#sorry but ive been ruminating on this all night i needed to get it out there

[doomednarrative]

Could never understand being a Michinaga hater the guy has carried the Entire series for me at this point

[sodasback]

Origin Story - Part 3

ER Nurse Rafe x ER Nurse Reader

Part 1 Part 2 

Warnings: Unprofessional work environment stuff. Alcohol consumption. Cursing. Unedited, will go through and edit later.

Not my photo. All credit to owner/creator. <3

The next couple weeks you focused on being a new nurse in the Emergency Department. Your life was filled with shifts with a preceptor and tons of classes and trainings. 

You were thankful for being so busy because otherwise you would be constantly ruminating on the night at Crazy 8′s and what you said to Rafe. You can’t believe how drunk you got in front of your brand new coworkers and how shamelessly you flirted with Rafe. And the worst part was: you didn’t know how he took it. Really the last time you said more than a couple words to each other was when he started your IV that next morning. It seemed like everything was okay, but you flushed every time you saw him on the floor. And then you’d curse at yourself for having such a crush on a guy. 

-

You were by yourself in the med room, finishing up at the Pyxis, pulling meds for your patient when Rafe walked in. 

“Hey Y/L/N, I feel like every time I see you, you’re running around. How’re you doing?” Rafe asked, taking your spot at the Pyxis. 

“Doing good!” You told him, almost too enthusiastically. “How are you?” 

Rafe let out a little chuckle at your new formality with him. “I’m good.” 

You hesitated for a second looking at Rafe’s back while he faced the Pyxis, wondering if you should bring up what you were thinking. 

“Listen, Rafe.” He turned around once he heard the serious tone in your voice, causing you to look down for a second before meeting his gaze again. “I want everyone here to see me as competent and I want to maintain everyone’s respect, including your’s. ...so that night at the bar, when you took me home I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I’m just really embarrassed that I-” 

“Y/N, you don’t have to say anything. Everyone here has had a night at Crazy 8′s and you didn’t say anything that night that you should worry about, okay? I already know you’re a badass nurse who’s more competent then some of our seasoned RNs. You have all of our respect, including mine.” 

You smiled at him and nodded. 

You started to turn away, but then stopped yourself, “But didn’t I kinda throw myself at you when you brought me to my apartment?” You asked, putting your hand to your forehead and scrunching your eyes shut, only peeking at him when you heard him chuckle breathlessly. 

“Uhh, yeah, you might have tried to flirt a little. But like I said, you didn’t say anything I didn’t want to hear.” He looked you in the eyes, trying to gauge your reaction.

Your lips parted and you opened your mouth to speak, when your preceptor for the day popped her head in. “Y/N, come on, bed 12 is going for CT.” 

-

The following weekend was Edgar’s birthday which brought everyone back to Crazy 8′s that Friday night. You were determined to go and only maintain a slight buzz and classy behavior the entire night to make up for the last time you were at the ED crew’s favorite bar. 

The night started out with everyone buying Edgar shots and of course, Edgar dancing the night away. At one point, Edgar and you were out on the dance floor with everyone else. The birthday boy had a cocktail in hand he was sipping from. You didn’t notice, but as the two of you danced, Edgar saw his best friend behind you. Edgar mischievous grin grew on his face before forcefully twirled you away from him and into Rafe’s chest. 

“Woah, watch where you’re twirling Rookie. If you wanted to dance, you could have just asked, you didn’t have to tackle me.” He teased.

You rolled your eyes, “You flatter yourself too much Cameron. You can thank your bestie over there for launching me into you.” As you let Rafe grab your hand and twirl you around. 

“Oh, don’t worry I will.” He smirked, and nodded at Edgar who made an obscene gesture that the 2 of you just laughed at. 

The two of you continued to dance for a few songs and it was innocent enough, until a sensual song came on. Your hands had a mind of their own as they moved to rest on Rafe’s shoulders and his settled on your waist. 

As the song continued and the alcohol coursed through your veins, you felt your inhibitions fading as your fingers laced together behind his neck and he pulled you closer as his hands gripped lower on your waist and the small of your back, dangerously close to your ass. Your smiles both faded as you looked into his eyes and your lips parted. 

The song was coming to an end. “I think I need some air” You whispered, still looking in Rafe’s eyes. He looked toward the balcony patio and turned, firmly holding your hand, pulling you behind him and maneuvering his way through the crowd for you. 

The cold air hit you and instantly sobered you a little, which honestly, only made you more sure of your attraction to your new coworker. It also didn’t help that outside was completely empty. It was just the 2 of you. 

Rafe pulled you close to the railing where there was a beautiful view of the city lights. “Better?” He asked as he leaned on the railing. 

You followed suit but shivered at the cold metal hitting your skin coupled with the chill of the outside air. “Yeah. Just a little cold. But good.”

“Here” Rafe said, as he slipped his flannel off. 

“Oh no. It’s okay, I’m fine-” 

“Just put it on Y/N.” Rafe smirked at you. You smiled and slipped it on, not missing the sweet smell of his cologne wrapped around you.

You both leaned on your elbows against the railing and looked out at the view in a moment of silence. 

“So beautiful” you muttered in a blissful tone. 

“Yeah” Rafe agreed quietly, but you turned to see he was looking at you and not the view. Your eyes widened ever so slightly and your mouth dropped open a little. Before you could stop yourself your lips were on his. 

You felt like you had been struck by lightning and you couldn’t stop from moaning softly against Rafe causing him to let out a gentle grunt before you both opened your mouths and deepend the kiss.

The kiss was only getting more passionate when you had a moment of clarity. You pushed at Rafe’s chest and pulled away. “Shit!” You cursed closing your eyes, hitting your palm to your forehead and turning away from Rafe.

“Y/N-“ Rafe tried to stop your impending freak out he already knew was coming.

“I’m such an idiot!” You exclaimed. “I can’t believe I’m making out with my coworker I’ve known for what? Like 3 weeks?!”

“Hey! Relax. It’s fine.” Rafe tried again.

“Of course you think it’s fine! Every girl at work probably throws themselves at you! And now you think I’m just another-“

“Y/N!” Rafe grabbed your shoulders, “Chill! I’ve never made a move on a coworker before, so don’t worry about that. And I don’t see you like that. You’re not just some girl.”

“Rafe we barely know each other!” You reminded him,  “Can we just forget this happened please?!” You asked exasperated and still freaking out. You didn’t miss the disappointment flood Rafe’s face, but you were too freaked out and buzzed to do anything about it.

“Yeah, of course.” he agreed easily. 

You shuffled your feet back and forth and took a deep breath.

“Are we good? Is it gonna be all awkward now?” You asked, still stressing.

Rafe laughed, “Why ‘cause you’re a bad kisser?” He teased and answered your question for you.

Your mouth dropped open in offense, “Shut up! Take it back!”

“Make me!” Rafe furrowed his brow at you. And you punched him in the shoulder.

“Ow! I’m just kidding. Lighten up, Rookie. Yeah, we’re fine. ...Are you good?” He asked, giving your hand a squeeze.

“Good.” You smiled, squeezing back. “Kay, I’m gonna go back in first, okay?” 

And you started to turn, “Wait, Y/N.”

You groaned, “Cameron! Don’t make this harder! We can’t-” 

“I was just gonna say, I kinda need my shirt back, if we’re gonna play this off.” He said. 

You almost died from embarrassment. “Oh yeah! Right, right right! I’m so dumb. I’m sorry- I “ 

“Y/N!” Rafe stopped you from going off on a tangent while laughing at your ability to easily fall back into a freak out. 

“Yeah” You agreed and shrugged off his flannel, handing it back to him.

Of course, you panicked when you got home and tossed and turned worrying about what happened between you and Rafe.

Then, you got a text message from an unknown number

Unknown #: Stop worrying about it.

You knew it was Rafe, but you didn’t have his number saved. 

You: How do you have my phone number, stalker?

Rafe: We have unit directory, Rookie.

You: Likely story. How’d you know I was worrying?

Rafe: Lucky guess ;) We can forget it happened 

Rafe: ...if you want to.

You stomach dropped and you took a second before you dialed Rafe’s number. 

“Hey” He greeted. 

“What if I don’t want to forget it happened?” You asked. 

[marlinswritingarchive]

“Show And Tell” (Abridged)

[The Hand Kissing Scene(s) From “Tomorrow Never Comes”, abridged]

A muffled voice. “Jim?”

Footsteps.

The bedroom door is thrown open, and a mass of dark hair hurtles toward him. Jim barely has enough time to sit up before Spock lands on him heavily, knocking him back onto the mattress. Jim braces himself against the trembling torso, and wraps his arms around him.

“Whoa- Spock!” He laughs, and pushes himself upright again. “It’s alright. I’m alright.” He pulls back slightly, and runs his hand down Spock’s side, but, of course, the wound from yesterday has completely vanished. He smiles.  “You’re alright. We’re alright.” Strong arms embrace him, pulling him closer, and he sinks into them. “You steered us out of danger,” he murmurs against his shoulder.

“I thought you-”

“I know. When I woke up, you were injured. I didn’t think you were going to make it, so I- I found enough anaesthetic to knock myself out.” He pauses. “It might have killed me, given enough time- I know non-replicated medicines don’t keep that well, but-”

“Jim.” Spock presses his forehead against his, and Jim keeps talking, as if he can explain it to himself somehow.

“- I guess it worked, because-”

Spock’s lips capture his, and he blinks. He tilts his head, and makes a surprised sound as he returns the kiss. Spock’s movements are slow, well-practised, almost perfectly timed. Jim’s breath catches, and he pulls away.

“Oh. Okay,” he says, breathlessly. “That’s not the first time we’ve-? Uh? Is it-?”

“No,” Spock murmurs. His eyes glimmer with something, and he watches Jim. Waiting.

Jim places his hands against his hips. “Can we-?”

“Yes,” Spock breathes. They kiss again, and Spock’s hands travel up Jim’s spine, and settle, finally, at the nape of his neck. Jim presses against him lightly, learning the contours of his body, as Spock holds his with a strange familiarity. The tension drops from his shoulders, and he gives in- this, if anything, is the final proof of the prison they find themselves in, not that any was needed. Spock cradles him with expert hands, and knows every favourite spot better than Jim knows them himself. Still, he feels almost as if he’s kissing a stranger, and pulls away before he makes a fool of himself.

“You’re at a- slight advantage, Spock.”

Spock looks at him.

He huffs. “Don’t tell me you  knew  I was going to say that.”

A raised eyebrow. “I did not say a word.”

“Still...” Jim glances down, and grabs Spock’s right hand, raising it to his lips. “You’re showing me up.” He kisses the palm, twice.

“There is no need to be embarrassed, Jim.” His eyes twinkle, teasingly.

“You smug bastard.” Jim peppers the inside of his hand with soft kisses, and nips at the skin intermittently, as he traverses towards the thumb with gentle lips. “There must be  something  you’re not expecting.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve heard that Vulcan hands are very sensitive,” Jim comments.

“They are,” Spock says, neutrally.

“Hm. An erogenous zone, perhaps?”

Spock raises an eyebrow cryptically.

Jim splays his hand and begins to kiss between the webs of his fingers, darting his tongue out as he peers up at Spock, gauging his reaction. Spock locks eyes with him, and remains determinedly impassive.

Jim continues his ministrations, and caresses Spock’s other hand as he goes. Gradually, he kisses the pad of each finger, and rubs small circles into the palm of his hand.

Spock watches him appraisingly.

“Well?” He murmurs.

“It was certainly- nice,” Spock purrs. “But it was not-  surprising.”

Jim narrows his eyes, and pins him to the bed with a chuckle.

“Spock, what was the full extent of Leland’s plan?” Jim asks, as they lounge beside each other on the double bed. Outside, the storm rages, but Jim is almost used to it now. Seeing the expression on Spock’s face, he waves a hand at the ceiling. “I don’t mean killing me, but the rest of it- taking down the outpost, the attack on Kronos- how were they going to do it? It could be important, once we get out of here.”

Spock considers. “Not much was concealed from you. We were to take down the outpost, at which point, we would be joined by a strike team from Section-31, either here, or in space.”

“One strike team?” Jim murmurs. He thinks of the crates and crates of power packs, and the strange, mismatched weapon on the front of Georgiou’s ship. Retractable, circular.

Almost like a drill.

He sits up. “They’re going to use the technology they recovered from  The Nerada to destroy Kronos,” he realises. “I didn’t see it before- how a band of people so small could hope to launch an attack alone, but it makes perfect sense.” He shakes his head. “What are they thinking? Aren’t two destroyed planets enough?”

Spock closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Spock,” Jim murmurs, touching his arm. He sighs. “It would be a lot easier to work out what’s going on if we knew what was on that ship.”

He draws his knees to his chest, and listens to the rhythmic beat of rain against the windows.

Spock stirs next to him. “Ten thousand cc’s of red matter,” he murmurs.

“What?”

His eyes flutter open.  “The Enterprise was there, Jim,” he whispers. “When Vulcan was destroyed. The Nerada took Captain Pike prisoner, and destroyed every other starship in the system. At first, we could not work out why they spared us, but Nero…  Knew  me.”

Jim frowns. “Knew you? I don’t-”

“The weapons on The Nerada were from the future. But, it was a future version of myself who created the singularity which allowed them to travel through time. And…” He frowns. “He provided the red matter which is necessary to destroy a planet.”

Jim rests his head on his knees and stares at Spock. Given their current situation, the idea of actual, tangible time-travel isn’t so far-fetched, but he stares at him anyway.

“In the other universe, Romulus was destroyed when its sun went Nova, and The Nerada was brought through the singularity it created.”

“Another universe,” Jim whispers.

Spock nods. “Another me… Whom Nero was determined to get revenge on; for the destruction of his homeworld.”

Jim frowns. “But- he didn’t do it deliberately.”

A jerky nod. “He told me it was an accident. Nevertheless…” He rakes a hand through his hair. “When The Enterprise attempted to defend Earth, both were destroyed, and I was imprisoned on The Nerada for three weeks.”

“With Pike,” Jim breathes.

Spock nods. “And my counterpart.” His hand shakes. “When I arrived, he had already suffered extensive injuries. I melded with him many times in an attempt to save his life, but-” his voice cracks, and Jim places a hand on his shoulder. Spock covers his hand with his own, and continues.

“He perished after three days. He and Pike attempted to protect me, but, once they were gone, Nero was once again free to take his frustrations out on me.” He sweeps his long hair back over his shoulder.

On the back of his neck is the beginning of a scar. It continues under his shirt, and Spock’s fingers fall still against the neckline. He peers at Jim.

A question.

Jim nods, and Spock removes his shirt with trembling fingers. His back is lined with a criss-cross of scars. A long, jagged line runs up his back, and dips down again, like a diagonal “v”. It branches off into smaller lines, some more faded than others, and Jim reaches a hand out tentatively.

“Can I…?”

Spock nods, and Jim touches the mark gently. Spock tenses.

“Does it hurt?” He whispers.

He searches the wall, a vague, faraway look in his eyes. “It did.”

Gently, Jim traces his hand up Spock’s back, and slides closer to him, placing a leg on either side of his waist. He rests his chin on Spock’s shoulder, and brushes his cheek with his.

“It’s my fault, Jim. The destruction of my home, and yours.”

Jim shakes his head. “No. You only think that because you’ve been told that. You-” He softens his voice. “Nero is responsible for his own actions.”

Spock swallows.

“Leland was wrong- more to the point, Leland is unhinged. He may blame you for the destruction of earth, but-” he squeezes his hand. “I don’t.”

“But, a version of me was responsible for bringing the Narada back in time-”

“It’s  not your fault.” He traces the scar on Spock’s neck. “No matter what he told you,” he whispers. “What happened to Romulus was a tragic accident, but, what happened to us- to our homes- was deliberate. You weren’t responsible for that.” He kisses his cheek. “You weren’t responsible for any of it.”

Spock breathes shallowly.

Jim bends gently, and places a kiss to the scar on his neck. Spock shivers, and Jim moves gradually lower. He follows the line of scarring down his back, kissing at individual vertebrae as he goes, and Spock trembles.

He rumbles. “Jim.”

“Mm? Oh,” Jim smiles, slyly, against his skin. “So, that surprised you, huh? I guess you’ve never shown me your scars before.”

Spock shakes his head. Jim presses his forehead against his back with a laugh, and projects all the love he feels. His breath hitches, and Jim nuzzles against him. “I promise you, Spock, you’re going to get out of here. You deserve to survive. You deserve to live.”

He kisses his neck again, and Spock grasps his hands, holding them against his chest and ruminating. Jim sits up slightly.

“Spock. It’s okay. You didn’t kill anyone... You’re no murderer.”

He breaks contact with Spock, and retrieves his penknife from the bedside table. “The last time I saw my brother alive, he gave me this.  ‘Just in case.’ ” His lip quivers, and he looks away, to the drops of rain running down the window. “We were on Tarsus IV,” he whispers. “He tried to steal food for us, on the night…” He sets the knife back down, and a tremor runs through his hands. “On the night that the colonists were killed.”

Spock watches him.

“He told me to wait for him, and I did. But I wasn’t the only person who’d found that hiding spot- the office on the ground floor of the embassy. A boy found me. He wasn’t much older than me, but at the time, he seemed so…  Threatening.” He taps his fingers against his knee. “He wanted me to leave, and I- I didn’t know what to do. Sam had told me to wait for him, so I…” He motions with his hand, and falls silent. He feels Spock’s gaze, boring into him.

“That was the first person I killed. Not Kodos. Not one of his personal guards, but a scared boy who was just looking for his next meal. Just like me. And…” He looks at the knife. “My brother.” He takes a shaky breath. “They found Sam after the riots at the warehouse, after the fires and the smoke had cleared. He and a number of protestors had been tied up by a member of the guard detail. With rope. If he’d had a knife-”

“Jim.”

“I know; I shouldn’t blame myself. But, I kept that knife. For years, every time I looked at it…”

Spock nods. “Survivor’s guilt is a powerful thing.”

Jim settles against him. “I suppose we know that better than most.”

“I think Sam wanted me to be brave. Like him.

“He gave his life for yours. It was a gift.”

“That, and the knife.” He watches him for a moment. “When did you get so wise?”

He shrugs. “I know something about the things older siblings are expected to sacrifice for their youngers.”

Jim looks up. “You’re an older sibling?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He falls silent for a moment, and traces the lines on Spock’s back absent-mindedly.

Thunder rumbles outside, and Spock tenses, but relaxes almost immediately into his touch.

Lightning flashes. Jim thinks about the night that he was struck by it, and nuzzles into Spock’s shoulder. “Meld with me,” he whispers. “I just want to be close to you.”

Spock turns, slowly, and lifts Jim’s chin slightly. He kisses him gently, and places his hand over his face. “Your mind to my mind,” he murmurs against his mouth.

Jim slumps.

He sees flashes of images. Thoughts which are at once fleeting, and familiar. People who he’s suddenly known all his life.  Sarek. Amanda. Sybok. Michael.  His family, and the terrible pain which accompanies it.

Sam. Winona. Aurelian. George.  Spock’s breath is hot on his cheek. Tarsus IV is mockingly beautiful, the skies overhead a haunting pink, brighter than the rocks on Heirin. The skies over Vulcan burn red as they’re ripped away, and Spock beams onto the ship alone, without his mother. Jim stabs the boy whose name he never learned. Pike tells Nero the command codes to override the Starfleet defence grid, and The Nerada drills a hole through The San Andreas Fault. Red Matter. The singularity engulfs Earth.

Jim pulls away, gasping, and grasps at Spock’s hands.

‘Spock…’

They’re unmelded, and yet, they talk without words.

Jim’s first kiss. He places a hand to his head, almost dizzy, and stares into Spock’s eyes.

A warmth flows down Jim’s spine. He straightens up, and Spock shivers in turn.

‘What’s happening?’  Jim grips his arm.

‘A bond is forming between us,’  Spock says.  ‘If you wish, I could stop it-’

‘No,’  Jim says.  ‘It’s okay.’

‘Our minds will be joined, forever,’ Spock warns.

‘Spock,’  As the sensation overwhelms him, Jim struggles to form non-abstract thought.  ‘We’re already the only people here.’

‘You don’t understand the significance-’

But Jim does.

They kiss without touching, the space between them filled with knowledge and words and sensation. He seeks Spock’s body, and phrases chase after him.  Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched. He gets a glimpse of a hundred horrible, meaningless things- everything Spock’s counterpart showed him, Nero, the torture they endured- and a million pleasant things fight back, a thousand times more beautiful. Happy memories. His childhood on Vulcan, his childhood on Earth, their history becoming as entangled and inseparable as a vine on a tree.  T’hy’la.  They fall back onto the mattress, and Jim holds two fingers out, and, somehow, knows it’s an  ozh’esta .

Spock joins fingers with him, and he trembles, every point on his body alight with sensation. He twists, and writhes, as Spock presses kisses to his forehead, neck, and shoulders. He doesn’t know if he does it with his mind or his mouth, but his fingers roam elsewhere. Jim can hardly keep track, and he throws his head back and sobs with overstimulation, but he doesn’t want it to stop. They’re caught in a feedback loop of each other’s thoughts and emotions, and Spock’s mind is incandescent.

  You are the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.

  As are you.

They fold together, breathing heavily, burnt out. Spock rests his head against Jim’s chest, and Jim holds him protectively. In this moment, he could save him from anything.

Spock headbutts him gently, as if trying to dissolve into him.

They fall asleep curled together, their bodies as entwined as their souls.

Taken from Tomorrrow Never Comes, Chapter 6: “Show And Tell” [tumblr] [ao3]

Tomorrow Never Comes, archive of our own

Tomorrow Never Comes, tumblr:

[front cover] [chapter 5] [chapter 6, abridged] [chapter 7]

[lenfaz]

Time upon Once, ch. 15 (15/?)

Summary:  Killian Jones is a bailbonds man, living in Boston and doing his own thing. But on his 29th birthday, a kid knocks on his door and claims to be his son. What happens when Killian is forced to face his past along with a mystery prophecy about his own purpose in life?

Rating: M (eventually)

A huge thank you to @tnlph @businesscasualprincess and @blessed-but-distressed  for beta duties and @shady-swan-jones @shady-swan-jones jones for the banner!

Tagging a few people that showed interest in this story:@lk0622  @sambethe@xemmaloveskillianx  @l-e-x-a-xd  @profoundlyfadedprincess @once-uponacaptain@icecubelotr44  @poetic-justice-96 @allietumbles @el-kelpo @jennjenn615 @leiandcharles@midnightswans  (want to be tagged? let me know and I’ll do it)

on Tumblr: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV

ao3 ff.net

Chapter XV

The one good thing about being Sheriff in a small town - and having no deputy - was that one could take liberties. Those liberties allowed Killian to escort Mary Margaret to their loft that night and tell her they would head to the station and deal with the mess the next morning. He bid her farewell after that and simply retreated to his room. A part of him wanted to stay by her side and assured her everything will be fine, but he also knew that he needed to put some distance between them in case everyone came asking questions the next day.

He barely slept that night and by the shadows underneath her eyes, neither had she. He drove them both silently to the station and once they were there, he fidgeted next to his desk. Killian knew what he had to do, he’d lain awake all night listing to himself all the reasons why he needed to take Mary Margaret to the station that morning and yet…

“You have to book me, don’t you?” Mary Margaret met his eyes, a gentle smile on her face. He couldn’t believe she was the one maintaining a cool facade during all this.

“Aye, I must.” He gestured for Mary Margaret to stand in front of the wall they used for mugshots and she quickly obliged.

“I didn’t kill Kathryn, Killian.”

“Of course you didn’t.” He was almost offended she felt the need to point that out to him. “But you know I have to go where the evidence leads.”

“And it points to me. Yesterday it seemed it was David���. Something is not right here.” There wasn’t even a hint of reproach in her voice, as if she wasn’t getting the short end of the stick on this one, as if she were simply trying to help him solve this as a friend.

“I know, darling, I know. But with your fingerprints on that box, if I don’t book you today...”

“Regina will have a strong cause to fire you,” Mary Margaret finished his thought for him, voicing his biggest concern. If he was still Sheriff, he could ensure every single thing was triple checked before proceeding, but if Regina found even one excuse to get rid of him, gods knew what type of treatment Mary Margaret - or anyone - would get. His eyes bored into hers, hoping she could read in them what he couldn’t say out loud.

“I’m still waiting for the DNA results to come back. But in the meantime, I need to ask you a few questions. I need you to bear with me.”

“I trust you,” she said, reaching to squeeze his hand. He felt a lump in his throat and he wanted nothing more than to release her and tell her to run far away from here. But he had a job to do and he had to be honest with her before they made it to that interrogation room.

“Mary Margaret, Regina is going to be there.” Mary Margaret’s eyes widened in fear and he held onto her hand. “She asked to present as a third-party observer, to ensure I remain impartial in the interrogation.” Killian swallowed, trying to find the words. He wanted her to know that he believed her, he believed in her. “I know you’d never hurt anyone, Mary Margaret. I know it.”

Her eyes filled with unshed tears as she squeezed his hand again. “Come on, Sheriff. Do your job.”

/-/

Regina Mills looked every bit of the smug witch she could be when they entered the room. But luckily, she’d remained silent as Killian initiated the recording and started with his account of the facts they knew.

“The heart was found buried near the old Toll Bridge. It had been cut out by what appears to be a hunting knife. Have you ever been to that bridge before?”

May Margaret didn’t hesitate as she spoke. “Yes. It’s where David and I liked to meet.”

“David Nolan,” Killian clarified for the records and she nodded. “What was the purpose behind those meetings?”

“We were having an affair.” She was calm and collected as she honored the truth, and he was so proud of her at that moment. Leave it to Mary Margaret to do the right thing even in the worst of moments. She tilted her head and met Regina’s eyes. “I’m not proud of what happened, and I’m sorry. But that doesn’t change the fact that I did not kill Kathryn.”

Killian let those words sink in as he reached for the evidence shelf. He slowly put on a pair of latex gloves and retrieved the plastic bag that held the wooden box Ruby had found.

He placed the box on the table. “Have you seen this before?”

Mary Margaret tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing in confusion. “That’s my jewelry box.”

Killian’s heart sank in his chest and he had trouble keeping his voice calm. “We found the heart inside this.”

Mary Margaret finally broke, not being able to maintain her composure any longer. “Don’t you see? Someone must have stolen it and put the heart in it.” Her eyes filled with tears as she desperately turned from him to Regina. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Miss Blanchard.” Regina put her hand over Mary Margaret’s, her tone almost reassuring. Killian narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “I know what you’re going through. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” She gave it a moment for the words to sink in. “To be publicly humiliated. It put me in a very dark place. Changed me.” There was no hint of a lie, there wasn’t t even anything threatening in her words, and yet Killian could feel the darkness seeping behind every syllable, the way each word had been sharpened to a point, all the better to stab into Mary Margaret’s heart. “I can only imagine what losing David Nolan did to you.”

May Margaret released her hand from Regina’s hold. “I haven’t changed. I’m still the same. I did not do this.”

Regina’s eyes narrowed and attempted to speak, but Killian decided that he would not tolerate this anymore. “Madam Mayor, a word with you in the hallway.”

It took all this self-restraint but he managed to keep his voice level as he turned to her in the corridor. “You’re an observer here, not a party. You don’t get to ask questions or provide any color commentary on it. You’re tainting the investigation.”

Regina gave him a once-over. “You’re so convinced she didn’t do it. It’s written all over your face, Mr. Jones.”

“Sheriff Jones,” he corrected, his jaw clenching.

“If that box was stolen from her, as she claims, don’t you think there’d be signs of a break in?” She had a point there. Killian knew it and from the smug face Regina was sporting, she knew it too. “You’re her roommate – tell me. Has there been one?”

Killian fisted his hands at his sides, his mind searching for the perfect comeback. “I’m going to look into it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over this, Jones. You’re a man, you can’t understand all of this,” Regina’s eyes twinkled with an evil streak that almost made Killian recoil. “She’s a woman who’s been heartbroken and deceived. That can make you do unspeakable things.”

“Does it? How would you know, Madam Mayor?” He couldn’t resist the barb.

“I’m not the one being investigated, Sheriff,” she replied in a firm tone. “I suggest you focus on the case at hand. If you’re so sure she didn’t do it, find out who did.”

/-/

Killian hated this convoluted case with every beat of his once cold and now very much feeling heart. Those were the thoughts running through his mind as he put on a pair of latex gloves and started his careful canvass of the loft. He checked the door and the windows for any signs of a forced entry, but there were none. He was ruminating on that, his eyes fixated on the glass of the window, when Henry’s voice reached him from the front door.

“What are you doing?”

“Why aren’t at school?” Killian’s irritation was noticeable in his voice. While he was no stranger to cutting school, his wayward years had started a little later than his boy’s. At Henry’s age, he’d taken solace in school, it was somewhere he could take refuge from the despicable foster family of the week (or the month) that had taken him in.

Ignorant of his musings, Henry walked towards him. “We have to help Miss Blanchard. She didn’t do it.”

Killian wanted to believe that with his very soul. He believed that. But he couldn’t let his guard down and show any partiality in this case, not even for a second, not even in front of the son he so desperately wanted to comfort at the moment. “That is what I’m trying to do, lad. I’m searching the apartment for any sign of a break in.”

He wasn’t sure why he was telling the lad all this. He knew he had to send the kid on his merry - or maybe not so merry - way back to school or his mother’s house. But Killian was desperate for company. It had always been like this. He’d convinced himself he didn’t need anyone after the loss of his parents and Liam, only to have Emma come barging into his life and become his everything. Now, a decade later, he’d been managing on his own, telling himself he didn’t need anyone, but it had only taken one look from Henry and one kind word from Mary Margaret for his resolve to crumble. With Mary Margaret now locked behind bars - and by himself, no less, - Killian clung to his son’s company as if it were the only thing that could keep him from falling apart.

“What signs?” Henry asked, bringing him back to the present.

“Busted door jambs, broken glass, muddy boot prints. That kind of thing.” Killian waved his hand in the air as his eyes studied the windows with scrutiny.

“You think someone set her up?”

“I don’t know, Henry,” Killian sighed, resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair, instead collapsing backwards onto Mary Margaret’s bed, his eyes focused on the ceiling. “What else could it be? But on the other hand, who would want to frame Mary Margaret?”

“My mom. She hates Snow White.”

Of course.

Killian turned his head to the side, his eyes finding Henry’s, ready to give his son a strong reprimand over his words. But when he met his hazel eyes, the look in his young face so much like Emma’s, he knew he couldn’t. “That won’t hold up in court, lad.”

A steady noise, as if something metallic were hitting a wall, interrupted his thoughts. Killian darted out of the bed, focusing his hearing to find the source of the sound, his eyes connecting with the intricate iron grate of the heating vent. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he removed the grate and stuck his hand in. It didn’t take long for his fingers to make contact with cloth, a cloth that seemed to be wrapped around a solid object. With a growing sense of dread, he removed the object, thankful that he still was wearing his latex gloves. But soon his thoughts became a curse as he realized he was holding onto a hunting knife.

Bloody hell.

/-/

Killian couldn’t even remember the fuzzy details on what happened next, other than that he mumbled to Henry that he needed to leave and go back to school. After that, he was unable to bring himself off the floor, lying there for a while, looking at the marks on the wooden floor. He finally shook himself out of it and made a call. He waited for the forensic guy to show up and left the knife with him, instructing him to canvass the area for any prints he could find, although he had an inkling they wouldn’t find any that didn’t match him or Mary Margaret.

With a heavy heart, he made his way back to the Sheriff’s Station. The sight of Mary Margaret behind bars almost did him in completely, but he knew he had to carry through this if he had any chance to help her. Breaking the news was hard enough, and the shock and hurt on her face was even worse to endure.

“The heating vent?” she asked, her voice small and insecure, her hands holding onto the bars. “Killian, I don’t know where the heating vent in my room is.”

“Someone did, and they planted a knife in it.” He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he knew he had to keep his distance for appearance’s sake. “I checked for signs of a break-in, and there is none.”

She rested her forehead against the bars defeatedly. “You don’t believe me.”

Against all his better judgement, he was by the bars in an instant. “Mary Margaret, look at me,” he pleaded with her. When she met his eyes, Killian did his best to reassure her. “I believe in you, lass. But there is evidence piling up against you by the hour. Every time I try to follow a lead to help clear your name, I run into more compromising evidence, that I can’t just turn a blind eye.” He took a deep breath, letting that sink in. “It’s time for you to get a lawyer.”

“An excellent idea.” Killian turned around as the voice resonated in the room and groaned internally at the sight of Gold on the other side.

“What in the blazes are you doing here?” Killian spat, putting a little distance between himself and Mary Margaret and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m offering my legal services,” Gold said with a smug grin.

What? It seemed that Gold was able to read Killian’s implicit question in his shocked expression, because he kept talking as he walked towards them. “Ever wondered why I was so adept at contracts? I’ve been following the details of your case, Miss Blanchard. And I think you’d be well-advised to bring me on as your counsel.”

“Why is that?” Mary Margaret asked, drying the tears in her eyes and wrapping herself further into her cardigan. She looked so fragile at the moment, that Killian groaned inwardly at the idea of her fate in Gold’s hands.

Gold kept his smug grin plastered on his face: “The Sheriff had me arrested for nearly beating a man to death, and I managed to persuade the judge to drop the charges.”

Killian felt the rage flooding him at the blatant intention of the other man’s words. “Asserting your influence by buying people’s beliefs isn’t what’s needed here, Gold.”

“It might be exactly what is needed here.”

“No. I need to do my job and find the truth!” Killian replied, getting closer to losing his temper at the other man.

“Enough.” Mary Margaret’s voice was barely a whisper, but it made Killian stop. “He’s right, Killian. I need help.”

Killian took two steps and faced her with a pleading voice. “Mary Margaret, I know people. I can make a phone call and get you some of the best lawyers in Boston to look into your case. Please, let me help.”

She smiled sadly at him. “You can’t get me a lawyer, Killian. You know how it would look. If you happen to find any evidence that absolves me, people can say you fabricated it. You have to stay out of it.”

She was right and he hated it that she was right. He hated that the only choice was to leave her in the hands of a man that didn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. “May Margaret, please don’t do this,” he pleaded one last time.

Her hand reached for his through the bars and squeezed it. “You need to do your job, Killian, or else I’m screwed. So, just please – do your job the best you can, and you’ll prove me innocent. Until you do, I’m going to get Gold to help me.”

“Trust me. This is in Miss Blanchard’s best interests.”

Killian turned around and towered over Gold. “You better have her best interests in mind or you’ll answer to me, Gold.”

With the threat looming over them, he took a final step and left Mary Margaret with Gold, hoping it wasn’t the worse decision he’d ever made.

/-/

When Gold left, Killian checked on Mary Margaret, but she seemed aloof and distracted. After ensuring she was settled and didn’t need anything else from him, Killian headed back to the loft, a few heavy folders under his arm, determined to spend the rest of the day - and night - finding something to exonerate Mary Margaret.

He was climbing the stairs when Henry’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“I have proof.” The lad held up a ring that held several keys. They looked old and rusty, as if they belonged in a medieval age museum. “This is how my mom broke in and framed Miss Blanchard.”

Oh Lord.

“Henry, did you take these from your mother?” Killian rose an eyebrow at his son, his finger pointing to the ring. “Did you steal them?”

Henry didn’t acknowledge the shrill note to Killian’s voice. “Yeah. The book says they can open any door.”

Killian tilted his head and took one step closer to examine the keys. There was no way those things could have worked. If Henry would have found a set of picks like the one he used to open locks then maybe he could consider it, but these….

“This won’t fit in the lock, lad,” he said gently, trying to ease down his son’s expectations.

“We have to try!” Henry jumped to his feet and quickly moved to try the keys in the lock. Killian noticed how his shoulders slumped with each unsuccessful try.

“Henry…” Killian called, his hand reaching to stop Henry’s movement. “I know you want to believe all the answers lie in the book and a cursed town, but you have to start living in reality, lad.”

“Just one more?” Henry begged, not willing to let the matter go just yet. He held one skeleton key out to him. “Can you try this one?”

He should say no. He should take this nonsense and nip it in the bud. But Killian was defenseless against his son’s pleading eyes.

Taking the key from his fingers, he silently tried it on the lock, his heart skipping a bit when it opened the door of the loft.

Bloody hell. This can’t be happening.

/-/

Killian decided to keep this discovery to himself, knowing full well that any proof he acquired by testing a stolen skeleton key wouldn’t hold up in court. He needed more - much more - and it would have to be obtained by legal methods in order to even think of pointing his accusing finger to Regina. As much as he hated it, he needed to wait this one out and keep on going through the motions while investigating on the side.

He was plotting out his next move as he headed back to the station and ran into David. The man seemed distracted, as if he were carrying a heavy weight in his heart. He’d pleaded with Killian to see Mary Margaret and while a huge part of Killian rebelled against the idea, he knew that Mary Margaret would like to see him. Maybe David could give her a little bit of hope and strength to endure this trial. Killian motioned for David to go into the station while he headed quickly to Granny’s to grab some coffee.

He was making his way back into the station when the sound of Mary Margaret’s voice made his blood run cold.

“When your phone records came back, when I found you wandering in the woods, when everyone thought you killed Kathryn, I stood by you. I never once doubted you.”

Killian took a deep breath, calming himself as he stealthily entered the room. Mary Margaret was standing and even from the distance, Killian could see the way she was crossing her arms over herself, her chin quivering as if she were having a tough time keeping it together.

“And, now that everything is pointing to me, you actually think I am capable of that kind of evil?”

Killian fisted his hand at his side, wanting to pummel David. He was about to take a step when Mary Margaret spoke again, tears streaming down her face.

“Get. Out.”

David tried to take a step towards Mary Margaret’s cell, but Killian quickly jumped into action the moment he saw Mary Margaret taking a step back.

“Leave, mate,” he all but spat the words, striding purposefully into the room, his eyes levelling against David’s. “You asked to see her and I thought maybe it was a good idea for her to have some support other than me… and this is what you came to say to her? Fill her heart with the despair of your doubt? Leave, now… you don’t deserve her.”

You’ll never deserve her.

He watched David’s eyes filled with tears as he took his leave, but Killian couldn’t find it in his heart to feel sorry for the man. Only one thing invaded his thoughts; Henry had got it all wrong. There was no way that man had fathered him.

/-/

Killian volunteered to spend the night with Mary Margaret at the station, but she’d refused profusely, sending him home to the loft. It wasn’t a night where he got much sleep and the early morning call to the forensics department only cemented his worse fears. He picked some coffee and breakfast from Granny’s for Mary Margaret and headed to the station.

Mary Margaret was sitting on the cot when he entered the station. “I brought you breakfast,” he announced as he slid the cup and bag through the cell bars. Mary Margaret took the items but refused to meet his eyes.

Killian pushed through the sadness this entire situation was causing him and tried to maintain a level tone. “I know Gold probably instructed you not to talk to me, and I understand why, but I want you to hear from me that the DNA results came back positive for Kathryn Nolan.” He swallowed hard and met Mary Margaret’s eyes. “She’s dead.”

Mary Margaret remained silent, as if she weren’t listening to him, her gaze lost in the distance.  When she finally spoke, her voice sounded small and uncertain. “This means you have enough evidence for a case against me, doesn’t it?”

Killian forced himself to continue. “Aye. But you know I believe you, right? All of this only tells me that you’re being framed.”

“Framed? By whom?”

“Regina. I’m certain but-”

“But you can’t prove it. And this is her town. Trying to build a case against her is almost impossible, Killian.”

“I will do it. I promise. I will get you out of here.” Killian reached to hold Mary Margaret’s hand through the bars. “I need you to have faith in me, Mary Margaret.”

She lowered her gaze as she spoke. “I have faith in you.”

He could hear the lie in her voice, and while part of Killian’s heart broke at it, he also couldn’t blame her. Regina was powerful, and Killian was nothing but a simple man, tilting at windmills on his own.

He needed help and as much as he hated it, he knew what he had to do if he wanted to save his friend.

/-/

He hated being here, he did, but he had no other choice. Killian sighed as he stepped into Gold’s shop and called for the man. It was less than a minute before the other man showed up, limping slowly as he held a lamp in his hand.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Killian didn’t miss the disdain with which Gold pronounced the last word and while he wanted nothing more than to simply turn around and walk out, he knew he couldn’t afford to. “Any developments in the case I should be aware of?”

Killian tilted his head to the side. “She’s being framed.”

That seemed to pique Gold’s interest. “By whom?”

“Regina.”

“I’m not surprised,” Gold said, his hand grabbing a magnifying glass to study the lamp. “Where’s your evidence?”

“Well, that is the crux of the matter, Gold. I have nothing that can hold up in court.”

“So just your faith?” Gold spat, smirking at him. “Are you here to discuss your hunches with me?”

Killian clenched his jaw, forcing himself to say the words. “I need your help.”

“I seemed to recall you telling me you’d never wanted to liaise with the likes of me.”

Gold was not going to make this easier on him, but Killian was willing to take it. Mary Margaret had to come first. “May Margaret needs your help, Gold. Every time I try to go against Regina, she sees it coming. I need a chance to save my friend.”

Gold examined him. “Are you willing to go as far as it takes?”

For Mary Margaret? For the one person other than Henry that had trust in him and welcomed him with open arms? “Whatever it takes.”

Gold smirked. “Now we’re talking. Fear not, Mr. Jones. Regina may be powerful, but something tells me you’re more powerful than you know.”

Killian felt as if he’d just sold himself and Mary Margaret to the most despicable evil that ever existed.

[piamii]

It's funny that every time I reach a new peak of my abilities it feels like I've changed completely in some way. Recently ive been focusing on professionalism and self care, aka getting used to calling the shots and taking care of myself and asking for support in order to recharge. My self image has changed- I don't feel sorry for myself as much as I used to when I get stressed. I see myself as someone being stretched in their development, worthy of receiving support and understanding, and ultimately in charge of pulling through and maintaining the important aspects of my life (school, friends, family). I can see my growth in many ways- feeling more ready to get married and have kids, resolving differences with family members much more easily, taking on leader/mentor roles in several areas of my life, and becoming much more aware of ways I can contribute positively to interpersonal dynamics in every arena of my life. I'm developing more masks, which I think is necessary. Inwardly I'm still a derpy and disorganized potato, but outwardly I'm successfully starting to do the adult thing. It's hard to imagine what kind of person I will be when I have kids (just a random example of a milestone, although I have been thinking about it a bit lately), but I know I'll be much stronger than I am now.

Recently, little things like letting myself sleep in or not talk to people without guilt and blow drying my hair (just small examples) have given me the energy I needed at the right times to sustain myself mentally, physically, and emotionally. I'm starting to learn what it means to sustain myself through stress - creating a life I don't have to run away from. It's not really exciting, but it's doable and it's satisfying. The more I do the right things to take care of myself, even the hard and unpleasant things like calling hospitals and insurance and arguing about bills, the more confident I feel in my ability to conquer whatever life throws my way. Although I am still a very anxious person, the nature of my anxiety has changed. No longer do I ruminate an entire night or recklessly ignore responsibilities in order to cope with anxiety. Instead, I feel a low level of constant anxiety that I tuck into the back of my mind, and I reassure myself periodically that I will act appropriately when the situations I am worried about come up. The chain of thought then goes: if it doesn't go well, it's an opportunity to learn -> your embarrassed reaction when things aren't perfect is just a byproduct of your ego -> therefore, feeling like things didn't go well is a good opportunity to practice killing my ego so I can become stronger mentally -> and anyways, the worst that can happen is not really that bad.

Side thought: I had always thought that treating clients with anxiety would be easier for me to learn than other things, but it's actually been harder because I project myself onto them. I realize I'm doing it but it makes me have to think through everything more deliberately and ends up slowing down my clinical judgments. I think what trips me up the most is judging whether someone needs a more simple and structured intervention like guided deep breathing and basic meditation and developing that into a routine, or a more insight based and high functioning intervention like mindfulness/act. Then there's cbt and challenging maladaptive thoughts. It's so hard for me to artfully weave those things together based on what my clients need that day and maybe the solution is that I need to be a little less flexible so I can practice one intervention and see if it's effective before I try to flow freely.

I've also found that i have to be careful when I validate anxious clients because sometimes it's more effective to challenge their thoughts directly, but it has to be at the right moment. Anyways, this is all coming up because I'm working with a kiddo this week who hasn't been able to sleep because of panic symptoms and I keep worrying that I won't choose the right intervention for him. I also hadn't realized that I'd low key been stressing out about all these different facets of this issue, so it's helpful to write it all down.

I also realized lately that I have a wonky relationship with money. Because I've never had to rely solely on my abilities to support myself financially, I've always felt guilty about spending money regardless of the purpose. But i also need to grow up in this regard- money is meant to be used in conjunction with my values and needs, and not meant to be feared or avoided. When I start having an "income" next year, I really want to work with m to create a detailed budget and map out cost of living with the kind of lifestyle I want. I'm still immature in this area, but I want to grow.

Match day is Friday, but it seems like there's so much to get through until then. I think the rest of my life is going to feel like a balance between trying to rush through long stressful days and living in the moment.

[fntstory-blog]

Jaws of Neptune (pt IV)

 In which a change of course is decided. | chapter I | pt i | pt ii | pt iii

When Haru woke again, the ship felt different. It was calm, the ceaseless, violent rocking having eased to more gentle, familiar, motions. A gentle pressure could be felt about one hand and when his eyes adjusted to the light filtering into the cabin he found himself looking up into Owen’s face. A careworn, tired smile was on the captain’s face, though a grim light shone in his blue eyes. His uniform had the distinct look of having been lived in for several days; stubble covered his jaw.

The light coming into the cabin was strange; not the warm light of the sun, but a cool silver more intense than that of the moon. A gentle wind stirred, too, bringing with it the scent of spices and an undernote of something strange and metallic.

A grin broke across Haru’s face at the sight of Owen. Blinking sleepily, he flexed his hand beneath Owen’s, as if assuring himself that this were real. “How long have I been asleep?” He asked, voice cracking slightly. He ran the tip of his tongue gingerly over lips gone dry.

Owen brushed aside the hair from Haru’s face, revealing a blackened eye, bruised cheekbones and split lips. “Not quite two days. Doctor’s orders and all.”

Haru shifted and moved, wanting to sit up. The act required the help of a steady hand and, slowly, it was done, sleep-stiff and sore muscles groaning in protest alongside battered ribs. He could feel bandages wrapped about his middle, no doubt to aid in their mending. He looked about the cabin as best he could, one eye was now swollen mostly shut, taking note of the changed light and calmed pitch of the ship. “Are we free of the storm?” He asked, his voice stronger. “Is the ship unharmed?”

Owen nodded silently, keeping to himself the loss of lives, the damage done to the ship in the storm. There would be time enough for that later. What concerned him, in this moment, was the damage done to Haru, what had been lost in his attack.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said softly, one hand coming to rest against Haru’s bruised cheek. “I should have seen the signs, I should have done more … You’re suffering for my failures. Pierce is right, damn him, I’m not fit to be a captain, not yet …”

Placing one hand over Owen’s, Haru pressed it lightly and looked him in the eye. “This is not your fault. The fault lies solely with that man, Barrows. He orchestrated this mad plot, he acted upon it and he convinced others to join him. You cannot look into men’s hearts and know what lies there.”

Something of that Rokugani haughtiness crept into his tone and expression as he considered Pierce and his words. He dropped his hand to his lap, Owen’s slipped away, too. “Who is Pierce to say that to you? You have seen your crew from a foreign shore, across a sea said not to exist. You traveled across the worst my homeland has to offer, battling demons and monsters, so as to secure your people safe passage home. I may owe this man some small thanks for acting as guard, but he oversteps his boundaries to say so much to his superior and captain.” Voice and expression softening, Haru reached out for Owen’s hand, taking it and interlacing their fingers.

“You are the finest man I know, Owen Hayes, and I would not have come with you on this voyage if I did not believe you would see us both safely delivered …”

“Pierce and Captain Kerrigan, you remember, the first captain, were close friends. The Marines have never accepted me as master of the ship, though they’ve obeyed my orders. It’s no secret that Captain Kerrigan disapproved of my leaving to escort you through the Shadowlands and Pierce refused to send any of the Marines to assist.”

Haru did remember the Ivory Maiden’s first captain, the hospitality he showed, his eagerness to leave Rokugan and return to Avalon. He did not know that the man did not want his lieutenant traveling or that they might have had more men to accompany them on their dangerous mission. This soured his opinion further on the Marine; lives had been lost in their search for the magic compass that was currently seeing them to Avalon. If they had been allowed more soldiers, more fighters … To him it sounded as though Pierce were a petty coward.

Owen continued, eyes downcast now, focused on the sight of their joined hands. “It’s just that …” He sighed softly. “There’s so much to know about the running of a ship that goes beyond canvas and rope and timber. I know how to have her dance on the waves, that comes as second nature, but the crew …” He trailed off, brow knitting in troublesome thought; the Ivory Maiden’s façade of harmony was cracking, badly. He didn’t linger overly long on this, though, there had been time enough to ruminate on his various failures as captain while Haru slept and begun to heal.

“Can you rise?” He asked. “I’d like to show you something.”

Haru nodded, though truth be told he wasn’t entirely sure. It was not an easy thing, but with the support of Owen’s hands and arms he was able to get to his feet. He stood, shakily, for a moment, breathing rapidly and shallowly as he waited for the pain in his ribs to subside. All over, he felt sore; every movement taking long seconds as beaten limbs slowly recalled their function. Once the pain faded to something more bearable, he stood straighter, hands leaving Owen’s arm to smooth his hair and shirt. He thought of the frightful picture he presented, Crane-bred vanity rearing its elegent head even now.

Owen opened the latches on the cabin’s lone window, the view that of the deck and slivers of sea and sky. More of the strange silver light came in as well as the scent of sea salt and unfamiliar spices. Clear to the horizon, the Maiden seemed to be sailing on a sea of melted silver. The cries and answers of officers and sailors could be heard, the work to be done on a ship never-ending no matter where she found herself.

“Now watch. Mr. Beckett!” Owen called from the window. The young officer shouted a command and the crack of a musket rifle shattered the still air, splashing into the sky, causing ripples all the way to the horizon. He shook his head in wonder. “I’ll never get used to that. It’s both wonderful and terrible at the same moment.”

Head and shoulders poking out of the window, Haru peered around at their strange, new surroundings, eyes widening - or, rather, his one unblackened eye - at the shooting display. He had seen many strange things in his relatively short time, but this was by far the strangest. And yet, there was a certain beauty to it all; it made him think of his gods and their homes in heavenly, celestial realms.

“It’s beautiful …! Will the compass guide us through this? Is this what you passed through before landing in Rokugan?” Though he spoke to Hayes, his eyes remained on the strange silvery spectacle of sky and sea.

“Marco gave us directions. We tack here until we reach the Jaws of Neptune, wherever that is,” Hayes remarked, watching as the ripples from the bullet slowly faded from the sky, leaving it silver and still and impossible to measure. “Aye. And It’s no less disconcerting seeing it a second time …”

The name ‘Jaws of Neptune’ jogged something in Haru’s memory, something the Fate Witch had said in their meeting. There had been a warning, something to do with broken teeth … He couldn’t recall it percisely presently, though given all that had happened it was a small wonder he could recall it at all. No doubt a full night’s sleep would clear the remaining cobwebs from his Dance-addled mind and leave him thinking, and remembering, more clearly.

Owen left the window open and returned to the chair he had been sitting in, perching on seat’s edge. “Haru,” he began after some silent moments, “I think that I’ve been approaching your stay on the Ivory Maiden in the wrong way. You walked through lands populated with demons to help us get home, and I’ve no right to ask you to give anything more if you don’t wish it to be so.” He glanced up to Haru with a questioning lift to his brows. “I had the notion … Would you like to learn some of this?” He swept a hand around the air, gesturing to the beloved ship. “I’ll warn you, it won’t be easy work, and you’d have to listen to Mr. Beckett’s orders …”

Hayes’ words tore Haru’s attention away from the window, at long last, and he turned to face the captain, curiosity on his battered face. The offer wasn’t an unattractive one; whiling away the hours in a room was only desirable when the room was connected to a home and full of entertaining distractions. The fires of revolution had taken away home and possessions from him and while his cabin was comfortable, he did not look forward to spending an entire voyage within its sparse walls. Then again, he did not want to be underfoot and in the way, impeding the daily work required for smooth sailing …

A hand raised to briefly touch the scars at one shoulder, a lingering memento from his journey through the Shadowlands. A moment’s consideration was all he needed before he nodded in agreement. “I can’t hide away forever or be secreted away below decks at the first sign of danger, Owen,” he began, gently. “I would be honored to learn how your ship is run. Beckett-san, despite his youth, is someone I hold in high esteem; I would gladly take orders and instruction from him.”

There was a twofold reason to accept the proposition; being amongst the men might go a long way to dispel the view they held of the Rokugani as an other. If he were there, on the deck, learning the skills that kept the ship afloat, showed that he cared just as much as they did about the vessel’s well-being, they might accept him as one of their own. And that, more than anything else, would put an end to treacherous plots borne of base superstition.

“Very well, then, Mr. Haru.” Owen smiled in a lopsided way, his spirits lifting considerably with their conversation. It was heartening to see Haru recovering and acting much as his old self; the road to full recovery would be a long one, but these first steps were encouraging. He was glad, too, that his thoughts had been to readily accepted. In his mind, having Haru as part of the crew would give *him* peace of mind as it would put his lover under the direct supervision of his most trusted lieutenant. Beckett would work him like all the others, but he would also keep him safe.

“You’ll be the first Rokugani sailor in Her Majesty’s Navy. I’m certain that Mr. Beckett will be quite enthused to have you in his merciless thrall,” he drawled, standing to step to a large trunk braced against a sidewall. “Let’s acquaint you with what will be your new uniform, then …”

“You make Beckett-san sound like a cruel, ruthless tyrant,” Haru said with a small smile. “I refuse to believe it! He’s never been anything but kind and respectful to me.”

“Mr. Beckett *is* a ruthless tyrant, I’ll have you know. He acts as my red right hand, after all,” Owen countered dryly, pulling out a standard set of sailor’s clothes. This consisted of a loose-necked shirt, striped rough-knit canvas pants, and a wide brown belt with a scarred buckle. These were laid out on the bed along with a small-ish pouch to be used as a purse.

“There’s one other thing I would ask,” Haru continued, refusing to believe a word coming from Owen’s wryly turned lips, “The man, Lannigan-san, he saved my life. I would like to properly thank him for that. Seeing that I have nothing to give him, I would like to invite him for dinner, or tea or …” He sighed, one hand raking through still-mussed snow-white tresses. “I do not know the proper protocol for this, Owen, but I owe him something, some show of courtesy and respect …”

Owen considered this as he set the sailor’s clothes on the bed. “I couldn’t invite Lannigan to our table without murmurings among the men, but I have an idea that will work all the better, I think. I’m sure Lord Berek could, and would, under the guise of his interest in conversing with you.”

“If Berek-sama could arrange the thing, I would be most grateful. If it would not be pushing the point, perhaps the doctor should be invited as well? I owe him a debt of gratitude as well …”

“I’ll make it a point to wake Lord Berek from his … slumber,” Hayes said with a slight roll of the eye. “As for Doctor MacMorgan …” He paused, closing the shutters of the window to once again afford them some semblance of privacy. “He and the Noble Lord don’t quite see eye to eye on any point. The last dinner that they took together, MacMorgan ended up with wine soaking his shirt, and Berek had to dodge a thrown carving fork. I have declined to mix their company ever since.”

Haru frowned slightly, annoyed that his plans for an all-encompassing show of thanks had been thwarted. “I’ll speak to the doctor personally, then. No doubt I’ll be afforded the chance in coming days. I hope Berek-sama and Lannigan-san are able to … comport themselves in a better fashion.” Thrown wine and utensils were incredibly unseemly and he struggled to make sense of how a dinner had gone so wrong; even the uncouth Crab and strange Unicorn clans knew better than to act so savagely.

“Jeremiah Berek has a strange viewpoint on what he terms ‘the common man,’” Owen explained, resettling in his chair. “Honestly, between you and I, it’s a tad insulting. He says that noblemen are all the evil and good that man can do, while the common man is a terrier; some are bold, while others are spineless and worth nothing.” He shook his head. “I tend to disagree and so does the good doctor. In any event, I doubt he and Thomas will find much to quarrel about. Thomas is a good man; he knows his place.”

“His point of view is remarkably more … generous than the one I grew up with. At least he allows that non-nobles are capable of boldness, heroism; in Rokugan, those who are not samurai are classified in two castes: heimin, half-people, and hinin, non-people, which says … Well, it says quite a bit, doesn’t it? It’s very easy to look down and imagine yourself bigger and better than others when you claim the top of the social mountain …”

Owen considered this, head tilted thoughtfully to one side. He seemed to see Haru through new eyes, though the subtle shift in his expression was difficult to place. “It must be difficult, such a change in cultures, ideas, even the very way we take our tea …” His tone was full of wonder; his focus had so narrowly been on securing Haru’s passage and delivering 600 some odd souls back to Avalon that he had managed to miss something so obvious. Not that he was oblivious to the differences in their cultures, or that the transition wouldn’t be easy, but that was always somewhere in his mind as a later problem; something to address and tackle once they were safely back in Avalon.

“It is my hope to strike a balance, replacing old things with new while holding onto what is most important. I cannot, and will not, give up everything all at once, but there are things worth letting go of. Old prejudices, for one … Blood-stained kimono for another,” he added ruefully, finally examining what were to be his new garments.

“Well?” Owen asked, glancing from cot to Haru. “What do you think?”

Haru wondered who they might have belonged to before they passed into his possession; surely spare sets of clothing weren’t routinely kept, lying around. Fingers ran over one shirt sleeve, feeling the courseness of the fabric. “I think … I think I did not realize I would be leaving so much of myself behind so soon.” Voice and expression had grown pensive with these words.

Owen held out a hand towards Haru, which was taken and gently squeezed. “The sea takes from us all, piece by piece,” he said softly. “But I’ll remember the pieces that may drift away, if you’ll do the same for me.”