#the hardest part of this fic was deciding where to make killian play

[welllpthisishappening]

Well, in your honor, I made a donation to Mission Hope: Opioid Task Force and the ACLU. Granted one is a bit self-serving as you're already aware. Now, I am going to get baseball fic out of you, one way or another. What I'm asking is kinda more frenemies!Captain Charming with Sox!David and Yankee!Killian with Emma as baseball clueless sibling to David who kinda has no idea that the dude she's been talking to is her brother's rival. Kisse

You are fantastic! And this is fantastic! And here is some more baseball fic! Remember when these prompts were going to be, like, 2K? Yeah, they’re not. Here we have: not quite what you asked for, baseball rivals, my husband’s opinions on the Auburn athletic program, some in-depth discussion of whether or not win-loss records should affect a pitcher’s Cy Young chances (cough, cough Jacob deGrom) and SECRET DATING. The last one is probably the most important. I wrote this during the last Yankees-Sox series to distract myself from how depressing it was. 

This is a continuation of The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway and I’m taking prompts (and filling the ones I’ve got so far) through the end of the month. Also available on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

She honestly doesn’t mean for it to happen.

If there is a string of words that is the exact opposite of this is what Emma Swan meant to happen, then that is exactly what she would be because she absolutely, positively did not mean for this to happen.

The happening, as it is, is David pacing in front of the Yankees team hotel in Boston, something that might be actual steam coming out of his ears because he’s just realized his sister is dating his sworn baseball enemy.

His words.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, staring at her feet and Killian looks torn between slinging an arm around her shoulders and challenging David to a duel in the middle of the sidewalk.

The whole thing is absurd.

That’s a good word for it.

It’s absurd and ridiculous and literal years in the making. Emma takes a step back, David’s eyebrows flying into his hairline and Mary Margaret presses her lips together, presumably so she doesn’t actually dissolve into hysterics.

The situation feels a little hysterical.

And whatever sound David makes when Emma laces her fingers through Killian’s and she can just make out the scar under the pad of her thumb. He squeezes back.

“So, uh,” Emma says, doing her best to make her voice even and calm and Killian kisses the top of her hair. “This is a thing that’s happening.”“And has been,” Killian adds. “Ok, that’s not helping.” “I’m being honest, Swan.” “That’s still not helping.” “Has been?” Mary Margaret repeats. Emma nods, eyes flashing to David who, it appears, has evolved into marble at some point. “How long?” “Uh...awhile.” “You’ve go tot start at the beginning,” David mutters, but it sounds like a demand and a bit like a plea and they’re all wearing far too much team-branded clothing for any of this to feel like a legitimate conversation.

Killian kisses her hair again.

And, really, Emma’s not even entirely sure how it did begin because it wasn’t like they were friends.

Emma didn’t even really know him. She knew of him, heard David grouse about Jones’ power at the plate like he hadn’t used alliteration to describe some guy on a different team nearly every time she talked to him that spring. It was, of course, true, Killian Jones had ridiculous power at the plate, but Emma knew better than to agree and David hated him.

“He’s a threat to our Series chances, Em,” he’d shout, and Emma’s eyes would flicker towards Mary Margaret who’d just shrug in response because it was almost comforting to hear David repeat the same string of words twenty-two times every other day.

Emma never met him. She didn’t know anything about Killian Jones, all-SEC third baseman, except that he regularly hit over .300 and had a ridiculously strong arm on cross-field throws. David regularly yelled about that too.

But then something happened.

And she didn’t mean for that to happen either.

David hit Killian Jones.

He promises, still, always, forever, it wasn’t on purpose and Emma believes him, but she doesn't ever quite forget what it looked like to watch Killian crumple at the plate, the hiss of his pain echoing in between her ears. David barely makes it off the mound, the guilt of it all obvious on his shoulders because they take Killian away in an ambulance and there are murmurings about hospitals and broken hands and Emma’s never really sure who suggests they go visit him, but it’s probably Mary Margaret.

She’s that kind of person.

So they do. They get in Emma’s car and it’s definitely against team rules, but David can’t hold her gaze and she knows he’s got to apologize in person.

And that's how Emma Swan meets Killian Jones.

He’s only vaguely cognizant, something about painkillers and an attempt at a smirk that doesn’t even come close to hitting its mark. He grins at her the entire time they stand in that room, David running through apologies and promises that he’s so sorry and didn’t mean it and Killian hums distractedly.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks, and Emma has to blink, approximately, seventeen times to make sure he’s actually talking to her.

His voice is kind of slurred.

She assumes there’s morphine involved.

“Emma,” she repeats. Mary Margaret’s got a look on her face. Emma wishes she wouldn’t. “My name is Emma Swan.” “Swan.” “That’s what I said.” “But your angry brother’s name is Nolan.” “Ok, I’m not angry,” David argues, but Mary Margaret actually shushes him and Emma takes a cautious step towards the hospital bed. Killian arches an eyebrow. He tries, at least.

“You’re not entirely coherent, right now, are you?”He shakes his head. “I’m perfectly coherent. And perceptive. Why the different last names?” “Adopted.” “Ah.” “That’s it?” “Were you looking for more of a reaction?” “Maybe not while you’re high on Vicodin.” “Morphine,” Killian corrects, but that word doesn’t sound much like a word either and Emma wishes she weren’t so charmed by this. “Only the good stuff here.” “Seems to be a matter of opinion, doesn’t it?”

He’s closed his eyes at some point, but Emma swears she can still feel him looking at her and Mary Margaret is actively trying to get David to leave. They brought Killian flowers. And a card. The whole thing is absolutely absurd. “Do you have a lot of opinions on how my recovery should go, Swan?” Killian drawls.

She resists the urge to swat at him. She’s pretty positive his hand is actually broken. “None,” Emma promises. “At all.”“That’s disappointing.” He’s high on painkillers. His eyes are still closed. He has no idea who she is. He probably thinks she’s some kind of baseball angel.

That’s actually almost kind of romantic.

Maybe Emma’s the one who’s suffering from too much morphine.

“Is it?” she asks, not sure why she’s prolonging this conversation. He hit a double earlier in the game though, and the whole thing did something absurd to her heart and possibly the way her brain worked and he was a really good baseball player.

David thought so. And David wouldn’t lie.

Killian hums, scrunching the pillow under his head when he nods. “Decidedly.”“If this is supposed to be charming it’s--” “--Don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not charmed, Swan, I absolutely know it’s working.” “You can’t even open your eyes.” “That’s because I’m exhausted and your brother tried to kill me.”

“Hey, c’mon, that’s not true at all,” David cries, but he’s got one foot already out the door and Mary Margaret is actually tugging on his shirt.

“It’s a little true,” Killian mumbles. “What do you think, love? You think he was actively trying to kill me or just make sure Auburn wins a conference title this season?”“You’ve covered the gamut of nicknames, haven’t you?” Emma asks, and his eyes snap open like they’re on a lever. They’re distractingly blue. She assumes they look very good while he’s wearing a Vanderbilt uniform.

She assumes he looks very good while wearing a Vanderbilt uniform.

And like...anything.

“Hit for the cycle,” Killian mutters. She can’t quite stop her answering laugh. He looks like he just hit a grand slam every time he got up to bat.

“You think you’re far funnier than you actually are.”

He hums again, smile a bit easier and almost kind of natural and Emma’s eyes widen when she glances over her shoulder at Mary Margaret. Who appears to be trying to communicate with her telepathically. It almost, kind of works.

“I think you think I’m funny, Swan,” Killian challenges. “And I think your brother would like to leave this hospital as soon as possible.”“You’re a goddamn mind reader, Jones,” David mutters.

Emma rolls her eyes. “David, give the guy a break. He’s hopped up on morphine and--”

“--Endorphins,” Killian cuts in.

“What? That doesn’t even make any sense.”“Endorphins. Because you’re rather distracting, you know that, Swan? And your eyes are going to get stuck that way.” She doesn’t argue – possibly because she’s lost control of the situation entirely and possibly because she’s still being stupid charmed by it and it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But then Emma’s groaning and mumbling a string of curses under her breath and she's certain, under pain of death, or hit by a pitch, that Killian's eyes actually flash when he realizes what she’s doing.

There’s a pen on the table next to his bed, a piece of garbage notepad that barely holds together when she yanks it out of the drawer. “Not exactly the Ritz Carlton is it,?” Emma asks.

“I’d hardly expect that from your area hospital when your school's mascot is some god awful cartoon tiger and occasionally an eagle,” he says. “Make up your mind.”“What even is a Commodore?” “It’s a military rank.” “That’s not a mascot.” “Only because you lot are hoarding all of them.” Emma laughs again. She wishes he would stop making her do that. He doesn’t. For years. Because she, for reasons she never entirely understands, writes her name and number on that piece of garbage notepad and at some point she almost, kind of considers Killian Jones, first-round draft pick by the New York Yankees, a friend.

A good friend.

Not, like, her best friend, or some guy who is maybe an almost what if because that’s absolutely, positively not how she operates. But, like, a guy. A good guy friend.

They talk. They text. He, sometimes, calls her when the team flight is delayed and maybe more often during Spring Training that year because “it’s a contract year, love” and he’s admittedly a little nervous and Emma promises “you’ll hit a hundred RBIs.”He tells her RBI shouldn’t have a plural.

“It’s already a multiple, Swan,” Killian laughs, stretched out in a bed that’s almost comically small for him and she makes a mental note to critique the Yankees for their less-than-impressive facilities in Tampa. “You add that extra ‘s’ and it’s what? Runs batted ins. That’s not even English.”“You don’t have a degree,” Emma points out. “You don't get an opinion on this.” “That doesn’t mean I don’t understand the English language, love.” She rolls her eyes, but mostly so she can better ignore that little jolt her heart gets every time he calls her that and David has no idea. Killian’s not his friend. “ESPN uses RBIs in its stories,” Emma counters. “I don’t care what the right grammar is. If the Worldwide Leader is doing it, then--” “--Who is calling them that?” “Should they not be?” “Not when they don’t think we have a chance of winning the Division.”

“That’s because you don't,” Emma smiles, mostly so she can get him to make that face, a mix of disgust and a century’s-old rivalry that involves curses and benches clearing brawls and, now, maybe a few familial issues. “And when do you even find the time to watch ESPN?”

“When do you find the time to read articles about the state of the American League?”“Just the AL East.” “Ah, of course.” “I’ve got a vested interest, you see.” Killian blinks, all blue and hopeful and they are friends. Friends. Friends. David would kill him. He’d hit him again. The bullpens would join the inevitable fight. She’s got every New York-Boston series circled on her calendar already.

“That so?” Killian asks, an almost impressive effort at normal. His voice cracks slightly though and it seems to time up perfectly with whatever Emma’s pulse is doing. Possibly trying to beat its way out of her body.

That’d probably make the FaceTime call weird.

“Well, it’d be easier if you signed with the Yankees again,” Emma reasons. “I’d hate to have to schedule these phone calls when I’ve got to worry about time zones as well.”“Wouldn't be right to inconvenience you like that, love. Plus, you know, pinstripes, very slimming.” She laughs, a breath of normal and friendship and she’s never hated either word more in her life. “Make sure you mention that to your agent, ok? And maybe the ridiculous on base you’ve got this spring.” “That’s just training, Swan. We played a college team this afternoon.” “Still. Hitting is hitting. And college teams can be good. You know, winning World Series and impressive victories in Omaha and all that.” “There’s no need to rub it in.” Emma grins, a flush of something shooting down her spine that feels suspiciously like several words she’d like to avoid and never expected. Someone calls Killian’s name, his head jerking towards the open doorway and he’s nodding and agreeing to dinner and film sessions and maybe some time in the cage.

Because it’s a contract year.

It’s an important year.

“I’ve got to go love,” Killian says, and she’s not counting endearments. She’s not. She’s noticing them. In passing.

There is no obsession. There is only friendship.

Emma nods. “Yeah, of course. But you know you can do damage to your rotator cuff if you hit in automated settings too often. ESPN mentioned that too.”“I’ll keep that in mind. Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you after you guys wreck another local college team.”“Deal.”

The Yankees open the season as the Wild Card favorites, Boston’s the favorite to win the Division and third to win the entire goddamn World Series and Emma texts both her brother and Killian after every single one of their games.

“Because we’re friends,” Emma explains. Elsa tilts her head, a silent objection that’s almost louder than any words she could actually say, sitting cross-legged on her couch in Toronto and Emma’s only there for the weekend, a visit because she hadn’t been in awhile and maybe the Yankees are in town that weekend, but it doesn’t really matter and--

“You want to kiss him,” Elsa says.

“That’s not true.”

“Yuh huh.”“Don’t do that. You sound like Mary Margaret.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Emma admits. “And this is not like that. We’re...I mean David plays for the Red Sox, you think I can just…”

Elsa’s eyes widen to an almost comical size when Emma trails off and he texted her the day before –  tickets waiting at Rogers if you want ‘em, Swan. It might have been the only thing she’d thought of in the last twenty-four hours. She should probably apologize to Elsa at some point.

“It’s ridiculous that you think you can’t,” Elsa says evenly. “You know that, right? This is not some baseball Romeo and Juliet.”“I’d really it rather wasn’t, honestly.”

“Then we should probably go to the game, don’t you think?”

Emma nods before she can think better of it. And Killian goes two-for-five in another Yankee victory, someone in a team-branded polo finding them after the final out because they’re sitting in special seats or something that doesn’t sound quite so lame and Elsa actually giggles when they’re told Mr. Jones hopes you’ll wait outside the team exit for him.

“That’s the fanciest sentence I’ve ever heard,” Elsa mutters, nudging Emma in the side like she wasn’t also there. She’s having some trouble hearing over the ringing in her ears anyway. “How come David doesn't ever invite us to the team exit?”“There are probably rules,” Emma reasons.

“And your brother doesn’t want to date you.”“The opinions just get more and more pointed, don’t they?” Elsa simply smiles in response. And it takes some time, sitting in incredibly plush chairs with the Blue Jays emblem stitched into the back and Emma really doesn’t mean for her breath to actually hitch when Killian walks into the room.

He beams at her.

“Huh,” Elsa says. “So that’s what that looks like.”Emma glares at her, but it’s pointless because she’s already introducing herself and thanking Killian for the tickets and telling him helooked good out there today like she’s ever cared about sports in her entire life.

“Thanks,” Killian says, distracted and quick, like he’s trying to rush over the letters to make sure the conversation doesn’t have a chance to linger in that room for too long. His eyes keep darting to Emma, tongue flashing between his lips which is absolutely distracting and, at some point, she should really figure out how endorphins works.

She figures they probably shouldn’t make her feel like her head is spinning.

She’s not a scientist.

“Good seats?” Killian asks. Emma blinks. And laughs. “Ok, I know they were good seats. I...that’s common courtesy, Swan.”“Yuh huh.” “It is. You catch any foul balls?” “We were in a suite.” He blushes, running a hand through his hair and Elsa makes a noise that’s both judgmental and a little unfair, all things considered. Emma wonders if the endorphins in her body will do her a real solid and make sure she melts into the floor.

“That’s a very good point,” Killian admits. Elsa’s eyes are like tiny, little pinballs, bouncing and appraising and Emma rocks forward because she wants to walk forward and, maybe, make out with Killian Jones, third baseman for the New York Yankees, but her brother is still on the opposite side of the baseball spectrum and there are rules and regulations and probably contract issues because that’s how it always works.

He’s probably dating someone in New York anyway.

He’s a catch.

Or so Mary Margaret would say.

Emma bites her lip.

“So, uh…” Elsa starts. “I’ve got a ton of work that I was ignoring today--”“--It’s Sunday afternoon,” Emma interrupts, but her jaw feels like it actually snaps in half and Elsa is way better at glaring than she is.

“Yup, and I’ve got a lot of work that I didn’t do. But would you look at that, you’re kind of on vacation! Isn’t that weird? Weird. It’s weird.”“Weird.” “Exactly. So, I’m going to go and…” She waves her hands through the air, the threat of a far-too-confident smile tugging at the ends of her lips. “I’m going to leave you guys….to it. Where’s that fancy team person? Can they make sure I don’t get yelled at by security?” “Or arrested by mounties,” Emma adds. “That’s not how Canada works. Thanks again for the tickets, Killian. It’s a very long game.” “Yeah, that’s kind of baseball’s schtick,” Killian mutters. He’s still staring at Emma.

The team person appears suddenly, like she’s been summoned there by the sheer force of Elsa’s almost too obvious will, and Emma can’t remember the last time she took a deep breath.

It’s only kind of uncomfortable – especially when Killian moves first and his fingers are rough when they brush over the back of her wrist.

“You need, like, a manicure or something,” Emma mumbles, drawing a scoff out of him and a groan out of her and that is the last thing she expected to say.

“I’m not sure that would really help, actually.”“Don’t you wear baseball gloves?” “Not all the time.” “Rebel.” He nods, and it’s like the world gives them a second to catch their breath and figure out what’s happening and it’s all impossibly slow and far too fast and Emma sighs against his mouth when he kisses her. Or she kisses him.

It honestly does not matter.

Because she’s been thinking about this for far longer than she’d ever be willing to admit and he’s as good as it as she figured he would be, or maybe the other way around because he kind of groans against her mouth when her fingers find the back of his hair and oxygen is pointless anyway.

They’re an out-of-breath mess by the time they finally break apart, eyes wide and shoulders heaving and Emma isn’t entirely sure when they decided to occupy the same few inches of spaces, but her right foot is on top of his left.

Killian doesn’t seem to mind.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that forever,” he whispers, and Emma wonders if anyone has ever survived after their whole soul has kind of just imploded in a fit of happiness and finally.

“Are you kidding me?”Killian makes a noise in the affirmative, another quick brush of lips over hers and they’ve probably scandalized the team worker. “I’ve got some very fond memories of a flower-bearing deity who refused to believe I was as funny as I absolutely am.” “Oh, my God.” “You think I’m funny, Swan, I know you do.” “Your ego knows no bounds.” “It’s a contract year, I’m just trying to prove my worth to the franchise.”

Emma presses up on her toes, the nerves in his voice almost reaching out and slapping her or inadvertently hitting her in the batter’s box and that, at least, is kind of cyclical. She’s not sure when she’s become the positive one, but Mary Margaret will probably appreciate not having to bear the brunt of it all anymore.

“No need,” Emma mumbles, mostly against his mouth and the words get a bit jumbled when Killian’s hand finds its way under the hem of her shirt. “But, like, really since the morphine incident? You were super high.”“And still had eyes, strange as that may seem.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Killian echoes. “I like you. I was trying to show off today.” “I mean, it kind of worked. You want me to write like a letter of recommendation to Brian Cashman or something?”

His laugh is loud and easy and Emma tries to make sure it imprints itself on her memory. And she’s so goddamn happy that they’re as good at making out in visiting team’s facilities as she hoped that she almost forgets her brother is going to kill her because she’s dating the enemy. And he’s really good at hitting baseballs.

That is, of course, before the August series in Boston and the Yankees are three games out of first and the whole thing is as chaotic as it is exciting and Emma can’t stop fidgeting in the family box at Fenway.

“What’s going on with you?” Mary Margaret asks. She’s got head-to-toe red on, David’s number painted on her face like the entire city of Boston isn’t almost painfully aware how in love they are, and Emma’s surprised she didn’t make a sign.

The series is that important.

Killian’s on a six-game hitting streak.

Emma’s not supposed to know that. And no one is supposed to know she went to New York three weeks ago. There was kissing. Like. Just a copious amount of kissing.

Maybe that can happen again after the game.

She wonders how quickly she can get away from her brother. And out of this Red Sox gear.

“What is that?”

Emma jerks her head up, and she didn’t even realize she was doing it. That should be the subheadline of her life at this point. It’s not really anything – she keeps telling herself, has to remind herself almost daily because it’s absurd and sentimental but he’d driven in five runs during that game in New York three weeks before and his bed was absurdly comfortable and Emma made some crack about getting the bonus just to keep this mattress and Killian had kissed her silent; before asking, with slightly hooded eyes in a voice that she certainly still wasn’t thinking about, if she’d maybe, possibly, consider wearing the ring he always kept around his neck. Even during the season. ESPN had tried to do a feature on it.

Killian wouldn’t talk about it.

“It was, uh….it was my brother’s,” he explained, and Emma was going to do permanent damage to her lip from biting it. It didn’t make much of a difference. She cried anyway.

And she’d known about Liam, had heard the stories and the goddamn tragedy of it all, but she’d never seen Killian without that ring on a chain around his neck and it was probably only a matter of time before the New York tabs realized it.

“For good luck,” he said. He smiled. Emma kept crying. And kissed him. He hit a triple the next day. She kind of figured that was for her too.

She’d started tugging on it, though, unconsciously or subconsciously and the specifics of it don't matter, especially in the family suite at Fenway with Mary Margaret doing her best impersonation of a relationship-scouting hawk.  

“Emma,” she says. “What is that?”“Nothing.” “You’re going to want to try that again if you want me to believe you.” “It’s nothing.” Mary Margaret shakes her head, gaze falling on the ring that’s now hanging over Emma’s shirt and this is a disaster. David hasn’t even thrown the first pitch yesterday – that’s a very strange sentence she’s not certain she’ll ever understand, and just the day before he was complaining about Killian’s hitting streak while Emma was texting Killian updates about it under the table in the apartment in Back Bay.

“It’s not,” Emma continues, but talking is only making it worse and Fenway gets impossibly loud during Yankees series.

“It looks new.”“It’s not.” Emma grits her teeth when she realizes what she’s said and she’s given Mary Margaret fuel - fed the eagle as it were. They’ve missed the entire first at bat already. “Did he strike him out on three pitches?” Emma asks, the pride practically radiating through the suite. Someone’s already humming Sweet Caroline under their breath.

“He’s in some kind of zone,” Mary Margaret says. “Was sitting on the couch yesterday after you left, honest to God, practicing his grip on his cutter.”“That’s insane.” “Nah, that’s a series against the Yankees when the pennant’s on the line.” “It’s August.” “On the line,” Mary Margaret repeats, emphasizing every word and Emma can’t get her response out because the boos are that distracting. She’s a little disappointed it’s an away game because that means there are no pinstripes and Killian Jones looks unfairly good in pinstripes, but Emma figures that’s honestly for the best.

Mary Margaret has evolved into some kind of basset hound anyway – sniffing out lies and deflections and however endorphins work. Emma ignores the weight of her stare, pulling her lips behind her teeth and David throws a strike on the first pitch.

“Practiced the hold on that cutter all night,” Mary Margaret mutters.

“It’s not like he doesn’t know who he’s pitching against.”“Ah, that’s not exactly what it is.” Ball one. And two. And Killian steps out of the box, David’s shoulders going obviously tight when he calls time. Emma’s lungs are on fire.

She hopes the endorphins can fix that eventually.

“I don’t understand,” Emma admits, and strike two is swinging and definitely outside and she knows Killian’s frustrated as much as she knows David is overjoyed.

The boos get louder.

“It’s a Yankees-Sox series,” Mary Margaret shrugs. “Us and them. And, I mean, you know that history.”

“Between franchises?”“Between David and Killian Jones.” Emma’s pretty impressed her legs don’t actually buckle but she does have to brace her hands on the glass in front of her, and she’s not sure if she imagines Mary Margaret’s gasp or not. Killian flys out. David fist pumps.

The whole thing is epically absurd.

“What does that mean?” Emma asks, as the next Yankee hitter lines out to short and it’s a quick inning and she should probably be happier about that. She probably shouldn’t have come to the game at all. “Like baseball enemies?”“Of course not.” “Because that’s even more ridiculous than practicing a hold on a cutter David learned when he was eleven and--” “--Emma, oh, my God, seriously, what is going on with you? And don’t say anything, you’re like...shaking.”

She is. Her whole body is vibrating, nervous energy and excited energy and she’d suggested dinner at a restaurant near the Yankees hotel so she could get to the Yankees hotel easier and she wanted both teams to win.

That was impossible.

God, they should have told David already.

“What are you talking about?” Emma challenges. The Red Sox already have someone on second. “What do you mean David and Killian have a thing.”Mary Margaret’s eyebrows defy gravity. “Killian?”“That’s not weird. We know him. We met him. We brought him flowers!” “Like...six years ago.” “And?” “And, nothing, I guess. Just, you know, David’s a pitcher and Killian’s a great hitter and Vandy did win the SEC when he came back that year and then he got drafted ahead of David--” “Because the Yankees didn't need a pitcher. David would have raged if he got drafted by New York.” “That’s not necessarily true.” “Would you like to try again?” Emma asks, and she has to shout the question over the cheers and they’re winning. Or the Red Sox are winning. She’s not sure where her baseball allegiances lie anymore. That’s definitely the most ridiculous sentence she’s ever thought.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Mary Margaret says. “So maybe David’s unfairly biased against New York teams, but you know him and Jones...they’ve always kind of...just toyed with each other. And he feels bad about hitting him still, but that was years ago and now they’re in the same Division again and, you know, this series is important.”Emma doesn’t respond. She does not trust herself to.

So she takes advantage of complimentary food and drink and the general hospitality of the family suite at Fenway and she digs her nails into her palms so she doesn’t cheer when Killian hits a three-run homer in the top of the eighth to give New York the lead.

The hit streak sits at seven games.

And the Red Sox lose the series opener.

“Can you believe I end up with a no-decision now?” David grouses, hours and post-game press conferences later and he’s already ripped apart the pre-meal bread like it’s the reason people still care about win-loss records.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Mary Margaret says. It’s not the first time. It will not be the last time.

“Still a Cy Young contender,” Emma adds.

David’s going to get arrested for his attack on the entire bread industry. “It’s not about individual awards, Em. It’s about this series and holding our lead and--”“--The race for the pennant.” “Yeah, exactly that. And making sure they’re as far away any sort of trophy as possible. God, you know how obnoxious Jones would be as a World Series champion? Totally insufferable. Perfect for New York of course, but just...that can’t...God, he’s so good at the plate, you think he won some kind of genetic lottery?”

Emma knocks her glass over. Her elbows suddenly want to make a run for the nearest exit and there’s wine on her jeans and her ring is back over the front of her shirt and she nearly sends her chair into the very nice looking couple next to them when she mumbles a quick apology and bolts onto the sidewalk.

And, really, she shouldn’t be surprised that he’s sitting in the lobby across the street because they did say some time around nine’ish and he’d always been ridiculously good at reading her and knowing her, even when he was hopped up on painkillers and twisted in an uncomfortable hospital bed.

“Swan?” Killian calls, already halfway out the door and he makes a face when the first three cars in the street don’t immediately stop so he can cross. He jogs towards her, post-game tie loose around his neck, which seems kind of unfair, but it makes it easier to tug and pull him towards her and they’re so goddamn good at kissing each other. He startles slightly at the force of her mouth on his, but it takes less than a full second for him to just sort of melt into it and Emma’s feet are only kind of touching the ground when he pulls her closer to him.

They linger in each other’s space for what feels like a very long eternity, fingers drifting and tracing and Emma almost forgets about her wine-jeans until Killian’s lips drag across her jaw and she shivers.

Someone nearby whistles.

“You want to tell me what this is about now, love?” Killian asks.

“I honestly have no idea. Just like...series-inspired insanity and did you know that my brother thinks of you as some kind of baseball frenemy and possible scoring threat?”“No to the first one, but definitely yes to the second. As he should, really, you see that homer today?” “I was there.”“Cheering?” “Trying very hard not to.” Killian chuckles, a kiss so quick it barely registers. Emma knows they’re on borrowed time. It was inevitable that the troops would rally or something equally ridiculous, and she can hear the footsteps behind them, but Killian’s fingers are still moving and his ring is around her neck and-- “I love you,” she says, certain and sure and at the worst possible time.

He nearly drops her.

“What?” Killian breathes, David behind him and making a sound like an umpire just missed an obvious strike call. “Swan…”

Emma shakes her head, pressing her lips together and the next few moments are a blur of explanations and the phrase I wasn’t really expecting it repeated several dozen times. David’s expression doesn’t change, even when some kid in his jersey stops him to ask for an autograph and glares pointedly at Killian.

“We’ve evolved into complete farce now,” Emma grumbles, and she’s not sure she’s entirely prepared for the look on Mary Margaret’s face. Like she knew all along. Like she knew as soon as they walked into the goddamn hospital room.

She shrugs. “I had some suspicions when I saw the distinct lack of ring when he was jogging the bases and you called him Killian like that was a thing you’d been doing.”“And you guys have been…” David starts, trailing off when Killian’s arm tightens around Emma.

“No, no,” Emma sputters. “No...that just kind of…”She cuts herself off, biting her tongue in the process and her eyes don’t do anything except meet Killian’s slightly cautious smile when he steps in front of her. “Hey,” he mutters, thumb ghosting just under her lower lip and she’d never moved the ring back. “I love you too.” Emma’s dimly aware of David’s rather loud too  but Mary Margaret shushes him and the whole thing still feels kind of cyclical.

And like hitting a bases-clearing double in the bottom of the ninth.

“Yeah?” Emma asks, an absurd response to declarations in the middle of the sidewalk, but that’s kind of them and kind of this and she wants to ignore baseball for the foreseeable future.

She wants to focus on the force of Killian’s responding smile instead.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I kind of thought that was almost obvious. I’ve pining for awhile.”“Before Toronto?” “Way before Toronto.” “Wait, Toronto?” David shouts. “What happened in Toronto?” “Not anything you actually want to know about,” Emma promises. “You going to be weird about this? Like...for the rest of the season or your careers?”

“More weird than your wine incident?”“Is that what happened to your jeans?” Killian nods, and Emma blushes because he was totally checking her out. David groans.

“I’m not going to be weird about this,” he promises. “I mean...I’ll totally wreck you at the plate if you do something stupid, but our set-up guy is garbage anyway and you’re on that ridiculous streak. It was only a matter of time before you played hero.”“And probably tried to impress Emma,” Mary Margaret mutters.

Killian tilts his head. “It’s more likely the second one.”“Figured.” He takes a deep breath, still twisted and in front of Emma with her finger hooked through one of his belt loops. “I may be a little weird about it,” Killian admits. “We’re totally coming for your divisional title. Wild Card stresses me out.” Emma laughs, some of her nerves evaporating and his chest is very solid when her head crashes against him. She’s fairly certain he mumbles I love you in her hair again and she smiles into his shirt, something that feels like a pitching rhythm and striking out the side. She needs to stop making baseball puns in her head.

They go inside the restaurant eventually – after another Boston fans yells get back to New York, Jones from the other side of the street – and Emma manages to keep all her wine in her glass for the rest of the evening. And the Yankees don’t win the Division, but they win the Wild Card game and Emma doesn’t sit down for any of the six games the ALDS lasts.

They win the series in New York.

She’s wearing pinstripes.

David’s only a little annoyed by that.

“I told you I was going to support whatever city I was in,” Emma says, and he rolls his eyes and Killian’s smile, somehow, gets wider and Mary Margaret looks overjoyed. She has since August.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” David grumbles. “Easy now with just one All-Star to root for.”“Your words, not mine.”

Killian kisses her. There’s a photo snapped somewhere behind them, but that’s become fairly normal in the last few weeks because it only took a few games for the New York tabs to realize he wasn’t wearing the ring and start speculation on the location of the ring and Emma was sitting along the first baseline when someone in a throwback Devil Rays jersey three seats away noticed the ring hanging over the front of the Jones t-shirt she was wearing.

They weren’t very subtle about it.

They actually planned it that way.

“What’s that you always say, Nolan?” Killian asks. “It’s not about the personal accolades, it’s about the team and the trophy.”“Agh, wait at least twenty-four hours after my season ends before you start taunting me with my own quotes, huh?” “That seems fair. Doesn’t it, Swan?” Emma nods, still charmed and happy and she’s got a good feeling about the rest of the playoffs because no one expected a Yankees run and she’s got World Series aspirations. Killian Jones, third baseman of the New York Yankees and World Series champion does, after all, sound pretty good.

It looks even better, a playoff run for the ages with an improbable sweep in the ALCS and a hit streak that ESPN claims is legendary and the New York tabs dub the rivalry over when Emma, David and Mary Margaret are spotted cheering in the team suite in the Bronx.

She doesn’t cry when they win, but she might when Killian kisses her, feet off the ground and arms slung around his neck and there’s not enough oxygen in the world to help Emma say everything she wants to.

Everything.

So, naturally, Killian says something to surprise her, because Emma’s not sure how she got on the field without security yelling at her.

Probably because they were distracted by David signing copies of the goddamn New York Post.

“When’s your lease up?” Killian asks.

“What?”“Your lease?” She has to blink three more times before she understands, and then she kisses him instead of answering him, and that’s kind of an answer anyway. “Yeah,” Emma says. “Yeah, that’s what i want to do.”

He signs his contract extension the same day she signs the lease and Emma keeps wearing Yankees gear and Red Sox gear depending on what city she’s in, but her allegiances become a little more obvious when she gets a slightly different ring.

That makes the New York tabs too.

[let-it-raines]

Hey! I saw your answer to anon about musician Killian and of course had to go reread it. And if I may be so bold, may I request the Mystery Musical Man from Killians point of view?

Of course you can request it from Killian’s POV! It made for an easy prompt request to fill. lol. 💙

Original Prompt: CS fic where someone walks by a street musician every day in her way to work and she always bring him coffe and something to eat because she thinks he’s poor and could use some help, but actually he’s like a super star and just plays in the street for fun?

Part one: Mystery Musical Man 

-/-

The first time she places a cup of coffee at his feet and a five dollar bill in his guitar case, he nearly stops singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love” and asks her for her name, but he doesn’t, the music continuing to roll off of his tongue and his fingers as she walks away, her golden hair falling down her back and nearly reaching the top of her black pencil skirt. He’s noticed her before. She walks this route nearly every day, and she usually comes by when the streets are pretty empty. It’s the same reason that he plays early in the morning on Murray Hill. It’s New York City so it’s crowded, but it’s not a madhouse.

Or maybe it is, and he’s got no clue since he’s distracted by the blonde woman who walks by him five days a week. She’s usually dressed professionally, modest skirts and pants with blouses, and if he had to guess, the sneakers on her feet are only for her walk to work and not what she wears all day. He’s got no bloody clue what it is that she does for a living, but he’s curious about her.

He stays curious about her as the weeks pass by and she continuously brings him cups of coffee from The Bean. It’s always black, and even though he usually likes a little milk in his coffee, he learns to accept it with a kind smile and nothing else. Many times he almost talks to her, asks her for her name, but despite the fact that words are constantly flowing out of his mouth as he sings, the words are never the ones that he wants to say.

“What’s your name?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Why do you buy me coffee every day?”

He wants to ask that last question even though he knows the answer. She thinks he’s a struggling musician playing on street corners for tips, and while he is a musician playing on a street corner, he’s not struggling nor truly asking for tips. It’s been years since he had to do that, but he remembers the struggle of needing to supplement his income and get a little extra cash on the side. He honestly didn’t think he looked too poor off, but he does usually walk here from his apartment and wear torn jeans and a battered Yankees cap. Maybe he should dress a little more nicely, but then again, then the beautiful lass might not buy him coffee anymore.

He swears that one day he’ll talk to her.

She is his muse after all.

-/-

“We want you to do a concert,” Arthur tells him as he sits in his recording label’s office in Los Angeles with Will, Robin, and Anton sitting in the chairs next to him.

“We don’t have any new music,” Robin points out, leaning forward in his chair. “Why would we do a concert without any music?”

“You have new music,” Arthur sighs as he takes a sip of his tea from behind his desk, a view of the ocean behind him. “You’ve got enough for half of a set, which will be a perfect preview of the album for when Killian finishes writing it, and then you can mix in old favorites. This will keep you all relevant.”

He chuckles a little bit at that, but he always does whenever he has to talk business. He plays guitar and sings songs and writes lyrics because he enjoys it. Yes, the success and adrenaline of playing in front of thousands of people is wonderful and he wouldn’t trade it in, but at the end of the day, none of that matters if he’s not enjoying making music. That’s what it’s always been about. His mum taught him to play the piano and his brother taught him to play the guitar, and he never feels closer to them than when he’s playing. Really, he never feels closer to them than when he’s standing on the street singing songs form decades past because they’re the songs his mum always had on in the house whenever she would cook or do laundry to make it all a little more exciting.

His mother used to always be dancing with this beatific smile on her face and laughter on her lips, and he likes to remember her that way instead of weak and pale in a hospital bed. It’s the same with Liam. Killian likes to remember him refusing to dance with their mum, too old and too proud, before eventually giving in and dancing. It’s easier than remembering the knock that came to his apartment door with two Naval officers standing outside.

It’s happier too.

Music has always been his safe haven. It’s how he’s processed things, how he’s fallen in love and how he’s healed from broken hearts. It allows him to put his thoughts and feelings into a set of lyrics that go along with a melody, and maybe, just maybe, it makes all of that heartache feel a little further from home while still keeping it close where only he knows every meaning behind each word and note in a song.

Having the White Sails take off and be successful has been amazing, more than he could have ever dreamed of, but as Arthur asks them to play some of his new songs to a crowd full of people, all he really wants to do is play them on the sidewalk and have the pretty lass with green eyes and a beautiful smile hear him sing.

He’s rather fascinated with her and the coffee she always brings him, and most of the songs he’s written in the past few months have been partially written about her. A part of him wonders if she listens to much music as she has never recognized his face or his voice, but he’s not conceited enough to think that everyone on the street should know who he is. He likes the anonymity.

Just maybe not with her.

“We don’t need to be kept bloody relevant,” Will groans, his accent coming out a little stronger than before. “We are relevant. I haven’t worked my arse off for – ”

“Where and when?” he interrupts, an idea sparking in his mind.

“What now?”

“Where and when do you want us to do the concert? If we’re going to play some of the new songs, I need to fine tune them, and I’ll need a couple of weeks for that.”

Arthur smiles, and it’s the one Killian recognizes as it meaning something big.

“Two months from today in Madison Square Garden. Our marketing team is ready to drop both promotion and ticket sales tonight.”

“Do it.”

He spends the next twelve days in the recording studio trying to fix his songs and make them perfect. They won’t be. They’ll still need some work before they officially go on the album, but he thinks he likes them for now. He also thinks that he likes the tune that he can’t get out of his head about the woman with emerald eyes and hair that shines in the morning light, and he makes a promise to himself to actually speak to her when he returns home.

-/-

The morning after he gets back to New York, he takes his guitar and walks then ten blocks to his usual spot, deciding that today is a Queen day, and sings acoustic versions of most of their hits. He’s in the middle of We Are the Champions when he sees her. She’s got headphones in and only one cup of coffee in her hand. He didn’t tell her that he’d be gone for weeks, but honestly, he didn’t really know that he would be. It was only supposed to be a weekend. Besides, they don’t know each other. Just because they have this routine doesn’t actually mean anything.

Right?

She stops to watch him play, and there’s barely another soul around as he finishes out the song, letting the music die as his fingers stop moving.

“Where have you been?” she asks, her voice a pitch lower than he thought it would be. He likes it.

He quirks an eyebrow, shocked at her speaking, before he flashes her a smile and looks down at her coffee mug before looking back up to those emerald eyes with a smirk painted on his lips. “Did you miss me?”

She shrugs, and he has to stifle his laugh. He can’t believe they’re finally speaking after dancing around each other for months. Or really, singing around each other. There has been no dancing involved. He bets she’d be a good dancer.

“I guess so. I didn’t – I stopped buying your coffee. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, love. I wasn’t around. Wouldn’t want you to waste your money, but I did miss you and your coffee.”

He obviously doesn’t have a filter, but he’s somehow comfortable talking to her.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” he sighs, encouraged by the little spark of excitement in her eyes. “They don’t make black coffee in LA, and they don’t have pretty lasses bring it to you.”

It’s been a solid year since he flirted with a woman, but he thinks he’s doing alright. Because that is what he’s doing. Flirting. He’s missed it.

“What a pity,” she mumbles, her cheeks flushed red even as he can tell that she’s downplaying her reaction. “I wonder how you survived.”

She’s got spunk. He likes her.

(Spunk? Does he suddenly live in the 1950’s?)

“The hardest few weeks of my life honestly. I didn’t think I was going to make it.”

She laughs, a real, genuine laugh, and if he could turn that into a melody to have forever, he would. Hopefully he’ll get the chance to make her laugh again.

Hopefully this conversation isn’t a one-time thing.

It’s not.

The next day she brings him his coffee, and they chat for a little while, stumbling into the fact that they both enjoy comedies more than any other genre of television, though he does love a good historical drama every now and then. But she’s a fan of shows like The Office and The Good Place, so they talk about last week’s episode before she has to go to work. It goes like that for a few more days, and in those days he learns that her favorite food is a grilled cheese hold all of the fancy toppings and that she runs every other day after work. If she doesn’t, she’ll apparently go crazy. He gets that. She obviously sits at a desk most of the day, and he would go crazy staying still for that long.

It’s a Tuesday when he finally learns her name. He’s between songs, his throat a little scratchy, when she shows up, so instead of placing his coffee on the ground like she usually does, she hands it to him.

“Thank you, love.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she mumbles before bringing her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes darting anywhere but to him. He takes a sip of his coffee, the liquid warm and soothing on the way down, and just before he finishes swallowing, she blurts out, “what’s your name?”

It takes him back a bit, but mostly all he can think is finally.

“Killian,” he answers, flashing her a smile. “And you?”

“Do you not have a last name?”

He thinks on it a minute, debating whether or not he wants to tell her his last name. He doesn’t think she knows who he is, or maybe she does and doesn’t care. Either way, he doesn’t want this little routine between them to change. He comes out here in the mornings for himself, but he would be remiss to think that he didn’t also make his way here to the same spot every morning to see her.

“I do,” he slowly begins, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. “I just didn’t think you’d care.”

“I care. I’m Emma Swan if that helps.”

Emma Swan.

He likes it. God help him he thinks he might like her.

Is thirty four too old to have a crush?

“Jones then. Killian Jones.”

Her lips twitch, threatening to pull up into a smile, and he already knows that he’s got a smile painted on his lips. “Did you phrase it that way so you could say your name like James Bond?”

He winks. “I guess you’ll never know.”

They continue on as usual, getting to know each other over their ten minute chats every weekday. She brings him his coffee, he calls her Swan, and on the days when he’s in the middle of a song when she walks up, he changes the lyrics to her name to make her smile. It works every single time, and no part of him cares that it’s a little cheesy.

He’s a little cheesy when he’s tired. They’ve been having rehearsals during the day and during some nights, and it’s exhausting. It’s been awhile since they’ve played outside of a recording studio or one of their living rooms, so it’s a bit frustrating for them not to be perfectly in sync. It’s just one night, though, one show, and as time nears for it, he finally starts to feel like they’re getting ready.

But in the mornings he desperately needs his coffee from Emma, the family lawyer (how badass is that?) who still doesn’t seem to believe him when he tells her that he’s a musician.

So one morning, a week before the concert, when there’s a practical monsoon taking over Manhattan, instead of staying in his apartment, he makes his way to the closest The Bean shop in hopes that he can see Emma. It might be taking it a step too far, but honestly, it’s not the craziest thing he’s ever done for a woman.

He sees her when she walks in, her red rain coat dripping with water, and he tugs at his beanie while she talks to the barista who points over at him. Emma’s head twists to look in his direction, and she stalks her way over to him, plopping down in the chair across from him.

“So you stalking me now?” she laughs as her eyes come into contact with his. “Because I’ve got to say, I’m not sure the coffee I bring you every morning is worth all of the hassle.”

He gives her a lopsided grin, knowing that it’s charming, and reaches up to scratch at his ear, adjusting his beaning again. “I’m not stalking you. I, well, I can’t perform in all of this rain, and I still needed my coffee fix.”

“How’d you even figure out it was this store? You know this is a chain, right?”

He shrugs. “Google, some powers of deduction, and a whole lot of luck.”

“Well color me impressed mystery musical man.”

What in the world did she just call him? Mystery musical man?

He can’t help but laugh, and it ends up being louder than he expected, making several people stare at him. His ears are suddenly far too hot under this beanie.

He’s not alone, though. He can see the blush on Emma’s cheeks. “Um, nothing.”

“No, no,” he teases, leaning forward on the table and waggling his brows while flashing her another smile, completely amused and besotted by this entire situation. Man is he glad that she’s not mad that he showed up here. “You called me mystery musical man. Swan, I didn’t know you had a nickname for me.”

“Yeah, well, I went a few months not knowing who you were. What was I supposed to do?”

“Ask me my name.”

“I did…eventually.” He shakes his head from side to side as he smiles, remembering to slide her coffee cup over to her. “So, um, can I ask you a question? And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Sure, love, but I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t tell you unless you’re about to ask me some deep, personal secret like if I’ve ever dyed my hair.”

She snorts into her drink. That’s not quite as melodic as her laugh, but he likes it just the same. “No, no. I’d never ask such a deeply personal question, but I do, um, what the hell is it that you do for a living?”

His brows furrow as he clicks his tongue. Wow, she really doesn’t believe him. “Didn’t we talk about this already? I’m a musician.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but do you do anything else besides performing before eight in the morning? I know this is rude, but I’m just…curious.”

“Tis not rude,” he admits, hoping to calm her. She doesn’t need to feel awkward around him. He hopes that she doesn’t, that they’re friends, that they have…potential. “What someone does for a living is basic conversation. But seriously, no. I’m a musician, and I do play more than the mornings. That’s honestly just for fun.”

“So where do you play? I’d love to come see you.” He raises his brows, curling the right side of his lips into a smirk and closing his eyes halfway as he stares at her, trying to get her to blush like she was earlier. “To see you play,” she clarifies, hiding behind her mug. “I’d love to see you play.”

She’s adorable, and he’s utterly, officially charmed.

“I know what you mean, love. I, um,” he hesitates, knowing that what he’s about to tell her could change their relationship but wanting to tell her anyhow, “I haven’t had many gigs lately, but I am playing on Friday night if you’d like to come.”

“Really?” she asks excitedly. “Where?”

He clenches his teeth down and looks up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to say to keep some of the mystery alive so she’ll be more likely to show up to the show. He is mystery musical man after all.

“Tell you what, love, I’m going to get you some tickets for you and a friend, and the address will be on them. Does that work for you?”

“It makes you seem like the definition of mystery musical man.”

“Yeah, well, that’s apparently who I am.”

They chat for a little while longer before he walks with her to work, holding his umbrella over both of their heads, and when he realizes that she’s not sure how to say goodbye, he boldly leans down and brushes a kiss against her cheek that he swears lights his entire body aflame.

-/-

Adrenaline runs through him for all of Friday. He’s nervous. He’s a professional, and he’s so damn nervous that he might vomit as he paces back and forth in their dressing room after sound check. He’s not sure if it’s the combination of pre-show jitters and showcasing new songs or if it has to do with him wondering whether or not Emma is going to show up tonight. It’ll be fine if she doesn’t. Really, it will.

But he wants her here.

He’s got feelings for the woman, and he’d like for her to know what it really is that he does, no more vague secrets.

“How much coffee did you drink, Jones?” Will chuckles, calmly propping his feet on a coffee table and taking a sip of his water. “You’re vibrating.”

“No coffee. I’m tired.”

“He invited a lass,” Robin not so helpfully supplies.

“I should have never told you, you arse.”

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t have known how to get her tickets.”

He rolls his eyes and keeps pacing. This is all going to be just fine. It has to be. The show will be fine, great probably. Two songs in, and he’ll be back to his normal self on stage.

And it���ll be a damn good time.

And Emma will be here.

“Hello, everybody,” he says into the microphone when they’re finally on stage minutes later, lights blaring down on him and the audience talking under a loud murmur as he takes several deep breaths and plasters a smile on his face. “I’m so glad you all can be here tonight. I know it’s been awhile since we performed, but it took a bit to get some inspiration for our new songs, though I finally found some lately. So I thank you for being patient with us. I’m Killian Jones, and we are The White Sails.”

-/-

After the concert he’s on a high that he hasn’t felt for a long time, his body practically buzzing with excitement and a little bit of the rum he drank before the show. It went well, the new songs getting a good reaction, but now that he’s changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt and has had time to digest all of that, all he can think about is the fact that Emma bloody Swan is waiting outside in the hallway for him.

His mates are going to tease him about this for a solid month.

It’ll be worth it.

He steps out of the dressing room, his hand already at his ear with nerves, and walks right toward Emma and who he assumes is her friend.

“I’m sorry I didn’t buy you coffee,” she blurts out before her eyes widen, the mortification practically broadcasted on her face.

He shrugs and laughs, unable to help himself. “That’s okay, love. I think maybe you can have a pass this time.” He leans forward and wraps his arms around her, embracing her and hoping that he doesn’t smell too much like sweat when he hasn’t taken a shower. Emma smells like vanilla. He’s never noticed that before. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she answers as she pulls back, “that was incredible. You’re incredible. I’m just entirely confused.” He expected that and is about to address it when the woman next to Emma coughs, and they both turn to look at her. “And this is Ruby Lucas,” Emma tells him.

“Nice to meet you, mystery musical man. I came with to make sure my girl wasn’t going to get murdered tonight.”

“Totally understandable,” he laughs, reaching for Ruby’s hand. He forgot to take off his rings from the show, and he feels them against her skin. “That’s why there were two tickets. To prevent the murder, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Emma interrupts, and his attention turns back to her, “I just have a lot of questions.”

“Well Swan, maybe I have some answers. Do you – ” Arthur calls his name behind him, and he twists to look at him to see him motioning his hand. “ – can you and Ruby wait here while I do a bit of quick business?”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

He jogs off to talk to Arthur, hopefully telling him that this won’t take long because he’d rather be talking to Emma than to Arthur about what he’s sure is some deadline for the new album.

“Great show, Jones,” he greets, clapping his hand and pulling him in for a hug and patting his back.

“Thank you. It went better than I thought it would.”

“It always does. The new songs were great. The label loves them. We ended up sold out on tickets and merch tonight. That was what was unexpected. Not the show going well but us having an audience.”

“Quite a lot of faith you’re putting in me there.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, always the realist. “You know what I mean. I just wanted to let you know that and that we have a meeting with the label tomorrow.”

“God, please tell me that it’s in the New York office. I’m not flying cross country tomorrow.”

“It’s in the New York office,” he sighs, smiling a little bit. “At one. Make sure Will shows up.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Good, go back to talk to your girl.”

He almost protests, but instead he winks at Arthur and starts making his way back to Emma who is probably going crazy with thoughts right now. She gets up to greet him, and before he can even open his mouth to apologize for leaving, she’s wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him, her lips soft against his. It takes him far too long to kiss back, the moment shocking him, but when he does, he tries to keep it soft and slow, treating her with all of the care she deserves instead of pushing her back up against the wall and devouring her. Though, now that he knows how Emma kisses, he wants to do that too. His lips caress hers and his hands reach up to cup her cheeks before threading into her hair while hers does the same, another pleasant buzz spreading across his skin.

He absolutely cannot believe that he’s kissing Emma Swan.

Drinking all of that black coffee without creamer was totally worth it.

When she pulls back, he growls, not able to stop himself as he chases her lips and rests his forehead against hers, breathing in even though he knows that she’s taken his breath away.

Maybe he gets a little cheesy all of the time.

“So the whole being in a band thing really did it for you, huh?”

“No,” she promises, quickly brushing her lips against his again while her fingers keep playing with his hair. He’d like to keep doing that for a long time. “I don’t care about that. It’s awesome, but I don’t care.”

“Yeah?” he asks, all of his nerves over the whole thing beginning to fade away. Maybe this will all work out.

“Yeah. All I really want is to buy you a coffee.”

He laughs against her lips, unable to help himself. Tonight is a good night.

Tonight is a damn great night.

“You know what, Swan? I think I can buy this time.”

He and Emma get coffee two days later. He buys despite her protests, and it goes on like that for days and weeks and months as coffee dates turn into actual dates and dates turn into overnight stays and overnight stays turn into moving in together. Eventually moving in together turns into getting married, and all along the way he writes far more songs than he thinks he has in his entire life, filling albums with his love.

Emma Jones is a fantastic muse.

[thejollyroger-writer]

CSJJ Day 7: Hitting the Bullseye

Killian and Liam Jones have always been competitive, but when Liam decides to have his bachelor's party at the archery range, Killian needs to practice-- or, better yet, learn. Thankfully, there's a champion archer at the range that can help him, Emma Swan. But will their shooting sessions turn to more?

This little fic was written for @csjanuaryjoy and I can’t thank the lovely mods for putting the whole event together enough! Also a huge thanks to the wonderful ladies in the discord chat, you’ve made my January hilarious and this fic wouldn’t exist without you!

Also on AO3!

This is the single stupidest thing Killian has ever agreed to. Sure, he would do anything for his brother, that's never something he has shied away from.

But this? This is going too far.

A bachelor's party at the archery range? It's right up Liam's alley, yes, but Killian? Even before he lost his hand, he had never picked up any sort of bow—the prosthetic, he would imagine, just makes everything harder.

Which is how he ended up here, by himself, at the archery range three weeks before Liam's bachelor's party, trying to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow.

With one (“real”) hand, and a prosthetic.

Damn him and his competitive personality.

He's watched a few videos, learned about the entire realm of “prosthetic archery”, thanks to YouTube, but nothing compares to actually coming to the range with his brother's compound bow and trying to teach himself how to shoot.

It's not that he doesn't understand how. The how of it really isn't that difficult.

At least, it shouldn't be.

But after a few practice draws, the bow failing to steady in his hands, he nocks an arrow and pulls the string back, but it slips out of his trigger and whizzes past his target, just hitting the corner of the wooden edge around it, turning completely off-course and somehow making a 90 degree turn across the field.

And that's when he sees her, standing in front of her own target, bright blonde hair pulled high into a ponytail, and even from across the range, he can see the toned muscles of her shoulders as she pulls her arrows out of the target and put them back in the quiver across her back. His arrow lands a few feet away from her, burrowing itself in the ground by her feet.

She must see it out of the corner of her eye, because she turns towards it, her eyes wide before she whips around to face him, tearing her headphones out of her ears.

He has already started to head in her direction, feeling the blush rise up his face to settle on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. She looks stunned, yes, but he doesn't think she's angry until she opens her mouth:

“What the actual fuck!?” she yells, quickly filling the space between her and the arrow sticking half-out of the ground before she yanks it from the dirt. “That could have hit me!”

Amazed by her sudden anger, Killian raises his hands in surrender as he tries to alleviate the situation.

“My apologies, love,” he says, trying his best to make his embarrassment obvious, unable to stop his hand from finding the spot behind his ear that somehow always itches when he's embarrassed.

Maybe it wouldn't be as severe if she wasn't the most breathtaking woman Killian has ever seen, even with her green eyes piercing angry holes into his soul.

“I really—I've never shot one of these bloody things before and I need to learn how in the next three weeks.”

Handing his arrow back to him, she lets out a short sigh with a shake of her head before the faint beginnings of a smile taking over her face.

“It's your lucky day then,” she says, her angry demeanor continuing to melt away as she holds her hand out to shake his. “I'm the range master. Emma Swan.”

If this was supposed to make him feel better, it does not. Instead, he just feels his embarrassment growing: not only did he go completely off-course with the first arrow he ever shot (misshot) and almost hit the most gorgeous woman he's ever seen—this woman is the range master. Because why wouldn't she be?

“Miss Swan,” he repeats, taking her hand in his own. “Killian Jones. Again, my deepest apologies for my mishap.”

“Would you like a few pointers?”

“Really? You would do that?”

Her smile grows, finally spreading to her other features. “It's part of my job, actually. I am a professional archer and fully certified range instructor, so it would be my pleasure to give you some assistance.”

Suddenly, his ear itches again. “I would… I would really appreciate that, actually.”

Emma smiles, then turns to take the path back to where she slung her bow on the holder.

“If you don't mind me asking, Killian, why do you need to learn how to shoot in three weeks?”

He smiles at her, the most radiant smile she has ever seen.

“It's rather humorous, actually. My, uh—my older brother is having his bachelor's party here in three weeks, and we're both terribly competitive sods, but it turns out that I've never actually fired a bow and arrow before.”

“So you're only here to compete with your brother during his bachelor's party?’

“Aye,” he says with a laugh. “And as long as you find my reasoning amicable enough, I'll have to find a way to thank you for assisting me.”

The sparkle in his eye ignites a fire in her chest, but she tries her hardest to ignore it as she leads him back across the range to where he set up his supplies. They develop a light banter, peppered just right with Killian's innuendos, but for some reason, his cocky grin and knowing smile don't turn Emma away as they usually do.

Though possibly because, though his demeanor makes him seem completely full of himself, he's a terrible shot, and every time he misses the target, his face turns an even deeper shade of red.

Emma learns that though Killian may be a terrible shot, but an excellent learner. Though he misses the target with the first dozen, he slowly starts to get better and better as they continue to practice.

He learns that her brother David owns the archery range, an ex-Army veteran who finished his time and decided to open a safe range just outside Boston, the archery range partnered with an indoor pistol range; and that she was trained to be in the Boston Police Department, but moved out of the city when her brother and his wife had their first baby to help him run the range, dedicating her time to archery instead, so much so to make her state champion three times.

She learns that Killian and his brother were also in the military, the English Royal Navy, but came to America when their mother got sick, which is how Liam met his fiancee, Elsa, who was one of the nurses that took care of their mother. Killian got a job helping with tours of the U.S.S. Constitution in the city, one of the greatest jobs he has ever had, being able to spend his days sharing his passion for ships with the visitors, but is looking to begin classes at Boston University.

As quickly as it began, over half an hour passes. Killian's aim has bettered exponentially, even hitting in the gold rings a few times near the end, and as excited as he feels seeing the arrows on the target, nothing compares to the relief they feel when they finally set their bows down on the picnic table behind them, with Killian having the added bonus of not having a sore hand because of the prosthetic.

She takes a few mouthfuls of the bottle of water sitting with her things as Killian fishes one of his own out of his backpack.

“I'm supposed to meet Liam for lunch in twenty minutes,” he says, looking around the range to avoid her emerald green eyes. “But I would—if it's not going too far, love, I would really like to see you again, maybe somewhere where I won't almost accidentally kill you?”

He scratches the spot behind his ear as he finally meets her eyes, happy to see that she is smiling back at him, an absolutely radiant beauty.

“I would really like that, Killian. Did you have something in mind?”

“Dinner, at least,” he replies quickly, the words suddenly tumbling out as if this is the only thing he has focused on during their time on the range (because it definitely isn't. Nope.) “Or lunch, if that works better for you. I know a few incredible places in the city that I've been waiting for the right girl to join me at.”

Though she wouldn't have thought it possible, Emma's smile grows at the sentiment. “Lunch would be excellent. I'm watching my nephew tomorrow while David's here, but the day after? Would around one work for you?”

“That sounds brilliant, Swan,” he says, her name breathy on his tongue, and somehow, he feels like he could say it for the rest of his life and never tire of it. “Marvelous.” But when he looks at his watch, it's slightly less marvelous: it's time to go, a realization that plays out over his features. “I'll give you my number so you can tell me where to pick you up?”

“That's perfect, actually,” she says, pulling her phone out of her back pocket and unlocking it before handing it to Killian. He takes a moment to enter his number then hands her phone back with a smile, but makes no move to leave. “I'll see you again the day after tomorrow, Killian,” Emma says with a laugh, amused by his obvious want to stay here with her.

“Aye,” he replies, the corner of his lips pulling up in the beginnings of a smile. “I'll see you then, love.”

David can tell there is something on Emma's mind as soon as she walks into his dining room. There's something in her face that gives it all away, a sparkle in her eye that wasn't there before, the ghost of a smile always present in her expression even as she stares down into her glass of water. David keeps looking up from the stove at her, but she is completely unphased by his presence in the same room as her. Staying silent, he simply watches his little sister, until she laughs out loud, the first noise she has made since greeting him, and then his curiosity gets the best of him:

“Is your glass of water telling you jokes?”

She jumps slightly at the sound of his voice, then snaps her head towards him. “What?”

David can't help but laugh at her. “You've been preoccupied since you got here, Em. Smiling, laughing into your water glass—do you have something you want to tell me?”

Sure, David might be poking fun at her, but he also wants to see her happy more than anything in the world.

Suddenly, Emma's cheeks become the same shade of red as her favorite jacket. “What? No.”

“There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Emma,” David's wife, Mary Margaret comments with a soft smile, hitching Leo up on her hip. But this doesn't help—if anything, it makes her blush deepen.

“I'm not embarrassed,” she tries, but David just laughs.

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” is all he says, then wipes his hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven before passing his wife in the doorway, pressing a soft kiss to her temple as he leaves the room.

Mary Margaret watches him walk away for a few moments before turning to Emma, her face unable to hide her growing smile as she quickly crosses the kitchen to sit down at the counter next to her. “So, who is it?” she whispers, unable to contain her excitement.

Amazed, Emma turns to her sister-in-law, eyes wide, before she quickly knits her eyebrows to make her seem confused, hoping it will be enough to throw off Mary Margaret. “What are you talking about?”

But Mary Margaret knows her too well and can see past any charade that Emma tries to play. “The sparkle in your eye, the unwavering smile? I would recognize that look from all the times I've had it myself. You're thinking about someone. So, spill! Before David comes back and you have to talk about him in front of your brother.”

Defeated, Emma sighs, then smiles. “His name is Killian. I met him at the range today, he's practicing for his brother's bachelor's party. Or, should I say, learning.”

The smile already spread across Mary Margaret's face grows, somehow. “That's excellent, sweetheart. How did you meet him?”

“He, uh… he almost shot me trying to figure out what he's doing, so I spent some time teaching him and he asked me out before he left.”

“You said yes, right?”

Emma's smile is the only answer Mary Margaret needs.

“Oi! Killian!” Liam says, not for the first time, deciding to wave his hand in front of his brother’s face.

Surprisingly, this succeeds in getting Killian’s attention, and he finally tears his eyes away from the cup of coffee sitting in front of him, the only object of his attention since Liam walked into the cafe and found his brother sitting in the corner.

Killian looks just as surprised to see him as Liam is to see him in this state. After their stint in the Navy, the younger Jones brother is always immensely aware of his surroundings, keeping a keen eye on the door and able to say how long any given person has been in their current location. Liam has always found his attention to detail in his surroundings something to be amazed by, seconded only by the details in the artistic abilities only he got from their mother.

“Oh, hello, Liam.” His voice is soft, almost as if he is as far away as his eyes make him seem.

“What is the problem with you today, brother?”

Killian shakes his head, then leans toward Liam on the table, scrubbing both of his hands through his stubble before they end tangled in his hair.

“Her name is Emma.”

Killian’s straightforwardness takes Liam by surprise. He expected to listen to his brother talk in circles, avoid his questions, plead ignorance.

When he does the opposite, he  is struck dumb, and all he can say is, “What?”

“Emma Swan,” Killian replies slowly, Liam assumes not in reply to his question. “She is the single most beautiful woman I have ever seen and I made a complete fool of myself in front of her.”

Liam can’t help but laugh at this. Killian has always known his way around a woman, and there have been more than enough nights when Liam returned to their apartment to learn Killian is nowhere to be seen—plus the few times that his brother has actually had the audacity to ask Liam to find an alternative place to stay. So hearing that he has embarrassed himself in front of someone that affects him as much as this woman does pull a smile from his lips.

“What exactly did you do?”

“I, uh—” he goes to begin his story, but he had decided that he wasn’t going to tell Liam about his need to practice archery to keep himself from making a fool of himself in front of Liam. But his clouded brain isn’t working fast enough to come up with a cover story, so all he can do is sigh. “I’d rather not say, actually. In the future, it might be a funny story, but at the moment, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

His eyes fall to the table, where he is flexing the fingers of his prosthetic hand, and after a moment, the corner of his lips pull up into the beginnings of a smile. He must feel Liam watching him, though, since his gaze slowly rises back to his brother’s face. “She’s incredible.”

“And, let me guess, little brother, you’re never going to see her again?”

“Younger brother,” Killian corrects with a sigh, just as he’s done hundreds of times, but he continues before Liam can comment. “And, actually, I asked her out. I’m meeting her for lunch the day after tomorrow.”

Liam reaches across the small table and claps his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Look at you! I’m so proud of your bravery.”

Killian feels the blush rise up his cheeks as he quickly tries his hardest to change the subject: “Do you have everything on track for the wedding?”

Emma has never been so nervous in her life. She felt it slowly seeping through her as the minutes of the morning ticked by, an excitement that started in her chest and worked its way into every inch of her by the time she walks back to her car to meet Killian outside her apartment.

She asked David for a longer lunch, and something about her voice must have given him a clue about her ulterior motives, so instead of just lunch, David gave her the rest of the day off.

She assumes that Mary Margaret may have had something to do with it, as well.

She has to remember to thank her.

By the time Killian pulls into the parking lot beside her apartment, Emma can feel the excitement coursing through her veins, unable to stop herself from pacing back and forth in front of her car, thankfully not needing to return to her apartment before leaving.

“Killian,” she calls across the parking lot, crossing the dirt as quickly as she can without giving away her excitement. “Don’t get out of the car, please.”

He must hear her, because though his car door is open, he doesn’t get out, and she opens the passenger door and climbs in without a comment from him.

It’s only been two days, but seeing her again catches his breath in his chest, a weight over his heart that doesn’t go away for a few breaths.

After she closes the door behind her, she turns to him, but when her eyes meet his, the blue somehow even brighter against the dark interior of the car and his all-black outfit, her nervousness melts away.

“Hi,” she breathes, smiling at him from the passenger seat.

The smile he returns shines brighter than the interior lights. “Hello, love. How much time do you have for lunch?”

“Actually, David gave me the rest of the day off.”

If she hadn’t watched his smile grow, she never would have thought it was possible. Shifting the car out of park, he says, “Perfect.”

“But where are we going?”

A deep chuckle escapes his lips, and he smirks at her out of the corner of his eye. “You’ll see.”

 The afternoon that she spends with Killian is the greatest date she has ever been on. Private lunch on the waterfront, a short walk to the Faneuil Hall marketplace where they stop to watch a jazz band, and end at the Boston Common, and when they finally decide to sit on one of the benches by the pond, Emma realizes that it’s almost four o’clock, and the four hours they have spent together passed like minutes.

He is silent for a few minutes, his eyes focused on something far beyond the water in front of them, but Emma’s eyes don’t leave him.

Emma has been on a fair number of dates in her life, and most of them first dates, since almost all of her relationships haven’t made it further than that. Her heart has been broken more than enough times, and until she was almost hit with Killian Jones’ arrow, she believed it may never work again.

(There’s a Cupid joke wrapped up in there somewhere, she just can’t find it yet.)

All at once, his entire face lights up as he pushes himself off the bench, holding his hand out to her.  “There’s something I would like to show you.”

He leads her back across the city to a different part of the waterfront on the southern end of the city coast, and after she threads her fingers through his after getting up from the bench, they become inseparable. The walk back to the harbor is much quieter than their walk there, an air of seriousness passed over them that was not there before, the only thing that they share soft smiles every few minutes.

“You know, Jones, I'm glad you almost shot me,” she says after a while, leaning towards him to bump her shoulder against his arm.

“You're glad I almost shot you?”

“Well, if you didn't, surely we wouldn't be here.”

“Can't argue with that.”

 When they finally reach the harbor, he waves at the man in the booth and leads her down the wooden planks to a small ship docked at the end, flashing her a smile as he picks a key from his ring to unlock the pad from a chain across the dock.

“Welcome to the Jolly Roger, my second home and most important possession. Do you have enough time to take her out for a sail?”

Emma looks at her watch, but she's not sure why—there's nothing else she has to do today.

Or tomorrow, but Killian doesn't have to know that yet.

“It's your lucky day, Jones. I have nowhere to be.”

His smile is breathtaking as he reaches out to help her up the step onto the ship, the sun shining at her from behind his head, and Emma had never been happier in her life.

He leads her through what needs to be done to take off, teaching her in the same way she taught him two days before on the archery range. Once they're off, he excuses himself for a moment, climbing into a cabin below deck, and a few seconds later, he comes back up with two bottles of water and two bottles of beer.

“Fancy a drink, love?” he asks, holding out all of the options to her, and she takes one of each. After spending five hours together, there's not much else for either of them to say, and when he sits down against the railing, she sits next to him, her thigh pressed against his. Silent, with his arm wrapped around her shoulders and her head against his chest, they listen to the sound of the waves against the hull of the boat, lulling both of them into a wordless peace, but both of their minds traveling at a mile a minute.

Until Killian speaks, the words coming out slowly and just soft enough for her to hear. “I was five when my mother came back to America to get away from my father, but as much as it hurt her, she had to leave me and Liam behind. Liam was eleven. We lived in hell for seven years with that man, and on Liam’s eighteenth birthday, when he was supposed to leave for the Royal Navy, Brennan disappeared without a trace. Liam was forced to stay and was given custody of his twelve-year-old brother. We lived together in England, with the Navy miraculously understanding our situation and paying for him to go to college until I turned eighteen and could join up with him. We went through training and were placed together in England for two years, three in Norway, and three in the Middle Eastern theatre, and that was when our mother got sick. Brain cancer. Liam’s time was up, and they gave me a few month’s leave to visit her.

“Three days before we were set to leave, there was this crazy accident on base, an explosion in one of the buildings, and I just so happened to be right there when it happened. They told me that I could keep the hand but it would never work completely right again, or they could take it and replace it with a prosthetic. So they replaced my hand and sent me on a plane to Boston with Liam to be with my mum.  I did my physical therapy at the same hospital she was staying in. She lived for two years, if you can call it that, before the cancer finally took her. That was three years ago.”

When his words stop, a few breaths of silence pass between them. When Emma turns to look at him, she watches as he wipes his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt, and she squeezes his hand.

“I'm so sorry, Killian,” she says finally, and his eyes meet hers for just a moment, the edge of his lip curling up into a momentary half-smile.

She watches as he takes a breath, deep enough that she can see the rise and fall of his shoulders. “Liam's always been all I have, and I've wanted to impress him since the day I was born. At some point, that need to impress changed into a need to compete, and I can't even imagine how embarrassed I would be if I made a fool of myself at the range for his bachelor's party.”

With these two sentences, Killian changes the mood between them, the thick blanket of seriousness turned back as he flashes her a real, wholesome smile.

“I would imagine just about as embarrassed as you were when you almost shot me the other day.”

If Emma had not seen how quickly his entire face reddened at her joke, from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears, she never would have believed it. “Aye, love,” he says through his soft chuckles. “Something like that, I would assume.”

“I can honestly say that I've never dated a man that could have killed me.”

“That's not a hard bar to set, honestly.”

As quickly as his embarrassment became apparent, her face darkens as she turns it up to look at him, her hand pressed against his chest. “You would be surprised the kind of terrors I've dated.”

He doesn't push any further, pulling her closer into his side, but after a few moments, she continues anyway, putting words together in an order that she never had before.

“When I was sixteen I met Neal. I spent much of my childhood in the foster system, until I met David on the street and his mother sort of adopted me, gave me a place to stay. But that's… another story. I never had anyone give me the kind of attention that Neal gave me, and I believed it was love, because I didn't know any better. But he was… he was twenty when we met, and a thief, a liar, a con. We were together for three years, and he told me that the last thing he needed to do before we could start a new life was—was pick up these watches from the bus station. Stolen watches. So I was waiting for him at this restaurant, all of our stuff packed in the back of my car, when I was approached by some police officers who said they got a tip that I had stolen goods in my car, so they needed to see for themselves. I let them, showed them outside and opened the trunk of my car to reveal a duffel bag full of watches. Stolen watches. They took me to jail, said that Neal called them and told them I had everything he was wanted for. So I did the only thing I could think of, and I called David, who was in college at Northeastern University, and he called Ruth, who bailed me out.

“Everything since then has been one-night stands, worthless needs to feel, and one two-year relationship with a dull businessman who only cared about his work.”

Killian doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't. Instead, he tightens his arm around her once more, pulling her further into his chest, and she surprises him once more when she speaks again.

“I really need to thank you, Killian,” Emma says softly, and at first, she doesn’t think Killian hears her.

But when he does finally turn to her, his bright eyes the same shade as the clear sky over the city. “There’s nothing to thank me for, love. I’m just giving you the first date I think you deserve.”

“Which is something that no one else has ever done before.” She’s not sure where the words come from, but once they start, she doesn’t seem to be able to stop them. “All I’ve ever gotten before is— is worthless one-night stands, liars, and heartbreak.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m glad to hear that.”

“You’re glad to hear I’ve had my heart broken?”

He leans closer to her, his face just inches away from hers with his arm still wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

“If it can be broken, it means it still works.”

She stares at him for a moment, searching his eyes for…

Well, she’s not sure what exactly she’s searching for. But all she finds in the blazing sapphires is truth, honesty, sincerity, things that she’s not used to dealing with.

“Forgive me for being frank, Swan, but I would like the opportunity to give you everything you deserve.”

It’s all too much for her, and she can’t stop the tear that rolls down her cheek but quickly wipes it away with the pad of her thumb, tearing her eyes from his to look out over the deck of the ship, but the smile returns to her face after a moment.

“Well, I can’t say no to that.”

Killian reaches his hand up to softly cup her cheek, catching the next tear as he turns her face back towards him and meets her eyes with a smile.

“Good,” he whispers, staring at her for a moment.

He wants to kiss her, which is absolutely insane, since he just met her two days before, and the only thing that stops him is not wanting to make her uncomfortable. So instead, he leans his head back against the railing, looking out over the deck and into the harbor. She mirrors him, but her head rests against the meat of his bicep.

They stay silent once more, nothing else to say at the moment now that they have bared their hearts to each other.

Until, of course, Killian's stomach lets out a long growl loud enough to hear over the crashing of the waves.

He's embarrassed enough on his own, but it just gets worse when Emma starts laughing. “Does this mean we should get dinner?” she asks, giving him a moment to mirror her laughter.

“Aye, love, apparently it does.”

Together, they get the ship back to the dock, unable to stop the laughter that comes back up every time their eyes meet. Hand in hand once more, they walk up the harbor to a high-scale seafood restaurant by the aquarium, somehow able to get a seat without a reservation, and they spend most of dinner somehow finding more to talk about after six hours, much lighter conversation than that on the ship, and they end the night with a walk in the moonlight back to Killian's car parked by where they had lunch, not far from where they ate dinner.

The car ride is silent once more, soft jazz whispering out of the speakers of Killian's car, and the only time Killian unwraps his fingers from hers is when he needs to shift. Every few minutes, they lock eyes for a moment or two, a soft smile shared between them. It's ten minutes from the harbor to Emma's apartment, but by the time they make it there, Emma realizes that seven hours isn't enough—she doesn't want to leave his company.

“Do you… do you want to come up?”

“Emma,” he breathes, reaching across the car to cup her cheek in his hand. “I can't… I—I,” he stutters, not quite sure what exactly he is trying to say. “I want to see you again, and I—I respect you too much to rush into anything. You deserve that, at least.”

She smiles across the car at him, obviously touched by his words. “When can I see you again?” she asks, instead of telling him that she has never been more sure about anything, sure that he would never make her do anything she doesn't already want to do, sure that she doesn't want to say goodbye to him.

“Well, I could use some more practice,” he replies with a smile. “And I promise that I'll never try to shoot you again.”

They meet at the range at 9:30 the next day, and set a schedule to practice on alternating days after that for the three weeks, except the two where Emma has to watch Leo and one where Killian was called into work early. Somehow, they managed to avoid David all of these days (probably because he never had the knack for archery, but Emma would never admit that to his face), and Killian just told Liam that he was seeing Emma when his brother got curious.

They’ve gone to lunch, gone to dinner, and have even seen a show at a small public theatre. She’s helped him hone his archery abilities, and not only can he hit the target now, but he’s actually become pretty excellent.

Emma Swan is dating again.

And, more importantly than that, she is actually enjoying herself, enjoying Killian’s constant company.

So when two weeks have passed, Emma can’t help herself—she tells David and Graham that she is available to help with the bachelor’s party the following week that David has already taken charge of, if only to watch Killian show his brother all he’s learned. There’s only four of them: Killian, Liam, Liam’s Navy friend Robin, and his fiancee’s brother-in-law, Kristof.

Her and Killian discussed their plan the night before, the remains of a pizza sitting on the table between them. They agree that it would be a hell of a lot funnier for Liam to challenge Emma after she takes a few shots at him (not literally, of course), because though Liam’s a pretty good shot, he’s nothing compared to two things: Emma and his ego.

So that’s exactly what she does. In her jeans and a plain white tee-shirt, she stands by as David introduces himself as the range-master and goes over a few basic rules: no shooting while anyone’s out at the targets, no matter where on the range they are, no broadheads, one person per target.

Liam takes the first shot, hitting on the line between the fifth and sixth rings. Kristof and Robin both hit in the middle of the sixth. Killian, suddenly feeling much more confident, takes his shot with a chuckle, hitting right outside the gold.

“Damn, Killy,” Robin laughs, clapping him on the shoulder, and Killian turns to glance at Emma out of the corner of his eye, a sly smile on his face. “Who knew you had a knack for archery?”

A few more shots between all of them go the same way, Killian always landing in the seventh and eighth rings save one outlier, where he hits between the second and third rings. Liam takes a particularly terrible shot, missing the target entirely, and Emma’s moment has come.

Still standing behind them, leaning back against one of the poles that hold up the pavilion, she laughs, loud enough for the four of them to hear.

Liam, already angered by his terrible shot, spins to face her, his face covered with an obvious rage, and though her attention is set on the older Jones brother, she can see David's confusion out of the corner of her eye.

“What, you think you could do better than me?”

She pushes herself off the pole with her foot, arms still crossed in front of her. “Uh, yeah,” she replies, sizing up against him even though he’s at least six inches taller than her. “That’s not as much of a challenge as you might like to believe.”

“Ooh!” Kristof and Robin yell together, but Killian just smiles at her.

To no one's surprise but Liam's, Emma outshoots him with four shots in a row, landing in the gold with two of them, but neither of them perfect.

“Come on, brother, you can do better than that, can't you?” Killian jests, but Liam just turns to him, his bright blue eyes piercing daggers.

“Fine!” he says, throwing his hands in the air, still holding the bow in his left. “If you think you can do better, Killian, then by all means, go ahead!”

This is exactly what they were hoping for and Liam steps back to open the target for Killian. Together, they walk out to clear the targets, and when he steps up beside Emma back under the pavilion, he winks at her as discreetly as he can manage.  

He shoots first, a perfect bullseye.

She follows with one of her own.

He shoots again, and the feathers of his arrow land just touching the feathers from his first.

Her second falls in the same position, just on the opposite side. Robin woops at them, amused by the whole thing, standing next to David at the edge of the pavilion as Kristof and Liam stand beside each other behind where Killian is shooting from, arms crossed over their chests as they watch.

Killian's third lands low, just on the inside of the eighth ring, just a hair outside the gold. Emma follows with her arrow landing in the middle of the ninth, putting her ahead.

Time for the last shots. Killian pulls his string back, taking a breath so deep that you can see it in his shoulders, and releases the trigger to watch his arrow land just inside the ninth circle.

Emma does the same, reverberating with the adrenaline of the competition, and lands just above the tenth ring. She hangs her bow on the hook and turns towards her spectators with a smile spread across her face.

A perfect four.

Everyone cheers for Emma, who can't help herself anymore—she reaches across the space between them, fisting the collars of his dark blue button-down as she pulls his lips to hers. At this, all four of their companions fall silent immediately, and when Emma pulls away, she only has eyes for him, even when Liam speaks up as David clears his throat.

“You've been bested then kissed by a girl, Killian,” Liam jokes, and the two of them turn to face him, Emma's fists still grasped onto his shirt.

“I bloody hoped I would be, that would just be embarrassing,” Killian replies, but David seems to be the only one who has figured out what's going on.

“What does that mean?” Robin seems to be the most confused of the three, if Emma can judge by the look on his face and the tone of his voice.

“You should never challenge someone before you know who they are, brother,” is all Killian says before Emma unleashes his shirt and turns to Liam, holding out her hand.

“I'm Emma, David's sister and archery master of the range. I've also been to three world archery tournaments, and taught your brother how to shoot over the past few weeks.” Liam's mouth falls open, unable to respond in any other manner, but Emma turns to Killian to finish her thought: “Oh, and I'm totally in love with your brother.”

She doesn't know what made her say it, but as soon as she does, she knows it's the truth. Yes, it's only been three weeks, but it's been a constant three weeks, more than enough time spent with him to know how she feels.

Killian turns to her, eyes shining with astonishment, but the smile plastered across his face is nothing but admiration.

“Well, that's marvelous, darling, because I'm totally in love with you, too.”

[the-marvel-imagines-blog]

My Marvel Imagines Masterlist

Madness (Loki Laufeyson/OFC, long-fic, In-Progress)

Chapter 1 | The Warrior

The beginning of it all.

Chapter 2 | Him

Eva discovers the warmth of a mother in her Queen, and Frigga finally convinces Eva to embrace her power. With the fear that Loki could be further corrupted in the dungeons, Eva voices her concerns once more before the Allfather only to be turned away again. Sensing her distress, Frigga confides in Eva about her loophole to visiting Loki.

Chapter 3 | Little Wolf

Eva recalls one of her most beautiful memories of Loki. Heimdall urges Eva to find her way back home, but she cannot bring herself to enter the house filled with so many memories of Hjalmar. In a celebration of Hjalmar’s life, Eva drinks her sorrows away, and Thor discusses his feelings for her with his mother.

Chapter 4 | The Day Death Cried

In a horrifying dream, Eva witnesses the birth of Life’s Tree, but it is different than the tales that were told. Still intoxicated from the night of drinking, Eva decides to disobey the King to visit Loki in the dungeons. Eva sifts through the rubble of Loki’s mind to offer him a beautiful memory, but the beauty of it only destroys him more.

Chapter 5 | Thunder in the Rain

After a confrontation with Loki in the dungeons, Eva finds comfort in breaking things and draws the attention of the God of Thunder. Convinced that he played a part in Eva’s grief, Thor reveals a dark secret. While Odin reveals a new version of Asgard’s history to Thor, a new enemy arrives in Asgard, ready to claim the throne.

Chapter 6 | Collateral Damage

In the aftermath of the battle on the Rainbow Bridge with Ezra, Eva shows how merciless she can be to those who threaten her home and the ones she loves. Ezra taunts Loki with the one thing he knows could break the God of Mischief.

Chapter 7 | Betrayal

In a flashback, Eva recalls one of her most painful memories: her encounter with Loki during the Battle of New York. In a desperate attempt to save the man she loves, Eva is willing to let herself fall.

Chapter 8 | Falling

Upset that her voice is unheard and unappreciated while discussing the new threat to Asgard, Eva finds herself searching the Universe for her purpose. In a desperate attempt to save one of her dearest friends, Eva makes an unplanned trip to Midgard.

Chapter 9 | Alone Again

Eva arrives on Midgard just in time to break Tony’s fall, but here mere presence on Midgard is violating the promise she made. Upon meeting a small stranger, Eva learns the nickname the Midgardians gave to her, and she has another vision of the woman from her dreams.

Chapter 10 | Belonging Nowhere

Eva’s departure is felt throughout the whole of Asgard. When the God of Thunder discovers her absence, Heimdall shows how willing he is to live up to the promise he made. Aaldir offers fatherly advice to the worried Prince.

Chapter 11 | The Choice

Eva rediscovers a piece of herself she thought died long ago. In another vision of the past, she witnesses Aaldir making the hardest choice of his life.

Chapter 12 | The Less You Know

Harley reminds Eva of her lost companion. Tony reveals that he is aware of his connection to Eva and asks for a favor that will bring Eva back to a simpler time

Chapter 13 | Once Upon the 40′s

Eva recalls her past with Loki and runs into some very familiar faces along the way, faces she’s never been able to forget.

Chapter 14 | Twice Upon the 40′s

Eva continues to recall her past with Loki and unveils a connection with Tony that she’s kept under wraps for the majority of his life. Tony finally discovers why she broke her promise to stay away.

Chapter 15 | Still

Ezra takes advantage of Loki’s emotions and finds a way into his unguarded mind.

Chapter 16 | Destiny

When the lives of Tony and Harley are in question, Eva discovers just how powerful she can become, and she is faced with a difficult decision.

Chapter 17 | Two Sides of the Same Coin

Bits of truth unfurl when Ezra visits Eva during a vision of the past. Tony asks for help, and Eva is forced to make a difficult decision.

Chapter 18 | Mother

 When Eva is faced with two difficult goodbye’s, she makes a choice that could be detrimental to her future.

Chapter 19 | A Bleeding Rose

Upon returning to Asgard with Harley and Kaia, Eva is surprised to discover where loyalties lie throughout Asgard, and she finds that her plan to visit her beloved has been made easier than she thought it would be.

Chapter 20 | With a Blade of Grass

Eva and Loki experience a night of freedom together and rediscover each other.

Chapter 21 | Godsbane

Eva and Aaldir share a moment before she departs for Midgard once more, and Thor is finally told the story of Asgard’s greatest threat.

Chapter 22 | If I Leave You...

The assault on the Mandarin’s compound proves to have been more than Tony and Eva were prepared to handle, and Killian finds out just how desperate Tony can become when Eva’s life is in question.

Chapter 23 | Keep Me In Your Heart

Tony learns the true meaning of desperation.

Chapter 24 | The Greatest Weakness

Her.

Chapter 25 | Her

Aurora

Chapter 26 | The Greatest Failure

Aurora

Chapter 27 | The Awakening

Thor and Eva have conflicting views on how to handle the situation with Aurora, but Eva’s need to protect her daughter gets in the way of her happiness.

Chapter 28 | The Nameless Ones

Aaldir makes a difficult decision to protect the ones he loves, and Eva shares a heart-to-heart with her enemy.

Chapter 29 | Only Forever

After Ezra’s departure, Eva is confronted by Steve with a bouquet of flowers and a letter.

Chapter 30 | The Storm

Eva reconciles with Thor, and Aurora seeks comfort in the storm.

The One Good Reason (Bucky Barnes/OFC, fic, complete)

Chapter 1 | The Cold Heart of Winter

Tony searches for his daughter, Emma, when she doesn’t make it home for dinner. During his search, he stumbles upon what looked to be a struggle, and his worst fears are confirmed when he receives a call from an enemy from the past: Hydra.

Chapter 2 | The Soldier

In Tony’s ultimate time of need, Steve shows him the meaning of family. Tony receives another call, but this time, Emma is on the other end of the line, asking more of him than he is capable of. Emma finds solace in the shadows of the soldier’s heart.

Chapter 3 | Bucky

In the finale, the Avengers execute their plan to rescue Emma from the Hydra facility. Emma makes a promise to get Bucky out of the facility alive, and in an attempt to keep that promise, she discovers herself and the true meaning of sacrifice.

Lost and Found (Tony Stark/OFC, fic, unfinished)

Chapter 1 | Mr. Trouble

Samantha Lockhart is a struggling single mother working for S.H.I.E.L.D. who was assigned to be Tony Stark’s personal assistant and undercover bodyguard. Desperately wanting to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. to protect her daughter after the events in D.C. revealed the Hydra operation living within, Samantha was all but forced into the job for Tony by a promise she had made to her late protege, Phil Coulson. With a secret family, a lost love, and more baggage than an airport, it’s only a matter of time before her world comes crumbling down around her.

Chapter 2 | My Purpose

Samantha dreams of “the last day” before it’s cut short by Vision’s call in regards to a missing Tony. Vision is the first to discover Samantha’s secret, and she discovers her least favorite part of her job. She discovers just how much she means to some people.

Chapter 3 | A Good Man

In the aftermath of Tony’s drunken disappearance, Samantha cooks him breakfast. Tony feels guilty for so many “last night’s”, and Sam loses control of the situation. Secrets are revealed and Tony realizes just how much good he had with Samantha.

Somewhere In Between (Stephen Strange/OFC, fic, unfinished)

Chapter 1 | Control

As the son of Stephen and Felicity, Liam has witnessed plenty of death, pain, and fear in his life. Nothing could’ve prepared him, though, for losing his mother at the hands of an enemy who had his sights set on Stephen. In a desperate attempt to place blame, Liam turns his back on his father.

Gone (Loki Laufeyson/Reader, fic, unfinished)

Chapter 1 | Unseen

The Midgardian woman who warmed Loki’s frozen heart has been a constant hum in his soul from the moment they met. He has always felt her presence within him, but nothing prepared him for the sudden shift in the universe, when the humming stopped. She was just...gone.

Marvel Characters

Peter Parker

Of Supernovas and Stars (Peter Parker x Female!Reader)

Imagine making snow angels with Peter Parker.

Galway Girl (Galway Girl x Female!Reader)

Imagine being Tony Stark’s daughter and coming out to your best friend, Peter Parker.

Steve Rogers

Daddy’s Girl (Steve Rogers x Female!Reader)

Imagine Steve picking you up for your first date and meeting your father, Logan.

Tony Stark

Something More (Tony Stark x Female!Reader)

Imagine confessing to Tony Stark that you love him.

Just Relax (Tony Stark x Female!Reader)

Imagine Tony Stark helping you relax after a hard day.

Real Person Fiction

Tom Hiddleston

These Hands (Tom Hiddleston x Female!Reader)

NSFW Imagine getting fingered by Tom Hiddleston in a car

Stargazing (Tom Hiddleston x Female!Reader)

Imagine stargazing with Tom Hiddleston.

Chris Evans

Sweet Nothings (Chris Evans x Female!Reader)

Imagine Chris leaving sweet nothings for you around your hotel suite.

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

The Delilah Affair

Note: I promised I would post something and I did...late as fuck. I apologize for that. I literally wrote half last night and then half on the plane today as I was flying from London to the United States. This is probably chalk full of erros and for that I apologize, but I’m jetlagged as hell. I was originally going to write a nightmare fic with Wes, but for some reason this muse stuck with me. It’s kinda the original behind Wes’s long ass hair. Anyway, I’m planning on posting A LOT of stuff this week. It’s going to be crazy. In case you were wondering, the title is based upon the story of Sampson and Delilah. Anyway, happy anniversary to my bestie @welllpthisishappening, who is instrumental behind the creation of this series and without her influence, I wouldn’t even posted this nonsense. Summary: She and Killian weren’t in a bad way when it came to their finances, but they try to save their pennies when they can. So naturally when it came to haircuts, they preferred to do the cutting themselves rather than spend an extra twenty dollars on a professional job in a salon or a barber shop. However, during a routine trim, Emma makes a grave error. Rating: T Word Count: 3,300+

Most people tend to believe that the hardest part about being a parent was the near constant juggling of obligations or the lack of real social life, but for Emma Swan, the hardest part was screwing up. It didn’t happen too often but when it did, she couldn’t help but feel like a failure. She realized how illogical it was to assume everything would go perfectly but still whenever it happened, whether it be a missed football game or forgetting to make dinner, Emma would feel like the worst person in all of the realms.

Which is why when she accidentally sheared Wes’s hair off like sheep wool, she nearly had a mental breakdown.

She and Killian weren’t in a bad way when it came to their finances, if anything, they were in pretty solid shape despite the rather large size of their brood. (She wasn’t entirely terrified by the concept of potentially paying for five college educations as most in her position would be.) Nevertheless, they were frugal in their spending; past experience on both ends dictating that they squeeze each and every penny of its full worth. If a piece of clothing was torn, they were more likely to mend it than purchase a new one. Leftovers from dinner were frozen for later consumption rather than tossed away thoughtlessly. Emma saved every single takeout container they accumulated rather than buying more Tupperware. Their children prepared their own lunches at home under her careful supervision rather than spending money on hot lunches. They weren’t deliberately trying to be austere, it was just an ingrained habit to be cost effective.

So naturally when it came to haircuts, they preferred to do the cutting themselves rather than spend an extra twenty dollars on a professional job in a salon or a barber shop. Both of them had been cutting and maintaining their own hair for years (centuries in Killian’s case), so it wasn’t necessarily a hardship.

And yet, Emma made the most rookie of all rookie mistakes: not checking the setting on the razor before she began her work. (However, in her defense, the razor wasn’t normally set on the lowest setting. Neddy’s preschool class recently had an outbreak of head lice and in a preemptive measure they had shaved his head. Obviously, they had forgotten to change the setting.)

Her error became very apparent when Emma brought the razor against the curve of his head and more hair loped off than anticipated, leaving a large and very noticeable bald spot.

“Oh shit.”

She immediately turned off the device and stared at it in horror. She had been planning on giving Wes a small trim since it had become quite unruly, but instead she had buzzed it down almost entirely to his skull; pale skin peeking through the barely there short blond bristles.

“Mom…what’s going on? Is the razor not working?” Wes asked, completely unaware of his mother’s folly.

Emma didn’t reply; not knowing what to say or do. She just stared at her mistake, internally screaming. She tried to will his hair to grow back with every fiber of her being but no matter how hard she tried, the bald spot remained. (A part of her wished she knew a spell to regrow hair but then again her magic had always been a tad unpredictable and there was no telling what other affects it would have on her son if she tried.)

“Mom…what’s wrong?”

“Mom made a little mistake, kid,” she replied, feeling like the worst parent in the universe.

“What did you do?”

She couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine his panicked expression vividly in her mind; blue eyes the size of dinner plates and lip trembling.

“Ummm…”

“Mom…what did you do?”

She couldn’t bring herself to voice what had happened. When she didn’t speak, Wes immediately reach behind with an inquisitive hand, probing his hair. His fingers stilled when he discovered the patch where Emma had shaved his hair off. She cringed, guilty filling her.

“Mom…” His voice cracked.

“I’m so sorry,” Emma said, dropping the razor and squeezing his shoulders.

“I’m bald.”

“Only in that one spot.”

“I can’t go to school with a bald spot!” he squawked.

“I know! I know! I know!” She pulled her hands away from his shoulders and rubbed at her face, trying to scrub away her mortification. She screwed up majorly. She was the worst.

“What are we gonna do?”

“We could call Regina…” Emma replied, biting her lip.

“She won’t help on this,” Wes replied, shaking his head. There was a slight whine to his voice.

“You don’t know that,” she said sympathetically, rubbing his back.

“No, I know she won’t. Bobbi tried asking her for a spell to get rid of acme and Regina said magic wasn’t a toy and shouldn’t be used for trivial things. And Bobbi legit looked like a pizza face! If she didn’t help Bobbi when she was looking like that, and she loves Bobs, then she’s definitely not gonna help me!”

“I’m sure if I asked her –” “No!” he interrupted her. “That would be so, so, so much worse!”

“Okay, okay, okay! No Regina! I heard you loud and clear,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What do you want me to do, kid?”

“I don’t know…”

“I think I’m gonna have to shave off the rest of it.”

“Seriously?” he groaned.

“I don’t see any other way out of this, kiddo.”

Wes didn’t reply immediately. He just stared at the wall in front of them, shoulders stiff. Emma didn’t necessarily blame him. She had just suggested to shave the rest of his head and there was no telling how that would go.

“Do it,” he replied in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” she sighed, picking up the razor once more. “For what it’s worth, it’s hair and it will go grow back…in like two-three weeks. Hopefully.”

“Might as well be an eternity,” he moaned.

A muscle in Emma’s cheek twitched. A part of her wanted to hit him on the shoulder for his dramatics, but she had to remind herself that this was all her fault in the first place. She was the one who had fucked up.

“Hardly an eternity but for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry. Like really sorry.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled. “I’m gonna look like Leroy, Mom.”

“I don’t think you have the beard to fully pull that look off, kid.”

“But I will look just as ugly.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“But I will,” he insisted.

“You’re gonna look fine,” Emma said firmly. “I’ve seen you bald before when you were a baby. It took literally forever for your hair to come in. You had nearly no hair until you were two and you looked absolutely fine.”

“Yeah, but I was a baby and nobody cares about babies being bald. That’s, like, normal.”

“You know right now, I’m not sure if you’re a baby or not with all that whining you’re doing,” Emma replied, losing her patience. “No, stop whining and hold still while I shave the rest of it. I don’t want to hurt you accidentally.”

Wes let ought another heavy sigh but didn’t offer any further commentary. She took this as a signal that he was going to stop whining and finally let her do her job. She turned the razor back on and went to work, carefully and slowly shaving off the rest of his fair colored-mop. Wes flinched a few times as the razor got a little too close to the sensitive skin of his scalp but Emma, for the most, was patient and gentle with the instrument. She couldn’t help but grimace as she watched the golden strands fall to the floor. Wes was the only one of her children to inherit her fairer complexion and blond hair. While all of her sons all bore a rather strong resemblance to their fathers, Wes was the only one who noticeably had some of Emma’s features; inheriting her cheeks and chin alongside her colouring.

When she was finished, she ran her hand carefully against his scalp; silently mourning the temporary loss of his pale locks. Before her mishap, Wes’s hair was soft and fine, almost silk-like, but now it was barely there and rough against her palm.

“Turn around and let me have a look.”

Wes obeyed but when he faced her, his lips were twisted into a deep scowl and honestly, Emma couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t what she had imagined when she had decided to give him a trim.

“I look horrible, don’t I?” he asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“You look fine,” Emma reassured him, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder.

He didn’t look fine. Maybe the shaved look would have worked for him if he had inherited his father’s darker features but unfortunately he had her fair coloring and without his hair, it also looked like he had no eyebrows. Her second youngest son looked like he belonged on a St. Jude’s charity advertisement.  All he needed was the hospital bed, a pale blue smock and an IV running through his arm.

“You’re lying,” he stated flatly.

“Am not.”

“You are. You always have that funny look on your face when you lie. For someone who is oh so good at detecting lies, you’re positively crap at telling them. Word of advice, Mom, don’t play poker.”

“You’re worrying about this too much,” Emma responded, dodging his statement. As borderline disrespectful as it was, she knew it was the truth. The kid had inherited her blunt and near non-existent social grace. Sometimes she found Wes to be disturbingly similar to her in a way her other children weren’t; sharp acid tongue, weaponized sarcasm, quick sticky fingers and a little angry with the world.

“And now you’re avoiding the subject. I must really look ugly.”

“You don’t look ugly, I promise. You look absolutely fine.”

As she spoke, Harrison and Beth walked into her bedroom, both sweaty and covered in dirt. Blood was trickling from Beth’s chin, which looked nastily scrapped. Despite this, she looked fine, chattering away while her thirteen-year old son nodded obligingly. Both stopped in their tracks when they saw Emma and Wes.

“What happened to you?” Wes asked, gesturing to Beth’s chin.

“Fell out of a tree.” Emma’s nine-year old daughter shrugged casually, as if she were discussing the weather rather than a painful looking facial wound. “Har said he was gonna catch me and totally let me drop. He owes me like a million Star Wars band aids.”

“You don’t need million band aids. That’s overkill and I didn’t do it on purpose!” Harrison replied defensively before regarding his younger brother with a frown. “And what happened to you? You look like a cancer patient.”

Wes’s face colored at the comment and Emma get her second oldest son a reproachful look. Harrison, ever the most observant of her children, also flushed when he noticed his mother’s silent reprimand; tugging on his earlobe and shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

“I was gonna say he looked like a skinhead,” Beth said bluntly.

Harrison punched her arm, frowning at her.

“That wasn’t nice. Do you even know what a skinhead is?”

“Of course, I do!” Beth snapped back, hitting him back. “It’s one of those creepy people that Mom and Dad arrested last week with the bald heads and the crap tattoos and the weird leather and that stuff they were trying to spray paint on the school.”

“It really looks that bad then,” Wes grimaced. He brushed hand against his shorn scalp self-consciously.

“It doesn’t,” Emma said firmly, raising her eyebrows at her other children; signaling to them that they were not to contradict her.

“Well, you don’t look like you…” Harrison replied. “So, it’s…interesting.”

Wes’s flush deepened at his words. He didn’t reply, just ran into the bathroom as he continued to run his hands against his freshly razored hair. He slammed the door behind him with enough force that it nearly caused Emma to jump. As the door shut, Emma turned to glare at her other two children.

“Was that necessary? Seriously, both of you!” she hissed.

“Sorry Mom!” Harrison replied, placing his hands up in surrender.

“He looks like a skinhead!” Beth replied defensively, not as willing as her older brother to admit her blunder.

“Even if he does, you don’t say things like that! That’s a horrible thing to say and I raised you better than that, Elizabeth!” Emma admonished.

Beth wilted a bit under her mother’s scolding, eyes darting down to look at her feet. Harrison took a step away from her, as if distancing himself from his sister would lessen his chances of being yelled at as well.

“Sorry,” her daughter mumbled.

“It’s not me you need to say you’re sorry to,” Emma replied, folding her arms across her chest. “And when he gets out of the bathroom, you’re going to tell him you’re sorry and that you love him and you aren’t going to say mean things anymore. Got it?”

“Got it,” she mumbled, eyes still trained on her feet.

Emma allowed herself to soften a bit, stepping forward and kneeling down so she could inspect her daughter’s face, particularly the bloody scrape on her chin. Now that she was close enough, Emma could see the beginning of a bruise starting to form around her right cheek.

“That must have been a nasty fall. Are you hurt?” she asked gently.

“No.” Beth shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. If there was one thing that Emma knew about her nine-year old, it was that she tried constantly to appear tougher than her brothers. Emma couldn’t decide if this was a product of her environment or something she had inherited from her father.

“Well, if don’t look deep enough to get stitches over. But it definitely needs to be cleaned,” she commented before her eyes flickered in the direction of her son. “There’s hydrogen oxide cleaner in the downstairs cabinet along with some band aids. Help your sister get cleaned and get her an ice pack while I’m tending to your brother who is justifiably traumatized. You are not to tease him. Do you understand me?”

Harrison nodded obediently, placing his hand on his younger sister’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t need an ice pack,” Beth pouted. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“You forget my superpower, kid,” Emma responded, tapping her on the nose. “I know when you’re lying and that definitely looks like it hurts. Just be good for Harrison.”

With that Emma clapped her hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a brief moment than turned to head towards the bathroom, where her son was more likely than not freaking out about his hair loss. She rapped her knuckles gently against the door.

“Westley? Kid? Can I come in?”

She sighed quietly when she received no response. She pushed the door open as gently as she could. Wes was standing in front of the mirror, hands slightly quivering as they ran over his shorn hair. He looked miserable.

“Oh kid,” Emma sighed, moving behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She placed a kiss on the top of his head. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault…”

“I look like Caillou, Mom,” he replied miserably. “No one likes Caillou. He’s annoying and bald and even Neddy hates him and that kid would cuddle the Black Fairy.”

“You do not look like Caillou, Wes. It’s gonna grow back. I promise…” Emma replied helplessly. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault…”

“What am I going to do? People are gonna laugh at him. Bobbi is going to totally take tons of pictures of this so she can torture me with them. Even Gideon is going to laugh.”

“Gideon is not going to laugh and Bobbi is not going to take pictures of you, I promise. I’m not gonna let that happen to you.”

“You can’t stop them” he replied stubbornly.

“But I can.”

“How?”

“How is not important. It’s going to happen. It’s my job as the Savior, kid. If I can’t protect you, then I can’t protect anyone.”

Wes didn’t say anything. He just scowled at his reflection in the mirror, which made it quite to clear to her that he didn’t necessarily believe her. Emma sighed, placing her hand on his head, rubbing circles against the skin. Her thumb grazed the thin delicate shell of his ear and she couldn’t help but notice how pointed the tips of it was.

“You got your dad’s ears along with his eyes, kid,” she thought aloud.

“No, I look like bald elf.”

“You don’t. You look like your dad. Especially without the blonde.”

“Dad’s not bald.”

“I think you’re focusing a little too much on the baldness, kid,” she replied, tugging on his ear.

“Yeah because it makes me look like a freak!” he said bitterly. His posture then deflated, shoulders sagging and lip trembling. His eyes met hers in the mirror and the sad look in them was a direct stab in her heart. Wes, who was seemed so confident and so resilient, looked ready to cry. “I can’t go out in public looking like this, Mom…”

“I’m sorry.” She repeated the two words she had been saying all night. There was nothing else she could say except those words.

“I know,” he huffed, annoyed. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.” She rested her head on top of his as she ran her hands from down his arms in what she hoped was a smoothing manner. “I don’t know how but I’m going to figure this out and we’re gonna get through this…”

“How?”

Emma was silent for a moment as she tried to think of a solution. There was absolutely nothing they could do about his hair now, but it was very clear to her that her son would avoid going out in public in such state if he could help it. He needed something to cover it. Perhaps a hat.

She then smiled as an idea hit her. She placed a quick kiss on his head.

“Wait here. I have an idea.”

She immediately left the bathroom and made a beeline to her closet. She reached for the cardboard box, which held all of her winter things. She smiled as she pulled out one of her numerous beanies. It was black and made from one of the most softer materials she owned.

When she returned to the bathroom where Wes was still agonizing, she immediately placed the beanie on his head, folding the brim so it fit snug and covered the tips of his ears.

“There,” she smiled. “Now you can’t tell that you have no hair.”

“Where did you get the beanie?”

“It’s from the Emma Swan collection.”

Wes scrunched his nose in response.

“So it’s a girl beanie?”

“Kid, it’s black. Black doesn’t have a gender I’m pretty sure so who cares? The point is that no one can see the hack job that I did to your hair…Also, for once, you kinda look like me…with the beanie and the red hoodie…it’s about time I got a Mini Me,” she replied, placing another kiss on his head.

“Beth kinda looks like you.”

“Beth is almost disturbingly your father personality wise. You and I both know that,” Emma chuckled. “And then there’s  the conspiracy theory that Har is really a clone gone wrong. And don’t get me started on Neddy…”

Wes merely arched his eyebrows at her in response.

“Sorry,” she chuckled. “Either way, how are we feeling about the beanie?”

“I’m not sure my teachers will let me wear it in school, but yeah. It looks okay. I mean, it’s not bad for a girl beanie.”

“Beanies don’t have genders, but I can talk to your teachers about letting you wear it until your head comes back.”

“Okay. The beanie can stay, but Mom?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not touching my hair ever again.”

[dani-ellie03]

Fic: Wednesday’s Child (13/?)

Title: Wednesday’s Child Summary: The next time Emma Swan wanted magical help, she was on her own. Because now they were stuck with a pint-sized savior who clearly had an attitude problem and a terrified but pretending not to be pre-pirate. Spoilers: If you’re current, we’re good. Rating/Warning: PG-13, mostly for safety. Family angst/fluff, as per usual. Disclaimer: Once Upon a Time and its characters were created by Eddy Kitsis and Adam Horowitz and are owned by ABC. I’m just borrowing them but I’ll put them back when I’m finished! —–

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At ff.net and below.

Tagging @shealivedarnit (If anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know!)

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Even with the added complication of dealing for five, Go Fish could only carry a family for so long. After two full games – make that three for Henry and Killian, who'd played the first game on their own – it was clear that Henry's impromptu playmates were getting antsy. Poor Emma was trying her hardest to settle a wriggling Neal while, seemingly in response to their shared discomfort, Killian shifted position on the blanketed floor every few minutes.

Henry caught his grandparents' eyes, who both nodded their permission. Yes, it was high time they found another activity to occupy the children. "I don't know about anyone else," Henry said as he collected everyone's paired cards, "but I'm all Go Fished out."

"Yeah, same here," Emma agreed. "I think the squirt's done, too."

A touched smile lit David's face at his little daughter's use of the affectionate nickname her adult incarnation had given her baby brother. "It certainly looks like he is," he agreed, his voice soft. "Let me see if I can settle him."

After slipping his little prince from his little princess's arms, David did a quick check of the baby's diaper. Neal must have been wet because David excused himself to go change him.

Oh, there was no way in this world or any of the others that Henry was going to tell his ten-year-old mom that her baby brother had been fidgeting because he'd wet his diaper while sitting on her lap. An adult would have been able to take that news in stride, of course, but a ten-year-old would more than likely be grossed out.

Henry should know. He'd been a ten-year-old not that long ago.

With David gone,Snow and Henry were left to figure out the family's next activity. The thunder seemed to have let up a bit but since whipping wind splattered the pouring rain against the windows, outside activities were a no go. Heck, any activities that required leaving the blanket fort were probably a no go. Whether little Killian's fear of storms was restricted to thunder and lightning, Henry wasn't sure, but he was not about to put it to the test.

Although, how adorable was it that little Killian was afraid of storms? This little boy would eventually grow up to be a fearsome pirate captain who could sail through the worst storms the ocean had to offer. When had he outgrown the fear? And how?

Knowing what he did of his stepfather's past, though, Henry wondered if he even really wanted to know.

A heavy sigh escaped Henry's lips. None of this mental meandering was helpful. It would be a good hour before his grandma would even consider getting lunch ready and they still had two little kids to occupy until then.

Thinking up family activities was hard.

After another moment of thought, it came to him. "Mary Margaret, you still have all those art supplies, right?"

A smile lit his grandmother's face. "I do indeed. Everyone who wants to draw, please raise your hand."

As Henry had hoped they would, both Emma and Killian stuck their hands in the air. After all, what little kid didn't like to draw?

Teaching elementary school for twenty-eight years during the first Curse had pretty much left Snow with enough leftover art supplies to open a craft store. She kept the bulk of her collection in a big green plastic tote, the kind used for storing things in attics or basements. In the apartment, she'd kept the tote tucked into a corner of her bedroom closet but Henry didn't know where she'd stored it in the farmhouse.

"I'll be right back," Snow said now and ducked out of the blanket fort, presumably to retrieve the tote.

"What are we going to draw, Henry?" Killian asked as he rearranged the blankets and pillows on the floor around him to make himself a little drawing nest.

"We're going to draw whatever we want," Henry replied with a smile. Sometimes it was hard to believe that this little boy was Killian. The innocence in the boy's eyes was so different from the Killian Henry knew. How many awful things had the boy experienced to tear that innocence away piece by piece?

"What if we're not very good at drawing?" Emma asked, her voice soft.

In some ways, it was easier to believe that this little girl was Emma. Though she was sometimes unsure of herself in a way that adult Emma wasn't, she still had the same manner of searching for sincerity, of feeling people out before letting them in. Very little of the innocence in Killian's eyes remained in Emma's.

"It doesn't matter if you're not very good at drawing," he said, swallowing a lump that had unexpectedly arisen in his throat. "You can color or do whatever you want. You could even try to draw what you're comfortable with. You just might end up surprising yourself."

Emma gave him a tiny, grateful smile.

Footsteps trailed down the stairs, quieting the children. The footsteps bypassed the living room and headed to the kitchen. A moment later, the radio in the kitchen snapped on, tuned to the oldies station. "We need some working music!" Snow called on her way back to the blanket fort, much to the children's amusement.

Playing the oldies station was a pretty smart idea on his grandmother's part, Henry figured. Going by simple math, little Emma's musical knowledge ended at the early 90s. Hearing songs produced after the grunge era might have made her ask too many questions.

Snow returned to the blanket fort then, plastic tote in hand and old copies of The Daily Mirror resting on the closed lid. She set the tote down and removed the lid as she plopped down next to Emma. "Wow," Emma whispered when she spied the veritable art supply hoard in the tote.

"If you've ever wondered what happens to the art supplies in your classroom when the school year is over, now you know," Snow laughed.

"You're a teacher?" Emma asked, raising her gaze to Snow's. When Snow nodded, Emma smiled. "I should have guessed. You're good with kids."

The girl resumed digging through the tote, completely oblivious to the touched smile lighting Snow's suddenly watery eyes. Henry saw it, though, and gave his grandmother a smile. She returned the smile, blinked back her tears, and rested her hand on the small of her little girl's back. "All right, everyone, let's get to it."

True to her concerns, Emma chose a coloring book and a ninety-six-count box of crayons. Killian dug out a sketch book and charcoal pencils while Henry grabbed a pad of drawing paper and a package of colored pencils. Snow handed out sheets of newspaper, while instructing the children to put them underneath their chosen canvases. "I'd rather not have to wash crayon or pencil out of my linens."

"Yep, totally a teacher," Emma teased.

Henry looked up, wide-eyed. That was the first time little Emma had joked with them! The progress must have given Snow courage because she rubbed a couple of circles over Emma's back before asking, "May I share your crayons?"

"Sure," Emma shrugged, shifting the box so that both she and Snow could reach it. Snow smiled, snatched a coloring book from the tote, and settled down next to her daughter.

As everyone got to work – and Emma hummed along with the songs on the radio, which was in all honesty as too adorable for words – Henry snapped a quick picture of the kids and Snow and texted it to Regina with the caption, "Family art time."

Moments later he received a text not from his mom but from his formerly wicked aunt: Tell your grandmother that I've changed my price after that picture. I need to see these two in person.

Henry chuckled and handed the phone over to his grandmother. "Tell them to come over at 12:30 for lunch," Snow said, smirking as she handed Henry his phone back. "We're having grilled cheese."

He relayed the message and swallowed a laugh when the reply came in: Why does the menu not surprise me? We'll be there.

Thinking quickly, Henry also texted his mom to ask if she could bring him some of his old chapter books. Crayons and coloring books wouldn't hold two antsy children for very long, either.

"Who's coming over for lunch?" Emma asked as she frowned down at the picture of a cartoon witch seated on a broom with a cat on her lap that she'd chosen to color. The book she'd grabbed was filled with pictures for all the annual holidays. Somehow it didn't surprise Henry that his little mom had gone straight for the Halloween pictures. She did seem to be having trouble deciding what color to use for the embellishments on the witch's dress, though.

"Regina and her sister," Snow answered. The coloring book she'd chosen depicted birds and forest scenes, also not a surprise to Henry.

"Will they be able to fit in the blanket fort, too?" a somewhat distracted Killian asked. On the paper in front of him, a sketch of a tall-masted ship on a roiling ocean had begun taking shape. Idly, Henry wondered if the weather outside had at all played a part in Killian's chosen scene.

"Of course they can," Emma replied, smiling up at the little boy. "This is the hugest blanket fort ever!"

Killian laughed and returned his full attention to his drawing.

Henry smiled as well and looked down at his own drawing. He and Killian – well, adult Killian – had started having a kind of art class during the evenings after homework and deputy duties were done for the day. Killian's style was realistic while Henry's lent itself more to cartoon illustration but he certainly appreciated the advice his stepfather had given him. And he was using that advice now, working on a cartoon depicting his grandmother and his little mom lying side by side on their stomachs as they shared a box of crayons. A napping Wilby taking up residence on Emma's other side made the entire scene that much cuter.

Something told him that the drawing would end up on his grandparents' refrigerator from now until he went off to college.

For a couple of minutes, the only sounds were the rain pattering the roof and windows, the wind whistling outside, and Emma humming along with the radio. When David returned to the blanket fort with a freshly changed and calm Neal, the baby's babbling broke the comfortable semi-silence. "What did we miss?" David asked as he sat down cross-legged on a pillow and nestled Neal in his lap.

"Free art period," Henry said with a nod towards the tote. "Grab some supplies and have at it. Oh, and Regina and Zelena are coming over for lunch."

As David retrieved a thick red crayon, a sheet of white construction paper, and a page of newsprint, he chuckled. "Someone's price changed, I take it."

"Indeed it did," Snow laughed, causing Henry to smirk and Emma and Killian to exchange a bewildered frown. After a beat, though, the kids shrugged at each other and returned to their artwork.

Henry didn't go back to his drawing, though. He simply sat back and took in the little family scene in front of him. Little Emma and Killian lay head to head on their stomachs, their feet in the air. Snow had taken her attention off the coloring book and was now focused on her little daughter beside her as if trying to memorize her like this.

David sat with his back to the entrance to the fort, guiding little Neal's hand with the crayon gripped in it along the paper. Clearly he hadn't felt right about Neal watching the other kids color without participating in the activity himself. Without calling attention to it, Henry snapped a picture of them to use as a reference after he finished the drawing of Emma and Snow.

Just as Henry was about to get back to his drawing, a little voice singing stopped him. It took him a moment to realize that Emma was singing along to Dusty Springfield's "Son of a Preacher Man."

Henry exchanged a surprised look with his grandparents. As a general rule, Emma Swan did not sing – though there had been certain exceptions here and there – and here she was, singing along as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Henry noted with amusement that David also looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if hearing those lyrics in his little girl's voice was raising his overprotective-dad hackles. (Not that little Emma had any idea what the words she was singing actually meant.)

The magic was broken when Emma changed out her crayon and spotted the three of them staring at her. "Why are you all looking at me like that?" she asked, frowning.

Oh, crap. How could they explain that they were simply fascinated by the sound of her little voice? Thankfully, Snow once again managed to strike the perfect balance between not giving her the complete truth and not telling a lie. "That song came out years before you were born. How do you know it?"

Emma shrugged. "One of the ladies at one of my group homes liked the oldies and this one was her favorite. I only know it so well because she played it over and over and over again."

Everyone chuckled. "Well, don't let us stop you, kiddo," David said softly.

Emma smiled, plucked the black crayon out of the box, and set about coloring the cat while finishing out the song in a soft murmur.

"Mary Margaret?" Killian said after a beat.

"Yes, Killian?"

"Even though it's storming out, I'm having fun a lot of today."

"Yeah, me too," Emma added.

Snow, Charming, and Henry all shared a touched look. Talk about heartwarming! "I'm very glad," Snow said, smiling tenderly at the children, "because we are, too."

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Chapter Fourteen