#to see people missing out on that because they're listening to the gloom and doom squad

[statementlou]

why do you think louis said this might be the only time he plays at the hollywood bowl? do you reckon it might be because his tickets sales aren’t going well and he was told that it won’t be possible to book venues like these next tour? that made me kinda sad :((

every day I get asks being like "do you think [random thing that happened in the last 24 hours] is because Louis' ticket sales are so bad?" and it's obviously just annoying harries with nothing better to do than try to make people unhappy (TPWK!!!) and maybe they're just getting cleverer here and have tricked me, but this sounds like it might actually be a person who they are getting to with this garbage and have made unhappy so fine, I'll bite-

Louis' ticket sales are going FINE!!!! He is playing great shows every night and is on target for the tour he has booked and everything he's doing is completely sustainable and if nothing changes (which it will, for the bigger; he has been picking up more fans every year) he can keep touring like this (and playing these venues) indefinitely! The idea that every show that doesn't sell out is a failure is made up and makes no sense- if every show sold out there would be people who wanted to give them money but were unable to do so. That is not how capitalism (and growing your fanbase) work for any working musicians outside the top .00001% biggest in the world! If your venues sell out, then next time you book bigger ones, and you keep doing that until you hit a size where it doesn't sell out so everyone can buy buy buy those tickets. I can't know for sure why Louis said what he said; but he is constantly in disbelief that things are going as well as they are for him and while this album and tour especially he seems to have finally started to believe we really do like what he does and aren't going anywhere, I think that's still there and that's what I heard with that. I mean also it could be next time he plays LA he ends up in an equal size but less iconic venue and booking never lines up with that space again or something, for all I know it's really hard to get on their schedule. Hollywood Bowl is a historic and renowned venue and Louis was excited to play on a stage that has hosted so many famous people and moments and was trying to be in the moment and appreciate it (as he has been focused on making an effort to do lately) because the future is a mystery and anything that is ever happening might never come around again, but I don't think it's cause for concern.

[amazingmsme]

Don’t Be Silly

AN: can’t believe it’s already been a full week & I just about have all of next week fully written & ready to post as well! Here’s some wolf 359 fluff for y’all to enjoy, so let’s hear it for day 7! But first, quick question: can an ai be ticklish? Idk but Eiffel’s about to find out

Eiffel was a talker. Honestly, he could talk about anything if only there were someone willing to listen. Back home, few people cared to listen to his ramblings. Minkowski and Hilbert cared even less. And he didn't even want to try with Lovelace...

Hera wasn't like the rest of them. She would happily listen to him all day, and call him crazy, but he didn't think her interest was forced. No, she had a natural curiosity about her that drew her towards him like a magnet. She often kept him company as he rambled to the empty abyss of space, unsure if there even were any "dear listeners" out there.

She liked listening to him talk. She's surprisingly learned quite a lot from him. About earth, mostly. She supposed it was natural to miss your home when you're so far away from it.

He liked telling her about the things he missed. She didn't quite understand why, as he always seemed melancholy after their talks. But he would speak with such fond excitement, so it must bring him some joy to express his longing.

Today, he was talking about the weather of all things.

"Yup, you really don't know what you have until it's cruelly stripped away from you. But I miss it all. Yes dear listeners, I never thought I'd say this, but I miss allergies! I miss the cottonwood in the spring, in all its shitty, fuzzy glory and I miss the fucking ragweed! I want to go outside and sneeze my ass off and squint at everything I look at because it's too damn bright and I forgot my sunglasses because it was supposed to be cloudy and it's sunny out of nowhere!"

"That... doesn't really sound fun."

"Yeah, well, it's not. But it's at least real," he lamented, fiddling with a knob that did nothing. Or if it did, he wasn't aware.

Hera's breath hitched, and she hoped she could mask it as just a glitch. That was odd. She felt that. It wasn't the first time she could "feel" in a sense. She was deeply connected to her electronic mechanisms and coding, and she would definitely feel if something damaged either. She has sensors all around the ship: in the walls the ceilings, the equipment, she even has a few exterior sensors along the sides and docking bays. She'd felt that odd tingle shoot through her wires on a few rare occasions, but it had always been fleeting. Minkowski pressing random buttons on the motherboard to see what they did, Eiffel fixing a dent too close to a sensor, Minkowski clicking and dragging the mouse across the screen... If she could, she would've shuddered at the thought. She tried to focus on what he was saying.

"And they're always right! I don't know how, but every damn time a patch sprouts up, it rains! Guess that's where they got the name though, right?"

"What?"

"The rain flowers," he clarified, tapping his fingers on some buttons. Truth be told, most of the buttons and dials in the coms room were for show, like the decorative smoke stack on the Titanic. The real controls were localized to a single panel, and she had always assumed they had no effect on her. Now, she was glitching out as she fought the urge to laugh.

"Right, right," she agreed, wishing he would just stop twisting that knob.

Of course, she could never be so lucky.

"I tell ya, there's nothing like a good thunderstorm, a rocking chair on an enclosed porch, a cigarette and a cold beer. I really mean it, that is paradise. You can take your sunny beaches with all that fucking sand, I'm a doom and gloom weather kinda guy. But don't get me wrong! I'd literally kill to be on a nice, secluded beach-" he rambled on wistfully, dreaming of all the places that were better than here. She was having trouble focusing when his other hand tapped the empty keyboard, all the while he still played with that fucking dial-

"Wow, okay, glad my heartfelt longing is so funny," he sassed, seemingly out of nowhere. Then she realized, with subsequent horror, that he was giggling. What the hell was going on with her? She needed to get a grip, or maybe a systems reboot, have Minkowski check her wiring, whatever it was, she'd do that later. It took more effort to stop laughing than she would like to admit.

“N͞-͓̫̬̞ͩͮ́n͚̓̃͆̇͘͞o̲̮̼͍̿̀͠, I wasn't laughing at you!" She glitched slightly as she spoke, which wasn't exactly out of the norm for Hera, but it did make Eiffel pay more attention to what she was trying to say.

"Yeah? Then what's so funny?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. Well, at least he'd stopped fiddling with that stupid dial.

"Well, I, uh... Ï̶͈ͣt̵͖͌ͧͥ̎̀’̆͘s̨̯ hard to explain," she struggled to come up with a straight answer.

"Yeah, yeah," he brushed her off, rolling his eyes.

"I promise I wasn't laughing at you!"

"Oh sure, I believe you!"

"Eiffel!" she whined, catching a glimpse of a smile. "I really wasn't! It's just... I don't know, maybe I have a wire loose somewhere." That seemed to make him concerned, which was the opposite of what she was going for.

"Are you okay? It doesn't hurt, does it?"

"No, it's nothing like that," she was quick to put his worries at ease. "But I'd appreciate it if you stopped messing with that control panel."

"Why? This one doesn't do anything," he back talked, purposefully pressing down on a few buttons. "See? Nothing happened!"

He didn't receive a response. Hera was too busy focusing on containing her laughter, but her lack of a response only served to pique his interest.

"Hera? You there?"

"Mhm!"

His smile looked... different somehow. He thought for a second before finally speaking, "Hey so I've got a question. And I've just been dying to know... Can an AI be ticklish?"

The question threw her off guard, and a short giggle slipped out. "Whahat? N-̭͎́n͊͞o, that's impossible! Come on Eiffel, d-̝͈̑dŏṅ̮’t͓͕͌ be silly."

"See, I'm not sure how impossible it actually is. I mean, you're pretty advanced-"

"Why would an AI even be ticklish?"

Eiffel shrugged. "I don't know, why do you feel pain?" Hera scoffed, and okay, yeah, blunt question.

"Probably to alert me to the well being of the ship. But that serves a purpose!"

"Maybe this does too," he taunted, reaching over to twitch the dial and she couldn't help but shriek.

"Eiffel! Dohohon't!"

"I knew it! You are ticklish! You know, they probably programmed you like this so we'd have some form of entertainment up here."

If she could, she'd be blushing right now. "They did nohohot!" she insisted. The worst part was that she really didn't know why, and that sounded like a cruel, ironic punishment they'd inflict on her. Sure, give the rogue AI the most embarrassing human weakness.

Except... she wasn't entirely sure it was a built in punishment. What if they had designed her specifically to feel more human? Or was it truly just the way her sensors reacted to certain input?

"No no, I can see what they were going for! It's like a video game!" he chuckled gleefully, continuing to play with the extra control panel.

"Shut up, noho it's not!" she scolded. He added his other hand to the mix, pressing buttons and flipping switches. She squealed, and the lights began to flicker.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? Just think of all the fun you've been missing out on!"

"Ahahahactually I haven't been missing out ohon anything," she sassed before a loud squeal burst from her speakers.

"Well I have! I've been curious about this for months!" he exclaimed, continuing to press the buttons randomly.

Months? No, he wasn't serious, he was just saying that to mess with her! He would've asked as soon as the question entered his mind, like today. If he thought she was ticklish, he would've tried something long before now. But then she remembered all the times in the past few weeks where he would press random buttons, flip switches and pull levers at random. He even willingly offered to do repairs on some severed wires, and he made sure to take as much time as possible. She was able to brush off her reactions then, claiming it just pinched a little. Had he known the whole time?

"Wait ahaha second, Eiffehehel did you know?" she accused before he sent her into another giggle fit as he slid the faders up and down on the board.

"I just wanted to test it out and see-"

"You sneaky little bihihitch!"

"Eh, I've been called worse," he shrugged off the insult.

"Why dihidn't you tell mehehe?" The sincerity of the question made Eiffel pause.

"I... thought you knew?"

"How would I know?"

"Uh, because you can feel it," he deadpanned. Hera really wished she could roll her eyes.

"Well, yeah, but I didn't know what it was! I thought it was like... a bug in my system or something!"

"Oh it's a bug alright," he grinned devilishly. "A tickle bug!" To make his point, he pressed as many buttons as he could with his left hand and turned the dial with his right. Hera squealed, and she didn't even know her voice box went up that high.

"Eiffel! Ihihi'm serious!"

"Alright, I'll stop. For now," he added cryptically, but true to his word, he retracted his hands.

Hera panted for "breath," even though she didn't technic need to. But Eiffel understood the need to compose yourself, and didn't call her out on it.

"You're insufferable!" she finally said, amusement still clear in her voice.

"That's what they tell me," he proudly agreed. "So? What's the verdict?"

"Huh?"

"What're your thoughts on... all that," he gestured vaguely with his hand. She really wished he'd stop moving his fingers like that.

"Oh! Um, w̋ͩ-w̵̷̝el̥̺̏l͍, it felt kinda like my whole system was getting shocked, and I'm pretty sure I've never laughed that much before," she began to explain shyly.

"I didn't hear you say you hated it," Eiffel probed a little deeper.

"I̺͙̯ͦ͛̌ͧ-̲͖̭̝Ì̡-̘̣̈́͡͠I̵̜͗͆ͩͪ͜ d̈́ͨ̑̍̊̿̀i̘̳dň̰̯̯́’̭t͟-" Hera glitched slightly, and she started over. "Hate is a strong word." He didn't say anything else; he didn't have to. He just smiled and shook his head.

Hera found herself stuck halfway between excitement and dread for what the future held in store.

[hookedonapirate]

Feels Like Home

Summary: Who knew how challenging it could be to run a funeral home with his brother while raising a daughter who’s growing up way too fast?

In order to lift some of the responsibilities off Killian's shoulders, Liam hires a mortuary beautician so his brother doesn’t miss out on the finer aspects of being a single parent. Killian’s initially opposed to the idea of hiring someone to do a job he can easily do himself, but when they hire Emma Swan, she might just have the right touch to put some life into the funeral home and add a little light to the darkness that’s been looming over the house since Killian’s wife died.

Emma's been living in her camper, trying to find her roots while pursuing her dream of going to Hollywood. But when an opportunity literally knocks on her door and she decides to give Storybrooke a shot, she sees an ad for a beautician job. But her clients aren't exactly what she was expecting—they're dead. As a cosmetologist, her job is to beautify people; she’s just not used to her clients missing a heartbeat. But it turns out, a funeral home and the people who live there make her feel more at home than she’s ever felt before. Besides, who needs glamour, glitz and celebrities when you can have doom and gloom and lifeless corpses? Not to mention a pain-in-the-ass boss who criticizes everything she does.

A/N: I'm not sure what possessed me to write this, but I was thinking about this movie a few weeks ago and rewatched it. Then this fic happened. And don't worry, it doesn't follow the movie scene by scene, it focuses on the adults more than the children, so I can assure you, Henry doesn't die from bee stings. The fic will talk about death and embalming (while doing research and watching videos, I learned way too much about the embalming process) but that's to be expected with a story that takes place in a funeral home.

A shout out to @hollyethecurious for helping me brainstorm and for the name, Beatrice. I was trying to think of a good name for Killian and Milah's daughter, and she pointed out it could be a female spin on Bae. Also a huge thank you to @ultraluckycatnd and @snowbellewells for beta reading!

This title comes from the song by Chantal Kreviazuk—Feels Like Home. I was trying to think of a good title for this story, and I usually listen to songs or look at lyrics for inspiration, so when I listened to this song, it just immediately clicked, and I had to use this title. If you ask me, this song should be Emma's theme song; it just fits her so perfectly It's also fitting for this fic because funeral homes are normally associated with death and sadness and grief, but in this story, Emma quickly associates this particular funeral home with a new beginning and hope and friendship and eventually love and of course, home.

Rated: Mature

Also available on: AO3 FF.N

Chapter 1

“Papa, did you hear the news about Henry?” Killian’s eleven-year-old daughter climbs up onto the kitchen stool, her long, dark hair falling around her shoulders.

As he grabs the frying pan from the stove and transfers the scrambled eggs to a plate of buttered toast and sausage, he eyes her curiously. Whatever the news is, it can’t be too bad, considering there isn’t a hint of sadness or worry on her face. In fact, the way she looks at him with those big, sparkling blue eyes and an eagerness to keep his attention, reminds him so much of her mother, it makes his heart swell. And it doesn’t help that she wears her mother’s ruby red class ring around her finger.

Milah died of postpartum cardiomyopathy days after giving birth to Beatrice. Her condition was misdiagnosed as a typical pregnancy in her third trimester, and her doctor had written off her symptoms such as frequent night-time urination, fatigue, shortness of breath even when lying down, low blood pressure, heart palpitations and swollen ankles.

Killian was so angry and upset after he lost Milah, he threatened to sue the hospital and called her doctor a quack to his face. Luckily, his brother was there to talk some sense into him. Liam may be a stubborn arse at times, but he’s always been there for Killian. He’d been there to help Killian change his daughter’s diapers when he had no clue what he was doing; he was there to help him plan his wife’s funeral. He’d been there for Beatrice’s first steps and her first words and every other milestone she’s experienced. Of course, it helps that Liam lives here with them and is typically always available when needed. Still, Liam has never once turned his back on his brother or niece, and for that, Killian will be forever grateful.

“What news, Birdie?” he asks, placing the plate in front of her and planting a kiss on the top of her head as he runs a hand through her hair.

Beatrice grabs her fork and takes a bite of scrambled egg, mumbling her answer. “Henry found his mum.”

“How many times have I told you not to eat with your mouth full?” Killian grabs a small glass from the cupboard and fills it with orange juice, cocking a brow at her. “I wasn’t aware the mayor was missing.”

She shakes her head as he sets the cup next to her plate. “No, his real mum.”

Normally, Killian would argue and say an adoptive mother is a real mum in just about every sense of the word, but they’re talking about Regina, who’s not exactly what he would consider mother of the year. Henry spends most of his time here at a funeral home—where there’s almost always a dead person in one room or the other—rather than at his own home, which says a lot. Killian fills his mug with fresh coffee. “Is that so?”

She cocks her head to the side and gives him a deadpan look. “Papa, would I lie to you?”

“Lie about what?” Liam’s deep voice booms through the kitchen as he enters with the newspaper under his arm and a mug in the other hand. “Morning, little love.” He drops a kiss to the crown of her head and nods at Killian. “Little brother.”

Killian and his daughter both groan.

“It’s younger brother.”

“And I’m not little, Uncle Liam. I’m a young lady.”

Liam chuckles and shakes his head as he takes a seat on the stool across from his niece as he looks over at Killian. “She may look like her mother, but she certainly gets her sass from you.”

Killian rolls his eyes at his brother and grabs two plates, filling them with the breakfast he’d prepared.

“We were talking about Henry finding his biological mum,” Beatrice answers her uncle, taking a sip of her drink. When she sets down the glass, she licks the orange juice mustache off her upper lip. “He found her through a website called whosyourmama.org, got on a bus, went to Boston and knocked on her door.”

Liam sets down his newspaper, just as intrigued by this conversation as Killian is.

“Wait, you’re talking about your friend, Henry...” Killian’s brows are knitted with confusion as he hands Liam a plate of food, “...who’s ten years old?” He takes the stool next to her, setting down his plate and coffee mug. “He just got on a bus and went to Boston? By himself?” His heart clenches at the thought of his daughter doing something like that. He doesn’t even know what he’d do if that happened. He’d be so out of his mind with worry, he’d end up in an insane asylum. But he guesses that’s the difference between him and Henry’s mother, Regina.

She bobs her head. “Yep. When Henry didn’t return home by his curfew, Regina called the sheriff to report him missing. But by the time Graham showed up, Henry returned with his mum.”

Killian exchanges a look with his brother. “That’s bloody frightening to think about.” He looks at Beatrice. “If you ever did something like that, I’d have a heart attack, and your uncle would be planning my funeral.”

Beatrice rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Papa.”

“Call it whatever you want, but it’s true.”

“My niece is right. You’re a drama queen,” Liam teases, taking a sip of his coffee.

Killian scowls and shoves a forkful of egg into his mouth. “I am not a drama queen.”

Liam looks at Beatrice sternly. “He’s right about one thing, though. If you ever went missing, we’d go crazy and turn Maine upside down looking for you.”

She sighs dramatically. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to run away.”

“How did Henry even get the money to pay whosyourmama.org? Wouldn’t that require a credit card?”

“He stole our teacher’s card from her purse.”

Killian’s mouth falls open in shock. It’s unlike Henry to do something like that. “Which teacher?”

“Mrs. Nolan.”

“Well, it’s a good thing he stole from someone as nice as her. I doubt she’d press charges.”

“According to Henry, his mum is going to the school with him to pay her back.”

“Well, that’s decent of Regina to do.”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Not Regina. Emma.”

“You mean Henry’s biological mum?” Liam asks before taking a bite of toast.

“Yes. Henry told me via Google chat.”

“Well, if you ask me, that’s the least she could do, considering she gave up her own child,” Killian grumbles into his coffee mug.

“She was seventeen when she had Henry. She was trying to give him his best chance.”

“Giving him his best chance would be keeping him, if you ask me. Regina doesn’t give two bloody shites about him.”

“She’s the mayor. She has the weight of the entire town on her shoulders. That’s a tremendous responsibility.” Beatrice grabs the jar from the middle of the kitchen island and places it in front of her father. “And that’s a quarter in the swear jar.”

Killian sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “Bloody hell.” He'd started the swear jar years ago to prevent sailor talk around his daughter, from both him and Liam. But obviously, it doesn't work very well.

“That’s fifty cents,” Liam points out with a shit-eating grin.

Killian grabs two quarters and tosses them onto the mountain of coins already in the jar. “It’s a miracle I’m not broke by now.”

Beatrice shrugs. “You could always stop cursing.”

Liam stabs a piece of sausage and points it at her. “The little lady’s right.” He shoves the sausage into his mouth as Beatrice rolls her eyes.

“It’s young lady.”

“So is this Emma staying in Storybrooke now?” Killian asks curiously.

“I think so. She almost went back home, but Henry begged her to stay. Regina wasn’t happy about it, but if there’s anyone who can make demands from the queen of Storybrooke, it’s her ten-year-old son.”

“Must be nice to just pick up everything, quit your job and leave everything else behind at the drop of a hat,” Killian says sarcastically. “Some people actually have responsibilities.”

Beatrice shrugs. “She’s a hair and makeup artist. She could probably get a job anywhere.”

Liam arches a brow, his interest piqued. “A hair and makeup artist?”

Killian scoffs and waves a dismissive hand. “Please, that’s the most useless job there is.”

Liam cocks his head, glaring at his brother. “You of all people know that’s not true. Don’t you do hair and makeup on your clients and make them look presentable to their loved ones?”

“Aye, but that’s different. I cover up injuries and wounds, reminders of what killed them. Living people don’t need makeup; they only wear it to look pretty.” Killian goes back to eating his breakfast as Liam continues to glare at him.

“There are many reasons people wear makeup. Whether it be to feel better about themselves, to look nice for a special occasion, hide blemishes or rosacea, or because they simply want to. Emma helps people do that.” Liam wags a finger. “And you know what, depending on whether her experience and qualifications align with our needs, we could use her.”

Killian looks up at his brother and furrows his brows. “Use her for what?”

“For our beautician opening.”

Killian freezes, the hand that’s holding his fork pausing mid-air. “What beautician opening?”

Liam holds up the Storybrooke Daily Mirror and points to the Classifieds section. “The one I posted an ad for.”

Killian reaches across the bar counter, rips the paper from his brother’s hands and scans the classifieds.

Sure enough, there’s a posting for a beautician for Jones Parlor. Killian lowers the paper, glaring at his brother. “Why do we need to hire someone for a job I already do?”

Liam looks over at Beatrice and clears his throat as though he doesn’t want to say his reasons in front of her. He returns his eyes to Killian. “I just think it will take some of the load off your shoulders, that’s all.”

Running the funeral home is supposed to be a team effort. Even though Liam carries out most of the administrative tasks, including the hiring, and Killian does more of the grunt work, the decisions should be both of theirs, not just Liam’s. Killian points at himself, a mixture of anger and disbelief spiraling through him. “But you didn’t discuss this with me.”

“Because I wanted to find someone good for the job first and prove to you how handy that person would be. I knew you wouldn’t approve otherwise.”

“It doesn’t matter if you found someone or not. I won’t approve either way. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of the makeup and hair.”

“I know you are, Killian. That’s not what this is about.”

Killian shrugs. “Then what’s it about?”

Liam waves off his question. “Nothing. Just forget about it. You’re right. We don’t need to hire an outsider.” He grabs the paper from Killian and folds it up. “I’ll have the ad canceled.”

“Thank you.” Killian returns to his breakfast, stabbing aggressively at his eggs.

“So where is Emma staying now?” Liam asks Beatrice curiously. “I doubt Regina is letting her stay with her and Henry.”

“In her camper.”

Killian arches a brow. “A camper?”

“Yeah, you know, an RV. Like the one we rent every summer to go camping in.”

“Aye, but isn’t there a zoning law against parking a camper in the streets?” Liam points out.

“Regina said she could park in her driveway overnight, but that she would have to move her camper elsewhere come morning. Besides, she’s best friends with Sheriff Graham, so I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t fine Emma if Regina asked him not to.”

Killian scoffs and lifts his coffee mug to his lips. “Best friends? More like…” He refrains from finishing his sentence by taking a sip of his coffee. Even if Beatrice knew what fuck buddies meant, it’s not appropriate to say it in front of her. Besides, that would probably cost him more than a quarter to the swear jar.

“More like what?” Beatrice asks curiously.

Damn.

He should know by now not to speak his mind in front of his daughter. She’s too smart for her own good.

“More like a special friend,” Liam replies for him.

Beatrice’s dark brows scrunch together in confusion. “What’s the difference?”

“A special friend is just like a best friend, except they engage in...more adult-like activities,” Liam explains carefully.

Killian takes another sip of his coffee.

“You mean they’re friends who see each other naked without being boyfriend and girlfriend, right?”

He chokes on his coffee and gapes at his daughter as Liam dissolves into hearty laughter. “How do you know that?”

She rolls her eyes and takes a drink of orange juice. “I may be eleven, but I’m not a nitwit.”

“She has a point there, Killian. Our lass is no dummy.”

“I know that, but I haven’t taught her about the birds and the bees yet,” Killian reminds him.

“Aye, and perhaps you should’ve before she heard about it from her friends.”

“She’s too young. She’s not getting married until she’s at least thirty.”

“You don’t know that. Besides, you need to prepare her for the real world. Because you and I both know, not everything is unicorns and rainbows, even when you’re young.”

Killian sighs as he cleans up his coffee mess with a paper towel. But Liam’s right. He and Killian were both young when their mum died of cancer. Their papa dealt with his loss by opening up a funeral business. He thought he could numb his own pain and loss by focusing on others’ pain and loss. After he died, his two sons took it over. Killian and Liam both know Brennan died of alcohol poisoning, but they made Beatrice believe he died of a broken heart, which isn’t too far from the truth.

When Brennan realized he couldn’t numb his pain and heartache, he turned to alcohol. He might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. It would’ve been quicker and less painful. Now the brothers run the funeral home together. Liam helps the families of the deceased plan and prepare the funeral arrangements while Killian acts as the mortician, or as he prefers, undertaker, performing embalmings, making the bodies presentable to their loved ones and preparing them for burial services. Or, as the brothers like to put it—Liam takes care of the living and Killian takes care of the dead.

“Would you two stop fighting over me?” Beatrice presses the pads of her fingers to her temples. “You’re giving me an aneurysm. It’s bad enough I probably have cancer.”

Killian buries his face in his hands and shakes his head. One of the “perks” of raising a daughter in a funeral home is that she’s learned many ways people can die, so she always thinks she has some type of illness herself. Killian likes to think it’s her way of empathizing with the dead, much like he empathized with the deceased before he studied mortuary science and learned to have compassion rather than empathy. So instead of focusing on death and loss like his father did, he focuses on the positive outcomes, like the fact that the deceased no longer has to suffer or that a donor recipient will get to live when they receive an organ from their donor. Or that one doctor’s negligence resulted in his wife giving her life to a beautiful baby girl.

Killian stands from his stool and gathers the dirty dishes. “Now, what makes you think you have cancer this time?”

“Because my left breast is developing at a significantly faster rate than my right.”

He doesn’t even dignify that with a response, and all Liam can do is chuckle.

Killian shakes his head and drops a kiss to her forehead. “Okay, I think it’s time for you to go to school, love.”

A fun fact: If you've seen the movie, you know there is no swear jar; I wrote about the swear jar for sailor talk because of The New Girl and because I knew Killian would be dropping his bloody hell bombs in front of Beatrice and so I thought it would be funny for his daughter to call him out on it and tell him to put a quarter in the swear jar. Well, after I wrote about the swear jar, I was reading trivia about the movie and I kid you not, I learned the cast had a swear can for "trucker talk" as Dan Aykroyd called it, so I just thought that was funny that I thought to include it without knowing it's something they actually did while filming.

Anyway, thanks for reading!

Tagging: @onceuponaprincessworld @teamhook @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @searchingwardrobes @gingerchangeling @ultraluckycatnd @melly326 @snowbellewells @tiganasummertree @ilovemesomekillianjones @jonesfandomfanatic @captainswan-shipper88 @julesep3026 @wyntereyez @lfh1226-linda @dreamingdreamsalways

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed :)

[nancywheelxr]

I mean, tbh I don't even know when I started shipping them(Elrohir and Legolas), they're just cute I guess and there is definitely not a lot of content for them which makes it a truly struggle. I was thinking that maybe you could write something with a modern au where they are in highschool/college (the one that you prefer), with an established relationship and one of them is jealous because someone is being too friendly with the other and maybe you could include something fluffy?)

Big mood, anon! I remember being in the early years of fanfic, still scouring fanfiction.net for content and I had it worse, trust me, because 14 years-old-me did not know English. The number of good fanfics in Portuguese was way too low.

BUt, I hope you like this one!

*

Aragorn loves the twins, truly, he does.

But sometimes, sometimes, he wants nothing more than throttle them.

“Elrohir,” he says slowly, refusing to look up from his textbook, “if you groan one more time, I'm going to disembowel you with this pen.”

“And how would that work for that criminal law degree?” Elrohir is raising his eyebrows, Aragorn can tell. He's probably smirking, too, the bastard. 

“I'd get away with it,” Aragorn continues, skimming uselessly through the same paragraph for the third time, “and Elladan would help me, I know he would.”

There's another deeply theatrical groan from the bed. “Nobody loves me anymore in this house.”

“When's Legolas back again? God knows you're insufferable when he's away.”

The hesitant pause is brief, almost imperceptible, but Aragorn has been around him since they were kids and the big house on top of the hill had looked like a castle to his eyes. He'd asked Glorfindel if he was a knight of the Round Table the first time they met. He'd never lived that down either. 

Anyway, trip down memory lane aside, Aragorn has been friends with the twins since they were all dumb children and he knows his friend enough to know all this huff and puff has a kernel of worry buried in it.

He swivels around in his chair to face him. “Okay, what's up with you?”

“Can't a man miss his boyfriend in peace?" Elrohir shuffles on the bed, looking away from Aragorn to pluck at the sheets. “You know me, 'm just being dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Aragorn says, “I do know you, so quit trying to bullshit me and tell me what's really bothering you.”

Elrohir sighs, groans, dropping an arm over his face. “It’s stupid,” he warns him, “and dumb. And I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t help it, okay?”

“This has to do with Legolas, then?” Aragorn guesses. It’s not everyone that leaves Elrohir quite this distressed. “I thought he had just gone into another of his hikes?”

“He did,” he scowls, “with Gimli. His best friend ever. Because Gimli actually likes hiking and camping and visiting all sorts of caves and waterfalls and commune with the forest or whatever.”

Aragorn pauses. “Are you jealous?”

It’s not too far fetched a thing to be, he admits, considering how college life has been doing a damn good job of keeping everyone too busy to hang out or too tired to do anything other than invading each other’s dorms and taking up space the day before a quiz. But then again, he knows both Legolas and Elrohir since they were all kids, he’s seen they go from pulling each other’s pigtails to being best friends to being disgustingly in love.

He can’t imagine how Elrohir could possibly start being jealous now. 

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Elrohir says after a minute, dropping his arm to peer at Aragorn. His eyes are more worried and serious than expected. “It’s not– I’m not jealous of Gimli or anything, I trust Legolas and all. It’s just– come on, I’m in med school. The last time I went to a hike I got stung by a bee and found out I was allergic. How long until he realizes there are better people out there for him? People like Gimli, who likes all the same shit he likes. Who won’t have to cancel dates because he has to go to some stupid hospital party to schmooze or something.”

It takes him a while to process all of– that. “Okay, so you’re not jealous of Gimli?”

“I’m jealous of how easy it is for him.”

“Nope, you lost me again. Easy to what?”

“To fit with him, you know?” Elrohir runs a hand through his hair, “nobody would be surprised if they were together– they’re just– they get each other, they like the same stuff, they’re majoring in almost the same thing, for god’s sake! Sometimes it just feels like I’m waiting for the day he realizes it’d be easier with someone like that.”

Oh. Aragorn moves to sit on the bed, nudging Elrohir out of the way for a spot at the foot of the mattress. “I see,” he considers his words carefully, “yeah, maybe they do get each other, that’s why they’re best friends. But look, ‘Ro, how long have you been together now? Three years? Four? Anyone with eyes can see how much you guys love each other. Elladan and I had to listen to both of you pining separately for like, months. Don’t you think you can trust Legolas to know who’s best for him?”

Because that’s what’s really bothering him, isn’t it? Elrohir thinks he’s not good enough for him, which is insane because Aragorn has never seen two people more in love– Arwen and himself notwithstanding, of course.

All at once, Elrohir seems to deflate. “I guess. I just love him so much, I worry he won’t be as happy with me as he could be.”

“Legolas loves you,” Aragorn reminds him, “and you love him. That’s the important stuff– the rest, you can figure out as you go.”

Elrohir smiles. “I suppose you’re right. Since when did you become oh-so wise?”

There are about a dozen ways he could answer that, not all of them very nice, but Aragorn doesn’t have to decide if he’s done coddling him because the door to his room swings open.

“Elladan told me you were here,” says Legolas, walking in without waiting for any sort of invitation because apparently, Aragorn’s room is everyone’s hang out spot now. By all means, nevermind his quiz tomorrow. “Oh, hey, Aragorn,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“I thought you wouldn’t be back until Friday,” Elrohir blinks, sitting up to smile at his boyfriend despite his previous sour mood.

“Yeah, well, turns out there was some instability in the caves, so the Rangers closed them off until further notice,” he shrugs, dropping his bag on the floor. That’s gonna be a bitch to clean, Aragorn can tell already, what with the mud puddle it’s oozing. 

Legolas grins, stepping closer to kiss Elrohir, and Aragorn politely looks away because someone in this goddamn dorm should have some sense of decorum. Not that the happy couple over there should even be here. God knows neither of them lives there. Oh no, Aragorn got a single this year. Peace and quiet, they told him. No roommate to interrupt his studying.

Clearly, the counselors had not taken into account his obnoxious family.

Turning around back to his desk, to his textbook, to the same paragraph he had been trying to read since Elrohir barged into his room three hours ago, Aragorn sighs and pretends he can’t still hear the conversation going on behind him.

“You look tired,” Elrohir is saying, “did you come straight here?”

Legolas hums in agreement. “Yup. I wanted to see you,” he admits, and it sounds like he climbed up in the bed too. Great. He’s probably spreading mud into the sheets. “ ‘sides, there’s no place like home, right?”

There’s a pause and Aragorn is very tempted to sneak a look to see what’s going on, he’s invested on this now, okay, but he stays where he is, nose buried again on his book, and waits for Elrohir to pretend he’s not, like, having a crisis or anything. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Legolas says, “I always miss you in these hikes, but I like this, I like knowing I’ll be coming home to you.”

Well, sounds like Aragorn isn’t the only one subjected to Elrohir’s rants; Elladan must have tipped Legolas off about the impending doom and gloom in here.

Their conversation tapers off into something quieter and Aragorn finally manages to focus long enough to finish a whole chapter of his textbook before allowing himself a glance back.

He smiles.

On the bed, the couple is asleep, wrapped around each other, and the look on Elrohir’s face is so peaceful, such a contrast to the stormy expression from before, that Aragorn almost forgives them for the dirt and leaves scattered around the mattress.

Almost. They’re still so paying for the laundromat.