#if so then another tick in the box for ‘oh my god Leo is an amazingly well developed character’

[turtleblogatlast]

One of my favorite headcanons is that Leo grew up watching telenovelas with Splinter.

It just works so well - his bits of Spanish that he spouts randomly, his showy way of apologizing, and, of course, his love for dramatic betrayals all point to this being a very real possibility.

Plus, it’s very cute to imagine a tiny Leo at his father’s side as they both gasp in shock when the show’s eighth plot twist in just as many episodes happens.

[laurensprentiss]

Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 4:

Gif credit @84hotpockets

Warnings: More mentions of stalking, mutual pining, some *close quarter tension*, little angst.

Word Count: 2,865

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“Rummaging in our souls, we often dig up something that ought to have lain there unnoticed. ” - Leo Tolstoy

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Your breaths come sharp and short, sweat dripping from your forehead as you bounce on the balls of your feet slightly,  lungs burning as you throw punches at the boxing pads that Agent Hotchner holds out in front of you. You throw your weight into every punch, hitting out the aggression and anger at the unknown shadowy figure your mind had conjured up. The person who was trying to take your life away. The gym smells like old rubber and sweat as Hotch calls out combination numbers over the flat snapping sound of your gloves hitting the pads. His head is down and his eyes are laser focused on you, following your every move. You throw a punch on his left hand as his right comes up and taps you on your face. You groan in frustration. 

“Come on, we’ve been through this!” He repeats. “Don’t get too into your head. Block.” He brings his own hand up to demonstrate, his thick arms flexing under his t-shirt. “When you’re throwing your jabs, make sure your other hand’s by your face, nice and high, okay?” He places his hand about level with his cheek as he shifts his feet, throwing jabs at the air. You can’t even pretend anymore, watching him punch and flex makes your breath hitch and your thighs squeeze . God, you felt so naive. Stupid even. The situation is quite literally life or death and he’s teaching you to defend yourself against your stalker and instead of focusing, you’re imagining how strong he really is. 

“Got it?” He snaps you out of your stupor. You nod. “Okay, try again. Remember, the key is to block.” You nod again, and meet his pads faster and more accurately this time, blocking his attempts to get at your face. He laughs approvingly, a grin on his face. “Alright, that’s more like it! Good girl.” Your heart rate increases at that, warmth pooling, the words of praise coming from his mouth unleashing butterflies in your stomach. 

Good girl? 

The momentary lapse in concentration has his pad make contact with your face as you grunt. He shoots you a bewildered and slightly disappointed look. “Okay, tell me what went wrong there, because you were doing good.” He demands. You can feel heat rising up your neck and chest while you try to play it off. Authoritative Agent Hotchner is an Agent Hotchner you hadn’t had the pleasure of witnessing until today, and you think that maybe you’d want him to stick around a little longer. Maybe even push his buttons to see how far you could take it. Maybe hear him shout orders at you and lavish you with praise. 

He whistles. “Hey. Over here.” He claps the pads together as he narrows his eyes at you, shaking his head. You blink at him as he undoes the straps on the bottom and throws them aside, striding over to you. His shorts ride up just slightly, exposing his flexing quads as he stalks towards you. 

Oh, he’s solid.

He corners you against the ropes of the ring as he asks you again, his eyes burning into yours. “What. do you. think. went. wrong?” You blink up at him, words not coming easy now that you felt so exposed. He swallows thickly, exhaling hard through his nose. He turns to stand in the middle of the ring. 

“C’mere.” He beckons you forward with his fingers. 

Okay. 

You stomp your leg slightly, rolling your eyes. “Why? I wanna be done now, what, we haven’t done enough?” His jaw ticks and his nostrils flare. He takes another harsh breath through his nose to steady himself, his eyes flicking from your eyes to your rising chest in your sports bra. 

“I’m not going to ask you again. Come here.” 

That’ll do it. 

“Yes, sir.” You concede sarcastically. You kiss your teeth and sigh, making your way over to him, watching as you swear he blushes slightly. He adjusts the waistband on his shorts as you come close. 

Oh.

He clears his throat. “Remember the hand to hand stuff we went through? Again.” He throws a couple of jabs towards you, travelling in a loose circle and you block them with your forearm just as quickly as they come. 

He makes a point to get you comfortable, until he throws a hook which you swat downwards and try to twist his arm. You try to throw a hook of your own but you’re too slow. He ducks and wraps his arm around your waist, his other hand catching your fist and crossing it across your chest, allowing your weight to fall back on him as he carries you backwards a couple of steps. 

You curse in frustration, wincing slightly as you feel a stitch coming. His breath is soft on your neck, cooling against the sweat. You’re hyper aware of his bare arm around your exposed stomach, the other holding your arm across your chest. The length of his body presses snugly against you as your breathing falls into a rhythm, his thumb rubbing small circles on your stomach. 

“Hotchner!” You jump as the voice shouts from the hallway. You separate quickly, stretching out your neck as footsteps approach, McCall emerging from the dimly lit hallway. He’s in his work clothes and he looks agitated, his eyebrows pulled tight into a frown, mindless repetitive glances at his watch. “There you are.” He breathes out. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. A word?” 

Hotch takes a cursory look back at you as you try to busy yourself with stretches, anything to not make eye contact. He steps out of the ring from under the ropes and while your ears are keenly trained on their conversation, you can’t quite make out anything they say, their voices hushed and intense. You figure you’re probably done for the day anyway and make a start on removing your gloves and tape. 

You squeeze yourself past Agents Hotchner and McCall to get to the showers, offering a tight smile as you do, feet fast on the worn Lino floor. You step into the changing rooms but leave the door open just enough to eavesdrop. You curse yourself mentally for developing such a horrible habit, your grandmother’s voice in your head lecturing you on the evils of listening in to conversations which aren’t meant for you. 

Still. 

“What, and it mentioned me by name? How the-“ Hotch asks, his volume increasing. 

Agent McCall shushes him. 

“How the hell does he know my name? And how did it even get through? They didn’t see anything?” He hisses.

Your eyes widen. Another note? Your stomach starts to churn. Truth is, yes it had been your idea to move back and make yourself vulnerable, and yes you had felt independent and empowered when suggesting it. But the more time went on, the more you felt like a sitting duck, unable to escape the shadowy hands closing in around your neck. 

Metro PD really needed to get better at talking quietly. You’d heard some officers outside your door a few days ago talking about how the FBI preliminary profile speculated that this guy was an obsessive, delusional stalker who’d likely kill himself, you and anybody else in his way, rather than let you go. Since then, those voices had played like echos throughout random points in the day, a sharp pang and your stomach would drop when you’d remember. The back of your neck would burn and you’d feel like your knees could give out. 

How many people were you putting in danger because you didn’t want to compromise your freedom? Was your father right? Would they all be better off? Agent Hotchner had been on his list since the day you moved in, and now the psycho knew his name. You’d heard them, he’s never going to let you go, and now you’re a pawn, waiting to draw him out, unsure of whether they’ll even be able to stop him once he gets too close. 

Your vision tunnels. 

“He didn’t drop it off directly this time.” Agent McCall tells Hotch. “An Officer Mullbeck collected the mail from the mailroom to bring up but he didn’t do a sweep. I did when I arrived and found it lying inside a magazine.” 

“So, what? He’s doing counter-surveillance now? Knows we’ve got guys posted outside?” 

“Probably. I got a call that said they got a tiny bit of his face on camera, I’m on my way to the tech guy to figure out what they can get, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He’s good. Knows where the cameras are.” 

You chew the inside of your cheek, your breathing shallow so as to not alert them that you’re listening in. Your heart races at the thought of this person, this animal just lurking in the shadows, nameless, faceless, ready to take you down with him. 

McCall tells Hotch not to get too worked up and to just stick to routine while they work out a solid profile. 

“Alright, but what do I tell her? She acts like she’s fine but I know she’s scared, anybody would be in this situation. Do I tell her about this note?” He asks. Your face softens a little at the concern in his voice, a small smile tugging at your mouth as you lean against the door. 

Footsteps approach the changing room, you gently and quickly allow the weight of the door to fall almost all the way, allowing the last few centimetres to close slowly. 

You hear a knock at the door. Hotch clears his voice as he shouts from the other end. “15 minutes! We gotta get to the gun range. I’ll wait out here.” 

———

The air feels heavy in the Suburban, a lot on both of your minds but the unspoken words hang like smog in the SUV. He doesn’t know you heard him, but you did anyway - and the implications of what you heard - it would take some reconciling. 

You glance at Hotch out of the corner of your eye, for the hundredth time since you got in the car, his right hand firm on the wheel, his left elbow perched on the window, index finger rubbing his lips. His frown is perpetual at this point, jaw tensing and relaxing. You can’t find the words. 

“I can feel you looking at me.” He mutters matter-of-factly. “If you have something you wanna say, say it.” His eyes don’t leave the road. You feel heat rise in your face, embarrassed at your incredibly indiscreet attempt to gauge him. You come to a rolling stop in traffic as you turn slightly in the car seat. 

His eyes are still trained on the road in front, an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact as there’s not much to look at other than the numerous lanes of standstill traffic. He extends his hand across the console and turns the heat up, hot air blowing your hair back.

“Well I-” You exhale sharply. Your brain feels foggy and jumbled as you try to the find the words to not make it seem like you’re insane for listening in to his conversation. You click your knuckles to try and centre yourself, a calming habit you’d had since childhood - unsurprisingly abhorrent to your grandmother. 

You take a deep breath. “Well you haven’t said two words to me since we left the gym.” Not since Agent McCall came to see you. Plus, your jaw’s been tensing for about 20 minutes, you’ve been picking at your lips and you’re refusing to make eye contact.” You rush out, in a single breath, your voice an octave higher than usual. His eyes narrow, but he still won’t look at you, his arms moving from the steering wheel to the wing mirror, pretending to adjust it. He sniffs nonchalantly. “The real question is, what are you not telling me?” You continue. 

You feel genuinely worked up now, realising that you’re giving him an out and if he doesn’t take it now, he’d be withholding key information about your case. You prod his bicep with your finger. “I’m talking to you.” You remark. 

His jaw ticks. He finally puts the car in park, conceding to the idea that you’re going to be in traffic for a long while, and there’s nowhere and no way to escape. He still refuses to look at you, pretend squinting at the road ahead as he lets out a short laugh and you feel a strange pinch of guilt in your chest. 

That’s not fair. It was his name on the new note, and you’d heard what he’d said back in the gym. He was worried about you. Not himself. You. “I thought I was supposed to be the profiler.” He finally mutters with a dry laugh.

He puts the car in drive as a green light shows, the car dead silent the rest of the way and through the parking lot as he pulls up. You don’t want to push it-

No. You deserve to hear it from him. 

You bite the inside of your cheek again, the tension inside the car making it hard to breathe. “Hotch. Hey.” Your voice is soft. You duck your head to try and seek out his eyes. “Hey, c’mon, Hotch. Look at me. What is it?” You ask earnestly. 

He shrugs it off. “It’s nothing.” He finally turns his head to glance at you, but you refuse to take your eyes off his. You stay like that a moment, fighting for him to just tell you. 

He finally takes a deep breath and diverts his eyes. He swallows thickly before he clears his throat. “I-“ he shakes his head. “It’s nothing, really. I just don’t want you to panic.” You nod for him to continue. “McCall told me another note came today. But it was addressed to me.” He gauges your expression before he continues. “But it’s okay, I promise. He said they got a shot of him in the mailroom, McCall’s on his way to HQ now.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means that he’s getting sloppy, and he’s making mistakes. It means we’re close.” He explains. 

“But what does that mean for you?” You whisper. 

“It means that the plan is working. He’s getting jealous, thinks I’m gonna take you away, and the more riled up he gets, the more likely it is he’ll make a mistake.” He reassures you, his eyes burning into yours.  

“Take me away?” You chuckle.

“He thinks we’re a uh-” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, averting his gaze. You notice he does that when he’s flustered, small smile tugging at his lips, his dimples peeking through his beard. “-Well, he thinks we’re together.” His voice drops an octave. He clears his throat as he continues. “The whole point of me being assigned to you was that it would be believable, that we would be able to pass as a couple.” He stutters over his words a little, and you can’t help but return his small grin. It’s endearing. 

His own heart sinks a little at that thought, guilt creeping in. He can’t help but reach out and grab your hand, to make sure you know he’ll do everything in his power to get this guy. Wants to somehow, some way put a smile on your face, hear your laugh, take all your worries away. Hates it when your eyes well up and you swallow your tears. Hates even more, the fact that he feels like this, feels like he needs to control what he says and does around you, knowing that the thoughts he has are dangerously close to becoming the words he truly wants to say, right on the tip of his tongue. All while his high-school sweetheart probably sits at home wondering if he’ll even make it home, worried sick about his safety, hoping that he’s okay. Hates that he’s even conflicted, that it’s even a thought in his mind. 

Yet his hand still finds yours, large and rough, his thumb rubbing gently over your knuckles, anything to be close to you. He continues, “But look, don’t worry about anything else other than narrowing down a list of suspects for us and we’ll take care of the rest, okay? I got you.”

Yeah. He does, he thinks.

Yeah. He does, you think.

You know It’s to catch this person, this monster, hellbent on ruining your life and you don’t doubt that Hotch would do everything in his power to make sure you were okay. You were his assignment. You know he’s ambitious. You know he wants to rise through the ranks. You know it’s his job but you can’t help but think, anyway. And your heart stupidly sinks every time. 

What kind of couple do you two make when the guy gets to go home to his girlfriend every night and you’re left thinking about what could’ve been?

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[chickenscript]

A/N: being friends part 2; leo addition. thinking about offering requests, but i’ve still got those prompts i want to work on. i’m feelin’ a little conflicted in priorities

- oof. what have you done.

- you two are a whirlwind of disaster.

- mostly because he taught you how to skateboard and you’ve made it a mission to master all the tricks he knows and then some. but it is unanimously agreed - minus leo - that no, the lair isn’t a place for someone who just learned how to skateboard. much less you who has hard luck with clumsiness.

- it was great that one time you grinded your board on don’s face by accident (he was passing by at the oh so wrong time). he was more pissed than you’ve ever seen him, but before you could apologize, and after you say he shouldn't have been so concentrated on his tablet, you were guffawing madly with leo at his misfortune. (once you pulled yourself together and went to don’s lab, he had some choice words for you. luckily, you knew a few magic ones)

- you have bad luck like him and often bump into something, trip, ect. doctor mike patches both of you up on a regular basis.

- doc don does when it's something more severe than what can be swatched by band aids (i.e, a gash down the back of your forearm that needed ten stitches. you've never seen mike bawl his eyes out more than when he sat through the process with you- leo was busy being way to nauseous about blood and all that exposed flesh to even be in the lab. and you were just trying to comfort mike, sure it hurt but you’ve broken that same arm when you were younger. the thought doesn’t really soothe mike)

- he’s got his work cut out for him because you both like rough housing. you didn’t usually win in the past, but since you started joining their training sessions (mostly to observe what it is that their mentor and father figure teaches them) and doing your own shoot boxing training on the side, you don’t let him win easy. but, honestly, it’s more like you two are antsy, clumsy dogs swatting at each other in a messy tangle of wrestling limbs.

- you love his one liners. and you mean that. sincerely.

- everyone though you were crazy to like them, but then it started. the punening.

- your uncle had this old joke book full of bad, awful, no good puns, and when you were little and got bored, you would read it. so now, you knew ever speck of puns from it and the new ones you made up or found out about.

- also, it feels really great to encourage your friend to make more one liners since you know the struggle. not everyone has the capability of understanding the taste in A class humor you two shared.

- he helps you make puns too.

- he’s questioned a few of your quirks before, like blanking out while you’re talking about something - the names of certain things just leave you sometimes -, or how competitive you can get. you’ve also got the patience of a god when it comes to letting them have their way with you on certain things. like when april enforces herself onto you when she wants to practice doing makeup - which you don’t wear all that much -, or mikey and his body paint needs that could have you sitting somewhere for an hour or more. he envied you, really.

- he had a pretty short attention span half the time.

- you shrug and just say that there’s stuff they do that you think is cool or weird too.

- the brothers have told you before that it was strange; having a new friend. and they enjoy learning your preferences and other things about you. you just wish leo could learn to understand your concept of personal space sometimes.- he likes to just assert himself near you whenever he can, and you mostly didn’t mind, but there are times when, like don, you need air.

- you can’t say you don’t feel bad when he’s skateboarding or moping around like a despondent fish.

- he just gets nervous about what you think of him as a friend sometimes. he's clingy like that.

- speaking of clingy; surprise hugs like mike.

- but like really, scare the shit out of you surprise.

- he's a master of scares and getting scared as piss makes you peeved off. so, you're proud to say you punched him in the windpipe a couple times when he caught you at the wrong angle or when your spidey senses actually worked.

- ho boy, the scares aren't the only things he does.

- pranks. and once you express how much you'll kick his ass if he tries to prank you again, he lets you join in, and when he's ever in the trickster mood; locals beware.

- the shit you guys pull is enough to put everyone on edge.

- there was one time when you borrowed some stuff from april and put false lashes, way too much eye shadow, ruby red lipstick and a voluminous, curly pink wig on raph after an intense training session almost everyone passed out after.

- he looked like a whole (infuriated) queen when he woke up and you two couldn't stop laughing for weeks after the incident. you still do whenever it crops up in conversation. ("Heh, hey, remember operation Ms. Pink?" "Snrk- shut up Lee, he's looking over here." "He is? Oh shit.")

- it was the first time you ever saw raph lose his temper, like someone pulled the tick on a grenade, and it was worth it. mostly because it was more funny than scary- all he really when he caught leo was throttled him and make him say uncle.

- thankfully he chased after his brother more than you too and the sight of that, combined with mike squrrieled on raph's back trying to calm him down while trying not to also laugh and make things worse, will be imprinted forever in your memory.

- leo knows a ton of good places to get away to when he wants to stretch his legs.

- you wonder how he found them considering he can't really go topside much, but apparently he and april, and sometimes mike, used to all the time when he was younger and blended in a lot better with just some layers of clothes. his shell is way too obvious nowadays to try to pull the same stunt.

- he knows the best sushi shops, asian markets (shell yeah did you make a pit stop there to get stuff for mike), abandoned warehouses and just gems people otherwise wouldn't know about or glaze over in their normal commute of the city.

- he's got an eye for things, even if he seems a little dull or oblivious sometimes, like his little brother who has also proven his smarts to you.

- leonardo's got wit, like his packed, crappy one liners.

- he's also pretty good at motivational talks when you're down. or at least, making you forget about the issue because you can see how hard he's trying.

- he's a great, caring guy. even when he’s trying in vain to prove he’s right against your opinions.

Bonus:

"Oi pretty boy,"

Leo looks at you, batting his eyes and getting into this languid pose on the couch, "Yes?~"

You can't keep a straight face, hard as you try, and sigh loudly.

"C'mere, I was gonna yell at ya for breaking another one of my mugs that I always remind you not to fuckin' use-"

"But then why do they have quotes that I can synch with?-"

"This one said Cunt. The handle was the C." you had come bearing that very handle and waved it around for emphasis.

Leonardo blinks slow and it seems like a swollen bubble of realization just popped for him.

"...Oh. Well that's not very nice. That's probably why it broke."

"Leo."

This is why you bring the ugly duckling of your mug collection on your next sleepover at the lair. It's the only one that you're one hundred percent sure is bulletproof. But you're still waiting for the day he proves you wrong and you shamble into the kitchen to find it like all the others. (Which Mikey has taken the glass bits of and glued together to make a mug crypt that looks like a professionally made, stained glass window sheet hung up in his room.)

[ghostjelliess]

Flashfiction: A fascist in a cold and long winter, adventure genre, includes: a whistle + "sorry I hung up on you, I didn't mean to answer the call.” (20 min)

(Prompt vis Story Shack)

“We are the best, most important and capable people,”  the Dictator shivered through his attempted speech. “I know what’s best for the world. You know what’s best for this world. It is our job to tell everyone else, to convert them, or–”

A whistle blew and uniformed officers surrounded the gathering of people.

“You there,” an officer approached the Dictator with an annoyed sigh, “what is this?”

“We are the League of–”

“No, no,” the officer held up a hand, smacking his gum, “I get that you’re an organization of people with an opinion and all that. But what are you organized around?” 

“I don’t understand,” the Dictator’s hands fell to his sides. 

The officer shook a paper from his pocket, “look here, I need to classify the type.” 

The Dictator stared blankly, then scratched his neck, “type?”

The officer sighed dramatically, spitting his gum to the street amidst the chaos of other officers sending the gathered people on their way. “Yeah, I get that you want to paternalize the world and you think you have all the answers and that your way is best, but I need to know where that authority comes from, so I can tick the right box, see?” Again, he gestured the paper.

The Dictator stood straighter, “our authority comes from–”

“Nope,” again, the officer interrupted with a hand. “No long speeches, just say yes or no, right?”

The Dictator frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, “fine.”

“Does your power stem from an almighty unseen force that directs your morals and values, possibly called a god, and based on a book.” 

“No.”

“Right, that would be a religion. Does your power stem from a superior individual who speaks on behalf of a divine presence.”

“No! We are the Lea-”

“Right, not a cult then. Does your power stem from a collective identity perceived as superior to anyone you consider other?” 

“No!” The Dictator’s teeth chattered. 

The officer threw his hands up, “then what?”

“It’s not a perceived superiority, it’s–”

“OH MY GOD!” The officer bellowed his annoyance. “Listen, you’re the third group of self-righteous assholes we’ve been called on today. I don’t need your acceptance speech or your elevator pitch. I need to file the paperwork and avoid my estranged wife while picking my daughter up from school, okay?” The officer hiccuped back a sob, wiping the tears already freezing on his face. 

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, “alright Leo?”

“Dandy,” the officer snorted, “why?”

“It’s just, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“The oversharing-when-you’re-stressed bit.”

The officer looked between the Dictator and his fellow officer. 

The Dictator grimaced, “it was a bit of an overshare. Sorry about your wife.”

The officer’s phone rang and he quickly swiped to ignore the call. 

“Do you have to get that?” The Dictator offered. “You can answer,” then added with a whisper “it might be your wife.”

The officer gripped his fist as the phone rang again in his hand, the vibration swiping to answer the call. Immediately, he tapped the red icon to hang up the call. The officer readjusted his fur cap and his posture to one of impatience, “listen, I need a one-sentence answer to this question, do you understand?”

“Sure,” the Dictator nodded. 

“Why do you think you’re better than others.”

“I was born better.”

“Why?” The officer gritted his teeth.

“Because I am a superior race with a clear history of victories over others through military genius. I was meant to fight and war and win and provide my brethren with a safe homeland! It was destined that I–”

The officer wiped the frost off his face in annoyance or disgust, “right. Fascist....cult.” He scribbled on the paper, handed it to the heavy handed officer, who took it without question and led the Dictator to the warmth of a tent to be processed as a potential future problem. 

The officer stalked away, redialing the number he’d hung up on twice, “Sorry I hung up,” he said as soon as the click confirmed an answer, “I didn’t mean to answer the call.” There was a chuffed exhale through the line that only made the officer more annoyed, “you know I have nothing more to say to you. I’m going to pick my daughter up from school, and then–”

“Have you found him yet?” 

Her voice was honey smooth through the phone, like it always was. The officer’s focused pace slowed to wandering as he balanced over the narrow cub, “no. Not yet.”

A sigh, heavy and sad and full of all the things he wanted to hear her say, then “then you have no business picking our daughter up from school Leo. Don’t come home until it’s safe to be around you, understand?” 

He inhaled to respond, a prepared string of all the things that could have happened to his target: jailed in another country, died and buried by rival gangs, redemption through any number of cults offering forgiveness, a new identity or– but none of it mattered because she’d already hung up. 

“GAH!” The officer yelled, throwing the phone into a snowbank. 

“That wife of yours again?” The Dictator hovered at the officer’s shoulder, cheeks rosy from the warmth he’d just left. 

The officer glanced sideways and rolled his eyes “I really want to punch you.” He dug through the snow until he found his phone, dead from the cold shock. Then he rounded on the Dictator, “do you know anything about a Wardrobe?”

The Dictator lit up, “Oh, I actually studied antique furnishings in school. Did you know that a wardrobe is a stood up chest? They’re a relatively new invention actually.”

The Dictator continued to ramble on, not noticing the officer stomping away through the creaking snow under the commotion of so many lights and sirens. 

The officer ducked down an ally, climbed a fire escape to a roof, thought better of it in the cold, and punched a brick wall instead. Then he growled into the night to find himself an assassin guild he knew as The Wardrobe, and their leader, who he’d once known as a friend. Once that was over, he could pick his daughter up from school and return to his goddamn regular job of processing cult leaders who had nothing else to do or hope for in the midst of endless winters. 

[welllpthisishappening]

Out of the Frying Pan (30/?)

“He wouldn’t think that,” Ruby said softly, hand reaching out to rest on Emma’s knee, and Mary Margaret nodded enthusiastically.

“You don’t know that.” “I absolutely do.” “Emma,” Mary Margaret cut in, the look on her face nearly making Emma start to cry again. “It’s not too soon. And it’s not too scary. The way he looks at you...like you are everything to him. I think he loves you just as much as you love him.” And she couldn’t argue, couldn’t come up with a single word or a single letter, just blinked quickly to try and push the tears back into her eyes and focused on the rush that shot through her whole body at the idea.

AN: Guuuuuuuys. Things. Have. Happened. Big things. Important things. Agh! I’m so psyched. I won’t ever be able to come up with enough adjectives to explain how much your response to this story means to me. It blows my mind. @laurnorder continues to fix all my words because she’s fantastic & @distant-rose makes beautiful aesthetics and listens to me complain about my job every day. They’re the best. 

Hanging out on Ao3 and tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

“This is the worst.” “It’s a party for you.” “That makes it the absolute worst.” Emma glanced at Mary Margaret, hands resting on her stomach and an impatient look on her face. The apartment was filled with people, all of them seemingly determined to put their hands on her stomach and ask about color schemes for the nursery – drawing a scoff from Ruth every single time, no matter how far removed she was from the conversation – and at some point someone had tried to place a twisted hat of ribbons on Mary Margaret’s head and Emma was almost convinced her sister-in-law was going to murder them right there in her living room.

She didn’t.

But that may have been because both Emma and Ruby had intervened, ushering Ella and her three-year-old daughter to the other side of the room where the punch was.

“We should have made this punch alcoholic,” Mary Margaret muttered, staring at the small cup in her hand.

Emma gaped at her, twisting her body in the chair and trying to find Ruby across the throng of well-wishers who had stacked a small pile of presents at Mary Margaret's feet. “Mary Margaret,” she said sharply, not willing to admit that she absolutely agreed with her.

This really was the worst.

Mary Margaret hadn’t even really wanted a baby shower – telling both Emma and Ruby at least half a dozen times that she and David were more than capable of buying Leo his own belongings without the help of anyone, least of all the other teachers at school or wives of police officers she didn’t really even know.

And then Ruth had showed up two days before with the idea for a baby shower and all-blue-everything and Emma and Ruby had been forced to go into party-planning mode, no matter what Mary Margaret grumbled.

She was exhausted.

And Ruby looked unfairly good for how exhausted she had to be as well. She had to be exhausted. They’d barely slept in the last two days – text messages from Ruth and Mary Margaret and David actually threatening to make their respective phones freeze at one point. Emma felt like she could actually feel the bags under eyes and her hands were still cramping from holding a spatula for the better part of the morning, pulling mini-quiches off of cookie sheets in The Jolly kitchen.

She didn’t have enough room in her own apartment to meet quota.

That might have been why she was so tired too – Killian Jones was nothing if not incredibly good at providing a distraction while mini-quiches cooked in all five of his restaurant’s ovens and they’d managed to tick off that box fairly effectively.

Mary Margaret grumbled again, making a face Emma hadn’t seen since she was sixteen and David had said something stupid about wanting to move to New York and be a police officer and she’d had to play mediator in the middle of Main Street.

“Just think of this like charity,” Emma said, glancing at the mountain of baby-goods wrapped in an assortment of sickeningly adorable paper. “You sit here and let people crowd your personal space for a couple of hours, you make Ruth happy and you get gifts out of it. It’s not a bad deal when you think about it.” “You complaining again?” Ruby asked, appearing out of seemingly nowhere to rest her elbow on the back of Mary Margaret’s chair. She grinned knowingly at her, a teasing glint in her eye that Emma immediately recognized as amusement – and a plan.

And that worried her a bit.

“I’m not complaining,” Mary Margaret said, sitting up a bit straighter and glaring at Ruby. “I’m just curious when I lost all ability to make decisions on my own. We don’t need these presents or the punch or, God, what is this?”

She yanked a small knot of ribbons out of the back of her hair where it had been, unknowingly, stuck for the last twenty minutes. Emma hadn’t had the heart to tell her. She was an awful friend. And she was so tired she couldn’t see straight. Ruby pointed at Mary Margaret’s stomach, grin creeping across her face. “That’s why.” “That’s stupid.” “You’re just the mom,” Ruby laughed. “Ruth’s the grandmother. Plus you’re getting, like, a ridiculous amount of stuff for free.” “These are all things I’ve already pointed out,” Emma said softly, earning her own glare from Mary Margaret. She rolled her eyes at the expression – if they were going to act like teenagers, she could meet Mary Margaret look for look. And early-morning makeouts with her boyfriend, but that was beside the point.

“You’re right,” Mary Margaret sighed. Ruby and Emma’s eyebrows jumped in tandem, quick glances exchanged and Mary Margaret’s whole body sagged forward a bit, like she’d been holding her breath for the better part of the afternoon. “I know I’m being stupid. It’s not just about the party. Although, I totally didn’t want the party and it is super weird how we as a society have decided it’s ok to feel a woman’s stomach because there’s another human in there and…” “Focus, M’s.”

Mary Margaret took a deep breath and nodded once, pushing her hips up slightly to grab something out of her back pocket. Emma opened her mouth, something about straining herself on the tip of her tongue and Mary Margaret glared at her. “I swear to God, Emma Swan, if you say anything about being careful, I will rage right in the middle of this apartment.”

Emma’s eyes widened to potentially dangerous proportions and Ruby’s elbow slid off the chair quickly, her entire body folding into itself with laughter. “Talk about hormones,” she muttered, hooking her foot around an empty folding chair and all but collapsing into it.

“Jeez, Mary Margaret,” Emma said softly.

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled, unfolding what appeared to be an envelope and handing it to Emma.

“What’s this?” “Look at it, but, you know don’t open it?” Emma glanced questioningly at her, but Mary Margaret just nodded, teeth pressed into her lower lip tightly. It was an envelope and it looked like it had taken up residence in Mary Margaret’s back pocket, folded, at least, two dozen different ways like she kept taking it out to stare at it.

And it was from the city of New York.

More to the point, it was from One Police Plaza in the city of New York.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled, eyes flashing up towards Mary Margaret who looked nothing short of absolutely ashamed. Her whole lip was twisted in between her teeth and she was beating out a nervous rhythm on her side.

“I know, I know. I’m the worst wife in the whole world.” “What is it?” Ruby asked, leaning forward and pulling the envelope out of Emma’s hand. Her whole face went slack when she looked at the return address. “Holy shit, Mary Margaret.” “Ruby!” “What? There’s not actually a baby here yet. And this is a huge deal.” “It is,” Mary Margaret admitted. “It’s the biggest deal. That’s why I’ve been so frustratingly annoying about this party thing. I couldn’t deal with the idea of people doing stuff for me when I was hiding this.” “You’re hiding it?” Emma repeated and Ruby was laughing again.

Mary Margaret nodded slowly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Hormones. “For the last four days.” “Oh my God.” “Stop saying that.” “I don’t know what else to say.” “Are you going to tell David?” “No,” Emma said quickly, not even considering another option. “That’s all you, M’s.” Mary Margaret groaned, drawing a few curious glances from people who desperately wanted to play baby shower games, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

“We definitely should have made this punch alcoholic,” Ruby said, downing the rest of her drink like she was doing shots.

“How did this happen?” Emma asked, ignoring the requests for alcohol she was practically drowning in. “I mean you knew he took the test. You knew the test would have results. This could be a good thing.” “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Mary Margaret said and her fingers hadn’t stopped moving in the last three minutes. “And I want David to be happy and no one deserves to be an officer more than him. I know that.” “But?” “But that is absolutely terrifying.” “It’s not going to change the results of that exam.” “I just thought maybe if he didn’t know for a couple of extra days, we could just have this.” She glanced around the apartment at the group of people she’d put up such a fight over a few hours before, shrugging at Emma and Ruby. “We could just be soon-to-be parents and he wouldn’t feel like he was some sort of leader or under all this stress. That’s why he didn’t tell me he was going to take the exam in the first place.” “I know that,” Emma said before entirely considering what she was saying.

“What?” She ran her hand over face, slouching forward until her elbows rested on her knees. “He showed up at my apartment months ago, certain I was dead because I didn’t answer my phone. It was very typical David. And he told me.” “He always thinks he’s got to try and protect me.” “He’s worried about you.” “That’s dumb.” “So is hiding his test results.” Ruby chuckled, smiling at Emma. “I think she just won, Mary Margaret. Who knew making out with Killian Jones would make you so smart?” “Yeah, let’s focus on that,” Mary Margaret said, envelope and test results and baby shower games seemingly forgotten in her determination to hear about Emma’s relationship. “You two are pretty handsy, you know.” “Handsy?” Emma scoffed. “What is this? Middle school?” “High school. At least.” Emma rolled her eyes, ignoring the way her stomach flipped at the thought of handsy and a handful of other adjectives and memories of the last few weeks flashing through her mind.

“You are actually blushing,” Ruby said, sounding just a bit stunned. “I had no idea you were capable.” “Shut up,” Emma hissed. Mary Margaret was sniffling again and this conversation had gotten totally off track.

“Come on, spill. What happened last week?” “What happened last week? Things happened last week?” Mary Margaret’s eyes flashed between Emma and Ruby, acting like she was waiting on some sort of New York Times breaking news headline.  

“How did we land on this topic?” Emma sighed, twisting the end of her hair around her finger and two incredibly accusatory gasps met the movement. Goddamnit. “This is your baby shower, M’s.” “Yeah, but I didn’t really want it.” “Because you were too busy feeling guilty about lying to your husband.” “What happened last week?”

“Emma broke into Killian’s apartment and cooked him dinner,” Ruby answered and Mary Margaret’s entire mouth was hanging open. “Told him she wanted to do something nice because he spent the whole day in court character witnessing for Regina.” “Wait, wait, back up,” Mary Margaret said, not even looking at Emma anymore. “She broke into his apartment?” Ruby nodded. “And what’s a character witness?” “He’s trying to help prove Regina should be able to adopt Roland when she marries Robin.” Mary Margaret actually said awww and Emma needed to seize back control of this conversation. “Hi,��� she said, bitterness creeping into the corners of her voice. Two pairs of slightly amused eyes answered her. “I’m still here. Any chance you guys want to include me in this conversation about me?” Ruby shrugged, but Mary Margaret at least had the common decency to look a little bit embarrassed. “And anyway,” Emma continued, digging herself a bit deeper into this conversation-hole. “I didn’t break into his apartment. Ariel let me in.” “His hostess?” Emma mumbled some kind of agreement in the back of her throat and Mary Margaret stared at her with a bit of wonder on her face. “What?”

“I’ve just never seen you so happy.” “Oh, don’t get all sappy on me, M’s.” “I’m not, really. Ask Ruby. She’ll say the same the thing.” “It’s true, Em,” Ruby said, staring at her seriously a force field of brown eyes and determination. “You’re...I don’t even know. If I could come up with a better word than happy, I would. But that’s the jist of it. You’re so happy and no one deserves to be happy more than you.” “You’re both saps,” Emma mumbled, staring at her shoes so she didn’t do something ridiculous like start to cry in the middle of Mary Margaret’s living room.

They both shook their heads at her and Emma tried to keep her breathing level, stomach clenching a bit because she was just as happy as they were telling her she was. Probably more. And she believed in Killian – trusted him implicitly and wanted him even more – but she was still Emma and Emma never quite knew what to do when things were going well.

This was going well.

And she was terrified of it falling apart.

She was terrified of losing him.

“It’s still early,” she muttered, half to herself, a quiet mantra she’d taken up since he’d lost on purpose for her , determined to keep her expectations as low as possible.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Ruby said sharply and Ruth scoffed from a few feet away, like there was a baby in the living room who would also be scandalized by swear words and inappropriate behavior.

“It is,” Emma argued. “It’s only been a couple of months. I’ve only known him for a couple of months! I shouldn’t be…”

She cut herself off, eyes falling back to the floor – mostly so she didn’t have to look at the smug smiles on both Mary Margaret and Ruby’s face.

“You’ve used that excuse before,” Ruby said.

“That doesn’t make it any less true.” “Emma,” Mary Margaret said quietly and she couldn’t have looked away if she tried. “Have you told him about Neal?” Ruby let out a low whistle and Emma’s entire body shivered like someone had just opened every window in the apartment. She shook her head forcefully, hair whipping across her face almost painfully. “No,” she said, the certainty in her voice drowning out any potential for follow-up questions. “And I’m not going to.” Mary Margaret opened her mouth – that follow-up practically hanging on the tip of her tongue – but Emma narrowed her eyes and her sister-in-law’s jaw snapped shut audibly. “I don’t want him to know.”

And those two pairs of very judgemental eyes softened just a bit, picking up on what Emma hadn’t actually said. She didn’t want him to, somehow, think less of her. She didn’t want him to know that she’d found out she was pregnant in jail or considered giving Henry up for adoption or had a record that Ruby had done just about everything in her power to keep under lock and key when the show got successful.

Because if he knew he might look at her differently.

And that thought alone made every single part of her body twist uncomfortably.

What a mess.

“He wouldn’t think that,” Ruby said softly, hand reaching out to rest on Emma’s knee, and Mary Margaret nodded enthusiastically.

“You don’t know that.” “I absolutely do.” “Emma,” Mary Margaret cut in, the look on her face nearly making Emma start to cry again. “It’s not too soon. And it’s not too scary. The way he looks at you...like you are everything to him. I think he loves you just as much as you love him.” And she couldn’t argue, couldn’t come up with a single word or a single letter, just blinked quickly to try and push the tears back into her eyes and focused on the rush that shot through her whole body at the idea.

“There’s no such thing as too soon,” Mary Margaret continued, sunshine and optimism packed into a human body ready and willing to support Emma no matter what. “It just is. You don’t have to question it. You just have to act. And I think you should tell him.”

“Dor and I knew in less than a week,” Ruby added. “Honestly. I saw her and the metaphorical chorus in my mind started to play and I told her I loved her seven days later. No joke.” Emma’s laugh was shaky at best, but she couldn’t help but smile at the two friends in front of her. And wonder when she’d gotten so lucky.

Everything was too good.

“You have a metaphorical chorus in your mind?” she asked, glancing at Ruby who simply nodded like it was completely normal.

A pair of footsteps came up towards them and Emma looked up to find Ruth staring at them expectantly. “Mary Margaret,” she said. “You want to start opening presents? It might keep things from getting a little dull in here.” Emma pulled her lips behind her teeth – determined not to actually laugh for fear of what both Ruth and Mary Margaret would do to her – and Mary Margaret just nodded quickly, fingers still tapping out that rhythm on her stomach.

“Sure,” she said and Emma wondered if anyone heard the tension in her voice besides her. “That sounds really good.”

Ruth beamed at her, turning back to the small crowd to get them to transition a few feet to their collective left and Mary Margaret squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “Free stuff, M’s, just remember, free stuff,” Emma said, yanking her chair around so she was sitting next to her.

“They’ll be gone in an hour,” Ruby said.

And that wasn’t part of the plan.

“What?” Mary Margaret asked, leaning to the side to grab something wrapped in rubber duck-themed paper.

Ruby’s face shifted – falling back into cutthroat producer with a practiced ease that probably should have intimidated Emma a bit, but just served to impress her. “That was why I came over here in the first place,” she said, crossing her legs and hooking her heel behind her ankle. “Strangely enough, it was freezing cold at the Piers and apparently Henry wasn’t quite as interested in soccer anymore. So they’re at The Jolly now, something about root beer floats and baked goods and they’ll be back here in an hour. I think David’s kind of anxious to get back to you, Mary Margaret. It’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting,” Mary Margaret repeated, sounding like it was anything but.

“How’d you know all that?” Emma asked, wondering why she hadn’t gotten some sort of text-message update.

“You got it too,” Ruby said, nodding towards the phone sitting on an end table a few feet away.

Emma reached back, grabbing the thing and swiping her thumb across the screen. Twelve text messages. Eight from Henry – including a photo of David trying to go up against an automated goalie machine that she’d probably save for the rest of her life – three from David and one from Killian.

We might have to crash your shower, love. Soccer in the snow isn’t quite as fun as I was promised it would be.

That’s alright. I think you’re probably doing M’s a favor. And I might want to see you.

It took a full ten seconds for her phone to buzz again, earning a sarcastic glance from Ruby as several dozen acquaintances moved towards Mary Margaret, hands reaching out to touch her stomach and push presents towards her.

That so? Can’t get enough of me, huh? Something like that.

Good.  

The door swung open right on schedule an hour later, Henry sprinting into the living room with what looked like several inches of snow in his hair and at least half a dozen stories about David’s inability to play soccer on his lips.

Ruth was only slightly put out about the early-end to the party, Mary Margaret’s admission to being absolutely exhausted enough to make her mother-in-law usher everyone out the door ten minutes before. She looked a bit amused when David made a beeline to his wife – no complaints about his hand falling on her stomach without a word – and glanced at Emma knowingly, mouth ticking up a bit.

Emma shrugged.

“Relax, kid,” Emma laughed when Henry collapsed on the couch next to her, elbows just missing Ruby as he landed loudly. “We don’t need a full report right now.” “But mom,” he whined. “It was so funny. Uncle David actually fell over. He fell over!” “Yeah, I got the pictures you sent me.” “There are pictures?” David asked sharply, head snapping up from where it had been resting against Mary Margaret’s shoulders. “Jeez, delete those, Em.” “Nuh uh, I’m keeping those until the end of time. Now I’ve got some serious blackmail when you’re being a jerk.” “I wasn’t a jerk all day. Ask Killian.” He was leaning against the entryway to the living room, feet crossed at the ankles and his gaze only focused on Emma. He had snow in his hair too and the blue in his eyes looked bluer when they met hers, smile tugging on his mouth in a way that made her want to kiss him – hard. And for a prolonged period of time.

“I can confirm that your brother was not a jerk, Swan,” Killian said, stepping farther into the room and nodding towards a still-lying-across-the-entire-couch Henry. He sank onto the arm next to her, fingers brushing across the back of her neck and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. “We had fun. Despite the potential concussion.” “You’re not really concussed are you, Uncle David?” Henry asked, sitting up quickly and Emma’s heart thumped in her chest at the concern in his voice.

“Nah, I’m fine,” David promised and Henry let out a relieved deep breath. “Although,” he continued slowly, glancing at Killian quickly. “Maybe not quite good. ” Killian nodded again, stepping towards Emma, and it seemed like the entire room had frozen. “What’s going on?” Mary Margaret asked.

David pulled the air into his lungs slowly, hands pushed into his pockets as he started to pace in front of them, eyes focused on the carpet underneath his feet and the small trail of New York City slush he was leaving behind him. “I got some news a couple of days ago,” he said softly and it took half a second for Emma to realize what was going on.

“Oh my God,” she groaned. “You’re both idiots.” David glanced questioningly at her and she ran her hand through the air, shaking her head. “Go ahead, say what you’ve got to say.” He took another deep breath and Killian’s fingers hadn’t stopped moving across the back of her spine, tracing some sort of pattern against her skin. Mary Margaret crossed her arms slowly, waiting patiently for the news Emma was positive she’d already figured out anyway.

“I passed,” David said, rushing over the words and ignoring his mother’s loud gasp. “Captain told me a couple of days ago. I passed and there’s a ceremony next month and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was nervous how you’d react and I just want you to be happy. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Not when I’ve got so much to come home to.” His hand fell back to Mary Margaret’s stomach, palm resting flat against her shirt and her fingers tugged on his forcefully until they were twisted together.

And if Emma leaned back against her own boyfriend’s hand, his fingers coming down to rest on her shoulder and his lips brushing against her head, she couldn’t really blame herself.  

Mary Margaret closed her eyes lightly, smiling just a bit and David looked concerned she was having some sort of reaction. “Mary Margaret?” he asked, kneeling so he was eye level with her again. And his hand didn’t move out of hers.

“Emma was right,” she muttered.

“What?” “We’re both idiots.” She nodded towards the envelope Ruby had left sitting on the coffee table, flattened out for what was, likely, the first time since Mary Margaret had taken it out of the mail. “That came four days ago.” “Is this…” David asked slowly, leaning precariously back on his heels to grab the thin piece of paper, eyes lightening a bit when he noticed all the crease marks on it.

“I couldn’t bring myself to actually open it. I didn’t have to. I knew you’d pass. And I know I should have told you it came. But I was nervous and scared you’d do something absurdly heroic because of new bars on your uniform.” “I won’t.” “You will,” Mary Margaret said, but she was smiling as she spoke. “And that’s why I love you. You’d do whatever you could to protect anyone. You’re good, David Nolan. The good-est and that’s not even a word and I know it’s not a word and, well, I am so proud of you. I should have told you that from the start.”

David’s eyes widened a bit and Mary Margaret tried to keep her smile on her face and then they were kissing each other, fingers still wrapped together and Ruby groaned loudly. “Disgusting,” she mumbled, glancing at Henry who appeared to agree with the sentiment.

Ruth yelped loudly again, rushing towards her son and his wife and wrapping them tightly in another hug that was so tight Emma was positive David would chastise her for possibly hurting the baby.

“Swan,” Killian muttered in her ear, making her jump a bit. “Can I talk to you for a second?” Emma twisted her head to look up at him, the nerves practically radiating off him and her stomach felt like it dropped a few feet as she nodded slowly. “Sure.”

She stood up, pulling Henry’s legs off hers as she moved, and started walking towards the kitchen when she nearly fell over – Killian’s hand wrapped around her wrist and making her almost lose her balance when she came up short of linoleum.

“I was thinking maybe outside,” he said softly, redirecting her towards the door.

“Ok.”

They took a few steps into the hallway, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing behind him and Killian rolled his shoulders, thumb tapping on the side of his prosthetic. “You alright?” Emma asked. He nodded tersely and that didn’t do anything to make her feel like she wasn’t being lied to. “You look a little terrified.” He laughed at that, shoulders loosening a bit as he reached out towards her again. She moved without question, mind holding onto too soondespite romantic proclamations from Mary Margaret an hour before. “Not terrified,” Killian said softly. “A bit nervous, but not terrified.” “What’s going on?” “You know we haven’t actually been on another date since the network party.” And that’s not what she expected at all.

Emma’s eyes narrowed, head pulling back to stare at him and he was actually smiling now. “What are you getting at?” “I’m suggesting that maybe we should.” “And you had to bring me into the hallway to ask me that?” “You know Gina and Robin are getting married next month.” “Yeah,” Emma nodded. “I’ve seen the scrapbook.” He took a deep breath, eyes meeting hers without a trace of the previous nerves or misgivings and Emma couldn’t even remember what too soon was when he was looking at her like that. “Would you like to go with me?” Killian asked.

She nodded before she’d even really processed the question, head moving quickly as her heartbeat tried to keep up with the rhythm it was pounding out. His mouth met hers without another word, hands pushing underneath the bottom of her shirt until the fabric had ridden up her stomach and Emma barely remembered that her entire family was a few feet away behind one closed door.

She almost didn’t care.

She was ridiculously happy.

“I’ll have to buy a dress,” Emma mumbled and she could feel his smile when he laughed against her lips.

“You don’t have to,” Killian argued. “Wear whatever you want. Wear jeans for all I care. It’ll still look incredible.” “What a line.” “The truth.”

Emma shook her head, fingers still pushed into his hair as she pulled him back towards her – mostly so she could keep trying to ignore the way her stomach was flipping at the thought that it was the truth.

“Swan, your whole family is in that apartment,” Killian mumbled, a picture of responsibility despite the several different directions his hair was currently pushed in.

“Did you forget?” “No,” Killian said. “But in the grand scheme of trying to make a good impression, I’m not sure this is exactly helping my cause.”

Emma groaned, taking a much-needed step back and he pushed his hands in his pockets – like that was the only way to keep from touching her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for awhile, you know,” he said.

“What?” “Or I’ve wanted to.” “Why didn’t you?” “We said we wouldn’t push, Swan. And bringing you to my producer’s wedding as a plus-one when you’ll likely have to sit by yourself during the ceremony seemed a bit like pushing.” She took a step back towards him, hand tugging on the unzipped zipper of his jacket until he didn’t have anywhere to look but her. “If I get to push you for information, you can push me for dates,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Plus, I might have hoped you’d ask.” “Yeah?” “Well I can’t do all the asking out,” Emma laughed. “And I’m assuming Regina will have you decked out in some sort of incredibly fancy outfit. So I will admit that’s the main draw. Are you going to have to wear a waistcoat too?” Killian laughed, lips brushing across her forehead and his hand fell back to her waist and they were absolutely teenagers. “Ah, it’s my turn then, is it?” “Something like that.”

He nodded seriously and Emma wasn’t sure if she’d actually fallen into the floor or melted into it, but she was surprised she was still standing up. His didn’t blink, staring her like she was more than just someone he’d met a few months ago and more than someone who couldn’t seem to stop kissing.

He looked at her like she was everything.

And for the first time, she felt like it.

“I love you,” Emma said, words falling out of her without a second thought. His whole body tensed against her, eyes widening for a fraction of a moment and his teeth pushed into his lip tightly, like he couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of him.

“Swan,” he said slowly, fingers tracing across her jaw. And fuck his eyes were blue.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Emma said quickly, trying to not to fall into herself or the floor, certain both were places she wasn’t particularly interested in being. Too soon.  Fuck. It was too soon. “I just wanted you to know. You should know. And you’ve been so good and, well, it’s the truth. You should know the truth, right?” He stared at her for a few more moments, mouth ticking up slowly before he crashed against her, lips moving demandingly over hers and his hand pushing its way up her stomach like he’d forgotten about the family members a few feet away.

Emma groaned when Killian’s hips canted upwards, pushing into her and leaving very little doubt to just how much he wanted her. “My turn, right?” he asked, mumbling the words against her lips and the breathless sound of his voice wasn’t fair at all. He pulled her hands towards him, resting her knuckles against the buttons of his shirt and when Emma finally got the courage to pull her eyes up to his she nearly fell over.

Like she was the goddamn sun.

“I love you too,” he said and his voice seemed to fill that tiny, metaphorical pit in her stomach that she’d never been able to actually put a name to.

And then he was kissing her again – softer this time, slower, like he was trying to memorize the way she moved and the way she felt against him and she might have been doing the exact same thing, fingers ghosting over his left wrist until they wrapped themselves around his prosthetic and pulled him flush against her.

He pressed her further against the wall, somehow finding an inch of space Emma’s body wasn’t already occupying, and she wasn’t entirely certain he knew what he was doing anymore, the determination to seemingly try and touch every single part of her taking control.

They really should pick better locations for these kind of conversations – hallways and hair and makeup and deserted sets seemed like the last places these things should happen at. So, of course it was like this.

Nothing had gone the way she’d expected when it came to Killian Jones.

Killian’s arm had found its way around her waist, tugging her up until her heels actually popped out of her shoes, using the wall as leverage until her calves were wrapped around his thighs and he groaned when she pushed her hips into his.

Emma laughed softly, head falling forward until her forehead rested on his and she could feel him smile against her. “Are you laughing at me, Swan?” he asked, laughter creeping into his voice.

“No,” she said honestly and Killian’s eyes snapped up to hers – blue and serious and God he loved her back. “I’m just happy.”

His smile could have stopped traffic in the middle of Times Square. Or Columbus Circle. Or probably lit the flame in the Statue of Liberty.

She was, apparently, chock full of ridiculous sentiment.

“Good,” Killian said softly and Emma was still an inch off the ground, his arm wrapped tightly around her and supporting her weight entirely. There was some sort of deeper meaning there – she wouldn’t have minded trying to find it by kissing him some more. “And you really don’t have to buy a new dress.” “You’re still thinking about the dress?” “I’m thinking about you in a dress, love. They’re decidedly different things.” Emma laughed again, the muscles in her face threatening to tighten from overuse. “And possibly out of a dress,” she mumbled, eyes flashing towards Killian’s in just enough time to see his mouth drop open.

“It’s rude to tease a man like that,” he said, voice low as he muttered the words into her ear, nosing her hair out of the way. She shivered when his lips hit the back of her neck, certain the goosebumps would have given her away even if she hadn’t moved. He laughed at that – drawing out even more goosebumps when his breath hit just behind her ears, making Emma bite her lip tightly and press her toes into her shoes so she wouldn’t start kissing him again.

“It’s not teasing if it’s a promise.” Killian’s eyebrows nearly flew up his forehead, smile inching across his face as he pulled back slightly, staring at her with some akin to wonder in his expression. “That so?”

“You going to kick me out after date number, what would we call this? Four?”

“I have no intention of kicking you out, ever, so, no, not after date four either.” She was absurdly happy.

And the sky hadn’t fallen. And the building hadn’t caved in. And he hadn’t walked away.

He was still there, fingers tracing some sort of pattern across her hip and a smile plastered on his face and Killian loved her back.

“Ever?” Emma said softly and his eyes narrowed at the repeated word, shoulders shifting slightly with the weight of four letters.

“Does that count as pushing?” Killian asked.

Emma shook her head slowly – not entirely certain what she was disagreeing to. “I don’t think so.” “Overwhelming?” “That might be closer to the word I was looking for.” He sighed softly, one side of his mouth pulled up and nodded at her. “A good word.” “Some might even say that this is vaguely important.” “The most.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” And those four letters seemed to settle the batch of nerves Emma couldn’t quite seem to shake. “I love you, Emma. More than I thought I could and certainly faster than I thought was possible. And it’s overwhelming and important and I wouldn’t want it to be any different, because you’re overwhelming and important. The most of both.” She was crying.

She could feel the tears falling down her cheek, salt hitting the side of her lip when Killian didn’t move his thumb fast enough to brush them away. “Swan?” he asked, voice low with concern and that might have made her cry more.

“I’m fine,” Emma said quickly, blinking and shaking her head. “I just...I’m happy.”

Killian nodded, thumb brushing across her cheek and Emma’s whole body clenched at the way his eyes seemed to actually lighten when she spoke.

Happy.

She was so goddamn happy she felt like her entire body was buzzing with emotion.

It might have been.

“Hey,” Emma said suddenly, like she was remembering a very important point she’d entirely forgotten. She had – far too preoccupied with declarations of I love you and kissing and allusions to dresses on and off her body. “What was with those looks before?” “What looks? The ones directed at you? I think we’ve made that fairly clear, don’t you, love?” Emma shook her head, willing herself not to get distracted again by that absolutely ridiculous combination of smirk and blue eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I meant.” He’d added one absurdly arched eyebrow to the mix and that wasn’t playing fair at all. “Before David told M’s about the results and things got all mushy in there, he looked at you. And you nodded. And it was encouraging. That’s the look I’m curious about.” “Mushy?” he repeated and now both eyebrows were up and his eyes were blue and she was absolutely distracted. Killian’s hand reached out, fingers brushing along the curve of her jaw, sending a wave of goosebumps down her spine.

“You know what I mean,” Emma muttered, doing her best to resist the urge to shrug his fingers away and tell him to replace them with his mouth. On her lips. Again. “Did David tell you about the results?”

He sighed softly – and moved his hand away, running it across his face and that wasn’t really what she had in mind at all – taking a step back and his expression changed just a bit. It had been serious the whole time – no one tells someone they love them without being, at least, a little serious – but his eyes seemed to darken just a bit when he looked at her again, nodding slowly, lips pressed together tightly.

“We talked,” Killian said, like that was, somehow, normal.

“When?” “Today.” “And?” “And what?” “And David wouldn’t just tell you about the results as some kind of conversation starter,” Emma argued. “So that means there had to have been more talking. When? And for how long?” “Those are a lot of questions, Swan.” “Ones you’re doing a very good job of avoiding.” He sighed again, but there was a bit of laughter mixed in to and he smiled at her when he looked at her. “You know about Christmas, right?” Emma nodded. “Well, we’ve been talking since Christmas. He really wasn’t a jerk today. It was, actually, almost good. It was fun.” “Fun? With my brother?” “I’m not lying to you, Swan.” “And Henry was there too.” “You’ll remember I told you that I enjoy spending time with Henry.” Her stomach flipped and then twisted into, what felt like, eight very complicated knots. “We had a good time, love, snow notwithstanding.”

“So, David told you about the results? Anything else I should know about that you two are sharing on top-secret soccer outings with my kid?” Killian laughed – and something flashed across his face and Emma was almost certain she missed it, but it was gone before she could try and pick out what exactly it had been. “It wasn’t quite top-secret. Sending text message updates about it seems to cut down on the secret keeping of it all.”

Emma nodded, teeth digging into the side of her tongue. “They’ll probably send a search party out for us soon,” she said, nodding back towards the door and wondering how no one had actually appeared in the hallway demanding their return to the apartment.

“I should probably get back. I think Eric’s starting to count the number of Saturdays I’ve only kind of half-cooked and he’s using them as some sort of blackmail fodder for when him and Ari finally have kids. Like he can use it to force babysitting on me.” “That’s a very involved plan.” “I wouldn’t put it past him.” “Go,” Emma said, nudging her shoulder into his and fighting away the vaguely ridiculous disappointment she felt settle in the pit of her stomach at the word. “God forbid you have to babysit for a baby that hasn’t even been conceived yet.” “I might just go say bye to Henry?” He phrased it like a question and he rocked back on his feet a little bit when he looked back up at her, finger back underneath the hem of her shirt. And it was so absurdly endearing she could hardly think straight.

“Of course. He’d probably send at least eight angry texts if you didn’t.” “At least.” Killian followed her back into the apartment – eyes following them when they walked back into the living room and Emma shook her head deftly in Ruby’s direction, the questions practically falling out of her producer’s open mouth.

He said goodbye to Henry, promises of more soccer in the snow and root beer floats and kissed her softly on the cheek – and Ruth didn’t even try to quiet her very loud, very dramatic gasp at that – squeezing Emma’s hand in his. “You could come by later, if you want,” Killian said, keeping his voice low so as not to attract even more comments from the metaphorical peanut gallery that was her family.

“We’re taking Ruth uptown. Dinner and a whole bunch of touristy things that kind of make my skin crawl, but she likes them and Henry likes them. He’s bringing Violet, you know.” “So I heard.” “He told you that?” “Several times,” Killian laughed. “I think between me and David he’s asked just about every question about twelve-year-old dating he possibly could come up with.” Emma wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information – a mix of something oppressively parental sparking at the idea of her almost-teenage son even thinking about dating and something entirely different and emotional about the same almost-teenage son asking her brother and her boyfriend for dating advice.

“Is that ok?” he asked, picking up on everything she was thinking without a single word.

“Yeah,” Emma answered, a bit breathless and that was just absurd.  “That might be the nicest thing I’ve heard today.” “That’s the nicest thing you’ve heard today?” “Well, the whole I love you thing was pretty good too. A highlight for sure.” Killian laughed loudly, kissing her again. “I’m glad it at least made the highlights.” Her head was spinning – the last half an hour playing on repeat in her mind like she couldn’t quite believe it had actually happened, a far cry from the slightly frustrated TV chefs who had sat in that conference room a few months ago, determined not to spend their next year playing all-star for the network.

God, she was going to have to thank Ruby. And probably Regina.

And she wanted him to come home with her – or, at least, to her.

“You could come over later,” Emma said, enjoying the surprised look on his face at the suggestion. “Like once you’re closed.” “It’ll be late.” “I know, but you’re not very far away. And it’s nice having you there at night.” Killian cocked one eyebrow, eyes crinkling a bit when he smiled. “You want me to stay?”

“I remember something about not kicking out and ever being tossed around earlier,” Emma said. “Unless that was all talk.” “It wasn’t.” “Then come when you’re closed. I’ll still be up.” “I’d like that.” “Go,” she said, all but pushing him towards the door. “Or Eric will kill you. I’ll see you later.” He nodded once again, still smiling as he wrapped his hand around the door knob, swinging it open behind him. “Bye, love.” “Bye.” The door closed loudly and Emma spun around, leaning against the wood and trying to get her bearings. She saw Mary Margaret staring at her from the other side of the living room, a look on her face like she knew exactly what had happened and couldn’t have been more pleased with her ability to get in Emma’s head and make her do things.

Emma twisted her neck forward, reaching around behind her and grabbing the chain she hadn’t taken off in nearly thirteen years, pulling it over her head and staring at the small emblem in her hand – everything she’d refused to allow herself to believe in, every doubt she’d ever had and certainty that nothing would ever be worth it.

Nothing would be enough.

She was an idiot.

And, apparently, prone to melodrama.

And Killian Jones loved her back.

She pushed the chain into her back pocket and everything felt lighter without it hanging around her neck as she walked back into the living room.

[silentconfliction]

NAME: grey GENDER: agender EYE COLOR: blue-grey HAIR COLOR: dark brown RELATIONSHIP STATUS: taken by my wonderful bae @lnstinctive ZODIAC: leo FAVORITE COLOR: yellow FAVORITE SEASON: autumn FAVORITE PLACE: my room, i guess? FAVORITE HOLIDAY: halloween, probably FAVORITE VIDEO GAME: oh god. this is a cruel question. uhmmm in terms of story/canon universe, definitely the halo series. in terms of actual gameplay? ...probably pokemon? LAST SHOW YOU WATCHED: decided to give riverdale a chance last night. ...probably gonna watch the whole season. WHAT’S YOUR HONEST OPINION ABOUT YOUR MUSE? i love?? him?? he’s everything i love in a character, literally ticks all my boxes for ‘character i will pick up as a muse’. i love that even after being through so much trauma, he hasn’t let any of it make him bitter. he’s still a kind, deeply caring person who may be a bit more solemn ( possibly more than he was in the past ) but still has a sense of humour. that’s something that means a lot to me and speaks a lot about his character imo. buuut of course, i also recognize that he has flaws, whICH I ALSO LOVE because god knows he’d be boring if he was perfect. WOULD YOU DATE YOUR MUSE?: ...i mean, i sure wouldn’t turn down a hug. but probably not tbh. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE KINDS OF THREADS?: ohhhh my god. my favourite threads are deep, in depth threads that involve a lot of introspection and exploration of characters ( personality, thoughts, emotions, troubles/traumas, etc. ). i love getting a chance to get really into my muse’s head and... okay, yeah, totally fucking with their minds on occasion. ARE YOU A SELECTIVE ROLEPLAYER? yes. i don’t exactly have high standards, but i do have some standards that need to be met for me to write with someone. DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE MUSE? ...yes. as of now, it’s definitely shiro. he’d taken over my heart more than i anticipated, but wash from rvb is forever one of my top favourite muses as well. WHAT MADE YOU DECIDE TO JOIN THE FANDOM? mm... i wouldn’t say i joined the fandom. i just left my old rp platform and missed writing shiro, so i decided to give tumblr rp another shot. DO YOU SEE YOURSELF STAYING WITH THE FANDOM FOR A LONG TIME? lmao again, don’t consider myself much part of the fandom. i don’t contribute anything like fanart or fic and i pretty much avoid the fandom side of thing altogether. so, no, but i do see myself on this blog for a long time.

TAGGED BY: @backwaterheroics thanks, lovely! ♥ TAGGING: anyone who wants to do the thing. i’m v tired okay... tagging is hard.....