#i do not need a phone nicer than my laptops to bring me joy

[henpeckedho]

Boring life update:

After looking at all the options in the budget phone range, I'm just going with the newest version of the phone I have.

While a "nicer" phone would be good, the reviews from other long time moto g fans say the same thing--2023 is a huge improvement over the other ones in this line but you can still drop your phone with abandon and have it be okay.

My phone requirements are: basic internet and the ability to drop my phone an average of 3 times a day for 3 straight years and still have it function. I AM the intended original Nokia user. And moto g delivers on that kind of durability. So, basic budget phone it is!

[let-it-raines]

I Hope We Never See October (2/?)

When his personal life and football career go up in flames, Killian Jones escapes England for America, finding seclusion in Martha’s Vineyard in order to hide from his demons. It’s a fresh start, or at the very least a paused moment in his life, and all he needs is a few months alone to allow his heart to heal. He doesn’t count on meeting Emma Swan.

Emma’s life depends on tourists who come to the island every summer. It’s how she makes her money working in restaurants and clubs across the vineyard, but every year, she cannot wait until autumn comes and her life returns to normal. She especially cannot wait for Killian Jones to leave.

Rating: Mature

a/n: Thank you guys for reading the first part of this! I cannot say enough how much I appreciate all of you and how glad I am little things like this bring you guys joy! Thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke for reading over these words. ❤️

AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: One | Two 

-/-

“Emma, the couple at table two wants to talk to you, and the woman at table seven has a complaint about the quiche. Something about there being eggs in them.”

Emma groans and closes her laptop to look at Ashley, one of the new waitresses she hired this summer. She’s good, courteous, and she’s always here on time. Emma is going to hate to lose her for a few weeks when she has her baby, but come hell or high water, the girl is getting maternity leave even if Emma can’t manage more than three weeks without the owner getting involved and likely trying to fire all of them. She deserves months more than that, but Emma can’t change the system.

It’s a shit system, especially for moms.

“They don’t want eggs…in their quiche? Are you serious?”

“She’s vegan and claims she’s been misled.”

Emma rolls her eyes and stands from her chair. She pulls her jean shorts down, the frayed edges covering just a little more thigh, and unties the bottom of her button-down. She probably needs to start dressing up more for this job, but she can’t be bothered. She managed to wear her Blue Dog Tavern polo last week, so that seems like enough effort. “We have symbols on the menu to indicate dietary restrictions, but this isn’t really a restaurant for dietary restrictions beyond one or two items. I’ll deal with it. Thanks, Ashley.”

It’s Sunday morning, which is their second busiest time after Friday and Saturday nights, and the Blue Dog is packed. It’s all hands on deck this morning, but Emma was hoping to get some scheduling and produce ordering done in her office during it. But this is a restaurant, so of course there’s never any time for a breather when she needs it the most. She’ll finish all that later, she guesses, because she has a feeling neither of these conversations are going to be a short one.

And she’s right about that. The woman hating on the quiche pitches a fit and demands her money back before threatening to sue the place and, quite frankly, threatening to cut off Emma’s legs, and Emma has to resolve that without losing her cool when all she wants to do is punch jerks like that straight across the jaw. Then the couple at table two asks her to run through every item on the menu and whether or not everything is organically sourced.

They serve fried mac and cheese balls at ten in the morning and have kitschy, slightly tacky artwork nailed onto the darkly stained wood. If you eat outside on the patio, you get a nice view of people taking off a little more than they should while sunbathing on the surrounding beaches and docked boats. There’s also the occasional ferry that drives by and blows a loud horn that tourists seem to get a kick out of. Do they really think everything is organically sourced?

God, sometimes she really hates tourists.

This is a nice place, though. It’s not somewhere you go for fine dining, but their brunch is divine, it’s got a good atmosphere, and the new bartenders she’s hired this summer make better drinks than you can get at any reasonably priced bar in a ten-mile radius. She likes this little part of the island, and even though she hates tourists, they do fund her entire life. So maybe she hates them a little less than usual when the paychecks roll in.

Today is not a day where the paycheck is rolling in.

Emma notices some of the tables are a little slow, so she picks up the slack, getting drinks and refills and checking on meals. It keeps her on her feet for most of the morning and through the lunch rush, but when it’s over, she collapses on a stool at the end of the bar.

“Chip, can you get me a coffee?” she asks without looking up. “I don’t care what milk or creamer you put in it as long as you don’t bring it to me black. Though, I think I need the caffeine so badly that I’d drink it. I don’t know why I agreed to work the late dinner shift at The Oaks last night. I’m exhausted.”

When she doesn’t get a response, she looks up for Chip. He’s nowhere to be seen, and when she checks her phone schedule, she realizes it’s his break time. Of course it is.

“Lass, I don’t believe the barkeep is here anymore.”

“Yeah, it’s his break, but I can help you. What’s your poison?”

“The coffee you’re having.”

Emma nods and turns to look at the man talking to her, and if she wasn’t so tired, she would have recognized the voice a hell of a lot faster than she did. A lot of different accents pass through this place, but he’s the first British one in awhile. Also the first one to show up in her backyard. Or the Fishers’ backyard, technically, but she’s been renting it for long enough for it to feel like her own even if she’s changed very little of the furniture and decorations outside her bedroom.

Killian. She thinks that was his name. Honestly, she’s surprised she remembers anything because she was in such a rush to get to work that she didn’t have time to deal with all the people at her house. But he was unexpected and attractive – she’s not blind to attractive men no matter what Ruby and Mary Margaret think – and he threw her off for a minute. He looked familiar, but she has no idea why. There’s no way she would have met him before.

But she also doesn’t care. She’s got a gut feeling that she needs to watch out for him, that there’s something that’s not right, and him being at her job is proving that to her. What are the odds that he’d wander in a few days after meeting her when she’s pretty sure he’s never been here before?

Then again, maybe that’s why he’s familiar. It’s June. A lot of people come through here, and she’s not going to remember all their faces. Sometimes she does, though, in the back of her mind where vague, slightly blurry memories reside.

“Sure thing,” Emma sighs, standing from the stool. “Do you have a server?”

“Aye. Heather, I believe, but…”

“But she’s on her phone.” Emma shakes her head. “My boss’s niece. Not much I can do about it, but I’ll get you your coffee, a water, and take your order right away.”

He nods, going back to his own phone, and Emma takes that as her cue to get behind the bar and start making some coffee. She doesn’t usually work this machine, so it takes her a minute to get it right all while she feels Killian staring at her.

“Do you need any suggestions on the menu?” Emma asks as the coffee percolates.

“How are the salads?”

“I prefer things with more calories, but they’re good. Our vegetables are fresh, and I personally enjoy the strawberry poppyseed with chicken, but I know not everyone loves fruit in salads.” He hums behind her as his mug fills, and she grabs some milk from the fridge under the sink, turning to show him. “Milk okay?”

“It’s perfect, Swan.” She raises her brows, which he mirrors, until he cocks his head forward and his lips form an obnoxious little smirk. “On the nametag, love.”

“Now, what did I say about being your love?”

“That you’re not.”

“Exactly.” She finishes making his coffee and hands it over. He’s a customer, she reminds herself. She’s got to try to be a little bit nicer than she wants to be. “So, the salad? If you’re looking more toward the healthy options with protein, the grilled chicken breast on its own is fantastic. You get two sides, which you can find at the bottom of the menu.”

He nods and looks at the menu for half a second before looking up. “The salad would be great. Thank you.”

He picks up his mug, pointing it toward her, and Emma takes it as a dismissal so she can put his order in, and hopefully she can get Heather to do her damn job and serve him for the rest of the meal. She doesn’t like that he knows where she lives and works, and even though she doesn’t think Ariel and Eric spend time with shady people, something about him gives her weird vibes.

His face just looks so damn familiar, and usually she’s really good remembering faces. Huh.

And Emma is usually right about these things. He’s likely nothing more than a rich man looking for a break from life by renting out a large house on the island. He’ll spend a week or two, maybe a month depending on his work situation, here, sleep with as many women as he can, and then he’ll go, never thinking of Martha’s Vineyard again. And she’s pretty sure Ariel does something having to do with high-powered people over in London, so he fits the profile. God, she must have seen him before with Ariel or something. That has to be it.

But for now, he’s a customer, and since Heather seems to be completely checked out, Emma guesses she’s going to have to deal with him. After this morning, he won’t be the worst person she has to deal with all day, and since she’s working at The Oaks tonight, she imagines being treated like shit then will outshine all of this.

Why the hell did she decide to pick up so many shifts at The Oaks? It’s a stuffy country club where tips reflecting the price of the meal aren’t even guaranteed, but it’s extra money with a flexible schedule. She’s doing okay on the money front right now, though, and if she were sane, she’d take some time off and relax, maybe enjoy the beach or any of the hundreds of good restaurants around here.

She is obviously not sane.

-/-

“Oh my God,” Emma grumbles as she strips out of her jean shorts, kicking them to the ground before unbuttoning her shirt. “I’m so tired of people.”

“I’m people,” Ruby says. “Nice bra, by the way. The girls look great.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she does glance down at her boobs and hike them up a bit. They do look great today. “Shut up.” Emma picks up the black dress she has to wear at the country club and slips it over her shoulders. “You know I’m not tired of you.”

“That’s because you’ve barely seen me.”

“Busy. I’m busy. I work way too much. Speaking of that, why the hell aren’t you at work?”

Ruby stands from her couch and grabs her name tag from the end table. “I’m in between shifts. Granny’s in charge downstairs. I have a five-second commute to work, unlike you. Why are you changing here again?”

“Don’t want to run into any of the people at my house.” Emma smooths her dress and turns to Ruby’s mirror to reapply lipstick and put on some mascara. She’s got to wash her hair tomorrow. It’s hanging by on a thread today, if that thread is a little greasy and has a hell of a lot of dry shampoo in it. “But don’t worry, tomorrow, I will be out of your hair as they will soon be out of mine.”

“You know I’m always fine with you being in my business. Mary Margaret and David are coming here for dinner tonight. Any chance you can slip away?”

Emma finishes another coat of mascara. “Can’t. Working until past closing and then heading straight home to sleep in my house of strangers.”

Ruby laughs, carefree as always, and for a moment, the jealousy stings. Ruby has plenty of her own shit going on, but she always handles it with such ease. She’s the most carefree person Emma has ever met, and Emma can’t imagine living like that without way too much alcohol in her system.

“I told you that you could stay with me this week. Have I ever said it’s batshit crazy that they come to visit and are okay with you still staying there? Because that is batshit crazy.”

Emma shrugs and pulls back to take in her appearance. This is as good as it’s going to get. She doesn’t think she’ll be using her looks to get her any tips tonight, which is a crying shame since that’s half the reason she took this job in the first place. She knows exactly how to charm some of the older men into giving her more money by flirting a little, and she’s not ashamed that she has to give away her dignity to do it. She had to hire a dinner-shift manager at the Blue Dog because she was doing the work of two people with the pay of one. Now she’s doing the work of five people with the pay and of one and half people, so obviously she’s winning at life.

“I’m never there, and they seem like good people. I think they’re just glad I actually maintain the place and am slowly but surely getting through some of the renovations.” Emma looks at her hair again and ties it up in a ponytail with the elastic from her wrist. “Any way you can make me a grilled cheese to go?”

“Only if you agree to go to a bar with all of us sometime in the next month.”

“Yeah, fine. Whatever you want.”

God, she hopes Ruby doesn’t remember this conversation. The last thing she wants to do right now is go out with her friends and then end up sitting alone as they all make out with their partners and leave without telling Emma goodbye.

Actually, the last thing she wants to do is go to work again today, but here she goes.

-/-

Emma quietly turns the key in her front door. She saw that the kitchen light was still on from the street, and while the Fishers likely just forgot to turn it off, she doesn’t want to run the risk of seeing them tonight. It’s their last night here, so she only has to make it through one or two more awkward conversations before she has the house to herself. It’ll be just her and the creaky floors. She can collapse on the couch in her dress instead of having to walk all the way up the stairs and make it to her bedroom like a responsible adult.

In another world, Emma would like to own a house like this. It’s charming. That’s the best way to describe it. It’s two floors, three bedrooms, has bay windows and built-in bookshelves, and the cabinets in the kitchen are a light green. She likes that it’s not cookie cutter white all the way around like some of the nicer houses around here. It has character, and though there are a few things she’d change beyond the needed repairs she does for the Fishers, it’s got good bones. Plus, the location is fantastic, and the backyard is spacious. It allows Emma to spend time in the sun without being stuck on a crowded beach or near a busy dock.

But this is not another world, and Emma could never afford a house this close to the coastline. She’s got no idea why she still lives here. Well, that’s not true, she knows exactly why she still lives here, and it’d be possible for her to pick up and move inland toward Boston. She just…she can’t. She’s been here for ten years after leaving her last foster home in Brockton, and it’s been a comfortable reprieve. She’s got her friends and her job(s), and even though she’s got years of hospitality experience, there’s no guarantee someone like her with a GED can get a job this well-paying and accommodating somewhere else. Plus, her housing is almost free, and she really can’t pass that up.

It all comes back to the house, which she’s dreading going into now no matter how much she wants to collapse onto her bed.

(Or the couch. She really misses the couch. It’s the best for napping.)

Emma steps inside, avoiding the places that make the floor groan, but it’s impossible to dodge them all. She tenses, then hurries across the living room toward the stairs, only turning to the opening to the kitchen at the last minute.

“Holy fuck,” Emma gasps, dropping her purse. It hits the ground in a gentle thud, her keys spilling out and clacking along the floor.

“Didn’t mean to scare you there, Swan.”

Emma’s breath hitches as she realizes who it is sitting at her kitchen table.

Killian…whatever his last name is. She’s got no clue and doesn’t care to ask. What she does want to know is why he’s sitting here alone at two in the morning like a fucking serial killer.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He takes a sip of his drink, coffee she thinks from the smell, and leans back in the chair, the front legs tipping up with him. “Getting sober so I can drive home. Had two drinks with dinner, and it appears I’ve become a bit of a lightweight.”

“Don’t drink much then? I thought all you Brits liked going to the pub.”

He laughs, smile bright against the black of his stubble despite her poor attempt at his accent. “We do, but not so much me anymore. Trying to cut back.”

“Yeah, I get that.” She leans down to pick up her bag, grabbing her keys and tossing them back in. “I also get that we have Uber here. You might want to try that the next time you have a little too much to drink. You look like a murderer sitting in my kitchen like this.”

“It was two glasses of rum, nothing excessive. Wishing Ariel and Eric well before they leave in the morning.” He leans forward, the chair landing on all four legs, and downs the rest of his mug. “I don’t make a habit of drinking too much.”

“I don’t care what you do in your personal time. Just don’t make a mess in my house…or your friends’ house, I guess. And sleep on the couch if you want. There are blankets in the basket.”

She doesn’t know why she’s offering him the couch. She should be making him leave. Her heart is still leaping out of her chest from him scaring her, and even though this has been her home for years, she technically can’t ask him to leave. In reality, Ariel has probably offered him the couch already.

What a long day.

She wants it to be over.

“That’s surprisingly kind of you.”

Emma’s step falters, and while she was turning away from the man, she decides to turn back and narrow her eyes. What the hell is that supposed to mean? “I guess I’m full of surprises for men who don’t know me.”

“Just who are you then, Swan?” he asks, standing from the chair and putting his mug in the sink, turning the faucet on while never losing eye contact.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would.”

A shiver runs down Emma’s spine, but she ignores it and walks up the stairs. This is a weird week, one she doesn’t want to repeat, and the last thing she needs is to spend too much time with a man who thinks he can charm his way into anything with a few smooth words and a smile. She’s been around enough men like that in her lifetime, but it doesn’t matter with him. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone with Eric and Ariel, and she’ll be back to being able to walk around her house without pants whenever she wants.

Tomorrow, this weird as hell week will be over, and she’ll be back to normal…mostly.

-/-

-/-

Tag list: @qualitycoffeethings @marrtinski @klynn-stormz @scarletslippers @elizabeethan @jrob64 @snowbellewells @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @galadriel26 @galaxyzxstark @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @onepunintendid @bluewildcatfanatic @superchocovian @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @mariakov81 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @a-faekindagirl @scientificapricot @xellewoods @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @singersdd @tornadoamy @cluttermind @lfh1226-linda @andiirivera @itsfabianadocarmo @captain-emmajones @ilovemesomekillianjones @taylrsversion​ @dramioneswan​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​

[flowerfan2]

David x Patrick, 40k so far, A03 (read from the beginning here)

It starts with a reunion... but what happens after that?

Chapter 13

Monday morning after his run David goes into the office, closes the door, and gets to work.  He spends a little bit of time figuring out whether he needs a printer (no), and if there are any office supplies he can order from Amazon and charge to the company (possibly; a larger monitor would be nice, and they aren’t actually that expensive).  The desk and chair are functional enough, although they probably weren’t meant to be used for actual nine to five activity, and David is going to feel it in his back before the day is over.

He reluctantly logs on and starts checking emails.  There’s a bunch from last week that he needs to deal with, and he messages Rory to see if he can respond to some of them.  At ten there’s a meeting with a vendor over Zoom (and yes, he thinks, I am capable of using Zoom, Stevie), and by eleven o’clock, he’s bored.

It’s not that his job is bad, or even difficult.  It’s just boring.  Although he’s still involved with the type of products he enjoyed selling at the Apothecary, most of the joy has gone out of it.  Now bringing in a new product means finding some way to convince the hotel operations staff that they can use it, and there are only so many travel size toiletries that a motel chain can give out without losing money.

When Patrick knocks on his door at noon, he’s more than ready to take a break.  They bring their lunches out onto the lanai, Patrick rocking back and forth on the chair as David eats the delicious salad Patrick has prepared.  

“I should have known you’d appreciate the grapes,” Patrick says, smiling as David takes another forkful.

“And the goat cheese,” David says, his mouth full.  “It’s quite good.  This can’t have come from the Publix.”

“No, I went to the farmer’s market in town,” Patrick says.  “There’s a guy there with some really nice cheeses.  From his own goats.”

David narrows his eyes at Patrick.  “Are you being serious?”

“What, you think there can’t be goats in Florida?”

“It just doesn’t seem very on theme.”

“You’d rather they try to make cheese from alligators, or dolphins?  I don’t think it would work.”

“Shut up.”

“People used to eat the armadillos, but now they give you the plague, so you won’t find that at the farm stand.”

David stares at Patrick.  “Now you’re definitely making things up.”

“Nope.”  Patrick grins at him, then takes a long sip of his iced tea.  “So, how’s work?”

David opens his mouth to complain about how bored he is, and then shuts it again.  He has no right to complain, he’s still involved with RA, he’s still employed.  Patrick is neither.

Patrick sees exactly what’s going on.  “It’s okay.  I can take it.  What craziness are the vendors trying to pull today?”

David hesitates, but Patrick’s face is open and he’s genuinely interested.  He launches into his tale of woe, the repetitiveness and the limits and the damn corporate frames, and all of a sudden he’s out of breath, sitting back in his chair with his jaw on the floor.

“Sorry.  I guess it’s been grating on me for a while.  I didn’t mean to spew that all over you.”

“No, it’s okay.  I get it.”  Patrick shrugs.  “I wasn’t able to find anything I liked doing as much as our store.  It’s different, I guess, when you’re in charge.”

David smirks.  “When <i>who</i> was in charge?”

“Fine – when <I>we</i> were in charge.”  Patrick’s face changes, and David can feel it in his chest.  “It was ours.  Together.”

That’s the rub, isn’t it?  Rose Apothecary wasn’t just the ideal place to express his creative side through high-end bath products, it was a labor of love with the love of his life.  Together.

*****

“Ugh, David, why won’t you help?”

“Alexis, for the hundredth time, I can’t magically lower your rent.  I’m already working for you for a fraction of what my time is worth.  If you’re not making enough money and you don’t want to live somewhere our parents already own, get a real job.”

“Every time I run the numbers it looks like it should work out.  I don’t know why my projects never make what they say they will.”

“What who says they will?”

“My spreadsheets!”

Like a genie responding to his name, Patrick sticks his head in the door to the office, an Amazon box in his hand.  His eyes go wide when he sees Alexis on the screen.  “David, um, this came for you, I didn’t know if you’d need it…”

“Oooh, thanks.”  David’s pretty sure the package contains the sketch pads and colored pencils he ordered.  He was planning on expensing them to the account he’s working on with Alexis, but it sounds like now is not the time to discuss it.  

He stands up and goes to Patrick, taking the box from him and putting it on the couch, then reaching out to link his arm through Patrick’s.  Patrick is possibly even paler than usual, and seems to have lost the power of speech as he stares at Alexis.  She’s staring back at him, her hands frozen in whatever little flingy motions she was making when she caught sight of Patrick.

“So, this is incredibly awkward,” David says, looking between the two of them.  “What do we say we just move past it?”

Alexis recovers first, her need to disagree with David overpowering her distress.  “David,” she starts, tossing her hair and shaking her head in an effort to get herself on track.  “It’s <i>not</i> awkward.  We’re fine. Peachy.  Right, Patrick?”

David moves them a little closer to his laptop, and guides Patrick to sit down in the chair.  “Yeah, um.  Hi, Alexis.”

Alexis twists a lock of hair around a finger and leans in close, peering at Patrick through the screen.  “I’m sorry you got hurt,” she says, gently sincere.

Patrick’s hand flies up to his head, as if he had forgotten all about his wound.  “Is it that noticeable?”

“It’s not, not really.”  David slides his arm around Patrick’s shoulders.  “I’m sure she can’t even see anything,” he says softly into his ear.  “She only knows because I told her about it.”

Patrick looks up at David a little helplessly, and David can’t help leaning in and kissing him, a hand on his cheek, not letting up even as Alexis sighs loudly at them.

“Eat nails, Alexis,” he says, without much venom.

“I’m not mad,” Alexis says.  “I get it.  You’re each others’ locks.”

Patrick blinks at her, confused.  “We can’t both be locks.”

“Whatever, you’re the key that goes in his lock, you know what I mean.”

“That’s quite an assumption,” David says, struggling to keep his face straight.

“Eew, David, shut up.”

“You started it.”

“I don’t care, you still have to help me figure this out!”

Patrick shifts, sitting up a little taller.  With a quick glance at David, he enters the fray.  “Did I hear you say you were having problems with your budgeting spreadsheets?”

*****

David’s in the living room, waiting for Patrick to finish talking with Alexis and possibly reveal that she needs to declare bankruptcy, when the landline in the kitchen rings.  Figuring it might be the hurricane screen guys (who he needs to be nicer to, they could be saving their lives) he scoots off the couch and hustles into the kitchen to pick it up.  When he hears the voice on the other end, he really wishes he had let it go to voice mail.

It’s not the hurricane screen guys.  It’s Marcy Brewer.

“David?  Is that you?”

He imagines hanging up, but that would be unfathomably rude, and this is Patrick’s mom.  Who David hasn’t spoken to in over three years.  Who probably hates him for leaving Patrick.  

“Um, yes, hi, hello.”

“It’s so nice to hear your voice,” Marcy says.  Sounds fake, but whatever.  “How are you?”

David rocks his head back and wonders how on earth he could have gotten into this situation again – he’s not going to be mistaken for Patrick’s business partner this time around, but do Marcy and Clint know they’re back together?  At least Marcy doesn’t seem to be surprised that David is at their house picking up the phone.

“I’m good, thanks.  How about you?” he responds, the standard phrases giving him a moment to catch his breath.

“Oh, we’re fine.  What have you and Patrick been up to?”  Marcy sounds friendly, interested.  Not at all like she wishes David was suffering in the deepest levels of hell.

David forces himself to try to respond to her question, and then nearly laughs, given that they haven’t been “up to” anything nearly as raunchy as Marcy probably expects.  Best to escape as soon as possible.  “Not much – hang on, let me get Patrick.”

“David, wait,” Marcy says, and David does, pressing a hand over his eyes and hoping that this isn’t the scolding he was expecting.  Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s really not looking forward to it.

“What is it?”

“I just wanted to say that Clint and I are so pleased that you two boys are giving it another go.  Patrick’s never been as happy as he was when you were together.”

David’s throat gets tight.  He’d like to think that’s true.  Patrick seemed happy, at least most of the time.  He had said he was.  But then how does he explain the whole Mark thing?

“It probably seems hard, but we have faith in you,” Marcy continues.  “We saw what the two of you had.  It was something special.”

“It was,” David says, Marcy’s kind words demanding an answer.  “You have to know, he made me happy too.  Happier than I ever thought I’d be.   But I blew it, I screwed it up…” David has no idea why these words are falling out of his mouth, it’s some kind of effect that Brewers have on him, it’s horrible.

“Don’t beat yourself up, dear.  Sometimes getting everything you ever wanted can be overwhelming.  Patrick wasn’t used to that either, you realize.  The important thing is that you’re both trying again, and learning from what happened before.  You’ll make it work this time.”

David lets out a long, slow breath.  From your mouth to god’s ears, Marcy.  “Do you really think so?”

“I do.  I have a good feeling about this.  I know my boy.  It can take him a while to figure out what he wants, but when he does, look out.”

David laughs weakly.  “Is that a good thing?”

“Well, do you want to be with him?”

He’s positive that there aren’t words in spoken language to fully express how much he wants to be with Patrick.  “Yes.”

“Then it’s good.  Because Patrick is sure about you.  Let yourself be sure about him.  Not everything has to end in disaster.”

David wants to argue with her, to point out how his life is an example of exactly the opposite.  But then he remembers a conversation with his therapist where she made him reflect on things that have gone well for him, whether or not they were shaky at some point in the past – his relationship with his parents, his bond with Alexis, his work with RA.  His recovery, and the effort he’s put into his mental health.

Maybe his relationship with Patrick can be like that.  Shaky in the past, but solid now.

<i>Patrick is sure about you,</i> Marcy put it.  Maybe David can be sure, too.

“Thank you,” David says to her, his brain spinning.

“Anytime.  Now go get yourself a glass of water, and put Patrick on the phone.”

Patrick chooses this moment to appear, his eyes questioning as David thrusts the phone at him and escapes into the bedroom.  But he’s too jittery to just sit on the bed.  He goes into the guest room, strips, and tugs on his swim trunks and a long-sleeved swim shirt.  He pauses to look in the mirror over the dresser, his eyes looking back at him a bit wild.  The thin shirt is white with a black stripe down each sleeve, and he runs his hands over the smooth material.  Not exactly haute couture but it’ll do in what is feeling very much like a pinch.

David feels Patrick’s gaze on him as he breezes through the living room and out on to the lanai, not letting himself pause before jumping feet-first into the deep end of the pool.  The water is warmer than the air, but still a bit of a shock as it surrounds him.  He pops up to breathe, pushing his hair out of his face, and starts swimming.

David had it in his head that he was going to swim laps until he burned out his nervous energy, but he rapidly discovers that the pool isn’t really big enough for that, and also that as fit as he might be, swimming seems to use different muscles than running and breathlessly swimming miniature laps in a tiny pool isn’t that much fun.

He still swims back and forth a few times, then bobs around in the deep end, letting himself sink down with his hands above his head, his fingertips seemingly staying above the water even when his toes touch the bottom.  It’s not very deep.

The pool isn’t large but it is pretty, dark blue ceramic tiles running along the waterline, and seat-like ledges set in several places in both the shallow and deep ends, presumably so that the old people doing their water aerobics can rest.  Or maybe to sit on while sipping a tropical drink, which is a decidedly appealing thought David files away for later.

He hears steps and spins around to see Patrick, clad in a white t-shirt and Kelly green swim trunks, standing by the edge of the pool.

“Hi there,” Patrick says.  His face is wavering between fondly amused and concerned.

“I like the pool,” David says.  He reaches out to hold on to the concrete by Patrick’s feet.  The angle is kind of funny, looking up at Patrick’s pale legs.

“I can see that.”  Patrick fiddles with the hem of his shirt, glancing around and then back at David.  “You okay?”

“Yeah.”  David tries to make this sound confident.  Why wouldn’t he be?  Getting worked up over talking to Marcy Brewer for the first time in more than three years and then throwing himself into the deep end of the pool is dramatic, fine, but it’s not completely out of character.

“Want some company?”

David can’t help but smile at this.  “Assuming you are referring to yourself, always.”

Patrick goes over to the shallow end, where there are steps leading into the water and a curved handrail.  He pauses, and David sees him hesitate before tugging off his t-shirt.  David swims over, reaching out to Patrick, catching him by the waist and guiding him into his arms.

They stand in the shallow end together, David carefully running his hands along Patrick’s flanks, wary of the still healing bruises.  Patrick relaxes, his shoulders coming down, and he rests his head on David’s shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” David asks softly, a hand splayed over Patrick’s ribs.

“Good.  Really good.”  Patrick looks up at David and presses a finger along his eyebrow, catching a stray drop of water.  “How are you?”

David shudders as he remembers the call with Marcy, which the sight of Patrick’s bare skin had managed to overshadow for just a moment.  He takes a breath and squeezes Patrick’s shoulders, putting on a smile.  “I’m fine.”

“Did my mother say something to upset you?”

He shakes his head.  “No, absolutely not.”

“Then what is it?”

“You told your parents.”

Patrick tilts his head.  “Yes…?”

“About us.  Being <i>back together.</i>”. The phrase still doesn’t sit right with him, it seems too trivial for what is going on between them, but it gets the point across.

“Yeah, I did.  Was that not okay?”

“No, of course it’s okay, it just…”

“It surprised you.”  Patrick gives him a rueful glance.  “Because I didn’t tell them, before, back in Schitt’s Creek.”

“I just wasn’t sure,” David says, “when I picked up the phone and it was your mother, whether she knew?  And then it turned out that she did know, and she said – all these unbearably <i>sweet</i> things.”

“I’m sorry, she doesn’t have much of a filter.”

“No, it’s okay, like I said, she was really nice.”

“It was just a lot?”  Patrick suggests.

“It was a lot.  And from <i>your mother.</i>”

Patrick laughs.  “She’s just excited.”  He backs them a little deeper into the pool, the water now up to their shoulders.

“But why?”  David says, a panicked whine creeping into his voice.  “After what I did, why would she think this is a good idea?”

Patrick puts his hands firmly around David’s waist and finds his eyes.  “After we broke up, I told my parents everything.  <i>Everything.</i>.  It’s kind of embarrassing, looking back on it, but I did.  They were getting ready for a wedding too, remember?  They didn’t understand what went wrong, so I told them about Mark, and how you knew something was off.  They don’t blame you for what happened, any more than they blame me.”

David feels his chest clench.  “Are you ever going to tell me what really was going on?  Why you were flirting with him?”  He doesn’t mean to sound accusatory, but there’s a part of him that needs to know <i>why.</i> Was it something he did?  Is there something he needs to do better?  And if Patrick can’t come up with a reason, how do they make sure it doesn’t happen again?

Patrick steps back from David, one hand trailing down David’s arm to take his hand, putting a little distance between them but still hanging on.  “I think I was just scared of getting something I thought I’d never have.”

“But you were going to marry Rachel.  You had the chance before, you knew you could have it.”

“I could have been married to Rachel, but it wouldn’t have been right.  When I was with her, there was always something missing.  That’s what I thought I’d never have, even when I couldn’t put my finger on it.  Turns out, what was missing was you.”

Patrick pulls David in, brushing a kiss over his lips.  He tastes like tea, and pool water, and the soft warm heat of his skin.  David melts against him, his hips swaying to bring them close.  “I’m so sorry I didn’t know how to handle it,” Patrick says quietly.  “It was scary because you made it right, David.  After all that wasted time, you made it right.”

When they part, David feels giddy.  It’s time to commit, he can feel it.  He can feel how easy it is to love this person, who doesn’t hesitate to share his feelings with David, who isn’t scared off by how strongly David feels, by him spiraling literally into the deep end.  He knows that loving someone is a risk, but Patrick is all in, and David wants to be there too.  

“I’m sure about you, Patrick,” he says.  Patrick’s eyes widen, fixed on his own, and David nods, feeling the truth of it all through his body.  “I’m sure about you, too.”

Patrick surges forward in the water and climbs into his arms, his legs coming up and around David too, almost overbalancing them as David splashes to keep them upright.  As he steadies he wraps his arms around Patrick and kisses him fiercely.  Getting what you’ve always wanted may be overwhelming, but it’s damn good just the same.

[let-it-raines]

Catch Me If You Can (34/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I’m about to sit down to write some new words for the first time in about a month, and @shireness-says​ has permission to yell at me if I don’t. Now to decide what exactly I’m going to work on 🙈

Thanks to my beta @resident-of-storybrooke​ for reading all of these words and being a super cool and supportive human being. 

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-/-

September ends without anyone ever really noticing. The weather seems to get the hint, though, the daily temperatures in the eighties dipping down to the sixties for the high, and suddenly New York no longer feels and smells like melting concrete.

In truth, it’s amazing.

Killian loves summer and loves the feel of the sunshine beating down on his skin as he spends his days standing out on a baseball field, but there’s something special that happens when the leaves begin to change and the air has a crisp feel to it when he walks out of his apartment in the mornings to go to do his workouts or to physical therapy. It’s nice not to sweat as soon as he goes outside, and it’s even nicer to have the feeling that washes over him to know that his team is in the play-offs.

That starts today.

Nervous energy radiates over Killian, more than usual, and he’s not even playing today. He can’t quite yet, but he’s been approved to practice again and if all of that goes well, he’ll be able to play during the Championship Series which means he’ll qualify to play for the World Series.

If those things happen.

He’s getting ahead of himself. He tends to do that, especially lately when so much of his life is wanting and waiting for the future, and Killian definitely needs to put on the breaks.

But the smell of cinnamon is wafting through his apartment, the television is playing pre-game shows for the start of the Division Series today, and Emma is wandering around in a pair of thick socks pulled halfway up her calves with only an oversized sweater on and her curly blonde hair falling down her back in all of its unbrushed glory.

It’s been a crazy two and a half weeks full of them dealing with the fallout from the article and all of the trickle-down effects from it. Everything has been difficult. He won’t lie about that, but things are calming down a little more each day. Walsh has officially been fired from ESPN, and while Killian was tempted to take back his decision to not sue after Emma told him how Walsh confronted her in his office, he did eventually decide against it. The man isn’t worth it.

Contacting his father to confront him isn’t worth it either.

Killian thought about it, paced back and forth in his living room for hours thinking about it, but like he and Emma (and Liam and Elsa and David and Anna and Robin and every other person he knows) keep talking about, they want a reaction out of the two of them. They want to hurt them, and reacting in any ways more than absolutely necessary means that the bad guys win.

His father is not going to win. He’s taken enough. He won’t take anymore.

And if the pattern of photographers slowly disappearing from outside of his apartment door is going to be a pattern that continues, he thinks things will turn out just fine.

What crazy path to have to go through to get to fine.

His phone buzzes on the counter next to where he’s whipping together some oatmeal raisin cookies, much to Emma’s dismay since she insisted on him using chocolate chips instead of raisins.

She’ll never learn.

Robin: Are you coming to the game tonight?

Killian: Yep. I’ll be there. You didn’t think I was going to miss this, did you?

Robin: Possibly. Roland is very concerned that you’re not going to give us one of your famous pre-game talks, and we’re going to lose.

Killian: Tell Roland that I am giving a speech, if you guys still let me, and then I will be in the suite watching with him.

Robin: We’ll definitely still let you. I can’t wait for you to come back. It’s been too long.

Killian: Aye, it has. Soon though. You guys have to win so I don’t have to wait until March to come back.

Robin: I’ll try my best but no promises.

“How do you feel about this for the centerpiece on your dining room table?”

“Hmm?”

Emma slides her laptop across the island to show him her monitor’s screen where there are several artificial pumpkins and faux foliage in a long wooden tray.

“What’s this for again?”

Emma rolls her eyes at him, and he can’t help but smile at her as he cracks an egg over the edge of his bowl. “You said you were thinking about hosting Thanksgiving here. Your apartment is a very ‘a single man lives here’ place. I was thinking you might need something to make it more festive on the folding table you’re going to have to bring in here to accommodate everyone.”

“It’s October fourth.”

“And?”

“It’s October fourth.”

Emma huffs and reaches over to the bag of chocolate chips (okay, so he broke down and is making some with chocolate chips for her but only some) and grabs a few, popping them into her mouth. “I am aware of the date, Professor Jones.” He sticks his tongue out at her for her use of Will’s nickname. “I can’t look at my game notes anymore without going crazy, so obviously I’m online shopping for you to distract myself.”

“I mean, obviously. What else would you do to waste your time away?”

“Watch TV or go back to sleep. I could go pluck my eyebrows or read a book. But then I won’t know when the cookies are ready, and that’s all I’m really here for.”

“It’s going to be thirty minutes. Technically, I should refrigerate the dough for a day instead of popping it in the oven right away. It makes the cookies fluffier.”

“Yeah, but that’s too long.”

“Give me ten minutes, and I will come and look at your decorations that you’ve picked out for Thanksgiving, aye?”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Emma tells him as she gives him a mock salute and turns around to walk toward the couch, unceremoniously falling backwards down onto the couch so that her legs hang off the side.

Insane, wonderful woman.

Killian hums to himself as he finishes making the cookie dough, and even though he should let it cool for longer than this, he simply puts the bowl on a shelf in the fridge and turns the oven on, the number six flashing up on the menu to tell him it’ll be finished preheating in six minutes.

Emma’s still lounging on the couch, all of her attention focused on the pre-game show that’s on the TV and her fall decorations, and he takes the opportunity to lean down over her, pressing his hands into the soft material of the couch on either side of her shoulders and to dip his head down so that he can sweep his tongue into her mouth. She gasps at the sudden movement, even if she opened for him, and it causes him to smirk down at her as she shifts beneath him, giving him more space to settle between her legs with his knees on the couch. It’s a bit of awkward movement getting settled, especially with how Emma was laying down to begin with, but they figure it out soon enough as his hand snakes up underneath her sweater to feel the soft skin of her stomach and the firm flesh of her breast. He flicks his thumb against her nipple at the same time that he finally gets to sweep his tongue against hers once more, and he’s overwhelmed by the taste of chocolate.

She’s obviously been sneaking in a little more than he thought she was.

“How many chocolate chips have you eaten?” Killian chuckles as he palms her breast while her nails scratch just above the waistband of his shorts.

“That’s not important.”

He teasingly flicks her nipple. “But it is.”

“Nope,” she mumbles with this undeniable joy in her voice. “It isn’t.”

Sometimes he still can’t believe that Emma is his to kiss and to hold and to laugh with. There have been a million and one obstacles along the way, things he never even could have imagined, and yet they are still here.

Together.

Emma’s fingers dip between the waistband of his shorts, and he hisses at her touch before reaching his free hand up to tangle in her hair and kissing her with a purpose. She’s so damn soft and warm against him, every movement of her lips and her tongue sending a shiver down each of the vertebrae that make up his spine as her hands ghost over his growing arousal.

“Bloody hell, love.”

“That’s what you get for judging my chocolate consumption.”

He huffs against her and trails his lips over her jaw and down to behind her ear while his hand moves from her breast to lay flat against her stomach to keep her from writhing below him so much.

“You know I don’t like chocolate too much,” he says into her ear before biting down onto the lobe.

“But you like me.”

“Aye,” he chuckles before biting down a little possessively onto the skin of her neck right in a spot that he knows will show above the dress she’s wearing today, “that I do.”

“Don’t leave a mark.”

“I’m not leaving a mark.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not,” he whispers against the warmth of her skin while he purposely does keep working where she doesn’t want him to work at her skin. He won’t actually leave a mark.

Emma gasps in pleasure before moving her hands away from his waist and up to his chest to push at him. She’s strong, he’ll give her that any and every day of the week, but he’s larger than her and manages to press all of his weight down on top of her while he stops sucking a mark into her skin and simple laughs into her ear while his entire body rumbles with amusement.

“You,” she huffs, but Killian can still hear the smile in her face and feel her lips softly brush into the hollow of his throat, “are the most obnoxious man on the planet.”

“I know. I have the trophy in my bedroom.”

“Stop,” she groans, pushing at him again, and this time he listens, moving off of her and the couch only to pull her up with him. It’s probably a little too much on his shoulder, but Emma is a little slight thing and he’s feeling good this morning. She stumbles a bit when she stands, but he wraps his hands around her lower back and tugs her closer to him so that their chests are pressed together and Emma’s arms are loosely wrapped around his neck while she smiles one of the biggest smiles he’s ever seen that he absolutely has to taste. “You know, I thought this was going to go in a very different direction.”

The oven beeps behind him, and Killian dips his head down to pepper kisses across Emma’s cheek and over her mouth so quickly that every kiss is as fleeting as a whisper of air. “I had a timer going for those cookies that you keep complaining about. There was never going to be time for that.”

Her eyes roll as her fingers thread into the hair at the nape of his neck as Killian starts walking them back to the kitchen. “It’s not nice to tease a woman into thinking that she’s going to get some action and it turns out she’s only getting cookies.”

“That sounds like a euphemism.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Hmm, it should have been,” he laughs as he backs Emma up into the countertop so that he knows the stone is digging into her lower back. Killian squeezes her hips before running his hands down to her bare thighs and holding her there while his forehead presses against hers and their noses brush together. “I love you quite a lot, you know?”

“Funny thing, I love you quite a lot too. I also love cookies, so get on that, babe.”

“I thought you didn’t like that they were oatmeal.”

“I will literally eat anything. Also, I already ordered the centerpieces for Thanksgiving.”

“I expected nothing less.”

They spend the rest of the morning piddling around the apartment, not really getting anything accomplished before they both have to get ready to go. Emma, by nature of having to curl her hair and apply her makeup, takes much longer than him to get ready, so he straightens up a little before they leave. Emma’s things seem to spread like wildfire, and he’s not entirely sure she’ll ever be able to clean up after herself.

He doesn’t know how Ruby and Graham deal with it.

Then again, they don’t have to too often anymore.

A little smile creeps onto his face at the thought, his mind recalling Emma making a joke about them living together a few weeks ago, and that’s precisely when Emma walks out of the bathroom wearing a pair of skin-tight jeans with suede boots that go up to her thighs and a tight-fitting white sweater with her hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

“What?” she asks as she puts in a pair of dangling gold earrings in her ear. “Why do you have that goofy little smile on my face?”

“I was just thinking about how undeniably smoking hot my girlfriend is.”

Emma huffs and keeps putting her earrings in. “Those aren’t your usual eloquent words.”

“You’ve rendered me speechless today.”

Emma walks toward him, a sweet smile on her face, and leans down to press her hands on his shoulder and squeeze. “Good.”

And then she’s walking away from him with a pointed sway of her hips that has her ass looking absolutely spectacular. “Minx.”

“I try,” she yells from the hallway. “Come on, Jones. We’ve got a baseball game to go to, and I have to be early.”

-/-

They easily win the game against the Astros that night.

They also win the next night, even if it’s much more of a nail bitter. Killian swears that watching it from the sidelines is a million times more nerve-wracking than actually being an active participant. He feels every little mistake magnified, and his mind focuses on the mistakes more than it usually does. Instead of being able to compartmentalize, Killian keeps replaying everything to figure out how they could have done things better.

He can’t change the past, but there are always improvements to be made in the future.

Focusing on the entire game instead of simply his pitching changes the perspective, and he’s going to lose all of his nails if he has to continue completely watching from up in the family suite instead of getting to be a part of the action every few days. Belle and Ariel are fine to watch with and all, but it’s not what he’s grown used to.

The past six weeks haven’t been too terribly bad, at least recovery wise, but now that they’re one win away from moving on from the Division Series to the Championship Series, Killian isn’t sure that he can wait much longer to get back out on the field for something other than practice.

“Be patient,” Emma always tells him.

He’s trying, but it’s damn hard.

Off to Houston they go.

-/-

“Do you know we’ve been together for six months, and this is technically our first date?”

“And you only had to follow me to Texas for us to accomplish it.”

“You’re a very cheap date.”

Emma laughs as she hooks her arm into the crook of his elbow and walks a little closer to him while they walk down the sidewalk in downtown Houston. They’ve only been in town for two hours, and while the rest of his team is at the fields practicing for tomorrow’s game in what they all hope will be the last game of this particular series so they can get one step closer to the World Series.

He doesn’t even technically have to be here since he’s still on the injury list, and while the team didn’t pay for him to have a room at the hotel, he’s set in being able to stay with Emma.

So while the guys all work their asses off, he and Emma are free to wander around completely freely for the first time, well, ever.

It’s odd still not having to worry about anyone knowing that they’re together. He’s still accustomed to looking over his shoulder and around every corner for someone they know or for some inane photographer to be there. And while things are still a little crazy back home, no one is paying them any attention here.

And since Emma was very rudely heckled by a few fans (though that term is used loosely) at yesterday’s game, Killian is thankful to simply be able to get away from it all. They’re doing a damn good job at dealing with things, but there’s no need to feel the weight of the world on their shoulders – especially his if he thinks of it literally – all the time.

“So,” Emma starts as they dodge a slight puddle on the concrete, “are you still not going to tell me what we’re doing tonight?”

“Nope. I know how to plan an evening. You simply have to trust me.”

“I obviously trust you, you weirdo, but I’m curious. All I’ve figured out was that we’re not going to some stuffy restaurant, which was kind of a surprise to me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re a romantic, Mr. Jones,” Emma sighs while she pats his forearm and rests her cheek against his shoulder. “You like to do things like get all dressed up and go to a candlelight dinner with wine and flowers and really expensive small food.”

Killian scoffs, incredulous. “That is not the only way to be romantic. Besides, we are not dressed for something like that. I don’t think they let in people with ripped jeans and white sneakers on.”

“Yeah, well, this is how you told me to dress. And you have on a plaid shirt over a t-shirt, so you’re not exactly dressed up either.”

“I thought you liked it when I dressed like this. Are you complaining?”

“No, Killian,” Emma breathes out, and he can practically feel the smile in her face, “I am not complaining. I simply want to know where we’re going.”

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to guide Emma along the sidewalk and follow the path that his phone told him to take. He swears that the GPS is leading him in circles and not to the destination, but then he sees the sign a bit of a way away and lets out a little sigh of relief.

“Swan,” he starts, stopping them in their tracks and placing his hands on her hips while a smirk stretches across his face, “you may not be a candlelight dinner kind of girl, but you are very much a smash old pieces of furniture up with a hammer kind of girl.”

Both of her brows raise high on her forehead. “What?” He nods his head to the building in front of them, and she turns around to look. It takes approximately five seconds for her to figure out. She spins on her toes and looks up at him with a smile that he swears reaches her ears. “I have never loved you more than I love you right now.”

“Exactly my intention.” He winks and places his hands on her ass, pushing her forward. “Now, come on, love. We’ve got a reservation.”

They hurry inside where Killian checks them in, and a woman comes out with safety equipment for them to slip into. They both look ridiculous wearing body suits and face masks to protect themselves from any flying shards of glass or pieces of wood from the broken downbroken-down furniture that they’re about to smash. Killian had simply been looking up things to do in Houston when he found this place where people pay to destroy furniture. Immediately, he knew Emma would love it, so he booked a reservation after texting Archie and making sure that his shoulder would be okay to wield a hammer.

From the absolute beaming joy on Emma’s face, he knows that he was right in his assumption of her loving this.

The room they get assigned to destroy is ironically a set-up of an old newspaper production office, and Killian is sure that Emma is very much pretending that all of the items in here belong to Walsh or his father or any other bastard who has hurt the two of them recently or in all of their years of life.

Smashing a hammer into a computer that has to be from the nineties is quite possibly the most cathartic thing that Killian has ever done.

Fuck Brennan Jones, Walsh Osbourne, Arthur King, and every other person who has ever hurt either of them.

And after the ten minutes of their session, Killian’s arms hurt from the exertion and his stomach hurts from the laughter of it all.

Totally worth it.

“Oh my God,” Emma breathes out when they walk out of the building back and into the crisp autumn air. They’re back in their regular clothes, sweat dripping down both of their backs, and their hair will likely never be normal again. “I take back all of my teasing about you having us go to some stuffy dinner. All of it.”

“Technically, there’s still time for us to go to one of those. It’s only eight.”

“Don’t even mess with me like that,” Emma laughs before pressing up on her toes to brush her lips over his. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to going to get something to eat.”

“I’ve got a plan for that.”

“You think of everything.”

“That I do.”

It’s a pie place two blocks over. He came here the last time they were in Houston and has been wanting to come back ever since. Pies usually aren’t his favorite thing, probably why he doesn’t bake them too often, but this place is downright delicious.

He’s also glad his workouts are back to being regular because the slices of rhubarb and key lime pie that he and Emma get are practically bigger than Emma’s head, and he fully plans on enjoying all of it.

Emma is taking large bites out of both her pie and his, as well as sipping on her mug of hot cholate, while telling him this story about David and Mary Margaret and how they have a penchant for going to karaoke bars on their date nights but usually only when they’ve had a few drinks. David is always willing to go, funnily enough, but Mary Margaret who seems like the exact type of person to enjoy singing songs and letting birds dress her in the mornings, will only go when she’s had at least two margaritas.

And for some reason they always sing We Are The Champions as if they have the vocal range of Freddie Mercury even when they’re not sober.

Killian would pay big money to see David Nolan, the perennial serious guy and protective older brother, willingly go and sing karaoke. In fact, he is very much offering to take the Nolans out one night when he gets more free time.

The smile that’s on Emma’s face mirrors the one she’s had all night, and Killian’s heart is suddenly struck with how much he loves her. She came into his life like a whirlwind, even if it was a slow going one, and Killian hasn’t looked back since.

It’s a funny thing. Love, that is. The world can be going up in flames around you with broken shards of glass having a trajectory straight to your heart, but none of that seems to truly matter when the person you’ve been vulnerable enough to give your heart to has a firm enough grip on it so that the cuts seem a little less deep.

Killian’s been in love before, and even though that relationship didn’t end well, he does know that it was love. But it’s not like this. It’s not this all-consuming thing where Killian can’t imagine living life eating pie in a diner with anyone else.

He’s known for a good while that his future, whatever it may look like, is going to be with Emma, but for some reason sitting with her and laughing with her while she’s got the smallest bit of whipped cream on the tip of her nose has truly cemented the idea in his mind.

And his heart.

Emma waves her fork in the air as she chews. “You’ve got that goofy smile on your face again.”

“I know not to which you are referring.”

She scrunches up her nose. “You’re thinking about David singing karaoke, aren’t you?”

“You know what, my love,” he sighs, “that’s exactly what I’m thinking about.”

“You know,” Emma sighs as she smiles at him with her fork full of pie, “that is a pretty good first date even though it’s not really our first date. I think I might like you, Killian Jones.”

Killian scoops up a bit of his pie. “Does that mean there’s going to be a second date?”

“And possibly a third, but don’t think that means I’m going to sleep with you.” She winks at him, and he can’t help but laugh. “A lady likes to be courted first.”

-/-

They win the next day.

Four more wins, and they’re going to the World Series.

It’s almost unreal, and yet it very much is real.

They’ve just got to beat the Red Sox first.

-/-

“Are you nervous?” Liam asks Killian two days later as he sits on the examination table in the hospital waiting for his doctor to come in with the results of his six-week follow-up MRI and the reports from Archie on how his shoulder’s movement is recovering.

He’s barely felt any pain in the past two weeks besides the occasional twinge, and while Killian has tried to tamper down the hope that things are going to be okay, it hasn’t worked. His mind is already imagining him underneath stadium lights standing on that mound with thousands of people cheering around him.

That’s one of the things that he lives for. Not the only thing but a damn important thing.

And he wants to be back.

He needs  to be back.

“Yes and no,” Killian tells his brother as his fingers tap against his thigh. “You didn’t have to come and wait for me, you know? I know you have your own patients.”

Liam shrugs his shoulder and sits down in the chair they leave for guests. “You said Emma couldn’t get out of a meeting at work, so I figured you’d want someone to be here.”

“I’m a grown man. I can handle going to the doctor by myself.”

“The fact that we’re in here right proves that isn’t true.”

“Ass,” Killian mumbles underneath his breath.

“I’ve made no claims to be anything else.” Liam looks damn proud of himself for having annoyed Killian, and it seems par for the course of things. “Are you surprised we haven’t heard anymore from Brennan?”

Killian’s teeth grind at just the sound of the name, but he quickly unclenches his jaw. “No. He wanted a reaction and more money. He didn’t get it. All that came from the bloody article was that I got followed around by cameras for three weeks and Emma had to put up with shit from men who are nothing more than assholes. Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking about it is all. Mom’s birthday is tomorrow, and that always makes me think of growing up, you know? I’m so much older than you and had such a different experience with them, and I do get a bit sentimental even if our father ended up simply being an over-involved sperm donor.”

“Funny, that’s how Elsa describes you.”

Liam reaches into the box of rubber gloves and snaps one at Killian only for him to catch it and for a smirk to slowly stretch across his lips. “And you call me an ass.”

“Being an ass is simply in our blood.”

“And yet two of the most incredible women in the world have chosen to spend their lives with us.”

Killian raises a brow. “Do you know something I don’t know?”

“No,” Liam chuckles, spinning in the chair. “I didn’t mean anything like that. Emma isn’t filing marriage papers or anything. I simply mean that the two of us, screw-ups that we are, have managed to get pretty lucky with both Elsa and Emma. It’s a big commitment to be stuck with a Jones man.”

“Ah,” Killian sheepishly sighs while reaching up to scratch behind his ear, “well, like you said, Emma isn’t technically stuck with me.”

“No?”

“No.” “And yet she wears mom’s ring around her neck. You hadn’t taken that off in years, and suddenly I see someone else wearing it.”

“Yep.”

“Yep? All you have to say to that is yep?”

“Aye,” he laughs, suddenly feeling a bit shier than he has in years. And it’s in front of Liam of all people. He hasn’t been shy in front of Liam in years. “Is that…are you upset about that?”

Liam’s brow pinch together, all of the lines on his forehead focusing in one place before they fall back to their normal spot and a soft smile graces his lips. “No, Killian, I’m not. I…there was a reason we each got the same amount of mom’s jewelry. She wanted us to give the pieces to the women we love. I’ve given pieces to Elsa, and you’ve given a piece to Emma. Mom would like that.”

“Would she? Do you think she’d like Emma?”

“She’d be obsessed with her. I think she may love her more than Addy and Lucy combined love Emma.”

Killian snickers as warmth spreads across his cheeks and his head nods up and down. “That’s a lot of love there.”

“There was a lot of love in her heart.”

His mouth opens to say something else, but then the door to the exam room is opening and Killian’s doctor is walking in with a clipboard and absolutely no emotion on his face.

“Do you want the good news or the good news?” he asks, and Killian’s heart leaps.

“Both.”

“Well,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, “as long as you continue to monitor your shoulder, you’re cleared to play again. Congratulations, Mr. Jones.”