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the-hidden-writer · 4 years ago

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An Odd Family Tree

A series of snippets from the lives of the FitzSimmons family, set post 7x13. Also, the series of events that lead up to the birth of their grandson.

Available to read on AO3 and FF.net.

Comments make my day!

Epilogue (2) [FINAL]

Cows. He’s back in the ‘right’ timeline and the first things he sees are cows.

He never liked cows. Sheep he could deal with. Dogs? He loved them! Sheepdogs? He’d never actually seen one before, but according to common sense he should love them, right?

But no, he had to land in a huge sloped field full of those big burly beasts. At least they sort of resembled sheep with their long brown fur that seemed to cover their eyes. Someone really needed to give those cows a haircut.

It took him almost a whole hour to orientate himself with his surroundings. Since the transportation device he’d just used had never actually been tested before, there were a few unpleasant side effects.

The main side effect that Deke came across was that he’d lost most of the feeling in his limbs. It was only towards the end of that hour did he remember that he was a robot. Huh.

After finally gathering up the courage to move and checking his pockets for the generous amount of money he’d brought with him, he stumbled his way down the hill to the quaint little farmhouse at the bottom. It didn’t take much effort to convince the friendly farmer that he was just an airheaded traveler who’d lost his way. He even managed to persuade her to give him a ride into the nearest city. Which, as it turned out to be, was Inverness. As in, Scotland.

Honestly, the accent should have given it away.

She was kind enough to just drop him off on the outskirts of the city. As much as he wanted to visit Loch Ness, he had a much more important place to visit.

He was too self-conscious to ask anyone what year it was. In his timeline (not technically his, but the one where he’d ended up living most of his life) he wouldn’t think twice about asking a random stranger even the stupidest of questions. But he didn’t belong here, he technically really shouldn’t be here is what Enoch had said, and so he had to try and avoid bringing too much attention to himself at all costs.

That, and the fact that he wanted to make a good first impression.

But that left him with the problem of not knowing what year it was. Honestly, they should at least display the online newspapers in store windows! The device had been programmed to take him to whenever and wherever the majority of his DNA was concentrated into a small area so that he’d hopefully get to see his grandparents together. He’d hate to arrive and there to be only one of them, or worse, none at all.

And since he’d made it to Scotland, he had a glimmer of hope that it had worked and that they were both still alive.

Asking around a little (he’d given up on trying not to), nobody seemed to recognize the names Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons. But more than one person asked him if he meant Alya Fitz-Simmons who was apparently a very famous person within the city. That most certainly caught his attention. And after another painful two hours of asking random people, one elderly woman eventually gave him an address as well as a message to pass on (“Tell them that Elaine says hello.”)

He hailed the closest taxi he could find and practically screamed the address into the poor driver’s ear. The journey felt like it dragged on for hours. And still, somehow, it was over too quickly. The driver pulled into an estate that seemed to be a village of its own. Deke paid him and asked if he could stop a little further away and just show him which of the houses he needed to head to.

Once his feet touched the dusty old road, Deke felt like his metal knees would just collapse from under him. It was a straight path from where he stood to his destination.

It was the most homely, picturesque cottage he’d ever seen. There was a small wooden gate that led to the ivy-covered stone building, and there was a relatively wide area surrounding it that was protected by tall bushes. The section of the garden he could see through the arched entrance was filled with various species of vibrant flowers and bonsai trees. Next to the house, peeking over the top of the bushes, was a strong Acer tree that stood proud against the sky.

It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, and he hadn’t expected anything less.

He dragged his feet closer. One foot in front of the other. He was glad he didn’t need to breathe because there was no way he would have been able to at that moment.

It was only a few feet away. He suddenly broke into a run, half-prepared to break down their door but then his ears caught-

“Bobo! Nana, Bobo, look at me!”

He screeched to a halt. Though he knew it should be impossible, his heart still felt like it had been ripped out of his chest. It still felt like blood was pounding in his ears. It felt like his vision was blurred and his head was spinning.

It couldn’t be-

“You’re doing great, sweetie!”

That was his Nana’s voice. Jemma Simmons. Nana!

He quickly retreated to behind the bushes and resorted to pulling apart some of the sharp twigs (he needed to get used to the fact that it didn’t hurt) in order to peek into the front garden.

There… there was his Nana. His Nana looked like how he vaguely first remembered her- her hair grey and neatly tied in a bun with a pair of glasses hanging around her neck by a chain. She was sitting on a tartan armchair with her hand help up as if shielding her eyes from something. Next to her was-

“Get down from there! You’ll fall off and break your leg and I’m not gonna make that trip to the hospital.”

Bobo. Fitz. His usual, grumpy self with his itchy sweater and long beard. Deke felt a memory be unlocked when he caught sight of the walking stick beside his Bobo’s chair. Fitz had his phone in his hand but was glaring a little boy that was wobbling dangerously on a branch of that magnificent Acer tree.

In a flash, someone jumped up to catch him before he could fall.

“That’s enough of that for one day, little dude.”

Dad! His Dad, in all of his blonde glory. He looked a lot happier and healthier than what Deke remembered.

And if Dad was there, then…

“Play on the ground now Deke, okay?”

Deke felt himself choke up.

Mom.

She looked exactly like he remembered her, but there was one major difference. She was laughing. She was laughing and smiling and she was happy.

It was the first time he’d ever seen his mother truly happy.

“Okay.” Said the boy, and only then did it hit him what his Mom had just said.

She’d called the boy Deke.

Despite his family being right there, Deke felt his eyes wandering towards the boy that had begun to chase a white butterfly that was flying around the garden.

Untamable brown hair. A scarily familiar spindly frame. Mischief shining on his baby face, as well as complete and utter adoration of the adults around him that was matched tenfold by said adults.

Doubt began to creep into his mind so intensely that he almost missed it when the boy, himself, turned in his direction.

Only then did Deke realize that he’d been shaking that entire time.

Green eyes met green eyes. One pair was full of trauma and survivor’s guilt, and the other of pure childhood innocence and curiosity.

Deke had never exactly seen a picture of himself when he was younger and had no idea what he would look like, but he was pretty sure that he never had the chance to have that sort of perfect childhood. He’d seen too much. The envelope containing many USB sticks filled with voice messages and pictures suddenly felt extremely heavy in his pocket.

That’s when he made the decision.

The second he noticed the tiny version of himself open his mouth, he turned and ran, not caring that the bushes noticeably rustled behind him, scaring a bird.

A robin. How fitting.

As the voices that he’d yearned to hear for years became distant, Deke finally stopped running.

There was no way he could show himself to that family. They were all happy together in the way that it was supposed to happen... Yes, he was jealous of himself, who wouldn’t be?

The last time he saw his Mom alive was the seconds before she was killed in front of him. The last time he saw his Dad was when he was being dragged, kicking and screaming, to his death sentence while Deke shrieked at him that he should’ve just listened and given up hope.

And his grandparents… he didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye either time.

The people he had just seen in the garden were Alya Fitz-Simmons, Owen Shaw, Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons joyfully playing with Deke Shaw. They belonged to that version of him, not himself.

People regularly called him selfish, so is it still selfishness if you’re doing something for the benefit of an alternate version of yourself?

Little Deke Shaw should live a normal existence. The life that Deke had often found himself begging for. A life without a weird future-past-adult version of himself intruding.

...He might go visit Loch Ness after all.

Pulling out that damned white envelope, Deke smiled through his pain.

He pulled out a pen from his backpack and scribbled on it.

“Elaine says hi.”

Before he went on a Loch Ness Monster hunt... he had a delivery to make.

[THE_END_]

#The ending is purposefully open-ended for you to decide what happens next!#agents of shield #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#aos #fitzsimmons #fitzsimmons fam #deke shaw #leo fitz #jemma simmons #alya fitzsimmons #owen shaw #baby deke #fanfic #an odd family tree

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uwmspeccoll · 5 years ago

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A John DePol New Year’s Eve Typography Tuesday

On this last day of the year, we take our leave of 2019 with these artist’s proof sheets of historiated initials by the great American wood engraver John DePol, who created them in 1996 for the chapter heads of Jan and Crispin Elsted’s Barbarian Press edition of Canadian writer Theresa Kishkan’s novella Inishbream, printed in Mission, British Columbia, in 1999 in an edition of 175 copies. This publication, with a narrative set on a small island off the west coast of Ireland, exploring the relationships of the Canadian narrator with the Irish inhabitants of the island, includes 21 original wood engravings by John DePol and won first prize for limited editions in the 1999 Alcuin Society Awards for Excellence in Book Design in Canada.

DePol sent these proofs to our friend and benefactor Jerry Buff in March 1996. Buff writes to DePol:

I enjoyed looking at the engravings for the Inishbream book. They have a sense of permanence, capturing the feeling of this land by the sea. I particularly enjoyed the sea bird on the waves, the man bent against the wind, making his way to a cottage, and the Epilogue. . . . Thanks again for sharing your work with an admirer.

In a letter to Buff, DePol tells him of

One of my favorites . . . it’s a little girl puppy, a sheepdog, and her master who, with fist on hip, appears to be in a foreboding stance. Hope he is praising, not scolding her. . . .

View our previous New Year’s Eve posts.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

Best wishes from UWM Special Collections for a safe and happy New Year!

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alyssa-ward · 5 years ago

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Like Everything was Fine: Alyssa Epilogue

The old sheepdog rouses from slumber at the smell of smoke. With a tired sound, arthritic joints pull him to his feet, black damp nose twitching as he sniffs at the air in the home. Even aged as he is, Dog's instincts are to protect, and he pads into Alyssa's bedroom as the home fills with smoke to wake the woman.

Finding her not there, and with the heat growing, the sheepdog let's out a confused huff, before crossing the living room again to the front door. He butts head against the flap of the dog door Alyssa had installed for him. Dog always suited her well in their time together, it felt like a worthwhile addition. Likely to buy a dog of her own when Val came to reclaim him.

With a bit of squirming, the old sheepdog makes it through the dog flap and out into the cool evening air, dropping to lay beneath the apple tree a short ways from the home, looking back towards the growing blaze.

Within, magical seals and wards break, triggering and coaxing the inferno. Greedy for power and knowledge, the idea that someone else might get their hands on her Grimoire and hard fought books of forbidden lore was unacceptable. With her death, the protective magic of her home activates, slowly reducing her house and her knowledge to cinders.

Dog lifts his tired head, watching to fire a bit longer, before settling it on his paws again with a tired huff to return to sleep.

[ Mentions to @the-real-arcanist-val; @kat-hawke ]

#IC #Everything's Fine #Aly Kat #tw: death

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dogbearinggifts · 6 years ago

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Brothers in Arms, Part Two

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is (I think) the final installment of my Sheepdogs series. I am toying with an idea for an epilogue, and I’m open to new ideas for stories set roughly within the same continuity, but for now, I’m going to say this is where I leave it. Thank you to everyone who has followed, read, and commented on this story so far. If not for your support and enthusiasm, it would have remained a single oneshot. I’ve loved writing this series, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it.

If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, I’d recommend starting from the beginning with He Saw the Ghosts, a oneshot exploring what could have happened if a kinder vet had approached Klaus in the VFW. Dead Ringer, Tattoos with Better Stories, Missing in Action, and Brothers in Arms Part One follow this small group of vets as they try to solve the mystery around the man in the picture who looks an awful lot like Klaus.

As always, you can check out this fic and the rest of the series on my AO3 account.

***********

1969

Someone had to stay with the body.

Art didn’t know at which point someone became him, didn’t remember anyone pointing to him and saying “Stay with Dave.” He didn’t remember much of the past hour, if it had been an hour, or how long it had been since the smoke and dust cleared and silence overtook the battlefield. He only remembered Dave.

His friend lay beside him in the dirt. Someone had closed his eyes. Art tried to remember who, wished he could remember who, but the thought refused to surface. It could’ve been one of the officers. It could have been Lawrence. It could have been anyone nearby, anyone who’d seen it and decided Dave deserved that one small act of decency. Events like that, small but significant happenings in the battle’s aftermath, slipped through his mind like dust through his fingers. When he closed his eyes, he saw Dave; when he opened them, he saw debris of the battle that had ended him.

Plenty of men died with their eyes open, and plenty died of wounds that weren’t an instant kill. They died screaming, they died calling out for mothers thousands of miles away, they died slower than any man should have to. Art had seen it, had offered what useless comfort he could when circumstances brought him to the side of a dying friend. He’d made it too late this time—far too late—but even if he’d made it in time it wouldn’t have mattered much. Bullet wound to the chest, right in the center. Dave would’ve had a minute or two of agony, a minute or two of panic, as he choked and gasped for breath that wouldn’t come, as he tried to call for help, tried to—

Art hugged his knees to his chest, digging dirt-blackened fingernails into his shins, though the cloth of his pants absorbed much of the pain. The thought didn’t quite leave, but it shuffled to the back of his mind. Silence took its place, but other thoughts, darker even than the one he’d just banished, threatened to fill it.

He had to do something for Dave.

He wasn’t the first of Art’s friends to die. Months back, Isaac had caught a piece of shrapnel in his stomach, hemorrhaging beyond what a medic could fix before any medic could try. He hadn’t seen Dave take his place beside his friend’s body, hadn’t been there when he began speaking, but when Art came near he’d heard the words of a psalm, cracking beneath Dave’s grief.

Art had recognized it then, known the words belonged to Scripture when he heard them, but the psalm’s specific number had eluded him then and it eluded him now. He should have paid more attention, should have noted a line or two and looked them up later, should have found a way to ask if the one he’d recited had been his favorite or simply the right one to recite when a friend died—but the question was a distraction now.

The Twenty-third had been the first psalm he’d memorized, back when the words meant little to him beyond their soothing cadence, but no memories of reciting The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want to the delight of parents and Sunday school teacher alike came to mind. Instead, his father’s voice cut through, strong and steady, yet never rising more than a few notes above a whisper. For a moment, Art was back home on the sofa, head bowed through the psalm meant to follow him through Vietnam, meant to offer comfort and protection from horrors he could not yet comprehend. Maybe it wasn’t the right one.

But it was what he had.

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High…”

Art hadn’t realized just how quiet the world became after a battle. He’d heard it before, felt it before, but now that he spoke, it was as though the silence itself pressed around him, threatening to swallow his words and suffocate them on the way down.

“…shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God, in him I will trust.”

His voice had fallen to a whisper, but he kept on. There was a certain rhythm to reciting psalms, a tempo no one ever explained or laid out as a requirement but one everybody fell into after the first line or so. Staying within it was like keeping to the grooves separating a country backroad from the countryside. Hold to the rhythm, stay on tune, and get to the end in one piece.

“Surely he shall deliver thee…”

He drew a breath that threatened to shake him to his core. This was the wrong psalm. The worst psalm. The worst piece of Scripture he could’ve chosen without straying into the Song of Solomon. He tried to think of another, but even the Twenty-third only surfaced in snippets and snatches.

“….from the snare of the fowler, and from…”

Art tried to get the rest of the verse out, but it was like swallowing sawdust. He raised his head, thinking he might see only shadows of trees silhouetted against the greying darkness of predawn, soldiers and officers moving about like ghosts, but one of those figures approached.

Klaus.

Art hadn’t seen him since the deafening chatter of gunfire turned to silence. The words unaccounted for and possibly missing circled his name, or they had before Art was told to stay with Dave. But this, this figure approaching out of the dark, it could be him, walking on his own two feet.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

He watched the figure’s approach, hardly daring to breathe. Any moment it would solidify, taking on that familiar lanky frame, a stride that was anything but purposeful but still managed to get from one point to the next. A few steps took the figure closer. It didn’t look like Klaus, not from where he sat, but nobody looked familiar from a great enough distance.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor by the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

Art’s stomach sank. The gait was all wrong, more of a lope than an amble; he wasn’t tall enough. Even before his face came into focus, Art saw he wore a shirt beneath his flak vest.

George.

Not Klaus.

Of course, that didn’t mean what he thought. Klaus didn’t have to pass him by on his way to prove he was indeed accounted for; he could go in any direction that made sense to him. It was probably better if he didn’t pass by Art, at any rate. Best if the news of Dave’s death were broken to him gently. Best if he heard of it through soft words and hedging.

Art couldn’t quite read George’s expression—not for lack of emotion, but for the sheer number of them blended together and cloaked in a veil of weariness. He raised his head as George drew closer.

“Klaus?” The question came out in a croak.

George met his gaze for a second, just a second. Then he looked to the ground, sorrow and anger and resignation visible for only a moment before his steps carried him away.

For a moment, Art couldn’t breathe and didn’t think to, couldn’t move and didn’t want to. He listened to the silence nibble at George’s footsteps until the sound was gone. He watched his friend’s retreat, watched as a few more strands of darkness faded to light, but no new figures ambled out of the jungle, no familiar voice called his name.

He should have shouted, screamed to the heavens, forced God to listen and hear what he had to say, really hear it, but the words refused to form and Art lacked even a whisper to carry them. He hugged his knees closer, and it brought no comfort. He buried his face and waited for tears that did not come, feeling as though someone had torn out his insides and stitched him back up. Only the psalm remained, the psalm he couldn’t have recited had he wanted to. The psalm he never wanted to hear again.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

*********

They didn’t know where Klaus was.

It was expected. Richard and Jim barely knew him, had only guessed at his surname. He’d met them in public spaces, and only one of those meetings had been planned. They wouldn’t know where he lived or where he was staying, and it simply wasn’t reasonable to hold them accountable for his whereabouts.

Even so, Art had to bite back a few sharp questions when they said as much.

Jim had taken two numbers from Diego—Diego Hargreeves; Art still wasn’t sure he’d fully comprehended the notion he might have served with a former superhero—and had left both of them at home.

“I’ll head back and grab ‘em,” Jim said.

Richard looked at his watch, then out the window at the darkening sky. “Mind if we just follow you? If we want to catch him tonight, seems like we should try and call before it gets too late.”

Art could have climbed into the front seat of Richard’s station wagon, but he’d always preferred to drive. Better to have a ready means to leave and not need it than need it and be stuck. Before long, he paced the teal carpet of the entryway to Jim’s apartment, one ear inclined toward the living room. Jim was the only one on the phone, the only one who could hear it ringing, but the moment he greeted whoever answered would be heard by all.

Jim’s apartment had a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, and that was where Richard stood, leaning against the sink. Art couldn’t comprehend how he could remain so still—but then, none of the men he’d served with had reportedly popped up out of the woodwork fifty years later, looking the same as they had the day they’d vanished.

Not to Art’s knowledge, anyway.

Jim took a few steps to the left, then back to the right. The phone cord stretched out as he approached the opposite wall, sprang back into loops as he returned. The drive over had taken over twenty minutes, to say nothing of the hours the pair of them had spent tracking down everyone in Klaus’ unit—in his unit—the weeks and months and years expended trying to find just one man who could name the soldier in the photo.

It was a lot of effort to put into a hoax, especially one with no obvious gain for either perpetrator. A lot of time to spend listening to stories of a man whose identity they planned to use for some twisted purpose. Sincerity was fickle, the sort of thing that could be faked by anyone with enough people skills to feign empathy, but Art didn’t need to lean on what he thought he’d felt from Richard and Jim when the evidence spoke clearly enough. The two men were convinced of what they were selling. Which didn’t necessarily mean it was real; just that whoever might be behind it had been persuasive enough to pull the wool over their eyes.

Jim set the receiver back in its cradle, took it back up, and dialed the second number. Art only stopped his pacing when Jim spoke.

“Hey! Yeah, I’m calling for a guy named Diego. Yeah, Diego Hargreeves. He there?”

The long pause made it clear he wasn’t, even before Jim’s face fell.

“All right. Give him my number when you see him, will you? Let him know I called about his brother Klaus.”

He placed the receiver back in its cradle, but his hand lingered there a moment as he stared, as though waiting for it to ring again.

“Nothing?”

Jim shook his head. “I dunno what else to try.”

Art inhaled. They’d reached a dead end, and surrender was the most obvious solution. Go back to his family and enjoy the rest of his vacation—or enjoy it as much as he could, with thoughts of Klaus at the front of his mind. Push those thoughts to the back, accept them as a strange interruption in his trip. Wonder for the rest of his life, however long that may be, if one decision on his part could have changed the outcome, could have brought him face-to-face with an old friend or with an actor hired for the strangest, cruelest prank ever pulled on a veteran of the armed forces.

“You said he’s a Hargreeves, right?”

“We’re pretty sure,” Richard said.

“’Bout ninety-eight percent sure,” Jim added.

Those were good odds. Art had shed his coat some minutes back, when his pacing and Jim’s heater worked to make the extra layer less than tolerable, and he lifted it from the floor, putting it on so quickly his sleeves bunched.

“Which way’s the Academy?”

*********

1976

“Got married last year.”

Art had thought his voice might be too loud, loud to the point of vulgarity, but it was no more so than it might have been in an average park. The only other visitors, an elderly couple standing a dozen or so plots away, didn’t shoot him a glare or look up from their own mourning. Cemeteries, it seemed, were made to handle a little conversation.

“Her name’s Libby. Met her at a church potluck. There was this bowl, and it had a huge pile of whipped cream on top, more sprinkles than I’d ever seen in my life. I figure it’s pudding or something, go to take a spoonful. Libby sidles on over and whispers in my ear, ‘It’s tuna.’ Yeah. Some asshole put whipped cream on a tuna salad.”

Stillness greeted his words, filled only by a soft breeze and the rustling of grass beneath his feet, but Dave wouldn’t have accepted the story in silence. There would have been laughter—some of it disbelieving, most of it in good humor. Jokes would follow, but Art didn’t want to think about those. He wanted to hear them in Dave’s voice, carried on his laughter as that familiar smile lit up his face.

He wanted to hear Klaus say he would’ve eaten that tuna salad, whipped cream and all.

There’d been no word since the day he went missing. Art had thought he might see him with the other American POWs returned at the war’s conclusion, but Klaus was not among them and his name had not surfaced since.

When he slept, he saw Klaus dead or dying, surrounded by barbed wire and the enemy. Sometimes the dream lingered on his misery and sometimes it did not, but the end was always the same. Klaus dead, just like Dave. Like every other man who now appeared to him in nightmares and flashes that intruded even on his waking senses.

Art closed his eyes. There had been other soldiers, men he’d never met and never would, who disappeared from conflict only to resurface decades later with no awareness that the war had ended. He knew those instances were rare, that he wouldn’t have heard the names of those men if theirs had been a common feat, but the thought of Klaus holed up in a cave someplace, only dimly aware of news from outside as he made fools of his would-be or former captors, brought a small smile. He clung to it, willing it to drive back thoughts of the alternative—thoughts that sprang more readily to mind.

He regarded the headstone. There were fewer coins now than there had been a few years back, closer to his death, but Art still spied a couple of nickels from men who’d known him from boot camp beside pennies from other visitors. His was the only dime, but not every man Dave had served with could make it out to his grave at the same time. They might pass through weeks or months after Art returned to his routine, but they would come. Dave would not be left alone for long.

That familiar guilt wrapped itself around his shoulders again, whispering in his ear. The first time he’d spoken to Dave since returning home, the first time he’d managed more than a few choked sounds and silence, and the best he had to offer was a story about tuna salad. He hadn’t even wept for his friend in the seven years he’d been gone, but he could tell a story about himself as good as anyone.

“Still no word on Klaus.” Dave would want to know that, if he were near enough to listen, to know where he was and how he was and the answer to every other question Art had asked himself since the day he vanished. No news was anything but good news, in this case, but it was still something to share. “If he was back in the States, I’d have brought him along.”

The memory of what he’d seen all those years ago surfaced again, as fresh and clear as though he’d witnessed it the day prior. But he didn’t push it back. He’d let it come to him in recent years, let it remain in his thoughts long enough to lose its sharpest edges. The fear he’d felt then, the certainty that he had to tell someone, anyone, and the shame that he couldn’t, had faded—first to a sense that what he’d seen hadn’t been worth breaking their trust, then to something new, something gentler that Art still hadn’t identified. Something that left him with an echo of the hollowness he’d felt the night Dave died and Klaus vanished.

He’d seen them differently after that day, noticed things that had before escaped him. How whatever tension Klaus carried ebbed away at Dave’s approach. How Dave’s smile always seemed a little wider, the light in his eyes a little brighter, when Klaus was near. There were times, and probably more of them than Art had witnessed, when they seemed to forget they were fighting a war at all.

“You should’ve gone home with him.”

The words were out before he had a chance to ponder them, but once they hung in the air, he knew he couldn’t have said anything else. They were the only truth worth speaking, even if they set his mind on a course he didn’t want to follow. He tried to shut out thoughts of what might have been, of Klaus free and Dave alive, sharing smiles and bandying jokes back and forth as they explored whatever new city they’d chosen, together for as long as they had left and as happy as two could be.

He’d heard of moments like this, moments of sudden pain meant to bring relief, compared to the sensation of ripping off a bandage. And he knew, in that moment, that the analogy was not and never had been accurate. Tearing off a bandage never felt like tearing off his own skin.

His eyes stung; the headstone blurred. He shoved a fist against his mouth, biting down in an attempt to keep his tears silent, but a soft cry escaped regardless as what may have been faded into what was.

Six years. Six years he’d visited his friend’s grave and watched in silence. Six years he’d stood and thought and remembered and hated his inability to muster up a single word, but he’d stood on his own feet and walked off without shedding a tear.

Art sank to the grass, hugged his knees tight, and gave into his grief.

**********

The Academy wasn’t hard to miss.

It had been a city block, he’d heard, once upon a time—a whole city block with storefronts and apartments and pay phones. Over the years, though, the Academy had swallowed up those shops and homes one by one, not so much erasing them as subsuming them into a new whole. He’d never been inside; from what he knew, not even the press had been allowed to pass that wrought iron gate. Only those seven kids and Reginald had seen what went on within those walls.

“Bet your dad would be laughing at me now, huh, Klaus?”

“Yeah. And he laughed like this.” Klaus knit his brows, gaze hardening into a glare, lips drawn into such a scowl that Art had to laugh—a sound echoed by the other men in the tent.

Klaus had never described his father in detail, had never provided a clear image to conjure up for stories like that. Art had never crafted a picture of his own, but he’d never imagined him with white hair and a monocle, either.

Even so, thoughts of the famed Reginald Hargreeves wearing that scowl and that glare, of turning them both on his children, came easily to mind.

Too easily.

Art’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. There was still no evidence the Klaus he’d served with was alive or the same age as the day he’d vanished, and no reason to assume he’d served with the same Klaus Hargreeves who could speak to the dead. A shared weakness for drugs proved nothing. Shared tattoos proved much more, but he hadn’t seen them yet.

He had to find this Klaus, that was all. Find him, get a good look at him, ask him a few questions that only his friend could answer. Gain more evidence, examine it as objectively as he could, and make a judgment. He had to remain impartial. Focusing too closely on what might be would distract him from what was.

Art sucked in a breath, but his heart refused to slow. A short film played in his mind’s eye, one where Klaus greeted him with that smile he remembered, greeted the story of how he’d found him with a laugh he hadn’t heard in fifty years.

He’d been able to call it up, back when the war was still one of those subjects you avoided at Thanksgiving dinner and not a chapter in a high school textbook; but when he reached for it now, he heard only an echo that might have been Klaus’ voice or might have been a voice he’d heard on television.

He should have summoned that laugh, back when he remembered it. Endured the pain it brought, allowed it to carry memory after memory in its wake. He’d have done it daily, if it meant holding onto his friend a little longer.

Two blocks from the Academy, red and blue lights filled the darkness. Art pulled to a stop, rolling down his window as a uniformed officer approached.

“There an accident?”

“You could say that.” The officer glanced over her shoulder, toward the Academy. Art followed her gaze, but couldn’t make out much through the blinding haze of police lights. “The whole Academy just came down.”

“What?”

“We’re going to need you to take another route—”

“How?” Dizziness overtook him, passing as quickly as it had come—though the pit in his stomach remained. “I mean, what happened?”

“We’re not sure yet, but—”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Like I said, sir, we don’t know yet.”

Art barely heard the irritation in her tone. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he’d already shifted into reverse.

*********

2015

Save for the presence of more headstones than there had been, the cemetery hadn’t changed much since Art’s first visit. He still walked the same path to his friend, stood on the same land beneath the same sky. The world outside had grown bigger, louder, but the cemetery remained as serene as ever.

“Maddie’s fourteen now.” A soft smile quirked his lips at the thought of his granddaughter. “She and a couple other kids got in trouble for this poem they wrote, but she’s got a teacher named Butz, and he acts like one from what I hear. What was she supposed to do?”

He laid his dime on Dave’s headstone. It sat alone, but he’d spotted a nickel the last time he visited and a penny the time before that. And no coins at all didn’t mean no visitors, only that whoever had dropped by hadn’t seen the need to communicate as much.

“If that’s a down payment on a drink for the next time we meet up,” Art said, “then you’ve probably got enough money by now to buy the whole goddamn bar. If inflation’s not too bad up there.”

Whenever that aspect of the coin’s tradition was spoken of, it had the ring of a joke, but Art had never regarded it as anything less than half of one. Years had a way of changing a man’s views of death and what came after. Visions of blue skies carpeted with endless white clouds upon which winged souls played harps and sang hymns had become something less sterile, less cloying. Maybe Heaven was a bar where old friends waved you over to a table and dusted off stories you hadn’t heard in years. Maybe Hell was getting kicked out for starting a fight.

Or maybe there was nothing and he’d been talking to a slab of rock for forty-six years.

The breeze became wind, carrying the chill of a coming winter, but Art’s shiver had little to do with the cold.

Klaus wasn’t the only POW who’d never returned from Vietnam, not by far. Theories weren’t spoken of as commonly as they had been years back, but Art would be lying if he said he hadn’t entertained a few before quickly dismissing such an outcome for his friend. Each year, he’d imagined Klaus growing older far from home, trying to make it back and running into obstacle after insurmountable obstacle. But in his mind, Klaus had never stopped trying, and he never would. In his mind, Klaus would one day resurface to the surprise of an entire nation, would regale them with his tale of survival and reunite with whichever Army buddies still lived. Art would be among those there to greet him. No matter what it cost, no matter how long the drive, Art would be there to welcome him home.

He’d sheltered that hope over the years, allowed it to grow old with him. When it became threadbare, he’d locked it away lest it crumble at his touch. Death in combat was one thing; death in a POW camp was another, one he couldn’t consider for too long without the nightmares invading his thoughts. There was no evidence Klaus hadn’t met that fate, but there was no evidence he had. That was something. That was all the excuse Art needed to cling to hope a little longer.

All the excuse he needed to delay the inevitable.

The forty-fifth anniversary of Klaus’ disappearance had come and gone. That would have been a good time to do what needed to be done—or as close to a good time as there could be, for something like that—but Art had stood at his friend’s grave and spoke of everything and nothing, had left without saying what he’d come to say.

“Klaus…” His throat closed over the rest of the words. What he’d planned wasn’t much, but he still couldn’t get it out. Dave had seen visitor after visitor, received coin after coin and word after heartfelt word. If Art couldn’t do the same for Klaus, the least he could do was acknowledge he’d never received a decent burial.

Art’s breath shook. If he couldn’t say what he’d planned, he had to say something.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Probably sooner than later. But when I do…”

He closed his eyes against the tears, exhaled against the sob threatening to choke his words.

“You had better have Klaus with you.”

********

He drove full circle around the perimeter the police had cordoned off, near enough for red and blue to prick at the edges of his vision, far enough not to earn a few irritated words from the officers guarding every street.

Klaus hadn’t been inside.

Art didn’t know it for certain. The Academy would’ve been a roof over his head, a place to escape the streets; and with Reginald dead, it would have been more refuge than it once had been. Chances were good he’d made the Academy his temporary home before its destruction.

But that didn’t mean he’d been inside. He could have been out. Not getting high, necessarily; he could have been wandering out somewhere with one of his siblings at the moment of destruction. Or on his way to find Richard or Jim. Or something as simple and banal as ducking into a fast-food restaurant for a greasy burger.

If this Klaus Hargreeves was the same Klaus Hargreeves Vanya had written about.

Art’s foot hit the brake just before he made the turn that would have taken him around the perimeter for a second time, and he flipped on his turn signal instead. His headlights caught the name of the street, but he didn’t think to read it until it was behind him. He rode it to the next intersection and turned right, took that one a little further before turning left.

A plan. He needed a plan, but he didn’t know the city and wouldn’t know who to ask for directions. Get me to the nearest gas station would earn him a clear and concise answer, delivered as quickly as it sprang to the stranger’s mind. Help me find a guy, about six foot with some pretty distinctive tattoos, who might be anywhere in the city, including buried under a pile of rubble would earn strange looks, not answers.

He could have been at the Academy.

He probably had been at the Academy.

Art slapped the volume knob on the radio with slightly more force than necessary. The final notes of the previous song faded out, and warm guitar chords took their place. He breathed deep, turning onto the next street on a whim.

On the road of experience, trying to find my own way….

John Denver’s voice didn’t quite calm his nerves, but it did remind him of calmer times, less desperate times. It called to mind road trips of years past, of driving through state after state with the windows down while voices sang of places he’d been, of country roads and the black magic of Mulholland Drive. He drew a long breath, this one not as shaky as the last, and rolled down the window.

Sometimes I wish that I could fly away….

The evening chill poured in alongside sounds of the city. The downtown speed limit wasn’t as slow as some places he’d been, but it was slow enough for murmurs of conversation and the whoosh of an occasional passing vehicle to briefly enter his vehicle, carried in on air thick with the scents of fryer oil and spice. A throng of people clustered on the sidewalk, but before Art could scan their faces, a lone figure crossing the street caught his attention.

A tall figure with a mop of dark curls and a familiar tattoo on one shoulder.

Before he could consciously name what he was doing, Art had pulled into the first open spot he saw. A single stray thought had him rearranging his car well enough to escape the notice of any meter maid, but he only remembered that he ought to have fed the meter when he was already ten steps down the sidewalk.

The stranger vanished briefly behind the crowd, then emerged into view as Art quickened his pace.

He’d thought that face might take on unfamiliar features as he approached—a different nose shape, a mouth too wide—but the closer Art drew, the more the stranger resembled memories he’d held to, dredged up thoughts he’d forgotten. Those stubborn curls, springing free the second he removed his helmet. That facial hair, which he refused to shave off even when it would have saved him a few minutes. That same Hello greeting the world from a briefly upraised palm. He still wore his flak vest, though he’d paired it with a striped shirt that showed an inch or two of skin around his middle and pants that….

Was that leather?

A chuckle escaped his lips. When he’d imagined Klaus returning to the States, settling back into civilian life as best he could, this wasn’t what he’d pictured him wearing. Yet he knew in that moment that this getup, this mishmash of pieces that should have never been put together and managed to work regardless, was exactly what he should have pictured.

This was the Klaus he remembered. Wearing an outfit no one else would dare, looking around for something to catch his interest as he stood in line for tacos.

Art should have approached him quietly. Walked up, asked for recognition, answered questions as they came. But there he was, his old friend, not dead after all but in front of a taco truck, of all places, the perpetrator of the finest disappearing act ever orchestrated in wartime. Art couldn’t be polite, couldn’t be quiet. He announced his presence with the only words his mind could form.

“Klaus! You son of a bitch!”

He whirled at the sound of his name, and Art felt a spike of fear. His name was Klaus, true; but this might not be his Klaus. Everyone had a lookalike somewhere. Now he’d have to apologize, laugh through his disappointment just to make things less awkward….

Klaus took a few steps out of line as Art closed the gap. His eyes narrowed in a squint, then widened. A disbelieving laugh found its way out. “Art?”

That laugh. Art hadn’t forgotten it, not forever. It had simply retreated to the back of his mind, hidden behind a door he couldn’t locate; and when he heard it now, all those memories, all those moments where Klaus had laughed came rushing back.

They embraced, clapped each other on the back, and Art held back tears. Fifty years stood between him and the young man Klaus had known, and not one of those years had mattered. Not one of those years had prevented recognition.

It was him.

When they finally parted, Art saw the same bewildered joy reflected on Klaus’ features. “How—how the hell did you find me?”

“Long story.”

Klaus glanced over his shoulder, toward a theater bearing the name Icarus. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word, “there might not be time for that.”

Art nearly frowned. Maybe his siblings needed him elsewhere, and soon, but he could have said so plainly. “Well, how’ve you been? How’d you get back here?”

Klaus looked away, though Art couldn’t tell if the sorrow crossing his face was at the first question or the second. At any rate, it quickly dipped beneath a faint smile. “Would you believe me if I said time travel?”

“Yes.”

Klaus stared.

“You look the same as you did fifty years ago,” Art said with a laugh. “If you’ve got a better explanation, let’s hear it.”

Klaus chuckled, but there was still a trace of that sorrow—more than a trace, even—remaining as he looked back toward the Icarus Theater. “Just…didn’t think I’d see you here, that’s all.”

“What? Wasn’t expecting me to hunt you down the second I learned you might still be alive?”

One or two in the crowd turned brief looks of confusion on them. Art didn’t much care, and Klaus didn’t seem to, either.

“Well, yeah. I mean, that was fifty years ago.”

“Right. Fifty years.”

A few moments passed in silence. The smile faded, slowly but surely, to nothing, as Klaus turned his gaze toward the sidewalk.

“I guess….I didn’t think anyone would notice I was gone.”

So he’d chosen to leave when he did, had some control over his arrival and departure—but that was not what made Art stare, for a long minute, until Klaus finally met his gaze.

“What?”

“You know you’ve said some stupid shit.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah….”

“Like that time you said penguins don’t have legs, just feet?”

“Technically they don’t—”

“No. Not ‘technically.’ I looked it up. They have legs.”

“Okay, but why are you even bringing that up?”

“Because when I say ‘nobody would notice’ is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, I want it to mean something.”

For a few seconds, it looked as if Klaus would cry, but Art couldn’t tell if the tears were there or not. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t—” Memories crowded his mind, memories of laughter and jokes stretched out to the limit, of humor at just the right times and of his face, Klaus’ face, popping up right when shit was about to hit the fan, stepping in right when he was needed most. Art wanted to lay all of them out before him, point to each one in turn, ask Klaus if he thought this one meant nothing or if that one was worthless, but there were too many of them and trying to choose one jumbled it up with three more. “So what? You thought you’d just up and leave?”

“Yeah. I mean, I couldn’t stay.”

There was something more behind those words, but Art scarcely heard it. “You just popped on back without saying goodbye? Without letting somebody know ‘Hey, I’m not dead, just need to go home’?”

He half expected a question as to whether or not he would have been believed, but Klaus simply stared at the ground. His shoulders sank a fraction, as if some invisible weight had been added. Art sighed.

“Look. I don’t blame you for getting the hell out. I’d’ve done the same. But—”

Something about the look on his face, about his silence, triggered something Art couldn’t quite name. That night. Dave dead, succumbed to his wound. Klaus, never straying far from Dave, always close even in the heat of battle.

A chill brushed his shoulders as a cold pit formed in his stomach.

“You were there when he died. With Dave.”

Klaus nodded—stiff, jerky nods that didn’t lift his gaze from the sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ.”

Art should have said more, should have found the perfect words to give to his friend, but they and all others eluded him. He could only place a hand on Klaus’ shoulder, wrap him in his arms when he moved closer. There were no tears, none Art could feel, but tears could be fickle things, there when they were least wanted, absent when they were most needed. Maybe they had yet to visit him. Maybe he’d spent them already.

It wasn’t until Klaus pulled back, until he brushed at his eyes, that Art remembered moments fifty years gone when he’d done the same. Klaus had never been ashamed to cry, but when it was clear there was little time for tears he would hold them back. Brush them away, like he brushed them away now. Save them for a time when they wouldn’t endanger him or anyone depending on him.

Whatever was going on that theater, whatever his siblings or whoever he’d fallen in with had gotten themselves into, it left little time for talk. Of the war, of Dave, of how he’d found himself yanked from his present and thrown into a past no one should have to witness. No time for what he needed. No time for what Art needed.

Not now, anyway.

Art fished in his pocket, found an old receipt and smoothed it out. No pen, so he waved to the woman behind the taco truck’s counter. She rolled her eyes at the scribbling motion he made, but set one on the counter. Art wrote several numbers and passed them to Klaus.

“That’s my daughter’s house,” he said, pointing to the first number. “I’ll be there ‘till the end of the week. That one’s my home number. That next one is the one you call if you can’t get anybody at either of the other ones.”

“Thanks.” Klaus took the receipt, but didn’t pocket it immediately. He held it in his hands, staring down at the numbers as if he’d been handed a gift. A gift he didn’t know he deserved.

There were many things Art had contemplated saying over the years, should Klaus ever be returned home. Most of them he knew were things he’d never say the moment they popped into his head, while others lingered awhile before rejection. A few were edited and re-edited, changed and softened, wording shored up before he realized he’d never have the chance to give them voice.

But there was one thing he’d wanted to say, one thing he’d held onto until the day he gave Klaus up for dead. One thing that remained.

“We lost you and Dave that night. Glad you were someplace I could find you.”

That uncertainty hadn’t left Klaus’s face; but the moment he raised his head, Art saw it in full, saw it mixed with gratitude so deep the word fell flat. And when he did, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or pull Klaus in for another hug.

“Hey. You gonna order or not?”

Art looked up. The other customers had dispersed, a few to the pickup window but most to elsewhere. The truck’s owner had one elbow propped up on the counter, gaze drifting between Klaus and a teenager standing a few yards away, nervously shuffling through his wallet.

Klaus laughed. “I should probably order.”

“Fine.” Art pulled Klaus in for another quick hug. “See you around, all right?”

“Yeah. Sooner or later.”

Sooner or later. It wasn’t a solid promise, but it was more than Art had gotten. More than he ever thought he’d have. After another quick clap on the back, Art made his way back to his car, stopping at the curb.

He had thought Klaus might have focused his full attention on the taco truck, but that wasn’t the case. Art didn’t know how long Klaus had been watching him; he only knew that when he turned for one last look, Klaus was smiling. Not as bright a smile as some he’d seen, but this one seemed deeper, more real than others. There was a tinge of melancholy in it too, not strong enough to pull the whole thing down but present nonetheless.

Art had found him.

All those years of hoping, all those years of fear and wonder and awful sick certainty shouldn’t have ended with a conversation at a taco truck—but they had.

Klaus had lived. Maybe not in the most orthodox way, but Art had learned fifty years ago not to expect anything of the sort from him. He’d survived the war, skipped past a dozen other horrors that should have taken him, and wound up here, on the side of a street outside a theater, in the very city he’d started from, exactly the same as the day he’d left.

He’d made it home.

Not in the usual way, not in any way Art or anyone else could have predicted, but he’d done it, and he was back. Back in the States with years ahead of him and the worst behind him. The war would follow him; it always followed, no matter the distance. But it hadn’t claimed him.

Art raised a hand in farewell, and Klaus returned it.

Maybe this was the end of it. Maybe Klaus would call; maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would write; maybe he’d forget or choose not to or be constantly stymied by a thousand everyday inconveniences and distractions. Maybe it would be later, rather than sooner, when they spoke again.

But Art had seen him. Not on a memorial wall, not as another statistic, but walking the city in leather pants and a flak vest, smiling and fighting tears in turns. The war was close to him, fifty years closer than it should have been. It would always be closer than he could stand, always a little stronger than he’d thought.

Art started up his car and pulled out onto the street. Klaus had escaped the war once already, done it in such a spectacular fashion Art wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen the evidence with his own eyes—but he’d escaped.

He could escape it again.

**********

Author’s Note: If you’re interested, the song Art listens to is “Looking for Space” by John Denver.

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy fanfic #sheepdogs #klaus hargreeves #oc #original character #original characters #klaus and dave during vietnam #klaus #number four #dave katz #ptsd #ptsd mention #vietnam war #outsider pov #grief #fanfic #my fanfic

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aiimaginesbts · 7 years ago

Text

The Price to Rise: Part 1 [Jimin | Prince Eric]

Word count: 6,362 words

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Disney AU, fluff, angst

Moodboard

POLL (ended 22nd July)

Links for alternate endings are at the end of the post!

Disclaimer/Copyright

It only takes a blink of your eyes.

Just one second, and you are here. Although to be honest, you're not sure where here is. It looks nothing like the office building you were standing in just a few seconds ago. All you know is that you're sitting at a long dining table all by yourself, and your head is feeling heavy. Not quite a headache, but enough to make you feel a little lightheaded. Thankfully, the feeling soon disappears.

However, before you can regain your bearings, a melodious, female voice calls your name. Your head swivels around to the right to see a beautiful woman with dark brown hair peeking over a corner into the spacious room.

"What are you still doing here? Jason is waiting for you."

Rolling your eyes, you answer, "I'm coming, Adella."

You have no idea how you know her name, or why you rolled your eyes. It's like an involuntary reaction. The internal panic within you intensifies when Adella comes out of her corner, revealing herself from the top of her hair to the tips of her toes. Which is what you would have said normally, except she has no toes. Adella's top half is all gorgeous – if narrow-eyed from irritation – woman, but from the waist down, she is a fish, covered in shiny, murky yellow scales.

Before you can freak out, you look down to see that the only difference between you and Adella is that your own tail is green in colour. A tut-tut comes from her direction and forces you out of your shocked musings. Pushing yourself out of the chair, you follow her out of the dining room, still absorbed in the sudden revelation. With the realisation that you're a mermaid comes the fact that you're underwater, yet you're breathing with no difficulty. Swimming along the hallways feels as natural as breathing, although you're sure that the way you're breathing now is anything but normal.

Your sister enters one of the doorways but you keep on going; somehow you know that this Jason is waiting at the entrance of the palace, and Adella is heading to her bedroom. Gliding towards your direction in a trance, you slowly piece the situation together. This has to be the work of the man you met earlier; the one who claims to be your fairy godmother and promises you romantic adventures. Part of you thought it was a joke, but there are only three possibilities that can explain why you're in this state: you're either dreaming, or he was actually telling you the truth, or you've gone crazy. You have no recollection of going to sleep and the prospect of losing your marbles isn't exactly thrilling, so you're inclined to believe that some magic is at work.

Apparently this magic has turned you into a mythical creature, complete with a new identity and memories to go with it. You suppose that you should be thankful that you get to keep your name, at least. Then you wonder if your new sea-dwelling family and friends' memories have been altered to integrate you into their lives. If you are now inhabiting someone else's body, and if so, where has the owner gone. If this is going to be permanent. The man who landed you in this predicament is nowhere to be seen though, so you have no one to ask. Plus, he did promise you romantic adventures, so you decide to go with the flow.

A feeling of resignation mixed with frustration fills you when you exit the palace and spot a young merman waiting just outside. He is persistent, having begged you to give him a chance even after being turned down in the past as your new recollections tell you. Considering that he is a good guy, and someone your father, the King approves of, you have reluctantly decided to give him the opportunity to change your mind.

As you let him steer you around the city, you experience first hand the reason you're not enamoured with Jason, good-looking and nice as he is. There's just no spark between you and him, his conversation bores you and most of the date is very awkward. If someone had asked you before you're thrown into this life what you would do if you're experiencing an adventure surrounded by merpeople in a city underwater, you would have answered that you'd explore and enjoy the journey. Now, equipped with the identity of the mermaid you're embodying, you find that this life is something that you're tired of. The activities in the marketplace, the colourful fishes swimming all around you, the architectural structures that make up the city don't impress you. You long for something else.

The funny thing is, now that you're submerged deep inside the sea, all you want is to return to land. It isn't something that your mermaid body has ever experienced, which may be the reason the idea attracts and excites you so much. You don't see any sense in waiting, so right after the tedious date is over, instead of entering the palace where Jason has left you, you wait until he's out of sight before making a beeline for the surface.

As you rise higher and higher, you realise that it's nighttime. Even through the darkness of the night, you can make out a large shadow looming into the water, silhouetted by bursts of bright lights that sparkle and fade, then explode again. Breaking the surface of the water amplifies your hearing and sight of the happenings that are going on above the water. You realise that the glittering lights are actually fireworks being launched into the sky from a massive ship. Sounds of cheering and merry celebration drift from the vessel into your ears. Out of curiosity you swim towards the ship and haul yourself aboard, taking care to stay in the shadows so you won't be seen. You're dying to know what's going on but you're strangely wary of these humans as you have no idea how they will react if they see you.

From your dark corner you can see a crowd made of mostly men laughing with their tall, thin glasses raised in the air. The reason for their celebration becomes apparent to you when they break into a Happy Birthday song. No wonder the occasion is marked so extravagantly; the people on the ship are commemorating the Prince's birthday. You lean forwards from your perch, straining to see the subject of the celebration among the men and women. Then the crowd disperses, and your heart stops beating.

Standing in the middle of the throng is the most beautiful man you have ever seen. His midnight black hair is a stark contrast against his fair skin, his face adorning charming eyes that are squeezed into crescents from his smile. The smile that pulls your attention to his plump lips, breathtaking in itself yet contradictory from the sin that is his body. His white shirt is unbuttoned just enough to give a tantalising view of the top of his hard chest, and tucked into black pants that fits snugly around his thick thighs, ending with polished black shoes. There is no denying that you're instantly attracted to him, yet it's something else that causes your soul to call to him. It's not just a physical attribute, but something deeper, yet you can't quite put a finger on it.

Your musings are interrupted by an older man who is leaning against the railing as he addresses the subject of your infatuation. "I wish you'd invited the princess along."

"Really? I was glad to see her leave," the young man chuckles, but you notice that his eyes have lost some of their warmth. "I'd rather celebrate my birthday with the people that I actually enjoy having around."

His response causes the other man to sigh. "Everyone is anticipating you to take a bride, Prince Jimin."

So this is the prince. Prince Jimin, you mutter softly to yourself, testing his name on your tongue. You like it. The name suits him, and knowing it makes you feel a little closer to him.

"I'm not going to marry someone just because everyone is expecting me to do so," Jimin says. There's no mistaking the annoyance that fills his voice now. "I'm waiting for the right girl." Before his companion can interject, he continues, "When I find her, I'll know. And I don't care how long it takes for me to find her." His tired note of finality tells you that this is not the first time the topic has been discussed. You agree with his sentiments wholeheartedly. You've always thought that if you settle down, it will be with someone you love. Of course, given that you hardly go out to meet anyone new due to your dedication to your job, the chances of finding that someone is close to nil.

Suddenly, your elation dissolves into panic when loud barks accompany the entrance of a large sheepdog. The dog prances around, much to some of the guests' chagrin before bouncing on Jimin, who laughs and gets on his knees to give the dog a rub. The scene floods you with even more affection for him, your concern forgotten until the dog sniffs the air in curiosity. You shrink further into the shadows as the creature bounds towards you, ignoring Jimin's calls from behind him. Before he can follow your scent to your hiding place, you turn and jump back into the water, hoping that no one will take it upon themselves to investigate the sound of the resulting splash.

A series of loud barks follows your exit, but before anyone can pay much attention to it, it's cut off by the sound of ominous thunder in the distance. The moment you hit the water, you can feel the change in pressure and temperature of the current, but the humans on board are only warned by the loud shout of one of the sailors; "Hurricane a'comin'!" Fear strikes your heart, not for yourself but out of concern for the people on the ship, especially the prince. The next rumble of thunder is much closer to you, and none of them gets much time to prepare before the storm hits.

Violent waves lap against you, attempting to push you away but you are determined to remain near the vessel in case something happens. It's hard to tell what's going on when the only sense left to you is your hearing, and you strain to hear for any clues as to everything that is happening. The sudden lightning that strikes the boat is akin to a sword plunging through your chest. Your eyes widen as angry red flames erupt, shifting the activity from the ship to the ocean.

A strong, authoritative voice yells out orders amidst panicked shouts, and several smaller lifeboats hit the water, holding passengers while the fire continues to engulf the enormous ship. The hurricane is generating brutal waves, causing the boundary between the water and the air to become nebulous, obstructing your sight, but you swim around the smaller lifeboats, all thoughts of keeping yourself hidden forgotten as you try to determine if Jimin is among them.

Dread courses through you when you realise that the person giving orders to evacuate is none other than Jimin himself, as his commanding voice is still heard on the burning transportation. He has managed to get his people to safety, but is searching for the dog. A pitiful whine tears at your insides. The poor thing must be terrified, and you wish you can do something, anything, but you are powerless. The chaos escalate when an explosion blasts through the ship, hurling Jimin and the dog into the raging sea.

Immediately you spring into action, ignoring the ringing in your ears that resulted from the eruption, drowning the gasps and screams of the people safe on the lifeboats. Once again you are reminded of the being you have turned into when you dive into the water and find that your vision is better submerged in its depth than it is in the air. Through the wreckage sinking into the darkness, you can see the hind legs of Max the dog being hauled into one of the lifeboats, but Jimin has been flung away farther than his pet.

It's too dark for the humans to find the prince through the pandemonium, but you can clearly see him descending deeper and deeper into the sea. You propel yourself towards him, looping your arms under his shoulders so you can pull him upwards. Hoping that he's still breathing, you decide against returning him to the other guests; opting to bring him towards the shore instead. Quietly you thank your lucky stars that you're now a mermaid, because there is no way you could have managed to pull this mass of muscles to the beach if you're in your old body.

By the time you drag Jimin's prone form onto the damp sand, you're completely exhausted. Your lungs are crying for oxygen and your muscles are aching from exertion, but you put your needs aside, concentrating on him. Once you've confirmed that he's still breathing, you pull yourself back, leaning on your right forearm as you admire the man before you. Dawn is encroaching upon you, the rising sun illuminating his beauty. He looks even more handsome up close. As you tenderly brush a lock of wet hair away from his face, laughter threatens to escape your mouth.

For you have finally managed to put two and two together. You really are in some unbelievable version of The Little Mermaid, and it seems that you are the titular character. Even though you love watching Disney movies and are now in the little mermaid's body, you cannot remember the exact words she sang in the movie, and you like to think that it's out of your own volition that you let the words fall from your lips in a sweet melody.

"Thrown into this world, I was lost and confused,

Resigned to play out the adventure planned for me,

But when I laid eyes on you, I realise I've been obtuse,

To this opportunity to escape from the only life I've known to be,

How can it compare? How can I bear?

The thought of living without you there,

As I look at you, as I sing this song,

I know this is where I belong."

You're unsure if it's your singing or the voices accompanied by excited barks approaching you that causes Jimin to stir, but you know that you can't risk staying with him. With great regret you turn your back to him and make your way towards a cluster of rocks to hide behind so you can observe the scene unfolding in front of you. You manage to conceal yourself just in time before a small group of people, led by the man talking to Jimin last night turn around the corner, following an enthusiastic Max. Apparently they've been using the dog in the hopes of finding his owner, a tactic that has proven to be successful.

Despite being obviously dazed and unsteady as he's helped onto his feet, Jimin's eyes are searching the blue expanse of the sea, telling you that he had heard, possibly even seen you. The thought makes you excited and nervous at the same time. As you watch him being led away from the shore, your resolve hardens. You know what you must do. The next step you have to take.

Without hesitation, you plunge yourself back inside the water, made murky from the storm. The temperature gradually dips as you swim towards the ocean floor, so intent on getting to your destination that you're surprised when Adella suddenly appears in front of you, halting your movement.

"Where have you been?" She demands.

You ignore her question. "I have to go to see Father."

"You're not going to ask him to let you walk among the humans, are you?" She presses, dropping all pretense. "I know what you did last night."

Her correct assumption gives you pause, but you find yourself without words. Luckily, she addresses your fears without you having to voice them out.

"You know Father will never allow you to interact with them," she continues. "He won't allow contact with humans. You know that."

"I have to try," you say, trying to convince her and yourself as you pass her.

"You'll only make him mad," she warns. "Why don't you ask the Sea Witch instead?"

Again, her words make you stop and reconsider. You know deep inside that there is no way that the king will accede to your wish to become a human. He will probably say that you're too young to understand, but your feelings have nothing to do with age. There is no mistaking the connection that you feel between you and Jimin. Despite being born here, you don't belong in the ocean but on land. Meeting Jimin only solidifies your belief in that fact. However, you do not wish to get into a row with your father, especially when you know that it will not end in your favour.

Satisfied that she has made her point, Adella leaves you to sit and ponder your options. If you're really in the Little Mermaid's world, meeting the Sea Witch will result in nothing short of disastrous for you, but it's becoming apparent that you have no other choice. Moreover, although you may be in her body, you are not the little mermaid. Ultimately you are still yourself. You're still free to make your own decisions, and perhaps you can change the course of the story. With your mind decided, you turn around and head towards a different location.

You fancy yourself an adventurer, yet the outskirts of Atlantica is not somewhere you venture into often. In fact, you've never gotten this close to the Sea Witch's lair before. The atmosphere of this place seems different; foreboding. Even the water feels significantly colder the further away you get from the center of the city. It does not deter you in the slightest, even when you see her home, which has to be the remains of a giant sea creature. You gulp at the sight and the thought of what you're about to do, but the moment of weakness goes by unheard by anyone but you.

Part of you expect to find polyps to litter the floor of the Witch's home, but thankfully the place remains empty of growth. The long hallway opens to a cavernous room, dark and mysterious, the ends of the space not visible to you, making you wary of unsavoury beings lurking in the shadows. Then someone does make an appearance, nearly making you jump out of your skin, but she doesn't look scary at all. Far from it, actually. The Sea Witch is nothing like you imagine her to be. Her long, platinum white hair swirls about her fair face, lending her a delicate aura, and her slim body ends in a graceful tail that matches the blue hue of her eyes.

You find yourself mesmerised by her beauty until she clears her throat. "What brings you here, my dear?" Her voice does not quite match her appearance; it's raspy and breathy, giving you the impression that she has not had the chance to use it for a very long time.

"I... I..." At first you feel foolish, but you push past your embarrassment to explain to her your predicament, ending with your wish to become human so you can find your prince.

"Can you do that?" You ask tentatively after you've finished.

"Easily," she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You have to pay for it though. I don't grant favours for nothing, you know." Her lips curl into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes at that statement.

You nod your understanding. You suspect as much, and you're willing to pay the price to rise out of the ocean onto the land above. Jimin's land. That is your driving force, but it doesn't make this any easier.

"I can make you a potion that will turn you from a mermaid into a human for three days. Before the sun sets on the third day, this prince has to give you a kiss. A true love's kiss. If he does, you'll remain a human forever," she explains. "All I ask in return is your voice."

"Just three days?" Even though you've expected this, you still wish that she can cut you a better deal. "What happens if he doesn't kiss me within that time?"

"You'll just dissolve into sea foam," she answers almost cheerfully. "The payment is more than fair," she reasons. "Unless you can get what you want without me, in which case, be my guest," she gestures you to the door, a clear sign that you can take it or leave it. Now that it's time to make a decision, you find yourself having an internal battle of wills.

You're painfully aware that your voice is not the only thing you're potentially giving up. If Jimin doesn't kiss you within these three days, you will lose your life. It's not a pleasant thought, and not one that you would ever have considered before now.

Do you really want to put your life on the line for a guy you've just met, and never even talked to? The little voice in your head argues.

I've never felt that way about anyone before, you counter to yourself. Maybe this whole thing has driven me crazy, but this must be how true love feels like.

But are you willing to die?

What do I have to lose? Family and friends I've just met today? A life in the sea that suffocates me? My life back in the real world that is a monotonous nightmare that I've longed to escape from?

These questions make you realise that a chance at happiness is worth the possibility of dying. Seeing Jimin again, even for a few days seems like a more attractive prospect than going back to either your life now or your work-laden existence before this. Finally you agree, signing your name on a parchment produced by the Witch with a flourish. She gets to work immediately, pouring liquids from vials and minuscule creatures into a cauldron that hisses and smokes at random intervals. You watch her work in awed silence, remaining on your spot in the middle of the room until she produces a small bottle containing silver-coloured liquid.

"Now, the payment," she says, picking out a brown and white conch shell out of nowhere. You resist the urge to back away when she approaches you, forcing yourself to stay still as her long, spindly fingers gently massage your neck, coaxing your voice out of your throat. She releases it out of your open mouth, a wisp of golden smoke that drifts into the seashell, causing it to glow for a few moments before returning to its mute, unimpressive shades.

Taking the bottle that the Witch offers you, you convey your gratitude with a nod before racing towards the surface. In your hurry, you miss the figure hiding in the corner of the room, watching the entire deal being made with intense interest. As soon as you exit the chamber, she makes her way towards the Witch.

"So if the prince doesn't kiss her within three days, she dies?" Adella's shriek of worry would have touched you if she is not in cohorts with the Witch in the first place.

The Witch avoids her gaze, busying herself with putting all her potion-making ingredients away. "Don't worry. We mermaids turn into foam when we die, so what's the difference really? Either way, you'll get what you want, won't you?"

It's hardly reassuring, but there is nothing Adella can do to rectify the situation, so she too departs, leaving the Witch to muse the situation by her lonesome.

"It's never a bad idea to have one or two members of the royal family under your thumb," she cackles to herself.

You're blissfully unaware of the intentions of the two mermaids you have just left in the depths of the sea, only one thing in your mind as you break the surface of the water just shy of the seashore. The sun is blazing almost directly above your head, causing the potion in your hand to glitter like tiny diamonds. Taking a deep breath, you uncork the vial and drink all of the concoction in one gulp.

The mixture may look magical, but its effects feel extremely unpleasant. Torturing, actually. Pain shoots through your tail as it splits into two, turning into legs, but your screams are muted by your lack of voice, which is fortunate. The transformation can't have taken more than a few seconds but the agony it puts you through gives you the impression that you're being tormented for hours. Thankfully once the change is complete, the pain fades away so that when your newly-formed feet hits the shallow sand beneath the water, all you can feel is the coarse grains underneath them.

It's not just the recent transformation that leaves you feeling vulnerable and unprotected, prompting you to wrap your arms around your body, but the fact that you're now completely naked. You lower yourself into the water to hide your exposed body, your eyes scanning the beach for something, anything to cover yourself with. The only option available to you is a bundle of sails bunched up against the beach, washed ashore by the waves.

You rush out of the water to wrap the fabric around you and not a second too soon, for just as you cover yourself, a volley of deep yaps greets you just before Max appears from the side of the cliff and knocks you off your feet. The sail is large enough that the tussle between you and the dog doesn't expose your nude form, which is a blessing because his yelps are soon followed by a rush of apologies. Tilting your head sideways to get away from Max's lapping tongue, you lay your eyes upon the person you've been dying to meet – Prince Jimin.

His own eyes narrow as he tries to place your face. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

Nodding eagerly, you push Max off of you with Jimin's help, opening your mouth to explain yourself. The full force of the price you have paid hits home when not a syllable comes out, no matter how much strain you put on your throat. Heart sinking into your stomach but unwilling to give up, you quickly locate a stick so you can write your story down. Jimin's face falls when he realises you can't speak, but he indulgently follows your every move, full of anticipation. However, when the end of the stick touches the sand, you pause.

Alarm bells ring in your head when you realise that you don't know how to write. Unbeknownst to you, with the form and capabilities that you have inherited from your new body, you have also gotten her illiteracy. You look up at Jimin's confused face, dismay etched on your own as your plan crashes before you can even act on it. As he cannot understand your plight without an explanation, his only source of information is your expressions. Luckily, he takes pity on your obvious distress.

"You must have gone through something horrible," he concludes. "Come on, let's get you back to the castle."

Although your scheme has been cut short, you can't help but let yourself lean against his side as he leads you up the narrow staircase from the beach into the castle's keep. The castle rests on the edge of a cliff that cuts off sharply into the open sea below. Normally you would look around the building with a lot more interest than you're showing now, but Jimin's warmth radiating directly by your side keeps your attention focused solely on him. Every moment that passes sets your belief even more firmly that he is meant for you. There's an innate bond connecting you and him, a link that is ineffable, too complicated to describe with words. You make your way through the castle in silence, and from the intense way he's looking at you it's obvious that he feels it, too.

Jimin is reluctant to let you go to the maids, but he's forced to do so as it would be inappropriate for him to do their job. After Jimin leaves, they set about their work to help you get out of your makeshift clothing, bathe and dress you in proper clothes. Their whispers and gossip regarding your sudden appearance do not go by unnoticed by you, but you ignore them. Their words do have some truth in them, after all. You are not a princess in your real life, and even though you're the daughter of the sea king now, who would believe you, even if you can explain it?

So you spend most of the time letting your mind wander where it wants to, and of course it goes to the only person you can think about since you've been here – Jimin. The thoughts of him and worrying about the next few days keep you occupied until you're done, by which time the sun is already setting. A maid directs you to join Jimin and the older man you've seen in his company before, and you learn that his name is Grimsby.

There are only the three of you at a long table meant to hold more guests, and the two men have decided to utilise only one end of the table, with Jimin sitting at the head and Grimsby on his right. Jimin gestures for you to take a seat on his left with a sweet smile, and you oblige with a grin of your own. Although the looks that Grimsby is shooting you are far from hostile, awkward silence fills the air as the three of you stare at one another. You're not saying anything because of obvious reasons, but it seems they are at a loss as to what to say as well.

Then the absurdity of the situation dawns on you, and amusement wells up inside. Figuring you have nothing to lose, you allow the mirth to bubble over the surface, resulting in a mute giggle. Even though you cover your mouth, your chortles are obvious and it causes Jimin and Grimsby to burst into laughter themselves, breaking the tension.

"Where do you hail from, dear?" Grimsby asks, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.

Your laughter dies upon hearing the question. Where do you even begin? Essentially you are a visitor from a completely different world, in a different time. Perhaps you should introduce yourself with your current identity as a mermaid, which is laughable in itself, since humans have no idea of their existence. It doesn't matter either way, because you can't voice out anything. Maybe I can try mining it?

Before you can attempt to mime your answer and possibly make a fool of yourself, Jimin comes to your rescue. "Are you from around here?"

You shake your head, grateful to him for giving you a way out. Grimsby suggests that Jimin take you out to show you the town, and Jimin perks up at the idea. "It sounds like fun. Don't you agree?"

Your enthusiastic nod is all that is needed for Jimin to decide that he will bring you with him the very next day. The conversation picks up naturally after that. Jimin effortlessly makes you feel included in the conversation, despite your inability to contribute to it, and tactfully asks you yes or no questions that you can easily answer, and Grimsby follows suit. Weirdly enough, you feel welcome, not out of place at all, and you thoroughly enjoy yourself as the chat goes on for hours. The food has come and gone, and it's already time for bed when Jimin calls it a night.

To your delight, Jimin walks you all the way to your room. He sometimes breaks the silence to comment on paintings that hang on the walls or the random vase and trinkets, but most of the time both of you remain quiet. Neither of you feel uncomfortable or unnerved by the lack of words though; Jimin's presence calms you like a person you've known forever. It's only upon reaching your door that you start getting nervous, wondering if you should chance kissing him, or if such a move is too soon.

Just as Jimin is about to turn away, you reach out for his hand, but ultimately your nerve fails you and you start to pull away. You're sure that he doesn't see your movement, yet out of his own volition, he whirls back to face you, grabbing your outstretched hand. Before you can register what has just happened, Jimin kisses your cheek quickly, as if trying to overcome his own anxiety so he can pull it off.

"Good night," he wishes you in the softest of whispers before pulling away, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. You're not much better off yourself. You can't remember when was the last time such a chaste peck on the cheek has left you blushing to the roots of your hair and so excited you can hardly wait to enter your room so you can jump in happiness. His wish comes true; as your dreams are filled with happy endings with him.

After breakfast the next day, Jimin spends the morning giving you a tour of the castle. Compared to your merman father's sprawling palace in Atlantica, it is quite cramped. Other than the staircase that leads to the castle keep that Jimin and you entered through the day before, another one opens to a dock on the eastern side of the castle. Even with your limited knowledge, you can appreciate the design that makes it difficult for the castle to be breached. Near the dock is a hall, where Jimin says most of the public activities are held. He then shows you an area north of the hall, impressing you with lines of cherry trees that decorate the walkway. It may be your second favourite part of the castle, the first being Jimin's private garden that he made for himself. He invites you to sit at the gazebo so you can admire the garden while he talks about the work he has put into it. You're touched by the fact that he's sharing something so personal with you, a space that is only used by himself and Max. The other parts of the castle are not as impressive, but you cherish the look on Jimin's face as he happily shows you around every part of his home.

After the bizarre date in the underwater city, the town Jimin takes you to in the afternoon isn't impressive by any means, but it's still peaceful and lovely. Most of all, you enjoy being by his side, a date you'd never dream of having in your drab, work-oriented previous life. Your voice is a small price to pay for the joy that comes with Jimin but it saddens you that he doesn't even know your name. As if he read your mind, he comments with a sigh, "I wish I knew your name. I don't even know what to call you."

In a stroke of brilliance, you clap your hands in excitement as an idea strikes you, capturing Jimin's attention. You look around the town square, then points at an object that shares the same first syllable of your name. It takes some time for Jimin to figure out what you're up to and for you to find suitable items around you to use, finally ending with him persuading you to sit as the two of you play this impromptu game, but in the end he manages to learn your name.

"Y/n," he confirms. "I love your name."

You beam, metaphorical flowers blooming inside every time your name rolls off Jimin's tongue in his sweet, melodious voice. He repeats your name several times just so he can see your smile grow wider and wider until you both dissolve into laughter and he leads you through his castle to get to his private shoreline.

Jimin laces his fingers with yours as you stroll along the beach, his face reddening as he does so, but when you squeeze his palm in encouragement, he slowly relaxes and keeps his hold on you. The breeze pulls your hair out of the style one of the maids has tugged it into this morning but you don't mind, especially when Jimin wordlessly uses his other hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He sits you down on the sand next to him facing the open sea, so the wind blows gently against your face and gives you the courage to rest your head against his shoulder. His thumb rubs against your hand idly as you enjoy each other's company.

Nothing has ever felt so right, so natural, as being with Jimin. Nothing has to be done, no words have to be said, just his presence gives you a sense of completion. Suddenly he breaks the silence by murmuring your name. You lift your head up to look at him already staring at you with his dreamy eyes, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he leans closer, his grip on your hand getting tighter as his full lips hover mere millimetres away from yours, and you let your eyes close. The sounds of the waves lapping the shore are drowned by the beat of your heart thumping loudly in your ears as you await his kiss, but it never comes.

Confused and disappointed, you open your eyes. Once again you feel as if you've hurtled into another dimension. Jimin is no longer in front of you. In fact, you're quite alone.

Where am I?

The poll has ended! Thank you for choosing Jimin as the reader’s choice!

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captainoftherollyjoger · 7 years ago

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Flight: Chapter 6

Chapter Six has arrived! This is very sickly sweet! Lots of fluff, and babysitting!

I’m glad the fic has had such a positive response. Tagging @thatwolfbookgirl, @followbatb, @kmomof4, and @hollyethecurious!

Prologue : Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Chapter Five : Chapter Six : Chapter Seven : Chapter Eight : Chapter Nine : Chapter Ten : Chapter Eleven : Epilogue

Emma woke with strong arms around her, but he felt different, he was holding her tighter. Even though she had woken up like this everyday since their first time, something about him seemed off. Then she realised. He was still fast asleep. Usually he was just dozing, as he always woke up first, but right now he was in the very depths of sleep. She knew he wouldn't be feeling his best later, so she left him to it and closed her eyes again. She turned and snuggled into chest.

“Ouch.” Said Killian. His comment roused her from sleep. “Oh my head.”

“Have fun last night?”

“My eyes are closed but I already know you have a Cheshire Cat grin on your face. Do you like to see me suffer, Swan?” He dreaded opening his eyes and letting the light in.

“No, of course not. However, I was lacking in entertainment last night, but the wait was worth it. I've never seen you hungover.”

“It is a rare occurrence. I remember the morning you were hungover. I made you pancakes, where are mine?”

“I'm no good at pancakes. Maybe I can offer something just as good?” She kissed his lips and he squirmed.

“Sorry, love. Not in the mood. I feel really sick.”

“Wow, you really are sick.” She pulled away from him, which he protested against. “I’m just getting something. Shh, go to sleep.” She got up and kissed his forehead.

Emma found a suitable sick bucket. She took Henry and fed him his breakfast, Killian didn't need a crying baby in the house. She played with him and took him and Roger for a walk. When she returned, he was still in bed snuggled up at 12pm. Definitely not like him. The bucket had been frequented.

“Lovely.” She disposed of it and cooked him some lunch.

“Killian. You need to eat something. You’ll feel better.” She heard a massive groan. She placed his toast on the side and sat by him. She stroked his hair and smiled. “Maybe it's a good thing lads nights out aren't often.” He agreed. “Do you feel better at all?” He nodded slightly, then tapped the bed.

“Come on. I want a cuddle.”

“I can't. Henry's in the highchair.”

He frowned. She kissed him and left the room, a few minutes later she returned Henry is tow. She lay down beside him and put Henry between them. Killian's eyes still hadn't opened but he smiled knowing Henry was there.

“Keeyee.” He giggled.

“What did he say?” He opened his eyes and winced at the harsh light. ‘Did he say me?”

“Keeyee.” He laughed and reached for his nose.

“Emma! He said my name.” His heart swelled, the boy’s third word was him. He was getting better at Mummy and Doggy, and he hadn't really got Killian but it was enough for him.

“Aww, Killian. That's so cute.”

He looked ecstatic. Emma couldn't believe he was so excited about it.

“Wow.” He felt sick still but this meant the world to him. “That's amazing.”

“Say cheese.” She took a picture of them. Killian’s arms out of the covers holding Henry on his chest, Henry was sat up laughing. “I have my story for the day.”

“Put the picture in the paper.”

“You want me to?”

“Course I do. It's such a big moment.” He was grinning from ear to ear. Emma joined them and snapped a selfie of the three of them all snuggled under the quilt.

“At least you're feeling better.” She smiled, playing with his hair. She stared into his deep blue eyes, it wasn't hard to drown in them. They looked at her, she knew they were full of love, she knew he wanted to say it, she wanted to say it. But everything was perfect and she didn't want to lose that.

“What are you thinking about?” He smiled softly.

“You.”

“Oh, really?” His smile grew. “And what about me?” He snuggled into her neck trying not to disturb Henry between them.

“Just you. How amazing you are.” That made him blush.

“Alas, I am not the amazing one. That's you.”

“How about both of us are?” She chuckled. He smiled deeply at her. “Stop looking at me like that. Eat your toast. It's cold now, but eat it.” He reached over and picked a slice up. “You’ll get crumbs all over you.” She laughed.

“At this point, I couldn't care less. I dread to think what the others are like, I’m pretty sure I drunk the least.”

“I’m sure their women are just as sympathetic.” She had taken Henry from him and was sitting up with her head against the backboard.

“I doubt Elsa is. If Liam's ill all day he won't be in a very datey mood, it's the first one they have had planned in ages. Regina has no sympathy for hung over Robin. Belle will probably treat Will well. Who knows about the others.” He laughed. “Elsa will probably kill Robin, it was his fault we’re all in this state.”

“Well, lucky you have me. Finish your toast, shower, and we’ll go somewhere. Always best to get out and clear your head.”

“I don't want to go out.” He placed his plate on the side. “I want to stay here all day, with you.” He moved over and cuddled her legs. Henry giggled reached for Killian. “The lad agrees.”

“Come on. If we go out you’ll feel better. How about we go to that farm?”

“Why don't you go to the farm and me and Henry will stay here, where we both want to be.”

“Come on. He's not been to a farm before. Wouldn't it be cute seeing him watch the animals.” He was tracing circles on her thigh, hoping to distract her. It wasn't working.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go. I’ll go and shower.”

“Henry's getting tired, I’ll put him down for a nap, and maybe if you're lucky… I’ll join you.” She winked. “No promises.”

They both left the bathroom, wrapped in towels, and went to their own rooms. He sat on the side of his bed and picked up a photo frame which had been recently added of Emma and Henry on the flight. He smiled. Who would have predicted that two strangers on a flight would end up like this? He adored them both, he loved Henry so much. He enjoyed reading to him, watching his eyes light up at new things, watching him and Emma play together, watching Roger and Henry. Roger was the sweetest dog he knew and just lay on his side whilst Henry stroked his big belly.

He left the room, dressed in dark jeans and a red plaid shirt. He saw Emma with Henry, she had left her hair down with it's natural waves. She wore some black jeans and a grey t-shirt. It was still hot outside, normally it had rained before now.

“Are we ready?” She smiled. Henry was in his seat carrier still asleep.

“I hope you're driving.” He was feeling a lot better than before, but he had a slight headache.

They arrived at the farm. Emma had Henry in his baby carrier on her chest. He had woke up and was as lively as usual. The farm was family friendly and they held birthday parties for children, they wanted to educate children on farming and some of the jobs. Not the gruesome parts. They saw children riding donkeys and pointing at the pigs.

“Look, Henry. Liam is here.” Pointing at the pigs.

“I’ll tell him that.”

“You tell him everything anyway.”

“I don't tell him everything. I certainly don't tell him what I do to his little brother.”

“Younger. Younger brother.” He's certain Liam told her that he hated being called ‘little brother’. They were too close.

“Either way. Is someone jealous?” she Smirked.

“Of Liam?” He snorted. “No. Never.”

They walked around and looked at the animals. Henry was terrified of the cows and cried until he was far away from them. He loved the sheep and when they bleated at him, he squealed back. They watched the sheepdogs round up the sheep as a display.

“Wow, look Henry. Roger wouldn't be able to do that.”

“Oggy!”

“Yeah, doggy.” Smiled Killian.

The trip to the farm had been an exhausting one for Henry. There was silence in the car as they drove back in comfortable silence.

“He so loved the donkeys more than the sheep, Swan. You can't deny that.” He said, walking through the door. She followed behind with Henry fast asleep in his carrier.

“No, he didn't. Anyway, his favourite was the dogs.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, for a start he knew what they were.” she argued.

“Cos he knows what a dog is. He doesn't know what a sheep or donkey is. He’s only ten months old. His vocabulary isn't vast yet. Give the lad a chance.”

“Come on, let's stop arguing. My room is a mess. I’ll tidy it before the kids come over.”

She felt his arms snake around her and he kissed her neck.

“Maybe, you could move your stuff into my room.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we could share a bedroom. Henry can have your room. We’ll decorate it for him. Then the other room could be a guest one or something.”

“We sleep in your room anyway.”

“I know, but you do everything else in your room. I want you in mine.” She leant back on him. “It’s not that big of a step, love. You're only putting your stuff in… our room.” He smirked. “Come on. Please. Plus it gives Henry a chance to learn to be on his own, he needs a bit of separation. We have the baby monitor. What do you say?”

“Are we ready for such a commitment?” she giggled. She turned and faced him, his hand still around her waist. “Okay. And who is going to move my wardrobe and stuff?”

“We will. Teamwork.”

They spent the rest of the day moving things around and tidying up. Henry was exhausted so they didn't disturb him. The wardrobe wasn't as heavy as they thought it would be and they got the job done by five. Emma washed some clothes and all the bedding whilst Killian went out for a walk with Roger to clear the last of his headache.

They were sat on the couch with the TV on low. It was some wildlife documentary about bears.

“An hour until the rascals come.” He smiled. “They don't tire easily Liam's kids. It’ll be all games and noise, I hope you know that. James will mind his own business when he gets bored, but Ellie will want to play all night.” He laughed.

“Well, best save our energy. I’m just going to do a bit of work before they come.” She picked up her laptop, she was half way through a column she started the week before. She had sent Graham two columns in advance. He was still trying to persuade her to take the hours. So was Killian. However, Killian was hinting to other things. She felt his head on her shoulder.

“Hey.”

She laughed at him. “Hi.” She continued typing. His hand slipped under shirt as he caressed her stomach.

“You look beautiful. I love your hair like that.”

“Thank you.” She wasn't giving into him. There was a silence then. “You know I would have to do this more and ignore you more if I take on those hours.”

“I’m only bored because there's no Henry to look after. Plus, I have a gorgeous woman sitting on my couch, it's hard to resist. She smells really good too. Maybe she's bored of work?” He tickled her ribs and she jolted.

“Killian, my laptop. Be careful.” She giggled. “I need to work. Leave me alone for a bit.” She kissed his cheek.

He wandered around the apartment bored. He went to Henry’s room and watched the baby sleep, he looked like he was dreaming. He smiled at him, he couldn’t believe that he had only been in his life for six weeks. He was a perfect little boy. He stroked the baby's soft hair. “I love you, Henry. And your mummy too. But she isn't ready yet, but I think I can tell you. Our little secret.”

The doorbell rang. Show time. It was six. Killian opened the door and was attacked by hugs.

“Uncle Killy!” They screamed.

“Hello! Hello!”

Elsa and Liam were laughing. They were both dressed up nice and looked extremely happy.

“Enjoy your night.” Smiled Emma, coming to the door.

“Try and enjoy yours. If they get too much, tell them. Don't want them disturbing Henry.”

“Maybe they want payback after all his crying. It was definitely teething, he’s getting better these days.”

“Now you just have to watch him every second for putting things in his mouth. It's never over.” Laughed Liam.

“Go and enjoy your night.” Smiled Killian, picking himself up off the floor. “We have everything in hand. No worrying. I’ll ring if there is any trouble.”

They shut the door and the kids had already disappeared.

“Ready, love?”

She nodded.

Killian spent some time playing football in the garden with James, whilst Ellie played with Roger. Emma was watching from the bench with the baby monitor on the table.

“I want Emma to play! She's way better than you, Killian.” shouted James. Henry was inside fast asleep. None of the noise had disturbed him. “Come on, Emma! Please play with me.”

“Okay, pal. I think your uncle should go in goal.” She smirked.

“You’re on, Swan.” He smiled.

Emma scored many against him, as did James. Ellie joined in halfway through and Emma showed her how to kick better.

“Uncle Killy?” Said Ellie, when they were all drinking some juice. She walked up to him with puppy eyes.

“Yes, princess?”

“Let me do you hair.” He saw Emma snigger into her drink unexpectedly. “Pleaaaasse. You normally do.”

Emma couldn't imagine what that would look like. He did have quite thick hair enough to put some hair ties in.

“Later.”

“No now. I don't want to play football. I want to make you look pretty.”

“Why don't you make Emma looked pretty?” He suggested.

“She already is. You aren't.” His niece had always been blunt. Like her father.

“Well, now I'm upset. You just said I’m not pretty. Maybe I don't want you to do my hair.”

“No, you are pretty. Just not as pretty as Emma. So you need some more.” She gave him a hug. “I’m sorry, uncle.”

“It’s okay. Apology accepted. Go on, get your stuff.”

“Emma, are you playing again?” Asked James. He never seemed to tire of sports.

“Sure. I’ll go in net.”

James and Emma kept laughing at Killian, whose hair was being pulled hard by his niece. His hair had been put in lots of hair ties and Ellie was delighted with her work.

“We have to get a picture of this.” Smiled Emma. James nodded and laughed. They walked over and Emma took a picture, safe to say Killian wasn't happy.

“That picture best not end up anywhere, Swan. It stays on that phone and that phone only.”

“Of course.” She smirked. “Ellie, your uncle looks very pretty now. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“How long so I have to stay pretty for?” Asked Killian.

“All night. I think, Ellie.” Admitted James. “Don’t you?”

“Yaaaay, all night!”

“James!” said Killian. “You’re too much like your father.”

Killian started dinner whilst Emma entertained the kids with a jigsaw. Henry was now awake and sat in a toy chair. James went back and forth between the jigsaw and helping Henry put the shapes in the right slot. He was well practised at being a big brother.

“Well done, Henry. What’s that? A circle!” Emma watched from the corner of her eyes. There was a lot of Liam in the boy, but there was a tenderness that was Killian. “And that one is a star.”

“Arrr.” He clapped.

“Close enough.”

“Ellie!” Called Killian. She looked up and ran to the kitchen. He picked her up and put her on his hip. “How does this sauce taste? Careful. It's hot. Blow on it first.”

“Yummy!”

“Great! Food is nearly ready. Are you and James going to set the table?” He asked. She nodded and ran off.

“Jamie! Jamie! Killy said we have to set the table.” James was still with Henry. “Help me.”

“Coming. See you soon, Henry.”

Killian had made spaghetti bolognese with meatballs. They were all sat around the table. Roger sat by Ellie knowing she always sneaked him some food. His slobber strings had attached to the fur on his chest and he was sitting patiently. Emma had fed Henry just before but he was with them on his highchair.

“This is delicious.” Smiled Emma. “Who taught you to cook?”

“Auntie Judy. She's great. She struggles with it now though. We still let her do as much as possible but we usually help.”

“She makes delicious cookies!” Shouted Ellie.

“Indoor voice, Ellie.” said Killian. Emma tried to hide her smile. He still looked ridiculous with his hair, especially when he was being stern.

“Sorry, she makes delicious cookies.” She said quieter. Killian smiled and helped Henry with a bottle. He was also amazed at Killian's new look.

“What's for dessert?” asked James.

“Chocolate cake and custard?” Suggested Killian.

“Yaay! My favourite.”

They had dessert and put the plates in the dishwasher. James was watching Peter Pan with Henry and explaining to him that he was named after Hook. Killian and Liam's favourite character. Even if he was the villain.

“Emma, Killy? Can we play a game?” asked Ellie. “I don't want to watch Peter Pan.”

“Of course. What do you want play?” Asked Killian.

“Emma is a princess and you're a prince.”

“Emma already is a princess.” Said Killian.

“I know, and we are just pretending you are a prince. Okay.” Blunt once again.

“Okay.” He smiled.

“You have to go hide. Because you need rescuing because you're useless. And princess Emma is going to save you from the castle.”

“Oo, I like this. Am I a warrior princess?”

“Yeah! So uncle...” She whispered in his ear of where he needed to hide. He got up and wandered off.

“And who are you in this game?” asked Emma. “Are you a princess?”

“No! I’m the Queen who captured him. And Roger is my dragon! You have get past him then you face me.” She ran off and went to where she imagined Killian was too.

Emma walked to James. “Are you okay watching him?”

“Of course! I always wanted a little brother. Better than having a sister.”

“Your sister isn't that bad.” she laughed.

“You best go find Killian before she kills him. She takes these games very seriously.”

“Okay, see you in a bit.”

Emma walked around the house in search of them. They were nowhere to be seen.

“Prince Killian?” she called. Maybe they were outside. Roger was lay on the grass catching the last rays of sun. She saw Killian sitting on a chair with a skipping rope tied around him. “Oh my! Not to worry, I will save you!” The Queen’s dragon wasn't very fierce but she would humour her. “Oh dear! There's a massive dragon in the way. What shall I do?” She approached Roger who perked his head when she approached. She started tickling his stomach and he rolled onto his back. His back leg started kicking when she scratched his ribs. “I fear the dragon isn't very aggressive.” She saw Killian laughing. Ellie jumped out with a sword.

“Ah ha! You may have defeated my dragon but you won't defeat me!” Ellie threw down a sword for Emma. They were in fact sticks but she obliged. Emma carefully sparred against her. She ‘cut’ the ropes, Killian had actually untied himself, then pulled him up.

“I have my prince! We just need to defeat the Queen! Any ideas?”

Killian picked Ellie up and started tickling her. “She’s just as weak as her dragon, milady!” Ellie gave up.

“You have to live happily ever after now! You have to get married!” Both of them were shocked. “Inside!”

They followed her inside, Roger followed. They were sat on the floor. Her teddies were the royal guests and she was the officiator. She got some Haribo rings and Roger was sitting and watching.

“You have to hold hands!”

“Alright, bossy.” Said Killian, then he felt Emma grab his hand.

“Well, we are getting pretend married.” She smiled.

“Princess Emma, do you want Prince Killian to be your husband?”

“I do.” She slipped the Haribo ring on his finger.

“Prince Killian, do you want Princess Emma to be your wife.”

“I do.” He did the same.

“You are now husband and wife. You have to kiss the bride.” Clapped Ellie. Killian gave Emma a quick kiss and Ellie cheered.

“You taking me somewhere nice for my honeymoon? The Caribbean perhaps?” She smiled.

“Anything for my princess.” He smiled. Ellie had left the game behind and was now playing with Roger.

“You still look ridiculous.” She giggled. “That look really doesn't suit you.”

“I’m aware, love. But I have a niece to keep happy.”

Peter Pan had finished and James was now reading James a book. The pirate one. Ellie was brushing Roger in the corner and Killian was sat at a bar stool watching James. He felt Emma's arms come around his waist and her chin rest on his shoulder.

“James is really sweet.” She smiled.

“Aye. He's spitting image of his father.”

“He reminds me of his uncle.” Giving his cheek a quick kiss. “Similar personality. There's no denying he looks like Liam though.”

“You think I'm sweet?”

“Well duh, you're the sweetest guy I know.” He smiled at that. He turned in her arms. “And I think you're really pretty.”

“Thanks, love.”

It was half eight. Bath time.

“Right you little monsters! Time for a bath.” Shouted Killian. Ellie screamed and ran away.

“I don't want a bath! Because that means bed time!”

James had also ran away and hid.

“We’re not playing hide and seek, guys. It's bath time. Come on.” Said Killian. Ellie was hiding behind Roger and James was under Killian's bed.

“Come on. This isn't funny. We can watch something afterwards.” He said.

Emma had started running the bath. She still had all that to come, chasing Henry around for a bath. At the moment he couldn't really do much about it.

After ten minutes they were all successfully in the bath. James was playing with a boat and showing Henry. Ellie demanded that Roger sit by the door as a guard dog. Not that he was much of one, he was snoozing against the radiator.

Henry was sat in a bath chair and splashing about with James.

“I’ll go and get some towels.” Said Killian. “You okay watching?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Emma. Where are you from?” asked James.

“America. I lived in Boston and New York mostly. A bit of Tallahassee. New York was my favourite.”

“I really want to go to Disneyworld.”

“I've never been.” She smiled.

“Maybe we can go together?” He suggested. “All of us. Even Will and stuff.”

“That would be fun!”

Killian returned with the towels. They washed the children's hair and then wrapped them up. Emma dried Ellie's hair, whilst Killian changed Henry and sorted James. They all ended up snuggled on the couch watching Robin Hood. James insisted in Disney and they all agreed. Killian had Ellie on his lap and Emma had Henry on hers. James was snuggled between them in the middle with a blanket. Henry was having his last bottle for the night, James was watching her and she smiled.

“Do you want to try and feed him?” She asked. James looked nervous. “I’ll just put him on your knee. He tries to hold it himself sometimes but he isn't very good at it.” Emma placed him in James' arms. He smiled and gave him the bottle. “That's it.” When Henry had finished she took him back and burped him.

“That was fun.” He smiled.

Henry yawned and was falling asleep. “This little man is quite tired. I’m going to put him to bed.” She smiled.

“Not before goodnight kisses.” Smiled Killian. She handed him over. “Goodnight, Henry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Henry smiled sleepily at him. He kissed his cheek. Ellie and James did the same.

“Night, night.” James smiled.

The film finished and Ellie had fallen asleep. James had asked to read for a bit and Killian had said yes. Emma carried Ellie to the spare room, there was a double bed which was for Ellie and James.

Killian was reading a separate book on the couch with James.

“I really like her. Emma. She's cool.”

Killian looked up from his page.

“You do?”

“Yeah, she's better than the others. I know I shouldn't compare them, but she's a lot nicer to me.” He sometimes didn't understand his nephew. He acted really grown up sometimes for his age. He didn't get that from Liam.

“It’s alright. She's my favourite too.”

“Do you love her?”

“I guess. She's just had a bad past. So, we aren't rushing things.”

“Don't let her get hurt again.” He found it hard to believe a ten year old was saying this.

“I won't.” James then yawned. “Bed time. Come on.”

All the kids were asleep when they were sat on the couch together.

“Peace at last.” Smiled Killian. Emma had her head on his lap.

“I've enjoyed it. Liam's kids are great.”

“James was really good with Henry.” Killian said stroking her hair idly. “He's a good brother.”

“What time are Elsa and Liam picking them up?”

“Not too early. I’m sure they’ll be enjoying their morning together.” He smiled. “No school run. No kids. A nice night out. I expect we've got them till at least twelve.”

“Not so bad. I really need to do some work tomorrow. At least I have plenty to write about. Also, you can take your hair out now.” She laughed and sat up. He pulled her onto his knee and she undid them. His hair stayed where it was until she scruffed it up. “Ooo, that looks sexy.” She kissed him, he deepened it. “Easy tiger. Too much company.”

“You started it. Come on, love. Let's go to bed.”

In the middle of the night, Killian felt a tug on his arm. He was facing outwards with the quilt mostly on Emma's side. As usual.

“Uncle Killy.” A small voice whispered. He stirred and saw Ellie standing with tears in her eyes. “I had a bad dream.”

“Oh dear. Come here.” He picked her up and put her between him and Emma. “Shh. It's okay. Don't cry. I'm here.”

“I love you.” She whimpered.

“I love you too, princess.” She fell asleep in his arms.

When Emma woke up she noticed a small body between her and Killian. It was Ellie. Killian had mentioned she suffered from bad dreams, that's why she was probably there. Ellie was snuggled into her and sucking her thumb, Killian was still fast asleep, the covers down by his waist. His t-shirt hiding his muscular shoulders. He’d had the decency to sleep in pyjamas that night when usually he slept in boxers, knowing he might have to deal with Ellie. The baby monitor was silent, and James was probably still asleep. She pulled the little girl closer and fell asleep again.

“Killian.” He heard a whisper. He rubbed his eyes. It was James. “Killian. I’m bored. It's ten. You're usually up by now.”

“I had to look after some brats last night.” He chuckled, pulling James into the bed. “Come on, you can be lazy. Don't have to be sporty all the time.” He tickled the boys ribs and he laughed. “Shh, you’ll wake Emma and your sister.” He put him next to his sister and told him to close his eyes.

“Every time I wake up, there’s another person in this bed.” Chuckled Emma. James and Killian both looked at each other and laughed. “I doubt I’ll be falling asleep again. What time is?”

“10:10. Love.”

“I’m surprised Henry's slept so long.” She smiled. “How about I go make us all some breakfast?” James nodded.

They were all around the table and Emma had made pancakes with chocolate sauce. Henry was up and Killian fed him. The kids were changed and ready.

“How is my beautiful boy this morning?” Smiled Emma, walking to Killian who had Henry.

“Good, thanks.” He smirked. She raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn't referring to you.” She gave him a kiss.

“Eww gross.” Said James. “Kids about.”

“Gross? I've never been so offended.” Said Killian. “Emma isn't gross.” He pretended to kiss her more until she tried to push him off with little real effort.

“Stop you two! Mum and dad are bad enough.”

“Enough, Killian.” She laughed.

The doorbell went.

“Right rascals. Get your stuff ready.”

Liam and Elsa accepted an offer for pancakes. They looked a lot more stress free. Elsa told Emma about their date, Liam had took her to a Mexican restaurant, then they had walked through the park like on their first date. Then they went home and enjoyed some wine and peace and quiet.

“It sounds lovely. You're very lucky, you have two lovely children. Ellie is certainly a character and James is so sweet.”

“Thank you for looking after them. Maybe we can try again with Henry, and you and Killian can go somewhere.”

“Maybe. It's not like we're struggling having only been together for a few weeks. It's not like going on your first date in ten years with your husband.” Laughed Emma.

“True. It was lovely just being us two. I love my kids, don't get me wrong. But having Liam to myself was nice. Like the good old days. Especially when he goes back in the Navy in a few weeks.”

“I can imagine it being quite difficult.”

“He comes out next year. Fed up of missing his kids. I know he loves the sea, but he loves the kids more.”

“That will be nice for you both.” Smiled Emma.

#cs ff #flight cs fanfic #captain swan #cs fluff #captain cobra #cs fanfic #captain swan ff #killian jones #emma swan

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