#imagining him sending you pictures in the beginning of his tumblr days to approve of before he posts them :((

[oooohno]

Do you think Sugishita would have a gardening central tumblr to show off all his pretty flowers and delicious veggies? 🥰

Omg that would be so cute 🥺

I think if you or umemiya introduces him to tumblr & he sees how much you enjoy spending time on the app & talking to your online friends Sugishita would definitely give it a try too! He strikes me as someone who shows love/ his interest in the form of engaging with your hobbies just like he did with umemiya & the community garden. He wants you to know that he is trying to get to know everything about you & that includes your hobbies too.

So I can totally see him starting a tumblr dedicated to his garden but I do think you’d have to show him how the app works at first 😹

[marielambs-corner]

HEY!!!! Happy (belated) HOLIDAYS!!!!!!!

StrawberryAeris, I'm sorry I'm kinda (pretty) late with this. I wanted it to be great and perfect and something you'd truly enjoy, but time caught up on me and well, I thoguht dividing it into chapters would be better than keeping you waiting ^^u

So, with no more ado, Here I bring you the beginning!!!

Hope you enjoy this and that you had some wonderful holidays, and wishing you a happy and healthy 2021!!!

Enjoy it!!

*See Tumblr version under the cut*

Days were becoming cold and nights chill in the old New York as winter already settled in. And in the old studio, through cracks and loosely boarded holes in the upper levels, snow could be seen gently falling and covering any crevasse with its white blanket, and a little toon-shaped Dancing Demon was truly amused by its sight.

It's not like Dancey hadn’t seen snow before, it was always a sort of spectacle for the little demon. Though always his experiences with it were from as far as possible; first through the old reels with cartoons of the original Bendy, and currently, just admiring how it delicately piled up between the cracks that still exposed the studio to the outside world. There was only one time he dared to play with it, too amazed and curious, wanting to replicate what he saw in the cartoons, and that was an immediate mistake, for the ink that composed his body froze at the direct exposure, and everything from his forearms to the tips of his fingers totally paralyzed; any attempt at moving his limbs resulted in a painful crack, his ink breaking apart like a crumbling cookie from the movement strain. It took about a couple of hours and quite an amount of fresh ink from the machine to gain back mobility, another hour for the dullness and pain to ebb away, and a whole week of constant nagging and reprimands from his big sibling for him to understand to never do something like that, ever again.

Not like anyone else would believe how caring and protective the Ink Demon truly was, but he just was like that, always with an eye over the Dancing Demon, and with rules to make sure the little one wouldn’t get into much trouble.

If only the rest could see him the same way as Dancey saw him...

Watching the snow fall, though, really put the little demon in quite a nostalgic mood, thinking on his sibling, on the cursed creatures below, on how he’d like them to enjoy something as simple as snow as much as he did, or soup, or music! That’d be so nice, for all of them just enjoy the simplest things.

What was not so nice was the coldness. A chill draft leaked through the crevasses, sending goosebumps all over the demon’s body, shaking and rattling like the toon he was. He crossed his arms, rubbing his upper arms in a bleak attempt at keeping some heat, but wasn’t enough. Either he just dropped the snow-gazing, or went to find something to wrap himself up.

...the first choice meant to go back to the lower levels and that’d also mean no more fun at the snow-gazing, so even if his big sibling didn’t approve, checking on the old locked closets in hopes to find something useful was it. And just as he expected, most of them were locked. Some, though, would budge if he was insistent enough, and it was the case for 1 door out of 13 he tried, with the door busting open so strong it sent Dancey rolling all across until he hit the opposite wall, upside down.

Shaking out the dizziness, he quickly recomposed himself and went to check on the now-open closet. A corner had a box full to the brim with bacon soup cans—a small victory he’d save for later. A few projectors occupied a shelf in a haphazardly manner, as if just thrown over in there, thing that surely would upset the Projectionist if he came to know about it. A stack of paper used another corner of a shelf, self-explanatory given how close he was from the old Art Department. And in upper shelf a box, which contents couldn’t decipher due to the location and height; he’d have to climb up to get it.

Lucky for the Dancing Demon, he was rather light in weight, and the shelves still were pretty sturdy, so climbing them was not a problem. What meant a problem was taking the box itself; as soon as he edged it to take it down, its weight immediately followed gravity curse and, with Dancey being helpless as he had to use at least one hand to hold himself as in a ladder, the box went straight to his face, pushing him and making him drop his hold on the shelf, falling and being squashed under the box’s weight.

A little undignified “Oof!” was released along with a grunt, but sooner than later, Dancey once again recomposed himself, sitting up and checking on the box’s content. Indeed, there was some pieces of cloth, he could use one to cover himself! It was soft but a bit raspy with some strange patter and, of course, covered with dust. Seemed like an old sweater long forgotten by time. Well, he now could give it new purpose as his own winter sweater!

What else was in the box? His curiosity mused to himself.

There were a couple of tapes, maybe he could play them later in one of the recorders, ask Sammy for help. There was also a tied-up bunch of some yellowing paper/cardboard thing, he wasn’t sure, as it was thin as paper but rigid as cardboard. Could be both? They had some pretty pictures in one side while the other had smeared ink that made what was once written in there unintelligible. The bottom of the box was filled with little reddish-brown—maybe withered—balls along with crumbles of leaves that kept turning into dust the more he rummaged around the box (he gave a guess of it being old dry leaves, from what he’d seen of those strange plants that keep growing in the deepest levels when their leaves fall). And last thing was a smaller box inside.

With solemnity and anticipation, he took the smaller box, pushing aside the bigger one. In expectance for something, he didn’t know what, slowly, dramatically slowly, he placed his hand on the lid, and inched its way open. What he found inside were... pictures, old, yellowing, some fading, but still pretty recognizable. The pictures, of course, were from the old times, when the studio still worked as a studio and not the cursed place it currently was. They varied from people standing alone, in couples, in trios, or bigger groups; some blurry from movement, some sideways, but most capturing the moment without the people noticing, letting them to just do whatever they were doing and it being captured by the images. They all were varied, but given how the people wore the same clothes photo after photo and how the background seemed to be pretty alike in every take, the only conclusion Dancey could get to was that these all were taken the same day. But that as a way to discard any other options and confirm some suspicions, as there was some other thing that caught his attention.

Admittedly, he couldn’t recognize all of the people in the images, but some, he was familiar with them, and among them was a way too familiar face.

Joey Drew.

No matter who in the wrecked studio, everyone was capable to recognize such name and face. The sad and sour (and almost angry) taste his image left in the little demon’s mouth, though, was not rival for his still growing curiosity as to why people in the pictures was so happy and comfortable around him. He kept studying the images, and even he had to admit, Joey’s smile seemed almost... real, authentic. Maybe it was a real smile.

A picture showed him with his arms slung around Sammy and Norman, and even if they both seemed like they just rolled their eyes, there was a smirk, a smile in their faces, over Drew’s antics. Another one showed a group of three people sitting where they could, as they unwrapped some small boxes and opened their lids to see their contents, with smiles, warm, tender, excited smiles in their faces looking what was inside, as Joey was standing in the middle, rather smug. Another showed the janitor and the toy-maker, Wally and Shawn, that were holding Joey down, or maybe pushing him down, as Wally jumped over his back and Shawn was hanging from his neck, and Joey was still smiling, maybe even laughing at the antics. Susie hugging him and giving him a peck on his check, making him smile with eyebrows shot upwards, and his face even looked darker in this one. A side-hug from Mr. Piedmont, both grinning and giving thumb-up to the camera. Even Mr. Cohen was in one, smiling with tiredness but smiling nonetheless, while sitting on a chair, showing something he picked up from one of those wrapped boxes, and Joey beaming, standing right behind him.

All the pictures were like these, with smiles, and laughs, and joy, with lights strings, and a decorated tree, and bushy garlands, and ribbons, with people wearing sweaters with strange patterns, holding mugs whose steam was still visible through the old images, and one was wearing a hat with a couple of leaves and some little spheres—like the ones at the bottom of the big box—hanging of it (those in the picture caught below such garment, no matter who they were, were kissing, with varying kinds of faces they’d do while at it, but the one wearing the hat behind them always sported a triumphant grin from ear to ear).

Figurative gears were churning inside the Dancing Demon’s head. One thing he was sure of, and that was he liked what he’s seeing. He liked to imagine that was actually full of color, like purples and blues and greens and oranges (very little was his experience with color, only what he managed to see from the cracks in the upper levels, just like the snow, but was enough to make his imagination blow up with the possibilities, especially in a sepia toned hellish place like this).

They all, he also concluded, looked happy. Were happy, even with Joey being there. Maybe regardless of Joey being there. No, still didn’t sound right. Definitively was with Joey being there. But why? Wasn’t he the most despised person in the studio? Definitively, the pictures were not from before the Ink Machine times, as he could see some dark pipes gleaming in the background of some pictures. What made this day so special that everyone could be... okay with him there? Happy with him there? Was he forgiven? ...No, definitively not that, it had to be something else. Was the day itself? A day to leave behind differences? No-quarrels-allowed kind of day? A truce day?

...Truce day...

That... that’s it! It had to be! They made a truce for the day? After all, it was pretty obvious that people still loathed Joey up to that day, but still in these pictures, they were able to put aside their differences and spend at least a single day, merry and happy.

He really would like that something like that happened to them now, for them to be able to be together like this, regardless...

Why not try it?

...yeah... Yeah! Why not! He even could invite everyone in the studio! The lost ones, searchers, the Butcher Gang, miss Alice, just- Everyone! Even Inky... Excitement grew more and more in his minute body from all the possibilities. Dancey sprawled the pictures, trying to identify and mentally list everything in there so he could recreate it as close as possible. He might not have had an idea of when it was actually made, but the people in the pictures wore sweaters, and he does feel like in a sweater season, collecting the rest he found back in the big box and taking the pictures back in their own container, and back in the box too. If he wanted this to work, he truly had to pan out this well and smoothly. But first of all, and before anything, he had to go and show Inky.

*-*-*-*-*

Expect next chapter in a couple of days~ ^^

[let-it-raines]

Catch Me If You Can (36/40)

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

But then he came back and won the World Series.

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

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: Whaaaat? Two chapters in two days? What kind of alternate universe are we living in?? 😉 This is totally to make up for the last few chapters taking forever even though they’re literally just sitting on my computer!

Thanks to @imagnifika​ for her awesome art, @resident-of-storybrooke​ for reading these words and so many other words of mine (it’s a lot), and to @wellhellotragic​ who prompted me with the idea that inspired this whole thing all the way back in June!

AO3: Beginning | Current

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-/-

Killian fucking hates Boston.

It’s a great city full of good food, and in another lifetime, he’d mostly likely enjoy living here. Right now, the air is crisp with the scent of fall, and trees are in the middle of losing their leaves, the ones remaining a myriad of oranges and reds that remind Killian of sitting in a park in Cincinnati with his mother raking up leaves and then jumping into the piles before cleaning them up for the city. He had to have been four or five then, but that’s one of the first memories that he has. Looking out the window of his hotel room to a park that looks almost identical reminds him of that.

He should be happy, more than happy really, but when you’re trying to get to the World Series next week and are currently tied 2-2 in the AL Championship Series against the Red Sox on the way to getting there, happiness isn’t exactly the most common feeling.

And they’re playing in Boston tonight, and despite the fact that they won last night, beating both the team and the deafening roar of the crowd, Killian is not entirely convinced that they’re going to win again tonight. They could still come back from it by winning the next two games at home, but he’d really rather win here and then win the sixth game at home when he’s pitching and not have to deal with the nastiness of going to a seventh and deciding game.

Who in the hell wants to play sports for a living? It’s too damn stressful.

Losing won’t kill him, not at all. The fact that he’s having the season he’s having, especially with all of the ups and downs and lay-offs, is incredible and a full-credit to his team. But he got the taste of being the last team standing last year, and he wants it back.

Some players never get their hands on the trophy, and Killian is greedy enough to want it twice both for himself, his teammates, and his family.

And Emma. He wants it for Emma.

So, Killian really hates Boston and the fact that they keep putting them in close situations like this. Close games are often the best ones, the ones that have everyone on the edge of their seat, but Killian would kill for an easy night.

“The city isn’t going to implode just because you’re staring out at it with evil in your eyes.”

“One can hope though.”

“That’s entirely sadistic.”

He huffs and turns from the window to look at where Emma is sitting in bed (they’ve stopped bothering to get different hotel rooms now) with her knees pulled up so that she can rest her laptop there. He woke up this morning to her typing away. Apparently, she didn’t finish her work last night, so she had to wake up early this morning to send in a report before the deadline. Walsh’s firing has ended up having Emma needing to write more on top of her regular work, and even though she says she doesn’t mind – “I like writing,” she keeps saying – he knows that it’s kind of a kick in the teeth for her to have to do some of Walsh’s work.

The man is never fully going to go away, obviously. He and Brennan are like a bug that won’t die no matter how much you squash it.

“Are you almost finished with your report, love?”

“Yep,” she says. “I’m finished with it and have moved onto doing my prep work for today’s game as well as a little bit of online shopping because there are these boots that I really want but can’t decide if I’m going to buy.”

“That’s the hardest decision you’ve ever made.”

“Says the man who spends hours trying to decide which identical blue button-down shirt he wants to buy to ‘update’ his wardrobe.”

Killian scoffs and walks forward to flop down on the bed next to her, shaking the mattress with his movement, until he’s flipping over on his back and spreading out so that he takes up most of the space. Emma always hates when he does that.

“My clothes may not be as varied as yours, my darling, but it does take effort to look as good as I do on a regular basis.”

He turns his head to the side to look at her, a smile on his face, and she simply rakes her eyes up and down his body, very obviously perusing him. “You are currently wearing a pair of sweatpants that have a hole in the ass and a hoodie that I’m pretty sure has a permanent stain from some kind of baking accident. Your fashion sense is amazing.”

“You are literally in a pair of pajama pants with Snoopy’s face on them.”

“You wear the same two uniforms all the time.”

“Sometimes we wear the black ones.”

Emma hums. “Those are my favorite. I’ll stop making fun of you for things if you can convince the owners to let you guys wear the all black uniforms more often.”

“You were particularly fond of those on Players’ Weekend.”

“I’m a fan of a man in all black.”

Killian shifts on the mattress, propping himself up on the pillows until he’s mostly resting against the headboard. He can see Emma’s computer screen now, half of it covered with statistics and the other covered with Nordstrom’s website and a pair of boots. If there’s one thing Emma will splurge on, it’s boots.

“Buy the boots, Swan. Live a little bit.”

Emma arches a brow. “Am I made of money?”

“No,” he sighs, leaning over to kiss her shoulder. “That would be very convenient if you were. I’d never work again.”

“If you’re living off of my salary, you’re screwed because I’m definitely going to buy these super expensive boots. I think they would look really cute with the black suede skirt.”

“Ah, yes, I know the one,” he says sarcastically.

“Shut up,” Emma laughs, half-heartedly reaching over to slap his shoulder. “You do! I wore it when we went to dinner last week, and your eyes practically fell out of your head.”

Killian tries to think of what Emma wore last week, his mind blanking on everything at the moment, but then he’s brought back to a memory of the two of them going to eat at Palma on Cornelia Street last week. She’d looked gorgeous that night, her legs going on for miles aided by the heels, and they’d been late for their reservation because the street one block over was Jones Street and Emma insisted that he take a picture underneath the sign for her to send to Liam and Elsa.

He had not been amused, but in his defense, he really wanted to eat.

“Hmm, I think I do recall that one now that I think about it. You should definitely get those boots to wear with that.”

“I didn’t need your permission, but thank you for the approval. Do we need to be getting ready to go have breakfast with everyone?”

“I’m pretty sure breakfast is over down in the lobby.”

“No,” Emma sighs, clicking a few buttons on her laptop until he sees that she did indeed buy the boots. “We’re meeting everyone for breakfast at the café at the end of the block at ten.”

Killian groans and throws his arm over his eyes like the dramatic ass that he is. “That means I have to get dressed.”

“Well, I would prefer it that way. Your pants show off what you’ve got going on in both the front and the back, and I think you might get arrested for public indecency. That’d put a damper in the whole trying to get to the World Series thing.”

“Would you bail me out?”

Emma shrugs her shoulders and closes her laptop. “Eh, maybe. I might not have the money with the boots I just bought.”

-/-

They win that night.

It’s close, far closer than Killian would like watching from the sidelines, and he chews more gum than he thinks he’s ever chewed during a game. Rum would be preferable, but that’s not exactly the best solution when he’s got two nights until he’s got to pitch in the game that could bring them to the World Series.

Al really has far too much confidence in Killian for putting him in position in the line-up.

-/-

Killian fucking loves New York.

Sure, it’s hot and crowded and sometimes smells absolutely horrendous, but he loves it. He’s lived here for seven years, had his family live here for more than that, and he can’t imagine having to ever live anywhere else.

This is his home.

For awhile, he didn’t have one, not really. Everything changed when his mom died, the house feeling far emptier than any lived-in house should feel, and it only continued to empty as the years went on and Brennan became more and more of a distant figure. And as much as Killian loved Vanderbilt, that was simply a temporary home.

Manhattan? This is home.

One day he may like to move a little outside of the city to a place with a big yard and less traffic, but right now, everything he loves is here.

Everyone.

“Uncle Killian,” Lucy whispers, tugging on the hem of his shirt, “is it time to eat dinner yet?”

“Not quite yet, Luce. We can go ask Anna about it, though, yeah?”

He bends down and picks Lucy up, resting her on his hip while she wraps her arms around his neck so that she doesn’t fall. He’s picked her up thousands of times, had her little head nestled onto his shoulder twice that many times, but there’s something peaceful about it now as they stand in one of the sitting rooms at Liam’s house looking out onto the street in front of them as cars occasionally pass by and the leaves keep falling from the few trees that line the street.

They got in from Boston this morning, immediately went to practice, and then most everyone came to Liam and Elsa’s house for dinner as some kind of pre-game Friday night dinner to get everyone’s minds off of things.

There are more people in this townhome than it has seen in years, and he doesn’t think anyone is complaining.

Killian is a little bit, if only because his mind is very much focused on tomorrow and not screwing up to let everyone he loves down, and that’s why he’d walked away from the crowd in the kitchen and living room and wandered upstairs to the sitting room that no one ever wanders into.

Except for Lucy apparently.

Kids seem to foil all kinds of plans, and Lucy is not going to be having a fun day tomorrow since she’s most definitely up far past her bedtime.

He is officially an old man.

“What are we eating?”

“I think it’s lasagna. You know, like big spaghetti all moved together.”

“I know what lasagogona is.”

Wow, that was a butchering of the word lasagna if he’s ever heard it.

“You certainly don’t know how to pronounce it.”

Lucy scoffs, like she has never been so offended in her very short life, but she doesn’t say anything else as he walks down the staircase with the wood boards groaning beneath him. Immediately, he’s bombarded by people. Will, Belle, and Elsa are sitting on the ground with diagrams of seating charts spread out between them. Killian would have at least twenty-five questions about why they’re doing seating chart arrangements for the wedding tonight, but he already knows that it’s because they’re using Elsa to help figure out where to sit some of the more difficult people.

(He assumes he and Emma don’t count as those difficult people, but it really depends on how Will feels about him that day.)

Robin, Kris, Liam, Roland, and Addison are sitting on the couch in the living watching what Killian knows is Trolls because he’s been forced to watch it exactly seventeen times, and Eric and Ariel are standing in the kitchen with Anna cooking.

And, well, apparently Emma too.

“Are we sure we trust the blonde to cook for us?” Killian teases, putting Lucy down on the barstool. “Because I’ve had her cooking before, and I’m not sure we should allow her to feed so many people at once.”

“I’m blonde,” Lucy interjects.

“Yes, yes you are. Can you cook, little love?”

“Mommy doesn’t let me.”

“Funny,” Emma huffs, her eyes pointedly staring him down, “your uncle doesn’t seem to think I can cook either even though I’m only tossing the salad and am perfectly capable of that.”

“SoSo, we’re just going to forget the entire cucumber you dropped on the ground earlier?” Anna asks as she lays rolls out on a pan.

“What about the nearly slicing your finger open?” Ariel adds.

“What happens in the kitchen is supposed to stay in the kitchen.”

“Technically,” Eric sighs, “it hasn’t left the kitchen.”

“You guys are fu – fun,” Emma stops herself and changes the word, her eyes blowing wide when she remembers Lucy is in the room. “Luce, sweetie, do you want me to get you some carrots so you can take them in the other room to watch the movie with Addy and Roland?”

“Yes please.”

Emma turns around and opens the fridge, quickly grabbing a bag of sliced carrots, and hands them over to him for him to hand to Lucy. She takes them, mumbles a “thank you,” and then is sprinting to the adjoining living room to watch the movie.

“So you’re just bribing children now, Swan?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, “but with carrots so it’s healthy. Babe, can you check my phone and see where everyone else is? Ruby said they would be here by now, but I haven’t heard anything from them. Or David and Mary Margaret. I guess they’re all in traffic or something, but it’s radio silence on their end.”

Killian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from giving anything away, hoping that his tan keeps his cheeks from flaming red. “Where’s your phone?”

“In my purse on the table.”

He nods his head and turns around, thankful that it’s a little bit out of sight of Emma, before he’s shuffling through her small purse to find her phone hidden behind every small object known to men. There is a string of texts from Ruby about Graham taking forever to get home and her almost leaving without him, and Killian sincerely hopes that Ruby didn’t actually leave without Graham. That would go against the plan.

Mary Margaret and David, though, are legitimately stuck in Friday night traffic, so at least he doesn’t have to lie about that.

“They’re on their way, love,” he tells Emma, putting her phone back in her purse and walking back to the island so that he can prop his forearms against the cool countertop. “Anna, you realize a few of us have to play a game tomorrow, right? I don’t think we can eat all of this.”

She waves a wooden spoon in the air, little bits of sauce splattering on the ground. “It’s called portion control. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“Killian has. I haven’t,” Eric laughs. “Though, I’m more of a seafood man myself.”

“There’s only so much seafood that you can eat, though, before you become a fish.”

“You only say that because you don’t like it as much as I do.”

Ariel pats her husband’s chest. “Exactly.”

“Oh my God,” Will groans out, and everyone in the kitchen turns to look at him laying out on the floor. “This is impossible. Why do people get married?”

“I think you mean why do people have weddings,” Belle corrects him.

“I’m kind of questioning both at this point.”

Belle flicks a little name card at Will, and Elsa immediately snatches it back and puts it at the little diagrammed table where it’s supposed to be sitting.

“Why have a seating chart in the first place?” Emma asks. “Why not just let people sit where they want to sit?”

“My mother,” Belle sighs, this discussion obviously a frequent one, “is very traditional and specific about how things should be. She grew up in high society, cotillions and things like that, and even though Will and I mostly want this to be one big party, she has opinions. This is a compromise to make her back off until there’s something else she sets her sights on.”

“Huh,” Emma huffs. “Well, as long as I don’t have to sit next to Killian the entire time, I think it’ll be fine.”

“Shit,” Elsa mumbles under her breath even though the words echo throughout the room. “We don’t have cards for Emma and Killian.”

Laughter rumbles through Killian’s stomach as he walks back over to Emma to place his hand on the small of her back over her sweater before taking the strawberries and putting them on the cutting board to slice up. “Swan, it looks like you won’t have to sit with me because we’re apparently been uninvited from the wedding.”

“Damn. I guess we’ll just have to be wedding crashers.”

“I was thinking we could stay home and not wear uncomfortable clothes but still eat incredible food. We could probably dance a little too.”

“He means the horizontal tango, if you know what I mean.”

“We all know what you mean, Will,” Ariel sighs with a shake of her head but laughter on her lips. “But there are people here related to Killian who probably aren’t too inclined to hear about his sex life.”

“I’m not particularly inclined to hear about Emma’s,” David says, and Killian whips his head around to see he, Mary Margaret, and Leo walking thoughthrough the open garage door. “Or Killian’s. Though I hope they’re one and the same.”

“Okay,” Emma hums, dragging out the word, “we need a change in conversation, something like everyone greeting my brother and nixing this conversation entirely.”

“I mean, I’m kind of curious, but Leo is right here.”

“Mary Margaret,” Emma gasps, and Killian misses what has to be an absolutely priceless look on her face in favor of putting his knife down and walking over to Leo so that they can do their secret handshake that seems to change every time they see each other.

“I like you hat, bud,” Killian compliments. He tugs on the bill, and Leo blushes underneath it. “I think there are some other guys here tonight who would sign it for you if you want.”

Leo’s brows furrow together and the smile on his face completely goes away. Shit. What did Killian do wrong?

“Maybe another hat. I don’t want this one to get messed up.”

“Why not?”

“You signed this one,” he whispers, even if it’s not quiet at all, “and you’re my favorite player.”

“I thought it was your favorite because I gave it to you, kid,” Emma protests as she steps around him and leans down to wrap Leo up in a hug, squeezing him too tightly out of some kind of silent protest.

“I only asked for it because Killian is my favorite player.”

“You’re my favorite nephew.”

Leo rolls his eyes, and while he and Emma may not be related, Killian knows that he got that from her. “I’m your only nephew.”

“Which makes me your favorite.” She kisses his cheek, which makes Leo’s cheeks turn as red as the strawberries. “All the other kids are in that room right over there if you want to go hang out with them until dinner is ready.”

Leo runs off, and David and Mary Margaret take his place by stepping in and greeting everyone with a wave or a hug. It’s so many people, all of them from different social circles, and yet it’s amazing how well they’ve all managed to blend together. Killian knows that he started off with more people than Emma simply by the nature of his job, that most of the people in this house would technically be considered “his,” but he likes to think that they’re Emma’s too.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he pulls it out to see a message from Graham just as Emma sits down and picks up a glass of wine.

Graham Humbert: We just pulled up outside. Can you send Emma out? Say something about needing help with the dessert. I think Ruby would like to tell her before she tells everyone inside.

Killian: Yeah, I’ll send her out. Congrats, mate! I’m happy for the two of you!

“Love?”

“Yeah?”

“I think Ruby and Graham just got here. Do you want to go out and see if they need any help?”

“Why don’t you do it?”

Of course she’s going to be stubborn about.

“I’m finishing this salad,” he lies, even though he really should finish the salad since he took it over from Emma. Will lets out another curse having to do with the seating chart, and there’s a reassurance from Mary Margaret that it will all be okay. “Just go help them. They have the dessert. You love dessert.”

Emma’s brows bunch together and her lips snarl, but she puts the glass of wine that she’s drinking down and stands from the barstool she’s sitting on to go walk out of the garage door and down the stairs. She’s going to be pissed at him for the entire walk out there, but he knows that it won’t be long. And curious as Killian is, he leaves the kitchen to walk over to the bay window so that he can look down at the street where Ruby and Graham are getting out of Graham’s squad car with boxes of pies in their hands. Emma quickly appears, her hands moving as she talks, and then Ruby puts her set of boxes on the hood of the car.

And while Killian can’t hear any screaming or squealing – Emma isn’t really the type – he knows that some kind of inhuman noise just came out of her before she launched herself forward to hug Ruby, squeezing so tightly that he imagined Ruby can’t breathe. And then Graham nearly drops all of the pies when Emma hugs him too. Killian chuckles to himself, a smile stretching across his lips, and then David comes up behind him.

“What’s all that about?”

“You’ll find out in a minute, I’m sure.”

“Secrets don’t make friends.”

“Yeah, yeah they do,” Killian laughs, smiling at David. “And I love how casually you’re referring to me as your friend. It really touches a man’s heart, Dave.”

“Watch it, or I’ll take it back.”

By the time Killian looks back out the window, Graham is gone, leaving Emma and Ruby out to talk. Killian is sure that they’ll be out there for awhile, probably far later than they intend to, and he knows he’ll have to go with them when the food gets here. The door opens then to Graham walking inside with the boxes. Ariel immediately rushes to help him, mostly likely because she likes to talk his ear off about all of the cases he can talk about (she’s very into True Crimes oddly enough), but Killian walks over to save him, grabbing Graham’s hand in greeting before pulling him into a hug and patting his back.

“Congratulations, mate.”

“Thank you,” Graham beams, his smile infectious. “I still can’t believe it.” “What can’t you believe?” Ariel asks as she swipes a finger through the whipped cream on a pie only for Eric to slap her hand away.

Killian looks over at Graham, silently asking if he wants to say something, and he nods, that smile still on his face. “I’ve asked Ruby to marry me today, and she said yes.”

“Congratulations!” 

“You did what now?”

“How could you not tell me this?”

“This is so exciting!”

“Whatever you do, don’t do a fucking seating chart for the reception.”

It’s this big, loud chorus of voices and conversations, and it pulls in everyone from the living room too so that it gets so loud that Killian is sure the neighbors can hear. Killian isn’t even entirely sure which legs belong to who for how much movement there is, hugs being exchanged between people who didn’t even get engaged tonight, and it all starts to calm down a bit only for Ruby and Emma walk in the door.

Obviously, things never calm down again.

Ruby and Graham don’t even get to spend much time with this group of people, especially Graham since his schedule never seems to match up with any of theirs, so it’s nice to see the overwhelming joy that’s there for the two of them.

“Congratulations, lass,” he sighs into Ruby’s ear when she finally makes her way to him at the edge of the room, her arms wrapped around her shoulders. “Were you surprised?”

“Yes,” she sighs, her laughter moving through him. “I can’t believe you knew about it.”

Killian rubs his hand up and down her back. “I had to make sure Emma was out of the apartment when it happened because Graham just knew that she would somehow find a way to show up if left to her own devices.”

“I think I could kiss you for doing that.”

“I don’t think that’s very becoming of a newly engaged woman.”

Ruby pulls back and winks at him before leaning forward and kissing his cheek. “You know that I don’t like following the rules.”

“What is this I hear about you knowing about this before it happened?” Emma questions as she saunters up to him, a soft smile on her face and the slightest bit of mascara smudged under her eyes. “I thought we had an agreement about lying to each other, twenty-nine.”

Killian hums and wraps his arms around her back, pulling her closer to him while her arms lazily hang over his neck. “Yeah, well, I was under strict instructions that you weren’t to know because Graham didn’t want you to tell Ruby.”

“I can keep a secret.”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Her lip quirks to the side before she presses up on her toes and gently guides her mouth over his. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me. I like that Ruby was the one who got to tell me.”

“Me too, love.”

“All of our friends have to stop getting married. This is getting expensive.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have blown all your money on those damn boots.”

Emma slaps the back of his head even as she kisses him, and he wonders exactly where along the way did he do something right to get to have this be his life.

“Okay,” Anna yells over all of the noise, and Killian looks to see her standing on a barstool as if she needs any help commanding attention, “I know everyone is super excited right now, but let’s all be super excited over dinner. It’s time to eat.”

“Thank goodness,” Lucy breathes out. “I thought I was going to perish.”

“Where’d she learn that word?” Emma wonders as everyone starts laughing. 

“I don’t even know.”

The conversation and laughter never diesdie down, not when there’s that many people around, and Killian’s stomach hurts from it all, his face a little too. His nerves about the game tomorrow and all that’s on the line haven’t disappeared, but they’re not at the forefront of his mind either. He has other things to focus on even if his mind is getting a little dizzy at the thought of keeping track of it all, but it becomes easier as the night passes, the light outside fading away into darkness, and as children move off to go to sleep, Addy and Lucy to their rooms and Leo and Roland stretched out in a guest room until their parents are ready to go home, everyone else settles into the living room with a replay of last night’s game in Boston on so that they can all watch some more footage in preparation.

He’s sitting on the floor in between Emma’s legs, and her hands are lulling him to sleep from the way that she keeps playing with his hair.

It’s like magic, her touch, and he’s utterly under her spell.

“I’m freaking the hell out about tomorrow,” Will whispers quietly as they watch him stumble over a catch in yesterday’s game.

“Me too,” Robin adds in. “Honestly, the only thing that’s keeping me calm, especially since I’m not playing, is knowing that not only did we make it to the Series last year, we won the whole damn thing.”

“Here’s the thing, though,” Killian starts as he leans her head further into Emma’s lap so that she can scratch his scalp. Damn, that might be the best feeling in the world. “No one gives a fuck about what happened last year. That trophy on our shelf from last year? It’s old news. All anyone cares about is what’s happening this year. All we should care about is what’s happening this year. Everyone always complains about those guys who can only seem to live in the glory days when the glory days are long since gone, and we’re not going to be those men. We’re not resting on our laurels. We’re going to win tomorrow, and then we’re going to win the next four games to win the whole damn thing.”

“What if we don’t?” Will questions, and for once, Killian can tell that Will is legitimately nervous.  

“We’re going to, Scarlet. I won’t take another option.”

“Look at my little brother being all motivating,” Liam teases.

Killian does raise his hand and his middle finger at that. “Younger, you ass.”

“You’ll always be my little brother. I’ll stop calling you that when you’ve got three World Series championships to your name, yeah?”

“Oi, I know that I’m good, but I don’t know if I can rely on these guys to not only win this year’s but also another one after that?” Emma slaps the back of his head, and he leans back to look up at her. “I’m obviously kidding, my love.”

“Yeah, but that’s not a great way to motivate the guys for tomorrow when you had a pretty good speech going there.”

Robin coughs, something exaggerated and totally on purpose. “Killian saves his best speeches for right before a the game starts. Probably because he doesn’t have his brother and his girlfriend distracting him by making fun of him. Not that I’m complaining or anything. I’m all for taking that piss out of Killian.”

“Someone hand me a pillow,” Killian demands, looking around. “I want to knock the smirk off of Rob’s face.”

“That’s an impossible task,” Ariel starts, a bright, happy smile on her face. “Let’s go back to loving each other and watching game footage. I don’t know about you guys, but I want that trophy back. I get a bonus from both Eric and Killian’s contract for it.”

“I always knew that I liked you,” Ruby adds in, and everyone starts laughing, the long day and late night probably getting to everyone a little bit. “Do you share the bonus with your husband since he earned it? I’m asking the important questions here as someone who is about to get married?”

“Rubes.” Emma curls her fingers in his hair and shakes her head. “Are you about to be one of those people who works in that you’re engaged all the time?”

“For the next two weeks, you bet your ass I am. It would normally only be a week, but since I think all we’re about to talk about now is baseball, I’m asking for two.”

“I would expect nothing less than you.”

Everyone leaves eventually with sleepy smiles on their faces and leftovers in hand, and as nervous as Killian still is, he finds yet again that it’s not at all like last year when he was going through this all. He’s got Emma curled up next to him in bed and a happy life outside of work, and at the end of the day, his life won’t be over if they lose.

He simply doesn’t like losing.

-/-

Killian’s arm feels fine.

Good. Great even. It’s the best it’s felt in months, even if he’s still a little timid with how much he’s using it and the fear of it screwing up again since there is such a risk for that, but he feels good standing out here under the heat of the sun with thousands of people milling in the stands and thousands more sitting at home watching on their television just wondering if today is going to be the day that the Yankees officially cement their spot in the World Series with the Dodgers already waiting there.

It could be a repeat of last year, just like everyone thought it would be, and Killian damn well intends to make those thoughts come true. They’re not resting on the laurelsrelying on what happened  of last year. They’re doing it for themselves once more like it’s all brand new and they don’t know the high of being at the top of the world.

Sweat trickles down Killian’s forehead past his cap, and he reaches up to remove his hat for a second while he wipes the sweat away with his forehead. It’s not hot out today, only around sixty degrees, but Killian’s skin is on fire with the rapid beating of his heart that hasn’t calmed down since this morning.

One. Two. Three.

Strike.

One. Two. Three.

Ball.

One. Two. Three.

Strike.

One. Two. Three.

Strike, he’s out.

Travis is out, the top of the fourth inning is over, Killian has thrown some damn good pitches in tight situations to keep the Sox from scoring, and the Yankees are up 4-0.

There’s still a long game to go, though.

Not for Killian, though. He’s out for the day. He knew going in that Al wouldn’t keep him in for longer than this. Honestly, he’s surprised that he allowed it for this long, but this is all so they’ll stay in the correct pitching order if they make it to the Series.

When.

Not if.

Killian wants to stay in the dugout and watch from out here, but he knows that he has to go inside and get massaged and do his cool-down exercises. He can watch from one of the televisions with everyone else who’s inside and make his way back out toward the end of the game.

It’s like all at once these games are five minutes and then suddenlysuddenly, they’re five hours.

But the time does pass as Killian goes through his routines to make sure that he’s healthy and that his arm is healthy, and by the time that he’s back out in the dugout changed into a pair of clean joggers and a pullover, his hat from earlier long gone, it’s the top of the ninth with two outs, only one man on base, and the score highly in their favor.

If they blow a 9-2 lead, they deserve to have to play it all out in a deciding game tomorrow.

“Come on, Lance,” Killian shouts out, banging his hands against the railing. “Just one more throw. One more strike, and you’re done.”

“He’s going to mess up if you keep yelling at him like that,” Al spits out as he chews on the gum he’s always chewing.

“No, no he’s not. He’s got this. We’ve got this.”

“You have far more optimism than any sideline coach should have.”

Killian turns his head to look at Al, a smile stretching across his lips. “It’s a damn good thing I’m not a coach then.”

And then there’s the sound of Lance’s ball hitting Will’s glove, the yell of the word “strike,” and the roar of the New York crowd as the game finishes.

They’re going to the World Series.

Killian’s heart pounds in his chest, emotion welling up in his throat, and all of the sounds become muted. Every single one of them except for his heart and the blood running through his veins. People yell and shout and scream, but he can’t hear any of it as he rushes out into the field to join his teammates where they’re jumping up and down, arms wrapped around each other as they become a mesh of one instead of twenty different men, those who played today and those who didn’t.

Someone pats his back, and the noises come back, cheers of celebration and curses and familiar voices of the people who he spends his life with.

They’re not resting on their laurels of last year, he thinks to himself once more. They’re achieving new things.

“Jones,” Lance calls out as the pile disperses and everyone starts moving around the field, “your girlfriend wants an interview with us.”

Killian arches a brow, spinning on his heel to try to find Emma, and he sees her standing with a microphone in her hand and Jeff standing with the camera behind her. She’s wearing the damn boots, the ones she just ordered, and if there wasn’t already a smile on his face, that would cause his lips to reach his ears.

He has no idea why Emma wants to interview him when there were five innings played without him, when Lance and Eric and Will are the guys who deserve the attention and the praise, but he knows that a lot of the time Emma isn’t in charge of who she interviews. That’s left up to the people behind the scenes.

Killian wants to kiss Emma and the smile on her face, wants to wrap her up in a hug, but he holds back, stepping up to her with Lance next to him as Frank Sinatra begins to play over the speakers. He’d think that he’d get tired of this song, but it never gets old.

“Congratulations,” Emma starts, her hand reaching up to adjust her earpiece. “That was just an incredible game. How does it feel to be going to the World Series for the second year in a row?”

She holds the microphone out to Lance. “No, no. Let Jones answer first. He usually takes the words right out of my mouth.”

“You sure?”

He nods his head, and Emma moves the microphone over to him. “Well, what do you say twenty-nine? How does it feel?”

Killian reaches up to scratch behind his ear. “I can’t curse, can I?”

“Only if you want to pay a fine.”

“Right then,” he laughs, smiling down at Emma and completely ignoring the camera. “It feels good. Better than good. This season has obviously had its ups and downs, especially for me, and I’m happy that I didn’t let this team down when they deserve so much. I’m – ”

Killian stops talking when all of the sudden Emma starts darting in the other direction, and by the time that he realizes what’s going on, the cool feel of Gatorade is being poured down on top of him so that chill bumps rise on his arms and his clothes cling to his skin. Killian sees Lance first and sees him shaking out the sticky liquid from his uniform, and then he sees Will and Eric running away with the orange container where the Gatorade once was. But then he sees Emma a few feet away absolutely laughing her ass off, and even if it goes against their agreement about how they’re going to act when working, he can’t stop himself from running toward her and immediately wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her to him as her hands push at his chest and laughter passes through her lips.

“You’re covered in Gatorade,” she laughs, still pushing at him even if he knows it’s not a true effort. “It’s sticky.” “And you ran way and let it happen.”

“Which was obviously useless considering I’m going to be covered in it now.”

“Exactly the point,” he chuckles while Emma stops squirming against him and casually wraps her arms around his neck, obviously having accepted that she’s going to be covered in Gatorade too. “We’re going to the World Series, Swan.”

“I know.” And then she kisses him.

-/-

-/-

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[mamashitty]

Samwell Elementary Chapter 11

Title: Samwell Elementary Fandom: Check, Please! Word Count: 2,291 Ship: Zimbits Chapter: 11 Previous Chapters: tumblr & ao3 Blurb: Eric goes home for Thanksgiving. WARNING: This chapter does deal with the death of a minor character. The death occurred over the summer, before this story started.

Eric -sends a picture of a his mama’s kitchen full of pies and other baked goods-

dat butt tho Wow. That is a lot of pie. You Bittles go all out, eh?

Eric Mama and I both might be stress baking. I’m not sure stress baking is exactly the right word. Sad-baking? Nostalgibaking? Memorybaking?

dat butt tho Do you need to talk about it at all? Shitty said this is your family’s first Thanksgiving without your Moomaw?

Eric You are too sweet, Jack. No, no. Spend time with Maisie. I will be fine.

Except Eric had not been fine when he sent that text message a couple of hours earlier and he is not fine now. There is a weight of sadness hanging over everyone. Usually, his aunts, uncles, and cousins stay late into the night for Thanksgiving. MooMaw was always at the center of it, no one really wanting to be the first to leave until she did. This year it was different. Aunts began arriving early like always. Eric and Mama had been up for hours baking and cooking. They always baked and cooked a lot for Holidays, but usually, MooMaw would arrive earlier than anyone else and help them out. She would take charge of the kitchen, and there would be laughter and loud voices. This year, everything i subdued. Oh, laughter does escape people and then gets picked up by others, but it never lasts long. Sadness and a strange sense of emptiness, of the sudden realization that MooMaw’s barking laugh is missing.

Eric knows it is rude of him to think but he is relieved when people leave earlier than normal. He knows that MooMaw would not approve of it, that she would chide everyone for behaving as they were. Mama tried to bring in more lightness and laughter into the day, and Eric tried to help her, but it was difficult and draining. And, Eric is just glad, that it is now nine in the evening and the only people in the house are his Mama and Coach. Eric helps them clean up, and he feels a tightness in his throat. He can see his Mama’s shoulders shaking and he looks away when Coach slips an arm around her, he tries not to listen to their murmurs, and he tries to forget the loud sob his Mama lets escape before she manages to stifle it.

“Dicky, we are going to bed now,” Coach says.

Eric swallows the lump in his throat, and he knows his voice sounds falsely bright. Too bright. “Y’all have a good night,” and he listens as his parents retreat to their bedroom. He stays in the kitchen, continues to finish the cleaning up. He is not sure what he is going to do for the rest of the night. Maybe settle in his childhood bedroom, open his laptop, and binge-watch something. He makes no move to leave the kitchen though. His legs, they feel strangely frozen in place. Then, he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket, and he realizes someone is calling him. Eric fishes his phone out and stares for at it for a second before he answers.

“Jack?” He realizes his voice sounds funny, strained like he is fighting back tears. And he realizes, he is. He is not sure if this fresh onslaught of emotion has to do with his MooMaw or if it is just because Jack is calling him. He realizes after he answers, that they have never spoken on the phone before.

“Eric? Hey, eh.. is this a bad time?” Eric feels his shoulders start to relax once he hears Jack’s voice. Deep like he remembers, but different because voices always sound a little different over the phone. Eric is shaking his head, and he realizes after a beat that Jack can’t see him doing that.

“No, no. Not a bad time at all,” Eric says, as he flicks off the kitchen light and moves towards his bedroom. “I just finished cleaning up the kitchen. Everyone left an hour or so ago. Mama and Coach are in bed,” and Eric is dimly aware that he might be rambling.

“Everyone is gone or in bed here too,” Jack replies, and Eric smiles. He can tell it is a little thing, probably barely a smile, but he knows it is there.

Eric pushes the door open to his bedroom and flicks on the light with his free hand. Then he closes the door before settling down onto his bed.

“How was your day, Jack?” Eric asks because he does not want Jack to ask how his day was. He is worried he might prattle on too much about his sadness, and how weird everything was today. How he feels like he did not try hard enough to make everyone feel comfortable enough in their grief. He feels he should have made space for that, for himself, and for everyone. But it was difficult and Eric knows he was not ready to do that even if he thinks MooMaw would have wanted someone to do that.

“Today was good,” Jack replies, and Eric can hear him moving around on the phone. He wonders where Jack is. Wonders, briefly and then forces himself to stop, if Jack is in his bed. As much as he wants to picture Jack in bed, he also does not. “I always go to Camilla’s to celebrate American Thanksgiving with her family and Maisie. Maisie helped bake the pie we ate,” Jack says, and Eric can picture the soft smile that he is positive he can hear over the phone.

“What kind of pie did she bake?” Eric asks, moving so that he is resting his back against the headboard, his legs spread out comfortably in front of him.

“Apple. Because Apple is her favorite this week. That is what she said, anyway.” Jack says, finishing with a chuckle.

“Oh Lord, I can just imagine Maisie saying that,” Eric says, a quiet laugh of his own escaping him. “What else did y’all eat?”

He hears another soft chuckle escape Jack, and Eric wonders for a second if Jack is going to brush off the question or not. But, Jack answers, and Eric closes his eyes as he listens to Jack. He tries to picture what Jack looks like at this moment, what facial expressions he is making as he talks. Eric asks questions every so often, and Jack answers them and Eric is unsure of how long Jack talks about food and then dinner conversation and more of Maisie’s antics. Eric just knows that he feels relaxed, and maybe not exactly happy, but more content than he has been all day. And then…

“So, eh how was your day, Eric?” Jack asks, and Eric sighs.

“It… it was rough,” Eric begins, surprising himself that he did not deflect the question. “I think we all wanted to act like nothing had changed, to act as if MooMaw was still here, but.. it was too hard. MooMaw was always the first to arrive, and no one would leave until she mentioned she was going to head home, and then it would take an hour more before she actually left.” Eric is unsurprised to feel tears in his eyes. He had cried a lot over the summer when MooMaw first passed, and Trevor had done his best to be there for Eric, but Eric had mostly gone to Lardo and Shitty for comfort. Being back home, the first time since the funeral, was hard. And this being the first holiday without her, even harder still.

“I missed her laughter. I missed her presence in the kitchen. Mama and I got up as early as we always do, and I kept expecting MooMaw to show up when she usually does… or did,” Eric gives a shuddery breath. “I’m sorry, Jack. Prattling on about this…”

“Bitty, keep prattling on,” Jack says, before adding. “If you want or need to… or I could go back to talking about my day?” Jack offers.

Jack is giving Eric an out and Eric surprises himself by not taking it. Instead, he closes his eyes for a second, and sighs maybe just a little dramatically, before he opens his eyes again and stares up at his ceiling.

“Okay,” Eric says, “I do want to talk.”

“Okay,” Jack replies.

And Eric keeps his gaze on the ceiling as he talks. His rambling has no real direction. He finds himself first talking about waking up this morning, and padding into the kitchen. How he had wanted to beat his Mama to it, in order to get coffee and breakfast ready for her. His Mama had already been in the kitchen though and had made too big of a breakfast for the three of them. Then he shifts to talking about all the times he helped MooMaw cook or bake things. Then to the sound of MooMaw’s laughter, of her quick wit. Of how feisty she was and so full of love. He talks about the handwritten cookbook she had left him, full of recipes they had baked together and some that she had guarded all her life, with a wink and a promise that one day she would share the recipes with him. Eric goes from crying, usually softly, but an occasional sob does escape him. He finds himself laughing sometimes too, and he dimly worries about his parents hearing but they never say anything. He forgets, as he stares up at the ceiling and talks, that he is in his childhood home. That Jack is not next to him, but states away, listening to him talk. Jack has not interrupted him, but he does respond sometimes. There’s quiet laughter at some of the funny stories that Eric shares, and whispered condolences or questions that prompt Eric to talk even more. Jack seems to instinctively know what Eric needs to hear.

And Eric he really feels like Jack is truly listening to him, that he wants to, and that he cares. Sometimes, Eric is not sure if the tears he is crying are just for MooMaw or this strange happiness he feels in talking to Jack like this, in opening up to him so much. He knows this is the most they have ever talked. He feels that they have crossed some line, some threshold tonight. He wonders, briefly, if Jack is thinking and feeling the same but his thoughts go back to MooMaw and he continues to share stories, and his heart opens. He feels a warmth that had been missing all day.

Eric sighs, “I wish I had had the courage to share some of these stories with my family. I think it could have done us all some good, to talk like this. But… but we all held it in,” Eric is not sure if what he is saying, or trying to say, makes much sense.

“I am glad you could talk to me about it, Bitty.” Jack says gently.

“Thank you for listening,” Eric replies, a smile playing on his lips.

“I will always be here to listen, Bud. We are friends, right?” Jack asks, and Eric hears the vulnerability in it. His ears and heart lingering on the word ‘friends’ and before that ‘Bud’. The way Jack had said it, it had sounded almost like a term of endearment. His heart did something funny at it, soared a little. He latched onto the friends' bit, because that was easier to hold onto, and did not cause his heart to thud as hard. Friends, he could and would take that even if he wanted more. His lips were still turned into a smile, or maybe they had turned into a new smile.

He sighed before he could stop himself, a pleasant little sigh. “Yeah, we are friends. Yanno that means you can talk to me too if you ever need to? That I’m always here to listen too.” Eric says, trying to keep the like-sick simper out of his voice, and doubting he did.

He hears Jack inhale a breath and he waits.

“I was nodding before I remembered you could not see it,” Jack explains, laughing and the laugh sounds embarrassed. Eric smirks, amused. “But, yes. Friends... and I will talk to you if I need to.”

“Friends,” Eric repeats and for some reason, he feels like a little kid. He feels too giddy at the fact they had just confirmed they were friends as if their actions these last few months had not been building up to this. As if Eric does not want them to keep building up to something else. He opens his mouth to say something, his brain not quite caught up to it, when he hears Jack yawn and Eric realizes how late it must be. His phone suddenly feels too warm against his face. His own eyes feel heavy, and soon he is yawning in response to Jack.

“It is past your bedtime, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric gently teases.

“It is, “Jack hums in agreement, but he sounds sleepy all of a sudden.

“Goodnight, Jack. And thanks again,” he says, softly.

“Goodnight, Eric.” Comes the reply.

Silence stretches for a few seconds but neither he nor Jack disconnects the call. The repeat goodnight a couple more times before Jack counts down and then they both hang up just after he reaches three. Eric, he feels happier than he has since he landed in Georgia. He makes the mental note to try and share some of the stories he shared with Jack with his Mama in the morning. He just manages to reach over to plug his phone in, before he falls asleep.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

10th January >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Luke 4:14-22 for the 10th January: ‘This text is being fulfilled today’.

10th January

Gospel 

Luke 4:14-22

'This text is being fulfilled today, even as you listen'

Jesus, with the power of the Spirit in him, returned to Galilee; and his reputation spread throughout the countryside. He taught in their synagogues and everyone praised him.

He came to Nazara, where he had been brought up, and went into the synagogue on the sabbath day as he usually did. He stood up to read and they handed him the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. Unrolling the scroll he found the place where it is written:

The spirit of the Lord has been given to me,

for he has anointed me.

He has sent me to bring the good news to the poor,

to proclaim liberty to captives

and to the blind new sight,

to set the downtrodden free,

to proclaim the Lord’s year of favour.

He then rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the assistant and sat down. And all eyes in the synagogue were fixed on him. Then he began to speak to them, ‘This text is being fulfilled today even as you listen.’ And he won the approval of all, and they were astonished by the gracious words that came from his lips.

Reflections (5)

(i) 10th January

When Jesus was given the scroll of the prophet Isaiah in the synagogue of Nazareth and he read a passage of his choosing, he was really making public his mission statement. He was saying to the people of his hometown, Nazareth, ‘this is what I am about’. His Spirit inspired mission was to give an experience of God’s favour to those who were most in need of it, the poor, be they the materially poor or the spiritually poor, the captives, be it those who were enslaved by their economic circumstances or enslaved by a way of life that was contrary to God’s desire for them, the blind, be it the physically blind or the spiritually blind. This remains the mission statement of the risen Lord who journeys with all of us, just as he journeyed with the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, and who is with us in the Eucharist, just as the two disciples recognized him in the breaking of bread. The risen Lord continues to bring a sense of God’s favour to all who are in need of it. There can be times in all our lives when we feel poor, captive, blind and downtrodden in some way. There are moments when we feel out of favour, with ourselves, with others, and even with God. It is above all then that we must allow the Lord to find us, just as during his public ministry on earth he looked for and found those who were out of favour. The Lord seeks us out, especially in our times of greatest need; he seeks us out to shower us with God’s favour. He then sends us out to be channels of God’s favour to others, especially to those who experience themselves as as beyond the favour of others and, perhaps, even God. Having been graced by God’s favour, each of us is then called to be a unique revelation of God’s loving favour to others. In the words of today’s first reading, ‘we are to love, because God loved us first’.

And/Or

(ii) 10th January

We have just heard the word of God proclaimed, from the first letter of John and from the gospel of Luke. The gospel reading puts before us a picture of Jesus proclaiming the word of God from the prophet Isaiah. We proclaimed our two readings because they were given to us by the church; they are the readings for the 10th of January. They were chosen for us. Jesus proclaimed a particular section of the prophet Isaiah because he chose it himself from the full text of Isaiah. Luke tells us that ‘unrolling the scroll he found the place where it was written’. In other words, according to Luke, this passage was very important to Jesus. It described what he was about. According to that passage, Jesus is the one who brings God’s favour to others, especially to those who are out of favour with most people; he is the one who sets free those who are enslaved in any way and who gives new sight to those who are blind. We give evidence that we are his followers, his disciples when we involve ourselves in that same work, when we allow the risen Lord to work in this way through us.

 And/Or

(iii) 10th January

In the gospel reading this morning we find Jesus reading from the Scriptures as we have been just doing. We read passages from the Scriptures that the church puts before us for each day of the liturgical year. Jesus, it seems, had a little more choice. He was given the scroll of the prophet Isaiah and he deliberately went looking for a passage that he wanted to read. It was a passage that spoke to him and with which he identified. He recognized the core of his own ministry in the text he chose. Like the ministry of Isaiah, his was a Spirit inspired ministry that empowered him to proclaim good news to the poor, liberty to captives, new sight to the blind, freedom to the downtrodden and the year of the Lord’s favour to all. We are all poor, captive, blind and downtrodden in one way or another; we all need the Lord’s favour. He came for us all. The more we recognize our need, the more powerfully we will experience his life-giving presence. The people that Jesus had most difficulty in relating to were those who thought they did not need him, such as those who claimed to see even though they were blind or those who thought of themselves as rich even though they were poor or as righteous even those they were sinners. In the words of Mary’s Magnificat at the beginning of Luke’s gospel, it is only the hungry that the Lord can fill with good things.

 And/Or

(iv) 10th January

Many of us have our favourite passages of Scripture. When we have a Bible in our hands, we are inclined to open it at one of those passages, because they have spoken to us in the past and continue to speak to us today. We feel an affinity with these texts. They feed our spirit, encouraging us or, at times, challenging us. Jesus seems to have had his favourite passages of Scripture too. We sense that the psalms spoke powerfully to him, as he often quotes them. In this morning’s gospel reading, when Jesus returns to his home synagogue in Nazareth for the first time after setting out on his public ministry, the synagogue attendant hands him the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. Jesus was led by the Spirit to go to one particular passage in that wonderful scroll, a passage that must have spoken to him very powerfully. It helped him to put words on what his public ministry was about. Like Isaiah before him, but in a strikingly new way, he would proclaim the good news of God’s favour to those who were desperately in need of a gracious word from God, the poor, those in whatever form of captivity, the blind, both the physically and the spiritually blind, and the downtrodden. We all belong there in that broad category of needy people. We all need the gracious word of God’s favour to enrich us in our poverty, to free us in our captivity, to enlighten us in our blindness, and to lift us up when we feel downtrodden for whatever reason. Jesus assures us that this powerful grace, this diving favour, is available to us, ‘today’, this very day, if we only acknowledge our need for it and seek it out.

 And/Or

(v) 10th January

We sometimes ask people to do us a favour, or they might ask us to do them a favour. In using the word ‘favour’ we understand that this is a request that the other person does not have to respond to. There is no requirement on someone’s part to do us a favour. To do someone a favour is to do something without any expectation of a return or without any strings attached. According to Luke’s gospel, when Jesus was born, the shepherds heard a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among those whom God favours’. The birth of Jesus was the greatest possible sign of God’s favour. Through the birth of this child, God was favouring all of humanity in the most complete way imaginable. According to today’s gospel reading from Luke’s gospel, when this child became an adult, he went to the synagogue of his home town, Nazareth, and proclaimed the ‘Lord’s year of favour’. Jesus understood that his whole ministry was a making present of God’s favour for all, especially for those who had been made to feel out of favour with God and with others, such as the poor, the captives, the blind, the downtrodden, the lost. That ‘year of the Lord’s favour’ was not a calendar year. It coincided with the whole of Jesus’ public ministry and, also, his ministry as risen Lord, which continues until the end of time. We continue to be graced by God’s favour through Jesus today. Our calling is to keep opening ourselves to God’s favour, to allow ourselves to be deeply touched by it, and then to reveal something of God’s favour to others, especially to those most in need of it.

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: sjtbclontarf@eircom.net or  revmartinhogan@gmail.com

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie  Please join us via our webcam.

Twitter: @SJtBClontarfRC.

Facebook: St John the Baptist RC Parish, Clontarf.

Tumblr: Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin.

[let-it-raines]

Not Your (soul)Mate {10/15}

Killian Jones doesn’t like the idea of soulmates. He sees how happy his friends are with theirs, but he still doesn’t like the idea, not when he’s found love and lost it time and time again only to still not know his sign. He has no markings on his skin, no voices in his head, but then one day he meets Emma Swan and everything changes. Because, well, he may not have ink on his skin to tell him who to love, but the very first time that he hears Emma’s voice he knows that she’s the one for him. Then again, that could simply be his desire talking. After all, for every word she speaks, he becomes aroused.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to be incredibly attracted to a beautiful woman, but things aren’t that simple when she doesn’t have any interest in being his soulmate.

He’s screwed. And not in the good way.

Rating: Mature

A/n: Will my posting schedule ever make sense? Probably not. Anyways, thanks for reading, my pals! You guys are the best, and I love love love you all for loving this story and these two crazy people💜

Thank you to @captainsjedi for her love and support and artwork!

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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-/-

No part of her understands why their cable bill is mailed to her. They’re a cable company. They provide TV and internet and yet they’ve never heard of paperless online billing. It’s ridiculous. And yet the minute she’s late with her payment she gets an increasingly nasty series of emails that shows they obviously know how to use the internet. And since Storybrooke Cable is the only company that provides internet in a sixty-mile radius, it’s not like they don’t have the funds to set up a website. Hell, she’ll take a class and learn how to program the website for them if she has to.

Well, probably not. That’s all a little dramatic, but she really hates having to go down to the mailboxes in the basement to get her mail so that she can go upstairs and write a check and buy a stamp to mail the payment in. It’s not the biggest deal in the world, but she hates it.

She obviously would not have lasted in a world without internet.

The old stairs creak beneath her, a sound that she’s used to when she’s carrying her laundry downstairs (it’s how she knows when she’s on the unsteady step since usually she can’t see over the full height of her clothes which is what procrastination gets her), and she quickly descends downstairs to the row of mailboxes that rest against the wall in front of the washing machines and dryers that work at least ninety percent of the time.

She and Belle need to move to a nicer place. They can afford it, but then again, if Belle moves, it’ll probably be with Will. It’s a constant thought every time Emma thinks about it, so she never quite works up the courage to bring up moving somewhere else. This place is just fine, they’ve made it their home, and so what if she has to walk to a bit of a creepy place to get her mail to pay her cable bill. It’s not like anyone in this town is actually going to do something to her.

They’d have hell to pay.

The stairs could use a little work, though, maybe a few new light fixtures for the hallways too.

Pulling out her key, she twists it in her box, opening it and grabbing the few envelopes that lay flat against the metal. She closes the box, locking it back up, and as she walks up the stairs, she shuffles through the mail, tripping on a loose board as she sees neat black script inked across the white in the upper left corner.

Killian Jones.

What the hell?

What the hell is he doing sending her a letter? Even though her toe is still stinging from how she jammed it, the pain worse than some of her injuries she’s gotten on the job, she stops in the middle of the staircase and rips the letter open.

Dear Emma Swan,

You’ll have to forgive me because it’s been awhile since I’ve written a letter that’s not an e-mail. I’ve been told by a rather reliable source that it’s a bit old-fashioned to write like this, but I do like a bit of a challenge. So, Swan, I’m sitting at my desk writing you a letter on stationary that Ariel found me and with my very favorite pen. And while I don’t expect you to write back, I have included several stamps to encourage you. You wouldn’t want me to waste money, now would you?

Anyways, I find myself wondering about you because you intrigue me. There are things I’d like to know. For instance, how long have you been a secret nerd watching the History Channel and National Geographic? I, for one, have been a fan for years. It’s fascinating to learn about things that have happened in the past. What other interests do you have? Do you enjoy sports? Read any good books lately? What is your ultimate favorite baked good? Do you like cooking them yourself? Are you one of those people who have a favorite flower? I am partial to sunflowers over roses, preferring the brightness of yellow, but then again, there are yellow roses.

I’m simply but a curious man who enjoys knowing the answers to my questions, and in return, you can feel free to ask me anything you want. I’d even tell you what kind of underwear I wear since you seem to be averse to answering that particular question.

Sincerely,

Killian A. Jones

“Oh my God,” she mumbles, scanning over the words one more time before opening up the envelope to see several stamps with pictures of sailboats on them.

A part of her absolutely cannot believe that he wrote her a freaking letter, but then again, she’s not really shocked. That’s exactly something that he would do just to annoy her, and the fact that he included stamps is really over the top. She’s not going to complain. She needs stamps, but damn, the man is persistent.

But she’s not going to write him back.

Absolutely not.

She folds his letter back up and puts it in the envelope before walking up the rest of the stairs and turning in the stairwell so she can get back to her floor, quickly moving into her apartment to write a check so she can send off the cable bill before she gets to work this morning. Belle is still sleeping, so she tries to stay quiet as she grabs her purse and walks right back out the door, all of her mail in the front pocket of her purse.

All day she ignores the letter that seems to be burning a hole through the leather material of her purse that’s hidden under her desk, but it’s more of an attempt at ignoring it than actually ignoring it, because when David leaves to go question a fight that broke out down by the pier, she grabs a piece of paper out of the printer and starts writing something back.

Damn it. Has she lost control of her limbs?

Jones,

You’re ridiculous. Seriously. I can’t believe you took our texts as a challenge, but then again, it is you. I have no idea why I’m writing you back, but you did say that I could ask you any question I want, and, well, I simply can’t pass up that opportunity.

So tell me, what is the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you? And spare no detail.

Sincerely,

Emma Swan.

PS: I am a mean ping pong player, and I agree with you about the roses. If you’re looking for a good book recommendation, though, I suggest Belle. She gives me all of mine.

Oh, and bear claws.

And I want to know what the A in your name stands for.

Quickly, she stuffs the paper in an envelope, seals it, writes his address on it, places a stamp in the corner, and puts it in the mailbox outside of the station so that she literally can’t take it back without tampering with federal law. She’ll bend a lot of rules, but she’s not going to break federal law over something as dumb as a letter.

Two days later, she gets a letter back. There’s no formal address this time, and she kind of likes that…not that she likes this.

Really went straight for the kill then, eh Swan? It took me a bit to remember what exactly my most embarrassing memory is, simply because I’m so suave that I don’t have many embarrassing moments.

However, when I was a young lad of twenty-three, I had the night off and left base to go out to a pub with a few of my mates. This was something we did often, something we’d done for our five years together, but on this particular night I indulged in a few too many glasses of rum. My tolerance wasn’t quite what it is now, even if I do wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck now, and while I don’t remember the night but in a few glances (particularly me telling the lasses that I was the Captain when I was not), I do remember waking up in the flat of a woman I didn’t know without my clothes anywhere in sight. Either she stole them, my mates somehow stole them, or something else happened, but my options to get home were either walking in the streets of Birkenhead in the nude or wearing this lass’s mother’s nightgown. It was this billowing, flowery thing, and while I fully believe I can wear anything I want, let’s just say my actual Captain did not take too kindly to me walking back onto base in something that was not approved. I was written up three times for one incident, and I’d just like you to imagine me having to explain why to my superiors why I was wearing a nightgown when I had no idea myself.

I have to say, though, nightgowns are quite comfortable. Lots of air to breathe. It’s likely a good thing that my mates thought it would be funny to buy me a nightgown when I was promoted. It was much more my taste. Silk is wonderful, though I don’t think I ever wore it. I much prefer my briefs.

So, there’s a story of one of the brightest moments of my youth, and while I’m sure you’ll somehow use it to torture me, it’s yours to know.

My middle name is, Andrew, by the way, and the lovely Belle has recommended me to The Guest Book as reading material. It’s rather good. Feel free to borrow my copy if you’d like. Speaking of Belle, I hear Mr. French makes rather delectable bear claws, but he’s in a fierce rivalry with Mrs. Lucas over who makes the best. Personally, I think they’re using pastries as a bit of foreplay, but that’s simply a theory from an observer.

Now, Swan, I’ve metaphorically shown you mine, so you should show me yours.

Have a good week,

Killian Andrew Jones.

Emma doesn’t realize it, but by the time she’s finished reading the letter, she’s got tears streaming down her face, just a few of them, from laughing at the thought of Killian running around in a nightgown. That’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, but for some reason, she has no issue imagining him walking into base in a flowery nightgown that hits at his knees and shows off all of the hair on his legs with the shoulders being a little tight. It’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, and she’s glad that Belle is still at the library so that she doesn’t ask what in the world Emma is laughing at.

It would be a little hard to explain.

Well, not really, but she doesn’t want to explain. Because her explaining any of this would make her have to explain other things, and since Belle already knows that Killian sent her the basket of baked goods months ago. So it would be too difficult to explain her...having to explain. This is kind of like some sort of bad inception.

But Belle’s not even here, so it definitely doesn’t matter.

While she’s still laughing, she gets up from the table and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass out of the cabinets and pouring her a glass of the wine that she and Belle didn’t finish drinking last night. If she’s going to spend her time writing letters to Killian, which is a ridiculous concept in and of itself, she should at least have some alcohol in her.

Not enough to make her have to wake up without clothes and have to borrow an ugly nightgown from the mother of the person she’d slept with but some alcohol all the same.

She doesn’t have any paper here, so she has to shuffle through some of the old notebooks Belle keeps on their bookshelves, and takes out a lined page from the back, settling down on the couch with her wine and paper and pin while Drain the Oceans plays on the TV.

Killian Andrew (Asshole) Jones,

I’ve added the “asshole” because I really did think that was your middle name. You did say you would respond to it, but I guess Andrew is okay. Is that a family name? Your father’s maybe? I don’t have a middle name, didn’t even have a last name, only my first, but I’ve always kind of thought it would be something classic since my first name is.

Shit. I just got wine on the paper. Oops.

So you and that rum, huh? You seem to be a fan of it. And also nightgowns. Are you sure you don’t sleep in one of those? Is that why you don’t have a girlfriend? You scare them all away with your nightgown. I imagine it makes easy access to...things, so really, they should like it better than the briefs. It’s just a great mystery that may never be solved.

Granny’s bear claws are better than Mr. French’s hands down, but Mr. French has better pastries overall. Plus, he’s like my dad, so you implying that they have a thing going on is really kind of freaking me out. I bet Granny wears a nightgown, though, which makes my earlier joke about easy access so much creepier.

Some things simply shouldn’t be imagined. But if you’re going to, make sure to tell Ruby to scar her for life.

I haven’t read that book, but if Belle recommends it, it must be good. I’ll have to check it out. I’ve been very into historical romances lately, which isn’t really on par for me, but there’s simply something about Jane Austen, you know?

Thanks for telling me your most embarrassing story. You’re right. I’m totally going to use that against you, and no, I will not tell you my most embarrassing story. It involves karaoke, though, so it’s a good one.

Emma

If she hadn’t had the wine, she probably would have realized that she revealed a bit too much in her letter, but after she seals it that night and sends it off in the morning, still using the sailboat stamps Killian provided, she doesn’t think about it.

Not at all.

What she does think about is the fact that eight days go by without a new letter. She didn’t even realize that she wanted another letter, that she got a weird sense of excitement over them, until she wasn’t receiving one in her mailbox.

Who has she turned into that she’s checking her mailbox daily?

What decade is this?

But her week has gone by as normal, spending her days at work, reveling in the hour break she gets to eat lunch with David or Ariel, and her evenings at home, sometimes with Belle, sometimes not. On Saturday she, Ruby, Belle, Mary Margaret, and Ariel all spent the day at the beach, waking up early enough to beat all of the tourists there, and settled down with blankets and umbrellas with bags full of food and a cooler full of drinks. They didn’t bother moving, not unless to dip into the ocean to cool themselves off or to run up to the pier to use the restroom, and even if her eyes constantly trailed down to the pier to look at the fleet of ships and boats and what not resting outside of the Jones’ office.

And if her eyes kept checking her texts even if most everyone she spoke to was already there, no one had to know. Though she does think that Ruby noticed.

She wasn’t very subtle in her desperation.

But she didn’t see him, not that she wanted to, and she tried to push it all to the back of her mind to enjoy the day as the sun beat down on her skin so that she got the slightest bit of a tan that she hopes stays with her until the fall.

Okay, so she thinks about the lack of a letter a lot.

However, she wasn’t thinking about it when she was driving home from work, but now that she’s standing next to the door of her apartment with Will holding a stack of their mail, it’s all she can think about.

Shit.

Why didn’t it occur to her that she and Belle share a mailbox and that Belle could see one of these letters? How could she have missed that?

“Hey,” she cautiously greets, placing her keys down, the clanging loud in her ears, on the table and stepping further into the room, “I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”

“Belle and I are going to dinner. Why do you have a letter from Jones?”

“Huh?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady even though her heart is beating wildly in her chest, the sound louder than it has been in a long time. She can feel it all the way down to her toes. “I have a letter?”

Will raises his eyebrow, obviously not believing her, and as casually as she can, she steps forward and takes the letter from Will, stuffing it away in the back pocket of her jeans.

“So where are you guys going for dinner?” Emma asks to change the subject.

“Eric’s place. He gives me a discount.”

“Ah, yes, because everyone wants discount fish.”

“Oi, it’s not like he’s giving us the old fish.”

“So you think. If you guys die in a few days, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We’ll be dead, and you’ll be bragging about it.”

“Exactly.” She steps around Will and sits down on the couch, reaching down to unlace her boots and kick them off. “I guess I’ll miss you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Emma,” Belle shouts, and Emma leans her head back to look down the hall to see Belle standing in the hallway, “can I borrow those teal heels that you wore last week?”

“Yeah, they’re in my bathroom.”

Belle doesn’t say anything back, but less than a minute she comes into their living room wearing the teal heels and a little black dress, fluffing out her hair over her shoulders while Will grabs his coat off the chair, stepping up to her and kissing her cheek, whispering something that Emma doesn’t pick up on, which is good. It’s private, and she doesn’t need to hear things about their private life.

Her hearing thing has been wonky lately anyways. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

“We probably won’t be back until late,” Belle tells her, and Emma reaches her hand up over the couch to let Belle grab onto it. “Do you want me to bring you back anything?”

“Nah, you two go have fun. Don’t do anything that I’ll have to investigate.”

“Well, that just takes all of the fun away.”

After the two of them leave, she leans up on the couch and pulls the later out of her back pocket, hoping that Will forgets about it and doesn’t mention it to Belle, and quickly opens the sealed envelope, her nerves running over every inch of her skin and making her fingers shake the slightest bit as she straightens the creases out of the paper.

Emma,

I apologize for my late reply, but you seem to have caught me at a bad time. I had a client call and request a refurbishment on his seafaring vessel (his words, not mine), and I’ve been consumed with it. I love this job. It’s a way to keep me connected to the ocean, a place where I spent so much of my life, but this is different. And it certainly didn’t help that my wrist decided to act up a bit this week. It’s the weather and all.

Regardless, I do wish you would have told me your most embarrassing story. I feel like it’s a real ice breaker, and I love karaoke....if I’m drunk. But then again, bad things seem to happen when I’m drunk. So wine? That’s your vice? I always took you more as a tequila or whiskey type, but then again, I’m learning that I know very little about you, love. Though, I like that it’s changing a bit, if I may be so bold.

Jane Austen is bloody brilliant, and it’s nice to hear of someone else appreciating her. Mr. Darcy and I have a lot in common, you know? I, too, screw up with strong-willed women and then have to realize the error of my ways to have them allow me back into their lives. Or, at least, I hope. Tell me, if you’re a fan of historical romances, how are you not a fan of letter writing when that is such a core piece of the story? Is it simply that you don’t like modern day letter writing because it, for practical reasons, doesn’t make any sense? We could have had this entire conversation in ten minutes, but it’s taken eight days. Yet, this is a bit more fun, even though talking to you does incite other kinds of fun.

As to my middle name, it’s my mother’s maiden name. My father’s name is Brennan, and the only thing I carry from him is the Jones name, which is likely a good thing. He wasn’t a good man. He was a drunk, and he abandoned us when I was ten. I’m proud to be a Jones because of my brother and my mum, so like you, I suspect that my last name carries a weight that most don’t.  

Anyways, that’s much too much information about me. Tell me, Swan, there’s a Summer Regatta coming up in two weeks. Do you think you’ll be at the festival? I know someone who can get you a free ride on a boat.

Killian.

He’s got a screwed up family too.

That’s what she gets out of all of that. It’s not that he loves the same books that she does, not that he correctly guessed her drinking vices, not that he practically invited her to be his date to the regatta in over Labor Day weekend. It’s the fact that he has a screwed up family, a drunk deadbeat dad and a dead mom. She knew his family life wasn’t great, if only because Elsa never mentions having to take the kids to go see Liam’s parents.

Huh.

She can kind of see it now, can see that he is a bit of an orphan too, and even though he had parents, it breaks her heart. No one should ever have to grow up without having people love them, and she’s thankful that Killian had Liam and their mom. That’s a nice thing for them to have a family, even if it’s not what most people would call complete.

Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s the fact that she suddenly understands Killian in a way that she knows only a few people can, but she pulls out her phone and lets her fingers move without thinking about it too much.

Emma: So not a fan of karaoke then? Is your voice that bad?

The three dots pop up almost immediately after she presses send only for them to disappear, only coming back every few seconds. He’s either trying to think of what to say or realized that he’s texting back incredibly fast. It’s nice to know some things never change.

Killian: For someone who is incredibly attracted to my voice, that’s a bold thing for you to suggest.

Emma: Touché.

Emma: So it’s not bad then?

Killian: I’ve been told that it’s actually pretty good, but I find that karaoke does nothing but bring embarrassment unless you’ve been drinking all day.

Emma: Okay, but say you have…what’s your go-to song?

Kilian: Easy. Anything Elton John. He’s so easy to understand.

Emma: You’re kidding, right?

Killian: Nope.

He definitely has to be kidding.

Emma: I figured you’d be more of a Queen or Beatles guy. I’m pretty partial to Queen.

Killian: Well, I could do those too. Or pretty much anything from the eighties. I feel old, but I don’t know a lot of the new songs.

Emma: That’s because you are old.

Killian: Being older than you doesn’t make old. And as you can tell, I’ve retained my youthful glow.

Emma: Sure, we’ll call it that.

She takes another sip of her wine and turns the volume up a bit on the television so that she’s not simply staring at her phone waiting for him to text her back. That’d be pathetic. Then again, she’s sitting at home drinking wine and watching the History Channel while her roommate is out on a date. That could be considered pathetic. Or very, very smart depending on who is asked.

Killian: What are you up to tonight, love?

Emma: Watching Drain the Ocean, though I’ll be honest and say I have no idea what’s going on.

Emma: You?

Killian: The same, actually.

Emma: Creepy.

Killian: Believe it or not, I think we have similar taste in television shows.

Emma: Ugh, I know. I can’t believe I have so much in common with an old man.

Killian: If you keep flattering a man like this, he might get the impression that you like him.

Emma: Never.

Emma: At least we don’t like the same foods. Unless you secretly like junk food.

Killian: I enjoy certain kinds, but I don’t think I have the same propensity for grilled cheese, onion rings, and bear claws like you do.

Emma: I also like poptarts and brownies. Oooh and lots of icing.

Killian: You’re a child.

Emma: Oh, come on. You don’t like icing?

Killian: If there’s cake attached, yeah.

Emma: No, no. You’ve got this all wrong. Straight out of the can.

Killian: You also eat raw cookie dough, don’t you?

Emma: Duh.

Killian: I do like cookies, though. And mostly pastries that involve fruit. It makes it all feel a little healthier.

Emma: You’re in shape. I think you’ve got the healthy thing down.

Killian: I knew you liked staring at my ass.

Emma: I said nothing about your ass.

Killian: Just my general body then? The abs? The biceps? My collarbone? What about my left ankle? You’re into period romances. I bet the left ankle really does it for you.

“Oh my God,” she mutters to herself, putting her glass down on the coffee table and standing from the couch, smiling to herself as she reads the message and walks to the kitchen. He’s such an idiot.

Such an idiot.

And now she really wants something sweet to eat, so she presses up on her toes and gets a can of chocolate icing out of the pantry popping open the top and grabbing a spoon out of the drawer so she can at least be a little civilized about the whole thing. Without putting much thought into it, she holds the spoon full of icing up to her mouth and takes a quick picture, not checking to see what she looks like before sending it to Killian.

Emma: See? This is the way to eat sweets.

The three dots pop up before they disappear just like before, and she doesn’t really have time to think about it before the front door is swinging open and Belle is walking inside, an obviously bright red flush on her pale cheeks.

“I’m engaged,” she squeals, holding her left hand up as she walks into the apartment, a small diamond ring resting there.

“What?” Emma gasps, nearly choking on her icing before she puts the spoon and the container down, running her tongue over her teeth to wipe up all of the excess icing. “You’re engaged?”

“Yes! Will asked at dinner. Oh my gosh. You know, I always swore I wouldn’t be one of those girls, but I did the thing where I put my hands over my mouth when he got down on one knee.”

“Of course you did,” she laughs, reaching forward and wrapping Belle up in a hug, squeezing her as tightly as she can while she sees Will walk into the apartment, bags of takeout in his hands and a smile on his face that tells Emma he’s just as happy as Belle is. Good. They deserve all of the happiness. “I’m so damn happy for you. Both of you.”

“And you’ll be so much happier when you know that I brought you earplugs for tonight,” Will tells her when she hugs him.

“That is so gross.”

“I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

“Babe,” Belle laughs, walking over to the two of them and leaning into Will to press a kiss into his cheek, “stop grossing Emma out and give me five minutes to tell her what happened before we can let her put the earplugs into use.”

“Nope, nope, no,” she refuses, putting her hands in the air, “you guys just go. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Perfect.”

“Please ignore him.”

“I promise you I’m trying.”

Will and Belle go back to their room, and she takes the opportunity to grab her phone, her icing, and plant herself in front of the television, turning to volume up so that she doesn’t have to risk hearing anything else. Tonight will probably be the night that her weird hearing thing picks up again.

She is so damn happy for the two of them, a bit of a buzz of happiness spreading over her skin, but she can’t help the little voice in her head that wonders what’s next for her if the two of them are getting married.

She hates that she thinks that.

Her phone dings, and she looks down at it, forgetting that she was texting Killian before Belle and Will came home.

How long were they texting for her friends to get engaged during that time? That’s…a lot of time. Did it really all go by that quickly? She didn’t even notice.

Killian: I mean, there’s definitely something sweet in that picture that I’d like to eat.

Emma chuckles under her breath, unable to help herself, especially when accompanying the text is a picture of him holding a banana over half of his face, the scars on his wrist and the chain around his neck visible even in the dimness of his apartment. And damn it. This was not supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.

She likes Killian Jones.