#i spent days looking for these photos after i saw a tiny thumbnail

[summerblueringo]

Kimi Räikkönen in the 2010 Rally Japan (x)

[apiratewhopines]

Thanks again to @teamhook for the artwork and being the muse for this one! You wanted a movie fic and I did my best 🙂

Midnight

Chapter 7 — The Slipper

Summary: In which our heroine resets the clock

Chapter 7 on AO3 (That’s all folks!!)

“You’ll never know

How many dreams I dreamed about you”

-It’s Been a Long, Long Time, Bing Crosby

It was receiving the invitation to Arthur and Guinevere’s second wedding that did it. Emma’s fairy godfather stayed in touch after their weekend in the country, offering investment advice for her windfall and acting for all the world like her adopted brother. She knew he felt guilty for finding his happy ending at her expense. Despite her reassurances she messed up her chances hours before he came on the scene, maybe months if she were really honest.

Three months ago, she left the estate a little more scarred, a little less hopeful, and much more wealthy. She paid back the money stolen from Granny but couldn’t bring herself to buy a place in the city like she originally planned. Instead, she took the remainder and invested it per Arthur’s overbearing instruction. She doubled it in a week and tripled that figure by the end of the month.

She still wasn’t satisfied, though. Dreams of a certain blue-eyed man haunted her, his last words whispering through her mind like a mantra and a curse. So she found Neal’s trail again and spent the next couple of weeks looking for him in the shadows and muck. She found him mooching off his mother of all people.

All the hate, anger, and embarrassment she buried deeply at the end of their relationship dissipated the moment she saw him. Why had she given him so much real estate in her mind, allowed the ghost of him to rob her of her sanity and potential happiness?

It was with satisfaction at a job well done rather than his impeding downfall that she turned him over to the local authorities and headed back to the east coast.

By the time she arrived, she was richer and even more lonely.

She was listless and finding no reason to stay, Emma accepted Arthur’s latest proposition that she needed to see the world. Using his numerous estates as a guide, she flitted across the globe, experiencing all the world had to offer and looking. Always looking.

It took her longer than it should have to realize she wouldn’t find what she was missing in the new people she met or the natural wonders she explored. The whole time her mind and soul were calling out for a more familiar setting and a dearer face.

Lancelot was right. She was running scared, and the only thing it was going to get her was absolutely nothing.

The handsome, almost homewrecker had not attempted to reach out since their quiet conversation on the beach, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know what he was up to. After calling it quits, he realized the US hadn’t been the best place for him. He returned with great fanfare to France, where he took on the daily running of the family business. He was said to have the Midas touch, working with the locals to improve the processes and products they offered. His vineyard was becoming the trendiest tourist destination in the country.

Not even a month after his departure, the press reported on the fairytale romance of the champagne millionaire and his widowed neighbor, Belle French. The pair’s engagement announcement ran in every major newspaper in the world.

It was quick work, even for Lancelot du Lac. She couldn’t begrudge him, though. He was never truly a bad man, just a regular one who made bad decisions. She could certainly relate.

Cutting her trip short, she returned to the city where it all started, to a tiny loft apartment she rented on a month-by-month basis above Granny’s diner. There didn’t seem to be much point in seeing the world when the only world she was interested in was centered about four hours away.

The news of Killian was more challenging to come by than the other people involved in her charade, but that only made it more precious. A charity fundraiser here, a life saved there, the ever-present and never changing picture on the hospital website she checked so often it was now saved as her homepage. She thought glimpses and scraps were all she was entitled to at first. However, the longer she tried to resist his pull, the more she started to think maybe she did deserve a chance.

Maybe she wasn’t too late.

Staring at the thick cream-colored invitation with scrolling words waxing romance, dates, and times, she came to a decision and packed her bags.

—

—

It wasn’t hard to find the exact location of their meeting. It was burned into Emma’s memory. Their initial encounter cemented as one of those moments that seem routine when they happen but take root in your fate and grow, threading through every aspect of your life until all traces of happiness are tied to one serendipitous second in time.

After departing from Arthur’s estate in a chauffeured car all those months ago, she had returned to this spot and found her Bug right where she left it. Someone, probably the Prince Charming she was determined to break, had filled the tank with gas. So, she bid adieu to Arthur’s employee and drove off into the sunset all alone. Like she did everything.

Nothing had changed about the place in the intervening months. It was thirty minutes to midnight. The dark sky was clear, stars twinkling from space and the moon a tiny thumbnail above the evergreens. She would wait all night if she had to, but sooner or later, she would catch her quarry.

Emma Swan always got her man.

Unfortunately, she didn’t always get him on her first try. She waited for a couple hours the first night, but no black BMW could be seen cresting the hill. Admitting defeat, she went back to her hotel and vowed to try again.

She knew she could have sprung an unannounced visit on him at his job. After all, it wasn’t difficult to pick out his dark sedan in the parking lot when she cruised by the hospital several times a day. Nor would it have been difficult to track down his address and ambush him one evening when he returned home. The idea had a lot of appeal since his place lived in a variety of fantasies involving oversized shirts and pancakes.

Deep down, she knew after she had robbed him of his choice so many times in their brief acquaintance, it would be wrong to show up and act like nothing happened. She needed to allow him to invite her back in or send her away.

God, she hoped he invited her in.

It took three nights, but eventually, she saw headlights. Smoothing down the hem of her black tank top over her skinny jeans, she took a cleansing breath and stepped out into the middle of the road.

She had no doubt it was him, the cautious pace slicing through the night at exactly the same time as before. She could even tell the precise moment he spotted her in the bright lights of his high beams, the luxury car swerving slightly into the other lane. It was less than a minute later he rolled to a stop about ten feet away.

Then, nothing. The silence of a door not opening was deafening.

Maybe this was her answer.

She wished she could see past the glare and through the windshield. Look into his eyes at least once more and tell him everything she figured out over the past couple of months. The same things he had tried to say to her before he left.

Finally, a lifetime later, she heard the door open. She felt every footfall in the far reaches of her heart, each measured step in time with the rapid beating in her chest. She was lightheaded with longing, her eyes frantically trying to adjust between light and dark and make out Killian’s beloved form in the nighttime.

“Fancy meeting you here, Captain.”

There was another long pause and then he stepped into the narrow, car-sized area of light. He was even more handsome than she remembered. The static, professionally staged photo on the website never did him justice in the first place. “Emma, when did you get back?”

She heard the question for what it really was, ‘Emma, why are you here?’

Smiling past her nerves, she took a step closer. He looked like the proverbial deer in the highlights, like any sudden movement would cause him to turn tail and run. She did this to him. It was her fault her cocky Prince Charming looked spooked. “A couple of days ago. I need a ride to Misthaven. I’m late for an appointment.”

“An appointment? It’s almost midnight. I’m getting the strangest sense of deja vu.”

“You see, there’s a man. He’s actually the best thing that ever happened to me. But I felt like I didn’t deserve him, like I didn’t deserve anyone, really, so I ran. Several times. And even though I pushed him away and ruined everything, I need to let him know that he was never nothing. His feelings were never nothing. As a matter of fact, he’s come to mean everything to me, and I wanted to tell him I was sorry it took me so long to say it.”

Taking a step forward, he stood nearly toe to toe with her. His hair was sticking out at odd angles, his face twisted in thought, hands hanging in fists at his side. “Is that so?”

Reaching out, she placed her hands on his shoulders and she looked up into his eyes, whispering, “I’ve loved you since you let me have all the bites with whipped cream. I was just too scared to admit it.”

She waited when all she wanted to do was pull him closer and bury her face in his neck, inhale his intoxicating scent again and taste his skin. She had said what she needed to say, but it didn’t give her the right to waltz back into his life if that wasn’t what he wanted. “Killian, I—“

Her words were cut off by his abrupt kiss. He grabbed her like he was drowning and she was the only thing that could save him. His chest heaving and lips brutal in their quest. He hitched her up slightly, settling her against the hood of his car. He half leaned over her as he continued to explore every neglected inch of her mouth, every lonely corner of her soul. When he finally broke off his passionate embrace, his breathing was ragged and his voice harsh with emotion. “I have big plans for you and whipped cream, love.”

Laughter filled the inches between them, his forehead resting against hers. Peppering his face with soft kisses, her fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, she teased, “Prove it.”

—

The trail of clothes leading to the bedroom remained untouched for days. They survived the early days of their relationship on pancakes, whipped cream, and borrowed shirts.

Over the years, people asked her when she knew Killian Jones was the one. Her answer was always the same.

At the stroke of midnight.

Every night for the rest of their lives.

Note:

Midnight — Info about the movie

@teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @stahlop @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @motherkatereloyshipper @klynn-stormz

[wistfulcynic]

all the perfect things (that i doubt)

SUMMARY: Zelena is defeated and Emma returns to her quiet life in New York with Henry, leaving Killian brokenhearted and her feelings for him unresolved. Three years later they meet again and quite a lot has changed—but will these changes push them further apart or help them find their way back to each other?

Canon divergence with no time-travel adventure.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ohmightydevviepuu! You are brilliant and amazing and a fantastic writer and a kind friend, and so to honour the anniversary of your birth I have attempted to fill this VERY LONG one-shot with all the things you like best. There’s angst and second-chance romance and people needing to sort their shit out before finding their way back to each other and angst and emotions and erotica and did I mention angst? There’s also Tinkerhook and Captain Cobra (implied, but very much there) and oh yeah it’s a 3B divergence. AND the title comes from a song! I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young, which is just about the most Killian thing to ever Jones. I hope that it leaves your boxes thoroughly ticked. 

Much gratefulness to @thisonesatellite​ and @katie-dub​ for invaluable suggestions and encouragement ❤️❤️❤️

Rated: M Words: 20k Tags: canon divergence, angst, smut, angst with a happy ending, minor mentions of suicidal thoughts

On AO3 

-

all the perfect things (that i doubt)

Emma parked her bug in front of the red brick row house and got out, hiking her tight skirt inelegantly as she did and teetering a bit on her towering heels as she climbed the steps to the small porch. She went inside and shut the door behind her, then leaned back against it with a small sigh. It was weird being back in Boston after three years in New York—four, really, if you counted the year she and Henry had spent there without their memories—and she hadn’t quite adjusted yet. New York was pretty much home now, or at least that’s what she regularly told herself, and Boston was… well…

Boston didn’t feel like home but it did feel familiar, the uncomfortable familiarity of something—or someone—that knew her far better than she wanted them to. Emma didn’t like places that knew her too well any more than she liked people who did. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen to sublet a place in Brookline—that and the generous relocation allowance her bail-bonds firm was paying—and even though she had to drive into the city every day to help set up the firm’s new Boston branch, coming home every night to a place that wasn’t technically Boston offered at least a small respite. 

She hung her keys on a hook by the door and kicked off her heels, flexing her toes in relief. It was only a six month placement, she reminded herself. Six months to get the new office up and running, then she could go back to New York and be comfortably anonymous again. 

“Mom, is that you?” Henry’s voice called and Emma grinned, following the sound into the living room. 

“Were you expecting someone else?” she teased, collapsing onto the sofa next to her son and putting her feet up on the coffee table. “How was the first day at the new school?” 

Henry closed the book he’d been reading and turned to her, his face lit up with excitement. “Fine, fine, the school’s good and kids seem cool, but Mom! You’ll never guess.” He bounced in his seat, almost vibrating with eagerness. Even at fifteen Henry hadn’t lost the enthusiastic nature she’d found so hard to resist in the ten-year-old who’d first come to find her in this city. Despite his occasional bouts of teenage sullenness. 

“Guess what?” she asked, smiling at him. 

“Guess who my astronomy teacher is.” 

“You’re taking astronomy?” 

“I need a science and it’s better than chemistry.” 

“Well, that’s true.” 

“It’s also not important,” said Henry, impatiently refocusing the conversation back to his question. “Guess who my teacher is! You never will!” 

“Um, Carl Sagan?”

“Mom, he’s dead!” 

“Oh.” Dammit, thought Emma. She’d been pleased with herself for managing to come up with the name. “Um, who’s the other guy? Neil something Tyson?” 

“Neil deGrasse Tyson, and no, come on, you’re not even trying.” 

Emma sighed. “Henry, I genuinely have no idea. Why don’t you just tell me?” 

“It’s Hook!” 

“Hoo—what?” Emma stared at him as her heart stumbled then began to pound. He couldn’t possibly mean Hook Hook, could he?

“Captain Hook!” Henry confirmed, and Emma’s heart took off at a gallop. “He calls himself Killian Jones of course and he doesn’t wear the hook anymore but it’s still definitely him! I couldn’t believe it!” 

“But I thought…” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Isn’t he living in Storybrooke?” 

“That’s what I said! I mean, I’ve never seen him there but I just kind of assumed. But he said no, he’s lived in Boston almost three years!” 

“You—you talked to him?” Breathe, Emma.

“Well, yeah.” Henry shrugged. “It would have been rude not to. He didn’t exactly seem thrilled to see me, but he was nice. He said not to expect any special treatment in class though if I remembered what he taught me about using the sextant that one time it would be helpful. I mostly remember, so…” 

Henry chattered on and Emma tried her best to listen but her mind couldn’t focus. She felt breathless and chaotic, buzzing with confusion and with a strange eager excitement. Hook is here, was all she could think. Here. Here in Boston. Where she was. Here. Close by. Possibly very close. Her heart felt like it was trying to escape her chest, and she pressed the heel of her hand against it.

He was Henry’s teacher. Hook was a teacher. She tried to imagine that and found to her surprise that it wasn’t actually all that difficult. Obviously he wouldn’t wear his pirate coat in the classroom like in the image her frazzled brain insisted on conjuring, but he’d always been so good with Henry, she could easily imagine him teaching other kids.  

And he’s here, her brain kept reminding her. Here. Where you are. You can see him. You can see him. You can see him…

“…and he’s actually a really good teacher, he explains things so well.” Henry was still talking. “He says he teaches math too, I’m actually thinking I might try doing pre-calc with him, you know I wasn’t going to take that until we got back to New York, but I think he might be able to help me, and…”

“That’s great, kid.” Emma felt bad interrupting him when he was so excited but she couldn’t handle any more talking about Hook or thinking about Hook teaching Henry or about him talking to Henry or really just any thinking about Hook at all. “What do you want for dinner?” 

Henry’s eyes lit with a different sort of enthusiasm and Emma hid a grin. How to distract a teenage boy 101: Offer him food, she thought.

“Pizza from Dino’s,” said Henry decisively. “But since that’s not possible, how about something Boston-y that we can’t get in New York?” 

“Like what?” 

“How should I know, I’ve only been here once. You’re the one who used to live here.” 

“Um, baked beans? Clam chowder? Lobster roll?” 

“Pah,” he scoffed. “I can get lobster rolls in Maine.” 

“Well, how about clam chowder then?”

Henry looked dubious. “Okay,” he said. “I’m willing to try new stuff while we’re here. But if it’s gross, it goes on the list forever. Deal?” 

Emma laughed. “Deal.” 

…

Later that night when Emma finally gave up after hours of tossing and turning in her bed, kicked off the covers and went to her laptop, she knew what she was going to do. She didn’t exactly like it, but she knew it, and as she opened the website for Henry’s school she didn’t hesitate. She clicked on ‘Staff Directory’ and scrolled through the list of teachers’ names and then she caught her breath. 

It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed Henry, just that in the first flush of shock at hearing his name again she hadn’t really been able to process the reality of Hook being here, in Boston, in a normal place with a normal job and presumably a normal life. Not until she actually saw his name, right there on the screen, with her own eyes. 

Killian Jones. Mathematics and Astronomy. Latin Club. Debate Team.

With slightly trembling fingers she clicked on it, releasing the breath she’d been holding and gasping in another immediately after as her heart stumbled once more and began to pound against her ribs. The picture was in black and white and tiny, just a thumbnail, but it was unmistakably him. Still with the scruff though his hair looked neater, no eyeliner of course but he’d kept the earring—a small stud barely visible in the tiny photo. And somehow, somehow he still had that look in his eye… the one that promised excitement and adventure and fun… Emma squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to clear it. When she opened them again the look was still there. His students must love him, she thought. What kid wouldn’t want a pirate as their teacher?

She closed the school’s website and opened the professional one she used to dig up information on her skips. Using it to investigate anyone else was unethical enough that she could be fired for doing it but she was prepared to take the risk. He was teaching her son, she told herself. She had information about him that the school district did not. She had to make sure he wasn’t still doing… pirate-y stuff. Yeah, that was it. That was the reason.  

Ten minutes later she had his home address and cell number, his personal email and links to his social media accounts. Or rather, his account. Singular. He didn’t have Facebook or Twitter, which wasn’t particularly surprising she supposed, but he did have Instagram. She clicked on the link and a small smile curved her lips as her screen filled with images of the Massachusetts coastline.

He liked to take pictures of the sea. This was also unsurprising. But although various boats and ships featured prominently in many of his photos none of them were the Jolly Roger, and that did surprise her. What had he done with his ship, she wondered. Probably left it in Storybrooke; it wasn’t like he could sail a pirate ship around Boston harbour. Though he had sailed it to New York… She frowned. Hook loved that ship, it had been his home for literal centuries. Emma couldn’t imagine him just leaving the Jolly and moving someplace else. 

It was just… weird, the whole freaking thing. Hook’s presence here, his job, the quiet life he seemed to be living, his absent ship. It was a mystery, and mysteries had never sat well with Emma. Before she could talk herself out of it she copied his home address and pasted it into Google Maps, and when the results appeared on the screen she gave a wry snort. He lived a few blocks away from her sublet. Because of course he did. 

Good, she thought. It was good that he lived so close. That way, when she went to his house to confront him tomorrow she’d be able to walk there and pick up some dinner on the way home. 

…

Hook, as it turned out, lived in a very nice house on a very nice street in a very nice neighbourhood. A very nice neighbourhood, Emma thought, looking around as she strolled down the sidewalk trying to look casual and not as out of place as she definitely felt. Quiet and well-kept, with tall trees and flowers and carefully tended lawns. Not at all the kind of place you’d expect would appeal to a fairy tale pirate. 

His house was made of red brick in a sharp and tidy style, with white-framed windows and black shutters and a white portico with actual freaking columns at the top of the red brick steps. It was completely bizarre to think of him living there but also made an odd kind of sense. The house’s unfussy symmetry and clean colours gave it a nautical sort of air, and aside from a few shrubs on either side of the porch the lawn was neatly kept but bare. He’d always kept things neat, she remembered. 

 Emma’s heart was galloping again, her hand trembling as she rang the bell. She could hear it echo through the house and panic gripped her chest, and she wondered wildly if it was too late to turn around and run away. Then the door swung open and her mind went blank. 

His eyes were exactly as she remembered them, as blue as the ocean he so loved and just as deep, their expression shuttered now but still compelling. Still beautiful. They stared at each other for a breathless moment as she scrambled to think of something, anything to say to him, then he stepped back and held the door open. 

“Come in, Swan,” he said, and her heart beat even faster at the sound of her name in his voice, “I’ve been expecting you.” 

“You—you have?” 

“Aye.” He smiled wryly. “Ever since Henry appeared in my class yesterday. I knew your curiosity wouldn’t allow you to stay away for long.” 

He ushered her into a living room that was as tidy as his cabin on the Jolly Roger had been, with broad-planked hardwood floors and one wall lined with bookshelves. A large, comfortable-looking sofa sat at the centre of the room and Killian gestured to it. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, tea, beer?” 

“Beer.” Emma latched on to the idea of alcohol like a lifeline. “I think I could use one.” 

“Aye,” he replied. “As could I.” 

He disappeared through a door in the corner of the room as Emma sank weakly onto the sofa and tried to calm her frantic heartbeat. A minute or two later Hook returned with two brown bottles, handed one to her then sat on the opposite side of the sofa and took a long drink from the other. Emma drank as well, surreptitiously studying him from the corner of her eye as she did. 

He was wearing jeans. Well-worn, soft looking ones. And a t-shirt in a similar condition with ‘Boston College’ across the front in faded letters. 

“Boston College,” she blurted, desperate to fill the stretching silence. 

“Pardon?” 

“Your shirt. Boston College.” 

“Oh, aye.” He looked down and shrugged. “Where I studied.” 

“But—you didn’t,” said Emma, feeling thoroughly off-kilter. “You couldn’t have. Did you?” 

“Obviously I didn’t,” he replied. “But I have both memories and official documentation that says otherwise. Courtesy of Tink.” 

“Tink?” Emma frowned, both at his words and the nasty tendril of jealousy that curled in her gut. 

“Indeed. She gave me what I needed to start a new life in this realm. Much as Regina once did for you.” 

“But—Regina did that for me as part of a curse. How did Tink… for you..?” 

He shrugged again. “Damned if I know. I try not to ask too many questions where magic is concerned. We… rekindled our old companionship after you left. She knew I wanted to leave Storybrooke and once her magic was fully restored she offered to help me do that. The results are as you see. She gave me what she said was the same realm-specific knowledge Regina gave the Storybrooke residents she cursed, along with an identity and accompanying memories so I could get a job outside of Storybrooke.” 

“But—” Emma’s head was spinning, the jealous tendril writhing like a snake. “Why did you want a job outside of Storybrooke?” 

“There’s nothing for me in that town,” he replied, in echo of the last time they’d sat like this, drinking together. “Why would I stay?” 

“Well… I mean…” 

He drank again, deeply, and she tried not to watch his throat work as he did. “I saw an opportunity for a fresh start in a new place,” he said. “One that thinks Captain Hook is an object of ridicule with a perm and a waxed moustache.” He smirked wryly though anger flared in his eyes. 

“You saw that, did you?” 

“And read the book.” He drank again. “And as much as I may like to wring the neck of this J.M. Barrie, he did in a roundabout way afford me the chance to slip unnoticed into this realm and become someone new. And so I did.” 

“I’ll say you did. A high school teacher?” 

“And why not?” he challenged. “You’ve said yourself I’m good with children. And I enjoy it. It’s honest work, and rewarding.” 

Emma shook her head, struggling to get to grips with everything he was saying and everything she was seeing in him. He looked so familiar; even with the drastic wardrobe change his face and his hair and his voice were all just as she remembered. But he was different. A kind of different that couldn’t be explained away by the knowledge Tink had given him or his new life. His face and eyes were so expressionless, his body language cool and distant. She couldn’t detect event the smallest hint of the flirtatious pirate who used to invade her space whenever he could, always challenging her, always understanding her, always watching her with that unnervingly intense focus—like he wanted to uncover every inch of her. That man seemed so thoroughly absent from the one now sitting opposite her that for a moment Emma wondered if she had imagined him.

“Well, you seem to be good at it,” she said brightly. “Henry can’t say enough good things about your class. He’s thinking of taking another one with you, actually. Pre-calculus.” 

“Aye. I’ve already approved his request. He’ll start tomorrow.” 

“So are you as good a math teacher as you are an astronomy one?” She made her voice light, teasing, edging into flirtatious, hoping to draw out the pirate—even just a brief glimpse of him, just for a moment. Hook’s face remained impassive.  

“I do my job to the best of my ability in every class I teach,” he replied, then drained the last of his beer and set the empty bottle on the sea chest in front of the sofa. Emma sipped hers, feeling cold and confused and with a sharp ache of loss in her chest.  

Hook leaned back against the arm of the sofa and gave her a hard look. “So is your curiosity appeased, then, Swan?” he asked. “Do I pass muster? May I be allowed to continue with my job and my life?” 

She frowned, hurt by the harsh sarcasm in his tone. “I didn’t come here to—to investigate you,” she said, forgetting that this was the exact excuse she’d given herself for her visit. “I just wanted to see you.” I’ve missed you, she did not say. I thought maybe you’d missed me too. 

“And now you have,” he replied. “Is that all?” 

“I—I guess so.” Emma put her own beer on the table though the bottle was still mostly full. “I guess I’ll be going.” 

“I’ll see you out.” 

He could sound less eager about it, she thought, following him to the door. He opened it for her and she looked at him again, at this man so familiar and yet so strange, and realised that even though he was standing right in front of her she still missed him. She missed him. 

On impulse she leaned in close and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly and kissing his cheek. His scruff was surprisingly soft beneath her lips and she heard him catch his breath, felt him flinch as if to hug her in return then stop himself. She lingered as long as she dared before stepping back, and when she looked into his eyes again she caught her own breath. 

There was the heat she’d started to think she had imagined. Heat and longing and that edge of danger that even a black and white thumbnail photo couldn’t disguise. In that split second he looked like he wanted to devour her, his breath hot on her cheek as he leaned closer, his eyes blazing with everything she had missed about her pirate. 

Then he blinked and his eyes were shuttered again. He grabbed her arms roughly, pulling them from around his waist and shoving her away, towards the open door. “Well, thanks for stopping by, Swan,” he said, not looking at her. “So nice to see you again. Tell Henry I said hello and not to forget his astronomy homework. Goodbye.” He shut the door behind her and she heard the click of the lock turning.

She fought the urge to cry all the way home. 

…

Killian leaned back against his front door and slowly slid down it, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his head drop into his shaking hand. Tremors racked his body and his chest was so tight he struggled to draw in gasping breaths. 

Three years. Three years since she’d left Storybrooke, left him, returned to the life she’d had when she couldn’t remember him and never looked back. Three years since she’d shattered his heart. 

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he thought bitterly, she walks into mine. He should have taken that job in Montana instead. Emma would surely never show up there. 

Of course, he hadn’t thought she’d show up here either, not in this city she’d already lived in and left. Emma wasn’t the sort of person to go back to places—or people—she’d put behind her. He’d thought he was safe here. 

It seemed he’d thought a lot of things that weren’t actually true. That he could withstand seeing her again, for one. That he was prepared. He’d coached himself, steeled himself, buried his feelings deep and locked them away. And all it took was one brief press of her body against his, one gentle brush of her lips across his cheek to break right through his carefully constructed defences and reduce them to dust. 

Tears prickled behind his eyes and he blinked them angrily away. He would not weep over Emma Swan, he told himself firmly, not again. Not today. Instead he would pull himself together again just as he had in Storybrooke, as he did every time thoughts of her overwhelmed him, and he  would get on with his life. Now that she’d seen him surely her curiosity would be assuaged and she wouldn’t return. He could find his peace again. 

…

The next morning Killian walked to work, a thing he did as often as possible. It wasn’t that he disliked driving, quite the contrary in fact. Cars, in keeping with many of the mechanical innovations of this realm, fascinated him, and aside from his house his car was the one possession in which he had truly indulged. 

In the staid upper-middle-class neighbourhood where he lived his sleek gunmetal-grey Aston Martin was almost acceptable, not outrageous enough to give his neighbours anything to actually complain about but more than sufficient to irk them in a way they couldn’t quite articulate when he zipped along their tree-lined streets with the top down. Had they known that the money he’d used to buy it was ill-gotten pirate treasure magically converted into the currency of their realm, they would have been even more displeased. The thought of that delighted Killian nearly as much as the car herself. 

And his car did delight him; the powerful hum of her engine and the way she responded to the smallest twitch of her wheel was the closest thing he’d yet found in this world to standing at the helm of the Jolly Roger in full sail. He’d purposely chosen a convertible for the feel of the wind through his hair, and as often as possible he took her out of the city, driving far too fast along quiet country roads and almost hoping the local police would catch him doing it. 

Once a pirate always a pirate, at least in some small ways. 

But still he preferred to walk to work. Idling in traffic was an insult to his car and a waste of her skills and anyway the walk was not a long one—hardly more than a good stretch of the legs, as Liam would have said. It took him barely twenty minutes along the shortest route and less than half an hour even if he stopped for coffee first.  

That morning, he stopped for coffee. He’d not slept well, too plagued by thoughts of Emma and then by dreams of her to manage any real rest. His eyes felt gritty and his head ached, and though the walk in the brisk morning air cleared some of the cobwebs from his brain it hadn’t made much of a dent in anything else. 

He ordered his usual black coffee and a not-so-usual blueberry muffin. The intense sweetness of breakfast foods in this realm he didn’t generally care for but this morning he needed a boost of something and sugar seemed as good a thing as any, despite the inevitable mid-morning crash it would bring. There were always donuts in the staff room, perhaps later he’d finally give one of those a try. Anything to get him through this day. 

He took his coffee and the bag with the muffin from the barista with the best approximation of a smile that he could manage and wished her a good day. She blushed. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and Killian shook his head as he turned to go. When had it come to pass that he, the erstwhile Captain Hook, was referred to as ‘sir’ by sweet and blushing young women? Probably right about the time he’d stopped calling himself Captain Hook. 

Still, the blush and her shy smile brightened his mood and he was just thinking that perhaps this day might not end as dreadfully as it had begun when he walked through the cafe’s outer door and straight into Emma. 

Coffee sloshed from his cup and onto his hand and he barely managed not to drop it or his muffin as he caught her around the waist with his prosthetic before she could fall, hissing in a breath at the feel of her pressed against him for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. She gave a small cry and grabbed his shoulders for balance, her eyes wide and startled. 

“Hook!” she gasped. 

“Killian,” he snarled, using the arm around her waist to steer her out of the path of the other people trying to get into the cafe. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t use that name anymore, particularly not in public,” he hissed, low for her ears only. 

“What, you think someone’s going to recognise you?” She smirked. “You don’t have enough hair for that.” 

“This isn’t a joke, Swan,” he said harshly. “I’ve left that man and his name behind me, and I don’t particularly care to be reminded of them.” Her fingers flexed on his shoulders and with a start he realised that they were still standing close together, his arm tight around her waist. He released her and stepped back so abruptly she stumbled, and cleared his throat before he spoke again. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked, though he had a terrible suspicion he already knew the answer. 

“Getting coffee,” she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “This place was recommended in all the neighbourhood guides.” 

Neighbourhood bloody guides. “So you live nearby, then,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“Yep. About three blocks that way.” She gestured vaguely behind her. “I’m working in Boston, though. Setting up a new office of my bail bonds firm. What about you?” 

“You know where I live.” 

“Yeah, but I mean are you headed to work already? Isn’t it a bit early?” 

“The school day begins at 7.30, Swan, as I would expect you to know, being the parent of one of my students,” he said shortly. “And I am now officially running late. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned to go. 

“Killian.” Emma caught his arm and he flinched, both from the feel of her hand on him and the way she said his name. 

“What?” he snapped. 

“Can we—look, can’t we just—” 

“Spit it out, love.” He risked a glance at her, his fingers tightening on the muffin bag as their eyes met. 

“Can’t we be friends?” she burst out. “Please?”

 He stared at her for an incredulous moment and then the fury he’d been so carefully holding back exploded in his chest. He rounded on her, backing her up against the fence of the cafe’s outdoor seating area, keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention, spitting the words in her ear. 

“No, Swan, we cannot be friends,” he hissed. “We have never been friends.” 

It was far too tame a word, he thought, too tame a concept to ever encompass the complex tangle of emotions that Emma inspired in him. They had always been both more than friends and a good deal less, and as far as Killian was concerned she’d thrown away the more when she turned her back on him three years ago. The less was all that remained. 

They were standing much too close again, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes and hear the rasp in her breath and he was so tempted, so bloody tempted to give in. To agree to be her friend and anything else she wanted, to accept whatever scraps of affection and attention she was willing to spare him and be grateful for them. But he’d accepted those terms before and they had all but broken him. 

With a massive effort he reined in his anger and stepped back, drawing a deep breath to calm himself. “As it appears that we are neighbours of a sort, I don’t doubt we’ll see each other around,” he said. “When that happens I will nod politely to you and exchange pleasantries about the weather and Henry’s progress in school and perhaps the latest performances of Boston’s various sports teams. Beyond that I can’t imagine that we would have anything to discuss.” 

He spun on his heel and stalked away, leaving her leaning against the fence, trembling and once more on the verge of tears. She stared at the door of the cafe for a long moment before turning away, no longer hungry but with an aching emptiness inside her that she had no idea how to fill. 

…

As he had predicted, Emma ran into Killian everywhere she went, or at least that’s how it felt. After their third encounter at the cafe—each at a different time—she’d started arriving early and lurking in her car until she saw him leave before venturing in herself. Even with that precaution she still spotted him at the grocery store and at the bank, and at the only pizza place in town Henry deemed acceptable as a temporary stand-in for Dino’s. He was everywhere she turned, nodding civilly at her each time they met and making a bland remark, his face and eyes so expressionless it made her want to claw at something. Preferably at him. 

Finally after two awkward weeks Emma found a welcome distraction, a temporary one but at least it was something to take her mind off Killian for one night: a skip that was a perfect target for a honey trap of the kind she hadn’t pulled in far too long. Anticipation buzzed in her veins as she approached the restaurant where they were set to meet, a swankier one than she usually preferred for these sorts of things but the skip was a banker who was clearly out to impress. 

Emma was out to impress too, in a dark red strapless dress that hugged every curve and heels that made her legs look endless. Her hair was perfectly curled and her makeup on point, and she flashed a smile at the doorman as she strode in, feeling slightly reckless and more confident than she had in some time, and completely failing to notice the woman standing just inside the doors until she’d bumped into her. 

“Oh, sorry!” she said, catching the woman’s arm as she stumbled. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.” 

“No problem,” replied the woman with an apologetic laugh. “I probably shouldn’t be standing in the doorway, but my boyfriend’s running late which is really not like him, and I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself while I wait.” 

She was a very pretty woman in a wholesome sort of way, with golden brown hair and dark blue eyes, and a warm smile that Emma couldn’t help responding to. 

“Well I hope he turns up soon,” she said, smiling back. 

“I’m sure he will,” replied the woman. “Have a great night!” 

“You too.” 

The skip was waiting for her at the bar, with a martini for himself and a glass of white wine for her. Emma ground her teeth behind a brilliant smile. Men who ordered for women without consulting them were the worst kind of assholes. She was going to enjoy nailing this fucker’s balls to the wall. 

“White wine!” she exclaimed, settling gracefully onto the barstool next to him and crossing her legs, making sure a generous portion of thigh was on display. “How’d you know?”

“I know what the ladies like,” he replied with a smirk he probably thought was charming. 

“You sure do.” Emma picked up the wine glass and took a sip, not missing the way his eyes lingered on her mouth as she did. She set the glass down and ran her fingertip along its rim, looking up at the skip through lowered eyelashes. “So tell me about yourself,” she cooed. 

“Well, I work for the biggest bank in the city…” he began, and Emma widened her eyes in feigned interest. From the corner of one of them she caught sight of the woman from earlier approaching a small table not far from the bar, accompanied by a dark-haired man who had his hand at the small of her back and was leaning down to whisper in her ear. Emma smiled to herself, glad that the woman’s boyfriend had finally showed, and then she got a good look at him. 

Killian. 

Emma’s heart stumbled and she froze, her eyes fixed on the couple as they arrived at their table. The woman was holding a pink rose, sniffing it with a soft smile as Killian pulled out her chair for her and kissed her cheek as she settled into it. He spoke a few words to the hovering waiter who nodded eagerly and scurried away, then sat down next to the woman and took her hand, lacing their fingers together and murmuring something that had her blushing and sniffing the rose again. 

My boyfriend’s running late… my boyfriend… boyfriend… the woman’s words rang in Emma’s ears as she watched them. They looked comfortable together but still with an undercurrent of excitement, like the relationship was new but not too new. Killian must have been dating this woman for at least a few months. Long enough for her to know that it wasn’t like him to be late, and not to feel insecure when he was. Long enough for her to casually call him her boyfriend. 

The waiter reappeared with a bottle of wine and a small vase for the rose. The woman laughed when he set it down in front of her and the look she gave Killian made Emma’s heart ache. The waiter poured their wine and they clinked their glasses together, then settled into what appeared to be easy and pleasant conversation. 

Killian looked… not precisely happy, Emma thought. But he looked content. Relaxed and at ease in a way she’d never seen him be before. He smiled often as the woman spoke and there was no flirtation in it, no smirk or leer or defensiveness. Just simple smiles from a man enjoying the company of his date. 

“Hey,” said the skip, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “You’re not even listening to me.” 

“Sorry.” Emma dragged her eyes away from Killian and tried to focus on her mark. She needed to stay sharp to spot the moment when she could jump in and cuff him with the least amount of fuss. It would be better if she could get him outside first; he looked like a runner and although she’d taken the precaution of clamping his car she didn’t really want to cause a commotion in a restaurant this nice. He started in again boasting about his job and she did her best to appear attentive but she couldn’t keep her eyes from darting back to Killian. That woman had seemed so nice, sweet and friendly and she didn’t even know who he was, thought Emma with a burst of anger. She didn’t know anything about him, not about his past and the terrible things he’d done… or about the losses he’d suffered… the way he could read her like an open book… how he used to look at her… the way he kissed…

Oh she knows exactly how he kisses, whispered a nasty little voice in the back of her head. And a lot more.   

Emma snarled at that thought, clenching her fist on her wine glass so hard that the stem snapped and its jagged point sank deep into her palm. 

“Ow!” she cried, loudly enough that several people at the neighbouring tables turned to stare. She didn’t look at Killian—she couldn’t—but she could sense his eyes on her and for a crazy moment she wished she still had magic and could disappear in a puff of smoke. 

“What the hell,” said the skip, glaring at her. “What is wrong with you?” 

“Nothing! I just—it just broke.” 

“You’re bleeding everywhere.” His lip curled in disgust but he made no move to help her. 

“Sorry,” she said. “I—I’m sorry.” 

“Fuck this,” said the skip, tossing back the rest of his drink and standing up. “You’re really hot but no lay is worth this much effort.” He tossed some money on the bar and walked away. 

“No—wait!” Emma tried to follow but as soon as she stood up a jolt of pain shot through her hand and made her woozy. Her wound was bleeding profusely now, dripping into the spill of white wine on the bar and turning it pink. The bartender was frantically trying to mop up the mess with one hand and waving a handful of cocktail napkins at Emma with the other. 

“Ma’am…”  he said faintly, “please don’t bleed on the upholstery…” Emma took the napkins and tried again to pursue the skip. She squeezed the paper against her palm in an attempt to stop the bleeding but her wound twinged agonisingly under the pressure and she stumbled, crying out again, and then a warm hand gripped her elbow. 

“Swan,” said Killian’s voice in her ear. “Let him go.” 

“No—he’s a skip—he’ll get away—” 

“You can’t chase him down with a bleeding puncture wound on your hand,” said Killian impatiently. “Let him go. You’ll get him another day.” 

Emma looked up at him, her head spinning from the combined effects of pain and blood loss, and his touch on her skin. He eased her back onto the barstool and she didn’t protest, sitting quietly as he took the napkins and dipped them into a glass of water he must have brought from his own table. Cradling her hand in his prosthetic one he gently dabbed the blood from her wound, easing out a tiny shard of glass that had been lodged within it. 

“You should get this seen to properly,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. “But I suppose you won’t.” 

“I hate doctors.” 

“Very understandable, but it might get infected. At least wash it well when you get home.” 

“In rum?” she challenged, hoping to rile him. He didn’t look up. 

“No need,” he said. “A good antibacterial soap should do the trick.” 

He finished rinsing the wound and set the used cocktail napkins aside, pulling a large cloth one from his pocket. She caught her breath as he wrapped it several times around her hand and secured the ends in a tight knot. His new prosthetic moved, she noted vaguely. Much more useful than a hook. No need to use his teeth. 

“There,” he said, stepping back. “That should do it.” 

Emma’s chest was aching, her mind whirling with how familiar and yet how strange this felt. Never, in all the times she’d thought of him over the past three years, not once had she imagined a situation in which Killian Jones didn’t flirt with her. Didn’t challenge her. Didn’t even fucking look at her. Flirty Hook she could handle, and cocky Hook. Even hot as fuck Hook breathless and wrecked after their kiss in Neverland she could handle. But this calm and controlled man who bandaged her hand without once looking at her face, this man she absolutely could not. She had no idea even what to say to him.

“I guess you think I should thank you,” she snapped. Her pain and confusion were too raw, too much for her to process right now. Anger was easier. It was hot and clean and she had more than enough to spare. 

Anger flashed across Killian’s face as well and she felt a perverse thrill at the sight of it. Good, she thought, he should be angry. She wanted to make him furious. 

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he snarled. “I have no need of any gratitude from you.”  

She hissed in a breath sharp with hurt and they glared at each other, the air thickening with the tension between them, brittle and volatile and unbearable.  

“Killian,” said a small, quiet voice, and they both turned to see the woman standing awkwardly a few feet away, twisting her hands together. “I’ve paid the bill,” she said. “I—I’m going to go.” 

The anger drained from Killian’s face, replaced by regret and guilt and a deep sorrow that made Emma feel ashamed. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll accompany you.” 

For a moment Emma thought the woman would refuse, but then she gave a small nod. Killian offered her his arm and she slid hers through it, and they left the restaurant together, not looking back. 

Emma shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if a million eyes were watching her. She swept the room with a defiant glare and as soon as Killian and the woman disappeared through the doors she headed towards them herself. With any luck she’d still be able to catch the skip before he could get the clamp off his car. She hoped so. She hoped he ran when she confronted him. She hoped he fought back and gave her an excuse to punch him in his stupid smug fucking face.

…

Killian dropped Anabel at her door with a kiss on the cheek and an apologetic smile, hating himself for the hurt confusion in her eyes. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, squeezing her hand. She gripped his fingers hard. 

“Who is she?” she whispered. 

Guilt stabbed at him, followed by suffocating regret. He genuinely and deeply cared for Anabel, and he’d tried so bloody hard to be happy with her. He was almost happy, as close as he could remember being for the best part of three centuries, and so naturally he’d gone and buggered it the first chance he got. One glimpse of Emma pale and bleeding had wiped Anabel and his hard-won contentment and every other bloody thing clean out of his mind, and he had acted without a thought for anyone but her. 

“Someone from my past,” he replied. “I haven’t seen her in years. I thought I’d put her behind me but—” 

“You still love her,” said Anabel flatly. It wasn’t a question. 

Killian sighed. He really didn’t want to talk about this here, or now, or ever, but he owed Anabel the truth. 

“I don’t know how to stop.” 

She nodded, blinking hard as tears filled her eyes. He pulled her into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder, soothing her as they fell. “I’m so sorry, Bela,” he said softly. “I care so much for you and I truly thought that we could—” 

She pulled out of his embrace and shook her head. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t make any decisions now. Sleep on it. Talk to her, figure out whatever needs figuring. I’ll wait.” 

“I couldn’t ask you to—” 

“I’ll wait, Killian.” She leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips. “You’re worth it.” 

…

You’re worth it. Those words followed Killian home, chased him through his door and straight to his stash of rum. He’d mostly given up drinking it, needing to be sharp for his classes and limiting himself to a beer or two when he wanted to relax, but there were times that simply called for the hard stuff. 

He poured himself a generous glassful and tried not to let the words ring in his ears. You’re worth it. It was worrying, how hard such things still were for him to hear. No one had thought him worth much of anything for so long that he’d come to believe it himself. To internalise it, in the terminology of this realm.

He knew of course that he had some good qualities. He was intelligent and quick to learn, resourceful and decisive and courageous. A man couldn’t survive centuries in command of a pirate crew without at least a few of those attributes. But they counted for little when his shortcomings were constantly cast up at him by the one person he most wished to impress. Well you are a pirate… I’ve got magic, he’s got one hand… let me guess, with you?

Emma had certainly never thought he was worth much. Not worth staying in Storybrooke for. Not worth taking a chance on. Not worth loving. 

While he, fool that he was, could never stop loving her. 

He was deep into his fourth glass when his doorbell rang, and he knew without even looking who it was. Ignore it, whispered his sensible voice in his ear, but Killian was too drunk and too angry for the sensible option. 

The moment the door swung open Emma charged in, shoving him back and slamming it behind her. She rounded on him, fisting her uninjured hand in his shirt collar and pulling him against her. 

“I lost my skip because of you,” she hissed. 

In her heels and his stocking feet they stood eye-to-eye, pressed together from chest to knee, and every nerve in Killian’s body screamed in pleasure at the contact. He grabbed her hand and yanked it off him, pushing her away so forcefully she nearly fell. “You lost your skip because you broke your glass,” he snapped. “It was nothing to do with me.” 

“You distracted me. While I was working.” 

He glared at her. “What are you on about? I was having dinner, or about to—”

“You were flaunting that woman—” 

“Flaunting?”

“With the rose and the pulling out her chair and—” 

“That is simply how I treat the women I date, Swan,” he said, stepping closer to her again, backing her against the wall.  

Emma’s cheeks flared bright pink but she didn’t back down. “What, even when I’m not watching?” she sneered. 

“I wasn’t aware you were watching tonight!”  

“Oh, like you didn’t notice me as soon as you walked in.” 

Her breath was coming in short pants, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest with each inhale, and his lust clawed inside him like a living thing desperate to get out. Killian leaned in until their lips were almost touching, torturing himself with her little gasp and the way her eyes darkened. “No, actually,” he growled. “I didn’t.” 

He pushed away from the wall and smirked at her. “I know this is difficult for you to grasp, love, but not everything in my life revolves around you,” he said harshly. “Until two weeks ago I thought I’d never see you again.” 

“Oh, so you just happened to be out on a date at the same place I was?” 

“That place being my girlfriend’s favourite restaurant, where we’ve dined many times before, you mean?” 

Emma’s lip curled. “Your girlfriend—”

“Aye. Of nearly a year.” 

“—you expect me to believe that Captain Hook has a girlfriend?” 

“No, Killian Jones has a girlfriend,” he hissed, stepping closer again. “What, Swan, did you imagine I would pine away in celibacy forever because you wouldn’t have me?” 

“Of course not! That was never—we were never—” 

Abruptly all his anger, his frustration, his lust, the electric thrill of sparring with her again drained away, leaving him numb but for the gnawing ache in his heart. “Indeed,” he said, and turned away. “We were never.” 

“That’s not what I meant, Killian.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

He stalked into the kitchen and retrieved his glass of rum, tossing it back and refilling it with a hand that was not quite steady. Before he could pick it up again Emma appeared at his elbow, whisking the glass away and taking a long drink. 

“Help yourself, love,” he snarked. She handed the glass back to him and he drained it, setting it down on the table. She refilled it without a word and took another drink. He sighed. 

“Why are you here, Swan?” he asked. “What do you want from me?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Fury licked at him again. “You don’t know,” he hissed. “Is that so? Well perhaps I can enlighten you.” He took the glass from her and emptied it, then slammed it down. “You wanted to make sure that I was still your faithful pet,” he spat. “That I would still come running the moment you crooked a finger, desperate for any scrap of your attention—”  

“That’s not true—”

“—despite your utter rejection back in Storybrooke and your complete lack of interest in me or my life in all the time we’ve been apart.” 

“I asked about you, or I tried—” 

“You tried.” 

“Yes! Every time I talk to my parents I ask—well, not ask but I try to—I thought you were still in Storybrooke!” 

“And so you thought you’d just use your parents to check up on me? And it never struck you as odd that they didn’t know anything?” 

“I just—I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t ask them directly because then they would know you were curious,” he concluded. “And we couldn’t have that, could we darling?” 

She grabbed the rum glass and refilled it. He watched as she tossed it back, wishing he could ignore his body’s reaction to her—that constant itch to touch, to trace the curves outlined by her clinging dress and sink into the softness of her hair. He still remembered how it felt beneath his fingers in Neverland, the taste of his rum on her tongue… he wanted to taste it on her again, to lick the traces of it from her lips and then deep into her mouth, wanted to rip that dress from her body and plunder her. The dark heat that flared in her eyes as she caught him staring, as she let the rim of the glass trail across her lower lip, said she knew exactly what he was thinking and she wouldn’t stop him. That she wanted everything he did. 

Slowly she set the glass down and stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her hair and feel her breath against his cheek. His cock was rock hard and he cursed it, cursed his helplessness to resist the pull she exerted on him. His hand curled around her waist without his permission, and when a small, satisfied smile curved her lips it slid down to grip her arse and pull her tight against him. 

She stiffened and for the briefest moment he thought she might pull away, and then she moaned and rolled her hips and he was lost. His arm wrapped around her waist as hers curled around his neck, he plunged his hand into her hair and she tugged at his, bringing their lips together in a clash of heat and lust and fury. She tasted just as he remembered and this time he chased it, battling her for control of the kiss. If they were going to fuck like this, he thought, in anger and animosity and not lovingly, reverently as he had so often dreamed… if they were going to fuck, they were going to do it his way.  

He slid his hands beneath her dress and hooked the index finger of his prosthetic beneath the thin strap of her thong, snapping it easily. She gasped against his mouth and he chuckled darkly, trailing into a groan as his fingers found the slick heat between her legs. She was so soft and so bloody wet—wet for him—that his head spun and his knees went weak, and he forgot his anger and their fight and sought only to pleasure her, pushing two fingers inside her and stroking her clit with his thumb, thrilling to the sound of her low moan and the sharp pain of her fingernails digging into his arms. 

He tugged her head back and trailed his mouth down her neck as his fingers worked inside her, dragging the neckline of her dress down with his teeth until her breast was freed then swirling his tongue around her nipple. 

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped. “Hook.” 

He jerked away like she’d doused him in ice water, his anger flooding back. 

“No,” he hissed. “Killian.” 

Emma’s eyes flashed defiance, “Hook,” she insisted, scraping her fingernails down his chest, popping buttons as she went. He knocked her hands away with his prosthetic and backed her up against the kitchen counter, his fingers still inside her, squeezing his hand to grind the heel of it hard against her clit, wrenching a helpless moan from her.   

“You want Hook?” he snarled. “Do you?”

“Yes!” 

“Well, you can’t have him. It’s me or nobody and I swear by all the gods in the heavens, Swan, if you call me by that name again I will kick you out of my house as you bloody are.” 

She glared at him, chest heaving, and he could see how badly she wanted to defy him. He prayed he’d have the strength to carry out his threat if she did. Their harsh breaths sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of the kitchen until Emma bucked her hips against his hand and conceded. 

“Killian, then,” she said, grudging but breathless, like the name was an intimacy that she resented but also craved. He pressed her clit harder and she moaned again. “Killian,” she breathed, and it sent a spear of pure lust through him. 

He pulled his hand from between her legs and stepped back, holding her gaze as he put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean. “My bedroom is upstairs,” he said. “First door on the left.” 

Her eyes flashed again and then she straightened up, reached behind her back and in one quick movement unzipped her dress and shimmied free of it, smirking when he hissed in a breath at the sight of her naked body. She stepped out of the pile of fabric, still in her heels, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. 

“I’ll be waiting,” she said, and sauntered from the room. 

Killian ground his fist into the countertop and forced himself to count to sixty before following her. 

When he arrived she was sitting on his bed, leaning back on both hands with her legs crossed, one shoe dangling from the tip of her toe. He stopped in the doorway and feasted his eyes on the sight of her toned limbs and smooth skin as he slowly undressed, not missing the catch in her breath when he undid his trousers. 

“Curious, love?” he taunted. 

“Very.” 

He pushed the garments down, trousers and underpants together, smirking as her eyes widened and she drew a deep breath. 

“Well,” she purred, “you did promise I’d feel it.” 

He ignored the stab of anger, bit back the retort that it was Hook who’d told her that, and put a swagger in his hips as he closed the short distance between them. She sat up eagerly and reached for him but he caught her hand and held it back. 

“I want your mouth,” he said. “No hands.” 

She shot him a venomous glare but complied, laying her hands flat on the bed as she took his cock in her mouth, swirled her tongue around the tip then sucked hard. He clenched his teeth against an aching moan, wove his fingers through her hair and tried not to perish from the sheer pleasure of living out one of his favourite fantasies. 

She took him deep in her mouth, alternating hard suction with lazy strokes of her tongue and quick scrapes of her teeth until he couldn’t take any more and pushed her away, shoving her back onto the bed where she lay panting and looking very pleased with herself. 

“Too much?” she taunted. 

“For now.” He leaned over her, running his hands up the insides of her thighs and spreading them wide, then slipped his arms beneath them and buried his face in her cunt. She gave a strangled cry as he licked through her folds then sucked on her clit, pressing the tip of his tongue hard against it. Her hips bucked as she tried to push them up against his face but he held her down, licking her far more gently than he knew she wanted and forcing her to accept it. 

“Damn you, Killian,” she snarled, clutching at his head. He laughed and she gasped at the feel of the vibrations on her swollen flesh, then moaned when he resumed his onslaught, as hard as she liked this time, licking and sucking her roughly until she lay teetering just on the edge. 

“No…” she whimpered when he pulled away, blindly reaching for him as he leaned across her to yank open a drawer on his bedside table and withdraw a condom. He handled it with practiced ease, holding it securely in his prosthetic and tearing the packet open with his hand. 

Emotions flitted across her face as she watched him, anger laced this time with a touch of hurt. The hurt cut deep into his heart and made him furious. She really did think she’d had him on such a leash that he wouldn’t sleep with anyone else after she rejected him, he thought, giving her a nasty leer as he rolled the condom down his length. Her nostrils flared but she didn’t look away, and when he finished she grabbed his shoulders and shoved him onto his back, straddling him, kissing him roughly and digging her fingernails into his skin as she positioned his cock at her entrance and took him inside her.  

They groaned together at the sensation, the tight, slick squeeze of it. He thrust up as she ground down, groaning as she tilted her hips and arched her back to take him deeper, dragging her sharp nails down his chest. 

“Ugh that’s so good,” she moaned, and as they found their rhythm and began to move in perfect tandem Killian could only agree. Emma's head was thrown back, her hair curling wildly over her breasts and down her back, her muscles squeezing him as they rocked together in the most glorious dance of his life, and had he not already been as deeply in love as a man could be Killian knew that he would have fallen then. His hurt and anger ebbed away and he lost himself in sensation, in the indescribable bliss of sinking into the woman he loved and feeling her clenched tight around him, the sound of her sighs and moans in his ear. It was a feeling he never thought he’d know again after Milah, and certainly never dreamed he might know it with Emma. 

You don’t, he tried to remind himself. This is only sex. She doesn’t love you. She never will.   

He didn’t care about that though; in this moment with this woman he couldn’t care. He could only feel, and make the most of this one chance to feel these things with her. 

Emma’s breaths grew faster, harsh and short and catching in her throat, and as her rhythm began to falter he could tell that she was close. Gripping her arse tightly he flipped them over until she was spread out beneath him. She hummed in approval and hiked her leg up over his hip as he thrust in deep, driving her hard into the mattress over and again until she gasped and cried out, her eyes squeezed shut and back arching as a pink flush spread across her skin. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen and it sent him flying over the edge, choking out his own cry as ecstasy gripped him harder than ever before. He collapsed onto his side and pressed his face into the crook of her neck, conscious of little more than the smell of her skin and the gentle caress of her fingers through his hair. 

They lay like that until their breathing calmed and their skin cooled, and gradually reality began to encroach. Killian forced himself against every will he had to move, untangling himself from her and rolling over to remove the condom and dispose of it in the bin next to his bed then grabbing a handful of tissues to clean them both up. 

He dreaded what he would see when he turned back again but Emma still lay where he’d left her, her face calm and showing no signs of panic or regret. She took the tissues he offered without comment and cleaned herself, grimacing a little when she handed them back. He dropped them in the bin along with his own and took a deep breath, waiting for the excuses he knew had to be coming, for the sound of her getting up and running away, leaving him yet again. When the bed shifted but none of those things came he risked another look at her. 

She was snuggling back against the pillows, and as he watched she pulled back the blankets and slid beneath them. He held his breath and did the same, swallowing hard when she slid over to him and curled herself against his chest. 

“Emma—” he began. 

“No,” she said firmly. “No.” 

She cuddled closer, slipping a leg between his and an arm around his waist. He tangled his fingers in her hair, stroking a silky strand between his thumb and forefinger as she hummed in contentment and closed her eyes. A moment later so did he.  

He didn’t know how long he lay there, his eyes half-closed and his nose in her hair. He was adrift in the moment, this extraordinary, unbelievable moment of softness between them when Emma not only allowed him to hold her but actually snuggled into him, fitting her body to his like it belonged there, like there was nowhere else she wished to be. Killian suspected she would regret it in the morning and when she woke she would push him farther away than ever. But now, here, in this moment, she was his. 

Her skin was so soft, he marvelled, so silky beneath his fingertips that he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, gently stroking down her body, the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip, down her thigh and up again, over her arse and along the ridge of her spine to sink once more into her hair. 

Slowly he became aware that she was touching him as well, her hand trailing over his thigh and hip, up his back and down his shoulder, pausing briefly to explore the tattoo there then slipping further on to sift her fingers through the hair on his chest. He caught his breath as she discovered the scatter of tiny stars tattooed across his heart, almost lost among the dark strands, and traced the pattern they described with unnerving accuracy. 

She looked up at him with eyes hazy with desire, blinking slowly as he brought his hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb caressing the dimple in her chin. He kissed the dimple, thrilling to the little hum of enjoyment she gave. He kissed her nose and her forehead and both her cheeks, and then, finally, her lips. 

The kiss was slow and soft and and achingly tender. Killian poured his whole self into it and everything he felt for her, fully aware of what he was confessing but unable to care. Emma knew his feelings whether she wished to accept them or not, and he had nothing to lose. 

She opened her mouth with a soft moan and took the kiss deeper, pulled him closer, her tongue on his sending heat licking up his spine, her hands stroking it across his skin. He wanted to touch her everywhere, worship her as he had in his dreams, distil a lifetime of devotion through the prism of this one act. But there wasn’t time for all he wished to do and so he made do with what he craved the most. The soft weight of her breast in his palm and the hard peak of its nipple, how she moaned into his mouth as he stroked it with his thumb.  His fingers caressing her, slowly down her belly then between her legs, sinking deep into her velvety heat. Her tongue soft and wet as she licked down his neck, nipping at him, leaving marks that would linger on his skin for days and break his heart anew each time he saw them. 

Emma shifted beneath him, aligning their bodies and lifting her knees to cradle him, holding him close and kissing him hard as he slid inside her. The wet warmth of her mouth and her cunt made him dizzy; the squeeze of her legs around his waist and the clutch of her hands on his shoulders and back urged him on. He tried to go slowly, to make this last as long as possible, but the sounds of her pleasure, the way she clung to him, the sheer elation of sharing this with her—however illusory it may be—was too great to withstand, and far too soon they fell. 

She gasped and he groaned as ecstasy gripped them both, her fingers curling through his hair and pressing his forehead to hers, their eyes locked as she fluttered around him and that gorgeous flush suffused her skin once again. Caught in the delicate tenderness of the moment, wrapped in intimacy and awash in sensation, Killian struggled to contain the words he longed to say to her. He tried his best to hold on to what he knew was true—that this was just an interlude, a moment soon to end—but against all good sense, his better judgement, and even his will, he felt that tiny, stubborn bud of hope bloom yet again in his heart. Perhaps, it whispered to him as he rolled onto his side and Emma followed, curling herself tightly around him and sighing contentedly against his chest as they drifted off to sleep. Perhaps.

…

A prickly sensation in her arm woke Emma. She resisted it, groaning internally and trying to will herself back to sleep. It was far too early to be awake, she could tell that much even through her drowsy haze. It was early and she was so comfortable but for the prickly arm, warm and contented and relaxed, with Killian’s chest beneath her cheek and his arms tight around her. 

Killian— With a jolt Emma came fully awake, staring up at his sleeping face with eyes gone wide in dismay. What the hell had she done? 

Slept with Killian Jones was what she’d done—God, she couldn’t even call him Hook in her head anymore. She’d charged into his house and drunk his rum and had sex with him—twice!—and it had been just everything she had ever fantasised about and more. So much more. Far, far too much more. 

She forced herself to pull away, away from the warmth of his arms and of him. The fact that she had to force herself had panic gripping her chest. She wanted to stay, she realised with a flash of the same terror that had sent her running from him in Storybrooke and the same regret she’d felt on realising, not even a week after her return to New York, that leaving him had been a terrible mistake. For three years she’d tried to bury her regret over that one rash decision, buried it and ignored it and denied it, without success, and now here, finally, she had the chance to make things right. All she had to do was slip back into his arms, curl up where she wanted so badly to be and go back to sleep. 

But she couldn’t—it was too much, too fast, and she wasn’t ready. His feelings were too big for her to deal with and hers… hers she couldn’t even bear to think about. She scrambled away, trying not to jostle him, but his eyes blinked open anyway and she froze just on the edge of the bed, caught by the look in them. He had such expressive eyes, true windows to his soul as the saying went, laying bare his every thought and feeling, and it had always amazed Emma that he never seemed to mind how vulnerable they made him. He’d hidden nothing from her, not since Neverland and not until these past few weeks when the cold, shuttered blankness in those beautiful eyes had cut her more deeply than she’d realised. They weren’t blank now, though, but brimming with emotion—with hurt and anger and a weary, hopeless resignation that clawed at her heart.

“I...” she began, trailing off when she realised she had no idea what to say, how to explain. How to make him understand. 

Killian sighed and leaned over the edge of the bed. She heard a drawer opening and then a soft t-shirt landed in her lap. “You can wear that downstairs,” he said. “Your dress is on the kitchen floor.” 

“Killian—” 

Emma groped for the words to tell him that she didn’t want this to be the end, that she wasn’t trying to run from him again. She just needed some time and a bit of space to process all the things that had happened and how she felt about them. But his face was blank again and his eyes so terrifyingly hard that the words wouldn’t come. 

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t fucking bother. Just go.” 

She swallowed over the aching lump in her chest. “I never meant for this to happen,” she whispered. 

He snorted. “Let’s not kid ourselves, love,” he said, and she flinched at the bitter edge in his voice. “You’ve wanted to know how I fuck since the beanstalk. Now that you’ve finally got it out of your system perhaps we can both move on.” 

“Move on,” she choked. “You’ve done that already.” 

“I’ve certainly tried,” he said. “Anabel makes me happy. She actually likes me for myself and while you may not think I deserve that I choose to believe I do. I’ve worked bloody hard to put my past behind me and build a respectable life in this realm.” 

A life that doesn’t include you, his words implied, and she nodded, fighting the tears that prickled behind her eyes. She slipped the t-shirt over her head and scrambled from the bed, grabbing her shoes as she fled, desperate to get away from him before he could see her cry. 

…

Killian managed to hold off his own tears until he heard his front door close behind her and then they came in a torrent. All the anguish he’d kept so tightly locked away these last three years—the heartbreak and the guilt, the regret over the life he’d led and the choices that had shaped him into someone a woman like Emma could never love—came rushing forth like the sea through the hull of a sinking ship. He turned his face into the pillow that still carried her scent and wept for all he had lost in the course of his long life, for every terrible deed he’d done and every beautiful thing his touch had destroyed. He wept until he had nothing left inside him, until he sank into a restless, dreamless sleep. 

 When he awoke again the sun was pouring in through his windows with offensive brightness and he groaned, rubbing his eyes and wishing that just once the habits born of centuries on the sea would leave him alone to wallow in his bed. Instead he dragged himself up and stumbled into the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face and ignored his hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, then went downstairs. 

In the kitchen he found his t-shirt, folded almost neatly and draped across the back of a chair. With shaking hands he picked it up and pressed it against his cheek—just for a moment—then with a guttural cry flung it away against the wall. 

…

Emma spent the next week driving herself as hard as she could, working the toughest cases, the longest hours, hounding the staff at the new office with her demands. Anything, anything, to avoid having to think. If she stopped moving even for a second she saw Killian’s face in her mind’s eye and heard his voice telling her to go, and the ache of loss would hit her again, as fresh and raw as the moment it happened. 

Losing something she’d never really had shouldn’t hurt so much, she thought, and frankly she resented it. She felt swamped by a strange sort of untethered frustration, an uncomfortable feeling and uncomfortably familiar. She’d last felt it back in Storybrooke, that antsy itch under her skin whenever Killian was near, in the few quiet moments they’d shared in between battling flying monkeys and breaking curses. She’d managed to ignore it then, seizing on the witch and the curses and Neal as convenient distractions, excuses not to think about Killian or her feelings or what he wanted from her. What she wanted from him, what they could have. And as soon as those distractions were gone she had run. Just as she always did. As she would continue to do, damn it, until she found something that made her want to stay. 

She refused to think about how badly she’d wanted to stay in Killian’s bed. 

...

“Mom,” said Henry the following Saturday, coming into the living room to find her dusting the corners of the bookshelves, “can I ask you something?”

“Hmmm?” Emma dragged her attention away from her determined assault on the cracks in the wood. “Sure. What’s up?”

Henry shifted uncomfortably. “Um, have you—have you seen Hook at all since we moved here?” 

“Killian,” said Emma automatically.

“What?” 

She felt her face grow hot. “He prefers to be called Killian now.”

“So you did see him!” cried Henry. 

Emma set her dusting rag down with a sigh. “Yeah. I did.” 

“Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“Kind of, I guess. It’s hard to explain.” She cast a sideways glance at her son. “Grown-up stuff.”

“Mom,” sighed Henry, with his special ‘I’m a teenager now’ eyeroll. “I’m not a kid anymore and I’m not stupid. I know that you and Killian—that there was something going on with you guys in Storybrooke and I know that’s part of the reason you left.”

“Henry—”

“And I saw how you reacted when I told you he was here. It’s okay to talk to me about it.”

Emma made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. 

“I mean, no details,” he said with a grimace. “But like, in general.”

“Henry.” Emma rubbed her temples. “I appreciate it, really. But I can’t. I can’t even think about it.” 

“You really should. It’s not a good idea to hold stuff like that inside.” 

“Stuff like what?” 

“You know. Feelings. You hold yours in too much.” 

“I know. I know I do.” She frowned at him. “How did you know there was… something with us in Storybrooke?”

“It was pretty obvious, Mom. He came all the way from the Enchanted Forest to New York to get you, and then when we got back to Storybrooke you two were always talking together or at Granny’s, and when you weren’t with him you asked him to babysit me. Which you wouldn’t do unless you trusted him.”

“That’s true,” Emma whispered. She had trusted Killian. She did. 

“And then after we moved back to New York you never asked about him,” Henry continued. “When you talked to Grandma and Grandpa you asked them about everybody in Storybrooke, even my mom. Even Leroy. But you never asked about him. If he’d only been a friend you would have.” 

Emma shook her head. “Kid, when did you get so smart?” 

“Duh, I always have been. Thanks for noticing.” They were silent for several minutes before Henry spoke again. “And you know,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind. If you wanted to, you know. Date him.” 

“Really? Would you really want me to be with a pirate?” 

Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to think of him that way anymore. But I always liked him, mostly. He took me sailing and told me about my dad. And he’s probably the best teacher I’ve ever had. And he’s been looking really sad all week.” 

“He has?” 

“Yeah. Everyone’s noticed. He’s all quiet in class, not like he usually is. And he hasn’t been having lunch with Miss Hartfield.” 

Emma’s heart gave a painful thump. “Miss Hartfield?” 

“The physics teacher,” Henry clarified. “They always used to have lunch together. All the girls in my class thought they were dating and now they’re all crying cuz they think they’ve broken up.” 

“Is Miss Hartfield a very pretty brunette with dark blue eyes?” 

“Yeah.” Henry looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“I—met her. Last weekend. She was having dinner with—with Killian. I guess they really are dating. The girls in your class should be happy.” 

“Oh.” Henry’s eyes filled with sympathy. “I’m really sorry, Mom—” 

“It’s okay.” Emma swallowed hard and forced a smile when he gave her a skeptical look. “Really! I’m okay.” 

“You’re not—” 

“I am.” Emma wrapped her arm around Henry’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug. “Or I will be. I just—need a little time. Is your homework done, by the way? Speaking of your teachers.” 

“Oh, yeah, nice segue.” Henry rolled his eyes, playing along, though it was clear from his face that he didn’t believe her. “It’s nearly done.” 

“Well, get it all done and then what do you say we order pizza and watch some bad movies. Unless you’ve got other plans?” 

“Nope. I’m all yours.” 

…

By the next Thursday, Emma had almost convinced herself that she was fine. Killian still crept into her thoughts far more than she’d like but the ache he brought she convinced herself was less severe. She didn’t have to fight so hard to stop the tears from welling up or keep herself constantly distracted.  

It’s like he said, she told herself fiercely. It was just an itch that needed scratching, and now it’s scratched that’s it. No hard feelings. No feelings at all. 

Thursday afternoon as Emma was leaving work, Henry texted her that his friend Becca was having some problems and wanted to talk and he was going to her house for a little bit. His homework was nearly done, he said, and he promised to finish it when he got home.  

Said homework was spread out over the dining table when Emma returned and she went to gather it up and put it to one side so she could sit there herself and have some dinner. Her heart skipped when she saw it was astronomy he’d been working on, the book still open to a page illustrated with several constellations. One of them caught her eye. It looked like a slightly tilted cross with bent arms, and it tickled something in her memory. 

She frowned and bent down to get a closer look. That pattern of stars looked so familiar. Emma racked her brains trying to remember where she could have seen it before. It couldn’t have been that long ago, she thought, and—oh. Oh. She flushed as the memory resolved with uncomfortable clarity, and her heart began to pound. 

She recognised that pattern because she had traced it herself through the hair on Killian’s chest, connecting the sprinkle of stars tattooed over his heart. She remembered thinking how odd it was, him having a tattoo there where it was practically invisible. His other tattoos were elaborate and brightly coloured and on places where he had less hair, but those tiny stars she would never have noticed if she hadn’t had her face pressed right up against them. 

It did make sense, she reasoned, for an astronomy teacher to have a constellation tattoo, though all his others featured names and clear associations with people from his past. But this one—Emma peered more closely at Henry’s book looking for the constellation’s name, and when she found it sank slowly into the chair, her knees gone too weak to support her. 

It was the constellation Cygnus. The swan. Killian had a swan tattoo. Right above his heart. 

He was in love with her. 

Emma let her head fall into her hands as the full force of that realisation hit her, with the strength and fury of a hurricane. She was aware he had feelings, strong ones, and though she’d never let herself think too much about them she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t known. But this… this was serious. He wouldn’t put her permanently on his body with Milah and with Liam unless it was big-L love. Killian loved her, or at least he had. Did he still? Could he still, after what had happened between them?

She closed her eyes and thought about the last words he’d spoken to her, about his girlfriend—Anabel—and how happy he was. Her breathing sped up an her hands trembled as she recalled it, the memory she’d tried hardest to escape and with the least success. The closed expression on Killian’s face and the flat tone of his voice were etched into her mind as clearly as if she were back there in his bedroom living that terrible moment all over again, and she realised with a flash of shock that he’d been lying. She’d been too upset to see it at the time but now her superpower was screaming at her. He’d lied to her, and not even well. 

A bubble of hope rose up in her heart. If Killian was lying about being happy, about having moved on, then maybe… maybe there was a chance that he still loved her. Maybe if she told him how much she missed him… if she reached out, if she tried… maybe they could actually talk. The way he’d acted the other times they’d met… his coolness, his distance, his anger… of course he was just trying to protect his heart from further hurt. She could certainly understand that. But if she told him, if they talked, then she could fix this. She could get the old Killian back again—the one who looked at her with warmth in his eyes and always believed in her. The one she could now admit to herself that she deeply and desperately missed, not the way you miss a friend you haven’t seen in a while but like a part of herself was gone. 

She sent Henry a quick text telling him where she was going and raced out the door. Ten minutes later she was standing in front of Killian’s, practically leaning on the bell. 

Killian opened his door and for the first time looked surprised to see her standing there on his small porch. 

“Swan!” he exclaimed. “Is Henry okay?” 

“Um.” Emma frowned. “Yeah, he’s fine. Why would you think he wasn’t?” 

“Why else would you be here?” 

“I wanted—” She took a deep breath. “Can we talk?” 

“Talk,” he repeated in an incredulous tone, then eyes moved from her face to something behind her and he smiled a huge, fake smile and waved his hand. Emma turned around to see a middle aged woman waving back as she walked down the sidewalk, a similar smile on her face and a very sharp look in her eye. The moment she looked away Killian grabbed Emma’s arm and pulled her through the door. 

“Come inside, Swan, before the whole neighbourhood sees you,” he hissed. 

“Since when do you care about the neighbourhood?” 

“Since I have to live in it.” He glanced around then shut the door tightly. Emma went into to the living room and perched on the edge of the sofa, trying not to fidget. Killian followed but remained standing in the doorway, watching her with a dark scowl.

“What do you want?” he asked. 

“I told you—to talk.” 

“I don’t believe we have anything left to say to each other.” When she didn’t reply he sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Your tattoo.” 

Emotion flashed in his eyes, apprehension and a hint of alarm. It flared just for an instant and then was gone, as thoroughly as if it had never been. Had she not been looking for it, Emma thought, had she not known how to read him as easily as he did her, she’d have missed it completely. “I have many tattoos,” he replied. 

“I’m talking about one in particular. The stars over your heart. It’s a constellation, isn’t it?” 

Killian’s face was like stone. “Aye.” 

“Which one?” 

“Swan—” 

“Exactly.” Emma pounced. “It’s Cygnus. The swan. You have a swan over your heart, Killian.” 

He shrugged. “What of it?” 

“What of it is I don’t think you get tattoos that have no meaning. You’ve got Milah on your arm, Liam on your shoulder, someone called Alice on your hip who I’m willing to bet is your mother, and over your heart is—is—” 

“Is you,” said Killian flatly. “Is that what you want to hear, Emma? The swan is obviously for you. Because I love you, and because I can’t resist torturing myself with permanent reminders of everyone I loved who is lost to me, etched into my bloody skin. Is that what you came here to get me to confess? It’s a poor confession when you already knew.” 

Guilt swamped her, heavy and suffocating. “I didn’t know,” she attempted to protest, her voice quiet but falling like lead in the face of his stark confession.  

Anger snapped in Killian’s eyes, fuelled by a pain she hadn’t seen before. Hadn’t allowed herself to see. “Don’t lie to me, love, and don’t lie to yourself,” he snarled. “Of course you knew. You knew when I all but begged you not to go back to New York, and you still left. You knew when you slept with me and you still tried to sneak away before I awoke. You’ve always known exactly how I felt and it has never once stopped you from breaking my heart.” 

“Killian—” 

“No. I can’t hear this.” He ran a hand over his face. “Go now, Swan, and don’t come back.” 

“Don’t come back?” she choked. 

“What would be the point? We both know where we stand and I—” his voice broke “—I can’t live with a gaping wound in my chest.” He turned to look at her, his face for once not blank but open and raw and with a plea in his eyes that tore at her heart. “Please, Emma. If you care anything at all for me, leave me alone now. Let me have the chance to heal.” 

Emma’s brain was screaming at her to say something, stop him, don’t let this happen, don’t let him go. FIX THIS. But everything he said was true, every angry, hurtful word of it. She had known his feelings and had she had taken them for granted, even used them against him, never thinking of how that might hurt him. She’d caused him so much pain already that she couldn’t now refuse this one small, heartbreaking thing he asked of her. 

It’s too late. You pushed him away one time too many and now he’s gone. 

“I talked to your girlfriend, you know,” she said, forcing the words past the clawing ache in her chest. “At the restaurant, before you got there. She seems really nice.” She risked a look at his face and almost cringed at the wariness in his expression. “I’m glad you’ve found someone like her, Killian. I really am. You do deserve it. You deserve to be happy.” She stood and moved towards the door, refusing to be hurt by the way he visibly tensed as she drew near. “I—I hope you’ll be happy.” With one last look to fix his face forever in her memory she turned and ran from his house. 

…

When she got home Henry was back, sitting at the table with his homework. He looked up to greet her, the cheerful words dying on his lips when he saw her face. He jumped to his feet and hurried over to wrap her in a huge hug. Emma gripped him tightly and let the tears she felt like she’d been holding in forever finally, finally fall. She cried as she could never remember crying before, great heaving sobs that left her empty and drained and clinging limply to Henry’s shoulders.

“What can I do?” he begged. “Mom, tell me what I can do.”  

Emma sobbed again, wondering what she’d ever done to deserve him. “Do you think it’d be okay if I came back to Storybrooke with you this weekend?” she asked. “I just really don’t want to be alone.” 

“Are you kidding?” Henry smiled, a bright smile that did nothing to disguise his worry. “Grandma and Grandpa would love that!” 

“They would. What about Regina?” 

“Honestly, I think she’d be glad to see you too. Everyone would. People have missed you.” 

“And you wouldn’t mind me tagging along?” 

Henry hugged her again. “I’d love it.” 

…

They drove up to Storybrooke as soon as Henry finished school the next day, arriving at her parents’ loft just in time for dinner. Snow and David were as thrilled as Henry had predicted, hugging her between them, smiling widely with damp eyes. Emma found her own eyes growing damp as she leaned into the comfort of their embrace, her heart tripping when David gently cupped the back of her head. 

“Dinner’s almost ready,” said Snow when they finally pulled apart, cradling Emma’s face between her hands. “Why don’t you and Henry go sit at the table?” 

“Is there anything I can—” 

“Nope,” said Snow firmly. “It’s all under control.” 

Emma seated herself at the table between David and Henry and looked around at the loft. “Wow, have you guys changed anything in this place since I was here last?” she asked. 

“Um, I think those curtains are new,” said David absently as he attempted to wrestle a protesting Neal into his high chair. Henry grabbed a toy and distracted his uncle with it long enough for David to get the toddler’s legs through the holes and settle him in. Emma’s heart tripped again. Henry was so comfortable here, far more comfortable with her father and brother than she was, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. 

“We’re thinking of moving, actually,” said David, sitting down next to Emma. “There’s a farm just outside of town that’s for sale, we might buy it.” 

“You want to be a farmer?” said Emma blankly. 

“I grew up a shepherd,” he reminded her. “And this place won’t be big enough once Neal is older and wants his own room. Plus we haven’t entirely ruled out the idea of more kids. So I think it’s an opportunity we shouldn’t pass up. Your mother, on the other hand—” 

“I don’t object to it, exactly,” said Snow as she set a bowl of salad and a large platter of chicken on the table. “It would just mean a long commute if I’m going to keep working with Regina.” 

“You’re working with Regina?” 

“I’m the deputy mayor,” said Snow. 

“You are? Since when?” 

“Um, about two years now?” 

“Oh.” Emma fell silent as her parents launched into a debate on the merits of farm vs town in a way that made it clear that this was an old, comfortable discussion, frequently rehashed. Henry chimed in with a comment every now and then, egging them on, and Emma ate her chicken rather sullenly and tried not to feel left out. 

“So what’s it like being back in Boston after so long?” David asked her, when the conversation hit a lull. 

“It’s fine, I guess.” She shrugged. “A bit weird. I don’t normally like to go back to places I’ve left.”

An awkward silence fell and Emma felt herself flush. “I mean, I’m not saying I never would, but—” 

“How about you, Henry?” Snow jumped in. “How do you like Boston?” 

“It’s pretty cool. I like that there’s so much history. And my school’s really good.”

“Are you still having a hard time with math?” asked Snow, smiling fondly. “I remember that was always your downfall when you were in my class.” 

“No, actually, I’ve got a really great teacher at the new school.” Henry shot Emma a questioning look and she nodded. “It’s, um, actually it’s Hook.” 

“Hook?” David frowned. “What, like Hook Hook? He’s your teacher?” 

“Captain Hook?” said Snow. 

“How many Hooks do you know?” snapped Emma, irritated by their disbelief. 

“Well,” said Snow, now looking surprised at Emma’s vehemence. “It’s just a bit strange, isn’t it? That Hook’s a teacher?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Emma. “He always taught Henry stuff when he used to watch him before.”

“And my dad too,” said Henry. “In Neverland.” 

“Really?” asked David, still frowning. 

“Yeah. He’s the one who taught my dad how to navigate and how to sail. Seriously, Grandpa, he’s really good at it,” said Henry decisively. “Everyone loves his classes.” 

David shook his head. “Not that I don’t believe you, Henry, it’s just hard to imagine. It’s hard to imagine Hook as anything but a pirate.” 

“It’s not that hard,” retorted Emma, stabbing at a piece of lettuce on her plate. 

 “Well, you know, after Pan’s curse when we all landed back in the Enchanted Forest he could hardly wait to get back to his pirate’s life,” David pointed out. “He barely stayed with us for an hour.” 

“Though to be fair, it was mostly his ship he wanted to get back to,” said Snow. “And it’s not like that was an option for him here.” 

“That’s true,” David conceded. “I guess it’s hard to be a pirate when you’ve got no ship. He could’ve stolen one, but I genuinely did have the feeling he wanted to turn over a new leaf.” 

“Wait, wait—what do you mean, no ship?” demanded Emma. “What happened to his ship?” 

Snow, David, and Henry all turned to her in surprise. “Don’t you know?” asked Snow.

“Know what?” 

Snow and David exchanged a glance. “Hook traded his ship,” said David. “For the magic bean he needed to get to New York to find you. Didn’t he tell you?”

“He traded his ship…” Emma’s head began to spin. “For me?” 

“Well, yes, in a way,” said Snow. “Did he really not tell you?” 

“No. He never said a word.” 

“Well I guess we only know because David basically dragged it out of him,” said Snow. 

“He was moping around the town so much after you left,” said David. “Drinking and getting disruptive. I threw him in the cells for a night and in the morning tried to gently suggest he might be happier if he took his ship out for a few days to clear his head, and he said that would be a bloody challenge when Blackbeard had his ship.” 

“Blackbeard!” Henry exclaimed. “I didn’t know that part. He hates Blackbeard. Said he’s the worst kind of pirate, a man with no code and no honour. Why would he trade his ship to Blackbeard?” 

“He didn’t say. I guess he just really wanted to get back here and find Emma.” 

No one was looking at her but Emma could feel the weight of their attention, and she groped desperately for something to say, some way to respond to this revelation. But as always when she was overwhelmed with emotion, no words came. She poked at her food, feeling frozen and numb and so terribly sorry, and desperate for a distraction. 

One came a minute later in the form of a knock on the door. Emma had never been more glad in her life to see Regina, come to pick up Henry with Robin Hood and a delighted Roland at her side. In the bustle and confusion that followed their arrival, Emma slipped away to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, downing half of it in one gulp then pressing the cool glass to her temple as she tried to calm her turbulent thoughts.   

Regina hugged Henry and watched as he hugged Robin and Roland, smiling a smile that made Emma blink with a new shock of astonishment. It was unnervingly soft for the erstwhile Evil Queen, warm and happy. 

“What the hell happened to Regina?” she whispered to her mother when Snow came into the kitchen with their empty plates. 

“What do you mean?” Snow frowned. “She looks just the same to me.” 

“Yeah but remember I haven’t seen her in three years. She looks… well, she looks happy.” 

“She is happy,” said Snow. “She and Robin got married last year you know, and—” she broke off when she saw Emma’s face. “You didn’t know.” 

“Huh-uh.” 

“But didn’t Henry tell you? He gave her away.” 

“I—don’t really ask Henry about his visits here. And you never mentioned it.” 

“You don’t ever seem to want to talk about Storybrooke with me either,” Snow replied. “You ask how everyone is, but whenever I try to offer details you change the subject. Have you left this place behind so completely, Emma?” 

“I’ve tried to,” said Emma, in a burst of honesty. “I wanted to get away from all of it—magic and villains and being the Saviour. I never wanted any of that and I never really felt like I belonged here.” 

“You never really tried,” said Snow. “But there’s always a place for you in Storybrooke, sweetie, whenever you want to take it.” 

…

Killian parked his car in front of Granny’s and got out slowly, taking in the sight of the familiar streets and buildings with a resigned sigh. He hadn’t been back to Storybrooke since he’d moved to Brookline, hadn’t had any desire to return until seeing Emma again had stirred up all the old feelings he’d worked so hard to bury. This past week his new life had felt like it was suffocating him—the students who looked up to him, the colleagues who respected him, Anabel who loved him. All of them so obviously concerned by the shift in his mood, caring about him, and the weight of all the pretence he’d built around himself threatened to crush him. Not a single one of them truly knew him, what he was and the things he’d done, the life he’d led for so very many blood-soaked years, and Killian hadn’t been able to bear another second of their kindness.  

The Rabbit Hole was just as he remembered, loud and raucous and full of people playing their own game of pretend, fuelled by alcohol and shielded by the brittle jocundity of such places. He looked around for Tink but couldn’t see her, and though he strained his ears could hear nothing over the pounding music. He pushed through the crowd towards the bar where he finally caught sight of her, perched on her knees atop a barstool and waving him over. 

“Hey!” she cried, leaping down from the stool and throwing her arms around him. He froze in surprise for a minute then tentatively hugged her back. 

“Tink,” he said cautiously. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, fine.” She released him and stepped back, grinning as she took him in. “I guess I just missed you.” 

“That’s new,” he snorted. 

“Well you used to call me, if you remember, the first year or so after you left. Now I barely hear a word for months on end until suddenly you text to say you’ll be here in three hours and can I put you up for the night. So I have to ask, is everything okay with you?” 

Killian tried to summon his old cocky grin and some quip to reassure her, but they refused to come. Everything wasn’t okay, far, far from it, and he knew this was at the root of his spur of the moment decision to come back to Storybrooke. He needed to talk to someone who truly knew him, all of him, and who had known him at his worst. Tink was, as strange as it may be to think about, his best friend. 

“No,” he said, and watched her eyes widen at the stark honesty of his reply. “I’m not okay. At all.” 

Tink’s face softened and she looped her arm through his, and he let her lead him to an empty pair of stools at the very end of the bar. They sat and Tink ordered a bottle of rum and two glasses, then rested her hand just above his prosthetic and listened, keeping his glass filled as he told her everything. He told her of how hard he’d worked to make a place for himself in this land and build a new life to go with it, and how at times he felt that he’d succeeded in that aim but at others felt a complete fraud. He spoke about his job and how much he loved it and the joy of helping his students learn, but how he still felt unworthy of the trust placed in him by the school and by their parents. He told her about Anabel and how much he wished that he was whole enough to love her and then finally, haltingly, he spoke of Emma. About seeing her again and all that had occurred between them, and the way he’d spiralled afterwards into a depression so deep he wasn’t sure he could recover.

“I’m so tired of living sometimes,” he said. “You know what I mean.” It wasn’t a question but Tink nodded anyway, memories of long nights spent sharing rum and companionship in Neverland hanging thick between them. “Obviously time passes differently there, you have less of a—a sense of it passing, but—” 

“But it still passes,” she said. 

“Aye. It still passes, and I’ve passed so bloody much of it. And sometimes I think about how in terms of the physical age of my body I’m only about thirty-five. I could live another fifty or sixty years, easily, what with the medical marvels in this realm, and at times I just wonder—” he drew a deep breath “—I wonder if that’s really what I want.” 

“You want to die?” Tink asked carefully. 

“Not precisely.” Killian tossed back his rum and she poured him some more. “I’m just exhausted by the prospect of more living. Does that make any sense at all?” 

Tink nodded, sipping her own drink before speaking. “Years can be a burden,” she said. “Fairies are immortal so we don’t feel them the same way humans do, but we see how they affect you. Most humans your physical age would still have a lot left to look forward to but you’ve already lived the lifetimes of at least three men. It’s understandable that the prospect of living another might feel overwhelming.” 

“So what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”

“Well, assuming you don’t actually want to end your life?” 

“I don’t,” he assured her. Though he couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed his mind in his more desperate moments, Killian had fought too hard for his survival to ever end himself by his own hand. 

“Then you have to find something to live for,” said Tink. “Or someone?” 

He shook his head. “Emma doesn’t want me.” 

“It doesn’t have to be Emma.” 

“It can’t be anyone else,” he muttered, glowering into the depths of his glass. “Not for me.” 

“You felt that way about Milah too.” 

“I thought I did, but this is different. Milah and I—we were in love but our relationship wasn’t healthy. I can see that now. We didn’t bring out the best in each other; in fact we probably brought out the worst. She wanted the cocksure pirate and so I leaned into that role, for her. We both leaned into it, and we enjoyed it, the plunder and the destruction and the casual cruelty. I think it made us both feel powerful.” He sipped his rum and shot a sideways glance at Tink, who was watching him attentively and still without judgement. 

“But Emma, though,” Killian continued, setting his glass down and flexing his fingers around it. “Emma makes me want to be better. Even when I thought I’d never see her again, even though I know we’ll never be together I still want to be the man she inspired me to become.” He squeezed the glass harder, almost hoping it would shatter in his hand. “But then, if I’m only being that man because of her is that truly who I am? And how can I try to build a life with someone like Anabel when I know I can’t love her as she deserves and I’m only even remotely like someone she might want because of my feelings for another woman?”

Tink wrapped her arms around one of his and squeezed it sympathetically, resting her head on his shoulder. “I wish I had an answer for you, Hook,” she said. “But who you truly are, or can be, is a question you have to work out for yourself.” She paused as they both drank. “Have you ever considered telling Anabel about your past?” 

He snorted. “Tell a sensible science teacher from the land without magic that I’m Captain Hook? Oh yes that would go over brilliantly.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” said Tink. “I meant telling her a modified version of what happened to you, with your parents and Liam and Milah. Letting her see a bit more of who you are and what shaped you.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Killian sighed and ran his hand over his face. “I’ve thought about it. I genuinely don’t know if it would help or just be a burden on her. For all she knows I’m just a normal man born in Bristol, England in 1981. How would I even begin to fit parental abandonment, a dead brother, and two tragic romances into that man’s life?”

“Two?” 

“She already knows about Emma.” 

“Right. Well, you’d have to get creative, but if it helped her know you better? At least you could try.” 

Killian drank again then tightened his arm to pull Tink closer, resting his cheek on her head as the the pleasant haze he craved began to settle over his mind. “Do you know why I fell in love with Emma?” he asked. Tink shook her head, her hair tickling his nose. “It wasn’t her courage or her kindness or her beauty, though those are all contributing factors. It was because she understood me. We understood each other, from the very beginning, in a way I’d never known before. It scares her but I—I crave it. And that’s what’s missing with Anabel and with every other woman I’ve known, even Milah. That connection of the whole self. It’s something that can’t be forced or—or brought into being. It is or it isn’t, and that’s that.” 

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure that I don’t have the energy to sort through all of this realm’s women in hopes of finding a pale reflection of it. I’ve found the love of my life, Tink. It took three centuries but I found her, and I offered her my heart, and she refused it. I don’t think the answer is to try to patch over that wound with another woman. I don’t know what the answer is. Perhaps there isn’t one.” 

He frowned as Tink tensed against him, her eyes going wide. “Perhaps the answer is Emma,” she said. “And you just haven’t asked the right questions yet.” 

He followed her gaze and felt his jaw clench. Tink clung to him for another brief moment, whispering in his ear. “She might still be your answer, Hook. Don’t lose hope just yet.” 

…

Once Henry left to spend the night with Regina and her parents went to put Neal to bed, Emma muttered something about taking a walk and fled the loft, desperate for some space and time alone to sort through her muddled thoughts. As painful and chaotic as they were she knew she had to think them, and feel the feelings that they brought. Already she’d lost so much by trying to run from her feelings. More even than she’d known. 

Killian had given up everything for her. That was the thought that kept echoing in her brain. He’d given up his ship, his home, his most prized possession. He’d given it to a man he hated, all so that he could get back to her, knowing she wouldn’t even remember him. All to bring her back to her family. Her home. 

And what had she done? She’d scorned him and pushed him away, denied her feelings and run away from them and from him the first chance she got. No wonder he was so hurt. No wonder that pain had turned to anger. He should be angry, she thought in disgust, he should hate her. Yet she knew that despite everything he didn’t. He may not want anything to do with her anymore but he didn’t hate her. She almost wished he did. It might actually make the weight of her guilt and regret easier to bear. 

For the first time in her adult life Emma actually, genuinely faced her feelings, and thought seriously about what they were and what they meant. She didn’t love Killian, not the way he loved her, but she could. All the elements were there, from the way they had always understood each other to how easily she’d trusted him to the electric sizzle of their sexual chemistry. It was that could that had scared her, sent her running three years ago. The vulnerability it represented, the loss of control, terrified her. It felt like standing at the edge of an abyss with her her toes hanging over the edge and a gale force wind at her back. She’d fallen into that abyss before with terrible consequences, but then Killian was not Neal. She knew, somehow, beyond any doubt, that if she let Killian Jones into her life he’d never leave her. 

If she had let him in. It was too late now. 

She began to cry again, not with the wrenching sobs she’d cried the day before but with heavy, drenching tears that flooded her cheeks and dripped off her chin faster than she could wipe them away. Her chest felt hollowed out, aching and empty and hopeless.

She caught sight of the neon sign for the Rabbit Hole and swerved abruptly to her right, cutting across the street without looking for cars. Fortunately there were none. This was Storybrooke, after all, even on a Saturday night. And she really, really wanted a drink. 

The Rabbit Hole was fairly busy, its noise and bustle comfortingly familiar. Emma kept her head down as she moved towards the bar, hoping no one would recognise her. It wasn’t until she was nearly there that she spotted Killian. 

He was sitting at the end of the bar with a half empty bottle of rum and Tinkerbelle beside him, her arms looped through his and her head on his shoulder. The obvious, comfortable intimacy between them sharpened the ache in Emma’s chest and reminded her of her suspicions about what their relationship had been in Neverland. She was certain it was more than either of them had let on. 

As she stood frozen and wondering what to do, Tink looked up, her eyes widening in recognition. Killian frowned and followed her gaze and when he saw Emma the look that flashed across his face nearly broke her heart. He shook Tink off and stood up, tossing back the rest of his glass of rum and heading for the door. 

Before she could think better of it, Emma spun on her heel and took off after him. She caught his arm just before he could reach the door and he spun around, yanking it from her grip. 

“Bloody hell, Swan, can I never be free of you!” he cried, and the hopeless defeat in his voice made her tears well again. She forced herself to remember that his feelings were justified, that she had done this to him and that he didn’t owe her forgiveness or anything else. 

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t know you’d be here and I don’t want to bother you, but Killian—” 

“What?” 

“My dad—he told me what you did. How you traded your ship for a magic bean to come find me in New York.” 

A faint flush coloured Killian’s cheeks and he shifted uncomfortably. “It was nothing,” he said. “Anyone would have—”

“No, anyone definitely would not have,” cried Emma fiercely. “You gave up everything you had to get me back here and then I just turned my back on it, and on you. And I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Killian, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just—I wanted you to know.” 

He swallowed hard and gave her a small, guarded smile. “You made what you thought was the best decision for yourself and Henry,” he said gruffly. “That’s all anyone can do. I’m just glad you’re happy.” 

“But I’m not,” she burst out. “I’m not. I mean, I’m not unhappy exactly but I miss—I miss you.” She heard his sharp intake of breath but barrelled on before she could lose her nerve. For once in her life she knew just the words she wanted to say and she was going to say them. 

“And you were right,” she continued. “I knew how you felt about me and I threw it back in your face and pushed you away whenever I could. I was scared of my own feelings, of how strong they were, and I know that’s no excuse but all my life I’ve always run from things like that. I run from things that make me feel too much and I still can’t believe that anyone could really care as much about me as you seemed to and so I ran before I could find out that you didn’t. I know I hurt you. It wasn’t always unintentional, and God, Killian, I am so fucking sorry for that too.” 

She swallowed hard, twisting her hands together, feeling the intensity of his gaze on her but not daring to meet it. “And I know that there’s no chance for—for us anymore but I wanted you to know how much I regret it. There’s nothing in my life I regret more than ruining things between us before they could even really start.” 

Gathering her courage she looked up at him, and caught her own breath at the expression on his face, that soft, intense expression she’d missed so much. “Do you want there to be a chance?” he said hoarsely. “If there was a chance, would you—could you take it?” 

Emma gasped again as hope exploded in her heart and it began to race. She nodded. “Yeah. I think I could. I would.” 

“You think?”

She stepped closer, looking up at him, hardly daring to breathe. Music pounded through the air around them, voices shouted, bodies danced, and they were the only two people in the world. 

“I could,” Emma whispered, “I can and I will if—if that’s what you want too?”

Killian drew a shaky breath and his fingers trembled as he reached up to caress her face, brushing softly across her cheek before sliding into her hair. He pressed his lips to hers in the gentlest kiss of any they had shared, a butterfly’s wing of a kiss, a kiss of promise and forgiveness and hope. Emma sighed into it as it slowly deepened, as Killian’s fingers tightened on the back of her head and hers gripped his jacket and she couldn’t suppress a moan. 

When they broke apart she was breathless and dizzy and he was beaming, a bright, dazed grin that made her heart soar as he leaned his forehead against hers. “Do you really mean it, Emma?” he whispered. “You really want—” 

“You,” she said. “Yeah. I want you, and I want us.” 

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “I’m yours, love,” he said. “As you know.” 

“Just like that?” Emma pulled back enough to look at his face while keeping her arms tight around him. “After all the hurt I caused you, you can just forgive me?” 

“Aye, just like that. I’m not saying all the hurt is healed or that we don’t have  things to work through. But of course I can forgive you. I love you.” 

“Killian—” 

“Shhhh, let’s just leave it there for now,” he said. “It’s nothing we didn’t both already know. We’ll work on the other half later.” 

“Later,” Emma murmured, snuggling back into his arms. “I like the way that sounds.” 

…

@thisonesatellite​ @katie-dub​ @mariakov81 @stahlop @teamhook @kmomof4 @shireness-says @thejollyroger-writer​ @snowbellewells​ @jennjenn615​ @tiganasummertree​ @lfh1226-linda​ 

[sprnklersplashes]

heart of stone (2/?)

AO3

It’s three days before Janis’ rest results are available. That night, her mom pops her head around her bedroom door and tells her they need to be at the hospital early the next morning. She had spent the intervening time lounging around her house, rotating through different sweaters and reading the same book over and over, all the while filling in Damian and Cady as much as she could, trying to reassure them and herself that it was nothing and in a few days she’d probably be fine. She’d be back bugging them in no time, probably by the first day of school, in fact.

And that better be true, she thinks, because she has never been so bored in her life. In those few days between appointments her biggest achievement was successfully showing her dad how to master Netflix and introducing him to Killing Eve. She had tried to draw, but no idea stayed still in her mind long enough for her to recapture it on paper. The pencil bounced between her hands as she looked through outlines of unfinished sketches, trying to make one jump out at her. She puts them all in her drawer with a resigned sigh, one of those impossibly rare moments where she willingly admits defeat and submits to her fate. Her body feels too weary to move and her brain completely burnt out, but her soul keeps pushing her to create, to be active and busy. Her hands weren’t meant for scrolling through her phone as she’s half asleep, they’re artists hands, built for innovation. The restlessness crept through her nerves and up to her brain, shaking it so much that when her mom hung up the phone and told her she had an appointment the next day, she threw her head back and thanked God.

But her initial relief is gone now as she and her parents follow the perky secretary’s directions down to the doctor’s room, passing sunshine yellow walls and hurrying over pristine white floors. She keeps her hands in her pockets, her heart clenching each time she catches a glimpse of a patient. Some of them smile, some of them don’t, some look normal and others… not so much, gaunt faces and loose headscarves. Wrong as it is, her anxiety only spikes when she sees them, not to mention her bedside manner isn’t the greatest. Perhaps it’s lucky her parents don’t set high goals for her because she’d never make a doctor.

Her dad keeps looking back at her, asking if she’s okay, and she tells him she is, even though her chest is pained and tight, either from worry or her own body’s weakness. Or worse, both. Her little personal storm cloud makes itself known again, desperate for her attention after she had put so much effort into ignoring it. It clings to her brain and strains against her skull, stretching over and whispering in her ear, telling her she should get used to this place. She might be seeing more of it than she wants to.

She closes her eyes tightly and stops walking for a second, wishing she could go back to a few days ago, lounging in bed with Cady when everything was normal and okay. But she can’t, so she jogs to catch up with her parents and keeps her eyes on her boots.

“Mr and Mrs Sarkisian.” The doctor they meet is around her dad’s age, brown hair beginning to grey with thick rimmed black glasses and wearing a funky green and blue tie over a white shirt. If he ditched the white coat and clipboard, he’d look like a dad. On his desk, amongst the paperwork and nameplate, is a Rubix cube, a framed photo of two kids and a stuffed frog chilling against the computer, wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses. Doctor Dad looks at Janis, his mouth opening and closing silently for a split second, a fearful glint in his eyes. Exactly what she needs. “And Janis, I assume.” She lets him shake her hand, not letting herself show how clammy it feels. His nerves sparks on the skin in a way only someone who has been through it could pick up on.

She’s been reading him since she first saw him and none of it puts her at ease. His smile looks like someone is pulling it across his face with wires and his eyes flash behind his glasses when he looks at her. His breathing hitches, his fingers fidget and when he sits down, she sees him pull himself back together, starting with the shoulders and up to the chin, straightening everything out, looking presentable. Approachable. Softening the blow he’s about to make. Maybe her parents take notice, or not. They’re specific things, only noticeable to those who are looking for them.

They do say ignorance is bliss.

“These… these types of conversations are never easy.” Oh, what a brilliant opening line. It makes her mom’s hand clasp her dad’s with a grip that’s white-knuckled and desperate. As for Janis herself, she squirms in her chair, biting down hard on her thumbnail. She feels like there’s a million little centipedes all over her body, scurrying around with their tiny feet, wriggling into her elbows, writhing beneath her knees, twisting around on her stomach. She could burst at any moment and they’d invade his office, bury themselves in his carpeting and make homes in the vents.

“Just give it to me straight, doc,” she blurts out. Her parents turn to her, more amused than surprised, and she offers a shrug, the beginnings of a smirk on her face. “Which might be hard in my case.” Her parents chuckle as she looks over at the doctor, herself getting a kick out of his own dumbfounded expression. “Because I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh, right,” he says, managing something that sounds like a laugh. He clears his throat and opens the file in his hand, blocking it from her view in a move that she isn’t sure is accidental. Pressure builds in her chest, her lungs feeling smaller and smaller inside her. The clock must be wrong, because it says only seconds have passed, but they’ve been there for far longer. Minutes. Hours, it must be. She grips the side of the plastic chair, drumming her nails along the underside and pressing her palm into the metal legs. Her mom rubs her hand down her back, asking quietly if she needs anything. She shakes her head, knowing ‘for this to be over’ probably isn’t a good answer.

“Janis… I’m afraid you have leukaemia.”

She’s falling.

Someone took her chair out from underneath her and she’s falling. She phases through the floor and keeps falling, her surroundings a silent blur. She tries to breathe but nothing can come in or out, her hand outstretched but no one holding it. She’s trapped in a bubble, one with no air or no sound, keeping everyone else away from her. She’s alone as she falls, nothing but the white expanse for company, her heart still, her mind empty. All she knows is she’s hurtling towards… something, at full speed and getting faster with each second.

“Janis!”

She blinks, the bottom of the chair cutting a deep, red line into her palms. But it’s steady beneath her, even if nothing else is. All at once, her body and mind come back to her, her heart beats faintly in her chest, weak from shock, and her breaths are quick and rapid. Her brain is a jumbled and confused mess, so much so that she preferred it when she couldn’t think of anything. Now her mind is opening ideas in a flash and tossing them out just as quickly; dashing around her head so thoughtlessly and rapidly that she can’t get a grip on anything. So instead she’s just sitting there, a ringing in her head and cold weakness in her chest, waiting for someone to fix this.

“Janis.” Her dad’s hand is on hers, his fingers curling around with a touch that’s so soft and gentle it almost doesn’t belong in here. Not with that word lingering between them. “Are you okay kid?”

How the hell is she meant to be okay?

“Leukaemia.” She drags her eyes up, not to meet the doctor, but to look past him, to look at the ugly shade of yellow his wall is painted and the framed certificate, declaring him as having graduated from somewhere with a degree in something. She bites her lip so hard she feels the beginnings of a little lump forming there. Like the ones on her neck. Like the ones they always say are a sign of…

The word sticks in her throat and she has to tear it out of her.

“Like… cancer? Like the cancer kind of leukaemia?”

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor says, his voice soft. She doesn’t know if she’s ever heard a voice that soft before, maybe when she was a kid, a really tiny kid and her goldfish died and her mom had to explain to her what death was.

Why did her mind have to go there?

It’s only now she notices one of the posters on the wall. Bright green lettering and a glossy photo of a little girl, fourteen, maybe thirteen, sitting up in a bed, a tube in her nose and a hat on her bald head, grinning brightly up a nurse with a sweet face. That’s what cancer is. It’s losing your hair and being in hospital and having tubes sticking in and out of your body. It’s other stuff too, stuff she hasn’t thought about and doesn’t know because it’s not for her. Cancer isn’t for her, it’s for old grandmas in knitted cardigans and tragic little kids who get to meet spiderman. Occasionally, it’s for teenagers and young people like her, but not her specifically. Never her. Cancer is something that exists far away, lurking around corners, on the tongues of adults who them about the dangers of cellphones or their health teacher telling them to eat healthily. It exists all right, but it doesn’t happen to her.

“Janis,” her mom says gently, running her fingers through her hair. Her voice is thin and shaking as though she’s about to cry. Why would she be crying? She’ll fix this. There’s no way this is real and now her mom is crying over nothing.

“I’m fine,” she replies, squeezing her mom’s hand back. Life comes back to her body and she looks up at the doctor, finally feeling heat inside her, attacking the cold emptiness and sending it back where it belongs. It flares up in her chest, a spark that she’d sorely missed these past few days. She grips her mom’s hand tighter, her own hand shaking and her fingers tight and tense. “I’m fine because I don’t have cancer.”

“Janis I know this is difficult to hear-”

“It’s not. It’s not because I am fine. Because I don’t have cancer, you did the test wrong.”

“Our team ran several tests. We ruled out other possibilities.”

“Clearly you didn’t if you’re telling me that I have cancer, which I don’t, so do another one.” Her grip on her mom isn’t just for her sake, but it’s also keeping Janis from getting up and flipping that desk over and telling Doctor Dad to get fucked. Who does he even think he is anyway? That degree can’t be much good if he’s telling her this and screwed up a test like that.

“Janis,” he sighs, gesturing with his hands like that’s going to fix anything. “I understand that this is a lot to take in right now-”

“It’s not,” she snaps, the smile on her face strained and sharp. “It’s not because you’re fuck-you’re wrong. I don’t-I can’t have-”

“Janis!”

Her mom’s voice is what pulls her back down. When she looks over at her, she sees brown eyes identical to hers, but they’re filled with tears and rimmed red and show a tiny spark of anger amongst the sadness. Her mom’s mouth is half-open, a plea waiting on her lips, begging her daughter to see sense. Her hand tightens around Janis’, her grip becoming less comforting and careful and more irritated and exhausted.

“Sweetheart… please.”

God she’s a horrible person. Her parents just heard probably one of the worst things a parent could hear, and she just threw a tantrum over it.

She looks at the doctor with uncharacteristic and unfamiliar shyness, trying to pick herself back up, present herself as anything close to reasonable after the meltdown she just had. Something about him makes her feel like he understands. Maybe she’s not the first to react like that. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking.

“So what happens now?” she asks in a flat voice.

“What happens now is you start treatment as soon as possible,” Doctor Dad explains. He leans forwards on his desk, his hands clasped together and when Janis notices the distressed expression on his face, the pain of guilt in her stomach only gets worse. “My colleagues have already discussed this and we think it would be best for you to begin within the next two weeks. The earliest start would be next Monday.”

“Next Monday?” she echoes, her voice cracking. “But… but I start school in three days I start before that, I can’t…” She knows it’s a lost cause and there’s no point to it, but it’s the last thing she has. Her school is the last part of her life that’s real in all this, so forgive her for clinging to it. She looks from her parents to the doctor, three different, grave expressions and only one is able to give her an answer.

“I’m afraid going to school will be out of the question,” the doctor tells her. Her mom’s fingers lace between hers, squeezing her hand in what’s meant to be comforting, but Janis can’t feel it. She’s too busy trying to push back another protest. “I’m sorry, Janis. There is the option of online school, but your treatment is likely to make you too tired to focus. It might be easier on your mental health if you saved school until next year.”

Saved school until next year. When everyone she knows is already gone and this year’s juniors will be seniors. She’ll have to wait a year for all the fun stuff that seniors get to do, cutting in the lunch line, going to prom, graduation parties, using the senior’s lounge. She’ll be sitting in a class of people she’s a year older than her, all in pre-formed friendship groups and likely knowing her as Cancer Girl. Cady, Damian, Karen, everyone else will be graduating this year and will move on to new adventures. And she’ll be left behind.

The idea makes her more sick than the cancer has.

“Jan?” her dad asks softly. She finds three pairs of expectant eyes on her and all she can offer is a small nod.

“Okay,” she whispers. She’s not sure what she’s saying okay to.

“What about the treatment itself?” her mom asks. “How is that going to work?”

“We might have to do a few more tests to find that out,” he explains. “But it would likely be chemotherapy. What we’ve discussed so far is two weeks in hospital and then a week at home to recover for around three months. Thankfully, the cancer hasn’t progressed far enough to warrant more, and we’ll want to keep it at that. The goal is to get Janis to remission.” She nods, her head starting to throb a little. She presses her fingers to her temples before she can stop herself, and that’s a red flag to both her parents. She drops it, muttering a lie about being fine.

“Of course there will be a lot of support for Janis through this,” he goes on. “There is an excellent support group and appointments can be made with a counsellor on a one-to-one basis.”

Somehow that doesn’t help, she thinks. It’s not meant to, she guesses.

It’s cold when they step outside, or that might just be her. The wind cuts through her jacket and the sweater she pulled on and attacks her skin, leaving her fighting off shivers. She pushes her dad’s arm off her when he tries to help her to the car. That only makes her feel worse, mentally and physically.

Being in a car with your parents after a cancer diagnosis is a weird experience. The tension between the three of them strangles her. An unspoken conversation passes between her parents in the front and frankly, it pisses her off. If they’re going to be concerned about her, they could at least do her the courtesy of involving her. But maybe it’s better that way because despite being an arm’s length from them, she feels as though she’s miles away. Like when they started driving, she stayed put. She sinks back into the seat and stares straight ahead, the pain in her head coming back louder and stronger, pushing against her skull and screaming behind her eyelids.

“Janis… are you okay?” her mom asks.

“Fine,” she sighs.

“Do you need anything? We can go to the gas station-”

“I said I’m fine,” she replies, firmer than before. “I just want to lay down.”

She’s not kidding. She wants to press her face into her pillow until everything blacks out and all that exists is the colours that explode behind her eyelids. Then they can fade to, and she won’t have to deal with anything anymore.

They drive on in a heavy silence, and the longer they go, the angrier she finds herself growing. She doesn’t know where it’s directed, at herself or her parents or the doctor or the universe, but it’s there, rising in tandem with her the pain in her head and making her restless. She grabs her upper arm and squeezes hard, pressing her nails in until it starts to hurt, just to get it out somewhere.

“Hey… why don’t we go to Dairy Queen?” her dad suggests, as though they’re on their way back from mini golfing. It’s a sweet offer and Janis almost smiles at it. But it’s why it’s sweet that she doesn’t want it.

“I don’t want to,” she replies. “I just want to go home.” Besides, there is a real risk of her upchucking a milkshake on the seat.

Her parents exchange another worried look, their hands clasping over the gearshift, and Janis has to bite back a scream.

When they do finally get home, Janis doesn’t wait for them to get out of the car. Instead she storms ahead, regardless of how it hurts her head more, because she’s so damn relieved to be out of that care and in open space. She opens the door with her own key, remembering to leave it open for them. She runs into the hallway and then stops almost immediately, her chest tight and her breaths coming in short, quick gulps. Something rushes against her and grabs at her legs, and she takes a minute to work out that it’s Maxie, no doubt pouting at her and wondering what she was doing and where she was and why she didn’t take him. He’s probably whimpering or barking, and her dad is probably trying to talk to her, but she can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears.

“Oh my God,” she says out loud. Everything she’s held back in the car bubbles over and she can’t hold it back any more.

She just about makes it to her room in time to throw herself on the bed and start screaming. She doesn’t even sound like a human. It’s deep and it’s guttural, tearing at her throat and painted with rage and pain and fear. Poor Maxie is probably hiding in his bed, scared of the monster upstairs. Her eyes, her face burns and her bedroom melts away, leaving just a mesh of dark colours bleeding together. Tears and snot run down her face and over her hands and on the pillows, making the mark of a miserable, self-pitying girl going insane.

Her head doesn’t just hurt any more, it’s screeching and kicking at her and she can’t do anything about it. She can’t do anything about anything. That’s the problem. Her chest aches and her neck hurts and her mouth is dry and her eyes burn. But all that’s nothing to what’s going on in her heart and head, where dangerous, toxic cocktails bubble. All she wants to do is not feel, but she feels everything and it’s all just pain.

She runs out of tears at one point and they dry on her face as she looks up at the ceiling, the word “cancer” written in invisible ink above her. She thinks “I might die” and then rolls her eyes at herself for being bleak. She wants to tell her all the good stuff about new treatments and technology and whatever but it’s all surface level nonsense. Fear wins over optimism and it cuts right into her, deep into her soul.

She doesn’t know what she’s most worried about and she’s an idiot for it. Not knowing if she’s more scared of the fatal disease wreaking destruction and chaos inside her body or of not getting to go to Cady’s Mathletes competitions or see Damian in the musical. It should be plainly obvious what’s the worse one, but it isn’t. Is this her now? Vapid and shallow, more obsessed with her petty teenage fun than her health? Was she always like this?

Her parents find her laying across her bed, unblinking, the slow rise and fall of her chest the only thing that indicate her being alive.

“How long ago did you guys wait?” she asks flatly.

“Two hours,” her dad explains, shifting on his feet. “We thought you’d need some space.” She nods numbly at that. “Janis… I know this is a lot to process for you.”

“Understatement of the century,” she mumbles. At least she’s still got humour. The bed sags and she sees her mom sitting next to her, her hand reaching out to stroke her hair. Janis can’t remember the last time her mom did that to her, not like this, with dainty fingers that could send her to sleep.

“We’re going to be here the whole time,” her mom promises. “You’re not doing this alone.”

She is though. That’s the problem. They’re not going to be the ones in the hospital beds and taking medicine and missing her senior year. She is. They’ll be beside her all they like, and she hopes to hell they are, but they aren’t going through it with her.

“I know,” is what she says instead. “I know.” She pulls herself to a sitting position, grabbing her mom’s shoulder as her room starts tilting. It takes a few seconds of deep, shaky breaths and her eyes shut tight before she feels normal again. “I’m okay.” She looks up at the two of them, overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness that makes her feel tiny despite her impressive height. “So what happens now?”

“We’ll take care of the official stuff,” her dad days softly, his arms wrapped around himself Holding himself together. “Letting the school know and all that. But… it might be better if you tell your friends.” She shakes her head on instinct. She can barely get that word out of her mouth on her own. In front of Damian or Cady, she knows she’d crumble.

“Sweetie,” her mom says. Her hand hasn’t stopped stroking her. “I know it’s hard. But they love you and they’re going to want to hear it from you. Not from us and not from the school either.” Janis presses her face into her knees, blinking away another wave of tears. They’re right. Of course they’re right. But that doesn’t mean that the idea of telling them makes her want to vomit.

Right now, only she, her mom, her dad and some doctors know. And she can pretend the doctors don’t exist and remove them from the equation. And when the only people who know are living in this house, it’s easier for her to pretend that it doesn’t really exist. She can push it away and ignore her parents and keep it inside these walls. Once she tells her friends…

It’s real. There’s no going back after that. Granted there’s no going back either way, but there’s no hiding either.

“Janis,” her mom agrees, sharking a look with her dad. “If it’s really too much for you… we can tell your friends for you.

“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “No, you’re right. They need to hear it from me.”

“Oh, baby,” her mom breathes, hugging her tightly around her shoulders. She’s not crying, but her breathing is ragged and her grip scared. “I’m so sorry. I wish this wasn’t happening to you.” Her dad sits on the other side of her and wraps his arm around her, letting her head on her head on his shoulder. The hug is clumsy and a little forced, no-one knowing when to let go and Janis quickly becomes uncomfortable in their embrace. The longer it goes on, the less like herself she feels.

She spends the rest of the day and most of the following morning looking at her phone, even when she’s eating or watching TV with her dad or playing with Maxie. Every gesture is half-hearted, the building sense of dread distracting her form everything else. She scrolls through the messages from yesterday, Cady asking how her appointment went and Damian asking if she was free and Gretchen asking her opinion on a shirt. All living in blissful ignorance.

It’s no contest as to who to tell first. She sits on her bed, Damian’s face looking up at her from the phone screen, one button all that separates the two of them. Just press a button. How hard can that be? Very hard, it turns out, when your arm feels like lead and you don’t even know what to say to him, your words written and crossed out and written again on the notebook beside you. The worst part is that she isn’t even sure what she’s scared of. There’s a lot to choose from and when it’s telling someone you love as much as she loves him, that only makes it worse. Like she’s on top of a skyscraper, about to be pushed off and into darkness.  

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and calls him.

“Hey,” he chirps on the other side, picking up after just one ring. She leans back on her bed, biting her nail, her heart ceasing beating altogether. In the back of her mind, she wonders if he’d been waiting for her. “What’s up?”

“Are you-can you come over?” she asks. “Are you free right now?”

“Uh yeah,” he replies. “Everything okay?” No it’s not, the okay train left the station yesterday and I missed it and I’m about to pull you off it too. “Janis… are you okay?”

“Just… how soon can you come over?” she says, moving from biting her nail to her knuckles. “It’s just… it’s kind of important and I don’t know if I can-”

“Woah, woah, woah, okay,” he replies. “Hey, my mom’s giving me a ride. I’ll be ten minutes, tops. Okay?”

“Okay,” she nods. “Thanks.” She’s not even sure if he heard that last word.

He’s seven minutes actually. Seven minutes between her hanging up the phone and the front door opening, her mom letting him in and telling him she’s up in her room. Every step closer only makes her stomach hurt worse and she prays she’s not headed for a panic attack.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle as he opens the door, stepping into her room cautiously, like she’s in the middle of a minefield. He must have picked up on the tension in her house; rather than draping himself across her bed or sitting on her desk, he lowers himself gently beside her, offering her a comforting smile. The same kind he gave her years ago when she was crying in a bathroom stall. God, she loves him. “Everything okay? You sounded nervous on the phone.”

“Because I was,” she confesses. Her hand wraps around Damian’s, him squeezing tightly, but she doesn’t feel the usual strength she gets from him. There’s just a cold, heavy weight in her stomach. “Oh God.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says softly, rubbing his hand up and down her arm, confusion and compassion in his eyes. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she tells him. Her chest feels like someone is tying a rope around her lungs. The words battle from her mind to her mouth, weary and unwilling. “It’s about my… that doctor’s appointment I had. We found out-”

This is it. The point of no return. No pretending or faking or daydreaming after this.

“Damian… I have cancer.”

Damian shakes his head a little, disbelief written all over his face. He keeps his eyes on her, waiting for her to laugh and tell him she’s kidding, almost willing it so. She wishes. Soon the doubt and hope melt away, his eyes turning sad and his mouth falling open, a small, strangled noise coming out as he realises she’s not kidding. As for her guilt tears her chest open and her face crumples. She begins to untangle herself from him, but he refuses, his arm in a firm grip around her shoulders. Maybe he wants to hold her or maybe he just can’t move, paralysed by what she dropped on him. The longer he goes without talking, the more it hurts her.

“What?” he asks eventually. “You… what?”

“Leukaemia,” she tells him as if that makes it better. He blinks, looking around the room like he’s searching for another answer.

“You have cancer?” he asks. She nods, exhausted from the two sentences she spoke, and he pulls her closer, her head falling onto his shoulder. Tears that aren’t hers fall onto her body and her own wet his shirt. His arms are weak around her as he tries to make sense of it. “How?”

“I don’t know how. It just happened,” she mumbles. “Karma, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Okay then let me talk to Miss Karma because this is… fu-this isn’t…”

“Go on. Say it,” she urges, a grin beginning to tug on her lips. “Just for me.” Maybe this will be the day Damian Hubbard finally says fuck.

“It’s fiddlesticks is what it is.” She laughs and it feels unfamiliar. He pets her hair in a steady rhythm, strength coming back into his body. “So what do you do now? Do you know? What even happens?”

“Okay.” She pulls away from him, seeing for the first time how red his eyes are. “I start… I start getting treatment next Monday.”

“Next Monday?” he interrupts. “But you can’t, we have school. We start school in two days!”

“Yeah I don’t think the cancer gives a shit,” she sighs heavily. “I’m just going to do senior year next year.”

“No,” he whispers, his face nothing short of heartbroken. Part of her is actually kind of weirdly flattered that someone cares so much. Most of her just feels worse every second for doing this to him. “But… we were going to… What about the LGBT society? I’m going to have to run it by myself?” He rakes a hand through his hair and looks over at her. His mouth falls open and his hand drops to his lap. “Oh God I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“For making this about me,” he says. “This is about you.”

“Oh please, the other half of your soul has cancer, you can be a little self-centred,” she says.

“Who said you’re the other half of my soul?” he jokes.

“You did.” She lifts the half-heart around her neck, the twin to the one around his. He smiles sadly, his eyes glistening. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, holding on to the only trace of familiarity. “Besides, the club will survive without me. You can always get Cady to do it. I’m sure she’d love something for her college application.”

“Oh my God, Cady,” he says.

Why did she bring up Cady? she thinks as another wave of sadness crashes over and drowns her.

“Have you told her?” She shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“How could I?” she says. “You’re… you’re one thing. Cady’s another.” She leans her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. “I don’t know how to do that to her.” Damian hums in understanding. He doesn’t need to ask what she means. He saw her at her absolute worst five years ago, at her most scared and angry and broken. He’s seen everything there is to her and it hasn’t pushed him away. Cady thinks she’s seen the bad, but that’s just scratching the surface. While she heard how it was back then, Damian lived and breathed it.

What she has with Cady is perfect, far too perfect to be scarred by something like this.

“You know… I could tell her for you,” he offers. “If it’s too much for you.”

“No,” she cuts him off, opening her eyes. “I can’t make you do that.”

“You’re not making me do anything,” he tells her. She nods, but the conversation ends there. Of course he’d do that for her. He’s the most loyal person she’s ever met, worthy of the Hufflepuff badge on his backpack. He’d move Heaven and Earth for the people he loves, especially in their hour of need. Or months of need, she guesses is her case now. He deserves endless happiness and love and joy, and an amazing senior year.

Seconds pass in silence before she croaks out “I’m sorry”.

“Did you just apologise for having cancer?” he asks. He shifts and tilts her head to make her look at him, his hands cupping her face and his eyes severe. She’s never seen him like this before, completely serious, devoid of jokes or laughter, and it makes her nervous. “Janis Catherine Sarkisian, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare apologise for this. This isn’t because of you. This is because… I don’t know. But it’s not you.”

“Okay.” She covers his hands with hers, her breath catching. His thumbs wipe at her wet cheeks and she wonders what she did to deserve him. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Good.” His voice cracks and two tears race each other down his cheek landing in his lap. He takes a heavy, shaking breath before continuing. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”

“Of course you’d say that,” she mumbles, their clasped hands now sitting between them.

“You will be,” he says again, a fierce determination shining on his face. “Even if I have to go in there and physically fight that cancer myself.”

“You’d win,” she tells him, sniffling. They sit in the quiet, letting the weight of her news settle over both of them, a new and terrifying reality looming in front of them. Then she reaches out and pulls him into a hug; her arms wrapped around him, her head in the crook of his neck. As he hugs her back, she can feel the anxiety in his touch and how his touch is far more careful now. Like she’ll break if he holds her too much. But there’s also courage in there and above all, so much tenderness and it makes her heart grow and almost burst out of her stone cold chest.

“I love you,” she whispers against his shirt.

“I love you too,” he replies, ferocity in his voice, and Janis is struck by just how grateful she is that her best friend is Damian.

[ansgar-martinsson]

Fair Winds and a Following Sky - Part One

Dallas Fort Worth International Airport, United Airlines Ticketing Area, Dallas, Texas, 3:32 pm, 18 July

Her name was Sháńdíín. In English -- Sunshine. 

Yet, her mother, when she spoke English, refused to use that particular translation. According to her mother, the name, especially when shortened to Sunny, was too “fucking hippie-ass” for her tastes. Her mother had once said that the name reminded her of blonde, suntanned white girls in bikinis, feet full of sand, hearts full of selfishness, and heads full of nothing but air. 

Therefore, when her family had moved to Flagstaff, and it was time to register for school, her mother translated her only daughter’s name from the Navajo to Fair Sky, giving her also the day to day name of Anna. Not quite dazzling, not quite as brazen, kind of boring really - yet pleasant, beautiful, calming.

But calm was not at all what Sháńdíín was feeling at the moment. Far from it. Totally the opposite.

She hadn’t slept a full night in at least two weeks, although it felt like two months. Two weeks...two weeks full of anger and fear and out and out turmoil, of fits and starts of dreams, both nightmarish and full of longing. She’d dreamed the eagle form of her dead father, the piebald rabbit that was her dead mother. These little family visits were not pleasant ones, full of terror and blood and pulpy, torn flesh. She’d dreamed the haunted eyes and hollowed cheeks of her dead husband, of blazing fire, of screaming, dying horses, of police sirens, of the loss of her... of her....

Of everything.

But she’d also dreamed... of him. Him. The man who had stayed with her. The man who had left her. The man who comforted her, the man who had wounded her spirit from no fault of his own.  And oh, those dreams. The only good - no, wonderful - dreams her spirit had given her those nights. Yet, by doing so her spirit had been cruel. So cruel. The fucking cruelest. 

Anna shifted in her seat, the beaded embellishment on her back pocket scraping against the hard plastic chair. She swore under her breath as she shifted forward, leaning her elbows on her knees, her fingers starting once again to work over the keyboard of her battered, ancient laptop.

She sighed, having all but emptied the last of her bank account in a wire transfer to her lawyers. “Some help you were,” she muttered, clicking the mouse with an angry snap of her index finger. “Take my money and fuck off. Never want to see you assholes again.”

Sitting back in a huff, she crossed her arms over her chest, bounced her knee beneath the table, and stared at the legal invoice on the screen. Time spent for phone calls, court appearances, research, all for what? For nothing. She’d hired those goons to defend her on the advice of her friend, Sheriff Nappa - or so she’d once thought he was her friend.

Things had been different that morning. Harry Nappa was no friend that day. He drove his squad up to her ranch house -- correction -- what WAS her ranch house, lights flashing in her driveway. With a scowl, he served her with a writ. A writ, signed by the Honorable Judge Laura Kerwin in the case of Travidge Property and Mortgage, LLC v. Travidge, ordering her to immediately vacate, to wit, the heretofore foreclosed upon and sold premises forthwith, no later than ten o’clock AM on this date of June 18 anno domini blah blah blah...

In other words, in spite of her lawyers’ lame-ass efforts, she’d had no more than an hour to pack her things and get out of the house before the not-so-smiling and not-so-friendly Sheriff Nappa cuffed her ass and threw her in jail.

She’d complied, but she’d had no choice. She knew -- she couldn’t afford bail, couldn’t afford her lawyers, and frankly, she’d run out of ammunition, both figuratively and literally. Besides, the thought, the very thought of confinement, of a lack of freedom, made her spirit panic, made her shudder to the core. She’d fought long enough, her mother had said in a dream. She’d fought valiantly, and sometimes, her father had said, it was okay to lose. 

Lose one battle, win another. When the hogan door closes, the roof opens. Or something all esoteric and Navajo-ey like that. 

But now, she couldn’t even see the battle in front of her. There was nothing -- a mist, a dust, a cloud of smoke, but no fire to warm her, no spirit to guide her. She, for all intents and purposes, had nowhere to go. Out of Nowhere and into nowhere. She’d laughed -- a dry, mirthless chuckle at her mind’s joke, but it wasn’t funny.

Not funny at all. 

Her parents were dead, she’d no siblings, no aunts, uncles, cousins, no one. Since her father had left the Reservation when she was a small child, she knew no one in the tribe, and besides, Monument Valley was hundreds of miles away. 

Her family by marriage, the Travidges, had wanted nothing to do with her, not since the death of their golden boy, Charles, her husband. The Travidges had, ever since Charlie had announced their engagement, made her feel unwelcome, unwanted, as if she didn’t belong in their world of wealth, swimming pools, big blonde hair, botox, and power -- of high powered cattle trading and property speculation. 

Really, she knew she didn’t belong, no matter what the Travidges thought.

In fact, it was the Travidges, she’d suspected, who had set fire to her barn, killing her horses and cattle, destroying the one source of steady income she’d had - that of boarding and training. She’d had no proof, and, of course, she’d had no insurance. From that day on, her finances had spiraled out of control - one day, she couldn’t pay her cable bill, then her credit account at the Farm Store, next, her truck insurance bill, her grocery bill, and then finally, her mortgage. 

Her mortgage, which was held, of course, by -- you guessed it --  the Travidges. 

So, yeah, can’t really go knocking on Big Mamma T’s door, can I?

And so, for lack of a better place, she found herself at the immense, bustling  international airport, a drive of four hours from her erstwhile home, peering up at the departure display. 

Eenie, meenie, miney, mo.... where to go, oh where to go. 

She had two hundred and two dollars left in her bank account, and a credit card - eight thousand four hundred dollars of credit remaining on it. That morning, in her hurry, she’d managed to take most of her clothes and her toiletries, stuffed willy-nilly into Charlie’s old suitcase. She’d also remembered to take her documents, including the only-once-used passport, which was now slid into the inside pocket of her woven handbag.

The blue and white display shifted momentarily, the list of flights shuffling down, adding more flights as the time ticked by. It was the third screen from left that had caught her eye, then - the screen where the cities and connections beginning with the letter S were listed. 

Sacramento, St. Louis, San Diego, San Francisco, Sao Paulo, Seattle, Shanghai, Spokane, Stockholm....

Stockholm....

He was from Stockholm... or maybe just Sweden, but since Stockholm, from what she knew of it, was the largest city in that country, it was all she had to go on. But... him. Him. He’d visited her in her dreams these past few weeks, breathing in and breezing out. The memory of his smile, his touch, as clear in her mind as if he hadn’t left, as if he’d been sitting beside her day after day. 

I wonder....

She shook her head upon a breathy, sardonic chuckle. “No way in hell,” she muttered to herself. “You’ve tried to find him for a year, what makes you think you’ll find him now? What makes you even think he’s in Stockholm? What makes you....”

She eyed her computer, still sitting open on the small table in front of her. It had been weeks, months since she’d tried to find him, since she scoured the search engines for his name, or what he’d told her was his name, and came up empty. She glanced at the departure monitors. The flight to Stockholm wasn’t set to leave for another four hours. 

Maybe, just maybe....

She moused her browser open to Google, selected “news” and typed in her search.

Alan Easterberg Stockholm Sweden

Images of and news articles by the same Swedish magazine reporter popped up in her search, the same man who had kept getting in her way, the same man she’d run across every time she’d tried to find some presence of Alan online. Albin Easterberg was the name, and from the images of the man, Albin was definitely not Alan.

She sighed, her mouth twisted, head shaking in disgust, in annoyance at that flicker of hope, of that childish, asinine wanting. She berated herself, her anger and self-loathing communicating through the harsh swipes of her finger against her mouse’s scroll wheel. “Fucking stupid girl,” she muttered “stupid girl.”

And then she saw him. Or at least, in the tiny Google thumbnail, what she thought might, just might have been him. Or at least, it was someone different than she’d seen in her past searches. 

She clicked on the image, and it was brought into full view along the right side of the browser window. Still not enough, so she clicked on it again, and the browser took her to the underlying page from whence the image was pulled.

It looked like a news magazine from the layout, or maybe a blog, she couldn’t tell, given that the page was written in what she’d surmised was Swedish. Lots of umlauts and incoherent consonants and strangely shaped accents sprung from the page -- the language looked a lot like her native Navajo in a way.   

She leaned forward and studied the man in the image. He was tall, his velvet tuxedo hanging perfectly off of his frame. It was a candid photo, one of the man standing at a bar, his shine-shod foot casually perched on the brass rail beneath, an expensive drink in his hand. His face was in three-quarters view, eyes a keen and knowing blue, nose long and blade-like, cheekbones high and defined, jaw a straightedge line embellished by a razor-precise goatee. His hair was combed back and pomaded, yet slightly overlong, strands of rebellious curls fighting for dominance at the back of his head.

He was looking down at the shorter man, the eponymous Mr. Easterberg, a wry quirk pulling at the corner of his straight, tight mouth. To Anna, not only was the man looking down at Easterberg, he was looking down upon Easterberg. It was unmistakable, the dislike in the man’s eyes, but, she thought she could see it because she knew him. She knew him, and she’d been witness that hidden glower in his eyes before. 

Not directed at her, directed at Brian Travidge.

Directed at Brian Travidge right before the man had taken a massive swing and punched Brian Travidge’s lights out under the flood lights in Anna’s driveway, late at night, defending her honor against her former brother in law’s drunken advances.

She sat back in her chair, her mind and spirit a whirl. She flicked her gaze up to the departure screen, back to her computer, and back up again. 

Her throat tightened and she swallowed hard, her heart pounding a tattoo in her chest. She read, or tried to read the date on the article’s byline. 

“15 Juni.”  

June 15, she thought, must be. Three days ago. The photo had been taken in Stockholm a mere three days ago....

Decision made, she nodded, reached out and traced a finger down the line of the man’s face. Her breath came ragged, her mouth suddenly parched. “That’s you, Alan,” she breathed. “Has to be you.” She read the name in the caption beneath the photograph. “Ansgar Martinsson,” she chuckled. “So, that’s your name. That’s who you are.”

But to her, he would, no matter what he called himself, always be her Hashke’ Náshdóítsoh. Her man who was like the mountain lion. Hers to name, hers to remember. 

And maybe, hers to know once more.  

And with that, Anna rose from her chair, packed up her computer and slung the bag over her shoulder. She snatched the handle of her suitcase and strode, the purpose and direction renewed in her step, directly to the United Airlines ticket counter.

“One way to Stockholm,” she said, and slid her credit card and passport over the counter.

[1pepsiboy]

Hello!! Could you do a Colby x reader where their spicy pics that they have together get leaked and the reader is freaking out and Colby has to comfort them? Thanks!!!

Absolutely! 

POV: Third person 

Word count: 1400

***

Y/N and Colby spoon in his bed; him as the bigger and armstightly wrapping around her. They’re watching “Wet Hot American Summer” onNetflix using Colby’s iPad. Every time C laughs, Y/N giggles more with hersmile spreading from ear to ear; some of the best moments are spent like this.

She lightly rests her arms on top of his and feels her eyesget a little heavy. As the ending credits and ridiculous song roll, Colbyplaces a kiss on Y/N’s head.

“Feel free to take a nap, baby. I’m gonna finish editing.”

“Mmkay.” She replies with a small, tired sigh and snugglesinto his pillow and comforter after he pulls away.

***

“Bro, did you see Twitter?” Sam asks, worry evident in hisvoice. “It’s not good.”

Y/N wipes her face and sits up in the bed. “What’shappening?”

Sam jumps a little, resting a hand on his chest. “God dangit!I did not know you were still here, Y/N.”

“I am.” She clears her throat and runs a hand through herhair. “So, what’s not good?” She could already feel her adrenaline rising tightin her chest and she did not want to have to pick up her phone and look to findout for herself. It would make it worse.  

Colby sits at his desk, shirtless, and gives Sam anappointive look. “Yeah, bro. What’s going on? Are fans trying to create morefire between Kat and Y/N?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, no, that’s been dealt with. Itmight actually be worse than that.” He hands Colby his phone and C readsthrough some of what’s on the screen.

He looks at Y/N and sighs heavily. “Uh…Baby, please don’tfreak out.”

“Cole Robert Brock, what the fuck is going on?” Y/N gets upfrom the bed, walks over to him, and snatches Sam’s phone out of his hand tosee that some spicy photos of theirs had been leaked. Not only were they spicy,they were the ones with her showing the most.

How on fucking earth they were leaked? She has no clue. UnlessColby’s ICloud was unlocked again and someone tapped into it. Her snap towardsColby was due to her anxiety rising and she hates that it makes her go crazy inways she can’t control.

“H-How?”

Colby put his hands in air and shakes his head. “I don’tknow…But it’s gonna be fine. I’ll tweet out for everyone take them down, to nottalk about them. I bet Sam could tweet too.” He gestures his hand at Sam as he suggests.

Sam nods his head. “Yeah, of course. Whatever I can do tohelp, man.”

Y/N shakes her head with the hot tears building up in hereyes. “This doesn’t mean the pictures are going to go away from the media orthat they’ll stop talking about them.”

“Hey, this will become old news to the fans fast. I’m sureof it.” Colby stands up and rests his hands on her shoulders, looking her inthe eyes with his purely sincere, blue eyes.

“Yeah, okay…I don’t care what the fans have to say, Colby.I’m worried what my mom is going to say, she actually goes on social media. She’sgonna see them.”

His face tenses a little and he cringes. “Ooo…”

Y/N wipes away the tears that trailed down on her cheeks. “Exactly.”

“I got an idea. It’s stupid, but it’s an idea.”

“What?” She sniffles.

C bits his bottom lip. “You’re not gonna like it… What if wejust facetime your mom about the pictures and lightly mention they got leaked?”

Sam took in a breath between his teeth. “Full honesty, bro?”

“What?” Colby exclaims, throwing his arms out, and makes hiseyes go wide. “You got any better ideas before she sees them? It’s probably betterher mom hears it from us than social media.”

“No, no,” Sam puts his hands in the air, “but I’m not beinga part of this plan. Good luck.”

Colby scoffs, jokingly, “Fine. You and your tiny nippleswere never part of the plan.”

Sam pulls his ‘Beyond the norm’ shirt up and begins to backout. “Good cause we didn’t want to be.”

“Put your shirt down.” C replies in one of his many funnyvoices, but the one that hinted more of his Midwestern side.

Y/N actually laughs under breath, grateful for the stupid banterbetween the two as a small distraction.

***

Colby hits the callon Y/N’s phone and reaches out for her hand. “It’s gonna be okay.”

As much as he was trying to comforter her, she knew he wasinternally freaking out. No one wants to tell a parent there’s sexual pictures ofthem that they took and that they’ve been leaked for the whole world of socialmedia to see.

Her mother’s face pops up on the screen, clearly already nothappy.

“Hey mah.”

Betty purses her lips in a line. “Is the reason you’recalling have to do with what’s going around of you two?”

Y/N bits on her thumbnail, nodding her head. “Yeah…”

“We were going to tell you before you saw them, but…guessthat opportunity is gone.” Colby speaks up.

“What in the name of all that is bad were you thinking, Y/N?What did taking those photos accomplish you? Embarrassment, harassment, and a disappointedmom.”  

“I know.” Y/N sighs, rubbing her face, and could feel thewater building up again.

“Hold on.” Colby snaps lightly, but then clears his throatafter seeing the firey glare her mom had to give him. “Sadly, this sort ofthing happens all the time with people in the spotlight.”

“Yeah? Well, thank you so much for putting my daughter init.”

“Mom!” Y/N’s eyes go wide.

Colby chews on his bottom lip and shakes his head. “I knowit’s my fault and I’m sorry. I don’t know how they got the pictures, butwhoever found them should not have shared. This crossed a certain line I washoping would never happen. I’m gonna do what I can to get rid of them, to shutit all down… I’ve already decided to make a video about it. It’s lecturingtime.”

Y/N couldn’t help giggling.

“You think it’s funny?” Betty asks incredulously. “I don’t thinkthat’s going to help the situation.”

She tries to stop, but it only makes it her worse. After shetakes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Just imagine Colby lecturing thefandom about this. It is pretty funny. I do agree though, this crossed apersonal line and they should know how wrong it was.”

He squeezes her hand and looks at her with raised eyebrows. “Yougonna be in the video, baby? Got a few words to say?”

“Definitely.”

Betty must’ve had the phone leaning against something becauseshe tosses her hands in the air. “Go ahead and make the video. Don’t listen tothe woman who’s been on this earth for longer that’s saying it’s going to makethe situation worse.”

Y/N lightly huffs. “Mom, I know you’re still disappointed atthe fact the pictures exist, and I was super upset when I found out they wereleaked…but I do think the fans should know. A tweet or post is not going to beenough.”

“Okay.”

There’s some awkward silence, and Colby seems especiallyawkward.

“So…am I still a hated boyfriend right now?” He finallyasks.

Her mom raises her eyebrows at him for a moment beforesighing. “Check back with me in a few days.”

He snaps his fingers into a clap. “Got it.” He kisses Y/N’scheek. “I’m gonna go prep the camera. Bye Betty.”

“Bye Colby.”

He leaves and Y/N barely looks at her mom.

“I am sorry you had to find out via social media. We reallywere going to try telling you before you saw it there.”

“I…know. I still love you. Just know this will probably hauntyou for the rest of your life. Your kids will probably see them.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Right. And if they do, I’ll explain howcruel people on social media can be, if I haven’t already… I love you too.”

Betty nods her head shortly. “You better go record. I’lltalk later.”

“Okay.”

They wave goodbye before ending and Y/N stands up to go findwhere Colby decided the video should be filmed.

[Mer sterf]

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

i miss the thought of a forever you and me [one-shot]

Kylo Ren has spent what seems to be the entirety of his adult life working towards a partnership in Snoke's firm. Now that future is finally within reach, and only one thing stands in his way.

So maybe he hasn't spoken to Rey in eight years. And maybe he's still not quite over her. But getting in touch with his ex-girlfriend to have her take down their old webcam videos shouldn't be an issue... right?

This is far from my best work, but I haven’t posted anything in nearly a month so here, have a two-tropes-in-one fic: exes getting back together and ‘we were young and broke and webcam porn seemed like a good idea’. Is that last one even a trope? Who knows. I wrote it anyway. If a bunch of fluff and pining sounds like a good idea, this might be the fic for you.

Also available on AO3.

Kylo Ren has been working towards this moment for the entirety of his adult life.

“If all goes as planned,” Snoke finally says after a long, roundabout conversation about legacies and partnerships and apprentices becoming equals, “the announcement will be made this Monday.”

The announcement – the one that will cement his place as a partner of the firm, the one that will ensure his name lives on forever, the one that will overshadow anything and everything that has come before. “Sir, this is–”

Snoke holds up a hand, all paper-thin skin and arthritis-curled fingers; it’s a wonder, really, that the man is still alive at all, let alone sharp enough to continue running his firm. Some will see this announcement as a sign of weakness, as the beginning of a transition of power – and perhaps they’ll be right. Two years ago, Kylo would have entertained the thought in the back of his mind, might even have come up with the outline of a plan to begin the process of supplanting Snoke entirely.

As it is, he can barely even muster the energy to fake excitement at the news.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet, boy,” Snoke warns him. “Once the announcement goes out, it won’t take long for everyone to start looking you up. While I trust that Kylo Ren has been nothing but professional, I cannot say the same of Ben Solo – and I refuse to have another Hux situation.”

Just last week, Hux had been his sole competitor for this very partnership – until a quick Google search by Snoke’s assistant had yielded pictures of Hux in a Nazi costume plastered all over the Internet. The idiot had worn the costume not one, not two, but five Halloweens in a row, and any effort on his part to contain the damage would have been hopeless.

He was fired that very day.

“I assure you, sir,” Kylo speaks firmly, with all the confidence of someone who was born into the spotlight and has almost never done anything stupid, “that will not happen.”

Snoke pins him with a look that might have been intimidating once, back when he still cared about the man’s opinion and approval. “See that it doesn’t. Take the rest of the week to get your affairs in order.”

He’s dismissed with a limp wave of Snoke’s hand – has he really grown that frail in just a handful of years, or was Kylo simply too blinded by his promises of greatness to notice before?

Kylo thinks he sees that same blind loyalty in Mitaka as he walks past the assistant’s desk. The man is terrified of him and had been just as scared of Hux, but that hadn’t stopped Mitaka from bringing his findings to Snoke anyway, even at the cost of making a lifelong enemy out of Hux.

Maybe someday, Kylo thinks as he returns Mitaka’s curious gaze with a curt nod, you’ll wake up too. You’ll realize that the voice whispering in the darkness is filling you with empty promises, that greatness and power mean nothing without all the other things he’ll make you sacrifice first.

But then what? Kylo himself came to that realization years ago, and here he is anyway because what else is there? Maybe that’s the truly frightful thing about Snoke – even if he can’t deceive you forever, he’ll make sure that there’s nothing else left for you, that there’s no reason to break free of his trap.

Maybe once there would have been a reason, a person–

But that was years ago. Now there’s no one else, and nowhere else, so he might as well just stay and keep going down this path strewn with material comfort and little else.

Kylo returns to his office and settles in to retrace every single step he’s ever taken online. There’s nothing left of pre-college Ben Solo – he’d made sure of that the summer after high school in a foolish attempt to present himself with a clean slate for college, as if his last name and his parentage didn’t cast a longer shadow than anything his idiot fourteen-year-old self could have said on Myspace. After college there was no more Ben Solo, only Kylo Ren, and an intensive Google search (he’s on the seventh page of search results by the time he clicks away) reveals nothing but a handful of professional profiles used for networking and the occasional write-up about him or his cases.

Which leaves him with one last concern: college Ben Solo.

College Ben Solo has a Facebook account that he never posted on, one he used only to interact with his classmates and lecturers. He has a Twitter account with zero tweets, and an Instagram account with zero posts but a hundred or so tagged photos.

That was the only reason he’d signed up for Instagram in the first place: to see what kind of pictures his friends were posting of him, to see (and like) everything Rey tagged him in.

He would have deleted his Facebook account years ago, but he’s a sentimental fool and that was where he and Rey first got to know each other, really, when she chose to write to him instead of the literal dozens of others in their class for help. (It’s Rey from poli sci. I wasn’t in class today. Did I miss anything?)

He should have deleted his Twitter account the day he graduated, but sometimes he scrolls through all of his Favorites and their relationship plays like a movie in his head, each milestone – no matter how tiny – recorded for posterity in 140 characters. (The summer before their third year, a picture of her rolling her eyes at the camera and him talking to a realtor in the background: house-hunting with the pickiest guy in the world. I swear to god, @Ben_Solo, if you don’t pick an apartment by today I will kill you.)

And Instagram… Instagram is an exercise in masochism. Pictures of them in class, when Holdo was running late and she was bored. Pictures of them hanging out at parties Hux dragged him to and Finn dragged her to. Pictures of her tucked into his side on movie night, of him turning his face away from her camera while he made them breakfast, of the two of them building an entire life together. (A caption to accompany the last picture of them she ever posted, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist: Who needs a space heater when you’ve got this guy? #lifehacks #savingafortuneonheatingthiswinter #agirlcouldgetusedtothis)

It’s painful to look back on, every single bit of it, but there’s nothing here that would actually have a negative impact on his reputation. His Twitter account is already private and his Facebook reveals nothing but a string of perfunctory, impersonal birthday messages from former classmates. He double-checks that his Instagram account is locked, and then he looks up her account too – just to be safe.

Rey Niima | Cali Full-time software engineer, part-time app developer, occasionally an actual human with a social life.

The bio’s changed since he last saw it a year ago – I almost never post but don’t worry, I’m (probably) not dead – but the account’s still locked, which should mean no one can see her pictures of him. He’ll have to check with someone who’s more familiar with social media – maybe Phasma, who’s gotten surprisingly good at this stuff since she started developing a social media presence for her gym – but Kylo’s pretty sure this means he can keep all of his shrines to the past without exposing himself as a lovesick fool to the public.

All except one, that is.

Kylo exits Instagram, sets his phone aside, and reluctantly turns to his laptop. He types a URL into the box – one he visits far more than he’d like to admit – and watches as a few dozen thumbnails for corresponding videos begin to appear.

Because while college Ben Solo had maintained a minimal, barely-there presence on social media, there’s one particular corner of the web where he had been very, very active.

There’s a reason he waited until he was safely locked away in his own house to conduct this online purge, and the revealing thumbnails make him glad he did – limbs splayed wide open and miles upon miles of bare skin but no faces, never any faces, they were always so careful about that. It’s probably the only reason no one’s ever found out about this.

He’s never forgotten about it – having sex with your girlfriend in front of a live online audience isn’t exactly something you can just forget about – but Kylo’s felt fairly confident in their anonymity for the past few years. No names, no faces, shitty audio that completely distorted their voices – they’d thought of everything, discussed it all at length when she first approached him with the idea. But now… now he can’t risk it any longer. So as much as he’s going to miss being able to watch these whenever he really, really misses her–

It’s time to call Rey up and ask her to take down all of their videos.

“Hello,” she says distractedly – he can picture her pressing the phone between her ear and shoulder, her hands busy at work and her mind half-focused on a dozen different things. The image is so vivid it hurts, and her voice – the voice he used to wake up to a lifetime ago – isn’t helping.

He takes a deep breath. “Um, hey. It’s…” Not Ben, not for a long time now, but would she even remember Kylo Ren? The name he only adopted towards the end of their time together, the name she laughed at once or twice before telling him to stop being an idiot, Ben Solo is a perfectly good name–

Over the phone, Rey makes an almost imperceptible sound – a gasp, maybe, or a sharp inhale. “Ben,” she breathes, not even the slightest hint of a question in her voice after all these years.

He was always Ben to her, even right up until the end. It doesn’t feel right to change that now. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to just call you up like this–”

“It’s okay,” Rey cuts him off, her words tumbling out in a rush. Maybe he should’ve asked if this is a good time to talk. “Really, it’s fine. What’s… what’s up?”

“I’m… this is going to sound weird, but I’m in town and I need to talk to you about something… private,” he grimaces as it finally hits him how ridiculous this all is, how pathetic and see-through his excuse is. They could’ve had this phone call even on opposite ends of the world; he could’ve checked the website after to make sure she’d gone through with it. There’s absolutely no reason for him to have flown across the country just for this.

But here he is anyway.

Rey is quiet for the longest while. “Oh,” she finally says. “I… um. Okay, I guess. Do you want to tell me what this is about or would you rather–”

“I’d rather tell you in person,” Kylo says quickly, before he can lose his nerve and fly back without ever laying eyes on her. “Can I- are you free now?”

“Now?” she echoes questioningly. “I’m kinda at work right now, Ben.”

Because of course she’s at work, of course she has a routine and a life and none of it is going to stop just because he’s unceremoniously dropped himself back into her existence. His life in New York feels so distant now, almost like a dream, but it’s unfair of him to expect her to drop everything and rush to him the way he’s rushed to her.

“Of course,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, I forgot that–”

“But my lunch break is in two hours, if you’d like to drop by then,” Rey offers haltingly, her tone somewhere between a suggestion and a question.

“Yes,” the word tumbles past his lips without a moment’s thought. “Yes. Great. That’d be great.” He clears his throat to shut himself up and stop rambling at Rey.

“Great!” she agrees brightly, her cheery tone the slightest bit hysteria-tinged. “So I’ll just text you the address?”

He could easily look it up himself, of course, but he’ll take any form of contact with her – Kylo’s not above admitting that to himself. “Yeah, sure. Thanks. See you in a bit, Rey,” he makes himself say, because who knows how long he’ll keep her on the phone otherwise, keep her voice in his ear and her presence in his life.

When Rey speaks, he likes to think he can hear a smile in her voice. “See you, Ben,” she says quietly, and a moment later her voice is gone and his phone is buzzing with a message containing directions to Resistance Tech.

The company sounds vaguely familiar – he must’ve read about her getting a job there at some point, maybe gleaned it from one of her bios or a congratulatory post on Finn’s Facebook account. There’s so little about her that he actually knows, but the bits and pieces stored in the back of his mind are still more than he should have, more than he’s entitled to, given that they haven’t spoken in eight years.

He wonders when she stopped working with Skywalker, and why; wonders if she still hates coffee and chugs way too much Coke in the mornings to get her caffeine hit instead; wonders if she ever reaches out across the bed at night only to remember there’s no one there anymore, the way he still does.

Thirty minutes later he hops into an Uber and stares out the window at the bright sun and the swaying trees, thinks of how much Rey must love this place, all her favorite parts about her desert home and their rainy college town rolled into one city.

The car pulls up to Resistance Tech more than an hour later, and his Uber driver tells him that’s considered good time given that it’s the middle of the day and they made their way here all the way from the airport. He thanks the guy, shoulders his weekend bag, and opens the door to a beautiful, sprawling, horribly familiar sight.

Rey never stopped working with Skywalker, Kylo realizes belatedly. Resistance Tech is just the new name his mother had chosen for the company when she decided to quit politics and partner up with her brother.

The receptionist calls for someone to escort him upstairs when she recognizes his name, and Kylo finds himself deposited in an empty conference room on the seventeenth floor shortly after.

The hallway outside is barely lit, and the entire floor seems abandoned for now. He sits down for a bit, re-reads Rey’s message a couple of times before he takes to restlessly pacing the length of the conference room and then parting the blinds to look at the courtyard below.

Benches and picnic tables dot the open space, and food carts begin to appear seemingly out of nowhere as lunch hour draws near. He thinks he spots Finn amongst the throng of employees spilling out of the building, accompanied by a man and a woman, and idly wonders if maybe he’ll catch a glimpse of Rey rushing to get a bite before she comes up to meet him.

An achingly familiar voice draws him away from the window.

“Hello, Ben.”

She’s eight years older but somehow still exactly as he remembers her, all thin sweater slipping off one shoulder and loose hair framing her face and a soft little smile on her lips. He’s seen her like this a thousand times, in memories and dreams that always leave him wanting.

“Rey,” he whispers, curling his hands around the back of a chair to anchor himself. The urge to wrap his arms around her, to sweep her off her feet and pick her up the way he used to, the way that never failed to make her laugh in delight, is overwhelming. “You look… the same. Beautiful, I mean,” he adds in a hurry before she can wonder whether that’s a good thing. “You look beautiful. That’s all.”

“Um, thanks. I like your hair,” Rey replies in kind as she steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. He resists the urge to run a hand through his hair self-consciously; he hasn’t worn it short-short since he was a teenager, grew it out to hide his ears even when they were together, but now it’s shorter than it ever was in college, only half of his ears hidden underneath black waves.

She used to run her hands through it absent-mindedly, coo at how soft it was and lament that there wasn’t more of it for her to braid. He wants nothing more than to feel her blunt nails scratching down his scalp again, her fingers tangled in his hair to hold him close.

“Sorry to make you come all the way up here,” Rey says as she takes a seat and motions for him to do the same. “It’s just… I know you and Leia still aren’t talking that much, and you never know where she’ll be during lunch hour. I thought this would be the safest option.”

Leia. Back in college she used to call his mom Mrs. Organa, and they’d met all of two times when Leia dropped by campus unannounced to confront him about the growing rift between them. Now she knows his mom well enough to be on a first-name basis, has probably spent more time with her in the past year than he has in the past decade.

Kylo slowly takes a seat opposite her. “Thanks. That’s… very considerate of you.”

Rey simply nods in acknowledgement, and they stare at each other across the wide conference table until–

“Why are you here, Ben?” she asks softly, no hint of hostility or frustration in her voice. Maybe the years have mellowed her out, maybe more than a decade of not having to fight for survival on a daily basis has drained her of the hardened, confrontational nature he remembers from their earliest interactions and allowed her true personality to emerge - the one he’d begun to see glimpses of during their last year together, the one he used to think he’d have the rest of his life to get to know.

“I…” he can’t help but drop his eyes down to the table, finds himself focusing on the way she fidgets with a bracelet around her wrist as he speaks. “I’m being promoted, next week. Snoke’s making me a partner.”

Her hand stops moving at the mention of his boss. “Oh. Um, congratulations,” Rey offers weakly.

Kylo forces himself to look at her. “Thanks. But… that’s why I’m here, basically. Snoke demands that all of us carry ourselves in a manner befitting of the firm’s reputation, which means no hidden skeletons or potential scandals. And now that he’s about to announce me as a partner…”

“You’re worried people out there might do some digging,” she fills in, nodding in comprehension.

There’s no need to talk about what exactly people might find, what kind of scandal they’d have on their hands. There’s only that one thing.

“Do you still have the login information?” he asks bluntly.

“I…” Rey pauses, and the slightest furrow emerges between her brows; he wants to lean across the table and smooth it out, wants to tuck her hair behind her ear and– “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I still remember everything. But um,” she gives him an apologetic smile, one marred by a wince. “I’m not that comfortable logging in here at work, so maybe…?”

Kylo nods. “Right, of course. I completely understand.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I get home, I promise,” she assures him. “Really, I should’ve done it years ago. It just… slipped my mind, I guess.” The casual shrug, the light tone – none of it is the least bit convincing. This isn’t the kind of thing that just slips your mind.

He plays along anyway, just as guilty as her of… whatever this is. Keeping a shrine to the past? Getting off to your own homemade porn? Holding on to memories of the happiest time in your life? “Yeah, same.”

Rey moves as if to get out of the chair, as if to leave, and he panics, grasps desperately at straws for something to say–

“How long are you in town for, by the way?” she asks, getting to her feet but making no move to leave.

“I… I don’t know,” Kylo realizes out loud. “I just packed a bag and hopped on a plane. Fuck, I haven’t even gotten a hotel.”

She studies him, head the slightest bit tilted to one side in suspicion. “Ben, did you fly all the way here just for this?”

He can’t exactly admit that his brain had short-circuited at even the slightest possibility of seeing her again, that he’d fly halfway across the damn world if it meant getting to be in the same room with her for five minutes. “No,” Kylo croaks, clears his throat and aims for nonchalance. “No, definitely not. That’d be… that’d be ridiculous. I just. Work’s about to change in a big way and I needed some time to myself, you know?”

Rey simply stares at him for the longest while. “Right,” she finally says. “Of course.” After a moment’s consideration, she adds, “This might be weird but we did part on good terms and all, and you just said you haven’t found a hotel yet so… I mean. I have a spare room. That you can stay in, if you’d like.”

It takes him a second too long to process what’s happening here, to understand that Rey is inviting him into her home for the night. “Yes!” he blurts out when it looks like she’s starting to regret the offer. “I mean, yes. I’d love to. If it’s okay with you.”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” Rey smiles. “So I’ll just send you the address and let you know when I’m home?”

“That sounds good,” Kylo nods, following her lead as she moves out of the room. “Thanks, by the way. I know this is all really unexpected and–”

She turns in the doorway, places a hand on his arm. “It’s no problem, Ben. Really, I don’t mind.”

It burns where she touches him, in the best way possible.

But Rey drops her hand as if she’s been singed, and quickly leads him out of the room and down the darkened hallway. “I’d walk you out, but then people might stop us to talk to me and who knows if they’ll recognize you.”

“It’s okay,” he says as they wait for the elevator. “I know my way around.” After all, he used to spend entire summers exploring this place as a child. “Hey, what happened to Skywalker, anyway? Why the name change?”

They get into the elevator and Rey presses two buttons – twelfth floor for her office, he can’t help but note. “Luke disappeared on some kind of soul-searching mission shortly after Leia retired from politics and came here to join him,” she explains. “So your m- so Leia said that if he was going to make her do all the work of running the company, she might as well make the company her own. Gave it a total overhaul, rebranded and everything.”

Twelfth floor, an automated voice chimes before he can voice the thought that that sounds entirely like something Leia would do.

“Well, this is me,” Rey says as the doors begin to slide open. “I’ll see you at home?”

It feels like a dream to hear her say that again after all these years. Rey realizes her slip-up the second she steps off the elevator, and her eyes grow wide as she frantically shakes her head. “I mean, at my home. Which you don’t share. Because you’ve never been there. Because we–”

Kylo smiles, braces one hand against the door while the other reaches out to finally, finally tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “See you later, Rey.”

Her eyes close when his fingers graze her jaw, and he thinks she even leans into his touch. But then there’s a voice from down the hall, an awfully familiar one, and their eyes meet in a moment of total panic.

“Rey, is that you? I was wondering where you’d gone! Would you like to have lunch together?”

Leia’s voice grows dangerously close.

“Go,” Rey urges, and Kylo turns his back on her to conceal himself while he frantically jabs at the button to close the doors.

He finds himself in a café five minutes away from Rey’s office for the rest of the afternoon, scrolling through Instagram and Twitter despite his better judgement.

But the way she said see you at home, the way she sighed and leaned into his hand–

At five, his walk down memory lane is abruptly cut short when his phone lights up with a text.

Leaving work now, home in twenty. Come over whenever.

Kylo makes himself sit still for another ten minutes, even if it’s the hardest thing he’s done in recent memory. And then he calls for an Uber and promptly gets stuck in traffic.

Rey opens the door nearly an hour later and laughs at the sight of his disgruntled face. “You called for a car, didn’t you?”

“Mistakes were made,” he acknowledges, stepping into her apartment. For a moment there it’s almost like he’s stepped back in time, like he’s walked into their old home again.

But her plants are in proper pots now, not chipped mugs and emptied-out jars of food with the labels still on them. And the furniture is significantly nicer, not a single piece rescued from the curb and given a total makeover. It still screams Rey though, at the very heart of it, and he instantly feels more comfortable here than he has anywhere else since they moved out.

“That’s why I bike everywhere,” Rey says as she closes the door behind them, oblivious to his reaction to her home. “Have you eaten? I was thinking of calling for Thai. There’s this great place–” her voice carries as she heads for the kitchen, and he follows her once he’s successfully snapped himself out of it.

“Thai sounds great,” he tells her, watching her retrieve the menu from a drawer stuffed to the brim with brightly colored flyers. The genie drawer, Rey used to call it back in their kitchen, even put up a nice little chalkboard label proclaiming it as such. Like so many other things about her, it had been both endearing and heartbreaking to see how excited she would get about something as mundane as being able to simply place a call and know for sure that your next meal was taken care of, that you wouldn’t have to starve that day.

They settle on their orders, and Rey heads into the living room to get her phone and make the call. He looks out her kitchen window while waiting for her, pictures her standing in this very spot every morning, quietly cradling a mug of tea in a stolen moment of peace before the day ahead. It’s what she used to do, at least, back when their kitchen was barely functional and the view from their window was just a dirty alley.

“Hey,” Rey says as she returns to the kitchen, and when he turns around she has her laptop in hand. “I thought we might as well get it done with, while we’re waiting for food to arrive,” she explains, her smile too tight and close-lipped to be anything but nervous.

“Good idea,” he nods, and moves away from the window to join Rey at the kitchen island. There are two small barstools tucked under one end, and he follows her lead when she slides into one and logs into her laptop.

Rey types in the URL. “So,” she says a little too loudly as they wait for the page to load. “Excited about your promotion?”

“Not really,” Kylo mumbles as thumbnails begin to pop up.

They’re… well, as explicit as you’d expect them to be. But nestled amidst all of that is the occasional image of them just wrapped up in each other, Rey’s arms around his neck and his hair falling forward to obscure them from view as they kiss.

And always, always the slightest hint of a smile on her barely-visible face. He’s beginning to forget what it felt like, to have Rey smile into a kiss. Because for all the tiny details that furnish his longing dreams, there are just as many that have started to slip through his fingers – and he hates it, hates the way each missing detail feels like a fresh cut over a barely-healed wound, hates that time is chipping away at his most precious memories, hates that they’ve been apart for so long, that they’ve been apart at all.

Kylo sighs. “What happened to us?” he murmurs unthinkingly, and from the corner of his eye he catches movement – a flinch?

“Life,” Rey says easily, suddenly fascinated by her own hands. “We went down different paths, grew apart… it happens. People change. You changed,” she shrugs.

She’s never said so before, ended their relationship with a casual looks like we’ll be going to opposite ends of the country, let’s keep in touch rather than any complaints about him changing. He inhales sharply, snaps his head up to look at her. “What do you mean I changed?” His voice is too sharp, too demanding and accusatory, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Rey looks him in the eye, doesn’t falter or hesitate as she confronts him. “When I met you, you said you’d never go into politics because you wanted to actually make a difference, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to do that from within the government,” she reminds him. “And then the next thing I knew, you were working with Snoke and defending the very people you used to rail against, the ones who stood in the way of the change you used to want.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, counts to ten and pays close attention to his tone before he speaks. “I grew up, Rey,” he tells her stiffly, evenly. “That boy – he was naïve and idealistic and he would’ve starved to death working pro bono for every sob story he came across,” or so Snoke has said a hundred times, whenever he feels Kylo is in need of a reminder and some gratitude. “Snoke saw my potential and rescued me from that.” It feels wrong to parrot his mentor’s words back at Rey, especially when he himself stopped believing in them a long time ago. But what else is there to say?

“He didn’t rescue you,” Rey spits bitterly. “He hollowed you out and destroyed everything that made you you! He stripped away your morals and your beliefs and filled the void with a fuckton of money to hide it from you.”

“I’m not– Rey, I’m still me!” He gets to his feet so abruptly that the force of it sends his stool skittering across the floor. “I’m still the same person you knew, I’m still the man who took a job he couldn’t care less about because I wanted a roof over our heads, because I wanted to give you everything–”

Rey shakes her head at him. “I never asked you for everything, Ben. I was happy with what we had, I was happy with you.”

What they had? What they had was a tiny apartment and a mountain of overdue bills and a barely-defined thing between them because Rey never asked for anything but she never let him ask for anything either, never agreed to a proper date or labels or anything real, anything that would have given him the power to hurt her.

“I wasn’t!” Kylo snaps, running a rough hand through his hair, tugging at a tangle in frustration. “God, how do you think I felt, Rey, knowing that other people were getting off to my girlfriend just so that we could pay rent? The things they said about you–”

“Hold on,” Rey stands up, raises a hand in protest. “I was never your girlfriend, we were just–”

“Just what, Rey?” he snarls. “Just living together? Sleeping together? Talking about our future together? I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but that sounds like a relationship to me.”

Rey’s breathing hard and glaring at him and out of nowhere it occurs to him that this is their first fight, that they dated for three years and have been broken up for eight but somehow this is the first time he’s ever raised his voice at her.

“The only reason,” she says slowly, deliberately, bites off each word with thinly-veiled anger and coats it in false calm, “we were living together was because neither of us could afford to pay rent separately. You said so yourself, when you suggested it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rey,” he sighs, brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose where he can already feel a headache coming on. “Did you really think that was… I mean, come on. If all I wanted was a roommate, I would’ve just asked fucking Hux. He would’ve had a bigger budget. He would’ve had his share of the rent on time every month.”

And this cannot be news to Rey, but still uncertainty casts a shadow over her features as she asks, “Then why…?”

Kylo shakes his head, closes his eyes and runs a heavy hand down his face. “Because I wanted to be with you,” he whispers, something so obvious he’s always just assumed Rey – and the whole wide world, really – must’ve seen it from the very start. “Because I loved you.”

Rey makes a tiny sound – he can’t tell if she’s choking or gasping, not with the doorbell drowning her out so that all he can see is the way her lips part infinitesimally in shock.

“I’ll get it,” Kylo sighs when the bell rings again, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket. The fact that Rey doesn’t even react when normally she’d be fighting to split the bill makes him wonder if he’s broken her.

Did she really not know? How? God, the way he’d look at her, the way he’d hold her close and sigh her name – wasn’t any of it obvious enough? Wasn’t it written in big red letters across his forehead that he had been a fucking goner for her from the very start?

When he comes back into the kitchen, Rey is still standing in the exact same spot. He leaves her be, busies himself with taking plastic containers of food out of the bags and setting them out on her countertop.

“Ben?”

He turns around to find her hugging herself, arms wrapped around her waist and shoulders hunched in on herself so that she looks even tinier than usual, lost and scared and–

“Did you mean it? That you loved me back then?”

Kylo brings his hands behind his back, wedges them between his body and the kitchen counter to subdue the urge to cross the room and hold her. Rey stares at him unblinkingly, even as her arms grows tighter and she grows smaller, even as she sinks her nails into the soft flesh of her waist.

It hurts, to see her like this. Eight years and still all he wants is to always be there for her, to make her feel happy and safe all the time.

“I think I still do,” he admits quietly.

Rey makes that sound again – it’s a sob, he can hear it clearly now – and runs into his arms.

The food grows cold, forgotten on the countertop as they stumble into the living room.

After, snuggled up together on her tiny couch that’s so small she has to sprawl out on top of him rather than beside him, he gives voice to a dream he buried long ago.

“I thought I was going to marry you.”

Rey lifts her head from his chest, props herself up with her palms braced just above his shoulders. “What?”

“Back in college,” he explains, one hand drawing circles into her hip while the other brushes her hair out of her face. “Back when we… I’d look at you, sometimes, and out of nowhere I’d think, I’m going to marry her someday.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Rey asks gently, leaning in to brush the lightest of kisses against his lips.

“Didn’t want to scare you off, at first,” Kylo shrugs. “And then everything else happened so fast and we’d already made plans to move to opposite ends of the country. You know what’s crazy?” he asks, exhaling a short, bitter laugh. “Even then I thought we’d make it. I thought maybe I'd work with Snoke for a couple of years, save up enough for us to be okay while I looked for a better job where you were. Or maybe you'd hate it with my uncle and decide to fly out and find something closer to me. But then…”

But then there was talk of keeping in touch, a request to just text me once in a while, Ben, it won’t kill you to stay social, and with it came the heartbreaking realization that they weren’t anything worth holding on to, not to Rey.

He tears himself away from the memory. Just minutes ago she had hidden an endless string of I love yous in the crook of his neck, and that’s enough for him now. That has be to enough, because it’s already more than he’s ever dared to so much as daydream of.

“You never said anything,” Rey murmurs now, dropping her head back onto his chest. “I thought…”

“I wish I had,” he whispers into the silence, shifts slightly to nuzzle her temple.

Rey pushes against his chest, moves until they’re both sitting on the couch facing each other. “But…” she pauses, takes a deep breath as if to brace herself. “But things are different now, right? I mean, you’ve got everything you wanted now, what with the promotion and–”

He laughs bitterly, anguished enough for Rey to fall silent and stare at him wide-eyed. “Rey, you are everything I wanted. The rest was just… I don’t even know anymore,” he admits in defeat, can’t think of a single reason he left her behind for such a hollow life. “I hate it, all of it. I hate my job, I hate my apartment, I hate my life.”

She stares at him thoughtfully, nibbling on her bottom lip as she considers the situation at hand. The shirt he’d scooped up from the ground to drape around her shoulders is dangerously close to falling off as she shrugs and says, “Then quit.”

Oh, how he wants to. But – “And then what?”

Rey shuffles closer on her knees, climbs into his lap and plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Then come here,” she suggests easily. “Look for a job.” And then, after the slightest pause– “Marry me.”

His ears are ringing. He can’t possibly have heard that right, because Rey is still giving him that nonchalant look, still absentmindedly playing with his hair. “What?”

“That was your original plan, right?” Rey reminds him. “Quit after a few years with Snoke, move here to find a job, marry me someday,” she says it so softly, so lovingly, and in her eyes he sees all of it, sees that life he gave up on years ago. “I know it’s been a while, Ben, but… it’s not too late, if you still want it. If you still want us.”

“I– of course I still–” The idea that he might not is impossible to even wrap his head around. “But… Rey, are you serious? I know what I said, and I meant it, but you don’t have to… I mean, we can take it slow, if you want.” They’ve already wasted eight years, after all. What’s a few more so long as it means he gets to be with her, wife or not?

Rey shakes her head, surges up to kiss him all desperate and needy and so, so sure in her actions, her suggestions. “I’ve spent every single day of the last eight years,” she confesses against his lips, “trying to pretend that there isn’t a giant you-shaped hole in my life. So yes,” Rey gives him one last peck before she pulls away, “yes, I’m serious. Come back to me, Ben. It’ll be different this time, I promise.”

Her eyes are wide and earnest, and of course he knows exactly what she’s talking about, feels his heart get stuck in his throat at such a promise. “I feel like I should be the one asking to come back,” Kylo mumbles, thinking of how he left her behind all those years ago, of how much Rey has always hated being left behind and sure, this time it was different, it was just a day before she left for a new life of her own, but still. Maybe if he’d fought harder then, if he’d been willing to make sacrifices… “Feel like I should’ve been the one to ask you to marry me, too.”

“And you will,” Rey smiles, taking his words as a yes. “This isn’t a real proposal, Ben Solo,” she warns him playfully, jabs one finger at his chest. “You’re still going to have to gather up the nerve to ask me properly, some day. But for now... for now it’s a plan.”

She looks at him expectantly, as if there’s any world out there where he would say no to this. “It’s a good plan,” he tells her, pulls her in for a lingering kiss and rests his forehead against hers. “I like it.”

“Good,” Rey murmurs against his lips, and they don’t talk again for a good long while.

“We should probably still take those videos down though, right?” she asks the next morning, right after he hangs up on a puzzled Mitaka who’s still struggling to process his resignation.

Ben chucks his phone far, far away before Snoke can start to bombard him with calls and angry emails, pulls Rey into his arms and drags her back down under the covers. “I guess,” he sighs mournfully, dotting kisses along her bare shoulder.

“Babe,” Rey laughs, squirms in his arms when he focuses on a particularly ticklish spot under her ear and turns to face him. “You do realize that I have backup copies, right?”

He had not, in fact, realized that.

“God, I love you.”

Anything Reylo is usually soothing to my soul so I'm posting this in the hopes that at least some of you will enjoy this silly, tame take on the 'we were young and broke and needed the money, plus we were already having sex anyway so why not?' trope. (Seriously though, is that a trope? I don't know anymore.)

As always, I hope you guys enjoyed this even the tiniest bit. If you did, please don’t hesitate to like/reblog/leave a comment/scream at me in the tags.

I'm planning to participate in the Reylo AU Week happening later this month, so... see you guys then. In the meantime, thanks for reading!

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 10 paragraph v

Almost three hours later I was still sitting in a red vinyl booth in the Polack bar, flashing Christmas lights, annoying mix of punk rock and Christmas polka music honking away on the jukebox, fed up from waiting and wondering if he was going to show or not, if maybe I should just go home. I didn’t even have his information—it had all happened so fast. In the past I’d Googled Boris for the hell of it—never a whisper—but then I’d never envisioned Boris as having any kind of a life that might be traceable online. He might have been anywhere, doing anything: mopping a hospital floor, carrying a gun in some foreign jungle, picking up cigarette butts off the street. It was getting toward the end of Happy Hour, a few students and artist types trickling in among the pot-bellied old Polish guys and grizzled, fifty-ish punks. I’d just finished my third vodka; they poured them big, it was foolish to order another one; I knew I should get something to eat but I wasn’t hungry and my mood was turning bleaker and darker by the moment. To think that he’d blown me off after so many years was incredibly depressing. If I had to be philosophical, at least I’d been diverted from my dope mission: hadn’t OD’d, wasn’t vomiting in some garbage can, hadn’t been ripped off or run in for trying to buy from an undercover cop— “Potter.” There he was, sliding in across from me, slinging the hair from his face in a gesture that brought the past ringing back. “I was just about to leave.” “Sorry.” Same dirty, charming smile. “Had something to do. Didn’t Myriam explain?” “No she didn’t.” “Well. Is not like I work in accounting office. Look,” he said, leaning forward, palms on the table, “don’t be mad! Was not expecting to run into you! I came as quick as I could! Ran, practically!” He reached across with cupped hand and slapped me gently on the cheek. “My God! Such a long time it is! Glad to see you! You’re not glad to see me too?” He’d grown up to be good-looking. Even at his gawkiest and most pinched he’d always had a likable shrewdness about him, lively eyes and a quick intelligence, but he’d lost that half-starved rawness and everything else had come together the right way. His skin was weather-beaten but his clothes fell well, his features were sharp and nervy, cavalry hero by way of concert pianist; and his tiny gray snaggleteeth—I saw—had been replaced by a standard-issue row of all-American whites. He saw me looking, flicked a showy incisor with his thumbnail. “New snaps.” “I noticed.” “Dentist in Sweden did it,” said Boris, signalling for a waiter. “Cost a fucking fortune. My wife kept after me—Borya, your mouth, disgraceful! I said no way am I doing this, but was the best money I ever spent.” “When’d you get married?” “Eh?” “You could have brought her if you wanted.” He looked startled. “What, you mean Myriam? No, no—” reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, punching around on his telephone, “Myriam’s not my wife! This—” he handed me the phone—“this is my wife. What are you drinking?” he said, before turning to address the waiter in Polish. The photo on the iPhone was of a snow-topped chalet and, out in front, a beautiful blonde on skis. At her side, also on skis, were a pair of bundled-up little blond kids of indeterminate sex. It didn’t look so much like a snapshot as an ad for some healthful Swiss product like yogurt or Bircher muesli.

I looked up at him stunned. He glanced away, with a Russianate gesture of old: yeah, well, it is what it is. “Your wife? Seriously?” “Yah,” he said, with a lifted eyebrow. “My kids, too. Twins.” “Fuck.” “Yes,” he said regretfully. “Born when I was very young—too young. It wasn’t a good time—she wanted to keep them—‘Borya, how could you’— what could I say? To be truthful I don’t know them so well. Actually the little one—he is not in the picture—the little one I have not met at all. I think he is only, what? Six weeks old?” “What?” Again I looked at the picture, struggling to reconcile this wholesome Nordic family with Boris. “Are you divorced?” “No no no—” the vodka had arrived, icy carafe and two tiny glasses, he was pouring a shot for each of us—“Astrid and the children are mostly in Stockholm. Sometimes she comes to Aspen to the winter, to ski—she was ski champion, qualified for the Olympics when she was nineteen—” “Oh yeah?” I said, doing my best not to sound incredulous at this. The kids, as was fairly evident upon closer viewing, looked far too blond and bonny to be even vaguely related to Boris. “Yes yes,” said Boris, very earnestly, with a vigorous nod of the head. “She always has to be where there is skiing and—you know me, I hate the fucking snow, ha! Her father very very right-wing—a Nazi basically. I think —no wonder Astrid has depression problems with father like him! What a hateful old shit! But they are very unhappy and miserable people, all of them, these Swedes. One minute laughing and drinking and the next—darkness, not a word. Dziękuję,” he said to the waiter, who had reappeared with a tray of small plates: black bread, potato salad, two kinds of herring, cucumbers in sour cream, stuffed cabbage, and some pickled eggs. “I didn’t know they served food here.” “They don’t,” said Boris, buttering a slice of black bread and sprinkling it with salt. “But am starving. Asked them to bring something from next door.” He clinked his shot glass with mine. “Sto lat!” he said—his old toast. “Sto lat.” The vodka was aromatic and flavored with some bitter herb I couldn’t identify. “So,” I said, helping myself to some food. “Myriam?” “Eh?” I held out open palms in our childhood gesture: please explain. “Ah, Myriam! She works for me! Right-hand man, suppose you’d say. Although, I’ll tell you, she’s better than any man you’ll find. What a woman, my God. Not many like her, I’ll tell you. Worth her weight in gold. Here here,” he said, refilling my glass and sliding it back to me. “Za vstrechu!” lifting his own to me. “To our meeting!” “Isn’t it my turn to toast?” “Yes, it is—” clinking my glass—“but I am hungry and you are waiting too long.” “To our meeting, then.” “To our meeting! And to fortune! For bringing us together again!” As soon as we’d drunk, Boris fell immediately on the food. “And what exactly is it that you do?” I asked him. “This, that.” He still ate with the innocent, gobbling hunger of a child. “Many things. Getting by, you know?” “And where do you live? Stockholm?” I said, when he didn’t answer. He waved an expansive hand. “All over.” “Like—?” “Oh, you know. Europe, Asia, North and South America…” “That covers a lot of territory.” “Well,” he said, mouth full of herring, wiping a glob of sour cream off his chin, “am also small business owner, if you understand me rightly.” “Sorry?” He washed down the herring with a big slug of beer. “You know how it is. My official business so called is housecleaning agency. Workers from Poland, mostly. Nice pun in title of business, too. ‘Polish Cleaning Service.’ Get it?” He bit into a pickled egg. “What’s our motto, can you guess? ‘We clean you out,’ ha!”

I chose to let that one lie. “So you’ve been in the States this whole time?” “Oh no!” He had poured us each a new shot of vodka, was lifting his glass to me. “Travel a lot. I am here maybe six, eight weeks of the year. And the rest of the time—” “Russia?” I said, downing my shot, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Not so much. Northern Europe. Sweden, Belgium. Germany sometimes.” “I thought you went back.” “Eh?” “Because—well. I never heard from you.” “Ah.” Boris rubbed his nose sheepishly. “It was a messed up time. Remember your house—that last night?” “Of course.” “Well. I’d never seen so much drugs in my life. Like half an ounce of coka and didn’t sell one stitch of it, not even one quarter gram. Gave a lot away, sure—was very popular at school, ha! Everyone loved me! But most of it— right up my nose. Then—the baggies we found—tablets of all assortments— remember? Those little greens? Some very serious cancer-patient-end-of-life pills—your dad must have been crazy addicted if he was taking that stuff.” “Yeah, I wound up with some of those too.” “Well then, you know! They don’t even make those good green oxys any more! Now they have the junkie-defeat so you can’t shoot them or snort! But your dad? Like—to go from drinking to that? Better a drunk in the street, any old day. First one I did—passed out before I hit my second line, if Kotku hadn’t been there—” he drew a finger across his throat—“pfft.” “Yep,” I said, remembering my own stupid bliss, keeling face-down on my desk upstairs at Hobie’s. “Anyway—” Boris downed his vodka in a gulp and poured us both another—“Xandra was selling it. Not that. That was your dad’s. For his own personal. But the other, she was dealing from where she worked. That couple Stewart and Lisa? Those like super straight real-estate looking people? They were bankrolling her.” I put down my fork. “How do you know that?” “Because she told me! And I guess they got ugly when she came up short, too. Like Mr. Lawyer Face and Miss Daisy Tote Bag all nice and kind at your house… petting her on the head… ‘what can we do’… ‘Poor Xandra…’ ‘we’re so sorry for you’… then their drugs are gone—phew. Different story! I felt really bad when she told me, for what we’d done! Big trouble for her! But, by then—” flicking his nose—“was all up here. Kaput.” “Wait—Xandra told you this?” “Yes. After you left. When I was living over there with her.” “You need to back up a little bit.” Boris sighed. “Well, okay. Is long story. But we have not seen each other in long while, right?” “You lived with Xandra?” “You know—in and out. Four-five months maybe. Before she moved back to Reno. I lost touch with her after that. My dad had gone back to Australia, see, and also Kotku and I were on the rocks—”

“That must have been really weird.” “Well—sort of,” he said restlessly. “See���” leaning back, signalling to the waiter again—“I was in pretty bad shape. I’d been up for days. You know how it is when you crash hard off cocaine—terrible. I was alone and really frightened. You know that sickness in your soul—fast breaths, lots of fear, like Death will reach a hand out and take you? Thin—dirty—scared shivering. Like a little half-dead cat! And Christmas too—everyone away! Called a bunch of people, no one picking up—went by this guy Lee’s where I stayed in the pool house sometime but he was gone, door locked. Walking and walking—staggering almost. Cold and frightened! Nobody home! So I went by to Xandra’s. Kotku was not talking to me by then.” “Man, you had some kind of serious balls. I wouldn’t have gone back there for a million dollars.” “I know, it took some onions, but was so lonely and ill. Mouth all gittering. Like—where you want to lie still and to look at a clock and count your heartbeats? except no place to lie still? and you don’t have a clock? Almost in tears! Didn’t know what to do! Didn’t even know was she still there. But lights were on—only lights on the street—came around by the glass door and there she was, in her same Dolphins shirt, in the kitchen making margaritas.” “What’d she do?” “Ha! Wouldn’t let me in, at first! Stood in the door and yelled a long while —cursed me, called me every name! But then I started crying. And when I asked could I stay with her?”—he shrugged—“she said yes.” “What?” I said, reaching for the shot he’d poured me. “You mean like stay stay—?” “I was scared! She let me sleep in her room! With TV turned to Christmas movies!” “Hmn.” I could see he wanted me to press for details, only from his gleeful expression I was not so sure I believed him about the sleeping-in-herroom business, either. “Well, glad that worked out for you, I guess. She say anything about me?” “Well, yes a little.” He chortled. “A lot actually! Because, I mean, don’t be mad, but I blamed some things on you.” “Glad I could help.” “Yes, of course!” He clinked my glass jubilantly. “Many thanks! You’d do the same, I wouldn’t mind. Honest, though, poor Xandra, I think she was glad to see me. To see anyone. I mean—” throwing his shot back—“it was crazy… those bad friends… she was all alone out there. Drinking a lot, afraid to go to work. Something could have happened to her, easy—no neighbors, really creepy. Because Bobo Silver—well, Bobo was actually not so bad guy. ‘The Mensch’? They don’t call him that for nothing! Xandra was scared to death of him but he didn’t go after her for your dad’s debt, not serious anyway. Not at all. And your dad was in for a lot. Probably he realized she was broke—your dad had fucked her over good and proper, too. Might as well be decent about it. Can’t get blood out of a turnip. But those other people, those friends of hers so called, were mean like bankers. You know? ‘You owe me,’ really hard, fucking connected, scary. Worse than him! Not so big sum even, but she was still way short and they were being nasty, all—” (mocking head tilt, aggressive finger point) “ ‘fuck you, we’re not going to wait, you better figure something out,’ like that. Anyway—good I went back when I did because then I was able to help.” “Help how?” “By giving her back the moneys I took.”

“You’d kept it?” “Well, no,” he said reasonably. “Had spent it. But—had something else going, see. Because right after the coke ran out? I had taken the money to Jimmy at the gun shop and bought more. See, I was buying it for me and Amber—just the two of us. Very very beautiful girl, very innocent and special. Very young too, like only fourteen! But just that one night at MGM Grand, we had got so close, just sitting on the bathroom floor all night up at KT’s dad’s suite and talking. Didn’t even kiss! Talk talk talk! I all but wept from it. Really opened up our hearts to each other. And—” hand to his breastbone—“I felt so sad when the day came, like why did it have to be over? Because we could have sat there talking forever to each other! and been so perfect and happy! That’s how close we got to each other, see, in just that one night. Anyway—this is why I went to Jimmy. He had really shitty coke— not half so good as Stewart and Lisa’s. But everyone knew, see—everyone had heard about that weekend at MGM Grand, me with all that blow. So people came to me. Like—dozen people my first day back at school. Throwing their moneys at me. ‘Will you get me some… will you get me some… will you get some for my bro… I have ADD, I need it for my homework.…’ Pretty soon was selling to senior football players and half the basketball team. Lots of girls too… friends of Amber and KT’s… Jordan’s friends too… college students at UNLV! Lost money on the first few batches I sold—didn’t know what to ask, sold fat for low price, wanted everyone to like me, yah yah yah. But once I figured it out—I was rich! Jimmy gave me huge discount, he was making lots of green off it too. I was doing him big favor, see, selling drugs to kids too scared to buy them—scared of people like Jimmy who sold them. KT… Jordan… those girls had a lot of money! Always happy to front me. Coke is not like E—I sold that too, but it was up and down, whole bunch then none for days, for coka I had a lot of regulars and they called two and three times a week. I mean, just KT—” “Wow.” Even after so many years, her name struck a chord. “Yes! To KT!” We raised our glasses and drank. “What a beauty!” Boris slammed his glass down. “I used to get dizzy around her. Just to breathe her same air.”

“Did you sleep with her?” “No… God, I tried… but she gave me a hand job in her little brother’s bedroom one night when she was wasted and in a very nice mood.” “Man, I sure left at the wrong time.” “You sure did. I came in my pants before she even got the zip down. And KT’s allowance—” reaching for my empty shot glass. “Two thousand a month! That is what she got for clothes only! Only KT already has so many clothes it is like, why does she need to buy more? Anyway by Christmas for me it was like in the movies where they have the ching-ching and the dollar signs. Phone never stopped ringing. Everybody’s best friend! Girls I never saw before, kissing me, giving me gold jewelry off their own necks! I was doing all the drugs I could do, drugs every day, every night, lines as long as my hand, and still money everywhere. I was like the Scarface of our school! One guy gave me a motorcycle—another guy, a used car. I would go to pick my clothes from off the floor—hundreds of dollars falling out from the pockets—no idea where it came from.” “This is a lot of information, really fast.” “Well, tell me about it! This is my usual learning process. They say experience is good teacher, and normally is true, but I am lucky this experience did not kill me. Now and then… when I have some beers sometimes… I’ll maybe hit a line or two? But mostly I do not like it any more. Burned myself out good. If you had met me maybe five years ago? I was all like—” sucking in his cheeks—“so. But—” the waiter had reappeared with more herring and beer—“enough about all that. You—” he looked me up and down—“what? Doing very nicely for yourself, I’d say?” “All right, I guess.” “Ha!” He leaned back with his arm along the back of the booth. “Funny old world, right? Antiques trade? The old poofter? He got you in to it?” “That’s right.” “Big racket, I heard.” “That’s right.” He eyed me up and down. “You happy?” he said. “Not very.” “Listen, then! I have great idea! Come work for me!” I burst out laughing. “No, not kidding! No no,” he said, shushing me imperiously as I tried to talk over him, pouring me a new shot, sliding the glass across the table to me, “what is he giving you? Serious. I will give you two times.” “No, I like my job—” over-pronouncing the words, was I as wrecked as I sounded?—“I like what I do.” “Yes?” He lifted his glass to me. “Then why aren’t you happy?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” “And why not?” I waved my hand dismissively. “Because—” I’d lost track quite how many shots I’d had. “Just because.” “If not job then—which is it?” He had thrown back his own shot, tossing his head grandly, and started in on the new plate of herring. “Money problems? Girl?” “Neither.” “Girl then,” he said triumphantly. “I knew it.” “Listen—” I drained the rest of my vodka, slapped the table—what a genius I was, I couldn’t stop smiling, I’d had the best idea in years!—“enough of this. Come on—let’s go! I’ve got a big big surprise for you.” “Go?” said Boris, visibly bristling. “Go where?” “Come with me. You’ll see.” “I want to stay here.” “Boris—” He sat back. “Let it go, Potter,” he said, putting his hands up. “Just relax.” “Boris!” I looked at the bar crowd, as if expecting mass outrage, and then back at him. “I’m sick of sitting here! I’ve been here for hours.” “But—” He was annoyed. “I cleared this whole night for you! I had stuff to do! You’re leaving?” “Yes! And you’re coming with me. Because—” I threw my arms out —“you have to see the surprise!” “Surprise?” He threw down his balled-up napkin. “What surprise?” “You’ll find out.” What was the matter with him? Had he forgotten how to have fun? “Now come on, let’s get out of here.” “Why? Now?” “Just because!” The bar room was a dark roar; I’d never felt so sure of myself in my life, so pleased at my own cleverness. “Come on. Drink up!” “Do we really have to do this?” “You’ll be glad. Promise. Come on!” I said, reaching over and shaking his shoulder amicably as I thought. “I mean, no shit, this is a surprise you can’t believe how good.”

He leaned back with folded arms and regarded me suspiciously. “I think you are angry with me.” “Boris, what the fuck.” I was so drunk I stumbled, standing up, and had to catch myself on the table. “Don’t argue. Let’s just go.” “I think it is a mistake to go somewhere with you.” “Oh?” I looked at him with one half closed eye. “You coming, or not?” Boris looked at me coolly. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and said: “You won’t tell me where we’re going.” “No.” “You won’t mind if my driver takes us then?” “Your driver?” “Sure. He is waiting like two-three blocks away.” “Fuck.” I looked away and laughed. “You have a driver?” “You don’t mind if we go with him, then?” “Why would I?” I said, after a brief pause. Drunk as I was, his manner had brought me up short: he was looking at me with a peculiar, calculating, uninflected quality I had never seen before. Boris tossed back the rest of his vodka and then stood up. “Very well,” he said, twirling an unlit cigarette loosely in his fingertips. “Let’s get this nonsense over with, then.”

[thebombbag]

Yesterday we finished our month-long comic book workshop with the Latin American Youth Center (LAYC)/Latino Youth Leadership Council (LYLC). Under the coordination of Shout Mouse Press and their story leaders, Santiago Casares, Liz Laribee, Evan Keeling, and I led a series of nine workshops aimed at teaching first-generation Latinx teenagers how to express themselves through cartooning. The end result of the workshop is a collection of cartoon memoirs about their experiences before and after coming to America. Why they immigrated, the troubles they faced, and what they want their futures to look like.

These teenagers are BRAVE. They told us stories about death, depression, struggle, and hope. They cried. We cried. And they came back every week, ready to continue the process of sharing their stories. 

July 3rd was the first workshop. The teenagers invited us into their house and initiated us into their circle of trust. We each had to get up in front of them and tell them who we’ll be dedicating our work too. We each got up and talked about the people who have had profound influence in our lives and in the lives of our families. We spoke our palabra, and began the process of earning their trust. 

The first week was dedicated to stories. The second week was dedicated to layouts. The third and fourth week had us moving from thumbnails to non-photo blue pencils, inks, and markers. Many of the teens lacked confidence in their drawings, at first. But, by the end, they were proud of the comics that they made. They didn’t worry about every little line, about every bit of perspective. They pushed through their fears and doubts and found ways to express themselves in tiny boxes upon tiny boxes. 

On our last day, we spent about an hour in a circle again. This time, everyone got up and talked about their experiences. Everyone expressed their gratitude. When it was my turn, I looked at these teenagers and I just saw STRENGTH. I told them that I see my cousins in them, that being here feels like family. I told them how proud I was of them. I knew they all saw that I was crying, but I didn’t care. I was overwhelmed by what we accomplished as a team. By what they did week after week.

At the same time, word was coming out that Donald Trump and the GOP were enacting a plan to halve the number of immigrants who are allowed in this country. While our teens were putting final lines and text on their stories of impossible decisions and absolute courage, a handful of men were rolling out policy that would have an extreme negative impact on their lives, on their families lives, and on their friends lives. 

To listen to these 16 teenagers talk about the lives they lived, and what they’ve been through - to listen as their throats became scratchy, at times, and their eyes occasionally welled up in tears - and to understand that they wanted to make their lives better AND this country better - and to hear the talk coming from our current administration yesterday...it was a lot. It was a lot to take.

We’re publishing their memoirs in 2018 through Shout Mouse Press. The book will have their comic memoirs, interviews, and biographies. You will understand their struggles and their dreams the same way we did when we were leading these workshops, and you’ll understand why the policies of the current administration are hurtful and wrong. 

You can find more information on the project at this link: http://www.shoutmousepress.org/layc