he eyes her suspiciously. To Emma's surprise, he waves over the bartender, and asks for two glasses of whiskey. "If we're going to play twenty questions all night, then I'm going to need more to drink, and it's bad form to leave a lady without."

He winks again. He means it to come out as an innuendo, but his melancholy taints it. Not that Emma would give into it considering his wife and brother are watching. He's handsome, though, dark hair and bright blue eyes. He's her type, and for a brief moment, Emma finds herself mentally congratulating Milah for locking him down.  

"You never answered my question, you know," she says, trying to snap herself out of her inappropriate line of thought. 

"Shouldn't my accent be evidence enough, detective?" he responds, and then after a beat, he tells her, "I spent most of my life in London. Just moved here a few months ago."

"Why?"

"I needed a change of pace, and as luck would have it, a job opportunity popped up that allowed it," he replies, clearly evading her question.

Emma doesn't wonder if his desired change of pace has anything to do with the loss of his wife and brother. She knows it does, and her heart calls out to him. After Neal left, she bounced from place to place trying to outrun the memories.  

It didn't work.

"May I ask you a question, love?"

"I'm not your love, but sure." 

"Why are you here speaking to me?" he asks. Emma tries to hide her panic as he continues, "Now, I know it's not just my devilishly handsome good looks. So it must be something else. What is it?"

Thankfully, Emma is good at thinking on her feet. "Because you were drinking alone. I was drinking alone. And I thought that if you wanted, we could drink alone together."

Her answer is close enough to the truth that she doesn't feel guilty saying it. Emma always feels weird speaking to living when the reason she is there is because of their dead loved one.

"I'm afraid I'm not pleasant company tonight," he says.

Emma notes how he isn't ushering her away. She can tell part of him wants to, but the bigger, lonelier part wants her here. The desire for a human connection always wins out in the end -- for both the living and the dead.

"Trust me, you won't be the worst drinking buddy I've ever had." 

"I have a hard time believing that." 

"Oh, well you haven't met Leroy then," she replies before launching into a long tale involving Leroy and bar-fight that she hadn't been involved in that resulted in three stitches.

 -/-

 They split a cab when they leave the bar. Milah sits between them, and the brother sits in the front. All in all, it still isn't the most awkward taxi ride she's ever taken, but it ranks in the top ten.

"You aren't going to sleep with him are you?" Liam asks, peering over the back of the seat. "It's bad form to fuck a man on his wedding anniversary."

"Liam, that's rude," Milah scolds. Regardless, Emma can tell if the other woman were alive, she would be blushing.

"You mean to tell me if you watched her join Killian at his flat, you would be fine?" Liam asks in response. Emma decides she doesn't like Killian's brother, which is somewhat unfair, because he's dead. "I've seen how you get whenever he brings home other girls."

"I'm dead. He's allowed to bring home whomever he wants."

"Yeah, but she knows you're around, not like the other women."

Emma wants to shout that she's not going to sleep with Killian, and that this is a conversation that she very much does not want to be privy to. It embarrassing for all parties, and she's sure Killian wouldn't want to know about the comments his brother is making.

And that's the thing: Killian has no idea that his brother and wife are having these conversations because he can't see or hear them. He's not the one stuck with shitty "I see dead people" powers. For all the shitty things life seems to have dealt him, he at the very least has that gift.

She must make a noise in annoyance, because Killian suddenly asks, his voice still slurred, "You s'alright, love?" 

"Um, yeah, just thinking about things I don't want to," she replies.

"Bad things?" 

"Something like that."

"I as well."

Emma can see Milah's heart break at Killian's words. Even Liam looks bothered. The media always makes ghosts about to vengeful, but they're really not. They feel. They love. Their no-longer-beating hearts shatter. 

Eventually, the cab gets to Killian’s place -- a brownstone on a nice street. He turns to her before exiting the vehicle, reaching out his hand -- unknowing that his arm moves right through Milah -- to clasp Emma’s.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing her hand just once. Emma isn’t sure how to answer, so she doesn’t. Instead she gives a shaky nod, and watches as the steps out of the cab and fumbles up the stairs, taking his ghostly loved ones with him.

She doubts she will ever see them again.

 -/-

 She does.

 -/-

 Emma is at the station going over case files the second time she sees Killian Jones. He’s standing awkwardly in the lobby, a box of doughnuts in his hand, looking half-lost but hopeful.

“Swan, at last,” he says as he sees her, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that wasn’t present when she’d first met him two night prior.

She’s surprised to see him. She is less surprised to see that Milah and Liam are still haunting -- no, watching over -- him. Emma makes brief eye contact with Milah, who gives a hopeful shrug. They both ignore Liam, who is prodding at a few files at an empty desk.

“What are you doing here?” Emma asks her guest. Though she said she was a detective, she’d never told him the precinct. To find her, he’d have needed to search her name. The thought makes her uneasy, and not just because she feels a hopeful swoop in her gut. His ghost wife is haunting him, Emma reminds herself.

Killian thrusts out the box of doughnuts toward her. “I wanted to thank you for keeping me company the other night. I wasn’t in the best of places, and you kept me from going someplace worse.”

“Really, it’s no problem,” Emma tells him as she takes the box. She takes a peek at the contents inside. “Though if it gets me bearclaws, I’ll do it more often.”

Her reply is more flirtatious than she intended. Both Killian and Milah’s eyes widen in surprise. “Ah, well, I’m hoping I won’t need to be rescued anytime soon.”

“Yeah, you don’t strike me as a damsel in distress.”

“I do prefer the term ‘dashing rapscallion’ over ‘damsel’,” he replies with a wink, swaying toward her. Catching himself, he takes a step back. “Anyway, I hope you enjoy the doughnuts.”

“I’m sure I will.” She can feel her cheeks flush. “I hope you don’t mind me sharing them with the office. We’re all doughnut fiends.”

“Sharing is caring. Isn’t that how the saying goes?” Emma is momentarily distracted by his wide grin. He ducks his head, and scratches behind his ear. “Well, I have to get back to work. Thank you, Emma Swan.”

“I should be thanking you,” Emma replies, raising the box. “Bye, Killian.”

It’s only after she returns to her desk, doughnuts in tow, that she realizes two things. First, that she had forgotten Milah had been present. Second, that Killian had stuffed his business card into the doughnut box, his cell phone number hastily scrawled onto the box.

 -/-

 “So David tells me you met a guy.”

Emma nearly spits out her bloody mary. Leave it to Mary Margaret to cut to the chase over brunch. “David is full of shit.”

“So an attractive man didn’t bring you doughnuts the other morning at work?” Mary Margaret raises a well-manicured eyebrow, a look resembling victory settling on her face.

“Was David the one who called him attractive?”

“David has eyes,” Mary Margaret answers with a shrug. “How’d you meet him?”

“David? Well, I was assigned to work with him when I was hired…” Emma trails off, trying to bite back a laugh as her friend glares. “Look, this thing with Killian--”

“Oooh, Killian.”

“--isn’t what you think. I was introduced to him the other night at the bar.”

“Just because you met at the bar doesn’t mean it can’t be something special. On Grey’s Anatomy, Meredith and McDreamy met at a bar, and they had eleven seasons of passionate love and romance.”

“That was promptly ended by a semi. Or contractual disputes. Either way, no thanks.” Emma shakes her head. Leave it to Mary Margaret to relate everything back to fairy tales or epic television romances. “Besides, it’s really, really not what you’re thinking. His late wife asked me to talk to him. Emphasis on late.”

Emma watches Mary Margaret’s eyes grow wide. Though she’s in on the whole “seeing ghosts” thing, the knowledge that it’s something that actually happens still surprises her. Her friend takes a long drink from her mimosa. “That’s heavy.”

“Yep.”

“So why did she ask you to do it?”

“She’s worried, thinks he’s lonely and sad, and didn’t want him to be alone,” Emma replies, remembering the melancholy in Milah’s voice when she’d practically begged Emma to talk to Killian. She must love him a lot, Emma thinks. “He moved here from England not long ago, so he has no friends.”

Mary Margaret is quiet for awhile as she absorbs this information. Emma half expects her to launch into another speech about love, or make some Patrick Swayze reference, but instead she says something worse. “You should invite him to the party next weekend.”

“What?”

“His wife wants him to meet people, right? Make friends? Well, David and I are having a party, so you should invite him,” Mary Margaret explains thoughtfully. “Maybe he’ll make friends, and maybe it will help his wife find some peace. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if I were in her place.”

Sometimes Emma takes for granted that Mary Margaret is one of the kindest people on the planet. Of course she would be the one to consider the ways making new friends might not just help Killian, but also Milah.

 -/-

 Hey. So this is Emma from the bar. Thanks again for the doughnuts. They were a hit. So much so that my partner wanted me to invite you to this party he and his wife are having next weekend. Super casual. I’ll be there. Let me know if you want details.

Text message sent. God, Emma feels like a teenager.

 -/-

 Emma taps her fingers against her beer bottle in a staccato rhythm. She’s nervous, something Mary Margaret will not stop noting, either verbally or with her smug smiles. Emma takes another pull of her beer, and attempts to distract herself by listening to Ruby her “worst date ever”, a story Emma has heard too many times.

Killian is coming to the party tonight. Or rather, he says he’s coming to the party tonight. There’s a chance he might feel too tired or have other more exciting plans come up. So it very much is within the realm of possibility that he might not even show. Which is fine. Probably for the best, as it means that his ghostly loved ones won’t be here. Ghosts at parties suck. They keep distracting her, making everyone think she’s drunker than she really is because she keeps staring at an empty space.

(It’s not an empty space. It’s a ghost.) It also makes things awkward because she normally has no idea who the ghost is there for. The host? A random guest? Is it a brother? A girlfriend? A college roommate? Considering that it’s a party, she rarely has the time or space to find out. And because there’s no “Missed Connections” for ghosts, they remain forever that: missed.

So, really, it might actually be best if Killian doesn’t show, ghosts in tow.

 -/-

 He shows.

 -/-

 She doesn’t get into too in-depth of a conversation with him. She doesn’t have time before David swoops in thanking him for the donuts, and Robin excitedly shouts about meeting another Brit. Before Emma knows it, Killian’s in a deep conversation regarding soccer -- football, he calls it -- and she’s nursing her beer and listening to Aurora discuss her new job at the hospital. It’s all well and good anyway, Emma supposes, because the entire point of her speaking to Killian in the first place was so he wouldn’t be alone. And at this party, he’s certainly not alone, not when David is clapping him on the back and he’s laughing uproariously at some joke Anton made. She is struck by how charismatic he is. She wouldn’t have guessed so based on the first night she met him, but then again, that had been a very bad night. She realizes that she is seeing baseline Killian, something closer to the man Liam knew and the one Milah fell in love with.

It’s not a bad look. -/-

 “Are they here?” Mary Margaret asked in a hushed whisper, or rather, what she perceives to be a hushed whisper. The smaller brunette is already three sheets to the wind, and Emma can’t help but laugh when she responds. “Who?”

“Killian’s, you know, friends.” She makes weird wobbly motions with her hands that Emma interprets as being a gesture for ghosts. “Are they here?” Emma looks around, and much to her surprise, they aren’t. She doesn’t know what shocks her more: that they aren’t or that she didn’t notice until now.

 -/-

 As with the night they met, Emma and Killian split a ride home. Unlike the night they met, they’re both only a little bit buzzed and there’s no ghosts around to bug her about sleeping with him. Emma prefers it this way.

“Your friends are nice,” he tells her. He taps his fingers against his thigh, and Emma wonders if it’s a normal tic or a nervous one.

“They’re honestly assholes, but they’re my assholes,” she replies.

“Ah, so true friends then.”

“Something like that.” She wonders about his friends back home in England, but feels like it’s not her place to ask. “Thanks for coming out tonight, by the way. I know it’s weird to show up places where you don’t know anyone.”

“It was either that or sitting alone in my house, or worse, drinking myself into another stupor at the bar alone,” Killian answers with a shrug. Realizing that his response could be taken the wrong way, “Really, I enjoyed myself and this wasn’t the last resort. I truly appreciate the invite.”

“Yeah, well, thank David. He was super into the doughnut delivery,” Emma says, causing Killian to chuckle. “And I was too. They were pretty excellent.”

“So you’re saying next time I want a night out, I should ply your precinct with fried dough.”

“There are worse ways to try to score a date.” The words come out before Emma can really think them through. They both freeze.

Killian breaks the tension by saying, “Aye. I would know. Pretty sure I tried every trick in the book at one point.”

“Really now?”

“I was quite the cad in my youth,” he supplies. He runs his hand behind his ear and sighs. “Definitely not some of my finest moments, I assure you.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure we all did pretty stupid things when we were young,” Emma assures him. She tries not to think too hard about her misadventures with Neal or Lily.

“Regardless, I like to think I’ve improved as a person now.”

“Oh, so you’re better at scoring dates now?” Emma’s not really sure why she’s goading him right now, other than the fact that she’s having fun and he’s incredibly easy to talk to. She shouldn’t be flirting with him, especially since she knows for certain he’s being haunted, but she can’t stop the words from slipping out.

“A gentleman never scores and tells,” he answers with a wink. “See? I’ve matured.”

“I think saying you’ve matured completely negates any or all maturity.”

“You wound me, Swan.”

“Swan, now?” she asks. She’s used to people calling her by her last name, but that’s always been in a workplace setting. Not in a cab with guy.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” he asks. His expression turning serious, he says, “If it bothers you, I can--”

“No, no, it doesn’t,” she assures him. “Really, it’s fine.” “Alright.”

“Alright,” she repeats. On the radio, a sappy love song plays. Emma glances out the window, watching the city lights pass by. They don’t speak much more after that. When the taxi pulls up to the townhome, Killian turns to her before exiting the car.

“I truly did enjoy myself tonight, love,” he says, and God, his voice is so earnest. Then he reaches for her hand, and brings her knuckles to his lips. It’s something out of a romance novel, something that Emma is glad his ghost compatriots aren’t here to see, and something that makes her heart pound in her chest. “Goodnight, Emma.”

And then he’s gone, racing up his stoop. As the cab pulls away, Emma can see the flick of an apparition appearing beside him.

-/-

Fun fact about ghosts: They don’t have to linger around the person they’re haunting. They can appear anywhere they desire.

 -/-

 Emma’s on her morning run when she sees Milah. She jumps at the other woman’s sudden appearance, and she’s grateful there’s no one around her to pass judgement at what appears to be her startling over nothing. Emma stops, chest heaving as she raises an eyebrow at Milah.

“You don’t have to stop on my account. A perk of being dead is that I can keep up and not feel anything,” Milah tells her. Emma eyes her warily, but goes back into a jog. As promised, Milah sticks beside her. “You know, I hated running while I was living, but now it’s not so bad.”

“What I wouldn’t give to be feeling like you right now,” Emma grumbles. She then winces when she realizes that she more or less said she envied the dead. Milah, however, isn’t phased by the statement. “Honestly, if our roles were reversed, I’d be envious too.” She laughs. “When I was living, I used to hate all those women who could run 5ks like it was nothing. Never understood it. Now that I’m dead, I could do a marathon and not even break a sweat. Irony’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“If you say so.” Here’s the thing about the dead: they like making jokes about being dead. Despite having her powers for literal decades, Emma has yet to figure out the proper way to respond. As such, she goes for the tried and true method of ‘smile and nod.’ “So why are you here, anyway?”

“I wanted to see how the party went. It’s not like Killian monologues to himself.”

“You could have gone. It’s not like anyone other than me would have noticed you.” Emma averts her eyes as another runner passes her, not willing to look like a crazy woman talking to herself.

“I don’t watch over him every second. He deserves his privacy,” Milah explains, making Emma think back to Liam’s comment about the women Killian would bring home. Surely she or Liam wouldn’t watch -- no, not thinking about that. “So, how did it go? Did he enjoy himself? He seemed less broody than normal.”

Emma can still feel the brand of his kiss on her skin. It had been such a simple thing, incredibly sweet, but something told her that Milah wouldn’t want to know that. And even if she did, Emma doesn’t feel the need the share. Not wanting to examine why, she reports on the more rowdy aspects. “Well, he certainly got along with many of my guy friends. I’m pretty sure my partner is already developing a bit of a bro-crush.”

Milah smiles widely, seemingly pleased by the revelation. “That’s great.”

“Yeah, it is,” Emma replies, but she’s only speaking to air. Milah has disappeared, leaving Emma alone in her run. Another thing about ghosts: manners, they go completely out the window. -/- Two weeks pass. She doesn’t see Killian, but they text every now and then. They talk about the food they’re eating or the television shows they’re watching. They make jokes. All and all, it’s fun.

What they don’t talk about is him kissing her hand. Emma can’t tell if that annoys her or not.

-/- A child is murdered by her father.  Wendy Darling, age 9. When Emma and David arrive at the scene, there’s no ghost, a small mercy. Every murder investigation is hard, but children make it worse, and Emma doesn’t think she can bare to see an apparition of a small child.

(On the best days, her powers aren’t great, but at their worst, they feel like a curse.)

Emma and David do all of their necessary work, and at the end of a too late night, David goes home to Mary Margaret, and Emma goes to the bar alone.

(She’s always alone. This is nothing new.)

 -/-

 She’s a rookie the first time she sees the ghost of a child. It’s a little boy, Henry. He’d been poisoned by his step-mother. Emma is the one to explain what happened to him. No one else can.

He cries. How many people expect ghosts to cry?

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, though. Ghosts, after all, were once human. Why wouldn’t they cry?

Another question: how often do ghosts make Emma cry?

 -/-

An hour in, she gets a text from Killian, “Jefferson’s is on Hatter Street, aye?”

She doesn’t respond, both a little too drunk and unsure as to why he knows where she is. But no sooner can she wrap her mind around the idea does he come walking through the bar doors.

“David told me you’d be here,” he says to her when he reaches her at the bar, answering her silent question. “Thought I’d return the favor.” “Favor?”

“Last time I had a rough night, you were there for me.” “I don’t need your charity.”

“But perhaps you need a friend.” They’re silent while he flags down the bartender and orders a beer. Emma considers trying to wave him off. She’s a bit too raw right now, but something compels her to stay, or rather, to not convince him to go. So she doesn’t. Instead, she tells him about Wendy Darling, about the kids are hardest part of her job. He listens and comments when necessary, but nothing more. She appreciates him for that. As with most of their meetings, they split a cab ride home. “We have to stop meeting like this,” Killian jokes, but she can tell he doesn’t mean it.

“But what fun would that be?” Emma replies, and she’s surprised she has it in her to flirt and to joke right now. Being around Killian is easy. It’s as terrifying as it is exciting.

He instructs that cabbie to take her home first. She argues that she’s fine, and doesn’t need someone to escort her home.

“Allow me to be a gentleman, love?” And she does, because he sounds so earnest, because he was there, even if he didn’t need to be. She definitely understands why this man is being haunted. -/- She’s being haunted. Sort of. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the spectre of Liam Jones hovering behind doors and around desks. Emma ignores him for awhile. She has work to do. By luck, Wendy Darling’s father had been picked up at a traffic stop, the idiot. She’s already spent much of the morning interrogating him, even as Liam Jones attempts to distract her in the corner. It’s late in the afternoon when she finally feels like acknowledging Liam Jones. She navigates her way around the office and to one of the few single occupancy bathrooms found in the precinct.

“You can come out now.”

“Technically, it’s not coming out if I’ve not hidden myself,” Liam Jones says, appearing suddenly by the locked bathroom door. He surveys the small room, and raises a brow. It reminds her of Killian, which shouldn’t come as a surprise. They are brothers, after all. “A bathroom? Really?”

“It’s not like I can talk to you at my desk,” she tells him. She crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you want?”

“Are you normally this prickly to others?”

“When they interrupt me at work? Yes,” she answers coolly. She does her best to put on the air of authority she uses in the interrogation room. Considering the day, it’s easy. “So what do you want?”

“To the point then? Okay then,” Liam begins. His expression turns serious. “I’m fairly certain my little brother fancies you.” Emma is unable to hold back a slightly hysterical laugh at Liam’s comments. It’s insane and stupid, and honestly something Mary Margaret’s students might pull, not a grown adult man. But then there’s the tiny swoop in her stomach that she does her best to ignore, because Emma is an adult even if Killian’s dead older brother apparently isn’t.

“You’ve been haunting me all day to tell me that?” Emma asks, sobering herself and falling back into interrogation mode. “What are you, fourteen?”

“Perpetually twenty-nine, I’m afraid,” Liam answers in deadpan, causing Emma to wince. “It’s quite frustrating, you know, for your little brother to now be older than you.” “I’m sure it is.”

“At any rate, I’m here to tell you that my no longer younger brother fancies you,” Liam says, turning back to the matter at hand, “and when it comes for him to attempt to court you, I’d request that you turn him down.”

She blinks, not quite believing what she’s hearing. “So let me get this straight: you’re here to tell me that your brother has a crush on me, and that when he asks me out, to turn him down. You’re not really helping the case that you aren’t a child, buddy.”

Liam rolls his eyes, and for a brief second, Emma can see the distinct resemblance to Killian. “Be that as it may, Detective Swan, I’m looking out for my brother.”

“So what? You don’t think I’m good enough for him?” She shouldn’t be feeling a pang of insecurity her inquiry, but she does. She schools her features as not to let Liam realize it.

“I think if you were to date, your entire relationship would be built on a lie. Or were you planning on telling my dear brother about your abilities any time soon?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But it’s Killian’s. I won’t have him blindsided or lied to,” Liam argues, his voice raising. It’s stupid. It’s completely stupid and insane, and Emma wants to yell back at him. But she can’t. Not without coming out sounding like a freak. “He already has an idea about you that’s nothing like the reality.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you aren’t some savior that reached out to him out the goodness of your own heart, and that you needed to be coerced into by his late wife. That you know more about him than he could ever know about you. You’ve put him at a distinct disadvantage, you know.”

“I think whatever happens between your brother and I is up for us to decide,” Emma furiously whispers. “And, frankly, I’m not going to take the advice of a ghost.”

Liam glares at her, but says nothing more. A moment passes, and then he disappears, leaving Emma alone with the weight of his words.

 -/-

Emma and David grab dinner at a nearby diner. During the few lulls they had during the day, he’d been skittish around her, likely worried that she’s mad he’d sent Killian to check in on her the night previous. She doesn’t blame him. Under most circumstances, she would be. But, well, things are different with Killian. She’s drawn to him, and not just because she’s been recruited by his ghostly wife. She likes him. “Like likes him” as Mary Margaret’s students might say, and if Liam is to be believed, he likes her too.

But Liam’s other words weigh heavily on her mind, as well. Poking at her ketchup with a French fry, she debates discussing this with David. She loathes talking about her feelings, but she knows she needs a sounding board for this.

“Can I ask you something?”

David eyes her warily. “Listen, if this is about me sending Killian your way, I recognize it was out of line, but—“

Emma raises her hand to wave him off. “No, it’s not about that. Though I’m also curious why you sent him, now that you bring it up.”

“You needed a friend.”

“I have friends!”

“Okay, so I took a page out his dead wife’s book and thought another friend would be nice,” David answers sheepishly, eyes darting around when he says “dead”. “Besides, he’s been asking about you.”

Emma’s eyes narrow, even as her heart begins to pound in her chest. “Asking about me?”

David shrugs. “I invited him to Tuesday Night Trivia after he seemed to hit it off with everyone at the party.” At her expression, he asks, “Wasn’t the point of inviting him so he could make friends?”

“I’m not bothered. Just surprised.” She doesn’t want to sound like she accusing him of hanging out with Killian behind her back, or talking about her to him. “How is he at trivia?”

“Pretty clutch, actually.” He stops to take a bite out his burger. After chewing thoughtfully, he says, “So if you weren’t asking about why I sent Killian after you, then what did you want to ask me?”

Emma debates chickening out. David somewhat sidetracking her original question had her rethinking things. Suddenly wishing her Diet Coke was something more like whiskey, she takes a sip to buy time and find her courage.

“When you and Mary Margaret first got together, did you guys keep any major secrets from one another?”

David laughs. “You know how Mary Margaret is with secrets. I don’t think it would have been possible for her even if she tried.” He sobers at her pointed glare. He pauses for a moment, and Emma see a flicker of understanding cross his face. “Emma, there’s a difference between hiding things and not revealing everything about yourself upfront.”

“I think you’re stretching things a bit,” she tells him. She swirls another French fry in the ketchup. Maybe this would be a conversation better saved for Mary Margaret, but talking to David means she’s less likely to hear a hope speech. “It’s just…I don’t know…relationships are supposed to be built on a foundation of trust right? How do you cope if everything is a lie?”

“What do you mean?”

“So let’s say Killian and I get together,” Emma says, allowing herself to visualize an idea of their relationship for a brief moment. “What if he asks why I approached him at the bar or why I get weird about certain things? I can’t just say,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “that I see ghosts and his dead wife asked me to hang out with him.”

“No, you can’t,” David agrees. “At least not at first anyway. It’s perfectly understandable why you wouldn’t want to share your secret, but don’t let that serve as an excuse. You never know, people might surprise you.”

 -/-

Here’s the thing: Emma Swan doesn’t date. Dating is difficult enough even if you’re someone without a Big Secret. Because Emma has a Big Secret, dating is practically impossible. Her heart is broken by Neal, and from that moment on, she swears to not reveal her Big Secret unless the guy really is The One. Not that she exactly believes in The One, but that’s what she tells Mary Margaret who is a very big believer in True Love and soulmates. Of course, it takes dating to figure out if a guy is anywhere close to being The One, and here’s another thing: Emma Swan doesn’t really date. She has one night stands and short flings, because Big Secrets don’t really matter, for the most part. Those sort of affairs don’t lead to heartbreak, not really, and she doesn’t have to worry about revealing her secret and then watching it all come tumbling down. She tries, once, with a cute guy that David sets her up with. His name is Graham and he works in a different precinct. He’s charming and sweet, and Emma actually believes she might be able to tell him her Big Secret. And she does, but it’s only when he’s a ghost and she’s walking him through the events that had led to his death. So, yeah, dating and Emma Swan don’t go together, with or without the Big Secret. But here’s one last thing: Emma Swan does sort of want to date Killian Jones. -/-

 None of it matters. It’s all very likely that Liam is project in his own weird ghost way, and Killian won’t ask her out.

 -/-

 He asks her out.

 -/-

 It’s a week before Emma sees Killian again, but this time she expects him when he arrives at the station, a box of donuts in hand. He had texted her the night before asking about her favorite place for bearclaws. Emma had considered not responding, her longing for baked goods at war with her anxieties over Liam and lying, but in the end she felt compelled to advise him to visit her favorite bakery, a small place named Granny’s. And now he’s here. With his brother. Not that he knows that part

“What’s the occasion?” she ask him as he presents the box to her. Emma tries not to both salivate at the smell of freshly baked doughnuts or focus too much attention on the spectre of Liam, but she’s pretty sure she fails. Killian doesn’t seem to notice, however, appraising her cautiously.

Killian scratches behind his ear. “Do you remember our cab ride home after David and Mary Margaret’s party?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding. Her eyes flick over to Liam, but she able to pass it off as a beat officer also passes by, walking directly through him. “What about it?”

“I believe we agreed that next time I wanted a night out, I should bring doughnuts.”

“Unfortunately, none of my friends have any parties scheduled anytime soon,” Emma tells him. She’s unable to suppress the slight teasing tone, especially once she notices the way the tips of his ears turn red.

“No matter, because I’m interested in a night out with you.”

“You sound like you’re asking me out on a date.”

“I am.”

She takes a deep intake of breath at the statement, blinking once, twice, three times. She’d known this had been coming. She’d been warned by Liam, after all, and he now stands behind his brother glaring at her.

He wants her to say no. It would be easy to. A dozen excuses spring to mind.

“I don’t date guys who ask me out at work.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

“I’m busy.”

“Your ghost brother asked me to.”

Emma chances one last glance at Liam before once again making eye contact with Killian. He’s staring at her so earnestly, so hopefully. And despite all of the reasons, despite her Big Secret, despite the clear lack of familiar approval, Emma realizes one thing: she doesn’t actually want to tell him no.

So she doesn’t.

“Okay, then. Does Friday night work for you?”

-/-

 “So you’re allowing people to surprise you?” David asks when Emma comes back to her desk, box of doughnuts in hand.

“Shut up.”

 -/-

Emma refrains from looking up anything about Killian in the days leading up to their date. Because she’s both a cop and woman with access to Google, she has the ability to do a deep background check on him. Just one click. It would be incredibly easy.

Whether out of self-preservation or curiosity, she’s tempted to do so. But she doesn’t. She can’t, not with Liam’s words hanging heavy over her head. He’s right that she knows more about Killian than she does him. There’s no need for her to add to that, even if she is insanely curious about the man and the company he unknowingly keeps.

She’ll just have to find it all out naturally, and not hear it from his dead brother and wife.

 -/-

 Emma is preparing for her date when she feel the presence of someone appearing behind her. Turning around, she sees Milah reclining on her bed, appraising her. “Nice lingerie. He likes red,” Milah comments, noting Emma’s lacy underthings.Emma blushes under the other woman’s gaze, feeling both vulnerable and embarrassed.

“I’m not planning on sleeping with him tonight,” Emma blurts out, guilt bubbling to the surface as she shrinks away from Milah’s gaze. Grabbing the robe that had earlier been discarded to the floor, she covers before she says, “I like wearing fancy lingerie because it gives me the confidence boost.” “Calm down, you don’t need to explain anything to me. You’re allowed to wear whatever you want. You’re a beautiful woman going on a date with a handsome man. I’d wear sexy lingerie too,” Milah tells her. Emma can’t detect any bitterness in her voice, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Oblivious to Emma’s discomfort, Milah continues, “You can sleep with him tonight, by the way. There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s handsome and unattached -- and he’s quite good at it, just so you know.”

“You don’t need to be telling me this,” Emma says, even though all she really wants to say is This is really weird and I’m incredibly uncomfortable. But then, Emma thinks, maybe Milah might be just as uncomfortable, as well. It is her husband -- former husband -- that Emma’s about to go out with. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“This can’t be easy for you.”

“It’s not.” Milah’s expression turns sad. If Mary Margaret were here, and Milah were corporeal, Mary Margaret would give her a hug. Emma’s not Mary Margaret, so she stands still and waits for Milah to say something.

“I appreciate the concern. Truly,” Milah says after a moment. “But I’m dead, and have been for years. And as much as it hurts to see him excited to take out another woman -- and yes, Emma, he’s excited -- it hurts more to see him miserable.”

“Oh.”

“Killian is a wonderful man. I wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t. And you seem like a lovely woman. Certainly caring, if you were willing to provide help when I asked it of you.” Milah fixes her stare on Emma, who tries not to shirk away from the intensity of it all. “If I can help him, I will. Even if it’s this.”

“I feel like you’re telling me to not screw this up.”

Milah laughs, a brittle thing, but a laugh nonetheless. “Maybe I am. What are you going to do about it?”

 -/-

 He picks her up at 7:00 p.m., and Emma is surprised when he leads her to a black GTO.

“I know you said we had to stop meeting in taxis, but you didn’t have to get a car for me,” she teases as she slides in the passenger seat. She takes note of the spotless nature of his car.

Despite her obvious joking, she watches as his cheeks color, “I’ve had this for awhile. We’ve just tended to meet when drinking was involved.”

“As an officer of the law, I appreciate your dedication to staying off the road while inebriated.” A dark look crosses his face at her comment, but the words don’t match his expression when he says, “So, any music preferences?” He dangles an AUX cord in front of her. “And if the radio isn’t sufficient, feel free to play DJ.”

She takes the cord. “I hope you enjoy some ‘80s rock then.”

He expression cracks into a grin. “Rock on, Swan.”

 -/-

 He takes her to restaurant by the pier. It’s there he tells her that he’s always happiest by the water, and how he’s thinking of buying a boat.

“I could take you sailing, you know,” he tells her over appetizers.

“That would require a second date.”

He takes a sip of his water. "I know."

She raises a brow in response. "You're quite confident in yourself."

He shrugs. "Are you having a bad time tonight?"

Emma shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Then trust me when I say a second date will be more fun."

 -/-

 The rest of the date goes like this: He tells her about growing up in England, and how he's still growing accustomed to the culture difference between there and the States.

"Crisps. Chips. Fries. And you drive on the incorrect side of the street!"

"You're making me real confident in getting back in the car with you, buddy."

She tells him about the first time she went to trivia with David, and how because of her wildly offbeat answers, she banned from ever participating with the team. ("I can still drink, though.")

They talk. They laugh. And Emma has an excellent time, so much so that she's disappointed when he pulls in front of her building. Ever the gentleman -- "I've told you before that I'm a gentleman, love" -- he walks her to her door.

"So?" he asks, hands in his pockets as they stand around awkwardly, trying to buy more time together.

"So what?"

"Did I prove myself worthy of a second date?"

Emma answers with a kiss.

 -/-

 That night when she lays in bed, she realizes that she didn't think of ghosts the entire date.

 -/-

 They go on more dates.

On the second date, they visit an art gallery and make fun of the babies in Renaissance paintings.

On their third date, he tells her about Milah. Emma schools her expression into something resembling surprise when he tells her, but it morphs into something genuine when he shares with her the details of how she died.

There had been a car accident. A drunk driver. She'd died upon impact.

"I'm so sorry," she says..

She ignores the knot of guilt in her gut, and the ghost sitting in the corner of her room.

 -/-

 She’s eating a bagel in her apartment when Liam appears.

“You’re still seeing him.”

She doesn’t bother looking at him, choosing to continue to read her paper and enjoy her breakfast in peace. However, Liam is persistent and phases right next to her, his head poking through the feature. “It’s rude to ignore someone speaking to you.”

“Seriously?” Emma asks. She pushes herself out of the barstool and walks across the room. “It’s super fucking rude to do that.”

“I’ll be rude if it gets you to listen to me,” Liam says. He crosses his arms, “Which clearly you haven’t been doing, since you continue to be courting my brother.”

“It may come as a surprise to you, but believe it or not, your opinion doesn’t even factor into who either I or Killian date.” Emma places her hands on her hips, asserting her position. “What I don’t get is why you even have so strong of an opinion on this? Jesus, even Milah seems to be encouraging it.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Yes, because she knows what’s best for Killian.”

“She was his wife.”

Liam laughs, but it’s a bitter thing. “I’m not denying she doesn’t love him, but you can care about someone and not be good for them.”

There’s something in the way he talks about Milah that sets something off, as if a lightbulb had suddenly come to life at his statement. “That’s why you’re still here, isn’t it? You didn’t think she was good enough for him, so you stuck around. I’d been trying to figure it out, because it’s fairly obvious you and Milah didn’t die at the same time. But that’s it. That’s why you didn’t move on when he found someone.”

“Perceptive.”

“I’ve been around the block a few times with people like you,” Emma tells him, more than a little smugly. She can tells she’s knocked him down a peg, and with how frustrating he’s been acting, it feels something like a victory.

“You can say the dead. I’m not that sensitive.”

“How am I supposed to know? All you do is complain about me dating your brother, and he hasn’t even mentioned you yet.” It’s only after the words leave her mouth that Emma realizes she might have gone too far. Liam looks as if he’s been slapped.

“He hasn’t mentioned me?”

“I mean, we’ve only gone on a few dates. There’s not a lot of time to--”

He’s gone before Emma can finish.

 -/-

 “So I think I fucked up,” Emma tells Mary Margaret on the phone that evening, long after her conversation with Liam and after a particularly grueling day the precinct.

“How so, honey? I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.” It’s at times like this that Emma feels like Mary Margaret is more of a mother than a friend, but she’ll take it now. “I’m fairly certain I convinced Liam that Killian doesn’t think to highly about him.”

“Liam, as in the dead brother who you not to go out with Killian?”

“More like demanded, but the same guy, yeah.” Emma falls back onto her sofa. She feels a bit like a cliche, with her being a patient, and Mary Margaret a faraway therapist. “I told him that Killian hadn’t brought him up, which he hasn’t so far, and he completely disappeared on me. He seemed pretty hurt.”

“Well, no one really wants to know how they’re viewed after they die.”

“I guess, but I hardly think that’s it. I mean, Killian and I have barely had the chance to talk about the heavy stuff. He just now told me about Milah and how she died,” Emma says. “I’m sure he’ll tell me about Liam any day now, but a person can only handle talking about so much heavy shit. I mean, I’ve barely even told him anything about the foster system or Neal.”

She’s been thinking about it though, because if Killian can begin to share his heartbreak with her, then maybe she can with him. She’s not at the point where she can reveal her Big Secret, and wonders when she ever will be -- God, it’s terrifying -- but people rarely share their life story all at once. She hasn’t. Killian hasn’t. Why can’t Liam understand that? Or give her the chance to understand it.

“What really sucks most is that I can’t talk about any of this with Killian.”

“Because it involves his dead brother.”

“Exactly.” Emma sighs and rubs her free hand over her face. “Have I mentioned how much these abilities suck? And please don’t say I’ve done a lot of good with them, because I really don’t want to hear a greater good argument.”

“Okay then,” Mary Margaret says, and Emma knows she had been about to make that argument. “They certainly suck, but use them to help you in this case. You can’t talk to Killian about it, but there’s someone you can talk to: Milah.”

Emma is unable to hold back a laugh. “You mean to tell me that I should talk to the guy I’m dating’s dead wife about his equally dead brother and how he doesn’t like me? Or her either, apparently.”

Emma can practically envision her friend shrugging on the other side. “She’s the only one who knows both men in your scenario.”

“Yeah, but...it’s weird.”

“Emma, everything about your relationship right now is weird. Embrace it.”

 -/-

Finding Milah is more difficult than either Emma or Mary Margaret might have imagined. Though Emma can see and interact with ghosts, she can’t summon them, and the more time she spends with Killian, the less she sees Milah. A flicker out of the corner of her eye every now and then, but mostly nothing.

A selfish part of Emma wonders if the other woman is moving on. It would be easier to carry on things with Killian without being haunted. But she knows that’s not it, that even though Milah may be fine in theory with Killian moving on, it’s another thing to see it.

 -/-

 The morning after their fifth date, he tells her about Liam. He’s making her breakfast -- cinnamon rolls, because he knows her love of all things cinnamon -- when he tells her that his brother would make him the same breakfast often in his youth. He shares with her how Liam practically raised him after their mother died and their father bailed.

“He died when I was twenty, and in a way, this makes me feel closer to him,” he says. Killian reaches out to grab her hand. “I’m glad I can share him with you.”

 -/-

 The more time she spends with Killian, the more the guilt at keeping her secret gnaws away at her. She’s lying to him.

Once while at dinner, he catches her watching a ghost call to a loved one who just won’t listen. “Is there anything bothering you, love? Do you know him?”

She shakes her head. “Just staring off into space.”

Emma hates herself more with every little white lie.

 -/-

 She’s not sure why this is bothering her so much, to be honest. She has friends with whom she doesn’t share the knowledge of her abilities.

But, well, she’s starting to want to share more with Killian.

She thinks she’s starting to fall in love with him.

 -/-

 Three months in, Emma almost tells him. She’s just solved another case with the help of an apparition. They’re curled on his sofa with a celebratory bottle of wine and a cupcake.

“You’re amazing. Did you know that?” Killian asks her, twirling the ends of her hair with his fingers. “You do so much good for people. You’re a regular hero, Swan.”

She wants to tell him more about the victim, a woman named Kathryn who’d been murdered by a jealous ex. She wants to tell him about how Kathryn was more concerned about the fiance she’d left behind than her own death, how she’d cried when her murderer was arrested.

She wants is to tell him about the other cases, about the ghosts who move on after their murdered are convicted, or when they feel their loved one can move on.

What she wants is to tell him about Milah and Liam.

But she can’t.

Not yet.

 -/-

 April brings Milah’s birthday. Killian is sullen, but less so than when she’d first met him months ago on their anniversary. He tells Emma about his late wife, and she listens because he needs to, listens because she wants to know more about the woman who encouraged her to meet this man many months ago.

“She’d have liked you, I think.”

 -/-

 Milah comes to Emma that night. She’s surprised, but not.

“Happy Birthday,” Emma tells her. She’s forty now, but she’ll be frozen forever at thirty-seven.

“I’m surprised you’re not with Killian.”

“He needed some time alone to mourn,” Emma says. She keeps her voice soft as she speaks. “I could say the same, you know.”

“When I realized he was alone, I thought it best to speak with you.”

“It’s been awhile.” Weeks since she last saw Milah’s apparition. “I was beginning to think you moved on.”

Milah shakes her head. “It’s harder than I thought. I’ve always wanted to see him happy, but it never really sunk in that I’d have to walk away. I’m beginning to understand Liam a bit more.”

“I wish I could,” Emma says as an aside. She’s seen flickers of him every now and then. She wants to tell him that Killin’s shared more of his life with her, but Liam has never given her the chance.

“Liam is overprotective. I don’t think he’s ever moved past looking over Killian, and I know he never fond of me. After I passed her called me a bad influence, you know.”

“That’s...an incredibly shitty thing to be told.”

“But not completely false, either.”

Emma knows more about the story of Milah and Killian now. She’d been married when she’d met Killian at a bar, and had run away with him leaving her husband and young son behind. Milah had been older than Killian, but she’d enchanted him, and they’d been happy. But even Killian has admitted to her that Milah had encouraged his vices. Drinking, partying, gambling. They had lived for a good time, and she’d died seeking one.  

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t being a jerk. You didn’t deserve that.”

“If it makes you feel better, he apologized eventually. We’ve come a long way in three years.” A wistful expression crosses her face. “But enough about me, I’m here to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Killian. Do you you love him?” 

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. Emma’s long since stopped being thrown by Milah’s bluntness. “I’m falling for him. He’s a fantastic man. But I don’t know if I’m there yet.”

Milah straightens her posture. “Well, figure it out. I can’t move on until I know for sure he has someone to love him.”

 -/-

 She does think on it.

She lays awake that night, pondering her feelings about Killian. She thinks about it the next day when she joins Mary Margaret at the movies, and completely misses the plot. She thinks about with Killian, as they walk hand-in-hand to the pier, and he presents her the boat he’s recently bought.

“What do you think?” he asks her, eyes twinkling, and Emma never thinks he’s looked more beautiful.

“I love it.”

 -/-

 She loves him.

But if she loves him, that means Emma has to tell him...and of that she’s terrified. For years, she’s held her abilities close to her chest. But if she wants this relationship to continue, she can’t keep secrets from him.

Not anymore.

But there’s a difference in knowing you need to do something, and actually doing it.

She just has to find the willpower to do it.

 -/-

 She almost tells him during the an evening sailing. It’s the perfect date -- sunset, just the two of them out on the water - but that’s what causes her to hesitate. She wants to remember this: remember the glow of his skin at the golden hour, the way the light played on the water, and the motion of is body against hers as they make love.

It’s perfect.

But it’s not, and the guilt weighs her down like an anchor.

 -/-

 Killian tells her he loves her in a completely innocuous way, over breakfast as she reads the paper and he cleans up the kitchen.

“You know I love you, right?” he asks in the same way he might ask if she could pass the cream or if she had the sports section .“Because I do, Swan, sometimes the most when it is like this, just me and you, just us doing the complete mundane.”

“I…” Emma opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t. She can’t tell him she loves him until she tells him the truth about her abilities. She can’t do that to him. She’s already made him believe he loves the idea of someone he doesn’t fully know. And-- “I see dead people.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. “You could just say you don’t feel the same way.”

She shakes her head. “No. I do. I love you, but I also see ghosts.”

“Emma.”

“Killian, I swear I’m telling the truth. I see ghosts. It’s like my superpower. I’m not lying to you.”

He scratches behind his ear. “This...is not how I envisioned our conversation going.”

There something in the way he says it that guts her. “You don’t believe me?”

“I’m just trying to wrap my mind around it. That’s all,” Killian tells her, but she can tell he’s lying. He presses his hands against the counter as if he’s trying to ground himself. “So, uh, what type of ghosts do you see?”

“It’s hard to explain. Just spirits, I guess, who kinda look like the living but not.” She sounds crazy. She knows she sounds crazy, and it’s killing her, because she doesn’t know how to make herself believe. “It’s not gruesome, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not,” he answers quickly. He still won’t look her in the eyes. “So how long have you been able to see...ghosts.”

“For as long as I remember.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You can just say you don’t believe me, you know,” Emma says. It hurts watching the way he’s pulling away from her. “I’m not crazy. I won’t hurt you or anything.”

“Emma, listen, it’s an astounding amount of information to take in. It’s not...possible.”

“It is,” she tells him. She pushes herself off, and goes off in search of her bag. She pretends it doesn’t hurt when he doesn’t follow. Her things gathered, she brushes the tears from her eyes. “Listen, I don’t know what I can say to prove this to you. You just have to trust me, but until you do, I can’t be here.”

She leaves.

-/-

 She’s alone in her apartment when Liam appears. She throws a pillow, and watches as it phases through him. “I don’t want to hear a lecture right now.”

“I’m honestly a little impressed you told him.” Emma can tell he’s being honest with her. “But I’m curious why you didn’t mention me or Milah.”

She brushes at her tears. “It wouldn’t have been fair to play the dead wife and brother card.”

“Would’ve been easier.”

Anger boils deep inside her. “What the fuck? First you tell me off for not telling Killian, and now that I did, you’re throw digs at me for not telling him differently.”

Liam raises his hands in supplication. “I will admit that my behavior earlier was bad form.”

Running her hands through her hair, Emma sighs in frustration. “You’re just now realizing this?”

He scratches behind his ear, and Emma is reminded of Killian. Her stomach twists.

“Milah might have cuffed me behind the ears a few times.”

“Yeah, well, you deserved it.”

“Aye.” Frustrated and heartbroken, she throws hers arms in the air and shouts, “You’re telling me this now? You shouldn’t even be here. It’s practically over with Killian.”

Liam laughs, actually laughs. Emma would punch him if she could. “I know my brother. It’s not over. Not yet.”

Refusing to give way to hope, she crosses her arms. “What makes you say that?”

Liam smirks. “Because he’s on his way over here.”

 -/-

 She doesn’t want to believe Liam. Refuses to. He’s an asshole. He’s against her relationship with Killian.

Besides, Killian hadn’t believed her. Not that she had expected him to. He’s just like everyone else. Neal. Lily. She’s been a fool the past few months hoping that--

There’s a knock at the door.

 -/-

 “I called David.”

She’s not sure what she had expected when she opened the door, but it’s not that. Killian stands before her, his expression mournful.

“He told me...he told me about what you’ve been able to do.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she tells him, because it’s true, because it’s something they both need to hear. Realizing that he’s still standing in the hallway, Emma steps to the side and ushers him in.

“He also told me that you’ve been speaking to Milah and Liam.”

“Oh.” She’s can’t blame David for telling him that part. He had no way of knowing what she’d confessed to Killian or not. But there’s a part of her that’s filled with dread, because there’s now a very real chance that he might have come here specifically just for them. Not her.

(It’s never her.)

“Emma, you have to understand this is a lot to take in. I know my behavior was bad form, but--”

“It’s a lot,” she finishes, grateful that he hadn’t brought the conversation back to his dead loved ones. But maybe that’s what it’ll take to get him to believe fully, to trust her. Maybe it will give him a bit of peace. “I can help you speak to them, if you’d like.”

His eyes widen, and she can tell he wants to say yes. Instead he says, “I meant what I said earlier. I love you.”

“I know.” Emma brushes her hair behind her ears. “And I feel the same way.”

She watches him smile. “Can you tell me more about your abilities?”

 -/-

 She tells him everything she can. She tells him about the old man, about her experiences with ghosts as an adolescent. She tells him about how those experiences shaped her into pursuing law enforcement as her field. She tells him about about how sometimes ghosts ask for help with their loved ones.

“That’s the real reason why I talked you that first night. Milah was worried, and she asked.”

She’s been afraid of telling him this since the moment they met. He’s quiet for awhile, and finally says, “I told you she was an amazing woman, didn’t I?”

 -/-

 Eventually, they get to the topic on Liam and Milah. Emma can sense them in the apartment.

“You can come on out,” she calls, and in no time at all, they’re present. Killian looks around, unable to see them. “They’re standing by the kitchen island.”

His gaze falls to where they stand, looking through them. “How do I...how do I know they’re really there.”

“Say ‘Yellow Submarine’,” Milah instructs her. “He’ll know what it means.”

And so Emma does, and when the words leave her mouth, she can she tears spring to Killian’s eyes.

“That’s the song that was playing when we met,” Killian says. “You had no way of knowing that.”

“Like I said, they’re here.”

He wipes at his eyes. “Can you tell them hello?”

“They can hear you,” she says, reaching out for his hand.

“Are they...okay?” He suddenly looks concerned. Liam gives her his answer, which Emma reports back. “Liam says about as well as a dead person can be. They’re not in any pain.”

Tears are flowing freely from Killian’s eyes now.

“You can speak to them, you know.”

 -/-

 Emma’s not sure what he says to Milah or Liam. She gives Killian that peace of having a moment alone with the people he loves, even if he can’t see him. He deserves that.

After awhile, he comes to her. His eyes are rimmed red, and she pulls him into a tight hug.

“Thank you.”

 -/-

 She sees Milah and Liam one last time.

“Goodbye,” Milah says.

“You’re going to take care of him, right?” Liam inquires.

Emma can only nod.

 -/-

 They move on.

It’s a beautiful thing, moving on, watching the ghost disappear into a beautiful burst of light. A small part of her is sad to see them go. A bigger part is happier they’ve finally found peace.

“I’m glad to know they’re somewhere happier,” Killian says that night, holding her tight in his arms. They don’t make love that night. The intimacy of being together is enough. “And that they think I’m happy enough to not watch over.”

“Are you?” Emma asks, surprised by the brittleness in her voice. “Happy, that is?”

He tilts her chin up to look him in the eyes. “Never ever doubt my happiness with you.”

“Okay.”

 -/-

 A year later, Killian takes her to England. They make a point of visiting Milah and Liam’s graves. Emma leaves carnations, for remembrance.

“Thank you,” she whispers to the stone markers. She owes them so much, too much really. And despite them having both moved on, as the wind blows she can almost hear them say, “You’re welcome.”

If her abilities have taught her anything, it’s this: the dead never truly leave us. Not really, in the end.

[lucifers-trash-stash]

Ask Negan Anything Q&A Special Responses

Hello everyone! So for my 500 Followers special a few months back l decided to take your questions and let you guys ask Negan any question you wanted. The answers are finally done, and I hope you all enjoy seeing what Negan had to say to you guys! Thank you for those of you that participated and I’m sorry it took so long to get Negan’s butt in gear to answer them <3

The list is split into 11 SFW and 4 NSFW questions, with the NSFW ones at the bottom so you can skip them if you wish.

@magikat409 asked: How does the point system work in Sanctuary? Like, does one task or job get you more points than others, etc?

Well, first of all, anything that puts your ass in the line of fire automatically gives you a nice little point boost over everyone else. It’s incentive to inspire people to pull their fucking weight. Next highest amount of points is guard or fence duty. Finally, you get the least amount for anything inside the building like cleaning, gardening, keeping stock, and cooking, which are about the same amount of points. You get more points if you’ve got more experience in your field, though, like the cook gets more than the dishwasher. I keep track of that shit.

The only exception to these rules is if someone’s got trade skills like electrical, plumbing, mechanic positions, or anything else I deem important. It takes a lot to run Sanctuary and it’s best to take care of the tradesmen a little more fucking handsomely than most if we don’t want them bailing on us.

@magikat409 asked: Do you offer the chance to any women you come across to become a wife? Or do you have qualities you look for?

Well shit, I’d love to ask every woman I see to be my wife but if I did that I’d be too distracted by pussy to run Sanctuary properly. Five is already pushing it for me, but then again I’m always willing to make an exception for you sexy people asking me all these questions.

As for wife material, I tend to look for a bit more than a pretty face nowadays. Let’s be fucking honest, Sherry and Amber were a bit more than I bargained for, especially when they both cheated on me. That shit still pisses me off.

I like a woman who’s a hard worker and takes care of her people, that shows fucking dedication right there. I love seeing a woman with a goddamn passion for something, whether it be books, movies, art, writing, what they studied in school, whatever. The light in their eyes when they talk about the stuff they love just makes me feel all fucking warm and fuzzy inside. Also, you didn’t hear this from me, but I don’t mind a wife who would question my authority behind closed doors. It keeps me on my toes and gives me a different perspective on shit, not that I always take it. That and it’s so hot seeing a woman stand up to me.

@daintyunicorn asked: Do you spend the same amount of time with each wife or you give some wives more attention than others? And follow up question- do you like playing favorites?

Well, I keep a general record in my head of how often I’m fucking each wife and I try to make it as fair as possible. Though if we’re being fucking honest here I do give a couple girls more attention. These ladies usually want to get down to some freaky-deaky even when it isn’t their turn, and that shit turns me on. Some wives like Sherry are just fucking cold to me and never initiate jack shit so I’m always more affectionate to my wives that treat me more than just a sugar daddy who gets them presents.

So yeah, I suppose I like playing favorites. You guys have to keep it a secret though, if the other wives find out I’m giving little extra things to the other girls they’ll start bitching about how it’s unfair and shit.

@casifer-fan asked: When you were a kid did you used to read comic books? (And if you did what kind of comic books?)

Fuck yeah I loved comics. Still do, though with how flimsy those things were back when I was reading them, I doubt they’d be good enough to salvage today.

I read both DC and Marvel, though I had a soft spot for Marvel just because I liked Stan Lee’s shit. He’s the fucking man. Batman was pretty fucking sweet too, all of the villains were a lot of fun. I could watch Batman kick Joker’s shit around the block for hours.

@casifer-fan asked: What were you like as a child? Were you a social person or more like an outcast?

I wasn’t exactly “popular” but I was pretty well liked. It’s probably not surprising to hear that I was the class clown when I was in school. I was a pretty social kid too, though most of them stayed away from me because I didn’t take shit from anyone. I mostly hung around with outcast kids, though they were all pretty cool. I suspect a bit of it was because they wanted someone tough on their side, but I didn’t mind that shit.

@casifer-fan asked: If you could have a superpower what would it be and why? *-*

X-Ray vision, baby! It’d be a real fucking help with scavenging so I can see if there’s any walkers lurking around the place before going in, or checking to see if there’s anything useful to begin with. I bet you all fucking thought I was going to make that dirty! Well you’re half right because I’d use it for other things too… if you catch my drift.

@cherieann-2001 asked: Negan how would you feel about having a younger Twin Sister? What role if any would you give her at the Sanctuary? What weapon would you give her? Would you let her date anyone at the Sanctuary?

Well shit, I’d care about her a lot. I’d make sure she’d have it made, anything she wants I’ll fucking find it for her. I take care of my own.

I’d probably find her a job that suits her best, like if she’s a fucking great cook she’d obviously be in the kitchen, if she’s good at strategy she’d be mapping out places where we could scavenge, shit like that. I’d probably be pretty wary of her going outside though. Anything can happen out there. If she fights me on it and proves herself, I might actually consider letting her go on runs with me, but that’s a big if.

Honestly, she can date whoever the fuck she wants. Even if I act like an ass and keep her away from other guys (or gals) she’ll still do it anyways. So there’s no point in trying to prevent it from happening. I’d nudge her towards a couple of my better people, sure, but ultimately who she chooses is her own decision.

@anonymous asked: Do you sing? If so, what are you favorite songs? Are there any songs that you absolutely hate?

Hell yeah I love to sing! I usually save it for special occasions, but sometimes I just hear a song that I gotta fucking belt out. Let’s see here, I suppose I really like “Hotel California” by The Eagles. I love Journey too, and while you’ll probably crucify me for saying “Don’t Stop Believing” isn’t my favorite, I fucking love singing “Separate Ways.” Anything by Johnny Cash is fine by me too. As for least favorites, I tend to not like sugary sweet pop music or anything else where the voice is fucking grating on my skull and they repeat the same shit about twenty times. That being said I find it hard to listen to music that sounds like someone dumped a bunch of fucking rocks in a dryer and hit “high spin.”

@embracetheapocalypsewithme asked: What do you think of women with tattoos, piercings, bright hair, etc.? Turn on or turn off?

Personally for me it’s a big turn on. That shit’s like a magnet for me, it makes a woman stand out in a crowd. I love hearing people talk about their tattoos because they’re so fucking personal so having a girl get all excited while telling me that shit is pretty cool. Plus I’ve got plenty of tattoos as well so we can swap stories and shit.

@superwholoki asked: What would you do if found out Rick was sleeping with one of your wives? Would you still offer her the chance to stay with you knowing they had continued their affair since the beginning? How would you punish Rick?

Fuck, that’s a tough one. It makes me livid just thinking about it. Honestly I wouldn’t give her another fucking chance. She’d technically be sleeping with the enemy, and I don’t want a woman that’d so willingly fucking do that. I think I’d make her leave Sanctuary and go on home with Rick if that’s how she wants to play that little game.

As for Rick the Prick, I’d get back at him all right. I would still need him to work for me, so I can’t exactly kill him, but I can raise his weekly quota some more. Make him have to work really fucking hard to get supplies for us. All because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. I’m sure his people would love him for that.

@anonymous asked: Are there any female celebrities would be DYING to make one of your wives?

I’d be fucking lying if I said Princess Leia never had an effect on me as a kid. If she were still around, I’d fucking find Carrie Fisher in a heartbeat and wife her up. Probably the only woman my age I’d go for. Except for Sigourney Weaver. I’d get with her too.

As for women younger than me… Probably Zoe Saldana and Sofia Vergara. They’re fucking gorgeous. Fuck, I should probably stop while I’m ahead because if I kept going this list would be a mile long.

NSFW QUESTIONS:

@magikat409 asked: What are your favorite role-play scenarios and/or sexual positions?

Well, for role-play scenarios I’m down for about anything. Even though it’s not really a role-play when you are the boss, I still love playing boss and dressing my girls as sexy little secretaries. I tend to not get any fucking work done on those days. My wives also love a little Professor Negan action, not that I have the clothes to dress the part, but it’s still pretty hot.

As for sexual positions I enjoy anything where I can see my partner’s face as they bite their lip and pant and moan my name. I just love seeing someone come undone from a just a few fucking thrusts from me. Unless I’m feeling fucking generous I’m usually on top. Also I really enjoy fucking in front of a mirror so they can watch me thrust into them from behind. That shit turns me on.

@anonymous asked: I'm sure it gets rough living with the constant threat of being eaten alive, and a guy's gotta do something to relieve that stress. Have you ever fooled around with another guy/one of your men?

That’s an interesting fucking question. Now, I’m not one to kiss and tell… oh for fuck’s sake we both know that’s a big fat lie. I have on at least one occasion got a little freaky-deaky with one of my men. He may or may not have had a mustache. You didn’t hear it from me though.

@daintyunicorn asked: How many rounds a day can you handle? :o

Honey, as long as they give me a few minutes between rounds I can go for as long as they can stand it. I play to win.

@anonymous asked: Have you ever sent a dick pic to a lady (or gent?) and/or sexted?

Once or twice. It’s not really my favorite method of flirting. I’d much rather show it to the lucky lady/gent in person.

Also tagging @negans-network