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boqvistsbabe · 4 years ago

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Suds ~ Nolan Patrick

I was in a mood tonight and seems some of you were too… This is the first or many just fyi. Also remember I write on my phone so formatting is gonna be weird. This is probably gonna suck, I kind of had a plan kind of didn’t do we’ll see how it goes 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 2,930

Warnings: Oral (female and male receiving) smuttttttttt, swear words probably, drinking

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You’ve had a long week and honestly you just wanted to go home and take a bath and drink a glass of wine. Maybe a bottle, it had been a long week. Nolan was supposed to be home from his roadie tonight too and for that you were glad. You hadn’t seen him all week except for the few FaceTime calls you could get in around your work schedule. There was a promotion you were trying to get at work, but it required a lot of work to even be considered. By the end of this week your application was done and you could finally relax a little until your mind caught up and started stressing about if it was good enough.

As you started your car to get ready to go home you got a call from Nolan.

“Hey baby” his voice surrounds you through the speakers of the car.

“Hey bubs where are you at?” You ask as you pull out of the parking garage.

“We’re getting ready to get on the plane, I just wanted to check in and see how you are.”

“Ah fuck you, you bonehead!” You exclaim as a jeep cuts you off, almost taking your front bumper with it.

“Sounds like you’ve been around Teeks too much” yoy hear him chuckle.

“I probably have been, but that’s your fault.”

“You’re not wrong. Now how was your day?”

“It was fine. I finished my project and turned it in to my manager. I’m ready to get home and take a bath and drink wine.”

“That sounds great, wish I could join you.”

“I mean you can when you get home, I’m probably gonna be in there for awhile.”

“Baby I have an hour flight to get to you.”

“I know so you focus on getting home and I’ll focus on getting that bath and wine ready after I get home.”

“Sounds good to me, gotta get on the plane now. Love you baby.”

“Love you too bubs.”

By the time you make it home Nolan has been up in the air for half an hour. You make quick work of starting the warm water and putting the soap into the tub so you would have lots of bubbles. While the tub fills up you grab a bottle of red and two glasses and set them on the bathroom counter. Then you set out some towels and started lighting candles in various places around the large bathtub and the even larger bathroom. By the time you had gotten everything ready and you were just about to start stripping to get into the warm bubble bath, you heard the front door open.

“Baby I’m back!” You heard him yell from the entryway.

“Bathroom!” You called back, continuing to shed your work clothes in a pile next to the door. Nolan’s footsteps echoed through the hall as he walked up the stairs.

You had just finished undressing when you felt a pair of hands on your waist. Nolan pressed a kiss to the side of your neck.

“Hey bubs.” You mumbled as you turned around and wrapped your arms around him in a much needed hug.

“Hey baby.” He wrapped his arms around you in return. You guys stood there for a minute, relishing in each other’s presence. He started running one of his hands up and down your spine, each time going lower than the last, until his hand stopped on your ass and he started kneading it under his palm.

“Do ya wanna get in the bath?” You asked.

“Yeah just let me get undressed, you go ahead and get in.” He let go of you so you could walk over and get into the warm water.

As you sat back against the tub your body finally started to relax. Nolan was quick in getting undressed and joining you. He had tried to get you to move forward so he could sit behind you but you shook your head and gestured for him to sit in front of you. So he climbed in and laid back against you, the tension leaving his body. You guys just laid there for a second, letting the calm atmosphere and each other’s presence destress you.

“I missed you so much baby.” You heard Nolan mumble.

“I missed you too Nols. This week felt extra hard without you.” You responded as you started rubbing your hands up and down his chest from where they were wrapped around him.

“I know, I wish I could’ve been here with you to help you with your project.” His hands started running up and down your calves, gently massaging the tired muscles. You guys say in a few moments of silence before you had an idea.

“Hey bubs can I wash your hair?”

“Ahh not you too.” He joked.

“Can I, please?” You looked down and met his eyes, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.

“Fine, but only if I get to wash yours next.”

You hummed in response, not agreeing or disagreeing.

“Nols honey you need to sit up so I can get out from behind you and sit on the edge of the tub.” He moved forward and you slid out from behind him. Sitting on the edge of the tub in front of him, thankful for the wide sides so you could sit comfortably. You grabbed the shampoo from the corner caddy and set it next to you.

“Can you lean back and get your hair wet for me?” You asked him. He responded by leaning back enough that his hair was in the water and then sat back up.

This was a normal occurrence so you fell into the normal routine of putting some shampoo in you hand and massaging it into his hair. You always say in front of him cause you liked to look at him, he always looked so blissed out as your nails would scratch his scalp. It was also hilarious to see him fold his legs so he was sitting cross cross in front of you, his large frame taking up a lot of the space. His hands were wrapped around your calves, thumbs rubbing small circles on your legs. You ended up so focused on washing his hair, getting all the grease and dirt out of it, that you didn’t register his hands sneaking up your legs to rest on your thighs. And you didn’t think anything of it as they climbed higher and closer to your heat, not until one of his long fingers caressed your folds. You sucked in a breath.

“Nolan” you said in a warning tone, hands freezing in his hair.

“What baby?” He met your eyes, mischief shinning through.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to relax my fiancé who’s had a long week and is taking care of me.” He grinned up at you, a soft look in his eyes.

“Nols, we’re in the tub.”

“So? I haven’t seen you all week, I haven’t touched you all week, I haven’t tasted you all week. And I’m feeling really deprived right now.” The mischief was back.

“I have to finish washing your hair and then I have to condition it.” Your hands started to move in his hair again.

“That’s fine, you can do that while I take care of you.” With that his hand slid back up your thigh and he started running a single finger through your folds. When he started circling your clit you let out a soft moan, hands halting in his hair.

“Uh uh, baby you have to keep washing my hair no stopping or I will stop.” You started working the soap through the strands of his hair and he resumed his torture on you. You faltered every single time his finger brushed your clit, never stopping just hitting that sweet spot enough that you almost hit your high but he made sure you didn’t. A few moments later and his hair was thoroughly washed and you were close to meeting your high again. He needed to rinse now, so you took your hands out of his hair.

“Your hair is done and you need to rinse, but I don’t think I can get conditioner done if you’re gonna keep doing that.”

“That’s what I was planning on.” He mumbled with a smirk before leaning back and rinsing the soap out of his hair while you took a breather for a second. When he was done he leaned forward and grabbed your ass, pulling you closer so his face was inches from your heat. He turned his head to the side, pressing little feather light kisses to the inside of your thigh before turning and doing the same to the other one. Then he leaned forward and put his mouth right where you needed him. He pulls back a second later.

“Fuck you taste good.” You shivered at his warm breath fanning across your wet heat. Then he dived back in. His tongue running through your folds a few times before stopping at your entrance. Then his tongue was in you, curling every which way, his nose bumping your clit.

Your hips thrusted towards his face on their own accord, your hands tugging at his hair. You were a moaning mess above him. Then his fingers replaced his tongue and started fucking in and out of you. Your pussy clenched around his fingers as he started swirling his tongue around your clit before he started sucking on it. When your orgasm hit you his fingers continued to fuck into you and you let out your loudest moan yet. When he pulled his mouth back from your clit he let his tongue brush over it one more time, his lips pulling the hood away from it, your body shuddering at the action, before pulling back and sucking his fingers clean while he kept eye contact and pulling another moan from you at the sight.

“Do you feel better now baby?” He asked and you nodded your head.

“I feel better but now I want to return the favor.” Nolan swallowed at your response.

“Where do you want me?” He asked.

“You’ll sit where I’m sitting.” You moved to stand up and he did to but before you could switch spots he pulls you into an intense kiss. His tongue shoved into your mouth, you could taste yourself on him and you moaned into his mouth. One of his hands was grasping at the back of your neck the other kneading your left breast. You pulled back from him and dropped to your knees in front of him. Then you grabbed his hardened length and licked a line up the underside of it and Nolan’s whole body shuddered. Then you looked him in the eyes as you took him into your mouth, inch by inch until you couldn’t fit the rest of him and there were tears welling up in your eyes. What can’t fit in your mouth you take in your hands. You hollow your cheeks and pull almost all of the way off and lick his tip, then you pull off.

“Hey Nolan,” you wait till he’s making complete eye contact with you before you say, “ fuck my face.” Yoy get a load moan in response Then you take him back into your mouth and he grabs the back of you head with one hand while the other holds him up on the wall for stability.

He starts off slow, letting you get used to it before he picks up his pace. He’s taking too long so you reach behind him and grab his ass to pull him closer to you. He takes the cue and starts fucking into your mouth faster. You can feel his body tense up before he quickly pulls out of your mouth and you whine at the loss of contact.

“I want to cum inside of you.” He mumbles then kneels down and pushes you back to lay down as he kneels over you, the water sloshing around you.

He presses his lips to yours in a passion filled kiss as he settles in between your legs. As the kids gets more heated he grinds into you and you pull back to let out a loud broken moan. He reaches down to grab his length and starts teasing your entrance as you whine waiting for him to fill you up. When he finally pushes into you you both let out loud obscene moans. He waits a second before he starts moving, leaning down to connect your lips and you slip your tongue in his mouth. The he starts picking up his pace slamming into you, water getting all over the floor from the aggressive pace that he rails into you. It’s not long before you both reach your highs, both of you coming down together.

“This is gonna be a terrible mess to clean up later.” You mumble.

“Are you seriously thinking about that right now?” He questions.

“Yes I am.” I admit stubbornly.

“Well then I must have not done good enough.” He retorts as he leans back and pulls out of you, and you whine at the sudden emptiness.

He wraps yoy up in his arms before standing up and picking you up with him. The he carefully exits the tub and walks to the bed, leaving a trail of suds behind in your wake. He lays you gently on the bed before he walking back into the en-suite and coming back with the towels. He quickly dries off before walking to you and pulling you into a standing position and starts drying you off. Running the towel over your shoulders and neck and upper back first and leaving light kisses pressed in the wake of the towel. As he worked he way lower he lightly shoved you back so you were laying on the bed. And as he dried of your boobs he stopped and dropped his head and mouthed over your right nipple before moving to your left and doing the same, your mouth open in a silent moan. Then he continued down until there was none of you left to dry off except your legs. This time he started from the bottom pressing kisses up the inside of your calves and up to the inside of your thighs. And when he got to the apex of your thighs he gently pushed your legs farther open before pressing kisses to the outsides of your folds. Then he pulled back and gently blew cool air on your soaked pussy, pulling a low whine from you.

“Please Nolan please.”

“Please what?” He mumbles, face pressed against your pussy and you let out an obscene moan at the feeling.

“Please fuck me, I don’t care if it’s with you dick or yoy tongue, just fuck me again.”

“One one condition, you have to ride me.” You just nod, then he flattens his tongue against your dripping heat and licks a long stripe up to your clit.

Then he lays down next to you and you get up and straddle him. Yoy lean down and press gentle kisses to his chest before leaning up to capture his lips with your own as you grind down on his hardening length and he moans into your mouth. As you pull back from the kiss you reach under you and grab his cock and line it up with your entrance and sink down on him.

“Oh baby look at you taking me so well.” He mumbles.

As you start to move you reach up to grab your boobs. You felt as if they haven’t gotten enough attention so you take matters into your own hands. Moaning as Nolan grabs your hips and starts fucking up into you as he watches you play with yourself. Soon enough Nolan’s hands replace yours. He starts by rolling the buds between his fingers before he flips you under him. As he slams into you he leans down and starts sucking on your nipple, the other one he fondles, his whole hand covering your breast; then he switches giving your other boob just as much attention. Then he grabs one of your hands in each of his and presses your conjoined hands into the bed as he rails into you even harder.You’re getting closer to your high and when it hits you scream. Nolan can feel your pussy throbbing around him and that brings him to his high with a loud moan.

When you both can move he rolls off of you and walks to the bathroom coming back with a warm washcloth to clean you up. Like early he presses gentle kisses in the wake of the washcloth. When he’s finished cleaning yoy both up he flops down next to you. You roll over and throw your leg over his and he wraps an arm around you and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I love you so much Nolan.” You whisper,

“I love you too.”

Two weeks later you get the promotion… and a positive pregnancy test. You couldn’t be more happy.

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This is a repost because for some reason they aren’t staying posted (at least that’s what shows in my end) so once again here this is. I finished it early in the morning so the ending is rushed just fyi.

Tagging: @joshsandersons @mxltifandoms06 @pierreslucdubois @jamiedrysdales @honeybearbarzal @puckshitbitch @workhorsefromwhitehorse24

#nolan patrick fic #nolan patrick imagine #nolan patrick x reader #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl fic #sam writes #repost

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pucksnsticksnhockeyboys · 5 years ago

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fourteen

summary: Nolan can’t help but feel like a teenager with a crush when it comes to you.

warnings: a few (2) swears

word count: 1.8k

note from the writer: I feel like I haven’t posted any writing in forever but I really liked this idea and I hope I did it justice! let me know what you think!

The party was in full swing. Music was bumping through the speakers, a rowdy game of beer pong was taking place on the other side of the living room, and you were busy refilling your cup at the makeshift bar when an arm swung around your shoulders. Your first instinct was to shove the newcomer away, but you quickly recognized the weight.

“You’ve got a secret admirer.” Travis sang to you, waggling his eyebrows. Even if you hadn’t been able to smell his breath, or see the beer sloshing in his cup as he moved around, you would have been able to tell he was drunk by the way he greeted you.

“Oh yeah? And who’s that, Trav?” You teased, rolling your eyes as you finished pouring your drink. You were just entertaining him, fairly certain he was pulling this out of his ass. He was the host of the party, and the least you could do was listen to whatever his drunken mind would ramble on about. Plus, any mention of your basically nonexistent love life piqued your interest.

“Patty!” He cheered, and your face screwed up in confusion. Subconsciously, your gaze flicked across the room to where you knew Nolan was talking to Sanny and Carter. You couldn’t help the way your heart raced at the sight of him. It just wasn’t fair that he was so attractive, even if he probably should wash his hair more often than he does. It didn’t help that he was incredibly kindhearted and absolutely adored his sisters.

“I’m not even sure he likes me as a person.” You replied after a moment. To be fair, that was a bit dramatic. You were friends with Nolan, probably, but the thing with him was that he was more on the quieter side. He rarely talked to you, and if he did it was a few mumbled words before he’d pull someone else into the conversation to chat with. Claude had told you that was just how Nolan was, and that you just knew whether or not he liked you.

You were friends—you were certain.

Most likely.

“Are you kidding me?” Travis laughed, loudly, and bent at the waist. His arm was still around your shoulders, and you had to wiggle free of his grip so that he didn’t tug you down with him.

Yeah, he was smashed.

His outburst earned the attention of the small group Nolan was a part of, and you caught the questioning gaze of Carter Hart, who was much more friendly and outgoing than a certain number nineteen. You shrugged at the goaltender, gaze switching to Nolan at the last second to find him already watching you with his typical unreadable expression. But then Travis was vertical again and your attention was dragged back to him.

“Patty has the biggest crush on you.” Travis assured you, and the only response you could muster was an eyeroll. You couldn’t let yourself think too much on whether or not Travis’ words rang true, because you weren’t going to let yourself get your hopes up.

“Let’s get you some water, yeah?” You changed the subject. Travis pouted, but surprisingly listened as you led him into the kitchen to get a bottle of water out of the fridge.

The next morning went the same way any Sunday morning did after a party where the boys didn’t have to rush off to practice. You had crashed in Travis’ guest room, emerging around eleven in the morning in search of life. The plan was originally supposed to be that whoever was still at the house was going to go for brunch, but by the time you found Travis hunched over his toilet you knew he was going to be staying in.

The only other person that had stayed the night was Nolan, and you couldn’t help the way your cheeks flushed as you found him lounging on the couch. He was in a simple outfit—sweatpants and a Flyers hoodie with a hat covering his head that he somehow managed to look unfairly good.

“Did you still want to go get food?” He questioned, sitting up as he spotted you enter the living room. You contemplated just heading home, but then your stomach growled and Nolan smiled slightly and you were agreeing before you knew it.

The drive to the diner was quiet, though you tried making small talk, it felt forced as all you could think about was what Travis had told you the night before. You tried to push it to the back of your mind, and when Travis sent you a snapchat of him hanging over the edge of his toilet—still—and asking if you would bring him back something greasy, it broke the ice enough to make it so conversation with Nolan wasn’t stifling.

He even held the door open for you once you arrived at the diner, which wasn’t fair of him, since you were still trying to convince yourself that there was no way that he could actually have a thing for you.

Conversation was flowing great, you talked about your work and what his sisters had been getting up to and just everything in between. Normally, he wasn’t much of a talker and kept his emotions in check, but he was openly smiling and laughing at you. If you didn’t already have a thing for him, you would have fallen for him right then and there.

Things only got weird a few moments after your food was placed in front of you. There were a lot of stolen glances, ones that had your heart racing and mind running in circles until you had to blurt out the one thing that had been on your mind since Travis had approached you the night before.

“So, uh, Travis told me you have a crush on me.” You confessed, because apparently things weren’t awkward enough already. Your words caused Nolan to choke on his bite of food, clearly not expecting you to come out of the gate with that. In all honesty, you were still trying to comprehend how you managed to put your foot in your mouth so quickly.

“Fucking Teeks.” Nolan mumbled as he finally caught his breath and took a sip of his orange juice. His face was even redder than it normally was, though you weren’t sure if it was because of embarrassment or the fact that he had almost just been done in by a waffle.

“Fucking Teeks.” You repeated, somehow mumbling even more than him. Which, should probably be a contest and you should get an award for beating him, Nolan Patrick, mumble king.

Nolan laughed at your response, and despite the awkward atmosphere you couldn’t help but smile at the sound. He took his hat off, running a hand through his hair before placing it back onto his head. You watched, pretending that you weren’t admiring how attractive he looked.

“Uh, I’m sorry if that makes things weird between us.” Nolan spoke up after a moment. His gaze was trained on his place, fork in hand, but he was doing little more than pushing the food around. Your eyes widened comically, and you sat up straighter in your seat as you contemplated his words.

“Wait, do you actually have a crush on me?” You leaned forward, as if you were back in high school and gossiping over the lunch table. Nolan groaned, dropping his head back and your face screwed up in confusion, well, even more than it already was.

“Could you stop saying that? I feel like I’m fourteen again.” He joked and if you weren’t so caught up in what he could be meaning you would have laughed. It didn’t stop you from cracking a grin, though.

“Well?” You pressed. Your heart was hammering in your chest, the need to know if Travis was telling the truth the most important thing to you at the moment. The signs were pointing to yes, but you needed the confirmation from Nolan himself.

He sighed, his gaze finally meeting yours since this whole awkward conversation started. This time, his look wasn’t totally unreadable. Most of the time, he had a guard up, and there were only a few times when you had ever seen him let it down. Once when he had been hanging out with just you and Travis, and he had been a few beers deep and the second had been when you arrived at his apartment for a movie night with the guys early and he had been on the phone with his mom.

Now, you could clearly find a sense of vulnerability in his eyes that you weren’t used to seeing.

“Yeah, but I get it if you don’t feel the same.” He mumbled, gaze falling to his plate at the same time a wide grin broke out across your face.

“What makes you so sure I’m not fourteen and have a crush on you too?” You teased, chuckling at the fact that you had never seen his head whip up to face you so fast. His brows were furrowed in obvious confusion, but morphed into a grin that he was clearly trying to suppress after he comprehended your words.

“Seriously?” The vulnerable look in his eyes gave way to one of utter hopefulness, and it was almost entirely too easy for you to nod and prop your chin on your hand as you watched Nolan turn even more red. “You never said anything.”

“You never did either. And to be fair, I wasn’t entirely sure you even liked me.” You grinned, earning a scoff from him. You playfully rolled your eyes at him and in turn he smiled at you, a sight you were certain you’d never tire of.

“You make me nervous.” He was grinning and blushing and avoiding your eyes all at once and you couldn’t help but think that you really were fourteen years old and on your first date with the cute boy you had alway thought you’d never land.

“I make you nervous?” You chuckled, the idea comical. Nolan didn’t respond, verbally at least, and instead simply offered you a small nod. You reached your free hand across the table, linking your fingers through his. “I promise I’m not scary.”

“You’re terrifying.” He teased, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as you playfully rolled your eyes once more. A silence fell over the two if you, a lot less awkward than the one before, as you just took each other in. “Are we really doing this?”

“I’m in if you are.” You replied earnestly. Nolan nodded, and this time his grin was too wide for him to hide.

“I’m in.”

And for once, you were grateful for Travis and his inability to keep his mouth shut.

#Nolan patrick #Nolan Patrick imagine #Nolan Patrick imagines #Nolan Patrick x reader #philadelphia flyers #Philadelphia Flyers imagines #Philadelphia Flyers x reader #Philadelphia Flyers imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #nhl #NHL imagine

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scottymcgeesterwrites · 4 years ago

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Final Fantasy XIII Review

Year: 2009

Original Platform: PlayStation 3

Also available on: Xbox 360, PC, Android, iOS

Version I Played: PlayStation 3

Synopsis:

On the planet Cocoon, those who come into contact with anything from the planet Pulse are purged to that planet. Pulse is a feared planet full of monsters and strange creatures. Both planets are ruled by fal’Cie, mechanical godlike beings who sometimes brand humans as their servants for specific tasks, called a focus. Those who fulfill their focus are turned into crystals and obtain eternal life. Those who do not fulfill their focus turn into mindless monsters. Lightning is a former soldier whose sister, Serah, is branded by a fal’Cie and taken to be purged. Lightning sets off to rescue her.

Gameplay:

Going to say this now – the worst gameplay in the entire Final Fantasy series.

The battles are Active Time Battles but instead of you inputting individual commands, there are what’s called paradigms. Paradigms are somewhat like Job Classes from the old Final Fantasy games, except less fun and more automated. You can switch to a Medic paradigm in battle and every time you press “Auto-Battle” your character automatically performs a series of necessary cure and restore spells, based on what’s going on in the battle. The Sentinel paradigm specializes in keeping the enemy at bay. The Ravager paradigm uses magic. The Commando paradigm uses physical attacks. You get the picture.

As a result, the gameplay could be best described as:

With occasional switching of paradigms whenever you see fit. You can set up a number of combinations across the characters. Two Commandos and one Sentinel. One Sentinel and one Ravager and One Commando, etc.

The party automatically heals after each battle – you can even press start during a battle and restart the battle.

I probably only used an item once or twice. I honestly don’t see why they bothered putting any items if you hardly ever use them.

You can upgrade your weapons with pieces and junk you find after battles. You find so many of them that you hardly ever think about what you’re upgrading so long as whatever you make upgrades your stats. Is this better? No? What about this? Okay, good. Moving on.

Like Final Fantasy X, the game is linear. Much more linear. You follow a long hallway for about 30 hours of the game before you can do sidequests. The sidequests involve completing other people’s focus. That’s about it. There are no towns, no inns, no villages. You are entirely on the road, constantly in battle (Okay, there’s like one time where Sazh and Vanille are in a casino or something but that’s about it).

I wrote a blog piece a while back about what exactly was wrong with Final Fantasy XIII, and it’s not that it’s linear. We play really great linear games all the time. It’s the automation – the feeling that you’re not really doing anything.

There isn’t an ounce of customization. Leveling up is similar to the Sphere Grid of Final Fantasy X. It’s called the Crystarium but it follows a strict path. You can’t actually stray anywhere or customize anything. If that’s the case, why bother making you open the menu to level up through the Crystarium? Why not just automatically do it? I guess they want to give you some ounce (more like a milligram) of control over the game.

Basically – you’re watching a long movie and occasionally get to move the people around. That’s how I see it.

Graphics:

PLAYSTATION 3 HD GRAPHICS HOMG DO YOU HAVEA BONER YET? LOOK AT THIS. FIRST FINAL FANTASY GAME IN GLORIOUS HD.

Everything is pretty in this game. Everything. There is nothing wrong with this at all.

Story:

The characters appear to reference those in Final Fantasy VII. Director Motomu Toriyama wanted Lightning to essentially be a female Cloud Strife. She’s a no-nonsense, athletic female lead. While Cloud and Squall were introspective and antisocial, Lightning is slightly different by actively ordering people around. She comes off as a dick to everyone, and that’s due to her ex-soldier background. Think of your stereotypical ex-cop/ex-CIA/ex-military action movie hero, like Liam Neeson (Bryan Mills in Taken) or Bruce Willis (John McClane in Die Hard). That’s basically Lightning.

Can we go on a short tangent for a moment to talk about how weird it is that Lightning was also used as a model for advertising in Japan?

Here she is driving a Nissan.

And wearing Louis Vitton.

Cool? I guess? Unless you start to realize that Toriyama wanted to design his own personal waifu, and that he’s completely obsessed with her. That gets really weird. And sad? A little? Anyway.

Vanille has some reminiscent of Yuffie from Final Fantasy VII, although with more character via her inner monologues and narration. Fang is vaguely like Vincent Valentine. Sazh takes the place of Barrett as the token black dude, except instead of being aggressive he’s more like the comic relief and wants nothing to do with anything. Every time you control him, jazz music plays, because black people I guess. Hope doesn’t appear to be reminiscent of anyone – he’s just this boy who yells and complains a lot with Lightning. Snow meanwhile is a ripoff of Zell from Final Fantasy VIII, except somehow even more annoying.

(Every time I see his picture I think about your typical dude bro at a frat.)

The story starts of a bit choppy as you follow almost each character separately, then they run into each other, then separate again, then join again. The first 30 hours or so gives flashbacks of 13 days prior- BECAUSE IT’S FINAL FANTASY XIII GET IT? Vanille actually narrates some events but it’s not exactly clear why or from when – but that’s a spoiler. Along the way, I got really confused because I didn’t know why some people were fighting each other when they were on the same side a moment ago. The concept of the “focus” is really weird and sometimes confusing. People with a focus simply have visions or a general idea of what they’re supposed to do, but they don’t actually know for sure unless they actively seek it. If the gods granted them a focus, wouldn’t it make more sense if the gods just told them what to do? Seemed to work in Final Fantasy XII.

In short, the narrative weaves around a lot. If you stop playing in the middle and pick up the game again months later, you’re bound to forget what’s going on. I know I did.

The characters didn’t annoy me as much as you would think they would on paper. They all have character development and that’s good. The only character that effectively got on my nerves was Snow. Snow is Serah’s fiancé, and Lightning hates him because of course you need some family drama. I don’t blame Lightning though. Snow shouts cheesy lines left and right, like “Heroes never die!”. He shouts Serah’s name the same way Christian Bale shouts Rachel’s name in the Christopher Nolan Batman films. Snow is quite possibly the most irritating character of all the Final Fantasy games. He will not shut the fuck up about what it means to be a hero.

The rest of the cast works well in that their motives and desires clash with each other. But I’m still sore about the wasted potential for a great character in Jihl Nabaat. Sazh wants his son Dejh back, who was taken to be purged by the sinister and extremely hot Jihl Nabaat.

Goddaaayyyum. Seriously, look at her.

Too bad, because she’s only featured in a handful of scenes and then dies. Her death isn’t a major spoiler, at least one that I consider, because she hardly does anything except get in the way for a moment. You don’t even fight her. How lame is that?

Then you have this annoying bastard – Primarch Dysley.

When I think of him, I think of Mitch McConnell.

Old. Disagreeable. Been in power for too long. Always in the way of progress.

Primarch Dysley happens to be as annoying as Seymour from Final Fantasy X, so expect to be overjoyed every time you run into him.

Overall, the story isn’t as bad as you’d think. You just have to pay close attention. The gameplay is far worse than the story. I could easily slip into a coma while playing this game and still make it pretty far.

Music:

Final Fantasy XII saw the departure of Nobuo Uematsu (well with the exception of the pop song “Kiss Me Goodbye”). Final Fantasy XIII continues to head into the unknown without the beloved longtime composer. This game’s score is composed entirely by Masashi Hamauzu, who if you haven’t been paying attention, already partly worked on Final Fantasy X. I immediately saw how “Saber’s Edge”, the boss theme, is similar in nature to the boss theme of Final Fantasy X.

Final Fantasy XIII made the most radical changes to the score. There are no signature themes from the series. No “Prelude” theme, no “Main Theme”, no “Victory Fanfare” theme. Instead, we get a theme called “Fabula Nova Crystallis”. It plays frequently throughout the game, and almost acts as Serah and Snow’s love theme. In some portions of the game, some woman is singing along. Yes – this is the first time where you roam around a world in a Final Fantasy game with actual pop music playing in the background – “Sunleth Waterscape” to be exact. Final Fantasy XIII’s music gets pretty poppy.

youtube

Not saying it’s a bad idea.

Just.

You got pop music playing in the background now.

“Lightning’s Theme” is pretty sick. Her theme plays during the battles in a rendition called “Blinded by Light” – HA GET IT BECAUSE SHE’S LIGHTNING. SO CLEVER.

But Hamauzu was a good choice – the entire score holds up well and sounds like a movie score, with varying motifs running across. It can be a bit more subdued but that’s how contemporary instrumental music is nowadays, especially with film composers like Hans Zimmer.

Notable Theme:

“Blinded by Light”

Really epic, unique song. I always scat along to it as it plays.

youtube

Verdict:

Uff.

Look, if you just search on YouTube for all the cutscenes, there you go. That’s the game. And it’s entertaining to watch. But it has the worst gameplay that doesn’t feel like you’re even doing anything. No sense of customization or originality.

Direct Sequel?

Yes, two.

Final Fantasy XIII-2.

I started it around the time it first came out, but I’m still in the middle of playing it and I have no idea what’s going on in the story. NO idea. NONE at all. They use time travel but none of it makes sense. Apparently changing things in the future can change the past. I don’t know how. I only understand a vague semblance of a plot with the bad guy Caius. While it doesn’t tarnish the dignity of the original like Final Fantasy X-2 did, it’s still offbeat with its metal (yes, metal) music and utterly confounding story. It’s infamous for this metal rendition of the sweet and innocent Chocobo theme.

Then there’s the third game, Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII

I plan on playing it after I finish Final Fantasy XIII-2, if I don’t already die from an aneurysm by then. It’s supposed to be better than Final Fantasy XIII-2 but lacking in graphics.

#final fantasy #final fantasy xiii #final fantasy xiii-2 #lightning returns #lightning #final fantasy lightning #cloud strife #cloud clone #vanille #jihl nabaat #mitch mcconnell #video games #rpg #video game rpg #fantasy rpg #onvideogames

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hookedonapirate · 4 years ago

Text

Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

Summary: Detective Killian Jones took an indefinite leave of absence from SBPD after his brother was murdered in the Line of Duty. Bitter and broken, he resides in a cottage on the beach when his brother's former partner, David Nolan brings him a case he knows the vengeful detective won’t be able to resist. A case involving Liam's killer.

Dr. Emma Swan makes all of her decisions like she operates on her patients—with care, competence and compassion. But when her colleague, Graham Humbert, is murdered in cold blood by the man who was freed because of a decision she made as a juror, she starts second-guessing herself. To make matters worse, her squeaky clean reputation is being questioned when she becomes a suspect for Graham’s murder.

There is one detective who believes she’s innocent, and he has a plan to protect Emma and find his brother's killer at the same time. When Killian finds himself caught between his duties to the SBPD and his need for vengeance, matters are only complicated by the feelings he develops for the woman he's supposed to protect.

He's impulsive and hot-tempered, and she's methodical and cool under pressure. Despite their differences, can they work together to bring the murderer to justice, or will the murderer get to them first?

A/N: I decided to post this earlier than I had planned. Thanks for all of your responses so far! Some trigger warnings I forgot to add but don't happen until this and future chapters anyway are inappropriate and unwanted infatuation. There will probably be more tw's as we move along.

Many thanks go to @ultraluckycatnd for her wonderful beta-ing skills and @onceuponaprincessworld as always for her encouragement and letting me bounce ideas off of her.

Rated: Explicit due to mature language, character death, violence, murder and smut. The scenes won’t be too graphic, but I’d rather overrate than underrate it.

Catch up: Prologue

Chapter 1

“Hey.”

The sound of Graham’s voice pulls Emma from her thoughts as she stares blankly into the full margarita glass in her hand. “Hey.”

“There aren’t any hard feelings, right?”

She can hear the concern in his thick, Irish accent as he claims the stool next to her and sets his beer tumbler on the bar top.

Swiveling her head to look at him, she knits her brows in confusion. “Why would there be?”

He shrugs. “Because I know how much you wanted the promotion.”

Right. That.

Emma’s been so consumed by the trial she actually forgot why she was here at the bar—to celebrate Graham’s promotion. The hospital board of directors appointed Graham to Chief of Surgery a week ago, and though the news was a major blow to her at first, she’s thrilled for him; she really is. Yes, she’d wanted the position, and ever since the predecessor announced his retirement, she and Graham had been the leading contenders. She’s proven time and time again she’s more than capable of overtaking the extra responsibilities the job entails, but Graham deserves the title as well.

“You're qualified and capable and you deserved it,” Graham says empathetically with an expression meant to convey his reluctance to say what he wants to say. Averting his eyes from hers, he cradles the back of his neck with his palm, his cheeks reddening as he adds, “Probably more qualified than I am.”

Emma tilts her head from side to side and offers a slight smirk. “Not probably. I am,” she teases playfully, making him chuckle. His left hand rests on the bar top between them as she places her hand over his, her smirk transforming into a sincere smile. “I’m happy for you, Graham, I really am. I’m sorry if I seem…” she pauses, debating which adjective best describes her recent behavior before settling on, “distant.” Distant isn’t really the adequate term, but it’s the best word to convey her mood without putting a damper on his.

Graham swivels toward her on his stool to cover her hand with his other one. “That trial really rattled you, didn’t it?”

Emma drags her hand away to bring the margarita glass to her lips, and mumbles, “In more ways than one,” before taking a sip. Not only does she constantly question her decision, but the visions of the defendant’s eyes watching her keep flittering through her mind. He'd made her feel very uncomfortable in the courtroom. Every time she'd look his way, he was staring. And she knew he wasn’t merely staring aimlessly into space or at someone next to her. No, he was staring directly at her. She kept trying to discourage his attention by scowling at him or looking away, but her attempts only seemed to encourage him. Every time she saw that creepy grin on his face, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end; it was like slimy worms were crawling up her skin. She felt like she were in an episode of Fear Factor.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Em. He could actually be innocent,” Graham says with a spirited grin as he playfully nudges her elbow with his. “And if he is, you saved an innocent man’s life.”

Emma smiles faintly at him, appreciating his optimism. “I didn't. The jury saved him.”

“Oh, come on, where’s that confident surgeon I know? I would’ve thought you’d return from the trial gloating about being picked as a forewoman when I said you wouldn’t even be chosen as a juror.”

Emma laughs. “You have a valid point, I should be brandishing my bragging rights at your celebration party instead of sulking at the bar all by my lonesome.” She takes another sip of her drink.

When she moaned and groaned to Graham in the doctors’ lounge about receiving the jury summons, he was quick to point out she wouldn’t be chosen because she’s too opinionated, too analytical and too bossy. Emma just smirked and took his remarks as compliments. “Guess you were wrong.”

He shrugs indifferently. “Oh well, you win some, you lose some. I can’t expect to win all our battles.”

Emma nods in agreement. “What would be the fun in winning all the time?”

Graham winks at her. “Exactly.”

He chugs the rest of his beer down before asking Emma to play darts with him. She groans, but when he takes her hand in his and pulls her from the barstool, she doesn’t argue.

After she beats him at darts, she chats with other colleagues and switches to water after one margarita, since she has to drive home. Robin Locklsey is the owner of the bar, but his wife, Regina, is one of the doctors celebrating with them tonight, so he joins them at the table to socialize and later, plays a couple rounds of pool with Graham and Regina.

Emma is the first among her colleagues to announce she’s ready to leave because she has to work an early shift in the morning. After saying good night to everyone, she is escorted to her car by Graham.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he says sincerely as they turn to face each other in front of her car.

“Thanks for inviting me.” Emma gnaws on her bottom lip, wondering if he really knows how happy she is for him, and not bitter in any way. Of course, she’d take the promotion in a heartbeat, but she’s glad it went to him and not someone else. “Congratulations, Graham. I‘m really proud of you,” Emma says with a genuine smile. Then she opens her arms, and he follows suit, pulling her into a hug. “If someone other than me had to get the promotion, I’m glad it was you,” she murmurs into his ear, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispers, holding her tight.

The hug is longer than she expects, and as soon as she realizes other colleagues could filter out at any second and think something else is happening between the two doctors who are famously known around the hospital as rival surgeons, Emma pulls away. “Have a good night, Graham.” She’s about to turn around and walk away, but he does something else she doesn’t expect.

He leans in and kisses her cheek. “Goodnight, Emma.”

She offers a faint smile. “Goodbye, Graham.”

She walks away from him, not sure what to think or how else to respond to what just happened. They’ve known each other since they were both residents and never once has he kissed her on the cheek, which is actually kind of strange if she thinks about it. They’ve always been too busy poking fun at one another to engage in long hugs and kisses on the cheek.

Once Emma’s inside her car, she places her hand on her cheek as she watches him head back into the bar. The kiss meant nothing. It was just a cheek kiss. They’re friends. They should be able to exchange cheek kisses without it meaning anything.

Yes, it was just a friendly kiss, Emma surmises as she pulls her hand away from her cheek to start her trusty bug. When the engine roars to life, she pulls away from the curb, breathing unsteadily as she drives home. She knows it was only a friendly kiss, but did he? Could he have feelings for her that went beyond the friendly relationship they had established?

If so, she has to put a stop to it now. She can't get romantically involved with a colleague. She doesn't get romantically involved with anyone, and certainly not with anyone she works with. What they have now is good and she doesn't want that to change.

The entire way home, she wonders if the kiss had meant something more than friendship. It's 10:17 pm when she pulls into her garage and decides to ask him about the kiss tomorrow and tell him they can't be anything more than friends.

~*~

Four hours later…

The smoke rings float through the pleasantly cool, Texas air before slowly evaporating into the blackness. The soothing sound of a trumpet from his favorite Frank Sinatra song plays through the audio speakers as he stares at the photo in the Storybrooke Telegram. It’s a glowing article about Storybrooke General’s new Chief of Surgery and confirmation of what his sweet Tamara told him yesterday. It’s not that he didn’t believe her, but he needed proof so he would know without a shadow of a doubt his efforts will not be wasted. It’s not every day he takes a life for his own personal agenda. And truth be told, he doesn’t trust anyone. Not even the pretty nurse who’s been his second pair of eyes and ears since he met her at the strip club six months ago. Two out of the three days a week Tamara’s not working at the hospital, she’s pole dancing to pay off her college debts.

Tossing the paper aside, he brings the cigar between his lips and gently inhales, savoring the warm cherry-flavored smoke before exhaling slowly, blowing the smoke toward the direction where Storybrooke General stands tall. The excitement dancing inside his belly is almost unbearable.

Not guilty.

Since the moment those two delightful words rang through the courtroom, he’d been contemplating ways to thank the beautiful blonde juror who so passionately argued for his acquittal.

And he’s thought of the perfect way to show his gratitude.

His lips expand into a menacing grin. He grows hard just thinking about her and how flushed she got when he stared at her lustfully in the courtroom. Such an exquisite creature she is. She wore those soft, silk blouses and tight black skirts which showed off her long, sexy legs and made her ass look so nice, you could melt ice cubes on it. She looked good enough to eat.

He groans and palms his erection, but the ringing of his phone interrupts his pleasant thoughts. If only he had enough time to finish himself off while fantasizing about her. But not tonight.

With a frustrated grunt, he removes his hand from his crotch and pauses the music with the remote control before accepting the call from the unknown number. He says nothing into the phone, only waits for the caller to speak.

“He’s pulling out of his driveway now.”

He ends the call and slips the phone into his pocket, doing his best to contain his excitement. He reaches over and extinguishes the butt of his cigar with the photo of the chief surgeon’s face, taking immense pleasure in watching the cigar blacken and burn a hole into the thin paper.

Rising from his chair, he leers lasciviously over the city from the vantage point of his penthouse balcony.

He carries the Storybrooke Telegram inside and tosses it into the fireplace, watching it disintegrate into ash before he leaves his condo with a knife hidden in his ankle holster. He descends several floors in the elevator and leaves the building, sashaying down the sidewalk as he lifts his hood over his head before shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Walking to Storybrooke General takes all of ten minutes, giving him plenty of time to arrive before the Chief Surgeon pulls into the doctor’s parking lot, according to how long it took him to drive from the man’s house to the hospital yesterday morning after he’d followed the doctor home.

Dressed in all black, he’s able to slink around in the night like a black panther. Unlike his father, he always leaves a crime scene like a ghost—invisible and untraceable. He’d burned off his fingerprints long ago and always leaves the weapon at the scene of the crime. It’s too bad his father wasn’t as smart. He may have been cunning and evil, his heart black as night, but there is a reason he’s rotting in prison while his son enjoys a life of luxury as a contract killer, and yet has never been convicted of a crime. No, he’s nothing like his father. He doesn’t have an evil bone in his body. He doesn’t kill people with malice intent; he performs a service—a job—and he does so with a straight face, his eyes devoid of emotion. He’s had nothing against anyone he’s ever murdered.

Well, until tonight.

Tonight, he will be the one wielding the power, tonight he will be the one deciding someone’s fate.

Because tonight he’s doing it for her.

Dr. Emma Swan.

Tagging some people who have shown interest so far. If you would like to be tagged or untagged, please let me know.

@nikkiemms @teamhook @xhookswenchx @nikkiemms @xsajx @julesep3026 @hookedmom @biefaless @cluttermind @yasbio2015 @kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda @harshini01 @noensnaringnet @xarandomdreamx @onceuponaprincessworld @annastasiarinaldiva @royalswan @brustudyblog @officerrogers @gingerchangeling @melly326 @singersdd @mzbossyboots @unworried-corsair @iamemmaswanjones @authorarsinoe @kingofmyheart14 @nightskylover @jamif @resident-of-storybrooke @iam2307 @winterbaby89 @xhookswenchx @chinawoodfan @mormonkryptonite @ultraluckycatnd @captainswan-shipper88 @killianswanjones @bethdacattfm @andiirivera

#cs ff #captain swan #beyond a reasonable doubt #my fic

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adenei · 4 years ago

Text

Auror 99 - Chapter 5

In case you missed any of the previous chapters, you can find the whole story (thus far) here

Thanks for reading!

****************************

The Duel

Several days had passed with no new leads. Amy and Hermione continued poring over the case files with Jake and Ron, while Boyle and Harry staked out the banks. No luck was had all around. They’d all take turns switching with Rosa, who was still mainly manning surveillance. Whoever Gerteso was, he was a master of disguise.

They were on a late shift about a week into the case, when Rosa caught something on the monitor. “Jake! Come see this,” Rosa said. Jake walked over with Ron not far behind him. “There’s some strange activity going on outside of this oddity shop - McLeod’s. The guy who just walked in seems to match the description of Gerteso. It’s in Manhattan, but might be worth checking out?”

“If we leave now, we can make it over there in 20 minutes. C’mon Nolan, let’s go!” Jake said as they ran out.

Hermione looked at Amy. “What are the chances he’ll stay in the store that long?”

Amy shook her head. “Slim to none.”

“I’ll be right back,” Hermione said. She had an idea, but it required magic, so she had to move alone. Harry gave her a look. “Just need to make a phone call,” she reassured him.

Hermione made her way to the bathroom and pulled out her cell phone she’d purchased a few days ago. The one muggle item the Ministry failed to provide. She pulled up the address to McLeod’s on her phone, and just before she was about to apparate, the door opened. Harry walked in.

“Here, take this,” he handed her the invisibility cloak. “If my suspicions about what you’re doing are correct, you’ll need it.”

“Thanks, Harry. Hopefully I won’t be long.” She pulled the cloak over herself and apparated to the nearest alleyway. She moved quickly around to find a back entrance to the store. Luckily there was one, and the door was propped open. She slipped inside and made her way to the front of the store, careful to remain silent the entire time.

“...I know he comes here and you do business with him. Now, I suggest you tell me the next time he’s going to show up.” Yes, that was definitely Gerteso, his wand pointed at the shopkeeper.

“T-tonight. H-he always comes Fridays. At night after the shop’s closed. He meets me in the alleyway next door.”

“That’s what I thought. So here’s what you’re going to do. You’ll contact him, or whatever you do before your meetups, tell him tonight is on, but you’re not going to show up. If you even so much as hint that I’m the one meeting him, you’ll be dead faster than you can blink. Understood?” The shopkeeper nodded in a terrified manner. “Tell him 9:00. And he better be punctual. If it’s earlier or later than your normal meetup, tell him you’ve got something planned and he needs to make it work.”

Hermione watched Gerteso look around the store and then walk out. She turned around swiftly and snuck out the back. After apparating back into the bathroom of the precinct, she pulled out her phone again, and quickly sent Ron a text giving him the heads up that he’d be back at 9, so they should prepare for a stakeout until then. Looking around, Hermione made sure she was alone before pulling off the cloak.

When she walked out and back into the hall her phone rang. “Hey.”

“Hey, how’d you know?”

“That’s not important. Just trust me, okay? I’m going to tell everyone here that you guys are gonna hang out there for a while on the off chance he comes back, which he will. There’s no suspicion?”

“I don’t think so. I’m glad we finally have a lead. I’ll figure something out. I’ll probably just meet you back at the flat, depending on how late we are.”

“Sounds good,” Hermione said. “Stay safe.”

“You too,” she heard Ron say before she clicked off the phone. That was their way of saying ‘I love you’ right now. Hermione took a deep breath before heading back to the rest of the group.

********************

Ron and Jake were in the same undercover squad car, parked on a side street, just outside of McLeod’s Bargain Store and Curiosity Shop. Ron had told Jake that when Rosa doubled back on the security footage, she noticed that the security cameras had caught Gerteso lurking around this time every night, so they’d decided to wait and see who or what he was waiting for. They still had a while before he’d make his nightly appearance.

Jake was looking at the picture they’d brought of him again. “He’s a weird looking dude, isn’t he?”

Ron looked at the paper. To be honest, he hadn’t thought much of it. In the magical world, they came across all different sorts of creatures and beings so it hadn’t phased him before. But now, looking closely at the picture, Jake was right. His facial features were strong and jagged, accentuated by a thick beard that was trimmed neatly, and a long mane of dark, dark brown hair. His eyes were a golden brown, which added to his mysterious demeanor. His face was rather pale, which didn’t exactly fit the rest of his features.

Gerteso oddly reminded Ron of Rufus Scrimgeour, a name he hadn’t thought about since the war ended. He made a mental note to ask Harry and Hermione if Gerteso could possibly be a vampire. The chances were slim since Voldemort had exterminated the lot of them in the war, but they had so few details on the case, and they were already a week in, that Ron figured any little suspicion could help.

“Yeah, he is,” Ron finally answered Jake.

“What’s going on with you? You’re quieter than normal tonight,” Jake commented.

“Just thinking, that’s all,” Ron said quickly. He wished he could talk about the details with Jake, he really did. The whole statute of secrecy thing was really starting to piss him off. They had four strong detectives, two aurors, and Hermione’s brilliance on the case, but because they couldn’t disclose who they truly were, movement was slow going.

“You miss her, don’t you?” Jake asked.

“Who?”

“Hadley? Your wife?” Jake clarified.

“Oh, yeah, I do. The whole no-contact thing is really the hardest,” Ron lied. He and Jake had talked a bit about his personal life before, and Ron had made up a different name for Hermione because it was so unique that he didn’t want to raise any suspicion. Not that they were even known about in the muggle world. But better to be safe than sorry.

“I guess that’s the one good thing about single life. No one would miss me if something happened. Y’know? I don’t have to worry about my reckless lifestyle affecting anyone else but me. I’m the lone ranger in this sad, crazy world!” Jake tried to play it off as cool, but Ron thought there was something more to it than that. Before he could ask, he noticed someone appear across the street.

“Jake, look!” Ron said, pointing to the figure.

“Do you think that’s him?” Jake asked.

“Yeah, I reckon so. He’s headed for that alley. We should follow so we don’t lose sight of him.” Ron said. They opened their doors and shut them quietly.

Jake and Ron quickly crossed the street and stopped just before the alleyway. Jake looked around the corner and noticed that Gerteso was there with another figure.

“There’s a dumpster further down that we can hide behind. He’s down there with another person, Jake whispered. They moved down the alley and stopped for cover behind the dumpster.

They watched as something was exchanged between them and Ron was studying the other person. He stealthily grabbed his wand and cast a silent identity charm so he could take back the visual of the person to see if they could figure out who he was.

Suddenly the other person vanished and Jake grabbed Ron’s arm. “What the hell was that?! Where’d he go!?” They saw Gerteso turn and begin walking back towards them, and before Ron could stop Jake from engaging him, Jake jumped out from behind the dumpster with his gun held out. “NYPD! Freeze!”

“Fuck,” Ron said under his breath as he saw Gerteso raise his wand. He held his own at the ready as he joined Jake quickly in the alleyway. “Protego!” he shouted as he saw Gerteso wave his wand. Luckily he’d cast it in time to deflect a curse from hitting Jake.

“Uh, Nolan? What the fuck is happening right now? Is that a wand? What’s going on? I’m not freaking out. I’m not!” Jake was normally fine under pressure, but this, this was unreal. He had to be dreaming.

“Impedimenta!” Ron shouted. It just missed him as another spell was shot his way. Ron blocked that one again as he yelled “stupefy!” Whoever Gerteso was, he seemed to be moving really quickly, able to dodge everything Ron was throwing at him. He wasn’t using any defensive charms and kept sending jinx after jinx their way.

“Jake, get back behind the dumpster!” Ron said to him as he continued fighting Gerteso. As he shot an incarcerous at him, Ron saw a flash of light shoot out from Gerteso’s wand, but it wasn’t aimed at Ron. Before Ron had time to react, it hit Jake in the leg.

Jake yelled out in pain as Ron turned to see his leg on fire. “Aguamenti!” Ron said, quickly extinguishing the flame. “Shit, Jake!” Ron’s distraction was all Gerteso needed as Ron heard a faint pop and he was gone.

“W-where’d he go? He was just right there. What just happened?”

“Don’t worry about that right now, let me see your leg.” Ron examined it and realized Gerteso had shot out some sort of cursed fire. He’d never seen it before but it looked like it was a lower level of fiendfyre that was obviously much more controlled. Ron placed a freezing and numbing charm on Jake’s leg. “We’ve got to get you back to our flat,” Ron said. “Charlotte will know what to do.”

“What about a hospital?” Jake asked.

“We can’t take you to a hospital for this. It should be treatable at home. Don’t worry, I’ve already stopped the pain for now. Look, Jake I really can’t explain what this was about, and I’m really sorry that I have to do this…” Ron held up his wand and cast ‘obliviate.’ He watched Jake’s eyes go fuzzy and then refocus again.

“What happened? Did he get away? He was just right there!”

“Yeah, mate, he struck a match and caught your leg on fire, and took off. I was able to put it out, but we’ve gotta get you back to heal it. Do you think you can drive? You don’t want me driving, that’s for sure. Opposite side of the road and all...”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Why doesn’t it hurt?”

“Er, I had some of this special numbing cream to put on it. British specialty.” Ron really hated lying to Jake. “It should hold until we get back to my place. Hold on while I call Amy and Charlotte.” Ron was thinking quickly. There were totally gaps in his story, but he had to roll with it. And Jake was still sort of loopy enough from the obliviation that he was buying it.

Ron dialed Amy since it was the first contact in his phone. He still wasn’t sure how to work the damn thing properly.

“Hey Nolan, what’s up?” he heard Amy answer.

“Uh, Amy, we had an incident. Can you meet us at our flat?”

“Is everything okay? Nolan, what happened?” Amy said worriedly.

“I can’t tell you right now. Just meet us back at the flat.” Ron hung up the phone. He helped Jake get up and got him back to the car. Thankfully it was his left leg that was injured, so he was still able to drive.

“What did Amy say?” Jake tried to ask casually.

“She asked what happened. Sounded pretty worried,” Ron responded. “They’re going to meet us at the flat.”

“Oh, good. Yeah, that’s cool,” Jake played it off.

“You like her, don’t you?” Ron smirked at him.

“What? No, of course not! We’re work partners,” Jake defended.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t fancy her,” Ron said. “I’m gonna give you some advice. Just go for it, mate. I waited seven years, and somehow I was lucky enough to still get her. A girl like Amy reminds me of my own. They’re too good to wait around, so don’t wait forever.”

Jake looked at him. “You waited seven years to make a move?”

“Yeah, but thankfully she’d always felt the same way. The way you and Amy banter back and forth, reminds me of me and her way back.”

Jake spluttered a bit and made some noncommittal sounds. It seemed like it took ages to get back to their flat, but when they arrived, they saw Amy, Boyle, Harry and Hermione waiting for them. Charles and Harry helped Ron get Jake out of the car and up to their apartment. They laid Jake down on the couch and Hermione gave Ron a serious look.

“Jake. Jake! It’s gonna be okay, buddy. You’re gonna live. You have to live! The world’s not ready for you to leave it,” Boyle was lamenting overdramatically.

“What happened?” Amy asked, cutting him off. “Did you catch Gerteso?”

“Well, Gerteso met up with someone else,” Ron said, “They finished whatever exchange was made and he went to leave, but we tried to stop him. He put up a fight, and ended up striking a match and tossing it at Jake, hence the burn. He took off when I went to help Jake.”

“Nolan, why does the burn look so odd,” Amy said. “And how is it not hurting him?”

“I put numbing cream on it. I’ve got another British burn salve that should help. I just need to go grab it. Charlotte, could you check your bag for it? I can’t remember which bag it was in. Jason, could you search your stuff, too? We left so quickly last week I don’t remember who packed what.” Ron nodded towards Hermione who followed them into the room.

Hermione shut the door. “What happened?” she hissed.

“Yeah, mate,” Harry said. “He doesn’t look good.”

Ron was searching for the dittany. That should do enough to heal it without Jake needing additional medical assistance. Ron pulled out his wand and cast muffliato on the door. “Jake jumped out at him when the other guy disapparated. I had to step in and duel him. Hermione, he moves really fast. He wasn’t even using defensive spells. And I think he used some form of adapted fiendfyre that was much more controlled than what we’ve encountered. It’s definitely cursed fire that Jake got hit with. It’s going to heal, but the scar is going to be awful. The dittany will help.”

“Ron! You could have-”

“I’m fine, Hermione. This is what I do. I’m an Auror. Jake’s already been obliviated, too. Now, here, take this, and figure out who it is,” Ron used his wand to draw up the charm he’d cast earlier of the other suspect. “If we can figure out who this is, maybe we can figure out what Gerteso’s after. Boyle and Harry can stop stalking the bank and tail him when we figure it out.”

Hermione sighed, “Alright, but you know I can’t take care of it until they leave.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron said. “Let’s get back out there, the sooner we get this dittany on him, the better. Can you distract them while I apply it? Then we’ll see if Charles or Amy can stay with him tonight.”

They went back out and Ron was able to place the dittany on Jake’s leg, thanks to Harry and Hermione pulling Amy and Charles aside. “You should be good, aside from a nasty scar, but at least we don’t need to go to the hospital. Charles, Amy, can one of you stay with him tonight?” Ron asked.

“Of course! Anything for Jake,” Charles said quickly. Ron noticed the slight disappointment look on Amy’s face when Charles beat her to it.

“Uh, Charles,” Hermione cut in, “maybe you could take this back to the precinct to get an ID on the second person? I’m sure Amy can take Jake home and stay with him. You could relieve her later?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Charles said, taking the paper that Hermione had no doubt materialized for him. “As long as Amy’s okay with that?”

“What? Oh, y-yeah, I guess I can for a few hours tonight. But I’ll need your help getting him there if he can’t walk.” Amy looked gratefully at Hermione, although a little surprised at her suggestion. “We’ll see you all at the precinct tomorrow? We should probably at least debrief for a couple hours. I’m sure Holt will be fine with the overtime.”

Harry nodded. “That should work. Let’s get some rest for now, though. We’ve all put in more than enough hours today.”

Everyone nodded in agreement as they helped Jake up and saw them out. They had so much to discuss, but they had to wait until they were sure the detectives were gone. This case just kept getting weirder and weirder.

#hp/b99 crossover #hp fanfic #hp trio #b99

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let-it-raines · 5 years ago

Text

CS JJ Day 22: what a plot twist you were (1/1)

Emma’s life is solid. She has her few friends, a job that pays decently enough, and a schedule that works for her. She doesn’t want any of that to change. But when she gets a call saying she’s been left a house in Storybrooke, Maine, she ends up leaving Boston intending to deal with the house and then return to her life like nothing has changed.

Intentions never quite work out, however, especially when she runs into a blue-eyed bartender who just might entice her to stay.

Rating: Mature

a/n: This story is the result of late night baby feedings, leaving plot notes on my phone in the middle of the night, and then not understanding what the heck the notes section on my phone means when I wake up in the morning. Thanks to the ladies at @csjanuaryjoy for bringing some joy to January 💙

Found on AO3 | Here |

-/-

Thick bunches of trees with deep green leaves line the road. They’re on each side of the concrete, dark gray with a faded yellow line in the middle, and she can’t see anything in the woods through the fullness of the forest. She’s never seen anything like this, not that’s so natural, and the darkness of the sky and the gentle rain falling down make it almost haunting.

She’s not lost, but it sure as hell feels like it.

“Keep going for another five miles,” her GPS says in the British accent she can’t figure out how to change.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma huffs, turning up her radio and increasing the speed of her wipers. “I got it.”

In a split second, the rain turns from gentle to harsh, water beating down against Emma’s old bug’s windows so hard that the glass may break, and if she could see the sides of the road, she’d turn off the road and wait the storm out. She’s got a bag of Chex Mix and several bottles of water in the back. She could definitely wait it out. But she’s also ready to get to where she’s going and out of this car, so she pushes through and keeps driving until she reads the sign in front of her.

Welcome to Storybrooke.

Finally.

Emma’s phone rings in her passenger seat, and she reaches over to press it, hitting the buttons to put it on speaker.

“Hey, Rubes.”

“Emma Swan,” Ruby huffs out, “where the hell are you? I got home from work expecting you to be here so we could eat entire gallons of ice cream, and I do mean gallons and not pints, but you were gone. I thought tonight was our pity party night.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m…going on a trip.”

“You have never gone on a trip that wasn’t with me.” “I like to try new things.”

“You’re a liar. You hate new things. Seriously. Where are you?”

“Storybrooke, Maine.” “What the hell is a Storybrooke?”

“I don’t know,” Emma huffs, peering forward to try to see where she’s going. Buildings are starting to come into view, short ones all pressed together like some kind of Hallmark movie downtown where they decorate for every holiday with an insane budget that’s not at all realistic. Maybe this is the place where they shoot those movies. The name of it sounds made up enough. “It’s just somewhere new.”

“I repeat: you are a liar.”

Emma hums as she tries to ignore Ruby and look for a place to stay tonight. It’s only ten o’clock, but everything seems to be closed, all the storefront lights turned off to cloud the town in near darkness.

Of-freaking-course.

“Look, can I tell you about it later, okay? I don’t really want to get into it. I should be home next week.”

“Next week? How are you going to be – ”

Emma ends the call and switches her phone onto silent. Ruby is going to keep calling until Emma answers again, but she’s too tired to explain it tonight. All she wants is a warm bed and possibly a shower. She probably should have looked up hotels in this town before she came, but it was a last-minute decision fueled by the need for a change of scenery.

She pulls into a parking lot between two buildings and then stares up at the neon sign on one of them. It might be the only light on. “Who names a bar The Rabbit Hole? This town keeps getting weirder.”

There she goes talking to herself again. Maybe she’s the one who is getting weirder.

Sighing, she shuts off her car, grabs her phone, wallet, and keys before running inside the building, only getting slightly soaked. The lights inside are dimmed and it smells of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Sweat is also likely in the air, but it’s better if she doesn’t think too much about all of the disgusting things that have been spilled in this place. The bar isn’t full, only a few people playing pool or throwing darts, and Emma ignores them to walk up to the bar and sit down on a stool.

“Can I have a glass of whatever your strongest whiskey is?”

“That’s like asking to light a fire in your stomach.”

“Whiskey,” she repeats, tapping her nail against the bar top.

The bartender hasn’t even turned around to look at her, but he nods his head, reaching up on a shelf to grab a bottle and then pouring her a glass. She doesn’t bother looking at him either, simply taking the glass and downing half of it so that it easily burns, most likely lighting a fire in her stomach. She should be asking about a hotel room and getting out of here, but the reality of the past few days is starting to hit her enough that she needs a drink.

Boyfriend cheated.

Couldn’t catch her skip that would have paid rent for the next two months, something that’s been happening a lot lately.

Received a call from a lawyer saying her foster mom from when she was fifteen left her a house in Storybrooke, Maine.

That woman had been crazy. She’d been Emma’s best foster parent, one that genuinely cared, and then one day she pushed Emma into the street when there was oncoming traffic because she’d believed Emma had magic or some bullshit like that. The woman was declared mentally unstable, and yet somehow her lawyers have allowed her to give a vacation home to Emma, someone she has no relation to when Emma knows the woman had family. Sisters, she thinks.

Walsh cheating and the skip being elusive suck, obviously, but they haven’t quite shaken her to her core in the same way.

Her past is her past, and she doesn’t want to relive it.

So why the hell is she here?

“Are you passing through, or are you visiting?”

“Hm?”

“Are you waiting out the storm, love?” the bartender repeats in a deep, foreign accent. He sounds like her freaking GPS. “Or are you visiting the town?”

Emma finally looks up from her drink to see him. The light in here is so poor that she can’t quite make out his face, but there’s a hint of ginger in his beard covering a sharp jawline. A quick glance down shows her muscles under a tight plaid shirt, and that has her looking back up. He’s got dark, messy hair that’s been tousled one too many times, but mostly, all she can see is the blue of his eyes.

Damn.

“I could be from here,” she sighs, running her finger of the rim of her drink.

He scoffs and tilts his head to the side, tongue running over his bottom lip. “This is true. About twenty-thousand people live here, and while I don’t know each and every one of them, I do know that this bar really only sees regulars in here. It’s not often that I get to see someone new.”

“So you’re guessing I’m new on a hunch.”

“Ah, well, that and the fact that your t-shirt says ‘Boston Bail Bonds’ on it. I’m assuming that can only be found in one place.”

“Maybe I just collect t-shirts.”

The man clicks his tongue. “Maybe. Can I get you anything else, Boston?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Another glass of this and directions to the nearest hotel.”

“That I can do for you, love.”

“Not your love, buddy.”

“Pity that.”

She downs the rest of her drink before he refills her glass and then slides a piece of paper in front of her, quickly drawing a map of downtown and where she can find a hotel. It’s a bed and breakfast behind a restaurant, and Emma commits it to memory because there’s no way this piece of paper is going to make it through the weather outside.

After she pays her tab, Emma makes her way out of the bar with the umbrella the bartender gave her, and quickly hops in her car to drive the few feet to the bed and breakfast only to find that there’s no parking and she has to park back at the bar and run across the street in this New England monsoon.

This town makes no sense.

And she could totally be staying in Ingrid’s house for free, since it is her house now, but that’s creepy and disturbed on so many levels.

Then again, so is all of the floral wallpaper at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast.

“Welcome to Storybrooke, Emma Swan,” the old woman says as she hands Emma the keys to her room.

-/-

Emma sleeps until two in the afternoon.

She doesn’t mean to, not really. She was supposed to meet with Ingrid’s lawyer about the house at noon, but apparently she can’t be a responsible adult and make her appointments on time. The moment she wakes up and realizes it, she calls the law firm and tries to reschedule only to be told that she’ll have to wait at least two weeks because Mr. Nolan has gone out of town for vacation.

He has got to be kidding her.

He’s not. He’s going to Nevada to visit his wife’s family.

Emma groans and falls back onto the springy bed. What is she supposed to do now? She wanted this over with, and as much as she deals with the law on a regular basis, it’s more dealing with scummy guys not paying child support or assaulting someone. It’s not real estate law or anything having to deal with what happens when someone leaves you a freaking house.

Her phone buzzes next to her.

Walsh Osbourne: Can we talk?

Walsh Osbourne: It wasn’t what you think it was.

Walsh Osbourne: Please, baby. I just want to talk. I love you.

Emma could vibrate out of her skin she’s so angry to see texts from him. What a douchebag. Real scum of the earth, that one.

Emma Swan: I hate when you call me baby. You should know that. I pointed it out every fucking time. We’re over, Walsh. I don’t deal with cheaters.

The little bubbles pop up, but she doesn’t wait to see the message. Instead, she blocks his number and keeps herself from having to ever hear from him again.

Asshole.

Food. She needs food. It’s too early to have another drink, but food sounds like a great idea.

After showering and getting dressed in a pair of jeans and a white sweater, she runs downstairs to the diner attached to the bed and breakfast. There’s only one other person in there, and it doesn’t bode well for Emma not getting food poisoning from the food. But the grilled cheese and onion rings end up being good, the hot chocolate even more so, and when she’s finished, Emma tips her waitress and asks her for directions to the police station.

If she’s going to be here for two weeks – because there’s no way in hell she’s going back and then doing this drive again – she might as well see if she can make some money. She knew getting licensed in Maine would come in handy eventually.

“What can I help you with, lass?”

“Um, yeah, my name is Emma Swan, and I was wondering if you guys were in need of a bail bondswoman.”

“Graham Humbert,” he says, sticking his hand out for her to shake. “We usually deal with bonds in the neighboring country. They have an office already, though, so if you’re thinking about setting one up, I’m not sure you’ll have much business.”

“I do more of the tracking down than the office work.”

He cocks his head to the side and softly smiles at her. She’s only seen two men in this town so far, and both of them have been attractive and had foreign accents.

They’re in rural Maine. That makes no sense. None of this does.

“So more of a bounty hunter then?”

“It’s a mixture. So do you have any jobs? Short-term probably.”

“Do you know how to mix a drink?”

Emma turns to where the familiar voice is sitting. It’s the bartender from last night, and in the light of day, he looks much the same but with clearer features. It’s just those damn eyes – they’re even bluer in the sunlight, and they have to be contacts or something.

“A few.”

“Well, Swan,” he sighs, her name curled on his tongue with his accent, “I’m looking for an extra hand at the bar if you’re going to be in town for awhile. If Sheriff Humbert doesn’t have something for you, of course.”

“I’m sorry, lass. I don’t think I do. You’d have to go to Easton and ask them there.”

Emma sighs and turns to the other man. “You’d hire me just like that? You don’t want to run background checks or call my references?”

He waves her away, standing from the desk and sliding over paperwork to Sheriff Humbert. “No, I’m good. I can train you this afternoon, and then if you’re dreadful, I’ll let you go.”

“Do I get to keep tips?”

His smile curves up on one side. “Of course. Killian Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you, milady. Or, rather, to make your acquaintance again.”

Great. The guy who’s giving her a job is also some freak who talks like he’s from another century.

(Or maybe just likes he’s British.)

Killian finishes up whatever business he had in the police station, talking to Graham for a few minutes, before he asks her if she’s ready to go. They walk the few blocks back to The Rabbit Hole, which looks far seedier in the light of day, and Killian unlocks the door before holding it open for her.

“So are you a gentleman or something?”

“I’m always a gentleman, love,” he says, leaning into her and lowering his voice. “Though, don’t feel special. I do like to hold the door open for most anyone, just as I call most people ‘love.’”

Her cheeks flush red, memories of her grumbling about his term of endearment last night. “Well, I’ll try not to be too disappointed.”

He chuckles and keeps walking through the bar, flicking the light switches until the place is illuminated. It’s actually much cleaner on the inside than it was last night, the haze of the night gone, and she can see where all of the chairs are resting on the table and the floor has been freshly mopped.

“So, it’s pretty simple. We open at four and close at two. Weekdays are calm, just a few regulars who almost exclusively drink what’s on tap, and then on the weekends we’re usually a little more packed with everyone trying to unwind or find a date.”

“People come here to find dates?”

“It’s the only bar in town, so if that’s how you’re looking for a date, yes.” He stares at her, but when she doesn’t say anything back, he nods his head and keeps walking through the bar. “Restroom is back down that hallway as well as the utility closet. The kitchen is directly behind the bar. My old buddy doubled as bartender and cook before he moved. Can you do both?”

“Not unless you want your customers to get food poisoning.”

His eyes crinkle with his smile. “We’ll figure something out then, Swan.”

-/-

Her first night at the bar is hectic.

There’s a bachelor party from two towns over coming in on a Wednesday night of all things, and every one of them hits on her. They don’t do it well either. How one of them is getting married is a mystery to her because he both doesn’t know how to flirt and obviously has no respect for his future wife. Killian asks her if they’re bothering her, she tells him she can handle herself, and they move on with their night and their jobs.

That’s pretty much the only time they talk the entire time unless he’s giving her some kind of instruction. Being behind the bar is a completely different experience than the two of them being on opposite sides.

It’s quieter, much quieter.

At least she thinks that it is until it’s six nights in, a rainy Monday evening much like the one when she got here, and they have no customers.

None.

He asks why she’s in town, she evades the question again, but eventually the quiet begins to get to her, and she huffs and starts talking while focusing on getting a stain off the bar top.

“Just wanted to get away.”

“Ah, so relationship problems.”

She turns to him then. “Wait, just because I’m a woman means my only problems can be relationship problems?”

His brows arch. “I simply meant any relationship. Romantic, familial, friendship. I find most everybody who’s running from something is running for one of those reasons. I’ve never known too many people to leave a place because they were upset over a job.”

“Yeah, well that seems like something a personal thing. People run for all kinds of reasons.”

“Fair enough.” He tugs the sleeves on his flannel shirt up, rolling the cuffs until they’re at his elbows, and Emma gets a glance of toned forearms and angry red scars inching up his left arm. She wants to ask, but it’s none of her business. And asking him questions means he’ll feel more entitled to ask her the same things. “Your business is your business. Simply figured you might want to make a little conversation since we don’t have any business.”

“Nope,” Emma sighs, “I’m good.”

The next night is better, and the night after that. Though, Emma does realize that she’s now fascinating to the town as a new person, which they apparently don’t get a lot of. It’s obnoxious, but it also means the bar starts getting a steady stream of people who are curious as to who she is and what she’s doing.

At least they give good tips. She’s all about the tips.

“You’d think you had magical powers for how they’re all staring at you,” Killian mumbles as he walks past her with a tray of drinks.

“It’s creepy.”

“It dies down. Trust me.”

For a moment, she wants to ask, to get to know more about him, but she doesn’t want to open that can of warms. It’d be too difficult to close.

-/-

“This place is a piece of shit.”

“It’s certainly got character,” David Nolan says, obviously uncomfortable with her language. He is not what she expected Ingrid’s lawyer to look like, but he’s what she’s got. A forty-year-old wearing a flannel shirt and dirty boots while meeting a client is definitely unlike any attorney she’s ever met, but so far, she doesn’t mind him. “Ingrid was never here. I only met her once or twice. I think this was her aunt’s house, so it’s definitely on the older side.”

Emma nods and presses her foot down on the porch only for the wood to start cracking underneath her. The foundation of the house is probably falling apart, the windows are broken, roof shingles are falling off, there’s some rot on the columns, and she hasn’t even gotten to go inside.

“Did she not hire someone to do maintenance?”

“What do you think?”

Emma scoffs and presses against the front door until it’s opening for her and revealing dust-covered furniture and more decay. It’s not as bad as the exterior, but it’s not good. “So, what exactly do I do here? Can I refuse the house?”

“You can.”

“But if I do keep it, what happens then?”

“Well, it’s yours, and you’re responsible for it and for paying property tax. It’s not much, but honestly, I think your best option is fixing the place up and then putting it on the market. It’s basically free money.”

“There’s no such thing.”

David laughs, and she can’t help but feel like he’d be someone who would be good to have around in life. “Think on it, okay? You have some time.”

-/-

“Do you know anything about house repairs?”

“Pardon, love?”

“Home repairs,” she repeats, tipping back her bottle of water. “You look like you’re…handy. Do you know how to repair things like windows and floors or putting a hinge back in a cabinet?”

“Well,” Killian starts, “window frames I can do. Window glass repairs require a professional. Hinges I can do, though. I think I’d have to know what kind of floor repair you need. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

Killian quirks his brow. “Believe it or not, Swan, but I’m actually quite perceptive. You’re not asking for no reason.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“Oh, so you’ve been watching me then?”

“I’ve been working with you every single day for two weeks.” Emma rolls her eyes at his smirk. “I notice things.”

“Funny, so do I. You’re more of an open book than you think.”

With that, Killian walks away to move across the bar to tend to a group of linemen sitting at the table in the back. They all go by some kind of ridiculous nickname, and she can’t remember any of them at the moment despite them always being in here. But the asshole probably said that line and walked away just to annoy her. He seems to like to do that, getting some kind of reaction out of her and then walking away.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? She’s an open book?

Killian’s words nag at her all night, his accent curling around each of them in her memory, but he goes on as if everything is normal. Nothing about her life is normal right now. She’s living in a strange town, sleeping in a bed and breakfast with flowers on all of the walls, and working at a bar all the while avoiding everything about her life.

“Someone left me a house in town,” Emma blurts out two hours later. They’ve only got seven people in the bar now, and she can’t distract herself by flattering men so they give her more tips. “That’s why I’m here. I had to deal with it, and then the lawyer was out of town for two weeks because apparently that’s a thing he does. But I went and saw the house today, and it’s a disaster. That’s why I asked about the home repairs.”

Killian’s mouth curls from one side to the other, and she wants to smack it off of his smug face. She also kinds of wants to kiss it.

Woah. Where did that thought come from?

(Probably from having her life turned upside down and losing her boyfriend and being left a house by her crazy ex foster mother.)

(And staying in this town instead of going home and calling her boss about her not being available for jobs.)

(Not having Ruby to complain to likely doesn’t help.)

“Are you planning on living here then, Swan?” He leans forward and props his chin in his palm while his brows reach his hairline. “Did you find me that irresistible?”

“Shut up.”

“You have a way with words.” Emma groans at him, and Killian keeps on smirking. “Look, I’ve been renovating this bar and the apartment above it for about a year now, so I know a thing or two about home renovations, as I told you. I can take a look at the house for you and answer any of your questions.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You were asking for advice earlier.”

“But I don’t need any help!”

He holds his hands up and steps away. “I apologize, love. I seemed to have misread the situation. I won’t do it again.”

Shit.

She messed up, didn’t she? Of course she did. Why is she always so rude to people who are trying to help her?

“Killian?”

“Mhm?”

“Would you like to come look at the house with me tomorrow before work?”

He turns to her and smiles again, a little glint in his eyes. “Meet me here at noon.”

-/-

Killian tells her the place isn’t in as bad as shape as she thinks it is. Emma can’t imagine that as a giant spider crawls across the living room, but he swears that it’s true.

He also offers to help for no cost to her other than the supplies.

“Why would you do that?” “I actually quite fancy you from time to time when you’re not yelling at me, and I enjoy the work.”

And for some insane reason, she makes the decision to stay in this weird as hell town and fix up this house so that she can sell it and leave this whole thing behind her. Her life was going to shit in Boston, and she needs a break from that. She needs some kind of change and purpose, and maybe she’ll end up being able to fix this house up and sell it for enough money that she comes into an actual savings account for the first time in her life.

What a thought.

On slow nights at the bar, Emma watches videos on the best ways to paint window trim and how to buff hardwood floors. She looks into the electrical stuff too, but that seems like a recipe for disaster. Or death. Really, it looks like a recipe for her death.

Definitely.

Killian will walk by, muttering comments under his breath about the videos she’s watching and how absolutely inane some of the people are, but she ignores him and keeps trying to learn. Fixing up a house, even a rotting pit like this one, shouldn’t be too hard. It’ll be fine.

It starts with having all of the wiring inside the walls stolen, which is decidedly not fine.

“Who the hell steals electrical wiring?” Emma huffs as she and Killian walk through the house, cold morning air nipping at their extremities. “What’s the purpose of that?”

“They sell it.” “For how much?”

“Not much, but it’s something.” He hits his hammer against the hole (one of them, at least) in the drywall. “I can call Scarlet and have him fix your wiring, but we’ll have to fix the walls ourselves.”

“I can’t afford an electrician right now.”

“Don’t worry about it, love. He owes me a favor.” “A favor to rewire an entire house?”

He winks. “Trust me.”

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second, Jones.”

He freaking bows, throwing in an exaggerated wink too. “I would despair if you did.”

The entire month of September is spent the same way. She and Killian meet up at the house at noon with takeout from Granny’s for lunch (which is really breakfast for them since they wake up at eleven most days) and work on the house until they have to go to the bar. They’re the only two people working there right now, which has got to be against some labor law, but Emma doesn’t mind not having the days off. She likes the money and likes keeping busy. When she asks Killian about it, though, he simply hums and says that he hasn’t taken a day off since he bought the place.

She had no idea he was the owner. She thought he was the manager or something who happened to be living there.

(Not her brightest moment.)

How does a British man end up owning a bar in a small town in Maine?

She almost asks, but it’s not her business. None of his life is.

But that doesn’t keep her from learning that he’s got a penchant for rum and for double-stuffed Oreos. There’s a dirty joke there, and Killian most definitely makes it. He’s also got a penchant for making a dirty joke or sliding an innuendo into every possible situation. It’d be creepy if it wasn’t so damn charming sometimes.

But it’s not charming. Nope. It’s just…it’s who he is. That’s all. And it’s something she’s got to get used to since this is apparently the man she’s going to be spending all of her time with. It would scare her because in a situation like this, she’d usually have already had sex with him and then have some kind of meltdown. She doesn’t know why she does stuff like that, but she does.

(That’s a lie. She definitely knows why.)

Emma is not going to sleep with him, though. It’s not going to happen. Ever. She is not going to be doing the whole dating – or not dating – thing again anytime soon. Or forever.

It’s October when she starts to feel like maybe this house has hope. It’s still a mess, but it’s making definite progress.

It’s also when she realizes that maybe she doesn’t hate this town so much. It’s still weird and kooky and doesn’t quite make sense, but it’s also full of good people. David, Ingrid’s lawyer, ends up pitching in a hand on window repairs, and his wife Mary Margaret may be one of the sweetest people Emma has ever met. She bakes food for Emma and talks paint colors and cabinet stains and always has a smile on her face. Will Scarlet is always lurking around, even once the electrical work is done, and as obnoxious as he can be, Emma kind of likes him. He’s helpful and kind of funny and he beats Killian’s ass at pool at the bar every single time they play.

Killian pouts and mopes around after he loses, and Emma gets an infinite amount of joy out of it.

“You look pathetic, Jones.”

“I do not look pathetic.”

“You do.” She turns around behind the bar to tease him as he grabs a bottle of his favorite rum off the shelf and pours himself a small glass, gulping it down. “You should really learn not to be such a sore loser.”

His brow arches. “Oh, and you wouldn’t be a sore loser?”

“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t lose.”

Killian exhales with his laugh before putting his glass down and inching closer to her until his back is behind hers, warmth from his body covering her so that little bumps pop up over her skin and her breath hitches. It takes everything in her not to shiver while her stomach flips.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” she whispers, trying to keep her breath steady.

“Well,” Killian whispers right back, his scruff brushing up against her cheek and sending a shiver down her spine, dammit, “I do love a challenge.”

With that, he moves away so quickly that his heat immediately evaporates, and if it wasn’t for the swirling in her stomach, Emma would swear it was all a dream.

What the hell just happened?

There’s a low whistle across the bar. “Emma fucking Swan.”

Emma whips her hair toward the sound, and her jaw may literally drop. “Ruby?”

“Oh, so you remember me,” Ruby scoffs. She’s smiling, but there’s fury in her eyes. “I figured you’d forgotten since we only talk on the phone and you’re not living in our apartment anymore.”

“What are you doing here, Rubes?” Emma asks as she leans over the bar to hug her. At least Ruby hugs back. She doesn’t have to, and Emma appreciates that.

Ruby settles down on the stool in front of her, and Emma realizes the entire bar is staring at the two of them. “I took off for your birthday, remember? We were going to binge watch TV and stuff our faces with junk food and feel no guilt about it.”

“Shit happened.”

“And by shit you mean Walsh cheating, your job sucking, and then this crazy lady leaving you a house even though she tried to kill you when you were a teenager?”

“Ruby,” Emma hisses, “shut up. Everyone can hear you, and I don’t want everyone knowing my business.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Emma doesn’t dare look over at Killian to see if he heard all that. She doesn’t need to. She knows that he heard it all. It’s that whole perceptive thing. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? You must be so tired after the drive.”

“The biggest glass of wine you have. You know what I like.”

Emma nods and turns around to their wine selection before Killian walks up behind her again, this time putting more distance between them. It still feels like he’s right there though, like he never really left.

“You okay, love?”

“Just dandy.”

“Well, your use of the word ‘dandy’ makes me think otherwise.”

Emma rolls her eyes and looks up at him. His eyes are stupid concerned and stupid blue, and who does he think he is being so concerned about her when he barely knows her?

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, hot guy who’s flirting with my friend,” Ruby yells out. Killian’s brow raises at her as his eyes glance to the side. He’s silently asking her for permission to talk to Ruby, and her resolve deflates immediately. She nods and steps away with the wine, leaving him to Ruby. “What’s your name?”

“Killian Jones. Are you the infamous Ruby Lucas?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me. That’s funny because I’ve heard nothing about you.”

“You’re obviously much more interesting than me.”

Ruby takes a sip of the wine Emma pours for her before Emma is called to the other end of the bar to deal with some of the cops who are here after their shift. Her ears never leave Killian and Ruby’s conversation, though.

“I mean, obviously,” Ruby agrees, leaning forward so her boobs are nearly falling out of her dress. Emma almost drops a beer glass. “What exactly do you think you’re doing with Emma? She doesn’t need some knight in shining armor to rescue her just because she’s a little vulnerable right now. I mean, you obviously ran a background – ”

Emma’s grip loosens until the tray of beer glasses she was holding slips out of her hands and falls to the ground, glass splitting off into shards and covering the floor.

Shit.

“Don’t move, Swan,” Killian calls out, immediately moving away from Ruby and coming toward her, glass crunching underneath his boots. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she croaks out. In truth, she doesn’t know. her heart is in her throat, and she can’t really breathe. “I’m fine.”

His eyes scan over hers, but he doesn’t dispute her words. “I’m going to clean this up, okay? Why don’t you go sit with your friend? Be careful. I’m not sure how thick your shoes are.”

All Emma can do is nod, and she’s basically a robot as she walks toward Ruby, who is still sipping on her wine and tapping away at her phone. Emma loves her, but sometimes she doesn’t think before she acts. Half the time it works out, and half the time it means Emma is stuck cleaning up Ruby’s messes.

(While Killian seems to be stuck cleaning up Emma’s.)

“What the hell?” she hisses, trying to keep quiet. “You’ve been here for ten minutes, and you’re already telling everyone shit they don’t need to know.” “I didn’t mean to! I mean, I figured he did know since you’re obviously sleeping with him as well as working for him.”

What the hell?

“I’m not sleeping with him. I’m not sleeping with anyone. And he didn’t run a background check on me. Killian’s a good guy, and he’s doing me a lot of favors, okay?”

“If you’re not sleeping with him, he definitely wants to sleep with you. Like, he’s having eye sex with you right now.” “You’re gross, and you have the mind of a teenage boy.”

“I’m speaking the truth,” Ruby nods while her mouth opens with a long yawn.

“Rubes, why don’t you go back to my hotel room, okay? It’s late, and you’re tired. I’ll meet you when my shift is over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “and we can talk about what we’re going to do for my birthday tomorrow.” Ruby smiles, and Emma tries to let some of her anger fade away. This is her best friend, and she’s got her own faults just like Emma does. Hell, Emma pretty much ghosted her for two months, and Ruby isn’t even really mad. They’ve both got their issues. It’s fine. It’s life. Ruby has never done anything to purposefully hurt Emma.

Ruby takes Emma’s hotel key and leaves, and for the rest of her shift, Killian tiptoes around her. He’s timid and not making any of his jokes. There’s almost no personality to him, and for a few moments, she starts to believe that he’s mad at her. In actuality, he’s probably just realized he’s been working with someone with a criminal past for two months.

“Hey, Killian? Can we talk?”

“Swan – ” he hesitates, holding the chair he was about to put up.

“No, just, please let me explain some of this, some of what Ruby said.”

His lips are pressed tightly together. “You want to come upstairs? I have coffee there.”

“Coffee sounds great.”

They stop what they’re doing, and Killian turns on his heels to walk up to the second floor of the bar to where she knows his apartment is. She’s never been up this staircase, never even thought about it, but she follows him without question. His apartment isn’t much. It’s clean, which doesn’t shock her for how Killian is, and all of the appliances have been updated. Other than that, though, it’s pretty bare bones – brown leather couch, television mounted on the wall, coffee table full of books that should be on the tall bookshelves against the wall, and a bed with a deep blue comforter pushed back against the wall behind a half-wall.

Oh, and a coffee machine. An actual one. Not a Keurig.

That’s where Killian starts puttering around, not bothering to tell her to make herself at home or not to touch anything. His words can be flowery sometimes, but oftentimes he doesn’t say anything at all, simply letting her decide what she wants.

She kind of likes that.

Except for right now when she’s freaking out.

“So,” she begins.

“You want milk in your coffee right? I’m afraid I don’t have your preferred creamer.”

“Milk is fine. So, Killian, I – ”

“Look,” he starts, his voice gruff, “I don’t care about your past. We all have one, myself included, and it’s not great. So unless you’re a murderer or are going to rob me blind, I don’t need to know.” He turns to her as the coffee percolates and raises both brows, wrinkles appearing on his forehead. “Are you a murderer or are you going to rob me blind?”

“No,” Emma quietly admits.

“Then I know everything I need to know unless you really want to tell me why I would need to run a background check on you.”

She bites down on her lip, her stomach twirling. She never wants to tell anyone this, but the words are at the tip of her tongue. “I was sixteen, had just been taken out of Ingrid’s custody, and I was dating this older guy. I loved him, thought he loved me too, but then he stole some watches, framed me for it, and got the hell out of dodge. I went to jail for it, but I promise I didn’t do it. I’m not going to rob you blind. The only things I’ve ever stolen were some keychains and food when my foster parents didn’t give me dinner.”

Straightforward and only the facts. That’s the only way she can talk about Neal without hurling.

Killian’s brows furrow, and she wonders if he can express every emotion with just his eyebrows. It almost seems like it. “He’s a bastard. So is the bloke who cheated on you, by the way. A bloody fool.”

“I agree with that.”

Killian breathes out and turns around, opening up a cabinet to pull down a coffee mug, pouring milk and coffee into her cup before pouring black coffee into his. He hands hers over to her, and she immediately takes a sip while Killian stares down at his mug, tapping his fingers on the countertop.

And then he’s pulling up his Henley’s left sleeve until she can see those familiar red scars.

“I was in the Navy in England,” he begins. “I thought it was my calling. I loved everything about it, and then there was a damn mechanical misfiring that caused an explosion and tore up my arm and part of my torso. Hurt like hell, and I don’t know…I guess I kind of lost the passion for serving, and when my contract ended, I didn’t reenlist. Then I moved here. I’ve got dual citizenship. Mum was an American.”

“I thought you said people don’t run because of jobs?”

“I did say that.”

“Isn’t that what you did?”

“I ran because of my girlfriend ending our relationship to go back to her husband I didn’t know about and my brother’s death,” Killian corrects. The job simply happened to give me the push.”

Emma’s got a million questions, but she doesn’t think she should ask them. It’s probably best not to. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Aye,” he laughs, scratching his ear. “It does. Life sucks, as you put it. That’s why I don’t judge you. That’s why I’m so willing to help you out with the job and with your house. You looked like you needed some help, and I know what it’s like to be in your position.”

Oh.

No one has ever done something like that for her, not really, and Emma thinks to herself once more that under all of his gruff and brooding and penchant for getting angry at customers, he’s a good man. She gets up and walks over to him, pressing up on her toes to lightly brush her lips over his cheek. His scruff burns against her lips, and she gets a stronger whiff of cologne than she ever has as her own cheeks heat up.

“Thank you, Killian.”

He scares her, in more ways than one, but weirdly, she almost craves that little jolt of fear, one she feels in the tingling of her lips far after she leaves his apartment.

-/-

Things shift after that night. It’s not in some monumental, earth-shattering way, but there’s definitely a difference in how Emma and Killian interact. Ruby spends the weekend with them, touring the house and sharing her opinions on what it looks like now and how it should look in the future. Ruby doesn’t get why Emma is staying in Storybrooke, doesn’t understand why she can’t get rid of the place and come back to Boston, but she still supports Emma. It’s what friends do unless they’re making batshit crazy decisions.

Ruby’s words. Not hers.

Besides, Ruby is convinced that Emma is staying for Killian, which actually would be batshit crazy. She’s not staying here for him. She’s staying here because she needs to fix up this house. She needs to fix up this house to prove she can, sell it, and wash her hands of anything and everything that Ingrid left behind.

Killian gives her the night off for her birthday, tells her to go out and have fun, but since there’s only one bar in town, they hang out at the Rabbit Hole and drink fruity drinks Killian hates making and eat onion rings he made specifically for her, mumbling something about how he knows that she really wanted to spend her day at home in pajamas eating junk food instead of hanging out at the place where she works.

She doesn’t mind, not really. Especially when Killian tells her that he’ll cover her tab for the night, throwing her a downright dirty wink and whispering in her ear that he’d take tips in other ways.

Ridiculous man. Such a cocky asshole sometimes.

When Ruby leaves town and heads back to Boston, she tells Emma to stop being stupid and to do something good with what she’s got here. If she’s going to be here, she needs to make it worth it.

Emma tries to do just that. She really does, but as the months pass and the house gets closer and closer to being presentable (and functionable) enough to sell, all Emma can think is that she’s got an apartment back in Boston and a job that will take her back if she begs just enough.

Boston is safe. Boston is…home. In Boston, there’s no man with blue eyes and a sharp wit who makes her stomach swirl like she’s got damn butterflies fluttering around in there.

Leaving Killian makes her heart ache, but admitting that to herself is something she’s barely capable of. Admitting it to him would be damn near impossible.

-/-

“Swan,” Killian calls out as she walks into the bar, “come help me get these blasted lights up. I thought it would be nice to make it a little festive in here for Christmas.”

He’s standing on a chair up against the wall, box after box of white lights scattered around his feet, and as capable as Killian is, this seems like a disaster waiting to happen. She takes a step toward him, a step toward his bright smile and slightly overgrown beard, but then she stops. She was supposed to be in and out, just like that. She wasn’t supposed to get attached.

She can’t stay.

“I sold the house, Killian.”

He drops a string of lights to the ground, small shards of glass scattering everywhere.

Shit.

“You what?”

“I’m going to sell the house,” she corrects. Her heart is beating faster than it ever has. “I got an offer from a couple from New York who wanted it as a vacation home and are going to finish the renovations and add on an extra room. I don’t really know. But it’s money that I need and that will help me out back in Boston.”

“Emma – ”

She hates when he says her first name. It makes her throat tighten and her stomach ache, and no matter how many times he says it instead of calling her by one of his many names for her, she’ll never get used to it.

She swallows the lump in her throat.

“You’re leaving?” Killian asks, obviously devastated. She hates that she knows the looks on his face and knows how he feels without even a word now. She nods. He knows her looks as well. “Stay, Emma.”

“I can’t.” “Why not? Why can’t you stay?”

“I don’t live here. I have a life back in Boston. I have friends, a job, a – ”

“A what?”

“I don’t know,” Emma groans, hot tears pricking in her eyes. When did any of this happen? How did it happen? How did she allow herself to have so many feelings? “I don’t know, but I can’t stay here. It was only supposed to be a day, maybe a week. It wasn’t supposed to be months. It wasn’t supposed to be this.”

She motions between the two of them, speaking the words that neither of them have spoken over long days working at the house, long nights working here, and too quick of times watching movies in his apartment or grabbing lunch at Granny’s or even racing each other on their runs.

She knows. He does too.

“You can see a future here, and that scares you,” Killian tells her, stepping close.

“Oh, let me guess, with you.”

“Aye,” Killian says as he steps into her space, the now familiar scent of his cologne surrounding her while the warmth of his hands presses through her jeans and then her sweater as his hands move from her hips to her shoulders. “You and I both know – ”

“We don’t know anything!”

His jaw clenches, and she knows he’s holding back. She knows him well enough to know he’s pressing down the fire within him.

“Emma,” he whispers, and her heart does that thing again that’s got to be medically impossible, “you have been the best part of my life for the past four months, and I know that I can’t ask you to stay. I have already, but I can’t honestly be selfish enough to think that you’ll stay just for me. What I can’t do, darling, is let you go without telling you how I feel.”

Her heart may be in her throat now because she can’t breathe. Not at all. Why the hell are his eyes so blue and earnest? Why is he so earnest?

She nods again, and he smiles this soft little smile that makes his eyes crinkle.

“I am rather fond of you, Emma Swan. I’m fond of the way that your smile shifts from small to absolutely beaming and the way that you laugh at your little comedy podcasts we listen to while we’re working. I’m fond of the way that you call me out on my shit and the way that you help me every day, even if you don’t know it. I’m fond of the smell of your perfume and the way I find long blonde strands of hair on all of my clothes even if I didn’t wear the shirt around you. I’m fond of the way you’ve weaved your way into every part of my life so seamlessly while I’ve had to carefully take a hammer to the bricks you built up around your heart.”

His hands trace up her neck, shivers running down her spine and bumps rising up over her skin. “I like you,” Killian continues, “and I don’t want you to go back to Boston thinking that you don’t have a life here. Everyone in this town would welcome you with open arms, but I’d be standing at the front waiting for you.”

Emma’s never been good with words, has never been an expert at expressing how she feels, but she has been good with actions. It’s why she wraps her arms around his neck, fingers tickling along the nape of his neck and into his hair, and kisses him.

She kisses him.

His lips are soft, softer than should even be possible, and his beard brushes against her skin much like it did when she kissed his cheek a few weeks ago while Killian quietly grunts into the kiss. They don’t move much, mouth pressed against mouth, but Emma finds herself getting lost in it. She imagined what it would be like kissing Killian Jones, something she would never admit to anyone else, but it was nothing like this. She didn’t feel it all over her, didn’t feel emotions swirling in her stomach and spreading over her skin, and she definitely didn’t think it would make her this happy.

She’s not sure when or how this happened, how exactly he hammered down the bricks around her heart, but she’s infinitely glad that he did.

Piece by piece and stone by stone.

“I don’t know if I can stay,” Emma whispers when she pulls back from the kiss, her forehead resting against his while her heart beats too fast. “I don’t – ”

“You don’t have to stay, darling. I simply ask that no matter your decision, you still allow me to be a part of your life, however you decide.”

Emma nods in affirmation before kissing him again, hungrily gliding her lips over his while heat curls between her thighs at the feel of Killian pressed up against her. The first kiss was soft, gentle, and while this one could still be described that way, there’s a fire simmering underneath her skin that comes to the surface with Killian’s hearty growl and the way that he starts backing her across the bar until her back is against the wall next to the staircase. Killian captures her gasp with his mouth, and she melts into him some more.

They should talk more. They really should, but they’ve talked for four months, and when Killian asks her if she’d like to go upstairs, she gladly says yes.

They shed their clothes the moment they’re in his apartment, tugging at shirts and pants as Killian finds the skin of her neck and leaves warm, open-mouthed kisses there while it takes everything in Emma to keep running her hands over his sides, feeling the warm skin and slightly marked up places. She’s already warm everywhere, gooseflesh rising, and her breathing is uneven as Killian keeps touching her.

It’s amazing.

And he’s beautiful. It’s all dark skin and lean muscle, someone who doesn’t work out much at the gym but is active, and he’s got dark patches of hair covering his chest and stomach, some of the black hiding the tattoos he has scrawled across his skin. She thinks most of the ones on his torso are there to cover up the scars from his accident, and Emma takes the time to trace her finger over the ink and over the scars, making sure to occasionally watch Killian’s face as she does so.

Of all of the times Killian has looked at her with admiration in his eyes, it’s never been quite like that.

She is so screwed.

When they reach the bed after Killian slamming his lips back into hers and whispering absolutely filthy things into her ear, his hand easily finds where she’s sensitive. He runs his fingers there, making her gasp and moan and whine that she needs more. Killian gladly gives her more.

There’s a push and pull, whispered words of want shared, and she gets lost in it.

He’s warm and thick when he buries himself inside of her, and his moan is one of the most delicious sounds she’s ever heard. His blue eyes are almost completely black now, but they’re no less beautiful. Everything about this is intimate, from the way that Killian kisses her to the controlled movement of his hips, sliding in and out in a slow rhythm that she knows is for her. A part of her wants more, wants faster and harder, but the other part of her is still catching up to the fact that this is real.

This is happening.

And she’s happy.

That might be the most shocking part of the entire thing. Emma is happy, which kind of snuck up on her without her really realizing it, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, she can feel herself smiling during sex.

Is this what this is supposed to be like? Is this what it’s always supposed to have been like?

Killian smiles right back at her, letting his brows unfurrow from how they were folded in concentration, and then he’s dipping back down to move his teeth over her lips, a light graze that means almost everything to her all the while his hand dips down to where they are joined, the movement making her see all of those metaphorical stars.

Or, at least, something similar in blue orbs and a kind smile.

This is good. This is how things are supposed to be.

Happy.

“Killian?” she asks later. Sweat has dried on her skin, her hair curling around the temples, and she’s folded herself into Killian’s side while her legs are tucked between his calves. Her fingers can’t stop moving through his chest hair, untangling the patches, before moving down to trace over his tattoos and scars once more. She likes the way the red mixes in with the colors of ink.

“Yeah, Swan?”

She nearly giggles at the deep set of his voice, at how it’s harsh and soft all at once, kind of like him.

“I’m rather fond of you too. I thought you should know that.”

“The sex kind of clued me into that.”

“No, I meant. I – you…”

“I know exactly what you meant, love,” he promises as his head dips until his lips press into hers. “I was teasing you. You don’t have to tell me that.”

“I know, but I still want to. You deserve to hear the words as much as I do.”

-/-

She ends up selling the house to the couple from New York.

She puts away the money into her savings account, which was really nothing more than pennies and a few dust bunnies, and for the first time in her life, she has options.

Go back to Boston. Go anywhere.

Or stay in Storybrooke.

Stay in Storybrooke where the people are kind and know her by name, where the beach is nearby and often empty, where she could have a bit of quiet in her life, something that’s also been a novelty for someone who has never really had a quiet she liked. They’ve always been too haunting. This is comforting.

Stay in Storybrooke where there’s a man with blue eyes and the devil in his smile.

Only in the best way, of course, and she can’t keep her own smile away when thinking of him.

Of this life here.

So she stays. It’s what she feels in her heart is right, even if it means leaving her life in Boston behind. And she’s not staying for Killian. As great as he is and as happy as she is that she’s going to be around him, this is all for herself. After Emma tells Ruby her decision, Ruby is disappointed at first, but she promises to visit and still annoy the hell out of her. Emma doesn’t doubt it for a second.

Killian helps her find a place of her own after she tells him that she’s staying. The smile on his face has never been brighter, even when she rejects his offer to stay in the spare room behind the bar that he can renovate into a bedroom. It’s a kind offer, and she imagines she’ll be there often to spend time in Killian’s apartment, but she needs to do this on her own. It’s a new adventure, and she likes a challenge. Besides, if she and Killian keep flirting and making out like teenagers, she imagines one day she’ll be fine living with him.

Who has she become? Being so hopeful like that.

She likes it.

It’s a year and a half later when she and Killian sign the deed to a house on the shoreline, shutters falling off and porch rotting.

“So, Swan, you ready to fix up our new home?”

His fingers tangle into hers while her lips press into his jawline.

Our home.

She likes the sound of that.

“Yeah,” she smiles, “I am.”

-/-

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#what a plot twist you were #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #cs January joy #cs jj #captain swan January joy

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smolbeandrabbles · 5 years ago

Text

The Other Side - Nolan Sorrento x Reader (Ready Player One)

Author’s Note: AH! Nolan requests! My boy!!! Actually he worked pretty well for me for these two so that’s awesome news! And here’s the first! Requested by @purebloodwitch 💜 Thank you for requesting!!! 😊

The Other Side - Parachute

Disclaimer: RPO characters not mine / GIF not mine / lyrics not mine

Premise: Nolan arrives home late, but even though you’re not awake you sure do still give him a lot to think about...

Words: 2009

Warnings: N/A

_______ I feel the beat of your heart on my skin As I count all the breaths that I've watched you breathe in I can still taste the kiss that you left on my lips In the silence comes a sleep Like the tide comes to the beach So darling Go make your way through the dreams that you dream Darling you can take all of the time that you need You know you're not alone as you swim through the deep Like a ship calls through the fog You won't hear me till you're gone So darling I can't wait for you to wake up I want to be there when you open your eyes Darling don't look back No need to worry I'll be here waiting on the other side On the other side Yeah I'll be here waiting on the other side

---

It was late when Nolan left the office to drive home – it hadn’t been his intention to stay so late; especially as the weather was getting colder and the days shorter. But the work of a CEO was never done, and he’d rather do it all here rather than take any work home; he already knew he did that far too often. You worked at home a lot these days, and did a lot of volunteering work to try to help those in the Stacks the best that you could; the nature of the shifts meant you were usually out after, and back earlier, than he was. When he realised he’d certainly be back late, Nolan had called you at home to tell you not to wait for dinner, or wait up for him. About an hour later he’d received a delivery from his favourite takeout spot – along with a love note from you to make sure that he ate. He had to smile, because you were always doing things like this for him. And certainly made sure that he was looked after – he did his best to provide for you and even harder to be around; the weekend was time for you only and IOI got left to its own devices for two days. But you knew the remits and responsibilities of his job title – and you never once begrudged Nolan that. Getting into his car, pulling his favourite coat a little tighter against the wind chill, he automatically thought back to leaving you this morning. Judging by the time of night it was now, it would be your only interaction of the day. He was sorry for that, but the thought had him chuckling to himself as he started the engine. It was early – and you knew that Nolan was schedule to begin meetings far before 9am and, knowing him, finish late. He had some serious presentations coming up, and a conference in LA before the end of the month – luckily he was taking you with him to that one – you were looking forward to some West Coast sunshine to juxtapose the current climate here. Still you rolled yourself over, and finding yourself in bed alone was no less disappointing even when it was predictable – the sheets twisted around your body, ensnaring you, and no matter how you wiggled they didn’t want to let you go. You glanced to the clock, wondering if Nolan would even see sunlight today, and forced your body upright as he crossed the room to check his presentability in the mirror one last time. “Nolannnnn….” You were still a little disorientated, having just woken, and managed to swing your legs around to stand up, bringing the bedding with you. He pulled on his overcoat but waited for you to pad across the room and hug his shoulders, chest pressed against his back – you squeezed him tight, inhaling his cologne; he’d chosen a good one this morning, probably wildly expensive. “I love you…” You mumbled it softly, and then shivered – even when the heating in the house was on, out of the warmth of your bed it was freezing. Sorrento turned around, wrapping you in his arms to kiss your forehead; “I promise, I’ve got one early meeting and then I’ll get coffee and breakfast. And then I’ll call you – and you should be awake by then, okay? Now, it’s freezing – you’re at home today and it’s looking likely to snow - so for goodnessake wrap up warm and stay in bed…!” You pouted slightly; “But I miss you.” He chuckled, kissing you again, “I know. Now hush - look, get in bed you can hardly keep your eyes open… You need your rest… bed – NOW!” You tsk’d him, snuggling into his coat; “Five more minutes…” Which was funny, because usually you’d be dragging him back to bed and saying such things. Today you wanted to be up just to see him off. Nolan sighed gently, running a hand through your hair; “One more minute. The bed is probably more comfortable than me.” You giggled, and stepped back “Okay, stay safe on the road, please. And keep me updated on your day!” “You know I will.” He pulled you back to him, catching you in a sweet kiss “Now be good!” “I will…!” You beamed “Don’t forget your Umbrella!” well he had said snow. He laughed, “Wouldn’t dream of it – Sweet dreams!” “Have a good meeting honey, give them what for!” “Y/N, I will – just for you!” ** Every light in the house was off as he pulled into the driveway, and he just hoped that his car engine wasn’t about to wake you up either. Nolan shut it off quickly and collected his things, shutting the car door as quietly as he opened the front. You’d left the landing light on for him to walk safely up the stairs, and the hall light on for him to deposit his things. She’s far too good to me… He shook his head slowly; throwing his coat on the night stand he wandered through into the kitchen loosening his tie. Usually Nolan was a wine enthusiast and he liked to end his day and unwind with a glass of alcohol, but it was a whisky evening – and his pour was a little liberal. He took the glass with him as he performed his routine nightly checks before switching off the downstairs light and setting the alarms. Nolan was as quiet as possible as he entered your bedroom, and as expected you were already asleep, and as your final act of kindness, you’d left his bedside lamp on. “Far too good to me.” He repeated, this time with a murmur as he sipped his drink, placing the glass on the dresser as he unfurled the knot on his tie carefully, watching you. You were once again buried in sheets and the duvet, opting for a blanket on top of all that, your hair was about the only thing visible under the covers; and your hands, with the position you always left them in beside your head on your pillow. Nolan chuckled, pulling his shirt from his pants and undoing the buttons just as slow – strolling around the bedroom to get a better look at you, wondering if there was ever a time you would be unpredictable. He didn’t have a problem with that, after all, it always gave him a sense of familiarity and safety to return home to. Always with a smile on your face and an affectionate hug, not letting him go until he’d received at least one kiss on the cheek. He paused, and couldn’t help – nor was about to stop - the smile spreading across his face. There was something certainly angelic about the calmness on your face as you slept; and you were a deep sleeper – continuously lost in dreams that you loved telling him about; be they funny, or sweet, or sexy, or downright weird. You must have been asleep for a while, as your hair was already mussed and had fallen across your eyes. Nolan discarded his shirt into the washing basket and removed his belt, picking his glass up again he took another sip, his head tipped as he accidently knocked into his table; focusing too much on you. He cringed; sound amplified by how quiet it was, but you barely stirred. The covers slipped from your shoulders, and even with the night shirt you were wearing, the material was thin enough for him to make out the intricate tattoo across your shoulder underneath. It was something that he loved tracing his fingertips across when you lay together and it was in just the right spot to kiss, and often. His eyes traced the curve of your spine and watched your rhythmic breathing – and Nolan’s smile hadn’t faded, if anything he was positively beaming now. There was something about this that was so much more intimate than anything else he could do; how vulnerable you were right now. How much faith and trust you had in him to sleep here alone and wait for him to get back. Faith Nolan would actually come back. Sorrento slipped into his pyjamas and headed to the en-suite, downing the last of his glass and filling it with water instead. He was midway through brushing his teeth when he heard you call his name – pausing to check it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, you called him softly once more and then a third time a little more urgently. “Babe, are you okay? It’s okay, I’m he-” He swung around the bathroom door, only to realise you were calling him in your sleep. Nolan chuckled once more, crossing back to you – this time he did touch you, gently moving your hair out of your eyes to frame your face. “Nolan…” You sighed it this time, gentle and dreamily to match the plain you were on. He chuckled. “Oh, Y/N, are you dreaming about me?” He wondered how you would dream about him, and whether you’d confess to such sweet things in the morning – or if he should even enquire. He bent to brush his lips to your forehead, and your calm features were suddenly replaced by an absent-minded smile. He liked that too – whether you were conscious, or, sub-conscious of the fact he was there, your body still reacted to him and always positively. “God, you’re so damn beautiful…” He breathed gently, tracing his fingertips over your hand, “I love you so much… you know…” Nolan’s face pulled into an expression much more of melancholy; “I don’t deserve you, Y/N. Shit – I know I don’t…” he shook his head; “But you’re still here… and damn I’m going to try to be at least half as good as you deserve. Because I also know this; all you really deserve is the best…” He kissed your cheek this time, before pulling away to finish up in the bathroom. As soon as his body joined yours in the sheets you smiled again – and as before, your body snuggled into his – earning his arms wrapping around you. You whispered his name once more, curling your arms around his. And Nolan kissed your shoulder through your shirt before kissing your hair, and let your sleeping form adjust to his; pulling him closer for his warmth. He curled his body protectively around yours, but he didn’t close his eyes for a moment; listening to your breathing and the feel of your pulse in time with his. He always liked to take moments like this with you, whether you knew about them or not. Space to tell you everything he wanted to, about his insecurities and how much he appreciated you. Nolan already knew you meant more to him than anything; even more than Halliday’s contest. He was just extremely bad at telling you that when you were looking at him, when you were just so in love that Nolan knew it was a feeling he simply couldn’t replicate – his love language just didn’t work that way. But here, in the quiet of the night, with your body as close to his as it could possibly be, in a moment so vulnerable and intimate, Nolan Sorrento could tell you anything – and regularly did. Even if it was a secret between him and the sheets. Even if before he was finished pouring his heart out his eyes got heavy and he drifted off, all the thoughts were there. But Nolan always managed to end with ‘thank you’ – because for everything you did for him, whether you were aware you were doing it or not. That was all he could say – and when you heard it from him, no matter how he decided to say it, you knew every single complex word or thought poured behind those simple ones too. You heard everything he couldn’t say. And whether he vocalised it or not, with those two words Nolan’s heart spoke to yours in ways that ‘I love you’ never could.

---

Thank You For Reading! 😘

@menndelsohn @3134045126 @happyskywhale @wltz-bby #MendoTagSquad

@primadonna-girl23 - For your interest in Nolan too! Your request will be out soon! 💙💜🙏

#There will never be enough Nolan Sorrento on my blog #Nolan Sorrento #Ben Mendelsohn #Nolan Sorrento x Reader #Ready Player One #Linzi Writes #Smol Bean Drabbles #Linzi Writes Requests #I don't really think I have a lot more to add to my tags #I always did want to use this song somewhere though!#And Parachute are one of his so...#actually using my placeholder GIF because I couldn't think of another one I'd want to use... We need some more. For sure.#Ben's facial acting is just...#SO GOOD #131

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selfindulgentpoorlywritten · 5 years ago

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Home (T. Konecny & N. Patrick Imagine)

I didn’t finish this, but I don’t have the motivation to either. So enjoy 3k of self-indulgent bs I wrote when I was upset.

Rating: T

Pairing: T. Konecny/Reader/N. Patrick

Words: 3008

Warnings: Food, general negativity

Requested: yes / no

Summary: *Daniel Powter voice* You had a bad day...

Life sucks.

Life sucks and everything is terrible and you’re so fucking tired.

Your shift had gotten changed and no one bothered to tell you, so you woke up at 5:15 to your manager asking why you weren’t there yet, even though you usually don’t start until 7. Thus, you had to scramble through getting ready and driving to work in record time, except you didn’t realize until you’d gotten to the stadium that you’d forgotten your badge, so not only were you late, but they had to make you a temporary. Luckily you’re generally a good employee, so you just had to apologize a thousand times and work a little faster than usual, which is objectively better than getting fired. But it also sucked extra, because the reason your shift had been changed was due to them accidentally giving too many people the day off, so you were understaffed with a 3 o’clock 76’ers game to prepare for. Even on a calm day, hauling around boxes of food and delivering them to the kitchens was enough of a workout to justify not spending money on a gym membership, but with being half staffed and starting late, you were ready to collapse by time you were finished. Your entire body ached.

It would have been bad enough if it were just a rushed day, but everyone seemed to be in a pissy mood as well. The cooks snapped at you, because the chefs snapped at them, except the chefs also snapped at you, so you just got the business end of everyone’s bad mood. Plus you always felt bad when you were late to work or late with a delivery anyway, and you’d barely been sleeping, and you were constantly hungry but too nauseous to eat, and you couldn’t sit still for five minutes but moving was exhausting. So you were just guilty and irritated and mad at the entire world but mostly at yourself.

Once you clock out, you don’t even bother pretending to consider going back to your place. Traffic is a bitch, because you head out at the same time everyone is coming in for the game. You want to scream. You may or may not roll your windows up and do so, but no one can prove anything.

By time you reach your destination, the frustration has faded to leave you empty and apathetic and more tired than you’ve been in a long time. The doorman greets you, and usually you’d ask how he is and make small talk for a minute, but right now all you can do is shoot him as much of a smile as you can manage and thank him as you enter. The elevator ride feels like it takes a thousand years. The sight of their door is your first bit of relief in days; you don’t even have to dig out your key because it’s unlocked. Leaving it unlocked is probably not the most responsible decision, but they’re not the most responsible pair out there, and you might have sent them several frustrated texts during stolen seconds throughout the morning that would imply you’d be coming over.

You stop in the entryway to drop your bag and kick off your (ugly) regulation non-slip shoes. Just being here allows you to take a deep breath and relax, even minutely. You find Nolan in the kitchen, leaning on the island as he reads something on his phone and snacks on something definitely not on his diet plan. For a moment, you allow yourself to simply look. To appreciate the strong cut of his jaw, the constant flush of his cheeks, the curl of his hair against the nape of his neck.

“Hey nerd,” you greet, padding over to wrap your arms around him from behind. He hums, pressing back into you a bit. With your face buried into him, eyes closed, you can hear the quiet clack of him putting his phone down.

“Bad day, huh?” he asks, already knowing the answer. You just groan, pulling away enough to grab his hand and pull him out of the kitchen and toward the couch. He sits obediently, propping his feet up on the ottoman so you can spread out over the rest of the couch with your head in his lap. One hand on the side of your neck, he uses the other to play with your hair and scratch your scalp. It can’t be pleasant for him. You’re still sweaty and grimy from work, desperately in need of a shower, but he continues nevertheless.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. You don’t really want to, and you know he probably doesn’t want to either, so you save both of you the trouble by shaking your head.

“When’s Travis gonna be home?” you ask after a few minutes, turning onto your back after breaking the peaceful silence. Nolan checks his watch.

“Like twenty minutes,” he says, settling his hand over your collarbone now that you’ve turned. You let out another groan. Twenty fucking minutes.

“He’s at a meeting, he’ll be home soon,” Nolan mumbles, trying to appease you. Soon, hah, not soon enough. It was nice to mope with Nolan, doing nothing but laying around and letting his calm demeanor soothe you, but you always prefer to have them both around. Nolan can settle you like no other, but Travis was better at actually cheering you up. Working together, they made the perfect resolution to a shitty day.

Twenty minutes ends up being closer to thirty. The first half is spent with Nolan stroking his thumb along the skin under the collar of your uniform shirt, until you start feeling too gross and decide you should definitely get a shower. They have way better water pressure than you do, and you savor the hot water beating over your sore back until you hear the front door open. Trav is home. After giving yourself a cursory towel-dry and wrapping the (ridiculously) soft towel around yourself, you don’t bother getting dressed before bounding out to intercept him before he can even make it through the bedroom door. He laughs when you catch him in a hug, but squeezes you back nonetheless.

The two of you get changed together, chatting a bit about your days. He switches from his suit to a t-shirt and athletic shorts, and you pick out something cozy from your designated drawer. The urge to steal something of theirs to comfort yourself is powerful, but you resist, because you have them already. Who needs one of their oversized shirts when you have the real deal?

Once dressed, Travis wraps his arms around you from behind, huddling up against your back and enveloping you in his perpetual warmth. He waddles the two of you to the living room, keeping you plastered to his front, like a parent helping their child work out their first unsteady steps. The exaggerated swaying is exactly ridiculous enough to get a laugh out of you, the barest giggle that feels cathartic after the awful day you’ve had. The sound makes Travis cheer, pulling your arm up into a fistpump of success, which only makes you giggle more. As previously stated: Travis is really good at cheering you up.

During your time in the master suite, Nolan has gathered various pillows and blankets from around the condo and made a sort-of nest on the couch. You grab your favorite stuffed animal from the pile the second Travis lets you go, fussing with the pile of bedclothes until it’s arranged to your satisfaction. Then you proceed to arrange Travis and Nolan to your liking; Nols on the left with his feet on the ottoman as he likes, Trav wedged into the corner on the right, one leg spanning the back of the couch until his foot can bury itself behind Nolan, while the other leg is bent at the knee to settle his left foot flat on the floor. They are both more than adequately propped and padded with pillows, allowing them to be comfortable whilst providing you the perfect resting place.

The moment you’re fully settled in-- head on Travis’s left thigh, feet on Nolan’s lap, angled perfectly to see the TV without straining your neck or eyes, nor sacrificing full view-- Nolan hands you the remote without debate or question. You click through the usual streaming services for a few minutes, finding nothing of interest. Honestly, you already know what you want to watch, who are you kidding. Rather than continue the charade of considering other options, you click through to a less-than-savory streaming app Trav had installed a while back, despite Nolan’s concern for viruses. You go straight to the search bar and quickly to your favorite cheer-up movie, lodging the remote half under your forearm after pressing play. One final adjustment in position, and you’re set for the next two hours.

Throughout the movie, Nolan absently massages your calves and ankles, which he’s unusually good at, probably from getting so many massages at the rink. Travis scratches your scalp gently, rubbing at the base of your skull now and again, lucky to get you post-shower. They both let you make your commentary without complaint, even throwing their own comments in here and there. Maybe you got a bit too into the things you liked, and learned a gratuitous amount about them, and occasionally wanted to share your knowledge, despite it being entirely useless. You didn’t need to feel smart, necessarily, just heard. Understood.

The screen finally fades to black, jumping back to the preview screen automatically. Though Nol maneuvers your legs so he can stand and hobble to the kitchen, shaking out his knees along the way, you simply close your eyes and appreciate the situation. Yes, you had a shitty day. But you also have two wonderful, loving boyfriends who put off their game tape to watch your favorite movies for the millionth time, curl up with you for hours even if it makes their joints go stiff, listen to you ramble about the things you’re passionate about with admiration rather than complaint… You’re burrowed under your favorite comforter, with your favorite people, in a safe place, with the promise of forever under your tongue.

Nolan brings back two bowls with a properly portioned amount of diet-appropriate snacks, that he hands to you and Travis to hold while he settles back in. One bowl has these weird “bites” that only Nolan likes, so that ends up in his hands before you start the next movie, Trav holding the bowl of home-made trail mix the both of you will presumably share. You all snack and watch your favorite rom-com, probably more invested than you should be after having seen it this many times. But it serves as an adequate relief from the leftover stress of your day. Plus, witnessing TK and Nolan evolve from pretending not to care about the story, to nearly screaming at the TV when the characters do stupid things, is always a bonus and a privilege. It’s difficult for them, especially as professional hockey players, to express anything both genuine and outside the scope of traditional masculinity, you know that; that’s why it’s such a stunning scene to be allowed to witness. Any time they allow themselves to openly feel around you, you feel more trusted, more loved.

After the fade to black snaps back to the preview screen, it’s roundabout time for a slightly overdue dinner. The three of you debate the merits of ordering out versus making the lemon garlic tilapia you’d picked up the ingredients for the other day, deciding to be responsible and cook the fish before it spoiled. They’re both useless in the kitchen, so they mostly sit at the island and provide entertainment while you cook, occasionally bringing you something you need. In the past, you’d attempted to teach them some culinary skills, but in the interest of not burning the condo down most of the cooking is left to you or their chef. Because they have a personal chef, like the rich bastards they are. But again, you’d rather they not die in a grease fire, so maybe that’s for the best. Even if you’re a little jealous.

The recipe is fairly straightforward, so it’s not too much work after your long day. And making food always makes you feel a little better anyway, especially if you’re making it for other people. Food is love, and all that, so it was just nice to work on something and have someone actually appreciate it (instead of yelling at you for being ten minutes late). The boys get into an argument about the best way to counteract some opponent’s play style, or something like that, and you have to give them each a good whack on the arm with the spatula to get them to disengage. Luckily, dinner is ready not long after, so they don’t have time to work themselves back up.

They both help you serve the food, setting out plates and glasses and silverware on the small wooden table as you dish out fish and rice and squash. The larger filets go to them, as well as a heartier portion of sides. They’re gonna need as much as they can get before the official season starts and they end up losing all the weight they’d gained over the summer. When you’re at home, dinner is a quiet affair. Usually it’s just you eating on the couch as you watch a show or scroll social media. With Travis and Nolan, however, dinner is loud and long and engaging. The both of them talk throughout the meal, pulling you into the conversation so often that your rice is almost cold before you finish it. For as long as you’d lived alone, you’d convinced yourself that you were okay with the silence-- enjoyed it, actually-- but after your first dinner with the boys, you couldn’t deny that the commotion was infinitely preferable.

Clean-up is a breeze between the three of you, Trav and Nolan doing the bulk of the work to make up for not cooking. All you have to do is hand the dishes to Nolan so he can wash them, handing them off to Travis to dry and put away. Trav had been banned from washing after a few too many arguments about what constituted “clean”. You’re not entirely sure it wasn’t a ploy to get out of the hardest work, but you and Nolan love him, so you’ll let it slide. On occasion, you’ll play background music while you clean. This is one of those occasions, and you’re caught off guard when Nolan perks up and Travis drops the plate in his hands to the counter with a clatter.

“It’s our song!” he says, almost loud enough to make you worry about retaliation from the neighbors. But it is your song, so you’re not particularly worried about what Mr. Steinberg thinks.

The three of you move at the same time, Nolan placing the cup in his hand into the sink and you setting the pan you’re holding back into the pile, letting Travis lead you into the more open space between the stove and island, where you’re less likely to break something. As the music plays, you all move more-or-less in sync. Travis and Nols swing each other around as you spin around them, only to be pulled in so Nolan can push and pull you around while Trav shimmies around you. You’re all laughing, singing along to the old jazz song, Sinatra’s deep croon guiding you around the tiled floor. This is one of those rare times that Nolan really lets himself go, allows himself to smile and laugh and dance like no one is watching. Or maybe like you and Travis are watching, and he feels safe enough to be open and happy in front of you both.

After the four or so minutes of the song ends, the three of you converge in a standing pile of smiles and laughter. The three of you exchange kisses and nudge heads and shoulders, just enjoying each other’s company. Enjoying the fact that you get to have this, this overwhelming, chest-bursting happiness. But eventually, you have to return to the dishes. Instead of being a chore, it’s significantly more an activity to do together. The three of you chatter as you wash, unable to wipe the smiles from your faces-- even Nolan.

As Travis places the last cup in the cabinet, you allow Nols to wrap his arms around you, enveloping you in his warmth. Rather than complain, as he usually does, Travis simply joins in, wrapping his arms around the both of you. You’re entirely encompassed by their affection, doing your absolute best to radiate appreciation and affection. You’re not sure that you’ll ever be able to express how much their care means to you; but you’re also not sure you’ll ever truly understand how they feel about you, either. But no one does this for someone they don’t love dearly. They don’t watch shitty movies, or pet your greasy hair, or dance around the kitchen to your old music-- not even just to cheer you up. Just because that’s who you are and what you like, and they want to be a part of that-- no one does all of that unless they love you.

Time passes; maybe a minute, maybe an hour. All you know is the hard stretch of Travis and Nolan’s chests against your back and front, their heat, the softness of their lips against your cheeks, neck, forehead, shoulders, nose, jaw…

Eventually, you have to part. It takes a bit of effort to slip out from between them, partially because you’re pressed so closely together, but mostly because you don’t really want to leave this place, ever. If you could stay pressed between them forever, you would, without question. They’re your safe space, your home. More than any physical location could be.

#Travis Konecny imagine #nhl imagine #Nolan patrick imagine #RI #tkonecny #npatrick #andis coping mechanism

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periodicreviews · 4 years ago

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Last of Us Part II

I went into Last of Us Part II without many spoilers and completed it today. I’m writing out my thoughts before reading any other reviews of the game.

Technical stuff

On a technical level, the game is a logical successor to Uncharted 4. The same great sound design is key to trying to locate where enemies are and I feel like playing with headphones is key. There’s a moment where if you fail a jump, your partner will say “hey you know if you run before the jump…” and the character you control says “yeah yeah, I know.” This is a great way of guiding the character without interrupting them with a prompt.

Returning from Uncharted 4 is the ability for characters to pause mid conversation when you walk away and for them to continue when you get closer. There aren’t quite as many chances for this to be triggered without vehicles but it’s good to see.

One of my big problems with the graphics in Uncharted 4 is that the facial models felt almost unrecognizable as they made them match the actors faces way too much. Nathan Drake just felt like Nolan North, as did Elena’s model. Maybe they learned their lesson because all the faces in TLOU2 felt like the characters I remembered from TLOU1. The only exception being the young Ellie model. At times, her eyes kind of felt dead. I don’t know if that’s a result of porting it from PS3 or not.

I also felt like the default control scheme was too hard to get used to. Dodge being mapped to L1 just did not feel natural coming from a first person shooter background. I eventually remapped it to the circle button, put crouch on the left control stick click, and other changes.

The number of options with respect to controls, which are fully configurable, and visual settings, particularly for motion sickness, are something that every console game should provide.

Speaking of motion sickness, the settings never quite eliminated it for me and although it became more manageable, there was this constant physical discomfort while playing the game. I believe Neil Druckmann said something to the effect that TLOU1 is about hope and TLOU2 is about hate. In that sense, I guess I felt more immersed by hating the game itself for causing my motion sickness.

The plot

The game can be arguably be broken into two parts, Ellie’s story and Abby’s story. You play a tiny bit of Abby in the beginning of the game but then the focus is mainly on Ellie, until the two intersect at the theater confrontation. After the theater confrontation, you take control of Abby primarily, then finish things off as Ellie.

Once this midway switch happened, I figured they were going to have you play as Abby as you kill Ellie and Dina. I also wasn’t sure whether they would make you be the one to torture Joel. If you don’t know already, the game opens with Abby torturing and murdering Joel, which sets the plot in motion.

For a time, I was kind of upset that they were making me play as Abby. Your first big segment as adult Abby after you know who she is, is the slow walk through the WLF base. It feels like it drags on forever as you walk past children in classrooms, play with the dog, see all the animals, everyone eating in the cafeteria, etc.

Obviously, this is supposed to mirror the beginning of the game with Ellie as you walk through the Jackson level and see every single one of these same things. The level is supposed to get you to empathize with the people you have been murdering for 20 hours. “See? Abby’s not so bad, she wants pine scented soap at the commissary.”

But does everything need to be the same? There’s people running away from Jackson, the Seraphites, and the WLF. Characters on both sides are dealing with the internal power struggle. There just happens to be two pregnant women in Mel and Dina. It just happens to be that both Abby and Ellie are seeking revenge over the death of their father figures. Both WLF and Jackson engage in torture to get the info they need. At times all these coincidences just felt forced.

In the end, the game seems to be saying that this cycle of revenge is pointless because we’re all the same and it just causes more pain. The cycle plays out in this order in the game:

1. Joel murders Abby’s dad

2. Abby tortures and murders Joel

3. Tommy, Dina, and Ellie torture and murder Abby’s party members, in the search to find Abby

4. Abby murders Jesse, seriously injures Tommy, Dina, Ellie

5. Ellie attempts to murder Abby but eventually stops

But it bothered me the whole time that the game didn’t attempt to explain why Abby felt the need to torture Joel, when there’s no evidence that he tortured her father. Then it proceeded to make this equivalence between Abby and Ellie like they were equally guilty. Granted, Ellie tortured Nora in the hospital but that’s only after she egged her on by gloating about Joel’s screams.

Another thing that bothered me in the final pointless battle between Abby and Ellie is that they choose to portray Abby as the better person who doesn’t want to fight. Maybe it’s not necessarily a moral call, but just that she doesn’t think she can win in her current state.

Abby’s redemption

I guess my bigger complaint is about Abby’s whole redemption arc. After being rescued from the Seraphites by two kids, Lev and Yara, she returns to Owen where the two argue about Owen leaving to find the Fireflies. At the heat of the argument, they decide to have sex, despite Mel being pregnant with Owen’s baby.

That night, Abby has a bad dream where she walks through the door of the hospital where she found her dad’s body and instead finds Yara and Lev dead hanging from a tree. When asked by Yara or Lev why she came back to help, despite all the protests from Owen, she says something like she had to do something or she couldn’t live with herself.

I guess there’s some indication of regret for what she has done in the past. But it’s never made clear if this is about Joel or just her life choices in general. Later on, after rescuing them, she has the same dream but this time, she sees her dad alive instead. That temporary peace is then destroyed by the murder of Owen and she goes on a rampage to try to kill everyone associated with it.

I feel like there’s both not enough of Abby’s past in order to sell the regret and/or not enough regret in the present to sell the shift in behavior.

Trans representation

I should have done my research before assuming what I had heard was true. It turns out Abby isn’t trans at all, only Lev is (who is in fact voiced by a trans actor). I thought I remembered reading a paper in a Young Abby segment that mentioned “transitioning”. Maybe I read it too fast and it was about another character, not Abby. Thanks to the helpful commenter who corrected me.

It seems people are mad at Laura Bailey just because she voices a character and they don’t like what that fictional character did, which is absurd but unfortunately not surprising.

The game obviously takes a risk by featuring not just one trans character but two. By risk I mean both politically from a company standpoint and from a writing standpoint.

I’m writing this prior to reading any other reviews or to know what exactly the controversy is surrounding Laura Bailey, who plays Abby. I’m assuming the problem is that she is not trans and is playing a trans character. I’m unsure if the same is true for Lev or not. I understand the problem of trans actors being rejected from roles because of that identity. But I don’t think all of the blame for that should lie with Laura Bailey, rather with Naughty Dog for making the choice not to cast a trans actress. If the audition was blind and Laura was select purely based on performance, that would complicate things. But given TLOU2 is almost a movie in terms of all the motion capture that is done, I feel like that probably wasn’t the case.

As a straight man, I felt like Abby and Lev as characters were done tastefully. Their identity is never really centered around being trans, just like Ellie’s character has never been centered around her being lesbian/bisexual. The other characters in the world don’t seem to treat them any differently because they are trans. There also aren’t the usual “trap” tropes or accusations that they aren’t “real” women or men.

Things that suck

I was kind of surprised at how emotional I got during the game. There have definitely been games that have scared me (Dead Space) and games that have made me cry both out of sadness and joy (Mass Effect 3 Citadel DLC). But I don’t think a game has made me feel the same combination of anger, despair, and disgust in quite the same way.

The game starts off with a very graphic torture scene where Abby murders Joel but that didn’t really affect me. The scene was for sure shocking and I empathized with Ellie. But what really affected me was first having to control Abby as you attack Ellie and maybe even more so, watching Ellie leave Dina to continue to pursue Abby. It just hurt so much to see her give up the perfect life in pursuit of this pointless struggle.

Was it good?

But is it a good game? Did I enjoy it? Do I agree with the message it’s trying to send?

It’s hard to describe a game like TLOU2 as fun or enjoyable when it’s a horror-action-drama. There are some great scenes between Joel and Ellie, Ellie and Dina, and Ellie and Jessie. It was also nice to see characters like Lev and Yara who have grown up exclusively in this infected world.

I’m 100% on board with seeing a conflict from both sides. I just feel like they portrayed Ellie as evil, in order to make Abby more likeable, all to make both sides seem equal. On a technical level, the game is great, despite it crashing once and some other minor visual issues when the camera would clip through the level. I’d probably give it an 8/10.

#tlou2

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spartanguard · 5 years ago

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(love will see us through these) Dark Days [CSRT; 4/7]

Summary: A century ago, the United Realms of Pomem had been a land of peace, prosperity, and magic. Until war tore the land apart, leaving behind cruel leaders and even crueler laws regarding the use of magic. And each year, the youth of each realm are subjected to a fight to the death, both for entertainment and to weed out anyone capable of wielding magic. In the 99th Magic Games, past victors Emma Nolan and Killian Jones find themselves serving as mentors, while Alice Gothel and Robyn West end up representing their realm. Everyone has secrets; everyone has something to lose. Who will win? Who will die? Just don’t forget: all magic comes with a price.

A/N: Here we go on the longest chapter yet! Continued thanks to everyone who has stuck through it thus far; this chapter puts us past the halfway mark, omg. And eternal thanks to the best beta ever @optomisticgirl and to @captainswanbigbang for putting on the CS Rewrite-A-Thon! chapter title comes from “Take the Heartland” by Glen Hansard.

part 4: should I kill you with my sword, yeah? Or should I kill you with this word?

Thirteen years ago

If Emma closed her eyes and cleared her mind, it wasn’t hard to imagine she was home. Trees were everywhere in Misthaven and she’d basically grown up in the limbs of them; the smell of pine and pitch were as ingrained in her memory as the smell of her mom’s kitchen and her dad’s aftershave.

The warm, gentle breeze on her face as she sat near the top of a particularly tall conifer almost tricked her into thinking this was just another summer day—that her friends were waiting for her on the ground and her parents would be calling her in for dinner soon.

Until a cannon boom ripped her from the illusion. Lest she forget, she was still in the Arena, and still fighting for her life.

“What can you see?”

Lily was barely visible on the ground through the branches, but Emma could hear her loud and clear. They’d developed a system pretty quickly: Emma would climb to scout, while Lily kept a lookout on the ground.

“There’s definitely smoke, but it’s all the way on the other side of the arena. Looks more like an explosion than anything,” she answered as she watched the plume of smoke rise. A forest fire wouldn’t have surprised her, so she was relieved that it seemed to be contained—and hoped it stayed that way. “I’m coming down.”

She hopped down the branches as lithely as she’d scaled them, then dropped the last few feet to the ground. Lily was waiting with her crossbow at the ready, dark eyes scanning around them, guarding both the tree and Emma’s backpack. “Which way was it?”

“To the northeast; so we should be good for a while if we head that way,” she said, nodding in the opposite direction as she hefted her bag onto her shoulders.

“Let’s do it, then.”

She’d met Lily in the training center and they hit it off surprisingly quickly. Graham hadn’t been so sure of creating an alliance with a tribute from Phrygia, for whatever reason, but the girls insisted. Emma had no idea what was going on behind the scenes, but things seemed to be going well so far. There were 6 left in the games—well, 5 now, based on the sound they heard a bit ago. Once they reconnected after a day of wandering (and somehow avoiding the pixees that swept their way through the arena), they’d become what Emma had to assume was a formidable pair.

Lily was good at hand-to-hand combat; Emma had a sword in her hand from a young age—it was how her dad won his games. Between the two, they’d been able to take down anyone that came at them, easily eliminating 7 tributes between the two of them.

Emma’s co-tribute, Billy, hadn’t made it out of the bloodbath at the Apple Tree, but Lily’s was still out there, most likely. “Is it bad that I hope that was Abigail?” she said as they walked, not really in search of anything but mainly to avoid the dangers of staying in one place for too long.

Emma just shrugged. “I think the definition of bad and good doesn’t really matter here.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

They found a rocky outcrop that night to sleep on, one that kept them hidden from view but able to see anything (or anyone) coming.

A packet of trail mix had arrived from a sponsor a bit ago, and they were both munching on it while watching the still forest. Other than the breeze and the occasional forest creature, it was nearly silent; Emma just might be able to let her guard down enough to get some sleep.

A jaw-cracking yawn told her she needed it. “Hey, Lil—Lily?”

She had to repeat the other girl’s name because she was either lost in thought, or really intrigued by a tree. But she jumped at the second mention of her name. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to take first watch, or should I?” Emma asked, silently hoping for the former option. But she didn’t trust Lily implicitly enough to not give her the choice.

“I’ll take first; get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

“Awesome. ‘Night.”

“Night.”

Before she laid down, she unbuckled her sword belt—the only time she did that—and hugged it close as she settled her head on her pack. She was asleep within minutes.

Sometime later, she was awoken by the strains of the national anthem and the announcement of that day’s losses. One was the last tribute from Atlantica, who Emma and Lily had taken out that morning; the other was one of the tributes from Erebor. So not Abigail.

Emma tried to drift back off, but something didn’t seem right. She glanced around and realized she was alone.

“Lily?” she whisper-yelled, then waited. But all she heard was crickets.

She called out again, and silently unsheathed her sword.

After the longest 10 seconds of her life, she nearly jumped out of her skin at footsteps.

“Calm down; it’s me,” Lily said as she hopped back up on the ledge. “I just went to...go.”

“Oh.” Well, now she felt awkward. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Wanna switch?”

Emma was definitely too wired to sleep now. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”

She couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling that had taken over her, though, and found herself jolting at every sound, from Lily’s snores to a bird taking flight. She’d never been more grateful for sunrise when the sky finally took on an orange hue.

When Lily woke up shortly thereafter, they quickly packed up and headed off, snacking on their trail mix again.

After a couple of uneventful hours and a stop at a stream for water, Lily paused. “How’s this tree look?”

It was a little wide, but seemed tall enough. “Sure.”

She dropped her pack, like always, but tightened the clasp on her sword belt; she was spooked enough that she wanted it handy, and it didn’t get in her way. And then she climbed.

Once she got to the top of the canopy, she took a look across the arena. “Looks like a storm is coming,” she called down, seeing some dark clouds in the distance; knowing the Games, there was as good a chance of it being acid rain as normal. “But nothing else looks to be going on.”

A gust of wind blew across the trees then, but she still thought she heard the sound of another voice—not Lily’s.

“Lil? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Wanna keep moving?”

Part of her was screaming not to, but that wasn’t much of an option. “Okay; I’m coming down.”

But before she started her descent, she made what was possibly the smartest move of her life: she pulled the sword from its scabbard, and held tight as she slipped down.

Thank God she did. No sooner had her feet hit the ground than the thwick of a crossbolt hitting wood sounded above her.

Instinct took over and she swung out with her sword as she stepped forward. A cry came out when she connected with flesh, and Lily dropped the crossbow to hold her slashed forearm.

“I thought you said she trusted you,” Abigail sneered from where she stood, just behind Lily. She had a fierce-looking set of daggers, one in each hand and ready to strike.

“I thought she did,” Lily spat back, wincing at the sting of her cut.

Though she was gaping at the pair in front of her, it didn’t take long for Emma to piece everything together, and a pit formed in her stomach: Lily must have set this up when she disappeared last night. She led Emma right to this spot so they could ambush her.

Weren’t they friends? God, she’d never felt so betrayed.

Anguish quickly gave way to anger, though. “I did,” Emma growled. “Did you ever trust me?” She swung again with her blade, but Lily jumped back. “Was this a setup from the start?” Her next jab hit Lily in the thigh, bringing her to the ground.

There was a sudden stinging in Emma’s left shoulder; she looked to find one of Abigail’s daggers stuck in it, the girl within striking distance of using the other. But Emma didn’t give her a chance, and thrust forward with her sword, sinking it in the girl’s stomach and twisting. She hated the squelching noise it made, and tried to ignore the whimpers when she pulled it out.

Then she plucked out the dagger, tossed it aside, and turned back on Lily. She placed the tip of her blade not-so-gently under Lily’s chin, forcing the other tribute to look up at her. “Well?”

“I did, for a bit. Figured you’d be good for sponsor gifts. But I trusted her more.”

Emma huffed; of course—of course all anyone could see was what Emma was worth on paper. All the other Tributes had been clamoring to get in her good graces during training—surely, the daughter of two victors would be hard to pass up for a sponsor. Lily was the only one who hadn’t sought her out, which ironically drew Emma to her.

Logically, she knew the alliance wouldn’t have lasted; only one can win. But still—she thought she’d found a tiny glimmer of hope in the shit sandwich that was the games.

So, with a primal yell she didn’t know she possessed, she reared back and forced her sword into Lily’s chest.

The cannon fire came seconds later.

She didn’t waste any time in looting the girls’ bags and had already headed off when the cannon for Abigail finally sounded.

There were two more tributes out there and Emma would be damned if she wasn’t the one to win this thing.

That thought kept her going until she called it a night, hiding up in a tree; she wasn’t about to go stay out in the open all alone. Then—and only then—did she let the grief consume her. Angrily, she tore out the braid in her hair that Lily had made a few nights ago, throwing it into a messy bun instead. Sure, Emma had friends at home, but everything was different now—and Lily got that.

Had. Had gotten it. Past tense.

She silently cried herself to a fitful sleep until the chirping of birds woke her in the morning.

Before she left her spot the following morning, a flash of white caught her eye; a feather was stuck in some pine needles. It was too long to belong to any of the birds she’d seen in the arena; heck, it kind of looked like a swan’s, but no one had seen any of those in Pomem in years. Weird.

Still, she added it to her overstuffed pack. The bit of happiness she’d gotten from Lily’s friendship was as dead as she was; may as well take some joy from something else. She could almost hear her mom telling her that it was a symbol of luck or hope or something; as much as Emma didn’t put stock in those kinds of things, knowing that her mother did was enough.

And then she set off to end things. On her own.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Present day

Four days in, Emma still wasn’t sure about all this. The concept of the games was still appalling, obviously, but she was unfortunately becoming a bit desensitized to that. It was the whole working-with-others thing she still wasn’t crazy about.

She wasn’t ungrateful for the alliance—not by a long shot. Between Killian, Ariel, and Graham, she’d figured out the ropes pretty damn quick. As it turned out, her years of pretending to be in a loving relationship worked wonders on potential sponsors. (It also helped that Tamara was leading in kills. Unfortunately, August had fallen on day 2 to one of the tributes from Erebor—who, in turn, quickly became part of Tamara’s body count.)

But she knew it was going to have to come to an end at some point, and that would be messy. She knew first-hand just how bad it could get. And, dammit, she actually liked them—especially Ariel, with her bubbly optimism and sweet demeanor. She was a stark contrast to Killian—all dark hair, good looks, and a cocky attitude that Emma could see right through—but Emma got along with him way too easily for comfort, and it was pretty clear to her that it was mostly a front, having seen through a few of its cracks already. Whatever had happened on the elevator last week still nagged at the back of her mind, on occasion.

There wasn’t enough downtime to get that answered, though. If she wasn’t keeping watch over things in the game center, she was either resting or hitting up a potential sponsor. She and Graham were trying to keep things balanced so that one of them was always in the center but god, it was exhausting. The games were 24/7, which meant their jobs were, too.

Honestly, she was kind of surprised that she was still so busy, given that both Misthaven and Atlantica were down to one tribute each; William had fallen victim to a swarm of pixees—insects native to Neverland that were the product of normal bees getting into an ancient (and long-gone) supply of pixie dust—that had basically been bomb-dropped by one of the girls from Sherwood. But Tamara and Ursula had finally met up and were doing pretty well together. They managed to tag-team the boy from DunBroch, but that was the only move they had made on offense.

That said, there were still some times Emma had to calm herself down; when the image of Lily’s sneer flashed in her memory, or the way life had faded from her eyes. She could feel her magic creeping up her spine in those moments, threatening to let loose; it was only her experience in putting on a face for show (and several deep breaths) that held it back.

She had just watched the girls survive a run-in with some raining fireballs. They’d found shelter by a river and were using the water to soothe their injuries, but they needed burn medicine if they were going to get any farther. Even though it was only a few days in, the price of everything had already skyrocketed. That meant they’d have to hit up a well-endowed sponsor. Which meant she and Killian would have to take a trip.

Early on, Graham had thought it would be a good idea to split up and maybe learn some tricks of the trade from the other pair of mentors. Emma, being the least outgoing of the two of them, consequently ended up with Killian. “Maybe his personality will rub off on you,” Graham ribbed. (Emma responded by punching him a little harder than playfully in the arm.)

“I know a retired doctor who can help us—might even be able to knock the price down,” Killian said, somewhat casually. He had spread himself over the length of the sofa across from Emma, almost as if he was putting himself on display; not for the first time, her thoughts drifted back to their conversation the other night. She was still pretty ashamed of what she’d accused him of, but then again, he was the one flirting with someone he shouldn’t have been. Not like she’d done anything to dissuade him, but, you know, he started it. As to why she flirted back...she didn’t have time to think about that.

She could have just chalked it up to him being him: he was easily one of the most handsome guys here, and he clearly took pride in (or at least relied on) his appearance—his hair was perfectly tousled and his clothes were expertly tailored. He thankfully hadn’t adopted the outlandish style of dress typical of the Capitol that some victors had taken to; he simply wore a black waistcoat over a light blue shirt with a navy jacket and slacks (of course, his shirt was unbuttoned a bit lower than it should have been, revealing some of the dark hair that covered his chest).

She couldn’t help it if she was affected by him, given that most were (probably even Graham). And she shouldn’t be reading anything into the charms he used on her; those were probably the only thing keeping him alive. If there was one thing she knew, it was playing a role.

At the moment, he was picking at a small plate of finger food. She wasn’t sure if it was purely out of utility, or just to show off, but he was stabbing each morsel with his hook before eating. So, all told, she found Killian Jones both endearing and annoying.

Given his lack of a sense of urgency, Emma leaned back against the cushions and glanced around the room, taking stock of the rest of the fallout from the firestorm. Large, red Xs appeared over the screens of the tributes who’d succumbed; “Looks like that took out the last tributes from Agrabah and Erebor.” If she needed any further confirmation, Leroy, the mentor from Erebor, grumpily cursed and headed out of the room. Only one other tribute seemed to be tending to wounds, though. “The kid from Sherwood got hit good, too.”

Killian’s gaze left the cheese cube on his plate and flashed up. “Which one?”

“Alice, I think.” She hadn’t been paying enough attention to which one was which. “Not the one with the bow; the other one.”

Suddenly, Killian was on his feet, eyes darting around the room. “Goddamit, Eloise,” he muttered, then held his hand out to her. “Come on, let’s go.”

She ignored his hand and stood on her own, grabbing her sweater and bag. “Lead the way.”

He took off at a brisk pace, but Emma glanced behind her before they left; Eloise was nowhere to be seen, so he must have figured she was already on it. If his urgency was in order to beat the other mentor to the punch, then Emma was definitely on board.

When they met with the sponsor—an older woman who was clearly well-preserved by the Capitol’s plastic surgeons—Emma turned on her well-rehearsed show face, which had quickly become second nature. It was a bit of a struggle to keep it on when Killian was making plans with the woman for later, but she followed his lead; he didn’t seem too distraught or disturbed by it, even if the woman’s garish black-and-white hair was far from what she’d consider attractive.

They were easily able to convince this Doctor Cruella to pony up the needed meds—more than enough for both their tributes—and, prizes in hand, headed back to the game center.

“I don’t mean to upset you, Emma, but I think we make quite the team.”

“Oh yeah?” she tossed back, feeling a bit giddy. The value on that medicine was probably astronomical, especially with how much they got.

“Aye. With your smarts and my good looks, we could run this thing.”

“We’ll see,” she teased back. With him, it was way too easy to forget that they were literally responsible for children’s lives—and, at the end of the day, would be fighting against each other at some point. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Honestly though, they got along much too well. She didn’t know why that was a problem, but it was.

(Probably because of what she knew she was going to do later.)

Thankfully, nothing had changed when they got back to the game center; night was falling and things typically calmed down then, though not always. But the day had been exciting enough.

“Want me to send those off?” Emma offered, nodding at the small canisters in Killian’s hand.

Oddly, he looked sheepish, like he was hiding something. Now what was he up to?

“Uh, yeah—send this one,” he said, putting one in her hand. “But I was going to offer this one to Sherwood.”

Emma narrowed her eyes and could feel her magic licking at her spine in reaction to her sudden spike of anger; she took a breath to tamp it down before she said anything. “I thought…” She was going to ask him about her earlier hypothesis, but that clearly had been wrong. “I thought those were both for our kids?”

“One is more than enough to get them healed and then some, both of them. If we’ve got more, we may as well help out another realm who’s struggling.”

As poor as Sherwood was, Eloise had actually been doing decently on the sponsor end of things—or, at least, better than usual. Still, Emma had to wonder what kind of angle Killian was playing; briefly, her mind flickered to their first conversation, and the way he was staring at Alice’s screen the other day.

“You know we can’t save all of the kids, right? Our priority is supposed to be our realm.”

Killian rolled his eyes at her. “You think I don’t know that? Darling, I taught you that. But no one ever said there wasn’t room for a bit of compassion.”

Compassion hadn’t won either of them their games; all it got Emma was a few more bricks around her heart.

“Look, her mentor is MIA and we shouldn’t just leave her to the wolves,” he continued. “Consider it a small act of rebellion, if you must. We may get turned down anyways, but at least we tried.”

Emma huffed; he was definitely appealing to her motherly instincts, which she’d been trying to put on mute while here. But rebellion...she could always get behind that.

“Fine.”

He didn’t say anything; just turned and crossed the center to the game makers’ office. She tossed her bag on the sofa and rushed to follow, which was probably unnecessary because he let her go first when they got to the door.

Everything that went in had to be inspected, though everyone knew that was merely a formality—people had sent weapons through before and no one batted an eye. (Something she was counting on.)

She was about to knock on the door when it swung open, taking Emma by surprise. Even more timely, Eloise was leaving. The expression on her face was somewhere between smug and annoyed—or maybe her face was just always that way? Either way, her eyes skimmed over Emma on their way to Killian.

He stepped around Emma and held out the ointment. “Got this for Alice, unless you already took care of it.” It was rare for a mentor to actually enter the room until the end, unless there was an issue of some sort.

“No, I didn’t.” Eloise’s tone was cool and indifferent.

“It’s yours, then.” Killian was oddly serious.

Eloise glanced down at it, then back up at him. “Send it yourself.” And just as cooly walked away.

Killian sighed in what Emma assumed was frustration, closing his eyes and gripping the container. There was clearly a history there Emma didn’t know about.

“What was that?” she asked. Regardless of whatever their history was, it was odd that a mentor would act so indifferent in the face of a valuable gift.

“Nothing new,” Killian muttered, before shaking his head and stepping forward.

The medicine was quickly approved and they were both given the opportunity to attach a note; Emma scribbled out a quick encouragement while Killian wrote something equally brief. God, that kid was probably going to be so confused, getting a gift from another realm. But she’d definitely appreciate it.

They ended up back on the couches, watching as well-trained birds delivered the packages they sent. (Emma honestly didn’t want to know how they always found their tributes—it probably had to do with the chip each tribute was implanted with, but she wouldn’t put it past Olympus to have something more sinister going on.) It was hard not to smile at the excitement from all three girls when they were delivered, and even Killian let out a sigh of relief.

“Rebellion feels good, eh?” he teased.

She chuckled back, but answered with “Don’t let them hear you say that too loud. That’s a cursed word here.” She was trying to joke but they both knew it wasn’t far from the truth.

“Aye, I know,” he said, leaning back against the cushions. “I just get so...tired of it.”

“The Games?”

“Yeah. The death, the control. The parts of my life that have to stay hidden. The lies.”

She definitely understood that.

“I know you know what I’m talking about,” he said pointedly.

But she didn’t appreciate being called out, and her hackles rose at the accusation. “Do you?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Please. I’ve been around you two for nearly a week now.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but had no idea what to say. It was easier to fake their romance when they knew they had an audience, but around Killian, she didn’t have it in her to lie—not about that.

But she could evade it pretty well. “Yeah, well, what about you and Eloise?”

His brow furrowed. “What about her?”

“Is she some spurned ex-lover?” It maybe wasn’t fair to throw that back at him—again—but if there was one thing the games had taught her, it was that you couldn’t fight fair.

“I thought we were past that,” he answered, sounding slightly more hurt than she’d have liked. “But...something along those lines.”

“Did you break her heart?” She didn’t know why she needed to know. She just did.

“It’s more complicated than that, but no,” he answered truthfully. Then she watched as his armor slip back into place as he sat up and threw a coquettish look her way. “Why—are you jealous?”

“No,” she said, way too quickly and completely unconvincingly. (She was. A little. Dammit.)

Thankfully, he just replied with a deep chuckle, before leaning close enough that she could feel his breath on her neck. “Darling, if you want to get close to me, all you have to do is ask. No need to use propriety as an excuse.”

She squeezed a fist as she felt her magic react to him, trying to hold it back—but still, a glass broke somewhere on the other side of the room. One of the stewards picked up the shards and looked around, confused, which was Emma’s cue to get out for a bit.

Hastily, she stood up and ran her hands down her skirts, hoping to shake off the extra static. “I’m gonna take a walk; think you can man the fort for a bit?”

Killian followed. “I should actually tap out; Cruella is waiting.” But he remained close to her. “Can I follow you out?”

“Sure, I guess,” she answered, then didn’t wait for him to follow her out of the center.

They headed down the corridor in silence, Emma trying her best to keep distance between them. The butterflies she’d been feeling in her stomach whenever they got close like this returned, but that was the first time she’d risked exposing her magic because of it. It was kind of aggravating, honestly, how much that was happening—and that she had no idea what the exact trigger was: was it him? Was it just being in Olympus, and therefore in closer proximity to Neverland and its magic? Or was it related to what she had planned for later? Regardless, she needed to calm down.

She started rubbing her arms, either from cold or nerves—she wasn’t sure—but Killian noticed right away.

“Love, you’re shivering; here, let me—” He started to take off his jacket before she interrupted him.

“No, I’m fine; I just left my sweater back there.”

“I could try to warm you up, if you’d like,” he offered, with that all-too-charming grin and a seductive quirk of his eyebrow. Even if she knew it was for show, she couldn’t deny: it worked.

And tempting as it sounded, that was the last thing she needed. “I’ll just go grab it. You go on ahead.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“If you insist. Then I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Don’t have much choice, do we?”

She turned to head back—or to somewhere, just to walk—but then Killian grabbed her hand as she retreated. She wasn’t expecting it, and another shock let out, this time jolting him.

Shit.

Most of the time, she could play it off as static, but when she looked back at him, there was a wide-eyed expression of recognition on his face, first as he stared at where he was holding her forearm, then as he looked up at her. He knew.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “I won’t; you have my word,” was his solemn reply. “Especially if you don’t repeat what we said earlier.”

“I won’t.”

He nodded. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Bye.”

They couldn’t get away from each other fast enough.

She ended up pacing the long hallway for a bit until she’d calmed down enough to go back in, but she knew she wouldn’t make it much longer; gods, sometimes she wished she had one of those magic-blocking cuffs, so she didn’t have to worry about being found out. At least one of the perks to being stuck in this castle was the fantastic baths and easy access to alcohol; even if it was the middle of the night, she’d have no trouble getting her hands on a glass of wine and a long, hot soak. But she had one thing to do first.

She slipped back into the game center relatively unnoticed; each of the few realms left had representation, but Ariel hadn’t yet arrived. And Emma didn’t know if she could face her once she did. She’d just have to hope the kids would be okay for a few minutes without anyone.

Her bag and sweater were still on the couch where she’d left them. She slipped her hand deep into her tote, feeling the smooth wood of the small hatchet she and Graham obtained earlier that day. What could she say? They’d learned from the best. They’d been saving it for the right moment, and she didn’t know if she’d get another.

Alliances couldn’t last forever. She knew that better than anyone. Which meant it was now or never for Tamara, especially with only 7 tributes left.

The door to the gamemaker office was ajar, so she slid in. “I have another sponsor gift,” she told the official at the desk, and pulled out the weapon.

The woman’s sterile expression turned stern as she inspected the tool. “I’m going to have to get this approved; hold on a minute.” Glancing over her shoulder, she called out, “Mr. Hatter? Can you take a look at this?”

The head gamemaker, Jefferson Hatter, was in the middle of a conversation with Sidney Glass, and held a finger up. Emma could hear him tell the other man, “We’ll make the announcement tomorrow. Excuse me,” before coming her way.

Jefferson assessed the weapon with a careful eye, pulling and tapping on it a bit to make sure nothing was concealed. “Looks fine to me. It can go.” Emma smiled to thank him, but he was already gone, off to deal with some other aspect of the games. She both loathed and envied his job.

“Alright, we’ll get this out. Did you want to add a note?”

“Yes, please.” The woman offered Emma a slip of paper and pen. She thought about it for a moment, and then began writing.

You know what to do. —E

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Alice screamed.

Logically, she knew that was a terrible idea and a sure-fire way to draw an enemy. But, she figured, if anyone was actually close enough to hear her, then they were also caught in the firestorm and, well...they weren’t exactly her problem anymore.

So she screamed, and she ran, trying as hard as she could to outpace the heat that was chasing her heels and nipping at her skin. In a rare moment of clarity, she’d pulled her shirt over her mouth and nose to prevent breathing in smoke, but the only other thing she could do was get away—fast.

She ran and ran and ran, focusing only on the feel of the forest floor under her feet until suddenly, the world changed and she had to throw her hands up to stop from running face-first into a tree—which she promptly collapsed upon, coughing and wheezing to get her air back.

She also may have vomited. But it served her right for thinking that any berries she’d found here would be edible; those had been giving her fits since last night.

When she was finally able to breathe properly, she took stock of whatever she could. A glance behind her showed the fire was far enough away that she was in the safe zone—but how she’d gotten that far away, she wasn’t sure.

She shivered, which was awful for two reasons: one, it made her suddenly very aware of the burned skin on the backs of her arms and legs; and two, it sent a static shock through her body that answered her question: her magic had carried her to safety.

Dammit. She’d been doing so well. Er, rather, as good as could be expected when the very air sent her magic sparking.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to will it away, to calm it down, to press it back inside that pool of power deep within. But it was begging for release; had been since she got here, really. She’d always thought it was a tall tale that Neverland was filled with magic, but she’d felt it ever since she arrived—that tingle in her spine, the spark at her fingertips. She’d been doing as best she could to keep it in but it’d finally had enough, apparently.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured to herself as more sparks fell from her hand, landing near the raw skin at her ankles and then making her hiss in pain.

God. Fuck everything.

It didn’t matter that she was still in the middle of the arena, with death and threats all around her; she fell to the ground, put her head in her hands, and cried. Well, sobbed. She’d been holding it all in for days now and was done.

Just because she had genes that had won the games didn’t mean she was emotionally prepared to be here.

That, and she just kept seeing the way the boy from her father’s realm swelled up when he got stung by the pixees, coughing and sputtering as he tried to breathe but was going into anaphylactic shock. She hadn’t wanted to kill him; she just wanted his backpack. She didn’t know he was allergic.

God, what had she gotten herself into?

“You’re the cleverest person I know, Starfish,” her papa had told her before she’d left Olympus. “Trust your instincts and be smart.” She was trying, but was it enough?

And now it felt like her skin was on fire and she was thirsty and what good were those heavy clouds in the sky if it wasn’t going to rain? She could bloody feel the static from the storm and that just added to her tension.

Her tears did nothing to soothe her skin but did wonders for her emotionally.

When she was finally spent (or dehydrated; it was hard to tell), she took another long moment to look up at the sky. It’d been painfully obvious to her right away that the stars it showed at night were artificial; her papa had taught her to navigate by the constellations but there were none she recognized.

Now, though, all she saw was a haze, smoke blending into storm clouds. She needed to get back on the move and find a source of water. The spring she’d been frequenting was probably now nothing more than a steaming crater in the middle of burned-out wood.

Hauling herself to her feet was, well, a feat, and the more she moved, the more her skin stung and ached. She had a middling knowledge of herbal plants that had helped with the pixee stings (even if she hadn’t gotten the brunt of that one, they still hadn’t been keen on her disturbing their home), but nothing to help with burns, save for cool water. (At least she knew what dreamshade looked like and to stay the hell away. After what happened to her uncle, Papa had made sure of that.)

Which made her search all the more urgent. There was still a little left in her canteen but she knew she’d need that to drink. That meant her only option was to keep pressing on until she found some.

Eventually, she crossed a tiny stream that looked to be reasonably clear; it’d have to do. The cool water helped but wasn’t a complete balm—but what else was she going to do? At least she’d be able to keep the wounds clean and hopefully avoid infection.

There was a thick copse of trees just a few feet away; once she’d finished tending her burns and refilling her canteen (after many long, long gulps of water), she shuffled over and, after checking it over for dreamshade and finding none, collapsed inside it. Night was coming and she definitely needed to rest.

She’d just gotten kind of comfortable when a quiet tweeting started outside her makeshift shelter. Ugh, she didn’t want to get up again. But that sound could only mean one thing: a sponsor gift.

She’d gotten one earlier in the games, after a day or so without food: just a loaf of bread, but one she recognized as coming from her favorite bakery back home, with orange marmalade baked in. It was definitely a rare treat for the games, and possibly undeserved, but it’d given her the energy to keep going. (Which was when she found the spring.)

She poked her head out of her enclosure to see a small container sitting a few feet away, a deceptively slight songbird sitting nearby. It flew off once it saw it’d gotten her attention, back to wherever it was Olympus released the carrier birds from. With a wince, she got up, practically crawled the distance to the gift, then moved back inside as quickly as possible.

It wasn’t a large container, but it looked expensive. A note was taped on top; she peeled it off first and was both surprised and not to see that it didn’t have any words: just a small doodle of a starfish. Which meant this came directly from her papa. “Thank you,” she said into the night, hoping he’d see or hear her (and wishing she could say more).

She stashed the note in her pocket and fiddled with the jar to open it, taking way too long to figure out that the top twisted off, revealing a creamy white substance. She brought it to her face to sniff it—it had a vaguely floral scent—but leaned a bit too close to it and clumsily stuck her nose right in the stuff. Woops.

Almost immediately, though, she felt a cooling sensation on her skin. Did that mean…? She didn’t waste any more time in thought and took a modest amount on her fingers, then spread it on the raw skin of her opposite arm.

The effect was instantaneous, and she sighed in relief. For the first time in hours, that part of her body didn’t feel like it was still aflame. Quickly, she applied the ointment on all her other burns, careful to not use it all up but thrilled to finally feel better.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she called out again. She didn’t know exactly how, but she could tell her papa was watching. Their last hug—in private, before the hovercopters took them to the arena—was impressed in her memory, and she could sometimes still feel the fatherly kiss he’d left on her temple. (Her mother...well, she’d shown as much affection as she was capable of, but it was definitely one of the more awkward hugs in her lifetime.)

God, what would her parents think of her now? Logically, she knew they’d be the last people to judge her, but she’d killed a person now; the pain in the boy’s dying screams would probably play in her dreams forever. Hell, it was starting to again; she put her hands on her ears to try to block it out, though it did little. This was no place to dwell on that, though; with any luck—as morbid as the idea was—she’d have a whole lifetime to. But she had to keep going forward, not looking back.

Since she had a moment to breathe now, she pulled the bag into her lap and stashed the remaining ointment in one of the smaller pockets. Goodness, this really was a great bag: her jacket was a tattered, melted mess, but this thing barely had a scorch mark on it. She knew that kind of material existed—her realm was responsible for textiles, after all—but civilians never saw anything like this. Olympus bastards, hogging all the good stuff.

Her brief moment of jealousy was interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn, so she dug out the blanket the pack had come with, set the bag aside, and tucked herself in; it got bloody cold at night and the blanket just might be her favorite thing.

She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep when suddenly, it was daylight. Crap. Yeah, she needed the sleep, but that meant she missed the announcement of who had passed away during the previous day; she thought she heard a couple of cannons in the mess of the forest fire but she hadn’t encountered anyone since the boy from Atlantica, so she had no idea who it would be.

Hopefully not Robyn. She hadn’t seen her, either; they’d been on opposite sides of the Apple Tree and had probably gone in opposite directions. From a logical standpoint, Alice’s odds were better if Robyn wasn’t still in the game—she was fierce with that bow, if she’d gotten one—but she liked her too much to wish she was gone.

And that kiss...her lips tingled at the thought.

(And her heart raced and butterflies flitted in her stomach and all those cheesy cliches that turned out to be cliches for a reason. She was Killian Jones’ daughter; of course she was a hopeless romantic.)

But following that train of thought into daydreams wasn’t going to help her at all. She stood and started to pack up, and noticed that her burns didn’t hurt anywhere near as much; a glance at her forearm showed it was mostly healed. Thank bloody goodness.

After getting her blanket put away and a quick sip of water, she was in the middle of applying more of the burn cream when trumpets sounded overhead—the ones that usually accompanied the midnight death announcement. God, she’d been more tired than she realized if she managed to sleep through those blaring alarms.

“Attention tributes,” Sidney Glass announced. “There has been a recent change to the rules.”

Alice tilted her head and looked at the sky, even though she couldn’t see anything but foliage; that never happened this late in the games.

He continued, “If the last two tributes remaining are from the same district, they will both be crowned victors. Thank you, and remember: all magic comes with a price.”

Alice dropped the container of ointment. Seriously? If Robyn was still alive, they could go home together?

Blindly, she ran out from her hiding place and called out for the other girl. Not that she was going to get a reply, but that was her immediate reaction. Thankfully, no one else was around to hear her outburst, but the images of the remaining tributes were up on the screen—and Robyn’s was still there, right next to Alice’s. She couldn’t hold back her grin. (At least, not until her magic sparked her again.)

It looked like Phrygia still had two tributes in, too, so that was probably the most worrisome competition, though she thought she’d seen the girls from Atlantica and Misthaven together at some point.

She was getting ahead of herself; would Robyn actually stand a better chance with her around than she would alone? What if she was already in an alliance? What if she didn’t actually want to share a win with her? (She didn’t think that would be the case, but it didn't take much for Alice’s mind to spiral.)

Whatever. It couldn’t hurt to try to find her. Not that she had any idea where to look, but she’d be damned if she didn’t give it a go. “A man who doesn’t fight for what he wants deserves what he gets,” her papa always said. “Well, woman,” he’d add, smirking.

Once she packed up, she headed in the direction of the central lake in the arena; at the very least, it would be a starting point, and with any luck, Robyn would have the same idea.

She’d hardly gone a few meters when something on the forest floor caught her eye: a feather, white as snow. “That’s odd,” she said to herself. “There aren’t any birds here that look like that.” She’d seen all manner of bluebird, jay, and wren, but nothing so pure and bright as this. It reminded her of a swan’s, but this place was oddly devoid of waterfowl.

Regardless, she tucked it in her pocket and set back off, imagining her movements were as graceful as that bird’s (and that, if the occasion called for it, she could be as fierce as one).

A couple hours later, she was near the lake, and on high alert; any open area was dangerous, especially this late in the games. Her tattered jacket was tied around her waist and her hair was in a messy braid; the heat was starting to become oppressive, but there was a charge to the air that kept reacting with her magic and making her wonder if a storm was coming.

She was staring at the sky, trying to figure out what the clouds were saying, when she was suddenly flying towards them. Her ascent peaked, and then she yelped as she fell back to earth, only to be jolted to a halt in midair by something that was as soft as it was constraining. She started to fight against it, looking for a weak point, and found many useless holes—it was a net.

“If you’ve got any last words, say them now,” a familiar voice shouted intimidatingly.

“Robyn? Is that you?” she answered, twisting in her restraints to see out.

“Alice?” Robyn called back, now in disbelief. “Shit. Hold on—I’ll get you out of there.”

Alice held still, not really sure what she was waiting for, when she heard the whizz of something flying towards her, followed by her actually falling to the ground; she was higher up than she’d thought and the wind was knocked out of her.

She laid there, taking gulping breaths of air, when Robyn swam into her blurry vision. “Oh my god, are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

“I’m fine,” Alice coughed, unconvincingly, but took one more deep breath before that was closer to the truth. “Where the hell did you get a fishing net?”

“It was in my pack,” Robyn shrugged as she helped Alice up to sitting. “It must have been meant for someone from Atlantica.”

“Okay, but then how did you learn to do...whatever that was with it?”

She gave a devilish smirk that set those butterflies alight in Alice’s belly. “Remember Alexandra, from school?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember how we had that feud that seemed to end very suddenly?”

She didn’t—Alice was definitely on the periphery when it came to classmate drama—but she could pretend. “Uh-huh.”

“Let’s just say when I got my revenge on her for stealing my first girlfriend, she spent a lot of time thinking about it. While suspended in midair.”

“Damn,” she sighed, but she was honestly more fixated on the ‘first girlfriend’ part of that statement. She couldn’t lie—she’d been worried Robyn might have just been placating her, or getting in some final kicks when Alice stole her kiss; she hadn't been certain Robyn liked girls, too. So at least that was one less thing for her jumbled mind to be anxious about.

And then any other fears were put to rest when Robyn launched herself at her in a bruising hug. “God, I’m so glad I found you,” she murmured into her neck, and Alice didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around her, too. She closed her eyes at how perfect they seemed to fit together, even with the awkward way they were sitting.

“Me too,” she whispered back.

“You heard the announcement?” Robyn asked without pulling away.

“Aye.”

“Wanna go home together?”

“Oh, fuck yes.”

Robyn giggled. “Then let’s do this.”

They helped each other to standing, brushed off the forest detritus, and then stared at each other for a long, charged moment, somewhere between intense and awkward (probably both). Because all Alice could think about, yet again, was the kiss, and if the way Robyn was licking her lips was anything to go by, she probably was too. Should she try it again? Was the ball in Robyn’s court? Should she not even be fucking worrying about it because they were literally in a fight to the death?

At least Robyn didn’t seem as unsure as Alice, and cut through the thick air between them with a “Let’s go.”

Alice fell into step behind her, keeping an eye on both the path and the sky; the clouds were continuing to darken.

“What’s your count?” Robyn asked as they picked their way across the arena, vaguely in the direction of the lake.

She didn’t need to ask for clarification, and shuddered again at the memory of the boy’s dying screams. “One. You?”

“Same,” she said. “It’s how I got the bow; off one of the kids from Arendelle.”

“Did you get them with the net, too?”

“No; they tried to shoot at me and missed. Turns out my aim is good even without the bow.”

There was a hint of regret in her voice that Alice could definitely identify with. She jogged ahead a bit and reached for Robyn’s hand, giving it what she hoped was an encouraging squeeze. Robyn looked down at their joined hands, then up at her, and the shy smile she gave was just a bit of sunshine in this gray day.

But then a big, fat raindrop hit her nose, making her gasp in surprise. Then Alice felt one on the back of her neck, dripping down her shirt—and it was cold.

They could hear drops falling on the dense foliage in a crescendo around them, and suddenly, they were caught in a downpour.

“There’s a cave nearby we can hide in!” Robyn shouted, having to over the volume of the storm.

Thunder rumbled overhead. “Lead the way!” Alice yelled back.

Robyn clenched her hand around Alice’s before letting go, and then they took off in a sprint back the way they’d came. They darted through the clearing where the net still sat in a heap on the ground, then turned and headed in the opposite direction from where Alice had come, hopping over fallen logs and trying to keep their footing over increasingly muddy terrain.

Alice was starting to shiver, but Robyn hadn’t slowed, so she couldn’t either. Her magic was still reacting to the static in the air, so she had to keep that tamped down, too, lest it carry her away again—and they needed to stay together.

Thunder and lightning continued to build as they went, and it felt like they were running towards the center of the storm. As if in confirmation, a bolt of lightning struck a tree not 100 yards from where they were; both girls screamed, but Alice managed to stay upright. Robyn, though, lost her footing and fell forward, then cried out again.

Alice caught up to her and offered a hand to help her up—but Robyn didn’t take it. “My ankle—I think I twisted it,” Robyn hissed.

So Alice did the next logical thing: she knelt down, got an arm under Robyn, and helped her back to standing. “How far away are we?”

“It’s just up there,” she nodded in the direction they were headed. “There’s a big rock formation; you can’t miss it.”

Much slower, they continued on, Alice taking extreme care with each step. It seemed to take forever, but eventually, there it was, almost looking like it had been cut perfectly from the overhanging rock—which it probably had.

It was deeper than it looked from the outside; more than enough to keep them dry. Alice carried Robyn to the far wall and helped her sit down, before both were finally able to catch their breaths.

“At least it’s not acid rain,” she quipped. Robyn gave her a tight smile back, but it quickly morphed to a grimace when she tried to move her leg. “Here; let me check it.”

Alice carefully stepped around Robyn and crouched down near her right ankle, the one that was injured. The light was dim this far in, and though she knew she could illuminate the space with her magic, she didn’t want to expose herself like that just now, if at all.

“I’m going to touch it, okay?” she said, hoping that if she gave some warning, it’d hurt less. Robyn just nodded at her.

Gingerly, she brushed her fingers against the ankle, watching Robyn’s reaction. It didn’t change, but what was under her touch was far from what she expected.

They were both soaked to the bone, but her skin was a different kind of wet, almost slimy.

“Oh, no,” she cursed, then jumped up to get closer to the light.

“What is it?” Robyn asked, but her voice was weak.

Alice only got close enough to the light to see what was on her fingers, but it was as she feared: blood. “Fuck.”

She ran back and, without thinking, created a ball of light in her palm; she needed to see what was going on.

And it was worse than expected: a long, jagged gash ran up the side of Robyn’s shin, and it was still trickling blood; Alice was no expert, but it looked deep, and probably had something to do with the ashy she could now see on Robyn’s face.

“You’re bleeding, badly,” she told her. “Do we have anything to sew it up?”

“W-wait,” Robyn stammered, as if she didn’t even register what she’d just been told. “You have magic?”

Alice gave a sheepish glance toward her hand, then back up at Robyn through her lashes. “Uh, yes?”

Robyn just gaped and blinked at her a few times, then her eyes rolled back into her head and she passed out.

Bloody fuck.

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thanks again for reading! more drama to come, of course ;) tagging some friends @kat2609 @thesschesthair @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @its-imperator-furiosa @killianmesmalls @sherlockianwhovian @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @killian-whump @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes

#cs ff #captain swan rewrite a thon #csrt 2020 #my ff #the magic games #(love will see us through these) dark days

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capnjay21 · 5 years ago

Text

bring walls down, hear my sound 3/3

Ten happy years after the events of 'the boy that stood by the sea', and Henry Cassidy is no longer the little boy he used to be. Unused to the unpredictability of raising a teenager, his sudden wayward behaviour becomes a source of mystery to all the adults in his life. When things begin to spiral out of control, Killian and Emma must decide what sort of parents, and partners, they wish to be - of course, where Neal Cassidy is involved, nothing is ever simple.

link to the boy that stood by the sea || ao3 || part one || part two

Rating: T A/N: So it's actually been two years since I updated this story. I'm not sure if any of my readers will still be around, or interested, but nonetheless I am excited to finally put the conclusion out into the world!

As it's been a while, I will reiterate the content warning for the last chapter which still applies - there is a discussion regarding a miscarriage Emma underwent a few years prior, which is an important event for her and Killian and in this narrative. As ever, please take care of yourselves, but I hope you decide to continue!

Now without further ado, here is my 13.5k finisher! (PS, I know Coney Island doesn't open in the winter, but please dispel that tiny bit of realism for this chapter!) Enjoy! <3

-/-

Henry has been in New York for four days.

Neal keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to decide to go home or for Killian to ring and demand that he be sent back to Boston — he’s more than aware he’s living on borrowed time. Truth be told, for the first time in a long while he really feels like he’s doing the parent thing, making sure the boy gets decent meals every day and leaving work early enough to come home and spend time with him.

In fact, he’s beginning to wonder what made this so hard ten years ago.

It was such a long time ago now, he remembers the sensations and emotions far more than how he actually behaved when Henry lived with him full time, before Emma had stolen his car and entered their lives. It had been such a colossal struggle, trying to balance his work life with Henry, all pushing boundaries and guilt, god, so much fucking guilt, until it had reached breaking point that night on a beach in Maine. No matter how hard he had tried, he just couldn’t reconcile the two things that he loved most, this little boy who had needed him there and this job, the only thing he had ever wanted before Henry was born. It had ended in him letting one of them go.

He doesn’t regret sending Henry to live with Killian permanently. That had always been the right decision. What he does regret is missing out on time spent with him; the lazy mornings and sun-soaked afternoons, the science projects and parent-teacher conferences. Neal never had a reason to go to the library without Henry tucked into his side, but then, he had to remind himself, it wasn’t like he’d been around enough to take the boy there when they were together. Although he gave both Killian and Emma a hard time on the phone after the yacht incident, he knows Henry had a better life with them than he could’ve ever given him.

He just can’t work out why. Now, it’s the easiest thing in the world. He can’t wait for the end of the day to come so he can be back at the flat playing video games, or taking him out to eat or touring him around the best attractions New York can offer. They’re making up for years of lost time, and he can’t bear to waste a single minute.

His priorities have shifted; he realises that now. Better late than never.

And god, it’s so much better.

If he could redo that decision on a beach in Maine, hell, every decision he’d ever made before that, it would not be the job that he would keep. Nor the boy he would lose.

That said, with this newfound clarity comes something else — maturity. At thirty-fucking-nine it’s about time. Henry is his son, sure, but four perfect days don’t make up for sixteen years of emotional and oftentimes physical unreliability. Killian is the one who had been there, Killian is the one who is probably sat at home in Boston worrying himself into the ground, thinking he isn’t worth it. Killian is the reason this boy is such a bright spark in Neal’s otherwise empty life.

Well. It doesn’t have to be empty. He just has to go home.

(And so does Henry.)

As long as he knows that, as long as he’s aware of it, it feels okay. But he doesn’t want to let go of this yet, these longing, desperate days. He wants to know how it feels to have everything.

“So, you got work today?” Henry says brightly around his cup of coffee, eyes wide and expectant.

It’s Monday. Neal has a conference in the morning, two meetings and a sales briefing.

“Nope,” he says, taking out his phone to text his assistant that he won’t be in. “Day off.”

“Wow.” Henry’s eyebrows have shot to his hairline. “I didn’t realise you had those.”

It’s not said bitterly, but it could well have been. It could have been and it would’ve been entirely fair. But Henry is sweet and good and always forgave him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

“Very funny,” Neal sticks out his tongue, setting a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of the boy. He reaches into the microwave and emerges with the cheese he’d melted ready to drizzle on top.

“Cheddar?” Henry queries.

“Gouda.”

The boy grins. “Good, I was just testing you.” He takes the bowl from him and begins to smother his eggs. Once he’s done, he uses a fork to begin mixing it all together. “So, what’s on the agenda for today then?”

It’s so easy, being with Henry like this. It’s so fucking easy, which is what makes this so fucking hard.

“Henry,” he starts, before hesitating. The tone of his voice probably alerts his son to the nature of what he wants to say, and he looks up from his breakfast. Neal merely meets his gaze sadly, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug. “When are you going home, kiddo?”

Henry’s face falls, and he looks younger than he has in four days. More like a little boy by the sea trying to make an impossible choice. “I thought we said no outsider —”

Neal shakes his head. “Not gonna work this time.”

They’ve spent days running in the opposite direction to their responsibilities, from the people who care about them — he supposes it’s a comfort, in a sense. In his quieter moments he’d always been afraid that when Henry became a man, he’d see nothing of himself in him; he just wishes he’d passed on a more redeeming quality than the tendency to ignore his problems with more conviction than he confronted them.

Whatever happened back in Boston, he has to face it. Neal can’t be the place that Henry runs to, as much as he wants days like this to never be over.

When Henry speaks, his voice is quiet, the furthest yet from the confident young man that turned up on his doorstep.

“Can’t this be home?”

A bachelor pad in the middle of New York City, the safe haven they’ve turned it into. Neal’s heart melts, if only under the weight of the knowledge that no, of course it can’t.

He smiles sadly. “You know I’d love nothing more.”

“Then let’s make it happen!” Henry urges.

Before Neal can reply, his cell begins to buzz across the countertop. For a terrifying moment he thinks it might be Killian, finally coming to hold him accountable, but the pair of them look over to see Tink’s name flashing across the screen. Neal’s stomach clenches tighter. God, he wants to be the responsible adult they all deserve, but fuck if it doesn’t make him feel like shit.

Wordlessly, he reaches over and turns off his phone. Henry watches the movement intently.

“Why aren’t you answering her?”

After all, they’ve already lifted their embargo on no-outsider-talk.

Neal readies himself to tell his son everything, but the words that leave his tongue don’t resemble the confession he had meant to impart.

“Do you remember that time I took you to Coney Island?”

Old habits die slow and brutal deaths.

Henry looks wary at the sudden switch of conversation, but he plays along. “I wasn’t big enough for most of the rides.”

The boy had only been eight, and a short eight-year-old at that, and the day had been such a dramatic failure that he couldn’t hand Henry back to Killian fast enough to break from the shame. Of course, Henry had babbled on about how amazing the cotton candy and the spectacle of the entire day had been, thanking his father profusely and Killian had looked suitably impressed. Neal didn’t dare confess to the contrary. Undoubtedly, Henry’s optimism and his father’s realism remember that day excruciatingly differently.

Neal shrugs. “You would be now, wouldn’t you?”

It’s a dare. They’ll see how long they can push this.

Henry grabs his coat, and they decide to keep running.

-/-

There was Emma, thinking her couch hopping days were finally behind her.

Thankfully, David and Mary Margaret’s couch is infinitely superior to any she’s put up with before.

Almost buried under an abundance of pillows and soft blankets as the white gold of morning begins to creep past the curtains, Emma is grateful she didn’t think to go anywhere else. Truthfully, the night prior is a blur. All she knows is it left a yawning hole in her chest, a dead weight that begged to be lifted but had settled rather firmly in the crevice where her heart usually lay. She’d gotten up to try and convince Killian to come back to bed, come back to her, and somehow it had ended with them spitting fire at each other about Henry, and then — well. Then it had been marriage and children and missed opportunities and apparently a colossally poor level of communication between them that she hadn’t even realised existed.

It’s exhausting to even think about. She feels emotionally drained, devoid of energy, and wants nothing more than to sink into the Nolans’ sofa and never emerge.

As a gentle knock sounds at the door, she senses this is not to be the case.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret pokes her head around the door, a tentative look on her face. When Emma merely grunts in response she slips inside, closing the door behind her with a gentle click. “I bring gifts,” she says, waving a mug topped with whipped cream in front of her as she comes to rest on the arm.

With great difficulty, Emma drags herself into a sitting position. “Is that cocoa?”

“With cinnamon,” Mary Margaret promises, and Emma eagerly reaches for the cup. “And cream. I thought I’d push the boat out for this one.”

“Please, don’t mention boats,” Emma grimaces, but thanks her friend fondly as she hands her the mug. Any kind of nautical reference is far beyond what she can handle right now. She takes her first sip and it’s warm, and heavenly. Mary Margaret had introduced her to the wonder of adding cinnamon to hot chocolate, but she’s yet to brew one that tastes even half as good as her friend’s.

Taking delicate sips from her own mug, Mary Margaret allows her this — a few peaceful minutes of silence, letting her make the first move. She’d never met anybody who treated her quite as tenderly as her, except perhaps Killian. With a jolt of nausea threatening to rise, she lowers her mug. Something was made tender by Killian last night, but it feels more like battle scars than hot cocoa.

“Do you want to talk?”

Emma sighs. It’s not as if she thought she could avoid this conversation (turning up with red-rimmed eyes on your best friend’s doorstep at nearly three in the morning did somewhat merit an explanation), but she was at least hoping to get in a few more hours of sleep.

“Not… really.”

Mary Margaret turns from where she is perched on the arm, angling her body towards her. “I take it you and Killian had a fight?”

Putting it mildly.

“It wasn’t just a fight,” Emma says tiredly, “it was the armageddon of fights. You could have measured it on the Richter scale, I mean it.”

Her friend’s expression twists with sympathy and Emma looks away, picking violently at loose threads on the blanket she’d been given. Even now, with her roots down and her life as settled as it’s ever been (the previous night notwithstanding) she isn’t comfortable with anyone, no matter how well intentioned, pitying her. It takes her right back to life in the system and teachers who were happy to condescend to her, but not to do anything about it.

Unaware of her ire, Mary Margaret continues. “What was it about?”

“Henry, me and him, just…” Emma waves an absent hand. “Everything.”

“Henry’s still in New York then?”

Emma nods. “And ever since he left — hell, before he left, with all that stuff with the yacht, Killian’s been totally… I don’t know, out of it. Not himself.” It feels good to tell someone, to hopefully find at least some validation in the way she’s been feeling; to have someone else recognise that things haven’t been right, Killian hasn’t been right, and it’s not all within her imagination. “And I tried to call him out on it and suddenly we were arguing about what terrible parents we’d make and the fact that we never got married.”

Mary Margaret’s eyebrows jump to her hairline. “Wow.”

Wow didn’t quite cover it, in Emma’s opinion.

“Bit of a one-eighty, right?”

Her friend hesitates for a moment, taking a small sip of her cocoa as she does so. “I’m not so sure.” At Emma’s surprised look, Mary Margaret’s gaze slips to her mug, as if trying to work out how best to put her thoughts into words. “Listen, I don’t know your relationship even half as well as you do, but it seems to me like… this is the first time you guys have ever really experienced each other without Henry.” She shrugs, a pensive rise in her shoulders. “The first time there isn’t a third variable to consider; it’s just the two of you. Maybe it’s just about finding a new rhythm.”

Emma turns over this new assessment in her mind. She’s spent weeks roiling in doubt, watching Killian slip further into himself, and last night had felt like the final challenge — she hadn’t been enough to bring him out of it, she’d just become collateral damage. Mary Margaret was right, throughout their entire relationship Henry had always been there. They’d fought before, sure, but they’d always had Henry to think of, and they’d never wanted to make the boy feel the way he had when she and Neal had been together. They kept everything as open and honest as they could, and she knew Killian always tried to explain things to him when they disagreed.

Their entire life together had been coloured by Henry. Wasn’t he their rhythm?

“After ten years of the old one?” Emma let out a long, uncertain breath. “I don’t know If we can, I feel like last night proved that.”

I just added it to the long list of things I was giving up because I wanted to be with you!

“We wouldn’t even be together if it weren’t for Henry, I know that much.”

Without Henry, her marriage to Neal would have just disintegrated with nothing to show for it but wasted time. Without Henry, Killian might never have entered her life. Without Henry, she might not have fought for her own little piece of happiness, she might never have recognised what she deserved.

Could she still do it without him?

“But if your relationship is so dependent on Henry…” Mary Margaret bites her lip. “I don’t want to say it, Emma.”

She doesn’t need to. “Maybe we shouldn’t be together at all.”

The mere notion of it takes the fight right out of her and she sinks back into the cushions. Her mind is abuzz with doubts and truths she refuses to acknowledge, and wordlessly her friend lifts the blanket and snuggles in beside her. Even in the midst of her heartache, her entire body warms as Mary Margaret wraps an arm around her shoulders and allows Emma to rest her head in the crook of her neck. She’s always been jagged edges to Mary Margaret’s softness, but maybe if she stays here long enough she can absorb some of her strength.

“I love both of you,” Mary Margaret says gently, “but your happiness is the most important thing. However you find it.”

I’m pregnant, she wants to tell her.

Instead she curls in closer, and begs the sun to stop rising.

-/-

“You look exhausted, mate.”

Killian rubs his eyes tiredly. “I didn’t sleep.”

Barely half an hour after Killian had informed the Rabbit Hole WhatsApp chat that he wouldn’t be coming in today without providing any further information, Robin had arrived on his doorstep armed with coffee and a full monty breakfast from the café down the street in his arms. Given the café down the street didn’t usually do breakfasts to go, Killian had regarded his friend with amusement and allowed him inside. It felt good to have somebody else in the apartment — it made the walls seem closer, the space not as empty as it had been throughout the night.

Currently, he sits only prodding at the meal hurriedly dumped onto a plate as Robin fusses around in his kitchen, filling two glasses with water before bringing them over. He had correctly deduced that coffee probably wouldn’t be conducive to productive brain function, not with how wired Killian already felt. Every time he shut his eyes he could see Emma, coat thrown over her dressing gown, the door clicking shut behind her. Sleep had been entirely unobtainable.

“Sounds like a hell of a bust up,” Robin says with sympathy, handing him the glass.

Dutifully, Killian takes a few large gulps. The liquid only gathers in his gut, churning, lending discomfort to his already turbulent, weary state. “It’s like I was floating above my body, you know?” he brushes his hair from his eyes, the strands greasy from being ruffled all night. God, he needs a shower. “I was watching myself saying these things that I didn’t mean and flinging them at her like — like somebody that isn’t me.”

Robin drops down into an armchair, watching him carefully. “Have you called her?”

His heart clenches.

“She asked me not to.”

“Well, you know women.” His friend’s mouth quirks upwards. “Whenever Regina tells me not to call her it’s only because she wants me to. Secretly, mind.”

Not Emma. Emma doesn’t play games. “Believe me; she doesn’t want me to call.”

The open hurt, the wide eyed-astonishment. The staggered look she sent him when she realised just what it was he’d said — all of it replays and replays unpleasantly like the scratch of a broken vinyl. Miserably, he stabs a rasher of bacon and shovels it in his mouth, not wanting to see the sympathy in Robin’s eyes. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Couples fight, Killian,” he offers gently, “it happens.”

He shakes his head miserably. “Not like this.”

Either Robin concedes or he just has no idea how to respond, the effect of which being they sit in silence for a few comfortable minutes. They both just watch Killian push the food around his plate with his fork, the only sound the scrape of the utensil against china. Fuck, he can’t do a single thing right. Henry, Emma — somehow he’s managed to drive them both away, and he has no clue how to fix it. At least he knows where Henry is, still safe in New York with Neal, but Emma? He could hazard a guess at her going to Mary Margaret’s, but she could just as easily have found herself in August’s apartment. A hot flush of jealousy unlike anything he’s felt in years surges up without his consent. August has never been a threat, Emma had assured him of as much the first and only time he’d ever gotten silly over it, but at that moment his every irrational thought is crawling for sunlight.

Gods, what is he doing now? Doubting her? What the bloody hell is wrong with him?

“Maybe it’s because of Henry.”

Wrapped up in his own thoughts, for a moment Killian had forgotten Robin was even there. At his bemused look, the other man shrugs and carries on.

“You know, him not being here. Perhaps your relationship has been about him for so long, it’s struggling now that he’s gone.”

Killian frowns. There’s some sound logic behind it, but it doesn’t sound right. It’s enough of an oddity to give him pause. “I don’t… I’m not really sure about that.”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” his friend continues, exuding a nonchalance that, if Killian is honest, slightly winds him up. “The only reason Marian and I stayed together so long was because of Roland. By the end, my feelings for her were built entirely around our son, it just took me a while to realise it.”

“But that’s different,” Killian insists, before he has a chance to even think it through.

Robin’s eyebrows raise as he lifts his glass to his lips. “How?”

“Because —” he falters, but the power of the words in his rebuttal surge forward regardless. “I love Emma. I fell in love with her for her, not Henry. Hell, she was married to my best friend. If I wanted something easy, some scapegoat for love, I wouldn’t have picked this.”

“But if it’s this hard,” Robin presses, shrugging lightly, “maybe it just isn’t meant to be.”

“I don’t believe that,” he says fiercely, sitting up straighter in his seat as he angles more towards his friend, agitation spurring his movements. “We should be together, Emma and I. All this — all this crap doesn’t change anything about how I feel.” In his distraction, one of his hands finds its way into his hair and runs through it, tugging sharply at the ends. “I love her. Her strength, her vulnerability — and I love her walls. I love being the one to break them down. It doesn’t matter that our journey has been slower than most, or more complicated than most, because we are always moving forward. We’ve fought for our love and we’ve won, and I am not giving up just because it got hard.”

If he had been paying attention to Robin, sitting on the opposite armchair, he might have noticed the way the other man’s grin widened, his eyebrows climbing closer to his hairline the more Killian rambles on. Once he’s done, Robin drains the rest of his glass and drops it down onto the table, spreading his hands.

“And you’re telling me this, because...?”

His friend’s mischievous expression is the only confirmation Killian needs that he’s been goaded into something. Still, he’s not sure he cares.

Robin helps himself to the remainder of his breakfast, while Killian practically falls over himself in his haste to get dressed and out the apartment.

-/-

After some persuading, Mary Margaret finally convinces her to eat something and even ushers her into some fresh clothes as the morning wears on. The frilly collared cardigans of Mary Margaret’s wardrobe aren’t exactly her style, but at least they fit — she’d left her flat in only a coat and her dressing gown, and although that worked reasonably well for her escape at two in the morning, she can’t imagine going back dressed the same way.

God, going back. Emma doesn’t even know how to consider it.

Unfortunately, with it being a Monday morning, Mary Margaret has a class to teach at Hopper’s Elementary and only has time to ensure Emma manages to force down a bagel before she regrettably departs, but David has the morning off and she is assured she can stay as long as she wants. The man seems to sense she isn’t in a particularly talkative mood, and keeps her company in silence after trading a few polite enquiries about Henry’s wellbeing — he’d been one of the first people they’d called when they discovered him missing, so it’s only natural he should be anxious to know the boy is okay. Grateful for the company, she answers his questions as best as she can without letting her heart seize too much.

After a few hours of warm distractions, watching re-runs of Friends on the Nolan’s ancient television set, the buzzer for the apartment goes.

David sends her a reassuring smile as he stands, heading over to the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“David?” Killian’s voice stutters to life over the static, and Emma’s chest tightens uncomfortably. “It’s Killian, sorry to disturb you. I was hoping — is, erm, is Emma there?”

David looks to her apprehensively, ready to take his cues from her. She doesn’t want to talk to Killian, not with her conversation with Mary Margaret so fresh and with so little time to prepare herself. Still, it would feel worse to lie. Emma merely shrugs, helplessly, and David scratches the back of his head

“She — uh, she doesn’t really want to talk right now, Killian,” he settles on, biting his lip.

“That’s — that’s okay,” Killian continues hesitantly. “I mean, it’s fine. Would it be alright if I just — talked?”

David turns to her again, but she doesn’t know what to tell him. She’s more than acquainted with how determined Killian can be when he wants to, and if she’s honest there are very few things she can think of that he can say that would be worse than the night before. It seems only mildly ludicrous to have their first interaction after the argument be over the intercom at David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, but she can’t help it — she can’t face him, not yet. Not when she is still trying to decide how she feels.

“I’ll just talk and she can listen, or — or she can not, if she doesn’t want to, but I’ll be here, outside, just… talking.” After a moment’s hesitation, David locks the switch that keeps the line open. Taking that as some kind of affirmation, Killian clears his throat. “So, uh, here I go.”

David, ever the considerate one, gives some weak excuse for re-arranging the shelves in his bedroom, but Emma’s arm shoots out to stop him. She could do with the support; she doesn’t want to listen to this alone in case she isn’t ready for what he wants to say. Without a word, David drops down onto the sofa beside her.

“I, erm, I didn’t sleep,” the voice crackles through the speaker. “Not a wink after you left, I couldn’t. That’s not relevant. Ugh, I, um.” He lets out a sharp, frustrated sound. “Listen, a friend helped me realise — or, he reminded me, I don’t know — that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. So maybe I deserve to lose you because I don’t know who I’ve been fighting for these last couple of weeks — because it hasn’t been you, and it hasn’t been Henry.”

He pauses, and Emma listens intently. David links their fingers together.

“I’ve been a damned fool, Emma, I’ve been a coward and I’ve let my demons get the better of me. It’s like you said — you said children need to make mistakes in order to find out what matters to them, but I’m prepared to argue that kind of self-education carries well into adult life. Because you matter to me, Emma. I love you. I have loved you since the first night you yelled at me and I love you all the more for continuing to do so when I’m being a prat. These past ten years have been the best of my life, and there isn’t a thing I would change.”

Emma shakes her head fiercely, reaching her hand up to cover her eyes as she knows they must be watering. He did want things to be different, that’s what he said. Apparently, he’d spent ten years giving things up for her, compromising for her, and the idea that she’d been holding him back from some great happiness is perhaps what had shaken her the most. They were in this together, that’s what she’d thought. Killian doesn’t stop, however, uncertainly continuing to speak over the intercom, the tendrils of his voice clutching tight around her heart.

“I know that, given my behaviour last night, you may believe me to be speaking in untruths, but I swear I’m not. Every single decision, every single moment has led us to where we are now and that place means everything to me. I’m not unhappy. I’m not unsatisfied, quite the opposite. And I’m sorry if I ever made you think otherwise.”

The speaker crackles, a little bit of distortion as he collects himself.

“I’ll never stop fighting for us. Never again. I — I hope you know that.”

Silence, and David pulls Emma close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“So anyway, I guess, uh, feelings shared. You can go back to... Friends, I suppose, given it’s a Monday morning. Or maybe David and Mary Margaret don’t like Friends. I never asked. Bloody hell. I’m - I’ll go now. Just,” he sighs again into the speaker, “come home soon, my love.”

She slowly disentangles herself from David, and reaches for her coat.

-/-

After lyrically vomiting into the intercom system, Killian doesn’t really know what to expect.

He’d hoped, of course, for some kind of reaction or response, but he’s never been one to push for it where Emma is concerned. When it became evident that no answer would be forthcoming from the speaker, he had reluctantly stepped away; only becoming more embarrassed once he realised a man poking through his mailbox for a suspiciously long time had, in all likelihood, listened to the entire spiel. Face entirely aflame, Killian had departed the building out into the early Boston morning.

It had rained the night before, the entire street awash with muddied concrete and the stench of wet asphalt, but Killian isn’t ready to go home yet. Point of fact, he’s just declared he won’t be giving up on he and Emma without a fight, so returning to his apartment would appear to nullify the entire notion. He thinks about stopping somewhere for a coffee, but after patting his jacket down he belatedly realises he didn’t bring his wallet out with him. After Robin’s needling he had been so fired up that he hadn’t exactly considered that Emma might not be ready yet for what he had to say. He only knew he was desperate to say it.

For lack of a better idea, he sits down on the kerb.

Considering his options, he waits, staring out into the city traffic and remembering the first time they met, the distrust to the chorus of car horns and loud, angry pedestrians in front of Henry’s old school. It’s only a few blocks from here, where Mary Margaret works. He muses on walking there and back just to clear his head a little, to observe how much of it might have changed in the last ten years, but just as he’s convinced himself it would be a good way to procrastinate, the door to the building opens behind him.

His eyes lock with Emma’s, sparkling jade and bright with unshed tears, red-rimmed, and he immediately jumps to his feet. Uncertain of what to expect, he just waits for her to speak. When she does, it’s with a gentle tremble in her bottom lip, after she takes a shuddering breath.

“I don’t want to stop fighting for us either.”

When Killian steps forward to fold her tightly into his arms, she returns the embrace with equal vigour.

-/-

Luna Park boasted only a smattering of attendees, January not exactly a conducive time for regular theme-park goers, but the crowds were substantial enough to hide Neal and Henry from each other. They had spent over an hour amongst the rides, swapping only idle chatter and suggestions for what they should do next, a dead weight hanging over them like a cloud from the overcast day descending into the city. Neal knows what he has to say, Henry is waiting for him to say it. Their conversation at breakfast hovers between them, unresolved and deadly.

It's a stark contrast to how the last few days have been — at least he thinks it is. Maybe all along they were aware there was an expiration date on easy.

As the clock edges nearer to midday, Henry is leading his father through the crowd in the direction of the Ferris Wheel, boasting about how cool it would be to be sat on the top on exactly the stroke of twelve, but Neal catches hold of his hand and slows him to a stop. He suggests taking a break by the beach instead, and Henry reluctantly agrees; they both know what happens when they talk.

It isn’t the same as that beach in Storybrooke.

The breeze from the ocean stings with the sharp bite of winter, and the sand underfoot is far thinner and grainier than Maine had offered. Although almost deserted, the distant sounds of the park quietening behind them, a few gulls flock towards the edge of the coast, rising and falling with a flutter as the tide washes in, and out. It’s enough to bring back the memory of watching his boy ask for something he couldn’t provide, and it’s enough to spur him into action.

Henry stares out into the ocean, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

After a few moments they sit, uncaring for the way they disturb the sand.

“I am glad you came to me when you needed somewhere to go,” Neal starts, and it’s as safe a place as any. “That after all this time you can still trust me.” Even if he doesn’t deserve it. “But I do want to know why — and I need to know why because I trust Killian and Emma to be your home, to take care of you, and if they aren’t doing that then I can change it. Just say the word Henry and I will change it.”

Killian and Emma are twice the parents he will ever be, but if Henry breathes a word about not wanting to be with them — he would raise hell on earth to make it happen.

“They’re fine,” Henry says quietly, to Neal’s surprise. The boy picks up a stick from the sand and begins to push patterns into it. “They’re great, they always have been.”

Neal shakes his head, not understanding. “Then why did you come?”

Henry mimics his uncertainty. “I wanted — I wanted to get to know you. You as a person, as Neal. Not this… this thing that towered over me for years.” Neal swallows, and Henry finally turns to look at him. His chestnut eyes are round and as open as they have ever been. “You terrify me, do you know that?”

Whatever he had imagined Henry might say, it certainly wasn’t that.

The beach, in Maine. The rush and fall of the waves. He can hear himself responding to that very fear as if it were yesterday, and not ten years prior.

I’m sorry. Henry I’m sorry, I don’t want you to be scared. I’m an… I’m a massive idiot.

“You had so much power over me for so long,” Henry continues, and Neal realises how much easier it is to stare out into the sea than to truly acknowledge what his boy is saying. “I would have done anything to impress you, I agreed with anything you said. I wanted you to like me. I wanted you to want to keep me.”

Neal hangs his head.

“I love Killian and Emma so much, but you? God, I can’t even explain it.”

“I get it,” his father says quietly.

Henry finally turns to look at him, his mouth curved in a doubtful line. “Do you?”

“Henry, you could be describing verbatim how I talk about my old man.”

That family fucking resemblance he’d always been hoping for; there it was.

Neal knows how it feels to fight and fight when the other person isn’t fighting back. The realisation that he wasn’t, that he couldn’t, is what made him let Henry go in the first place.

“Tink is pregnant.”

Henry tenses up at his side. Neal’s gaze drops down to the sand, not realising he’d been curling her name into the earth with his finger. Fuck, he loves her. Like he’s never loved anyone. And this is how he’s treating her?

“She hasn’t told me yet, not officially. But I found her test. It’s why I’m out here,” signing up for every conference and meeting on the other side of the country that he could, “I’m scared shitless, buddy.”

Henry opens his mouth. “Dad—”

“I fucked up so badly before — you know that, right?” He’s almost afraid to hear the answer. “That was all on me. I couldn’t be there for you growing up because I wasn’t ready, I made shitty choices. I was selfish. And do you know what the worst part is?” Mutely, Henry shakes his head. “I gave up on us.”

The moment he’d realised just how tricky this balance was going to be, he’d given up. Maybe Henry had a better life because of it — he liked to think that. Of course, he’d never really know. Still, when he looks across at Henry now, a healthy boy with a heart the size of the entire state, it’s impossible not to recognise that something incredible has taken place.

He feels the humiliating sting of something behind his nose, so he turns his gaze back to the skyline and the gulls that sweep across the tide.

“And I missed the whole goddamn show. You’re perfect, Henry. You’ve never needed to impress me.” Neal tries valiantly to keep the tremor from his voice, but isn’t entirely certain he succeeds. “The fact that you’re sitting here, a whole person who can love and forgive as easily as you do blows my fucking mind, and it all happened without me.”

Henry shifts from where he sits, sending a scatter of sand up into the air.

“It wasn’t —” he starts.

“Not again,” Neal continues firmly. Determinedly. “Never again. I’m going to be there for this kid and for Tink, every fucking step of the way. I’m ready now and I — I think I needed you to help me realise I could do it. Thank you, Henry.”

When the silence stretches for a few, painful beats too long, he considers how he might have better phrased that particular confession. Once he looks over at Henry, the boy barely meets his eyes for a second before turning away, shaking his head as he roughly stumbles to his feet.

“I have to go.”

Neal blinks in surprise. “Henry?” He’s already halfway up the beach before he can stand. “Henry, wait!” Although he jogs back up to the entrance of the park, Henry’s signature scarf has already disappeared into the crowd.

Shit.

-/-

"When was the first time I yelled at you?"

Emma speaks quietly into his chest, although he can feel her smile in the curve of her mouth pressed against him. Killian edges the sheet further down the bed, baring Emma’s back so he can continue to trace absent star patterns into the slope of her spine. They speak only in low tones, neither wanting to disturb this bubble of peace they have finally won; warm, sated, and basking in the late morning sun.

He smiles at her question, pausing before answering just long enough to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m surprised you don’t remember,” he says amusedly. “Let’s see. I came by to Neal’s apartment with Henry, we’d known each other for — oh, I don’t know. A few months, maybe more? I wanted to see if you could babysit because I’d been lumbered with an extra shift at work.”

“Oh god, right,” Emma shifts as she remembers, pressing her lips briefly to his bare shoulder. “It was the day Neal and I moved into our new place, and I was locked out.” She gives him an apologetic look. “I was such a monster to you, I’m sorry.”

Killian chuckles gently. “You weren’t a monster.” Emma merely raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps a little monstrous. But I got a free cake out of it, so you won’t hear me complaining.”

“A vanilla apology cake.”

“My favourite kind.” Killian tugs her closer and she obliges, curling her leg over his beneath the sheet. “You looked so beautiful that night. Sitting in the Rabbit Hole with Henry asleep on your lap. You were just — I realised you were everything I hadn’t known I wanted. Until you drove away to the home of my best friend.”

Instead of replying, Emma straightens up. Killian lets her go, hand drifting down her back to rest near her hip, and she bites her lip. Something she usually does when she’s uncertain. When her eyes flicker to his, he knows.

“Killian.”

Abruptly Killian stands, reaching for their discarded clothes.

“That’s a tone that suggests I’ll need pants for this conversation.”

She takes the shirt he holds out to her and slips it over her head. “I think if last night taught us anything… we’ve been misunderstanding each other for a while. So let’s just — talk. Communicate.” Killian re-joins her on the bed, pausing slightly to brush some of her loose hair behind her ear. It shines in the dusty sunlight. “That’s what healthy couples do, right?”

“Definitely needed pants.”

Emma laughs despite herself, but shoots him a look warning him to take this seriously. So he takes a deep breath, and after a few moments he decides to go first.

“I… love the life that we’ve built together. What I said today — I meant it. But if it’s possible to have it all with you, I do want it.” Emma nods, urging him to continue as she brushes a hand down his arm. “I want to move out of the city. Get a house somewhere. A white picket fence, a stunning view of the sea — I want that. I want to marry you, have a kid of our own, maybe two if it's not too late. I love you, Emma,” he assures her, “but I want to share more than just this place and a bank account.”

When he finally turns his gaze back to her, he can see the sad crease in her brow.

“And you assumed I wouldn’t want those things too.”

He hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”

“You hurt me yesterday.”

“I know,” he says quietly, reaching for her hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss. “I’m so sorry. I was a fool, and I never should have kept these things to myself, let alone exploded at you. It was bad form.”

Emma watches him before nodding, firmly. “Okay.” He turns her hand over to kiss her palm. “I forgive you.” It lands with gravity, and a tension he didn’t even know he had been harbouring releases itself. “My turn.”

Killian moves to let go of her hand, but Emma holds on tightly.

“Six years ago, I was pregnant.”

Killian’s heart stops. “Love, you don’t have to —”

“I was pregnant and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how you were going to react, I was trying to find the right moment…” Emma winces, shaking her head. “And I left it too late.”

He wants to say something, anything, to find the right words to reassure her — but none will come. Instead he feels suspended, his pulse racing. They’ve never spoken about it out loud, not a single word. In moments he is back in the waiting room at the ER, confused and distressed and waiting for her to return, to tell him what happened, instead of letting him make inferences.

Don’t make me go through this again.

“We lost a child, Killian.”

She grips his hand tighter, and he watches as a single tear curves its way down her cheek.

"Our child."

It isn't like he hadn't known. From the moment he lifted her from the bathroom floor he had known, somewhere in his restless heart, the truth she refused to confirm. Knowing it, though, and feeling it; they had always been entirely separate entities.

Henry had been ten. As emotionally mature as he had always been, it had still taken him a while to come to the same realisation that Killian had the moment he left the hospital; that Emma wasn't quite okay. When he'd started to pry, Killian had packed him off on a three week holiday to California with Neal, at little protest from both parties. By the time he'd gotten home he had forgotten the whole thing, and Emma was almost back to her old self.

Killian hadn't allowed himself to consider, truly consider, just what had happened that day; in the months that followed Emma's accident he had forced himself to focus on her, on Henry, on his every effort to get their lives back to normal. Henry made it to school on time, Emma found herself spoiled by date nights, surprise gestures, anything to divert attention from the way she had withdrawn into herself. His iron focus had allowed him to leave his own grief behind and blame it on Emma's reluctance to talk.

That had been a coward's way out, and on some level he had always known that.

In his dreams, he did things differently. In his quieter moments, he had found himself down the dizzying path of considering the way things might have happened, if fate had been a little kinder.

(In his heart, a little girl turned six last June.

She had golden hair and eyes like forget-me-nots.)

Emma's nails dig into his palm and he is wrenched back to the present.

"I want you to understand something," she is saying, and he pulls himself back to focus on her words, "you can't predict these things. It was nothing you did, it was nothing I did. It wouldn't have helped if you'd known."

Killian feels a gasp of air dart for escape through his throat; he thinks he might have been holding onto that breath for six years.

Emma wipes her eyes with the sleeve of his borrowed shirt. "I'm sorry I never told you that.”

Killian nods silently. When he doesn't speak, she slides across the bed to him, and his arm instinctively reaches around her shoulders. "Okay?" she presses.

"Okay."

"But most of all I — I am so sorry for never letting you grieve. For closing myself off, for letting it go unsaid." He would catch her staring out of windows, not responding until the third time he called her name. More often than not he found her curled up with a blanket on the sofa rather than in bed beside him, the distance between them substantially more than a couple of rooms apart. “We should have done this together.”

“Aye,” he murmurs, and he kisses a tear from the corner of her mouth, “we should have.”

They talk for a long time after that. For how long exactly, Killian couldn't say, he only watches as the sun slowly sinks to kiss the top of the Boston skyline, casting longer shadows across the bed. Their bed, their life. The life that had taken a decade to build, with a foundation far stronger than the demolition attempted the night before.

“We’ve been doing this all wrong,” he whispers into her shoulder, as the afternoon fades into beams of orange light.

Emma turns to him curiously. “What do you mean?”

It’s with determination that he faces her now, with the fight that had left him the moment he awoke to find Henry’s untouched bed.

“Let’s go get our son.”

-/-

It’s just gone 8pm by the time Emma’s beaten up bug has gotten them to New York, and Neal had been frantic as he opened the door to them.

“He’s gone,” he had said, “he won’t answer his phone. I’ve already called the police.”

Although her stomach had plummeted, her steadfast grasp on Killian had been all she needed to keep a level-head. If she paused for one second to consider the multitude of disastrous scenarios that could have happened to Henry after he left Neal on the beach she’s certain the sheer power of that tide would overwhelm her — perhaps the same could be said for Killian. Perhaps it was a testament to how far they had come over the last twenty-four hours that he immediately took charge, barking orders for Neal to check the public library one more time while he and Emma combed four blocks in every direction from his apartment.

For all his absence over the last few weeks, his confidence is like a sedative to the swell of panic within her.

She can’t stop thinking about the time the boy had vanished as they watched the Christmas lights turn on. Only that time Emma had miraculously found him happily perched on a hotdog stand, waving about his new light up sword and pretending to be King Arthur to the amusement of the vendor.

(Enquiries were made at various stands she came across. None had seen a lanky brunette in his teens skulking about.)

Her phone buzzes, and Emma reaches out a hand to give Killian pause as she checks, hoping it will be from Henry but certain it’s from Neal.

Nothing at library. No1 seen a kid. Whats the plan??

“He’s not there,” she winces. If possible, Killian’s expression turns even grimmer. “Now what? We’ve already checked all his old haunts.” Henry hadn’t lived in New York for many years, not since Neal had moved to California, so their best idea had been his favourite places to go when he was much younger.

Killian rubs his face with one hand, and it’s that moment Emma realises how unbelievably tired he must be. His eyes are tinted red and rimmed with dark circles, and exhaustion has aged him beyond his years. Even his skin appears sallower than normal. Guilt claws at her when she considers he was probably up half the night much like she was, and she can’t help but feel responsible.

Emma reaches for his hand, squeezes tight. “Maybe we should head back to Neal’s apartment. He’s bound to head back there eventually — and if his phone is dead then it’s better we’re there.”

“If something unspeakable hasn’t happened to him already.”

Unspeakable is certainly the word for it.

“This is my fault,” Killian laments, “if I hadn’t been so bloody stubborn he could have been home days ago. I’m a sodding idiot.”

“If you are then we all are,” Emma insists. “Henry is our responsibility.” Not just Killian’s, not just Neal’s. Theirs. “And we’d be better off just working as the team we should’ve always been instead of wasting time blaming ourselves and each other.”

Somewhere along the way they had splintered, and the fractures had found their way to Henry — the very storm they had believed they were protecting him from had found its epicentre in their insecurities and their inability to communicate. The only thing left to do was make a course correction and continue to try their best. Realise their mistakes, move forward.

Pray they aren’t too late.

“I just wish we’d come here sooner. I wish I hadn’t driven him away to start with.” He sighs heavily, turns back the way they’ve come. “But you know what they say, if wishes were horses—”

“Beggars wouldn’t bother making wishes?”

Even as she says it, the lightning bolt of realisation crashes into her with a force that has her tugging back on Killian’s hand to stop him in his tracks.

She knows exactly where Henry is.

-/-

Even at night, the plaza is packed with people. Tourists huddle together and alternate between staring up at the entrance to the library, lit with large floodlights that winked in and out for a display, and watching the fountain spurt behind them. Many stand at its edge, offering pennies into its depths for the opportunity to ask for something in return.

It’s no wonder Neal would have missed him as he charged into the building — he’d never really known Henry to be more interested in what the waters might offer than the curling pages of a beloved tome, but Emma remembered. At a time in the boy’s life when she hadn’t really known how much she could lay a claim to, this spot had been theirs. Fleeting, gentle, but full of hope.

The three of them scan the crowd frantically — and it feels as if they all lay eyes on him at the exact same moment. Henry is perched on the edge of the fountain, hands gripping the stone on either side of him, body angled towards the water. An immense wave of relief rushes through Emma once she recognises him, and she considers how achingly long it feels since she saw him last. So much felt like it had changed even as she tried to claw her way into keeping it the same.

Killian takes her hand; she knows he must sense it too.

His lips part as they approach, a deep breath being drawn in. Yet it’s only a soft word that comes out. “Henry —”

“What the hell were you thinking, running off like that?!” Neal brushes past them furiously, and Henry visibly starts at the sudden intrusion on wherever his mind had been wandering. It’s a staccato movement that pulls him right back in front of them. “I have been worried out of my mind for you! You could have been kidnapped, you could have died, anything could have—!"

Neal cuts himself off for the sheer horror of it, and Henry takes the pause as an opportunity to bite.

“You’d have noticed, then?”

It’s light, but it’s a thinly veiled accusation. For a moment Emma considers that there is more to the past few days than Neal has told them.

Neal, for his part, appears to stifle a retort. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.

He settles for a warning. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Henry lets out a puff of air, a frustrated noise, his body angling away from his father in a visible snub. As his eyes start to sweep the crowd Emma can feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention, as the boy’s gaze lands on she and Killian. If he is surprised he does a good job of hiding it. It lasts scarcely a second, his eyes flickering first from her to Killian, before turning determinedly back into the fountain.

Killian, after squeezing her hand once, lets go.

He closes the distance and sits beside the boy.

Henry flinches away, shuffling an inch in the other direction.

“Please, just leave me alone.”

“I want to talk.” Killian’s response is quiet, but firm.

“I don’t.”

“Henry…” Neal admonishes from his position at the side, and Emma finds herself frowning at the tone — since when did Neal become that parent? The one advocating respect and chastising for the contrary?

It doesn’t feel — earnt.

Maybe she is being unfair.

Henry looks up at him sharply, eyes narrowed. “You don’t get a say in what I do.”

Neal gapes for a few moments, before his expression sinks into something apologetic he directs at Killian — Killian acknowledges the attempt with a barely perceptible nod, but his attention is entirely on Henry.

“I’m sorry.” In the piercing January air, his words turn to ghosts. “For the things I said before. They were spoken in anger and not a day will go by I won’t regret them.” For all his sincerity, Henry continues to stare forcefully into the water. Emma had always found Killian impossible to ignore, not when he was light and soft and steady, but the boy doesn’t appear to have much trouble doing just that.

“Will you look at me, please? Henry?”

She watches Henry not even react, lashes low and downcast; watches the concerned edge begin to furrow Killian’s brow, his confidence rapidly deteriorating, and she’s about to step in when suddenly all she can think about are the gimmicks they would use when Henry was a kid. How one time he refused to listen to any instruction from either parental figure unless it was spoken like Yoda, how they’d adopted it into their every conversation until Henry frustratingly couldn’t get any help with his homework without talking in circles and he’d begged them to stop. How they had begun starting every sentence with ‘please’ and ending them with ‘thank you’ to freak Neal out by pretending new Massachusetts state grammar laws demanded it.

Emma considers these, and reaches into her jacket for her cell phone.

Moments later, Henry’s pocket begins to vibrate. Once he pulls out his cell and frowns at the screen, his shoulders twitch, as if he were resisting the urge to turn and face her. After a few pensive seconds he slides his thumb across the screen and lifts it to his ear.

“It’s the glass, isn’t it?” she says immediately.

Henry’s pause is dubious. “Excuse me?”

“The partition,” she continues, “the reason you’re not hearing us. We have to use the phones or we can’t talk through the glass.”

The boy’s shoulders drop and she hears a long exhale through the speaker, like a breath of laughter. He understands.

“I’m not in prison, Emma.”

“You got arrested, didn’t you?”

“And you think I’d waste my phone call on you?”

Emma smiles although she knows he’s not looking. “Wentworth Miller was busy.” She doesn’t want to lose this brief bite of connection, so she hurries to continue. “I used to bring you out here when we were in NYC together, remember? I’d tell you to wish your problems away.”

Finally, Henry turns. His gaze lifts and his eyes lock on her. He’s hurting. She can see it. Can feel it in her bones.

“Yeah.”

“Did it work?”

Henry lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t have a penny.”

Without a word, Killian rummages in his pocket and finds one, holding it out to him. After a moment, and watching only his outstretched hand, Henry takes it.

“Talk to us,” Emma pleads.

The seconds extend like an unfurling bloom; slow, and heavy with anticipation.

Then, by some miracle, he begins to talk.

“It was so easy before. Making wishes, I mean. I know you probably thought I was wishing for a new bike or a trip to Disneyland or… I don’t know. Stuff kids want.” Like raindrops, what begins as a few drops slowly develops into a downpour, as he turns the penny over and over in his hand and keeps his gaze firmly fixed upon the water. “And don’t get me wrong, I wanted those things. But I didn’t wish for them.”

Emma doesn’t want to interject, but she had never felt as if he were wishing for something as trivial as a bike. Not when he had held those pennies in his tiny hands like they were precious stones, as if he carried more value in his palm than a thousand gold bars. Henry had always been wishing for something more profound — she had known it like she knew the curve of his smile.

“Wishes were too — too important for those things. So I did what I’ve always done,” Henry scratched the back of his neck as he paused. “I listened to you. All of you. None of you ever stood by the fountain like I did, and it didn’t seem fair, so I listened to your wishes so that I could make them for you.”

He hadn’t understood half of them at the time, he says, but he lists a few — for Neal to close an important deal, for Killian to find the perfect birthday present for Liam, for Emma to catch the ‘bad guy’ she was looking for. Emma watches, stunned, as he lists the exact conditions of a case she had decided to gently let Henry in on that she had forgotten completely about; it was near on seven years ago that she had sought out the bail jumper Ryan Marlow, but here Henry was pitching her the particulars in perfect detail. Henry, who had been wishing ardently for her success at age nine, with a penny she had picked out of her purse.

“Happy endings,” he says quietly, “over, and over, and over. I was obsessed with them.”

A beloved tome, the curling pages of Once Upon a Time clutched tightly to his chest for years.

He doesn’t have to remind them.

“But to me, a real happy ending needed certain… well, conventions, I suppose. A wedding, a kid, a perfect home in a castle in the country.”

Killian’s words ring in her mind, and as if he knows the direction of her thoughts the man’s eyes rise to meet hers, and she notes the usual brilliant blue has been usurped by a duller, ashen colour. She feels the same tight clutch inside she knows he must, a softer yearning, the paralysis of something sweet and sad all at once.

A white picket fence, a stunning view of the sea.

How alike the pair of them are, even now.

Henry’s brows have knitted together. “I’m not a kid anymore, I know — better than anyone — that the world doesn’t work that way. But in a way, none of you got any that. Hell, you and Killian have been together for a decade and you still live in Killian’s bachelor pad. And then I realised the common denominator.” His shoulders appear to quiver, and Emma notices a muscle in Killian’s right wrist twitch, as if it had wanted to reach out to him. She herself wants nothing more than to rush forward, wipe the concerns away from him as if he were six again and had merely scraped his knee. “You’ve spent so much of your lives putting me first that the most you hoped to wish for was less traffic at the intersection on 23rd Street. And that just — it just —”

He is mute for a moment, words slipping out and away before he can form them, and Emma realises with a jolt that what she had mistaken for a kind of melancholy was in fact fury. Henry trembled with minute rage; at the penny in his hand, the fountain in front, at the stars concealed by the dark curtain of night above them.

“God, it was so frustrating to realise. Mortifying, even. And every good thing you did just made it worse. Every kind word, every thoughtful gesture.” He lets out a heavy breath. “It was like drowning in lukewarm water.”

So he stayed out late with some friends. He walked the length of the wharf, twice, before picking the prettiest, sturdiest yacht he could find and barking instructions for how to get it out of the harbour for those who dared to follow. For the wild, outrageous, cleverness of it. For the joy and the heartache of nostalgia and the wind in his hair and the way Violet Mogan’s cheeks had flushed when she laughed.

For the way that Killian had arrived at the precinct, powerful yet immensely disappointed.

Got everything? He had asked, quietly. Let’s go.

“I just thought if I could get you to stop looking at me like I hang the sun, then it might not be too late for you to build something together. Not a castle, maybe, but something just as strong. And I have Dad,” he flickered his gaze at the other man, before dropping it back bitterly to the penny in his palm. “Or I thought I had Dad. Turns out my wish for him was the only one that came true.”

It’s a quill, Daddy says it’s magic. It’s for telling stories. He says I have to write him a happy ending.

“Just a little too late for me.”

There is the chime of nail on copper, and in the space of two heartbeats the penny arcs into the fountain with a gentle plop.

No one seems to know what to say.

Henry drops the phone from his ear and jabs at it with his thumb, cutting off the call with Emma. She had forgotten they were still connected that way at all, how rapt her attention had been on him.

And all she can think is — what an idiot.

She realises she must have said it aloud as all three of the men before her startle; Henry from his perch on the fountain, Killian from beside him and Neal standing a few feet from them.

Hastening to clarify before more hurt feelings are thrown around, she doubles down.

“I just mean — Henry, your logic is way off. We’re your parents.” All three, no matter how distant. “We are always going to look at you like you put the sun there, even when you’re at your most bratty. That’s love, kid. We love you.” It was easy to say, now, easier to admit than it had been for most of her life. But then, this was the boy who had taught her how to do it. “Nothing you can do will change that, not boat stealing or,” she scrambles for something else, “or even hanging out with that little shit Malcolm.”

“Language,” Henry responds instinctively. At Emma’s exasperated stare a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. They thought they had been losing Henry — in that instance she realises he had been there all along. “He is a bit of an asshole.”

Emma crosses the distance between them, kneeling down in front of the boy and taking his hand firmly. Perhaps on another day he would’ve been embarrassed, a sixteen-year-old holding hands with an adult like that, but in the force of the last few days he just clutches her back tightly.

“But you’re right,” Emma continues seriously. She won’t do him the disingenuity of trying to claim a falsehood now. “There are steps Killian and I haven’t taken. Important ones. As it happens, we’ve been misunderstanding each other for a long time now.” With her free hand, she reaches for Killian, finding his fingertips already reaching back for her. “But that’s nothing to do with you. Do you get that?”

Henry nods, but the movement is hesitant.

“I mean it, kid. Look at me. Do you understand?”

He does. A visible weight seems to lift. Maybe he just needed someone to say it out loud.

To her surprise, Neal settles down on his haunches beside her, gentle in a way she is unaccustomed to seeing from him. Like he can sense the gravity of a moment and he doesn’t wish to disturb it — like a beach in Maine, and a little boy who had asked so quietly for what he wanted that his father had given it without reproach.

Turns out my wish for him was the only one that came true.

“Henry,” he picks up where Emma has left off, “I’m — you clearly needed someone this week, and all you got was this giant… playmate.” He considers himself with an air of obvious frustration. “And then I made it worse. You’ve never needed to try hard for me, you know that, right? You’re number one.” He lifts a single finger to illustrate it. “You’re number one. And about earlier…”

Emma does not know what happened earlier, Neal had been light with the details; just that they had been at Luna Park and Henry had run off. Whatever it was, the weight is palpable as Henry stiffens a little before her.

“You left before I could finish. Yeah, I’m going to be a dad again, but you know what that means? You’re going to be a brother.”

Henry blinks; like he hadn’t even considered it.

“And that was something I was really hoping you’d want to be.”

Neal bites his lip, waiting for his son’s reaction.

He needn’t have worried. Henry was warmth, and love, and he always would be.

“I do,” he said, then softer, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Neal smiled ruefully. “I always am with you.”

The air bristles with something unsaid, and Emma stands. Maybe Neal also senses it because he too moves away, and as casually as she can she looks to Killian now for his thoughts. Silent as he had been throughout the exchange, his mood is difficult to read; Emma can identify some of the reactions she had seen, remorse, sadness, pride, and she leans on the turmoil she knew had been churning inside him since the first moment they had found Henry gone. But he has fortified, this she knows. He just wants to put them all back together.

Henry, perhaps in contrition, almost refuses to look at him.

If Killian takes offence he doesn’t show it. Instead he smiles, a watery, delicate thing.

“You’re my best friend in the whole world, bug,” he says. “I’m half a man without you.”

Henry’s eyes shut tight and for the first time, Emma can see a bead of emotion roll down his cheek.

“Please come home.”

It happened so quickly that she almost didn’t see it; but the next moment Henry was in Killian’s arms, shaking and murmuring apologies into his shoulder. The older man was shushing him as if we were a child again, assuring him all was forgotten, and his relief was palpable in the manner with which his fists clenched into Henry’s coat and the tightness of his eyes pressed closed, supressing a stronger tide.

Emma looks down, the moment almost feeling too private to intrude upon, and Neal does the same. Unconsciously her hand lifts to her stomach, to the barely perceptible swell that has begun there; she has to tell him, but not now. She wanted to let him have this first. He deserved it

“What I said,” Henry croaks, and from the corner of her eye she can see he has pulled back, has his hands resting on Killian’s shoulders and is looking at him directly. “What I said before I left —”

You are not my dad!

“You are,” he nods determinedly, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “In every way that matters. You are. I’m sorry.”

Killian simply pulls him back in, closer, and the night feels just a little bit brighter.

-/-

A rerun of Jurassic Park is the only thing on the TV by the time they make it back to Neal’s apartment, most of the selection near midnight having dried up considerably as most prepare for bed before work the following day. Arrangements are made, and rather than attempt the near four hour drive back to Boston tonight Killian and Emma had volunteered to take the sofa while Henry spends a final night in his old room. However, the unspoken word among them is that none are quite ready for sleep yet, and had switched on the television for wont of something easier to focus on — something light, something arbitrary — something with a few more scales than the monsters they had been battling away today.

Killian sits with his arm around Emma, Henry on her other side leaning against her and slumped across the remainder of the sofa with his gangly legs stretching for the arm of Neal’s chair, where his father has been poking at the holes in socks much to the boy’s exasperation.

“Honestly. You know you don’t have to wait for Killian to buy you socks anymore, right? If you go to a store they’ll actually give you some in exchange for those green wrinkly notes.”

Henry snorts. “I don’t have any ‘green wrinkly notes’. When did you think I’d have time to get myself a job in between all my community service?”

“Nice try,” Emma says, “it was only twenty-five hours, and the last I checked you were nearly done.”

“Only twenty-five hours? Did you pay off the judge or was this just a really shitty yacht?”

“Can we not debate the particulars, please?” Killian admonishes. “I’m trying to watch the folly of man and a twenty-foot lizard tear devour a bloke on a bog.”

A brief pause where, suitably chastened, they realise it’s probably not appropriate to be making so light of the whole thing.

“And it was a Pershing 80 he stole, anyway. Even a used one would go for over two million dollars.”

At the indignant looks and protests from the others, Killian merely grins and shrugs, holding up a hand to shield his face as Henry flings a cushion over his shoulder in his direction. Emma declares that she’s going to the kitchen for more popcorn, and just as Neal asks her to get him a portion his phone rings. Killian catches a glimpse of the screen before he picks it up.

‘Tink calling…’

He offers an apologetic smile to the pair of them as he heads out into the hallway, his voice briefly floating back towards them even as they try and pretend their ears aren’t pointed towards the sound.

“Hey, baby. Yeah, I’ll be home soon — tomorrow, even. First flight I can get. It’s been a bit of a crazy week. For you too? That’s great. I can’t wait to…”

It trails off into a low murmur as he shuts the door behind him.

Killian watches Henry carefully for his reaction. The news that Tink was pregnant had come as a shock to all of them, not least to Killian, but it had clearly had a profound impact on Henry as it had only contributed further to his spiral. He seemed calmer now. A small smile had pulled at the corner of his mouth as he watched his father retreat into the other room, something proud and full of warmth. Maybe Killian can relate to some of what he must be feeling.

They had all waited a long time for Neal Cassidy to grow up, Henry most of all; maybe they were finally seeing it happen.

Henry turned back to the film, and Killian tossed the cushion back onto the boy’s stomach to get his attention.

“So,” he starts brightly, to the backdrop of little Tim’s daring rescue from the jeep trapped in the tree. “What’s her name?”

Henry pretends not to understand, but Killian knows he does. It’s something of a relief. He can still read this boy like the book of fairy-tales he used to tote around in his oversized backpack.

“Who’s name?”

Killian raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Well if it’s dating tips you need, lad, I know my way around women.”

“Oh god.”

“Not so long ago I was just like you, young, spritely, ready for my first brush with a lady’s—”

“Stop, do not finish that sentence.”

“Charms,” Killian concludes, feigning an aghast look at what Henry might have presumed. This earns him another cushion to the face.

It’s such a relief, to be able to needle Henry in such a way, back to the easy companionship he had enjoyed for most of the boy’s life — but it feels different, too. Not exactly negative, he decides, but a change has certainly come about. Perhaps they could never make it through something like this entirely unscathed, but he realises as the moment passes by that there will be some things Henry will choose not to confide in him. An odd notion. There had never been anything Henry couldn’t tell him before.

But to his surprise, he felt that that would be okay. He was growing up, and it was about time Killian realised it. He couldn’t cart him around on the back of his bike to a museum anymore, but they could find their peace in other ways; like he and Emma, their rhythm would change but it could grow and blossom into something even better if he just let it. For the first time he is almost looking forward to what the next stage of Henry’s life might bring them, instead of longing for the treasures the past had held.

“Violet.”

Killian glances over in surprise, observes that Henry’s ears are scarlet as he keeps his gaze fixed on the television screen.

“Her name, I mean. Violet.”

Killian smiles, although Henry can’t see it.

Maybe he’ll get to keep the little boy by the sea just a short while longer.

Deciding not to put Henry through any further embarrassment, Killian stands. “That’s a lovely name,” he tells him, and leaves the door open for him to talk about it any time he wishes. “And I’m sure she thought your Grand Theft Marina was very impressive, if nothing else. I’m going to go see about that popcorn.”

He leaves Henry in the sitting room, passing Neal quietly in the hall before crossing into the kitchen. Emma is there, watching the microwave humming as whatever is inside rotates slowly. She turns to watch him as he enters. Dropping a quick kiss to her temple, he reaches past her for a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine from the cabinet. Neal’s taste for wine had grown over the last ten years, but he had still never quite acquired a taste for Sauvignon Blanc the way that Emma had — those he kept around for her, for special occasions, and Killian quite felt this merited a glass or two.

Pouring three glasses, two for himself and Neal, and just as he was about to pour the third Emma blurts out to stop him —

“I’m pregnant.”

Killian freezes. The microwave pings its conclusion loudly into the kitchen.

“So, uh, no wine, I mean. None for me. I’ll just, um, I’ll have juice. Or whatever Henry’s having. Do you think Neal has coke? I’ll just go ask—”

“Wait just a —” Killian blinks, “you’re —?”

She nods, biting her lip.

“I figured I’d be better off not waiting for the perfect moment anymore and just… picked the next one.”

Killian can’t wrap his mind around it. She’s pregnant. The thought spins back and forth around his head, ricocheting heavily and sending him spinning. For a moment he almost imagines the room swimming out of focus, Emma standing uncertainly by the microwave looking to him for his response — for his approval or, if the way doubt flickers across her expression, possibly his rejection. Through every dizzying sensation its that which pierces through, and before he can even consider his own feelings properly he is in front of her, dazed, kneeling and pressing a kiss to her stomach.

Elated, he decides.

Elated is how he feels.

It’s almost impossible to comprehend. Unbridled joy bursts forth inside him and he is invincible — Henry in the next room, howling with laughter at something Neal had said, Neal, growth and hope, and Emma. The only woman he would ever wish to bear his child, forgiving him, cherishing him, giving him the only life he had ever wanted, and more life beyond.

Emma’s fingers tangle in his hair as he kneels before her and he thinks he is trembling, breathing deeply as a few tears roll down his cheek. He doesn’t even think to be embarrassed, it’s been such a long, long road to get here. Her fingers squeeze and he looks up, as always awed by her and her strength. Through everything that had happened over the last few days, she had been carrying this knowledge with her with a steadfastness and fidelity to her own spirit — even when he was at his worst, she had not let him deter her when she had far greater things to be frightened of.

She’s crying too, he can see that. And as if she can read his thoughts, she murmurs, “I’m scared.”

Killian shakes his head. “I’m not.”

He stands, brings her hands to his mouth and kisses each one delicately.

This, he has to make sure she knows.

“I know we face an uncertain future, but there is one thing I want you to be certain of.” A press of his lips to hers and he is unconquerable. “I will always be by your side.”

She breathes out, deeply. “So — you’re happy?”

“Irreparably.”

At this she laughs, and his heart still melts at the sound. He tugs her in for a strong hug, lifting her off the ground and her joy is as palpable as his own. She peppers kisses across his jaw and he whispers that he loves her, and his reward is a smile the breadth of the sun. They hear Henry from the next room calling them in for his favourite part, the ascent over the electric fence, and he sets her back down. After reaching past him for the rapidly cooling popcorn, Emma gives him a final wink over her shoulder and departs back to the sitting room.

Pregnant.

He wants to dance on the countertop and yell until his throat is hoarse and run a thousand miles just for the thrill of it.

As he follows, the scene in the sitting room makes his bubble of happiness only swell; Henry catching popcorn in his mouth with the same enthusiasm as cherries thrown across the bar in the Rabbit Hole, Neal acting as pitcher with the bowl of popcorn and Emma choosing opportunities to intercept. There is something decidedly special about it.

There needn’t be castles, or weddings, or meadows upon meadows of wildflowers. Nor swords, magic, dwarves or palaces made of glass. No, Killian decides, none of those ornaments or flourishes are needed — happy endings are far from how they appeared in Henry’s storybooks. He has his own suspicions now about how they present themselves.

In unremarkable, fugacious moments. In the gentle shapes of people who love, are loved, and continue to be brave.

Happy endings, the real ones, look a lot more like that.

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