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tallstars-rewrite · 3 years

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Chapter 30

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In the afternoon most of the clan was sharing tongues, catching the rays of warmth on that especially hot day. Talltail looked around camp. His heart thudded in his chest with the certainty of what he was about to do. How should he go about this? He thought of announcing it formally, but the idea of having so much attention on him, facing everyone’s anger when they realized he had betrayed the oath he’d taken not even a full moon ago...He wasn’t strong enough.

Would they even let him leave? Perhaps it would be better if he just vanished. It would be a shock, but then everyone would move on, as they always did. What was one more cowardly act on his growing pile? He already felt awful, it couldn’t get much worse. But he had to say something to the cats he had once been closest to, even if he had drifted away from most of them in the past few moons. He’d say goodbye to every cat if he could, but too many would start raising questions.

Talltail decided he would part with one last gift. He’d gotten good at solo hunting recently, if nothing else, but he was going to have to catch a lot of prey to come up with enough excuses to speak to every cat he wanted to speak to one last time.

Through the afternoon and into the evening Talltail went to every place on the moor he knew would have active rodents. It was a good haul for him, even on his best days, despite the heavy heat beating down making him drowsy. The edge of the territory near the woodland strip that bordered the pastures was still alive with field mice as it had been when he’d hunted there for Jake. He looked sadly at the treeline where a friendly orange barn cat had once waited for him. Another face he’d never see again. Who knows what the twoleg monsters had done to that poor cat they had tricked. He’ could be dead now. Another claw prick of guilt for the pile, wishing he had tried harder to convince Jake to leave them. But that was over now. Nothing good came from messing with outsiders. It took a couple trips to get all his prey in one pile.

He looked forlorn at the places he had loved most on the moor. It was all he had known and he could scarcely believe he wouldn’t see it again. The places he used to go to clear his head or cheer himself up. The feeling of flying unfettered as he ran full sprint down the Swift-Step Hills, the gorse speckled meadow where he’d once watched deer herds with Fallowspring and Fawnleap, flower patches where he’d helped Briarpaw gather herbs, the track he and Shrewpaw raced against each other at the start of newleaf, everywhere he’d trained with Dawnstripe. Times when he had felt slightly less lost.

His pile of fresh-kill had grown to a decent amount. The hint of new purpose had perhaps made his mind sharper, less foggy, and he’d been able to focus effortlessly on every chase and every pounce. He was surprisingly less of a lousy hunter when he wasn’t feeling so distracted by directionless misery. Who would have guessed? Well, Dawnstripe did. She was good at that sort of thing, he thought with a touch of melancholy.

He trailed past the collapsed warren where Sandstone had vanished, and sat there for a brief moment, staring at the disheveled earth. The plants he’d placed there with Woollycloud and Palebird had long since wilted and whisked away.

“I’m sorry,” Talltail said aloud to the empty air. “You were the best warrior WindClan had. I know despite everything, you just wanted to make me strong. But I understand now what I must do. You always said that action must be taken to right the wrongs in the world. If I was strong enough to right ShadowClan, or fix the tunnels, I would. But I know I can’t. But there is one thing I can do, so at least you can finally rest peacefully. I may have failed as a clan cat, but if it’s the last thing I do, this I will make right.”

I hope you can forgive me, He pleaded in his head. The wind started to pick up in a brief gust, it whipped at him and he ducked into the grass. Somehow it felt wrong to greet the Wind Runner’s embrace. He was a traitor to her, or would be soon.

He continued back with his catches, needing multiple trips to get it all there alone, and it was nearly past sunset when he finished. Plumclaw was nearby with Mistmouse.

“By StarClan, did you catch all that yourself?” Plumclaw asked.

“Must have been a good day.” Mistmouse purred.

Talltail dipped his head, trying to appear natural. If I get worked up, they’ll sense it and ask what’s wrong.

“Yes, feel free to help yourselves. Think of it as an apology catch.”

“Apology for what?” Mistmouse cocked her head

“Just for being a bit of a pain lately. You’ve always been so sympathetic to me Mistmouse.” he turned to Plumclaw, his ears drooped a little as he ducked his head “and for...all the trouble I caused in the tunnels.”

Plumclaw twitched her whiskers in surprise “That was moons ago. It really wasn’t just you that made Heatherstar close everything…” she perked up a bit, that determined light returning to her tawny eyes. “Besides, I haven’t given up. She just has a burr in her butt right now, but I’ll find a way to keep our skills alive.”

“I trust you will. You’re an incredible tunneler. The clan could learn a lot from you.”

She seemed a bit taken aback by his sincerity but a purr rose in her throat nonetheless.

Mistmouse winked at him before he turned to leave. “That’ll go to her head you know.”

“No it won’t. It’s just the truth, after all. I’m great.” Plumclaw said.

Talltail hid a smile as the two molly’s bantered behind. It eased him a little, knowing some cat was around who carried on his fathers’ skills.

He found Fawnleap and Ryewhisker lounging together in the fading sun. Fawnleap had set his head on his sister's foreleg and was complaining.

“--and Fallowspring’s off with Shrewclaw again, like she doesn’t even have time for me! It’s so unfair. I’m bored.”

“You poor wretched thing.” Ryewhisker crooned “It must be so hard without our sister to help you torment poor Cloudrunner for a day.”

“It is, I had this whole prank planned out!”

Talltail padded up to them a bit cautiously. Ryewhisker blinked, clearly a bit surprised when she caught sight of him. Fawnleap, unfazed as ever, waved his tail at him. Talltail dropped the mice he carried.

“I brought you this.”

“Oh is that fresh? Forget what I said before, I feel better now.” Fawnleap said as he greedily snagged up a mouse.

“Is there an occasion?” Ryewhisker asked coolly. “You haven’t spoken to me in a while.”

“Yeah. It’s an apology. Thank you for trying to be patient with me. I’d like you to pass that to Fallowspring, if she’d accept it.” He looked to Fawnleap, who had a mouse half way out of his mouth. “And for you, for just continuing to be...whatever it is you are, despite everything.”

Fawnleap blinked at him and nodded seriously, which looked even more absurd considering his mouth was still full.

“I appreciate it, Talltail,” Ryewhisker said. “And you know, Fallowspring isn’t really still mad at you. She’s never mad for long, or she would have long since disowned Fawnleap. She’s just… got a lot on her mind right now.”

Fawnleap scoffed, “And a lot of it has to do with hunting with Shrewclaw instead of me.” “Of course,” Talltail said, “I’m sure everything will work itself out.”

Next he found Lilywhisker, as he saw her tail vanish into the nursery. He couldn’t manage a rabbit for her, but he’d found a plump vole. He poked his head into the overhanging roots of the warm milk-scented den. It had been so long since he was in here. Talltail was momentarily worried he was intruding, but Lilywhisker nodded at him in a friendly way as she saw him, though she looked a bit tired.

“I caught this for you. And there’s more to bring to Meadowbreeze,” he said.

“That’s very sweet of you Talltail.” she smiled

“I hope the kits are doing well.”

“They’re doing wonderfully!” Meadowbreeze chirped. He couldn’t believe the new mother still had as much energy as she did. “They all opened their eyes already. I still can’t make up my mind on names, but I’ll think of them soon.”

Lilywhisker gave a good natured exasperated sigh.

“They are certainly going to be a pawful, I can already tell. And I thought your sister's lot in the nursery were energetic.” She looked at Talltail, “Meadowbreeze swears she won’t want a break, but we’ll see about that.”

“I’m sure they’ll be in good care with you. And….thank you for that. You spent a lot of time caring for me when I was young.” “Oh, don’t even thank me, Talltail.” Lilywhisker purred. “You were such an easy and well behaved kit, like I probably will never get again.”

Talltail dipped his head and ducked out of the nursery, making way for a frazzled Hazelnose who had more new soft grass in his jaws. He’s going to flood the place with soft grass. Some cat should tell him to relax, Talltail thought as the brown tom slipped past. The kits were lucky to have such doting and devoted parents. He was a bit sad he wouldn’t see who Meadowbreeze’s kits grew up to be.

As he began searching for Dawnstripe, the sadness in him felt like it was going to crawl up his throat and choke him. It would be the worst saying goodbye to her, after all she’d done. She had left camp with Appledawn moments ago. As he padded after her, he spotted Shrewclaw returning with Redclaw and Fallowspring. Shrewclaw almost looked happy as he chatted with Fallowspring. It was a surprise to Talltail, but he found that he felt relieved.

He surprised himself even more when he called out to Shrewclaw. The three cats turned, looking a bit startled. Fallowspring whispered something to the others, then she gestured to Redclaw to follow her back into camp. Shrewclaw looked after them, as if he didn’t know what he wanted to do. Talltail wondered if it was a mistake to do what he did, but it was too late now.

Shrewclaw narrowed his eyes, but he seemed caught off guard by the lack of hostility in Talltail’s face.

“...What?” there was a hint of defensiveness in his voice, but more so confusion. Of course, Talltail hadn’t said a word to him since their assessment.

He was quiet for a moment. There was a lot lost between them. But it would do no good to get into it, and Shrewclaw likely wouldn’t want to. At last, all he managed to say was, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes. You have a right to hate me. I would, if I were you. I hope you can be happy again. I mean it.” he was surprised to find that he really did. Part of him wanted to hold onto resenting Shrewclaw, but if this was it, what was the point? He didn’t need it. And without the resentment, all he was left with was regret and sadness. Shrewclaw gaped at him. His ears flattened and perked up again between annoyance and surprise as if he truly couldn’t decide how to feel. They had never had a relationship where they spoke sincerely to each other like that, even during the best of times.

Eventually Shrewclaw looked away and grumbled into his chest, trying not to show how incredibly awkward he felt, and clearly uncertain whether he was ready to give up any of his cold demeanor to peer through the deeply rooted thorns between them.

“Ok. Whatever.” he said stiffly. “Well. I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m going back to camp. Bye.”

“Bye Shrewclaw,” Talltail murmured. The temperamental tom would probably have still been hostile if Talltail hadn’t caught him so off guard. That was fine. Shrewclaw wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore anyway.

To his simultaneous relief and dread, Dawnstripe had not gone far yet. He padded up to her, and she greeted him warmly.

“You’re not going for another hunt again are you? I saw the haul you brought back earlier, it looks like you pulled two days of work in one afternoon,” she said.

“No, I was looking for you,” he said. It took everything he had to keep the grief out of his voice. He pressed his nose under her chin and held it there to hide his face.

“Oh,” she said, surprised, but not unpleasantly. “Everything’s alright I hope?”

“Yes. Everything will be fine. I feel like...I’ve never properly thanked you for all you’ve done for me.”

She purred in laughter. “You thank me all the time, Talltail.”

“Yes, but really thanked you I mean,” he pulled back. “I know I haven’t always been easy to put up with, but you never gave up on me, even when…” even when you should have, he thought, but saying it aloud would prompt her to disagree. He shook his head and rubbed his cheek against hers.

“You are a wonderful mentor, and every apprentice you have after me will be lucky.”

She blinked at him when he finally pulled back. “That’s a lot Talltail, but...thank you, of course. Are you sure everything’s ok?”

“I’m sure. I just wanted to tell you is all. I’m going for a walk. Good luck on your hunt.”

He left quickly, sure if he stayed any longer he wouldn’t be able to contain his emotions. It wasn’t fair, to her more than any cat. She’d tried so hard for him, she trusted him, was patient and encouraging through everything, but he still didn’t really deserve his warrior name.

He wouldn’t be able to stay much longer, or cats would start wondering about his behavior. He didn’t want anyone to try and stop him. Woollycloud was already too suspicious to risk. Who else was there?

He knew before he’d really asked himself. Talltail climbed up onto Outlook Hill, the highest point on the territory to get a better look around, and to his surprise, there he was.

Briarpaw was sitting curled up on a rock, watching the sun set below the horizon. Maybe luck was on his side after all. But what could he say to Briarpaw? His oldest friend would surely see through him. Something told him, somehow, perhaps he already did. Briarpaw looked up at him, with such sadness in his eyes when Talltail approached.

“What are you doing up here?” Talltail asked tentatively.

“It’s part of my training to listen,” Briarpaw replied. “Everything is clearest up here, so this is where I meditate.”

“What are you listening to?”

“Everything I suppose. Whatever speaks. The clouds, the wind, the gorse.” His eyes were fixed on the bright red clouds catching the rays of sunset, a mix of blazing orange and dark stormy blue. Talltail sat beside him. Knowing this was his last step was making him want to drag his paws. It might be the last time he saw the sun set on the moor, casting the sky in so many brilliant hues.

“What are the clouds saying today?” Talltail wasn’t sure if he was trying to make small talk, but he was certainly stalling.

“There’s going to be storms. Bad ones, I think. The rains will be late, but when they come, it will be heavy and dark.”

It was hard to picture storms with all this blistering heat clouding Talltail’s head and seeping into his fur. The brilliant light shimmering on the edge of the horizon line was all he could focus on. He pondered for a moment how he may very well travel to that far horizon line, see the hills bathed in light up close. A goal far off in the distance to aim for. His paws were itching and restless even though at the same time he was horribly afraid to feel so lost and far away.

“It looks a bit like fire, doesn’t it? Reaching up on the horizon.” Briarpaw murmured, seemingly half to himself. He looked up at Tallpaw “You look like you're burning yourself, the way it catches your dark fur.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Talltail said carefully. “I’ve never seen real fire.” He’d of course been lucky enough to only know about it through stories. Talltail glanced at the medicine cat apprentice. “Has StarClan shown you dreams of what it really looks like?”

“I have dreamt of it before, yes.” Briarpaw replied. His gaze was still fixed on the distant hills. “It’s bright, flickering, and brilliant orange. A lot like the color of your eyes, actually.”

Talltail sniffed, “Well, I’ve never really gotten a good look at my own eyes.”

“I know. I think it’s hard for you to see any part of yourself very clearly.”

Talltail faltered a bit. “Well, I mean...There’s not a lot of clear still water nearby. The reflections are always murky.”

Talltail didn’t know how else to reply. Briarpaw was probably suggesting more with his words as he often did, but that didn’t make Talltail any more sure of how to address it.

Briarpaw shifted his paws under himself, and was silent for a long moment before continuing.

“Do you remember the first time we came up here together? On your first day as an apprentice?”

“Yeah,” Tallpaw replied. “It feels like so long ago now.”

“Back then when I was with you, I started hearing something similar to what I hear now, though I didn’t fully understand it. Or maybe I didn’t want to understand it. I’ve been watching you walk around to everyone.” A deep grief glimmered in his golden eyes as he blinked up at his friend. “You’re really going to leave after all, aren’t you?”

Talltail stared at him, worried for a moment that Briarpaw had told someone, but Briarpaw looked so resigned.

“...Yes. How did you know?”

“I dream about you a lot, Talltail. I always have. Of course, I dream about lots of cats, and always struggle to put the pieces together of what they mean.”

“Medicine cat stuff, I suppose,” Talltail laughed without humor. “Does StarClan want me to go?”

“No. StarClan doesn’t wish for things like that. StarClan can guide us, but these visions...I’m not sure where they come from or why they come to me. Perhaps they have no allegiance at all. There is so much in the world beyond what we know underneath our Silverpelt.” Briarpaw looked up into the sky, seeming suddenly far away. “...I’ve messed up a lot of visions. Hawkheart says it's normal for an apprentice, but it’s made me so afraid. Afraid I could steer a cat in the wrong direction. It’s led to me...being afraid to speak to you sometimes.”

Talltail blinked at him “You were...afraid? I thought...I thought you were just upset with me.”

“I’ve never been upset with you. I’m sorry... I was so unsure. I wanted to avoid the future I didn’t want to face. Even now part of me thinks perhaps I could have tried to push you onto a different path, one that didn’t make me face this. But I think...one way or another, it would have ended up worse for you. So here we are, and you’re on your path now.”

“You agree I should leave then?” Talltail didn’t know whether that made him relieved or sad.

Briarpaw’s gaze drifted to the ground at his paws. “I don’t want you to go. And I hope that you’ll find the way back here someday soon.”

“I don’t think I will be coming back," Talltail said. “I...I don’t belong here. I have felt wrong for moons. Out of place. I feel inadequate, and there is nothing I can do to change the wrong here that weighs on me. There is one thing I feel called to do, and the only thing I’m sure of is that I can’t do it here, as a simple warrior. Everything I do here can be done by someone else, and let's be honest, I haven’t been great at keeping close friends.”

“I’m sorry you’ve felt that way,” Briarpaw sounded so sincere. “I hope you understand how many cats will notice your absence. By every cat you’ve spoken to and even the ones you won’t.”

It’s his job to say that. Talltail thought. He made cats uncomfortable more often than not, or plagued their minds with worry. Better to cut the tie and make them not have to worry anymore. “You won’t try to stop me then?”

“No. But...you don’t have to go. I’ll help you. Dawnstripe will, and Woollycloud I’m sure...they’ll be heartbroken if you go.”

Talltail faltered.

Perhaps they would. He looked down at the camp behind him, and then over across the moor he’d grown up in. He knew it all so well.

For a moment he did almost want to give up his idea. A thought crossed his mind, a flicker of hope. What if everything could be fixed, and he could find a way to feel accepted here. He could apologize and mend every bridge he’d broken. Dawnstripe and Woollycloud would stop worrying. He was a simple runner, but he could try to be the best one he could be. He wouldn’t have to leave his home, he wouldn’t have to leave the cats he came to care for. Maybe somehow it could be ok.

The thought warmed him as it flickered briefly through his mind. But as fast as the spark lit up, that little light of hope was smothered. That was just what he wanted to be true. That happiness wasn’t his to lounge in when there was so much wrong done in the world.

“I...can’t.” Talltail sighed. “They will be upset, after all the time they’ve spent trying to help me. But they will move on. The clan has moved on from so many losses. If I stay...I’ll go mad. I can’t ignore what I feel must be done any longer.”

The little hope that had appeared in Briarpaw’s eyes faded as his face fell. “If this is what you choose...you must choose it on your own. Now that you're here I can see that. No cat can stop you. I wish you had told the clan formally though.”

Talltail ducked his head. He was ashamed himself.

“I’m just...I’m just not strong enough. They’ll know soon enough. If StarClan has been showing you this outcome, then it’s what they think is best too.”

Briarpaw stood and faced him “StarClan wants you to be sure of where you put your paws. You are one of the Wind Runner’s children. You’ve always been worthy.” He pressed his nose to Talltail’s cheek, “I love you, Talltail. So many of us do. Even if you don’t come back, it will still be true. I hope someday you will know why.”

Talltail held his face against Briarpaw’s for a long moment. It hurt him deeply. But he had to go, before he could change his mind. This had to be done. He needed to rip the thorn out and leave, quickly. He stepped back, gave Briarpaw one last look over his shoulder and started at a run down the hill, to the south. He didn’t look back at Briarpaw again.

As he ran, the greenleaf wind brought strong sweet smelling heat as it rushed through his fur. It seemed to be pulling him in every direction. Was he being chased out or held back? He couldn’t tell. He ducked his head against it as he flew through the darkening sunset.

Before reaching the edge of the moorland, he stopped. As soon as he passed, there was no going back.

He froze, and pricked his ears. Someone was nearby.

There were two very pale amber eyes watching him, staring wide and questioning.

Palebird.

Talltail looked back at his mother. Why was she out here? He hadn’t even thought about going to see her. What would be the point? They had said everything they could say and rarely saw each other anymore.

He looked at her for a long moment. Maybe you’ll go back to normal when I’m gone. Maybe you can cut your old broken life away and finally start a new one. He didn’t want to tell her that out loud. Palebird didn’t speak to him before, and she wouldn’t start now.

But to his surprise, she did. She took the smallest step towards him.

“Talltail?” she mewed in her cracked and fragile voice. “Where are you going?”

He opened his mouth to reply. But there was still nothing to say. He was too afraid of what might come out if he really tried to speak to his mother.

So instead, Talltail made the very last cowardly decision he would make in his home territory. He turned, saying nothing at all, and simply kept walking. She didn’t follow him, but he felt her eyes as he went. To the edge of the moor. To the dark treeline looming above him. The wind cut off here, blocked by the thick towering branches. It was quiet at last.

He stepped into the shadows, and was lost from his mother's view.

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#FRU30 #chapter 30 #cw depression

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

But Once a Year (1/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 8.3K and just a lot more than originally planned AN: It’s me. Incapable of writing a multi-chapter until starting a new job, and having other prompts to fill, and I really will fill those other prompts, so prepare yourselves for an onslaught of Christmas fic. Of which this is only kind of that. It takes place at Christmas. But also involves time travel, and way more canon divergence than I’ve ever written, and kissing. Because of who I am as a person. Blame @klynn-stormz if you must. Or don’t, because she sent a very good prompt and is very nice and I hope she enjoys this mess of words.

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam

————

She’s so goddamn hot. It’s absurd. And disgusting. But mostly absurd.

Sweat pools at the base of Emma’s spine, drips down the sides of her cheeks and falls from the edge of her jaw. Makes her skin crawl, the kind of heat that’s far too oppressive and she’s already having enough trouble breathing, so all of this seems like overkill. Which is Neverland’s schtick, she imagines.

Licking her lips doesn’t help. Moving is a lost cause before she’s even considered clamoring to her feet, and she’s genuinely not sure if she’d be able to unbend her knees anyway, crouched as she is in whatever foliage surrounds the mouth of the Echo Caves.

It smells.

The foliage — and Emma, she supposes. Most of her thoughts drift away from body odor rather quickly though, right back into that cave and she can’t figure out who made the cell Neal was in, but she also told Neal she wished he was actually dead while he was in that cell and she figures that makes her something of an asshole.

Feeling clenches in her chest, quite possibly the physical manifestation of her anxiety and growing fear and every single second that passes is another second they haven’t used to find Henry and—

“Ah, shit,” Emma hisses, not able to get her sword out of its makeshift scabbard in time. Maybe she shouldn’t keep it on her back.

Hook lifts his eyebrows.

“Are you alright, love?” “Shut up. What are you doing out here? It’s not your turn to watch.” Scoffing, he lets his tongue trace across the front of his teeth, which is only vaguely obscene, and Emma’s far too warm to deal with this. In both the literal and metaphorical sense of the word. It’s ridiculous that he’s still wearing his jacket. “Aren’t you hot?” she asks, words tumbling out of her before she’s really considered them and she wishes that trend would stop.

Quickly. Immediately, even.

Not crying after her mother’s Echo Cave admission might be one of Emma’s great accomplishments to date.

“Should all of your statements sound so much like insults?” Hook quips, his tongue continuing to torment Emma. Staring at his tongue is becoming something of a very real issue for her.

Presumably because she’s now all too aware of what that tongue is capable of, and they’d been very good at kissing. Each other, specifically. Better than she thought, honestly. And she refuses to acknowledge how often she thought about it.

She still hasn’t been able to get her sword out of its scabbard entirely. “I’m going to take your rather pointed silence as confirmation of the insults,” Hook continues. Rocking forward, the edges of his jacket threaten to brush Emma’s bent legs and she honestly has no idea what she’ll do if that happens, so leaning back seems like a reasonable response and not one that’s going to make his eyes do that thing. Where they dim ever so slightly, teasing disappearing and evolving into understanding she both hates and wants on some sort of fundamental level and—

“I’m sorry.”

On the nonexistent list of things Emma doesn’t expect, that might be numbers one through seven. Maybe even up to eight.

“You don’t—” she shakes her head, hair sticking to her skin in the process, “Well, no that’s not actually true, because you probably shouldn’t have said anything about the making out—” “—I don’t believe I used that particular phrase.”

He actually has the gall to smirk when Emma glares at him, eyebrows twisted in the kind of unspoken challenge that regularly makes her stomach flip. Emma doesn’t have time for stomach flipping. She’s got to find her kid. Possibly get, like, twenty-four minutes of uninterrupted sleep. “Even so,” Hook adds, “it was…” There’s enough fabric on that monstrosity of a jacket that Emma can only imagine he’s got plenty of pocket options to stuff his hands into, but his thumb just finds his belt loop and the exhale he lets out is rife with emotion. The same kind she’s trying to avoid, in tandem with the stomach flipping. “Your father keeps glaring at me.”

Laughing is a patently absurd reaction to that.

Her father is dying, apparently. Or tethered to this island, and that’s not much better, but it absolutely does not surprise Emma that he’s falling directly back into overprotective and if she’s going to be the asshole she absolutely is, then she should also probably admit how nice it was

to be hugged with that kind of determination before.

That might not be the right word.

Whatever, it’s the thought that counts. She thinks she might be able to fall asleep if her dad were here.

“It’s not a big deal,” Emma lies, barely opening her mouth. Like even that can’t believe what she’s trying to claim. “Although I am sorry about my dad, I can—I mean I can say something if you want.” “No, no, that wasn’t what I was suggesting, at all. I’m sure the prince has better things to worry about than—” “You and me?”

Hook hums. Keeps his thumb where it is, and his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

Her stomach noticeably sinks.

“Of course, not—no, I just…” Stammering Captain Hook catches Emma off guard, eyeing the toe of his boot as it digs a fairly impressive divot into the ground that is no doubt staining her jeans. And she’s about to do something, really she is. Say something almost positive, or reassuring, or maybe simply jump back to her feet, bent knees be damned, so she can grab the lapels of that nearly-offensive jacket and kiss the ever-loving daylights out of him. Again. But something snaps behind her, and every single inch of Kill—no, no, Hook, still Captain Hook.

That’s more unimportant syntax.

Because all of him tenses as immediately as Emma had been hoping for before, a soft noise on the wind that’s strong enough to ruffle those sweat-drenched strands of her hair. Her mouth goes dry, the laughter making her pulse sputter traitorously and Hook’s sword all but flies out of its scabbard.

“Emma, you need to move,” he says, calm as anything. It’s an act. She knows — can tell even when it appears the jungle is getting darker, and the stars above them are going out, but then again, she’s always been able to tell with him, and it’s very disappointing that her rather dramatic swallow doesn’t do anything to help the state of her mouth.

He used her name.

Eventually that will feel very important.

“What? Why, it’s—”

“Please, love,” Hook presses, “I need you to come with me. Right now. How long have you been out here?” Shrugging is harder than Emma expects it to be. As if the heat is actually a weight, pressing directly into her shoulders and rooting her exactly where she is. “We need to move, Swan. You shouldn’t be here.” “Well, that’s kind of rude.”

Widening his eyes makes it even more obvious how blue they are, and they are so ridiculously blue sometimes Emma wonders if she could simply drown in them. Sometimes that doesn’t seem like all that unappealing a prospect.

God, he was good at kissing.

“You told me to shut up earlier. Turnabout is fair play, darling.” “Running the gamut of nicknames, aren’t we? Is that a power move?” “Endearments, really. And no, it’s not. Disappointing that wasn’t clearer what with my intention to apologize and make sure you were alright.”

“Sounds suspiciously like playing knight in pirate armor.” “Can’t imagine armor would be very comfortable. Not much freedom of movement, you see.”

She laughs. Without thinking too much about the sound, mostly because the sound seems to bubble out of Emma and that’s not right. She doesn’t bubble. She stews, and sits and—

Something springs from the ground. Spring is generous, honestly. Cracks form under Emma’s splayed out fingers, tiny green vines that file up with a smell that make her vision swim and her senses fog, and she’s dimly aware of a hand on her shoulder. Tugging her forward, but Emma’s legs simply are not interested in functioning, and she’s so comfortable here. Standing seems even more unreasonable than before, especially when all of her inhales come with that scent. Reminding her of something she can’t quite understand, and it’s suspiciously similar to the tide coming in, and he’s still yelling.

And swinging his sword. Light gleams off the blade, probably because whatever is pushing out of the ground is also glowing, and Emma’s mind can’t really cope with glowing plants right now.

She squeezes her eyes closed. Burrows her face into the very solid chest she’s somehow level with, and Emma’s not entirely sure when that happened, but she also can’t bring herself to complain about it. Especially when it feels like his lips graze her temple. More than once.

“Swan, c’mon love we’ve got to go.”

Groaning, Emma’s head doesn’t ache. Nothing does, actually. She’s oddly comfortably and her internal-body temperature appears to be biologically accurate, but she’s admittedly not totally confident about her knowledge of that second thing, and whatever is underneath her left cheek is also quite obviously not the very solid, slightly uncovered chest of a pirate captain she’d like to make out with again.

Her stomach flies into her throat that time. So, there’s something to be said for a change of pace.

Emma blinks. Swallows. More than once. Licks her lips, to absolutely no avail — but she can’t be bothered with that when it’s clear her heart is doing its damndest to beat its way out of her chest, and she’s not in Neverland anymore.

For one thing, there’s a distinct lack of smells. Bad ones, at least. Wherever she is smells suspiciously liked baked goods and the forest, which makes sense as soon as Emma blinks open her eyes. There’s a rather large tree across from her.

Covered in garland and lights that blink back at her, ornaments hang from nearly every branch, and there are enough presents underneath that she briefly wonders which bank they had to rob to buy all of that. Snow flurries dance outside windows that are frosted over, and there are a lot of windows in this room.

Some of them look out towards an expansive backyard, while others make it clear just how close they are to the water, and Emma thinks she can almost smell the water, but that might be wishful thinking and—

“Holy shit,” she breathes, gaze finally landing on the voice in front of her and she knew the voice, even when she didn’t want to admit it. That’s something of a theme for her now. “What—what are you wearing?” Tilting his head in confusion, strands of hair threaten to fall into Hook’s eyes. The same blue as always, if not a little sharper because it’s obvious he doesn’t understand what’s going on, and Emma’s going to cling to that. So it feels like they’re on slightly more even footing.

“Clothes,” he drawls, and that's the same too. Emma can’t move. Is having quite a lot of trouble breathing, and clothes is a vast understatement.

Pants that are somehow tighter than any of the leather he’d previously sported make his legs look ridiculous, especially when there’s a noticeable lack of sword and Emma was kind of getting used to the sword. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, nothing covering the brace at the end of his arm, but she’s also admittedly preoccupied with the number of buttons he’s undone and the vest that’s hanging loosely from his shoulders, and this might actually be the first time she’s seen him without a jacket on.

Her stomach will probably just stay in her throat, then.

“You’ll do dangerous things to my ego, if you keep staring like that,” Hook warns, but any passably snarky response gets caught behind Emma’s increasingly problematic tongue and her brain still hasn’t caught up yet.

To the glint of light reflecting from his hand.

And one very specific finger.

Mouth dropping and breath practically flying out of her, Emma nearly steps on both of his feet when she jumps to hers, trying without much success to stay upright. Her hands fly towards him of their own accord, or so she will argue forever, and that can’t possibly be her first mistake.

Putting her goddamn scabbard on her back was, probably.

As it is, whatever number she’s at is suddenly the only number that matters, because her flat palms make it undeniably clear that she’s got her own bit of jewelry on her own specific finger, and Killian’s hand keeps moving. Up and down her spine, like that’s something it’s allowed to do. There is not enough oxygen in the world to sigh as loudly as she’d like to.

“Steady on, love,” Hook murmurs, and that about does it. Neck giving up and knees threatening to buckle underneath her, Emma’s fingers curl into this absolutely ridiculous shirt at the same time her forehead collides with his collarbone, and he doesn’t really flinch.

Tenses, slightly — although she figures that’s because of the worry she can practically fele radiating off him, and his hand stills. So as to ensure that his arm can also tighten around her middle, while his lips brush across her temple and the top of her hair.

Anywhere he can reach, it seems.

“Nightmare?” he asks, pulling her closer. They fit very well together, Emma realizes. Like pieces of a puzzle, and that’s admittedly sentimental, but she’s also ninety-six percent certain she’s still dreaming. That’s the only reasonable explanation.

She can’t be dead. Not from a plant attack in Neverland. And Kill—Hook, goddamnit, Hook, wouldn’t have let that happen. She’s sure of that, at least.

“Um, yeah, yeah,” she stammers. “I—sorry, I don’t think I meant to fall asleep.” “Nothing to apologize for. You’ve been baking for a small army the last couple of days, only serves that’d be exhausting.”

“Have I?” Leaning back, he narrows his eyes, and that’s fair. None of this makes sense. Rings, and trees, and baking. She’s never baked in her life. If she had, it wouldn’t smell nearly this good.

“Who, um—” Emma continues, eyes widening when the realization hits her. “Henry! Where’s Henry?” Running is not easy with the arm still around seemingly getting tighter by the second, but her fear has already evolved into the kind of maternal-based adrenaline they do scientific studies on. “Let go of me,” she sneers, and he does. Immediately. The sound of his hands hitting his jeans is far too loud. “Where’s my kid? Why isn’t he here?” The tongue thing.

Swiping across the front of Hook’s teeth, the tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth and the inside of his cheek, jutting out with questions and the almost audible cranking of metaphorical gears in his head. “It’s not Christmas yet,” Hook explains, voice oddly similar to a few minutes before, but Emma’s starting to realize that was not a few minutes before and she’s starting to feel a little nauseous.

“Yuh huh.” “Are you alright, love?” He says it soft enough that something flutters in the back of Emma’s brain, some long-forgotten hint of emotion that she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t have time for it. There’s baking to do, supposedly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m, uh—I’m fine,” Emma promises, only one side of Hook’s mouth tilting up. “Just...tired, I guess.” “Because of the nightmare.” “Say that again when it doesn’t sound quite so much like an accusation.” “No accusation,” he objects, but it rings as sincere as her promise and the light’s got to be messing with her now. Bouncing off his ring the way it is. “Haven’t had a nightmare in some time, but that’s neither here nor there.” “Wow, you suck at that.”

There goes the other side of his mouth. Emma might be staring at his mouth. “Occasionally,” Hook agrees. “What’d you dream about, then?” Lying is very appealing. Coming up with a story Emma knows he’ll only half believe, but she assumes she’s got plausible deniability too, and she can’t think of a single thing to say. That’s disappointing.

“I was in Neverland.”

If nothing else, staring at his mouth — and the rest of his admittedly attractive face — makes it easy to tell the moment Hook’s jaw clenches. Nerves color his gaze, almost as if he’s trying to remember something he’s already forgotten, but Emma appears to be the only one having some sort of existential crisis and the hint of grey at his temples suggests its been some time since Neverland. Figuring out how much time exactly, will probably be a bit of a challenge. “And?” “And what?” “And there’s plenty of terrors to warrant nightmares in Neverland,” Hook says, stepping out of Emma’s space. Also disappointing. “What exactly was it?” Shaking her head slowly, Emma’s hair doesn’t move. She’s not nearly as sweaty as she was either, the blanket at her feet proof positive of that, although her skin feels almost clammy and the magic in her veins has started to buzz. If Killian doesn’t stop moving his tongue in his mouth, she’s going to scream.

Ah, goddamn.

“I don’t know,” she says, not the lie she still wants it to be, “just some weird plant thing and you wanted me to come with you, but that was probably now, right?” There’s no way he’s comfortable with his neck at that angle. “Maybe. Do you still want to go?” “To, uh—” “—Doc called this morning, said the paint was ready to pick up.” “Paint,” Emma echoes, another confusing string of words that threatens to knock her back on the couch. It was a comfortable couch though, so maybe that’s not the worst thing that could happen to her. Neither is waking up in a reality where Hook wears jeans like that and stares at her like she’s his—she drops back. Onto the comfortable couch.

“Mmhm, the color we picked out last week? He claimed he had to order it, but your father claims he’s just nervous because he doesn’t want to offend me and—” “—Why would you get offended by a dwarf?” Dots of pink appear on his cheeks. The bits not covered with stubble, and there’s some grey in that as well. It works, honestly. “He mercilessly overcharges for her services,” Hook says, clearly not the first time this particular rant has been voiced, “and it’s because he’s the only hardware store in town. Which is why you wanted to go. Help small businesses and the economy of the realm, even when Regina claimed we could order it just as easily off Amazon. But that only led to your denouncement of Jeff Bezos, and I do love it when you openly flout capitalism, so—” He shrugs. Emma might be going into shock. “Here we are, with slightly delayed, if not well-mixed paint, enough baked goods to mask the smell, and your parents guarantee that there’s more than enough room for all of us on Christmas Eve.”

“We’re painting on Christmas Eve?” Concern continues to ripple around him, made all the more clear by the pinch between his eyebrows and how often he rocks forward before shaking his head. It’s four times. “No, we’re painting—well, whenever we have time really, but you did mention Friday evening, and that way Hope could stay at the farm. Naturally she’s thrilled at the prospect.” “Right, right, right, that’s....yeah, that’s right.” She’s so bad at lying. To Hook, specifically. Open book practically broadcasts itself from every twitch of his mouth, and Emma is still doing a God awful job of not staring at his mouth, but her head is spinning and she can’t understand any of this and she’s kind of curious about what paint color they picked.

And who Hope is.

She refuses to acknowledge the flicker of familiarity in the back corner of her brain.

She’s got to get out of here. Away from the couch, and whatever color the paint might be, back to Neverland, which is not something she ever thought she’d want, but they haven’t found Henry yet and who knows what Pan is planning next and— “Where’s Henry?” Emma whispers, far too aware of the desperation in those two words. Hook’s lips thin. When he presses them together. “I know he’s not going to be here until Christmas, but is—he’s ok, right?” “Swan, are you—” “—Just tell me where my kid is, Hook!” Those words fly out of her, voice rising on every letter until it feels as if they’re cutting their way out of Emma’s soul, leaving lacerations behind and the blood that’s appeared on the tip of her tongue makes her recoil. She fully expects him to take another step back, not sure when she stood up again, only that her knees are knocking together now, so naturally that’s not what happens at all.

Hook moves back into her space, made all the easier by the lack of weapons between them, hand finding her cheek as easily as it traced her spine, and Emma doesn’t want to lean into the touch, but he’s so ridiculously warm and she’s teetering on the edge of undeniable insanity, so she’s going to give herself this. For at least six seconds.

“Visiting Ella’s stepsister, so while he’s probably not having the best time, Lu’s always been a rather large fan of that particular realm, and Drizella is a bit of a pushover. I’d imagine the little lass is going gangbusters on the present front.”

Emma’s breathing out of her mouth.

That seems fair as well. Trying to piece together any of that information with the life she’s currently living is all but impossible, and it’s only a matter of time until her knees give up again. Honestly, not crying continues to be her greatest talent.

“Maybe I should just go to the store,” Hook says, “and let you try and get some more rest.”

Even the thought of being left here alone makes Emma’s magic boil in the pit of her stomach — wherever it might be sitting now, and she’s already shaking her head. “No, no, I want to make sure it’s the right color.” “Yuh huh.” “Sounding less than agreeable, Captain.” It’s a mean trick. One she knows will work, and it does. Hook’s eyes flash, and his brows jump, the hand that returned to her hip at some point tightening ever so slightly. “Tell me that you’re alright, and I’ll consider it.” “I’m fine.” “You’re a woefully bad liar is what you are, Your Highness.” Scrunching her nose, Emma tries very hard to temper the fluttering between her ribs. Magic mixes with nerves and flirting that’s not necessarily easier than it’s been, but certainly more fine-tuned. As if it’s a dance both of them are used to. “You can’t pull your sword on Doc, you know that, right?” “That hasn’t happened in years.” “Hook either, that might honestly be worse.” “He’s got a stranglehold on the hardware economy in this town. It’s not right. Gives him leave to charge an arm and a leg.” “If I tell you I’m fine again, will that distract you from your questionable obsession with hardware-based economies?” “Probably not,” Hook grins, more teasing and fluttering and his eyebrows jump again. As soon as Emma licks her lips.

“No challenging the dwarfs to a duel.” Saluting is only passably overwhelming, but that appears to be the way this is going, and Emma cannot come up with an appropriate adjective to describe whatever sound she makes. As soon as he kisses her cheek. Giggling is out of the realm of possibility. “Noted,” Hook says, “c’mon, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can pick up the little sea monster.”

At this point, Emma would almost welcome a battle with a sea monster. Get her blood flowing, provide an outlet for all her adrenaline and, she hopes at least, if she dies in this dream, she’ll wake up back in Neverland.

This has to be a dream.

So, it seems they live in a mansion.

Stepping outside, Emma’s breath catches loudly as she stares at the wraparound porch and there are somehow more windows than she’d originally noticed, and a turret-type thing involved that’s only vaguely absurd. Almost as much as the way people greet them on Main Street, familiar faces mixing in with strangers, all of whom nod and smile and some who even reach a hand out to Hook like he’s not a pirate or only recently returned to Storybrooke with the one thing they needed to get to Neverland, but Emma also supposes that was years ago, even if the math is still admittedly kind of messing with her.

That was never her strongest subject in school.

And there’s no sword strapped to his hip when the bell over the hardware store door rings, but Hook’s called “Doc” still sounds appropriately threatening, the scuffle of shoes and slightly panted breaths making Emma almost smile in spite of herself and her mathematical failings. “Captain,” Doc exhales, shuffling behind the counter that spans the far wall of the store. Tools and cans of paint line the shelves above his head, a name tag pinned to his shirt that seems unnecessary, but Emma’s nearly charmed by that as well and wholly unprepared for Doc to glance her way, adding—“Your Highness, it’s so nice to see you. I’ve got your order all ready, if you’d like to…”

Whatever else he says disappears in a haze of buzzing magic and malfunctioning joints, Emma’s fingers fluttering at her side while it sounds like Killian does his best to argue the price. For the paint. That they’re going to use. In their mansion.

She didn’t ask which room they were going to paint.

That felt like a flashing-neon sign, announcing how little she belongs in this place and Emma’s fairly certain Hook can tell, but that’s also another sign she’s not entirely ready to deal with at the moment and Doc flinches when the literal hook drops onto the counter.

Emma presses her lips together.

So as not to laugh. Like a person nearing their psychotic breaking point.

“But Captain,” Doc argues, “we did agree on that mark, and—” “—Aye, but that was before it took an extra three days to receive the color, and I think there should be some sort of fee reduction for that.” “There aren’t any fees, just—” “—The overall cost, then.”

Pain flutters at the back of her consciousness when her teeth continue to dig into her lips, but the feeling twits with amusement and that looming sense of insanity, and Hook hardly even moves when Emma does. So she can rest her hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe it’s not that big of a deal,” she ventures.

Hook gapes at her. “Traitor.” “Pirate,’ she counters. “But I think we can afford it. Y’know, just to help the—” “—Locals,” he finishes, “aye, it’s something I’ve heard several thousand times before, love. But it is the principle of the thing.” “The thing being what, exactly?” “Efficiency,” Hook replies, as cool as any vegetable Emma could come up with, and Doc’s eyes go comically wide behind his glasses. The whole thing is actually pretty impressive. Attractive, maybe. She doesn’t have time for that. She has to—

Get back home is not the right string of words at all. Home is some abstract concept that certainly does not exist in the reality Emma came from, and even less so in a place like Neverland, but she doesn’t belong here, with the jewelry and the house, and she can’t quite get over the way his face twisted. When she called him Hook.

“Naturally,” Emma mutters. “Can we just get the paint, Doc? Then we’ll be out of your hair.” Doc hums, but he doesn’t move and Emma can’t believe he doesn’t move. She’s given him an out. A reason to scamper back to wherever he’s keeping their paint, away from Hook’s appraising stare and the hand that’s already inching back towards hers, and he’s somehow even more tactile than usual.

It makes her mouth go dry again.

“Of course, Your Highness. If your husband could just agree to the terms of price, then—” Hook rolls his whole head, hair shifting in the process, and that’s minimally distracting when Emma’s heart constricts in her chest. Because she knew. Has eyes, after all. And the notable ability to stare. But there’s something about hearing the word that makes it all the more real, and Hook’s argument doesn’t have anything to do with relationship monikers.

She’s starting to have several assumptions as to who Hope is. One assumption, really.

Pulling her hand away from Hook’s is easier when he’s so preoccupied, twisting the ring around her finger and staring at the stone and it’s—well, it’s gorgeous, honestly. Exactly what Emma would imagine if she’d ever let herself imagine such a thing, and that’s got to be another sign or something at least in the realm of positive, and it turns out they’re painting the dining room. Blue, and that’s something of a cliche, but anything Emma has to say about that gets stuck halfway out of her undeniably chapped lips when Killian ushers her out of the store, a smile tugging at the ends of his mouth because— “Color reminds me a bit of that gown of yours.”

She’s atrocious at this. Schooling her features, or acting like every word out of his mouth isn’t a punch to her literal gut. It’s a miracle she hasn’t just keeled over. In the middle of goddamn Main Street, where the guy who is very clearly her husband has stopped them.

So as to stare at her incredulously.

“You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” “Presumptuous.” “Not an answer, m’dear.” Maybe Emma will start keeping track of endearments. Just to give her mind something to latch onto. There appear to be more than she’s used to. “You wore a very blue gown to Elsa’s wedding, made some rather wonderful comments about how it matched my eyes that also made you blush rather severely, all of which I will admit to still thinking about with almost startling regularity.” She’s got no idea who the fuck Elsa is, or why they’d go to her wedding. Wearing a gown. And making sweepingly sentimental statements.

Her smile is weak at best. “Sorry, just—that paint smell got to me, I think.” “Sure it did,” Hook says, clearly not convinced, “maybe we should go see Regina.” “Why would we do that?” Leveling her with a slightly different expression, Hook’s tongue shifts behind his closed mouth. Emma juts her chin out. In misplaced defiance, and inherent stubbornness. She’ll find Regina later. When she’s not at least partially thinking about kissing this version of Kill—

Hook, Hook, Hook, Ho—she wonders how he proposed. If he proposed. Maybe she did, what does Emma know? Nothing, apparently. “Do you remember what those plants looked like?” “What?” Emma asks. “Maybe you’re the one who got messed up by paint fumes.” “Absolutely scathing, Swan. Answer the question, please.” There’s an undercurrent of command in his voice — like she’s a member of his crew, and she doesn’t know if he has a crew anymore, but Emma bristles at the thought of being part of it all the same and the muscles in her neck do not appreciate being angled like this. “I told you, it was just a dream.” “Aye, you did. And as you would so lovingly put it, that particular lie sucked quite a bit. So once more, what were you dreaming about and where were you in the dream?” Opening her mouth, Emma’s sarcastic and inevitably snark-filled response evaporates as soon as she hears the clack of heels on the sidewalk next to them and the woman walking towards them has shockingly red hair. And a kid clinging to her side. Who immediately tries to launch herself at Hook.

“Codfish heads,” the woman mumbles, Killian not able to hold back his chuckle or keep his arms at his side. The same ones that catch the kid and pull her close to his chest, peppering either one of her cheeks with kisses.

Emma seriously considers dying right there.

Dying will absolutely wake her up, she’s convinced.

“Articulate as always,” Hook grins. The woman sticks her tongue out. “What are you doing here? I thought—ah,” he grunts, a knee slamming into his side, “control the limbs Mel, or I’m going to drop you and then your mom will be even more angry than she is.” The dexterity of this woman’s face is astounding. As is the width of Hook’s smile. “I’m not angry,” she objects, “and I’m here because you didn’t answer your phone. There’s some kind of disaster happening at the realm line.” “What kind of disaster?” “Something to do with magic, and it looks like some of Lancelot’s knights are exploring the forest here, looking for some kind of something because you know they have to have a quest.” “David can’t do anything about that?” “Was more than willing to if you actually decided to acknowledge him today. Hence the frustration over your phone issues.” “An insult roll,” Killian laughs, the sound almost more surprising than anything else Emma’s encountered today. She’s heard him laugh before. Of course she has. But it’s usually cynical, or occasionally even a little evil, and this guy can’t be evil. Not standing there, acting as a human jungle gym to a kid, and a woman Emma’s mind has also started to make assumptions about. The hair was a pretty good clue. No, this isn’t the first time she’s heard him laugh, but it’s certainly her favorite and if she plays the sound on loop in her head for at least several hours, then she hopes no one will ever be the wiser.

Emma hardly notices that she’s referred to him as Killian.

That’s probably for the best.

“And,” he adds, “we finally finished with Doc, so we can go relieve the prince of his duties, even though he offered. Multiple times.” Ariel, Emma assumes this is the goddam Little Mermaid, throws her head back. “Oh Gods, did you terrify him? Is that why you’re being like this? Y’know the paint was back ordered, that’s why it took so long.” “There was no terrifying involved, and if that was the case, he should have made it known. All I heard was that he didn’t have it in stock, and it was going to take a few more days and—”

He cuts himself off when Ariel waves an impatient hand in his face, turning towards Emma expectantly. “Did he terrify Doc?” Emma nods out of instinct, some dark and distant part of her wanting to be involved in this banter and this place, and this place isn’t real, so that’s a dangerous line of thinking, but she can’t seem to stop herself. In the same way Killian can’t seem to do anything except tug her against his side. And kiss the top of her hair.

He really likes to do that.

Especially impressive with the kid still hanging from him.

“She’s a bloody traitor,” he announces, “but one of the other dwarfs is bringing the paint home, and, like I said, we were on our way to pick up the sea monster, so David can deal with the knights. They only listen to one of their own, anyway.” “No honor amongst thieves, huh?” Ariel asks knowingly.

Killian scowls. It’s frustratingly adorable.

“Fine, fine,” she shakes her head, “I retract any annoyance about your refusal to turn the sound on your phone on, if only because you gave my arms a break, and your dining room will look very good in that color.” “It’s a good color.” The arm around her shoulders is the only thing that keeps Emma from melting into the pavement beneath her boots. She had at least six pairs of boots in their hallway closet. Also absurd. And she hears the lilt in Killian’s voice, even if Ariel doesn’t — the soft intensity that sounds eerily similar to the way he promised he understood what it felt to lose hope, how quickly he agreed to her plan, demands, after the kiss and she imagines they kiss quite a lot in this reality.

If her other assumptions are right.

Ariel stares at them for a beat longer, one that Emma worries will end in a longer conversation and inevitable discussion of the awkward way she’s standing, but then the mermaid with legs is pulling her kid back and quieting the riot that causes, and Killian’s arm stays exactly where it is. “Send some pictures when you paint the first wall, ok?”

Killian nods. Stiffer than it should be, but Emma’s only barely managing to stay conscious at this point, and she doesn’t object when he directs her past Granny’s and down a road she’s never noticed before.

His arm doesn’t move.

In the days that will follow, Emma will never be entirely sure how she manages it. Tears sting her eyes almost as soon as the screen door slams behind her, more than one voice drifting down the hall, and there are pictures everywhere. Her own face smiles back at her from multiple times, eyes jumping from frame to frame and back again, a life that isn’t hers playing out despite her own misgivings, and if she’d thought the overall width of Killian’s smile was something ten minutes earlier, it’s got nothing on the several here.

Wearing a tuxedo that does something unfamiliar to her heart, and gazing back from an ornate frame that also holds a grown-up face that’s still able to remind her of the boy she left in Neverland, and another with his arm around Emma’s shoulders again, exhaustion clear even from here, but there’s something cradled in her arms and a tiny hat that makes her whole soul ache and—

“Swan,” Hook breathes, and at least they’re back to that. In her head, where she's clearly going insane. “Emma love, I really need you to tell me what’s going on.”

That’s impossible. Not for any other reason than Emma’s vocal chords appear to have stopped working, and she never actually cries.

It’s a Christmas miracle.

Of the shittiest variety, because Hook’s hovering far too close to her and Emma wonders if he notices the magic coursing through her, or if this is just how he normally stands and none of it matters when two sets of feet sprint down the hallway.

Frames rattle in their wake, both of them shouting and jumping before Emma’s even remotely prepared. She can’t imagine she ever would be. Maybe in a different lifetime. This one, possibly.

Not hers.

Not as is.

And as it is, Hook ducks down before the blur rushing towards Emma’s shin can knock her over, hauling the giggling and smiling bundle over his shoulder. More kisses are dispensed, laughter ringing out around them and only slightly muted by the mess of dark curls that threatens to cover Hook’s face.

He tries to blow it away, several times.

“Emma,” another voice says, tugging at the end of her jacket and it’s a little overwhelming to see her father’s eyes staring up at her. From a kid. Who isn’t very old, but feels like a memory she can’t place, and if her mind doesn’t stop piecing things together Emma is going to scream.

She doesn’t want to know.

Absolutely cannot cope, honestly.

“Emma,” he repeats, “if you and Killian are going to stay here for Christmas, can we make snowmen again? Because Henry said we could and Aunt Gina said she’d magic them so they wouldn’t melt and you’re way better at rolling than Mom is.” Someone huffs, Mary Margaret’s arms crossing over her chest and there’s an apron tied around her waist. Just to drive the domestic point home. “I resent that, and Dad is totally going to be better at rolling snowballs this year. He’s promised we’re going to win.” Emma’s mouth drops. In confusion, and several other adjectives. All of which Hook quite clearly recognizes, and that’s messing with her too.

Reading her as well as he does should leave her feeling off-kilter. Reeling, even. It doesn’t. It’s like some sort of metaphorical anchor, and Emma finds herself constantly glancing over her shoulder, hoping for that one specific tilt of his lips and— “Let’s wait to go over rules until Henry gets here, alright mate? Don’t want to get into specifics when he’s going to have his own demands.”

Opening his mouth, the kid’s argument disappears once Mary Margaret makes another noise, adding a soft “Neal,” and only one of Emma’s knees bends. That’s lame. Very un-Savior like.

And she doesn’t know how Killian manages it, either. She also does not care. Leaning into the hand that’s suddenly cemented to her back, Emma nods like someone has asked her a question, and there are more footsteps and smiles and she bites her tongue. David doesn’t disappear. He’s here. In this place he shouldn’t be, some sort of farm that had an almost kitschy mat outside that screen door and chickens lingering along the side of the front yard, and Killian’s voice is in her ear. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” “I’ll kick you,” Emma warns.

“I’d drop the sea monster that way.” She’s just about to ask the wholly unnecessary question of who the fuck is the sea monster when the beast in question tries very hard to stand on Hook's shoulders. All limbs and hair in desperate need of a cut, both Mary Margaret and David look overjoyed by her mere presence, warmth blooming of its own volition in Emma’s chest. “Mama,” she yells, resting her chin on top of Killian’s head, “are you going to magic the snowmen too?”

More than one pair of eyes flash towards Emma, suddenly frozen with a maelstrom of fear and words echoing between her ears and she’s got to talk. She can’t talk. Her tongue is growing in her mouth, no doubt a byproduct of that now occurring insanity, and her own eyes keep moving. Tracing over the lines of her daughter’s face, and the questionably cute clothes she’s wearing and her eyes are almost alarmingly blue.

Tears fall on Emma’s cheeks.

“Emma,” David mutters, but she barely hears him. Reaching out a hand that’s shaking much more than she’d like, her fingers graze Hope’s cheek and the skin there is soft and warm and obviously loved, like that’s something that’s possible. This new reality doesn’t have any rules, though. So maybe that works here.

She must nod. Emma’s hair moves, so that’s got to mean something and she’s clinging to every victory she can get at this point. “I’ll try,” Emma says, not quite the promise she'd like it to be. Hook's fingers twist under the hem of her shirt, grazing across her actual spine and it’s disappointing when she tenses.

Noticeably.

David’s eyes turn appraising — but he doesn’t immediately look at Mary Margaret like Emma expects. He glances at Hook, a quick jerk of his shoulders that she only notices when they bump hers. “Did you hear about the knights, then?” “Ariel accosted us on our way here. What do they want, exactly?” “As far as I can tell, they’re just scouting, but who knows with those Camelot idiots.” Mary Margaret scoffs. David might actually blush. “I’m going to go out and talk to them now, and Snow sent a bird.” The hand at Emma’s back flattens. So as to keep her upright.

“Lance usually responds quickly,” Mary Margaret says, “but you know the cross-realm travel, it’s always hit or miss. Especially with the weather. Hopefully we’ll know what they’re doing sooner rather than later.” Humming in what sounds like agreement, Hook shifts Hope and keeps Emma pulled against his side. His eyes dart back towards David, an unspoken conversation Emma doesn’t entirely want to hear. When it’s obviously about her.

And her father doesn’t respond either, just crosses the space between them and kisses her cheek. “Everything’s going to be ok, kid.”

“Yuh huh,” she mumbles, but it sounds like a lie and Hope falls asleep with her head on Hook's shoulder while they walk home.

It takes her about three seconds to realize she used that word as well.

And then another fifteen to totally freak out about it.

As silently as possible.

To his credit, he doesn’t press the issue. He stares, without much subtlety — but Hook never comes out and accuses Emma of anything, or questions how little she knows about this life they’ve got, and she’s not entirely surprised when he doesn’t ask when she’s coming to bed. He just takes a deep breath, and kisses the top of her hair again, which is somewhere like the ninth time that’s happened, walking up the stairs and presumably waiting for Emma.

In their bed.

They share. Together. As people. Married people, with a very cute kid and Henry’s in some other version of the Enchanted Forest with his wife, which is only marginally screwing with Emma. That’s positive, she thinks. Marginally is better than totally.

But it’s also not her life, and around twelve forty-seven she starts to wonder if she’s fucked with the Emma that’s supposed to be here by waking up on that couch, and she can’t get over how comfortable that couch was, and she starts walking.

Aimlessly, really.

Down halls and from room to room, opening doors that regularly make breathing a legitimate challenge. Henry’s old room clearly hasn’t been changed, and Hope’s hair covers her entire pillow, much like Emma’s regularly does, and they’ve got an actual sitting room and family room, a nautical theme that feels a little to on the nose, but is also somehow perfect and she knows he’s there before he says anything.

“You’re lurking,” Emma accuses, jumping onto the edge of the kitchen counter now that she’s finished her patrol.

“And you’re admittedly freaking me out just a bit.” Her laugh does that bubble thing again, something that Killian could probably claim ownership over if he wanted. She knows he won’t, though. Not this version. Not this guy, staring at her like he’s torn between terrified and terrorizing, like he’d challenge the timeline to a duel if needs be.

“Where’s your sword?” “In the basement. Where it’s been for years.” “You don’t use your sword much?” Taking a step forward, the floor creaks under his sock-covered feet and the realization that he must have put socks back on at some point does what Emma can only imagine is irreparable damage to more than half a dozen internal organs. “Asking that adds to my growing pile of suspicions and worries.” “The freaked out ones?” “Aye,” he nods, hand and hook resting on her hips. Maybe there are magnets there. Maybe he’s just hardwired to touch her. Emma fists her hands. “Why are you surprised by that?” “If I ask you a question will you totally freak out more?” That time he shakes his head. Hair shifts in the process, and there have to be magnets involved. That’s the only reasonable explanation for how quickly Emma’s fingers find the strands, brushing them away and relishing the exact way Killian’s eyes flutter shut and—damn, she did it again. His hand tightens.

Like he’s nervous she’s going to disappear otherwise.

“Question for a question is breaking conversational rules,” he starts, “But—” “—You’re a pirate?” “Something that’s been well-documented. What do you want to know?” Everything seems unacceptably vast, and Emma’s not sure which question to pick when they’re all weighing down on her still too-large tongue, but Killian’s eyes don’t pull away from her and he turns his head into her palm. The one cupping his cheek.

She’s an absolute disaster. Which is, she’ll argue the exact reason, she asks: “Are you in love with me?” He doesn’t laugh. More credit to him, although this credit comes with an asterisk for the exact way his expression shatters. In slow motion. For maxim effect. Muscles in his throat shift when he swallows, the tip of his tongue darting between barely-parted lips, and his next inhale has a distinct shuddering quality to it.

“More than I knew I could be,” he whispers. “You want to tell me the truth now?” “About?

Bending his neck, Killian’s exhale brushes Emma’s cheek and for one absolutely insane moment, that would make sense if they were actually married, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. He doesn’t. Figures. Lips graze the edge of hers, sending shockwaves that ripple up her spine and threaten to make magic explode from the tips of her fingers and she has to close her eyes. At the force of his voice, steady despite the emotion behind it.

“Who are you, really?” The shockwaves disappear. Turn into fear, and something ice-cold and Emma has to blink.

“What?” He clicks his tongue. More than once, in obvious reproach, and she wonders if she’ll have to walk to the plank at some point, the tip of his hook threatening to dig into her skin. “I’ll ask you once more, darling. It’s very good magic, whatever you’re doing. I can feel it, but—” “—You can feel my magic?” “Stop talking,” he sneers, and the symmetry of it all feels like a slap. Several times over. “Now either you tell me the truth, or I’ll have to do something drastic. Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #i really will fill those other prompts now i promise #sorry i'm such a constant and consistent flake internet #also! this is apparently the 40th captain swan work of mine on ao3 #which is slightly skewed since there are so many collections but still #that's a heck of a lotta words #thanks for reading em

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romeulusroy · 4 years

Text

Emotional Whore (Thomas Shelby Oneshot)

Character/s: Thomas

Word Count: 1,008

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @death-of-a-mermaid @lotsoffandomrecs @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @theshelbyclan @captivatedbycillianmurphy @creativemayhems @soleil-dor @thegirlwithoutaname87

A/N: Ahh I'm sorry I've been so lacking in posts and writing!!! I thought you all deserved a non-therapy fic lol and though this was not at all any of the ideas I was planning on writing, it just sorta happened :P I don't hate it, but I'm definitely not as proud of it as other pieces. It's not my typical style, which feels a lil weird. Still, there are some lines I like a lot! This is as close to smut as I think I'll ever get, so I hope you like it! Thank you for being so patient with me and my lil break. It means the world!!!!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Gif Credit: @nofckingfighting :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

Original sin. Not an act against god, but yourself. Going against every instinct, every moral standard you hold for yourself. A moment of self destruction, weakness, a lapse of judgement. Blinded by the gleam of a razor, a decision too enticing, too moronic not to give into. You spoiled him. Let him think he was the one in control, that he had power, that this could be anything more than a kiss, a touch, a fuck. Sweet boy, playful, but he should have known better than to fall for someone who'd rather not sink so low for him. He was the one on his knees, after all. You had ambitions, goals, wants and needs outside of being someone's emotional whore. Believing himself all powerful, all knowing, you would have thought he'd seen the signs soon enough. A life ahead of you left undecided, with no rules, no expectations. Human nature. Someone who'd shared enough nights with faces without names, this was no different.

This was another place to pass through, another person to become and shed when the time was right, another body sleep beside, nothing more, certainly something less.

Hickeys painted cross his neck. Kisses running down your back, between your thighs. Biting, nibbling, giggling between sheets, beneath the shirts you pulled off, discarding all your worries and fears, forgetting too quickly about your responsibilities. It was never supposed to last this long, go on as long as it did. An accident, the first time. A mistake. Slipping from his sheets the next morning, quiet as you could, returning before the sun peaked above the rooftops, wanting nothing more than to wash the smell of him off you. Your boss. The same man who signed your checks, at least for the time being. Taking his phone calls. Passing messages. Learning his schedule, his day to day. Pulling you through the front door, pressing you against the walls. Funny. You would have thought he tasted nothing more of whiskey and hellfire, his words nothing but blown smoke. Sweet nothings in your ear. Curious hands. Nothing but hungry, starved, willing to do anything to make your night.

It was nice, really, to be so wanted, mourned, silently searching the empty space beside him, especting your naked body, but it couldn't happen again.

Until it did. In his office. His bed. His shower before work. The back room. The fucking kitchen. Too many places, too many times a second to dress, to make yourselves presentable. Telling him what he wanted to hear, what he needed to hear. Needing to be pleased, praised, feed his ego before you could get what you wanted. Never what you wanted. A fling, something without a label, no strings attached. It was never a trick, a sceme, merely something dragging on, half alive waiting to die. Things like this, it made you stupid. In the heat of it all, made words trickle from your mouth, from his, that shouldn't have been said. Too used to getting his way, for the world to bend over backwards for him, you had to be the one on top, shoe him the only one in control of this was you. Put him in his place before it got away from him any further.

Two different realities.

One of passion, love, something more. Deranged. Almost felt sorry for him. Fooling himself, causing more pain than ever intended, slicing himself up with his own razors so willingly, so blindingly. The other, something to pass the time, to make things a little less lonely and a lot more exciting. Reality. It was never meant to be anything more. You knew who he was, what he did. You saw a man very different leave the bar than who walked in. How the glass smashed between his fingers, how he bit the bullet, chewed the barrel of a gun if he had to, the cold of his skin when the air changed. More enemies than friends. A wait list instead of a hit list. Too many bullets for a single body. You knew better than to play with fire when all you wore was gasoline. He could pretend to be careful. Thoughtful. Genuine. But he'd light his cigarette with the burning flesh of you without a second thought. Keep your distance. Never get too close, no matter how close you were. Not for a second believe the things he said. Rehearsed. Effortless. How many times had he moaned those same things? To how many unsuspecting bodies?

Catching eyes, attention. If it wasn't those eyes, it was his stride, that wicked look, or that egocentric way of thinking. Whatever it may be, it was a trap. A web they found themselves caught in before they even realized, believing he truly loved them, that they weren't his flavor of the week, that a man who had everything really needed them in his life. Show him how it felt. To be screwed over. A glimpse of what he put them through. Never taking no for an answer, he'd have to learn to sit and beg. This wasn't the place for you. Not the home, or the job, not a place you wanted to settle, to set root. You warned him, you'd be gone before he knew it. In the blink of an eye, and yet he was naive enough to fall. Tripping over himself, banging his head on the way down, catching it on a sharp corner. Believing sex was love, and love was sex. Try all he wanted, you knew the ins and outs of him. You knew him better than he knew himself. What would make him crumble, struggle to breathe, what made him tense, his jaw lock, what made him melt between your arms.

You never meant for it to happen, but you were glad it did.

Let him know what it felt like to be on the receiving end. Lord knows how many he left freezing in their sheets, believing what they had was anything more than a kiss, a touch, a fuck.

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asphora · 4 years

Text

02. Rose-tinted | hvc

a non-sequential accounting of pivotal moments in yours and Hansol’s relationship. Love is a wonderful thing, but for all it’s tenderness, you learn that it doesn’t come without it’s struggles. But this is worth it; Hansol is worth it, right?

wc: 10385 | fluff, angst, f!reader, modified idol!verse, cursing, slight allusions to smut, series, cliff hanger, best friends to lovers

soulmate(ish) au

a/n: part 2 in my Technicolor series woohoo! Again, I know it’s hella fuckin long, even longer than the last ones, but I just had to huhu I hope you guys like it! Lemme know what you think or not, it’s all good kthanksbyyeeeee

01 . 02 . 03 . 04

It’s late, and you and Hansol are in bed at his apartment. He is on his side of the bed that you’ve now grown accustomed to sharing; he is already lying down, head on his pillow as he quietly tinkers with his phone. You are on your side, slightly higher up that him with your back against the headboard and a book in hand, quietly letting the words on the page lull you to sleep, when for some inexplicable reason, his silver hair catches your attention. It’s messy and longer now, sticking up in strange places and revealing the black of his roots that have already started to show as they grew out.

Your eyes trail down to his that are oblivious and trained onto a game on his phone, his lashes so long they’re practically brushing the soft skin of his cheeks. His lips are a soft shade of pink, slightly parted, a biproduct of Hansol’s laser focus. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw – sharp but delicate all the same – that would often clench in frustration and relax into softer smiles when he saw you, the habitual action of the muscle there allowing you to read his moods without so much as a word. He swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs slightly, and you almost physically feel yourself salivate at the involuntary motion. Stopping your racing thoughts, your eyes trail the skin of his neck down to the chain that hung around his neck. Hansol wasn’t a vain man, only wearing things with meaning and letting his fashion simply be whatever he wanted it to be. Even now, when he had color you weren’t surprised by the strange combinations he’d choose, often matching clothes as if he didn’t have the sight.

You watch the simple chain reflect the light, kissing the delicate angles of the dips in his collar bone. Hands longing to feel his skin, you contemplate doing the same, but quickly brush the thought off; it wasn’t the time for that right now. Your eyes wander lower to the soft skin revealed by undone buttons of sleeping shirt, and your hands twitch longing to touch milky and supple skin there. That’s when he notices you, eyes boring into his chest so intently that he could practically feel your stare. Locking his phone and discarding it onto the bed slowly, so as not to break your focus, he watches you, a gummy smile forming the more he watches how absolutely enchanted you are by him.

“Like what you see?” He teases, his tone completely derailing your train of thought and bringing it to an embarrassing halt.

You laugh, wanting to fire back a witty quip. Deciding against it, you feel yourself melt at the sight of his smile which you returned with a soft sigh. The sound makes him stop a little. Usually, you would have rebuked him easily. Instead, you were just silently smiling at him.

"Are you okay, babe?" His hands move to wrap around your waist and in one fell swoop, the two of you rearrange yourselves with such ease, like puzzle pieces fitting each other's hold. With his head now resting on your bicep, the rest of your arm wraps around his shoulder. Cradling him like this, you found the position equally adorable and amusing as he hugged himself to you like a child holding themselves close to their mother.

“Yeah, I’m okay, Sol.” You reassure him, your fingers playing with his hair and softly combing the growing tresses away from his face to the back of his ear.

His eyes flutter closed at the contact, melting into the calming touch of your hand. He hums in appreciation as you gently rub his scalp with the pads of your fingers. With closed eyes, he reaches across you for your free hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

"What's on your mind?" He coos your name with his eyes still closed.

“Hmmm, nothing much,” you watch him appreciatively, pleased to be getting an even closer view, “just you.”

“What about me? Can’t believe how you ended up with such a catch?”

"Hmph, barely," you chuckle, and he does too, "I was just looking at you and thinking about you. There's nothing really going on in my head."

He hums in acknowledgment, nodding slightly and slowly before replying with a knowing, "I love you, too."

Him being able to read you like an open book, even with his eyes closed, makes you smile, thinking about just how lucky you are to have him. “For as long as I can.” You add to his statement, knowing full well that he understands what you mean.

“What do you think death looks like, Sol?” He opens his eyes to look up at you and meet your gaze.

“Hmmm,” He ponders for a moment, animatedly furrowing his brows, “maybe like a dream, and when we wake up, we’re someone new? Like, us, but different.”

“So basically, like a reincarnation?” You tease his lack of eloquence with a slight giggle.

He flashes you an appreciative gummy smile, “took the words right outta my mouth, baby. This is why you’re the brains and I’m the charm.”

“You mean brawns?”

“Nope, you’re the brains and I’m the charm,” he reiterates. “You and I both know I got guns for days, but that my best quality is my charming personality.”

You roll your eyes in amusement, “oh yes, so charming.”

“Why the sudden question?” His tone isn’t pushy, just actually curious as he goes back to closing his eyes to revel in your touch.

“No reason, just something off the top of my head.” You explain nonchalantly, “Do you think we’ve met before, in other lives I mean? Since you believe in reincarnation.”

“Definitely. A hundred percent, yes.” He replies, without even a second to spare for thought.

“Maybe I was the handsome pilot and you were the mysterious attractive passenger. Our eyes probably met while you were getting off and that was that.” He explains matter-of-factly.

“Ah, and I was on my way home to my husband and family?” You tease, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he continues to recount the various fantasies wherein you two might’ve met.

“Yeah, sure. Or maybe we met at a party, where you were lost and I helped you out, we’d probably talked for a while before parting ways.”

He laughs before continuing, “I’m sure there’s a universe out there, or another life where we have two kids—names can be your pick since you know I’m shit at that—and we live in a simple house, in a quiet town, and those versions of us don’t even know we’re having this conversation right now.”

“That version of you must be really fucking smart for me to have married him.” You play along.

“Nah, he tricked you just like in this lifetime.” He sticks out his tongue at you and you nudge him, laughing.

“I bet there are lifetimes where we don’t even meet.” You muse and he simply hums in agreement.

“Sign me up for that shit ‘cause I don’t even know what I got myself into in this one.” You joke and he laughs loudly, his mouth widening so wide it almost seems exaggerated, but you know him and this is just how he was. He opened his eyes, expression suddenly completely deadpan, chocolate irises staring you down.

“Is there something you wanna tell me about? Like seriously?” His question only makes you laugh along with him when he finally cracks, unable to keep a straight face.

After a few moments of silence, you press your lips to the top of his head, a rare moment of tenderness in your relationship that had barely changed since becoming official almost a year ago.

“I’m glad I met you in this one,” you whisper into his hair.

"Me too," he drawls out softly and you can tell by the sound that he's already half asleep. You shut the bedside lamp and lower yourself and your head to your pillow, nestling in his warmth.

As you drift to sleep, you hear him murmur in his sleep, “I love you, you fuckin’ loser.”

Half-asleep, you reply, “I love you too, Hansol.”

* * *

The tiny café bar is a completely different scene than you remember; where there used to be tables spread out evenly throughout the main space in front of the stage, they were now pushed to the sides of the room to accommodate the throngs of people coming in to watch tonight’s performance.

You’re 15 minutes early. Even though Hansol had told you it would be fine to come at exactly seven when the show would start since his set wasn’t until around 7:30, you knew better than to come on time and end up stuck in line.

Sat along the bar at the far back of the room, you sip on your martini as you watch people slowly trickle into the tiny venue, when a flash of familiar silver hair peaks out one of the doors near the stage. He looks around the room, his eyes landing immediately on you, able to find you immediately despite the growing crowd.

You had never seen Hansol like this before.

His hair which he rarely ever bothered styling let alone comb, was now perfectly set, parted on one side, his bangs resting naturally on the rest of his face, a sliver of his forehead peeking through. His face was fully made up, some smokey make-up lining the outer corners of his eyes, making his chocolate irises pop even more. You feel your jaw slightly unhinge, your lips parting as you drink in the sight of him; Hansol had always been beautiful to you, but somehow in the dim yellow lighting of the bar, his make-up catching the light perfectly, it made him look deliciously otherworldly and even dangerous. Suddenly you felt like prey under his piercing gaze.

The corners of his mouth shift into a soft smirk in recognition. Right away, he can tell the magnified effect he has on you from the way you stare him down as though he is an oasis in the desert, and before you can even compose yourself enough to get up to go to him, he's already taking long purposeful strides over to where you're seated. It knocks the breath out of your lungs.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He says cheekily, one arm leaning onto counter, while the other reaches for the back of your seat, efficiently cornering you – not that you had any real qualms about it – taking advantage of your initial shock.

Hearing his words, you immediately recognize the dork that is none other than your precious Hansol underneath his contrasting outer appearance. You giggle at the little charade he’s pulling and return his playful smile, quickly regaining your composure.

“I don’t know,” you pretend to ponder his offer, “I’m waiting for my boyfriend. He’s one of tonight’s performers and I don’t think he’d appreciate it.”

“Oh,” his eyes widen in mock surprise, his mouth exaggeratedly forming the syllable, “you have a boyfriend? Well, he’s a really lucky guy then.”

He eyes you up and down, pretending to hit on you, but genuinely appreciating the way the off-shoulder sweetheart neckline of your black dress compliments you, never having seen you in that particular dress before. It wasn't every day that he got to see you all dolled up, especially when it was just for him and his performance, and even more when you looked so good he could ravish you right then and there.

“Well, I’m a really lucky girl to have him.” You smirk, shrugging a bare shoulder at him and you see the way his eyes follow the exposed skin intently, his mouth practically watering at the sight.

“Nah baby,” he drops the act, placing gentle hands on the skin of your neck and moving towards you for a kiss.

“I’m the one who’s lucky.” He murmurs the words against your lips in between kisses and it makes you smile against his.

Unwillingly, you pull away, not wanting to ruin his make-up with your kisses. You shift backward on your seat to look at him, noticing a tiny smudge in the lipstick of his lower lip. You tell him not to move as you carefully take his face between your hands and press your thumb to the smudge.

What should be a rather simple task for such a small amount of excess lipstick, proves to be difficult as Hansol refuses to stand still, insistently trying to catch your thumb either in between his teeth or in soft butterfly kisses. It’s only when there’s a cough that comes from your side and Hansol looks slightly up, distracted by the arrival, that you finally manage to erase any trace of the color.

“Still very much in love and mushy, I see.” You immediately recognize the voice to be Mingyu and you look up at him to see all 12 boys dressed nicer than usual, happily greeting both you and Hansol.

When it's time for Hansol to go back and prepare for his set, he sweetly kisses your temple. He pats the shoulders of both Mingyu and Minghao who are seated closest to you on the bar, motioning to you, as he says, "take care of my girl." Then gives you an enthusiastic wink before heading off in the same direction his producer disappears.

When it’s Hansol’s turn, the night is still fairly young. So, while the crowd is pumped and excited for the rest of the show, they are a mass of chattering bodies, only half paying attention. Once he starts though, his perfect English starting his rap and the unique treble of his voice piercing through the room, he quickly has everyone's attention.

It was the first time you’d ever seen him perform, let alone heard him rap in a proper performance setting. It would have been a gross understatement to say that he was utterly enthralling; gone was the dorky, adorable boy you knew, replaced on stage by confidence and swagger that seemed magnified by the exhilaration on stage, his presence washing over the room like a tidal wave. He was everything you knew and loved about Hansol, but somehow different, greater, and larger than life. On stage, he was someone that shone too brightly and authentically for this world. You had no words as you watched him, pride bubbling up in your chest and spilling out of your eyes in the form of tears. Just like you, everyone in the crowded bar is entranced by the words that flowed effortlessly from him, never missing a beat, and seemingly never running out of breath or losing energy.

“Aw, don’t cry, y/n.” Minghao soothes, patting your head kindly. If you hadn’t already been so close with everyone, you might’ve been embarrassed to be caught getting emotional, but these boys have seen you and Hansol through everything. He flashes you a sweet and understanding smile and you chuckle under your breath as you expertly dab the moisture out of your eyes.

In typical Hansol-fashion, there are multiple curse words littered throughout his rap, but it only serves to stimulate the crowd further. Even more so when he starts jumping, banging his head to the upbeat riff of the music. In the crowd, you can see people jumping and dancing along with him, and you're so proud that you almost want to join them, his energy and confidence undeniably contagious.

Down to the last verse of his song, he keeps his energy high. He’s a sweaty mess, his make-up trickling down his face, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His smirk is still just as captivating as ever, drawing the audience in, and his bravado unparalleled and unreachable. At this point, you’re full of emotion, but well past crying. Instead, you’re jiving effortlessly to the music, savoring the way the sounds of the music and his voice were making you feel.

Then you see it; his eyes locked onto you as if calling you out, mesmerizing you completely with just one look. Knowing perfectly well that he's gotten your attention, he gives you a subtle wink, keeping his gaze focused on you as he gets out the last chorus. Like a secret message that travels past the unknowing crowd and straight to your chest, his look is one you recognize right away: I love you.

Suddenly, the color in the room feels more vibrant despite the dim lighting; the beat is thrumming louder in your ears, and his voice singing above the music seems to overtake your senses until there's nothing and no one else but him. Watching him do what he was born to, you had never been prouder and more enamored with him than at that moment. Holding his gaze, you stand from your seat, pressing a kiss to your palm, tossing it enthusiastically at him.

The gesture surprises him, his eyes widening, and before he can even register his actions, his arm flashes out and reaches up to quickly catch your kiss as if it was a palpable object flying towards him. For a moment, his mask slips, and the charismatic and mysterious stage persona, Vernon, falls away. His cool expression melts and he breaks out into a beaming smile, eyes flooding with affection and softening into crescent moons, revealing the beloved bright puppy-dog of a boy that belonged to only you, Hansol.

Never in your life had you ever seen him glow the way he was now.

When he rejoins the rest of the group, the boys are the first to welcome him back, congratulating him loudly with hugs and high-fives. He moves over to you, standing next to you at the bar and resuming his spot from earlier, leaning over you. This time though, he’s sweaty and out of breath. His silk dress-shirt clings to his skin with sweat dripping down his face, but you don’t care. You wrap your arms around him eagerly, pulling him close.

“Baby, I’m sweaty, you’ll ruin your dress.” He chuckles, whining in protest, but his body betrays him, melting into your touch and wrapping his arms at your waist.

“I don’t care.” You kiss his damp, make-up stained cheek. “I am so fucking proud of you.”

"Bet your boyfriend couldn't do what I just did." He says teasingly, wriggling his eyebrows and recalling the joke from earlier.

You tilt your head back in laughter, moving your hands to his face. You push away the silver strands of hair sticking to his damp skin, no longer worried about ruining his make-up. You move closer, your breath at the shell of his ear giving him goosebumps. You whisper, "Sorry to break it to you, stupid, but you are my boyfriend.”

Those words alone are enough to have him erupting in booming laughter and you watch his face light up as he clutches his stomach, trying to calm himself down. As hot Vernon was, and as amazing as his presence was, you much preferred this scene in front of you; the beautiful, expressive, genuine, and all too familiar laughter of Hansol.

“Okay, that’s enough, love-birds!” Jeonghan hollers, effectively popping the bubble of your tender moment. The older male wraps his arms around both of your shoulders, sitting Hansol down in between you and him, and handing you each a shot.

"A toast,” Jeonghan calls out, raising a shot glass and everyone joining in the toast, raising their own, "to Vernon's first-ever album, and him finally losing his virginity!"

All the other boys shout and cheer boisterously, clinking their glasses together, sloshing the transparent liquid around, before downing their drinks.

"Congratulations on not being a virgin anymore, babe!" You follow suit after clinking your shot glass with theirs and Hansol's. Once the burning liquid goes down completely, you cheer loudly along with the others, kissing your boyfriend's now rosy cheeks.

“Fuck you, y/n.” He laughs despite his humiliation.

“You did, baby, that’s why we’re celebrating!” You rebuke, and if he hadn’t already been utterly mortified, he was now. The redness in his cheeks spread to the tips of his ears and his shot glass, still full of liquor, remained raised mid-way, seemingly forgotten in all the chaos that was his friends and girlfriend ganging-up on him.

* * *

"You said you would call two hours ago?" The words are phrased like a question, but the drop in your voice makes it clear to Hansol – if your downcast eyes and saddened expression hadn't been indication enough – that this time you’re not interested in the answer.

He watches you on the screen of his phone as you bite down on your lower lip and gnaw on the sensitive skin there, inhaling deeply as you wait for what he has to say for himself. He can tell easily that you’re trying desperately to stop the angry tears that are threatening to spill and at that moment, he wishes more than anything that he was beside to you press his thumb to your lips to remind you to stop biting. It makes his heart drop into his stomach, making the contents of lunch do somersaults, threatening to spill out in the form of vomit.

You knew there was no point in fighting or arguing, especially when he was miles away and busy with his tour and all his shows. But you couldn’t help being disappointed. You were constantly waiting for him, rearranging your sleep and work schedules for even just a glimpse of him, while it seemed like he was perfectly fine away from you. While the emptiness in your shared apartment only magnified and reminded you of the distance between you, it seemed the new people and places he was meeting and experiencing filled it for him.

"I'm so sorry, y/n." He tells you almost immediately, his voice is soft and audibly exhausted. After almost two years together, and nearly four being your best friend, Hansol knew better than anyone else what you needed the most right now. More than his excuses or justifications, even if he had a good reason, all you wanted was to know that he was sorry.

You can tell by the way he fidgets on the screen, his eyes quickly darting to the ground then back up at you, that it’s taking everything in him to keep from looking away in shame. You’re thankful for the effort as he tries his best to meet your eyes, his apology pouring out slowly and sincerely from his lips.

It had been more than a week since the two of you had last spoken or even seen each other over facetime. Yes, there were messages here and there. Replies and updates sent with distracted, disconnect and seemingly rushed fingers; good mornings and good nights spread out between all the wrong hours of each other’s days thanks to the time difference; pictures of random things that though beautiful, (like buildings, sunsets, concert halls where he’d perform and pictures of Hansol smiling and enjoying in groups and crowds of people you didn’t even know) felt like empty fillers for absent conversation, and only served as reminders of just how tangible the distance was becoming between the two of you. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you’d manage to exchange ‘I love you’ messages, but even those felt hollow without his voice to make them more than just a cluster of letters pieced together on a screen.

It wasn't just the time difference though. With all the work you were both doing, you with your manuscripts, and meetings; him with his tour, appearances, and the constant need to network at parties, a common time was just something that seemed to evade you both. Each time the two of you managed to agree on a time, promising to call, your plans ended up consistently ruined by something seemingly more important; extended practices, last-minute shows, last-minute meetings, falling asleep waiting.

Suddenly it felt like the more effort either of you put into trying to catch each other, the more elusive the other became. Like trying to catch a train and arriving at the platform minutes earlier, only to realize you had been waiting on the wrong side. You watch your train stop across you on the opposite platform, so unbearably close, but utterly unreachable.

Only this time, there was no next train coming. More and more it was starting to feel like you had both just been keeping each other waiting for something that wasn't coming.

“I just miss you so much, Sol.” You finally crack. Like a dam that was only one blow away from bursting at the seams, you felt your resolve break. You could no longer pretend that this wasn’t taking as much out of you as it was, and it seemed like all the struggles of this these past months had compounded itself into one single blow wrapped up in the single syllable of his name.

Your voice cracks, a sob choking out of your throat, causing a strangled cry right as you say his name; it was a sound he'd never heard from you before. Like a thunderstorm that wracks your chest, he watches you quiver as you bury your face in your hands. As though it was painful to even think of him, or say his name, let alone look at him at this moment.

It broke him.

He ached to touch you, to wipe the tears from your face and pull you into a hug, to feel your arms around him again and reassure you that this was only a temporary struggle, but he couldn’t. Even as you were right there in front of him, there was nothing he could do to actually reach you, and it had reached the point where words barely meant anything anymore.

“I’m sorry, baby, please…” He doesn’t know what he’s pleading for – maybe for you to stop crying, or not to leave him? Whatever it is, his voice betrays the emotion that is unreadable on his face in the dim lighting of the moving vehicle driving him back to his hotel, and he feels the tears start to well up and seep out of his eyes.

Looking up from your tears, you catch a glimpse of his tears, glimmering slightly in the inconsistent beat of the streetlights as his car passed them. You had never seen Hansol cry before.

“I miss you too,” he says, no longer trying to hide the tremor in his voice, “so, so much. You don’t even know.”

He had been struggling too, you realize. Hansol had never been the type to share his worries. While you'd been caught up missing him, thinking that he was lucky to be the one in a different country filled with wonderful distractions, you hadn't thought that maybe he was hurting too.

“I know it’s hard, but we’ll be okay.” You can hear him sniffle from the other end of the line. As sad as it is, the sound makes you smile, your shoulders softening and the sobs calming down.

“I’ll be home soon, and everything will be okay.” You could hear the conviction despite the shake in his voice, completely sure of every single word he was saying.

"Everything will be okay." You repeat his words to him, hoping they also offer him some form of comfort, and in hushed whispers, the two of you repeat the words to each other, a quiet mantra of reassurance, but also a promise. That the two of you would survive this, and anything else, together.

* * *

Within the first thirty minutes of meeting his family, you’re absolutely, a hundred percent enamored. They step out of the living room to prepare dinner, giving you and Hansol some privacy on the couch. When you're quite sure they're completely out of earshot, you hook your arms around the back of Hansol's neck, pulling him into a hug with the brightest smile he'd ever seen on you.

For the first time in the year he’s been dating you, the roles were reversed. There you were, animatedly giggling and pressing what felt like a million kisses face. In tur,n making him laugh unabashedly, despite his family in the next room. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. Not enough for his liking, but just enough that it would be acceptable in his childhood home and enough to have a better vantage point for catching your fervent kisses.

“Babe,” he laughs, trying his best to keep up with your kisses. Some meeting his lips, while others he completely misses, landing elsewhere – not that he was complaining.

"I love them." You tell him and he can't help but return your beam, flashing you his signature gummy smile with his eyes forming into crescent moons, consumed by his happiness to the point they looked closed.

"I'm glad you do, baby," he says, leaning in for another kiss, this one less frantic than the previous ones. Instead, it's soft but purposeful, determined to relay with this one simple gesture the fluttering of the butterflies in his stomach and the quivering of his heart: I love you.

You return the intimate action with just as much tenderness. He doesn’t say it, but you feel it clear as day, and so you caress his face with your hands, thumbs rubbing soft circles into his cheeks. You reply, your answer hidden in the space where yours and his lips meet: I love you, too.

“They love you too, you know?” He whispers when the two of you pull apart, loosening his grip, but keeping his arm around your waist.

“You think so?”

“Hell, yeah.” He’s so quick to respond that it relaxes your shoulders that you hadn’t known were tense and exhaling a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“What the heck’s not to like?” He fluffs you up, knowing perfectly well how to boost your confidence and comfort you all in one sentence.

You look at him, examining his expression, brows furrowed in such sincere astonishment and outrage as if he couldn't fathom how someone could not like everything about you or even find something to dislike. The exaggeration is so serious that you can't help but laugh, completely forgetting what you were even worried about.

Resting your temple on his shoulder, you take his hand, intertwining your fingers, something you two didn’t usually do, but when you did, it was a quiet intimate gesture. After a few seconds of silence, you pipe up, finally verbalizing the initial thought that had made you so overjoyed in the first place.

“You think your parents would wanna adopt me?”

Hansol looks at you with a raised brow, lips puckered in confusion then laughing at the outrageousness of your request, “What the fuck, even?”

* * *

The two of you are on the couch in Hansol’s apartment – practically yours too at this point if the spare key he’d given you was any indication. But since the both of you were trying to keep it low-key, no one knew just how frequent you’d been sleeping over, let alone just what the two of you had been up to during your rather frequent and lengthy sleepovers.

Hansol is doing his usual lazy Sunday channel surfing, his eyes intently trained on the random shows that flashed on the screen. You, on the other hand, were working on a manuscript that was due at the end of this month, furiously typing away at the laptop conveniently set on your lap while your legs stretched out comfortably across his lap; his hand casually placed on your one of your knees, lovingly rubbing circles into the skin there.

“What’s that fucking word, goddammit.” You curse under your breath, pressing the tip of your thumb to your teeth and biting down on it hard, a bad habit that you’d developed to cope with moments of stress.

Without even batting an eyelash or even ungluing his eyes from the screen, Hansol absentmindedly reaches out, his hand fumbling and missing yours in the first few tries. Third time’s the charm, he manages to finally find the hand you have pressed into your mouth and gently pull it away from your bite.

“Don’t bite, baby, you’ll hurt yourself.” The words slip so lazily from his mouth, that he’s practically mumbling them. If you hadn’t known how he when he got distracted watching TV, you probably wouldn’t have even realized he’d said anything coherent.

The sentiment is so tender, so natural, and automatic to him that it makes your chest tight. You look up from your work to just look at Hansol. Admittedly, you did this far too often than you would ever confess; just watching him. Not because he was beautiful – which he undeniably was – not because you couldn't believe he was real, but you couldn't believe he was truly here with you.

Quietly, you push your laptop off you and onto the couch, careful not to call his attention, not wanting to get caught staring. You watch him; the way his chest peeked out from under the v-neckline of his shirt, its subtle rise and fall, the way his mouth opened and closed unconsciously, how his jaw would clench in reaction to the scenes on the television, and his slim fingers rubbing absentminded patterns onto the skin of your knees and calves.

Despite wanting to admire him for longer, you give in to the greater desire to reach out to him and stroke his hair, gently hooking a loose strand behind his ear and affectionately caressing his cheek. He hums in response and approval, leaning into your touch to face you with a serene expression on his face, the tiniest smile playing on the edges of his lips.

“Tired, baby?”

You shake your head in response, pulling yourself up, shifting so that you were sitting on his lap, straddling him. You put your hands on either side of his neck and he rests his head against the back of the couch to look up at your face which is now slightly higher than his, his smile soft and relaxed but inviting.

"Of you? Never, Sol. I could never." You press your lips to his, your hair falling past your shoulders and creating a curtain around the two of you. He leans up to meet your lips half-way. His hand moves up to your face, brushing your hair away, to caress your cheek. Bringing you closer and deepening the kiss, while his other hand snakes up your thigh to your hip, squeezing you there.

When the two of you pull apart some few seconds later, Hansol's eyes are no longer soft and languid. Instead, they were warm and wanting, shifting between your eyes and lips hungrily. As if contemplating if he should take you right then and there and steal the breath from your lips. Where his calm smile once was, his lips are parted, letting out shallow exhales.

You make the first move, locking your lips with his. He returns your fervor just as passionately, pulling you flush against him by the hips until there isn’t a crevice between the two of you that isn’t touching. His hands are rough and demanding, but you like his harshness as they trail down to the backs of your thighs, lifting you, and bringing you up along with him as he stands, murmuring something about heading to the bedroom as he kissed feverishly down your neck.

You can only giggle in response, arm wrapped securely around his shoulders and a hand threaded through his silver hair.

* * *

“Sometimes, you’re here, but it feels like you’re not.” You thought he would be surprised by your words, but as he sits on the couch across from you, he only nods, listening without a single hint of shock on his features.

"I'm sorry. It's just been so busy with the new album and the rehearsals, planning, and everything…" He trails off, knowing full well that you aren't interested in his excuses or his reasons, but your expression is soft as you nod, listening to him.

Your eyes meet and your irises are soft and understanding, “I know,” you sigh, “I know you’ve been busy but I–I just…” You don't know how to say the words; if you say them now, it will be an admission of weakness, a chink in the armor of yours, and Hansol's relationship that had always seemed so impenetrable.

Until now.

“It’s just that ever since you got back from your tour in America, you feel different.” The words are soft and barely above a whisper as you say them; they feel like a confession you aren’t ready to give. But you know you have to if you want to work it out, however it doesn’t make it any easier to say.

“Things were great when I got back,” his tone is so calm that it sounds almost like a suggestion instead of a defense. “I mean, those first few weeks they gave me to rest, those were really good.”

“Yeah, I guess they were.” You seem only half convinced. He was right, but deep down you also couldn’t shake the feeling that something in the foundations of your dynamic had shifted.

“Sometimes, I feel like I have to choose between you and my music, and I don’t want to have to choose.”

You swallow the lump that forms in your throat at his words. You understood exactly what he meant; it had been good for those first two weeks. It was only recently when he'd been spending more late hours, entire days and nights at the studio preparing for his upcoming album, that you’d become more restless.

Before you can reply to apologize, he speaks first, “but it’s okay. I know me being gone was hard on you.”

“It was hard on both of us, Sol. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be asking so much that you feel like you have to choose between the things you love most.” At your reply, he takes your hands that are folded across your lap and he rubs soft patterns into your knuckles. Smiling, he brings them to his lips and presses soft kisses there, one on each before intertwining your fingers with his.

“I’m really glad you told me though, I mean, I know it’s hard, I know I’m – um, not the easiest when it comes to talking about things like this, but thanks,” he clears his throat, masking the emotion in a cough, “for telling me.”

Finally, he looks up from your hands and meets your teary-eyed gaze. “I know I’m not an expert at being a boyfriend, but I am still your best friend, so even if it’s hard, I’m happy you told me.”

Before he can say more, you quickly interject, "I love you." The words spill out of you in a rushed exhale and it doesn't help that you were in tears already.

“I love you, Hansol.” You repeat, firmer and clearer this time. You watch him tilt his head sideways, processing your words before exhaling in a light chuckle of relief. This time it’s your turn to pull his hands close and press a kiss to the soft skin there. You let your lips linger for a moment, some of your tears falling onto his hands.

He shifts his hands, changing the position to cup your face in a loving caress, tilting your jaw so you can meet his eyes, “I love you, too. For as long as I can.”

“Everything will be okay.” You say it first, the words that you know will reassure you both that you’d get through this. Hansol’s eyes light up in recognition and he nods, pulling you by the nape into a warm hug.

* * *

“Sol, are you here? I’m home, baby.” You call out into the apartment as you enter, your feet pushing the front door open, keys jangling from one hand, the other full of groceries.

Like clockwork, he comes out of your bedroom to welcome you home, a bright smile on his face. Upon seeing your somewhat haphazard, but still lovely state, he hurries to take the bags from your hands and relieve you of the weight.

“You went to the grocery?” He asks, setting the bags onto the counter and giving you a confused look, “I thought you and Sofia had a date today?”

“Yeah, we did.” You reply, helping him unpack. “We went for lunch after the movie, then groceries.”

Ever since you'd met his family six months ago, you and his sister were inseparable; meeting every month for dates that would last entire days, some even resulting in sleepovers at the Choi house (without Hansol, much to his dismay). It was an understatement that the two of you adored each other. While you often helped her with her homework and general teenage concerns, she often talked with you about books or songs you liked, giving you the female companionship you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

It wasn't that you didn't love all the boys to bits; you had lots of common interests with them and could even spend countless days talking to each one about various meaningful topics. They were always so sweet and entertaining, and it had always been apparent that they had adored you just as much, but there was just something different about talking to another female – even if it was oftentimes her brother at the center of your discussions – something that felt warm, familiar and comfortable.

“You two are weird.” Hansol muses. “Sometimes, I feel like you’re dating my sister and not me.”

“Honestly, I’d date your sister. She’s great.” You tease, playing along. He laughs at the sentiment as he, transfers oranges from the bag to a fruit bowl, setting it onto the table.

“But,” hopping over, you startle him by wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close, “you’re the only one I want to do this with.”

Stepping onto your tiptoes, you press a kiss to his lips, and he bends down, arms wrapping around your waist as he leans down to return the gesture.

When you pull apart, arms still encircling each other, he smiles your favorite kind of smile and presses a kiss to your forehead, "I'm glad you didn't decide to sleepover at our house today, you spend way too much time with Sofia.”

You laugh, tipping your head back and falling backward with your full weight, knowing full well that Hansol's sturdy arms will catch you with ease, pulling you to his chest.

“Hansol Choi!” You feign shock, “Is that jealousy I hear in your voice? Are you actually jealous?”

“No way, loser.” He scoffs, setting you upright and unwrapping himself from you and walking towards his phone on the coffee table. From the side, you can see that a slight rosiness has spread across his cheeks and you giggle to yourself in pride that you’ve finally won a round in this back and forth you two had going.

“I can’t even believe she wants to babysit you, free of charge too.” He calls over his shoulder as he disappears into your shared room, as you laugh in response.

That night, Hansol falls asleep browsing his phone and as you’re prying it out of his sleepy hands, you feel the device vibrate, lighting up beneath your touch. On the screen, you see it’s a notification for a message from Sofia that reads: “You’re just jealous cause she likes me so much better.”

Opening the phone with your thumbprint (which Hansol insisted you input onto his phone for “emergency purposes” which were really just moments when he was too lazy to text), it opens to their conversation where you can see Hansol’s previous message: "Stop stealing my girlfriend."

Locking his phone and setting it down onto the bedside table, you settle beside him and giggle under your breath as you watch him sleep. You press a butterfly kiss to his forehead, a silent good night gesture, and the tiniest hint of a smile flutters across his lips.

* * *

The airport is a jam-packed hall of people rushing left and right, some trying to get to their luggage, while others are trying to chase down their flights; some flying home to their families, some to work, and some you imagine, are frantically trying to reach a love they are hoping they aren’t too late for.

Maybe it’s all the romance movies you’d watched with Hansol this week leading up to his departure, or maybe it was the melancholy you just couldn’t shake from your chest, your stomach doing flips as you anticipated having to say goodbye to him in a few minutes.

Beside you, he's calmly and very casually looking over his flight details, checking the boards for his flight number and check-in gate. Trying to distract yourself, you stare down at the tile of the terminal beneath your feet. Unlike you, they are made to withstand goodbyes. These halls have probably heard the word goodbye more than hospitals have, and you wonder how many ever actually return.

Deep down, you know you’re being too emotional about all of this. It was just two months, three tops. He wasn’t going away forever, and it was for his work, his dream. Finally, the thing he had been chasing so earnestly was slowly coming to fruition and you wouldn’t let yourself get in his way.

The good intention, however, does nothing to calm the pit that only deepens in your stomach as his departure draws nearer and nearer; Hansol knew how you felt about goodbyes, he knew your relationship with your parents (as non-existent as it was) and how their abandonment had scarred you. Still, you put on a brave face, you place your hand on his shoulder, grabbing his attention and pointing to the numbers in red on the departures board that you recognize to be his flight number.

"Your gate’s F-18," you tell him, peering over his shoulder to double-check and cross-reference the numbers with his documents, "and it opens in about 30 minutes."

“Thanks, babe,” he smiles, taking your hand in his, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The sentiment is sweet, but you know he’s just saying it to ease the anxiety he knows is building in you, despite being invisible on the surface. Pulling you to an emptier section of chairs in the massive lobby of the airport, he sits the both of you down and intertwines your fingers with his, placing it in his lap. With his other hand, he types a quick message to his producer that he’s already arrived and would just see her inside at the boarding area.

“Breathe, baby.” He whispers in your ear, pulling you out of your racing thoughts. He presses two fingers to your lower lip that you’ve unconsciously taken in between your teeth in your nervousness.

“And please stop biting, you’ll hurt yourself.” He smiles, placing his free hand on the side of your face and pulling your head close to him to press a kiss to the side of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair as he does.

“Sorry,” you bow your head in shame, leaning into the feel of his lips in your hair, and pressing your shoulder into his, reveling in any comfort you can find in his warmth.

Angling his head to the side to give you a better view of his face, he gives you a kind and understanding smile as he shakes his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. I know it’s hard.”

You meet his eyes and in them, there’s nothing less than adoration and empathy. The sight shatters your guard, and you feel the hot moisture start to build in your eyes, the image of Hansol slowly becoming blurry.

Again, he hugs you to him, pulling you into the crook of his neck. Finally giving in, you wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in the comfortable space, silently pouring your heart out there.

“There’s my little cry baby, y/n,” he chuckles, alternating between rubbing your back and smoothing your hair, “for a minute there, I thought you transformed into some, alien mature version of yourself, yuck.”

“You’re such a dick, Hansol Vernon Choi.” you sob into his shoulder, voice breaking as you reprimand and slap his shoulder. It only makes him laugh harder. “I can’t believe you’re laughing at me right now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, chuckling as he tilts your chin up to face him, “you were just trying so hard to act tough, I couldn’t leave you like that. Besides, you’re so cute when you cry.”

He presses his lips to yours in apology; if he tastes the tears, he doesn't say, not that he minded anyway. He would take all of you anytime, rain or shine, in laughter, and even in cute sobs in the middle of busy airports.

“It’ll be okay, baby. Just a few months.” He rubs your shoulder as your tears subside into soft sniffles, “I’ll call you every day and we’ll talk all the time, I promise. It’ll be so often that you’re gonna get sick of me anyway.”

You shake your head, slapping his shoulder again as you pull him closer to you. "I could never. Never ever, Hansol, don’t be a fucking dumbass.”

“I know, y/n, I’m just teasing you. I’m gonna miss that while I’m away.”

“What? Teasing me?” You pout.

“No, you physically abusing me when I tease you.”

You shift, facing him completely, your face tear-stained, but more visibly annoyed than anything else. His eyes are watching you intently, anticipating your reaction while he bites his lips, obviously trying to fight a smile from breaking out.

Letting out an exasperated huff of air, you say the only thing you can think to as a final resort. "I'm going to tell mom and Sofia on you."

That’s all it takes for him to burst into boisterous laughter that makes other waiting passengers look over at the two of you, some of his saliva splattering onto you as he grips your shoulders, shaking you playfully as he buries his face into your shoulder as he tries to calm himself.

Not immune to his charms, you feel yourself swayed by the sound of his laughter, finding yourself laughing along with him. You're sure that more people are staring at the two of you at this point, but you don't care. Right now, you were completely swept up in his laughter and you would savor the happiness while it lasted. You laugh until your sides hurt and you both can no longer breathe properly.

Once your giggles have subsided into bright smiles, he wipes the tears that have pooled in his eyes from laughing. Then he pulls the sleeve of his sweatshirt and reaches up to clean your tears and his spit from your face, which at this point, can no longer be differentiated.

Looking over at his watch, you note that there are only ten minutes left before he has to check-in. You look at him, straightening the orange beanie on his head, "Don't worry about me, okay Sol? I'll be fine, just come home to me."

Automatically he replies, “of course. Always.”

Right on cue, the airport announces the opening of his gate and you unwrap yourself from him, the two of you getting up to head to his counter where the two of you would inevitably have to part. The two of you walk there in silence, fingers intertwined.

Once you reach the gate, you face him with a smile, pressing a kiss to his lips and telling him to take care. When you try to untangle your hand from his, surprisingly he's the one who doesn't want to let go. He pulls you back into his arms, crushing you in a hug that seems to last for an eternity, but not nearly long enough. He buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply as if trying to catch and memorize your scent.

“I’ll see you soon, okay y/n?” He whispers into your skin, but you can tell that the words are more for him than they are for you.

“I’ll see you soon, baby.” You rub his back, giving him a squeeze, before prying him off you, withdrawing from the hug to set some distance between you. He kisses you once, twice then thrice more, before finally grabbing his luggage and heading to the entrance. When he reaches it though, he turns around, waving as he calls out, “I miss you already!” Knowing exactly what he was trying to say, the actual words that if he said might cause you to cry, you fight the tears.

“I miss you already!” You yell back; I love you too.

"Oh!" He turns around, facing you again, "And don't tell my mom or Sofia on me, please? If you do, I won't hear the end of it. We both know they love you more than me."

You laugh, motioning for him to go through the security check already, “I’ll think about it!”

* * *

When the boys find out, it’s a wild and complete understatement to describe it as a literal fucking shitshow. That morning, Hansol is at the dining table having breakfast – technically brunch since he'd woken up later than he intended thanks to last night's antics – scrolling through his phone, and you're hovering over him, clad in nothing but his white-button up, pouring freshly brewed coffee into his cup. As you do, he notices how the shirt hikes up your form in the slightest, but most delicious way, revealing just a sliver of the skin of your backside.

Immediately, he finds himself distracted by something else. Setting his phone down, he wraps his arm around you and pulls you to him in one swift movement, setting the coffee pot out of your hands.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He says bending you over to him, so he can kiss you, his hand finding the now more exposed skin of your rear, as you press your lips to his.

“Oh, my fucking god.” You recognize Jun’s voice, followed by rushed footfalls with worried and shocked shouts. Immediately recognizing the voices, Hansol is on his feet in a flash, covering you up as you try to maintain whatever modesty you still have.

In the doorway, there stood your 12 closest friends – the very people you had been hiding this relationship from – cramming themselves through the doorway craning their necks to see.

"I fucking knew it!" Mingyu breaks the tension, enunciating every word while pushing past the others, striding into the apartment proudly. “Wonwoo, Coups, Seungkwan, and Minghao, pay up."

His composure is enough to snap everyone out of their shock and the entire apartment ensues into chaos. Jun coming in to set his things and the snacks they’d bought onto the dining table beside you, smiling brightly and congratulating you and Hansol.

"I knew you two would eventually date. This is so great, congratulations you guys, we should go on a double date sometime." Somehow, he had managed to be utterly sweet and sincere, while completely oblivious or just indifferent to the fact that you were almost completely naked.

As Jun moved to find a spot in the room, behind him, the boys were arguing loudly, Seungcheol stomping his foot while debating fiercely with Mingyu, "Nu-uh, if they don't say they’re dating, it doesn’t count!”

Beside him, Seungkwan and Minghao are fervently agreeing and contesting Mingyu who was laughing loudly, shaking his head, and having none of it.

Hoshi on the other hand – who you noticed had just changed his hair color to a deep green– was coming in hot. His excitement had him practically bouncing to you and Hansol, shouting, “Our Vernonnie is a man now! You two are so cute! Don’t forget to use protection, okay?”

From behind him, DK comes bounding in, placing his hands on his hyung’s back affectionately, before chiming in, “Congratulations, Hansolie! You’re really lucky to have y/n.”

You almost melt at his sweet words, but that sentiment quickly evaporates when he adds, “And don’t worry,” he looks to you, “we didn’t see anything.”

“Yup, nothing at all we promise!” Hoshi agrees, both winking at you as though it's an inside joke and you are so fucking mortified you could choke on air and die right then.

"We should have brought alcohol and more food since we’re celebrating Vernon losing his virginity!” Jeonghan complains from across the room, loud enough that despite the noise bustling in the apartment, everyone hears him perfectly.

From the couch, Dino raises his phone and calls out, “I can order more food.”

On the side, the boys are still arguing, angrily quarreling as they walked towards you both. “Y/n, Hansol, please tell these dummies that you two are actually soulmates and that you both have the sight and are happily dating, please?” Mingyu demands and you feel your mouth open reflexively to answer him, but so overwhelmed by the situation that nothing comes out.

“See? She isn’t saying anything! It’s not true!” Seungkwan argues, pointing at whose face is frozen at flabbergasted, mouth open and brows furrowed.

“Yeah, silence means no!” Seungcheol argues, lightly punching Mingyu in the arm, “Right Hansol? Don’t forget I’m you’re hyung." Confused, you wonder how the conversation has evolved from mere chaos to down-right intimidation and threat-filled.

“Don’t listen to him bro,” Mingyu coaxes Hansol, “love shouldn’t be hidden away!”

“Friends can sleep with each other and not have to be soulmates, Mingyu!” Wonwoo counters, “Sex and love aren’t mutually exclusive, Gyu.”

All this happens within the first minutes they arrive, and you find yourself reaching for Hansol’s hand for comfort. He takes it easily, perfectly in sync with you, squeezes it gently to offer his strength, a silent promise that he'll take care of it.

Somehow, you and Hansol manage to slip past everyone; him covering you from every angle he possibly can as you scamper into his room, immediately closing the door and locking it, so rushed that it slams loud enough that a sudden silence washes over the entire apartment.

The two of you take a breath. You look at him and his eyes meet yours almost instantly and the flustered look on both your faces is all it takes for you to erupt into embarrassed laughter, burying your face into his shoulder. At the sound, he finds himself unable to keep from joining you, wrapping his arms around you in a comforting hug, his hands moving to the back of your head, smoothing out your hair in downward motions.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Hansol chuckles, “I forgot they had a spare key, too.” You shake your head at him, still laughing at the craziness of the moment. He didn’t have to apologize, you had both forgotten, all caught up in your bliss.

“Please don’t break up with me.” He jokes, kissing your temple and you laugh even more.

“I love you, Hansol.” You kiss the skin of his neck as you hug him tightly.

* * *

It’s been almost two months since Hansol returned from his tour in America. After some bumps here and there, the two of you had finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm to navigate daily life. He was still spending most of his time at the studio, but you'd both worked out a schedule wherein you'd have a day every other week that would be yours and yours alone. There were also no more overnight songwriting sessions unless they were absolutely necessary.

You, on the other hand, had learned not to ask for too much of Hansol's time. Things were different now with his growing popularity, naturally, you couldn't expect things to stay the same. So, you busy yourself with work, hanging out with the boys, dates with Sofia, and even some classes you've decided to take for yourself.

Admittedly, the transition had been somewhat of a rough patch in your relationship, but after a long period, you were starting to feel like the two of you were finally in sync again. Coming out stronger and more understanding to each other. The constant reassurances you’d given each other had paid off, because now things finally were okay.

“Babe, you headin’ out already?” Hansol’s voice from the bedroom, pulls you out of your reverie and you’re brought back to your reflection staring back at you in the mirror, out in the hallway.

Giving yourself a once over, you realize it had been snowing lately and it would be good to wear a scarf, knowing how easily you got cold. “Yeah, almost. Could you hand me my lavender scarf?” The one you got me when you first confessed like a loser, you want to say, but don’t. If you started the teasing match with him now, you’d never make it to class.

Popping out of your bedroom, he walks over to you. “Here you go,” he says wrapping the scarf around your neck then pulling you in for a hug. He kisses your forehead, telling you to be careful and have fun, before turning around and heading back where he came, dragging his feet tiredly as he goes.

You turn around to check your reflection again, wanting to straighten out the scarf knowing it’s probably strewn haphazardly on you, judging from how lazy a mood Hansol seemed to be in. You freeze, seeing your reflection, finally seeing the scarf clearly and realizing.

It’s blue.

The 5 minutes it takes for you to snap out of your shock feel like forever, but you pull yourself out of it, tearing your eyes away from the vibrantly not lavender scarf. Forcing your mouth to move, you call out, “Bye, Sol, I’m headed out now. I love you.”

It takes what seems like an eternity for him to reply, but once it comes, it seems to echo through the dimly lit apartment, taunting you even as you turn the knob and walk out the door.

“I love you too.”

3. Love is a fickle thing: if you find it, treasure it, because color can leave twice as quickly as it comes.

Fin.

42 notes · View notes

amarauder · 5 years

Text

chapter two ❥ | original

"James Potter, come down here this instant and set me right!" came a screech from the first year girl's dormitory, which could be heard from all across Gryffindor Tower.

James Potter, who was currently daydreaming up more plans to make Y/n l/n's life at Hogwarts miserable, chuckled softly to himself as he heard Y/n scream at him.

Sirius, his best friend, frowned slightly. "Maybe you should give Y/n a break, James," he said seriously.

"No way! Torturing L/n is way too fun to give up. Besides, she's the one who tricked me into thinking that small bottle of water was a Truth Potion! I swear that I'd get her after that."

Remus smiled and said, "Well, James, the teachers are still calling you 'Y/n and James Potter'. The name goes quite smoothly."

James colored. "I told you, the teachers are howling mad. McGonagall obviously wants revenge of some sort, and she's being nice to Snape!" All three boys shivered, and Peter, who was still sleeping, stirred awake.

"Who screamed?" he asked wearily, sitting up.

"You heard L/n," informed James, grinning at the little boy. "She wake you up? That gives me another reason to kill her."

"Not exactly," said Peter, frowning. "I thought I heard her voice—and yours—and she was singing a lullaby to a baby."

Before anyone could say another word, Sirius gleefully cried, "A ha! I told you Jamie-boy, that you and Y/n were going to get married and have a kid! Didn't I?"

James blinked. "Peter," he said, ignoring Sirius and turning to the sleepy boy, "did this dream seem—real?"

"I think so," replied Peter. "I mean, I don't know why I dreamt it, but I saw myself cowering as two men tried to kill me, but this boy—he stopped them. I was yelling, 'Remus, Sirius, have mercy, I never meant to betray Y/n and James', and the boy saved me. He looked exactly like you, James, but his eyes were like y/n's —they were e/c." He shook his head. "I don't know what kind of dream it was, but—it seemed so real."

There was silence all around the dormitory. Peter felt frightened, Remus was thoughtful, Sirius was confused, and James was bewildered at the dream. Peter...betrays him and Y/n? What madness was this?

Then the silence was shattered, again by Y/n's voice.

"That James Potter!" she was yelling. "I'll get him one day! And the teachers call me 'Y/n Potter'. Completely mad!"

"Y/n," said Violet's voice. "Calm down. We'll all help you get revenge from James Potter. Don't worry, and come down and have some breakfast."

The girl's dormitory door burst open, and Y/n was flying out of it. She stormed right into the boy's dormitory, despite her friends' protests, and started to scream right in front of James' face.

"James Potter, you idiot, look at my hair!" she screeched.

It was a very funny sight indeed. Y/n's hair, instead of its h/c, it was dark d/h/c and shining like gold. It would have looked very nice indeed, but it clashed horribly with Y/n's iris-like delicate complexion. Her e/c hues were sparkling malevolently.

"Change it back!" she demanded.

"Not unless I get a kiss," said James, pouting. The effects of these simple words were astounding. Sirius, Remus, and Peter all rolled over on their beds, laughing, while Y/n slapped James with all the strength she could muster. That sent the three boys laughing even harder, while Y/n looked as if she were going to cry.

"If I kiss you," she said, shaking with anger. "Will you turn my hair red again?"

"Depends," replied James smugly, "but most likely."

Y/n, now blushing beet red, kissed James gently on the lips, which sent Sirius, Remus, and Peter into hysterics again. James, flushed with pleasure, waved his wand, and Y/n's hair turned h/c again.

"My God, Y/n, were you that desperate?" asked Sirius, still chortling.

"Yes," huffed Y/n, and stalked away, still red, back to her dormitory. Shouts of laughter could be heard a few seconds later, and Violet, Arabella, Jennifer, and Y/n burst out of their dormitory and into the Great Hall for breakfast. Y/n was still red from rage, but the rest of the girls were laughing.

"Hello Y/n," came an oily voice from behind them. Severus Snape was hurrying down from the steps of his dungeon common room, beaming.

"Severus," said Y/n, nodding curtly.

Snape's smile faded a little at Y/n's cool manner towards him, but he smiled pleasantly at the four girls. "So, why the laughing faces? Pleasant dreams?"

"Y/n just kissed James!" gasped Arabella, unable to conceal the information any longer. "Oh, it was hilarious!"

It was amazing how someone could change moods so fast. Snape's face twisted in anger, and he glared coldly at all of them with his empty black eyes. "Did you?" he asked, directing his question to Y/n.

"Well, Potter changed my hair into dark brown," said Y/n carefully, "so I was mad. Then, for some particular reason, he said he'd turn it back if I kissed him. And I was not to go into the Great Hall looking like a hag, so"—Y/n was now blushing to the roots of her hair—"I kissed him."

Snape frowned. "Potter likes you then?" he asked softly. "I mean, why would he have asked you otherwise?"

"Oh, probably to embarrass me in front of all my friends and his friends," replied Y/n bitterly.

Snape, sensing Y/n's bitter tone, said brightly, "Y/n, would you—well—care to accompany me to—" He was interrupted by James, along with his friends, talking loudly on their way to the Great Hall.

"My God, Jamie-boy, are you in love?" crowed Sirius in delight.

"Nah, he just wanted to embarrass Y/n in front of us," said Remus sympathetically.

"You know, Moony, I sometimes think you're a mind-reader," said James.

"Oh no, look, there's trouble," murmured Peter, distracted, as he saw Snape with Y/n and her friends.

"Snape," said James coldly, as they approached the girls. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard Y/n kissed you here," replied Snape, his tone equally cold. "I suppose you want Y/n? Well, too bad, she's mine." The words went out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Everyone stood there, stunned for a minute, but they started laughing the next minute.

"Oh, Snape that was a good one!" cried Sirius, slapping his knee. "Y/n—yours?" He started laughing again.

Y/n smiled wryly, but she had a temptation to burst out laughing like Sirius had done. "Since when have I been yours, Severus?" she asked coolly. "I don't remember belonging to anyone like I'm a piece of property."

Snape was beet red. "Well, what I meant Y/n, was that—" He trailed off, looking quite embarrassed, but controlled himself and strolled over to his friends.

"What have you been doing?" they heard Rosier demand.

"Torturing Potter and his fan club," came Snape's oily voice.

"Good, good. Severus, we must discuss your—er—feelings for the L/n girl..." Their voices trailed off, as James, Y/n, and their friends sat down at the Gryffindor table.

"Don't worry, Y/n, we won't tell what happened," said Violet sincerely, as she spread butter over her bread.

"Oh, won't we?" teased Sirius.

"Sirius," warned Violet in a dangerous voice.

"Oh, all right," said Sirius in a would-be disappointed voice. Then he added gleefully, "Still, I can't believe old Snape thought that you were his, Y/n! Oh, it would have been a perfect opportunity for blackmail if we didn't have a camera."

"I've got one in our dorm," said Jennifer suddenly. Then her eyes glinted mischievously.

"Oh, I have an idea! Y/n can pretend to seduce Snape and make him believe that she loves him, or something. Then we can take a picture and blackmail old Snape! What do you all think?"

"Jen, you're a genius!" breathed Violet. "What do you boys think?"

"Ingenious!" the four boys chorused.

"Hey, no one asked for my opinion!" demanded Y/n.

"Don't be such a spoilsport, Y/n, we don't need your opinion," snapped Violet good-naturedly.

"What? Why not?"

"Because we know you'd say no."

"Fine, I'll be considering, but as long as I don't have to kiss Snape. Yuck." She made a face.

"Of course you have to kiss Snape," said Jennifer practically. "That's part of seduction, right? Oh, and maybe you could be really extreme and we can lock you two into a room with a bed all night..." She grinned wickedly.

"I can't imagine a baby who looks like Snape with e/c eyes," put in Sirius.

"Ugh! You two are so disgusting! Me, sleep with Snape? You have got to be JOKING!" Y/n shook her head furiously.

"We are, N/n," reassured Violet, laughing. "We just wanted to pull your leg, that's all. You think we'd make you kiss Snape and sleep in bed with him? That's evil beyond Slytherin-evil."

"We also wanted to make Jamie jealous, too," added Sirius.

"Why would I be jealous?" asked James.

"'Cause you love Y/n too much."

"Sirius, you little—"

"Now what would eight Gryffindors such as yourselves be saying that must be loud enough to scream the Great Hall down?"

They all turned around to see Professor Hurst sneering at them. No one spoke.

"Dear, dear, L/n, I expected better from you." He tutted scoldingly, then returned to his seat at the High Table.

"Miserable bat," muttered Sirius, as he shoved sausages into his mouth.

Y/n and James were in Dumbledore's office. McGonagall, for some particular reason, had sent them there, and the two puzzled Gryffindors settled down and looked at all the strange objects in the office. A phoenix was fluttering its golden plumage, looking at them with beady eyes.

"Why were we sent here?" said James, cursing angrily.

Y/n tutted loudly. "Language, Potter. This is the headmaster's office."

"Hey—what's that?" He pointed to a crystal ball on Dumbledore's desk.

They scurried over and peered inside. It was a crystal ball, but it didn't look like the ones they saw in the pictures of thick books in Flourish and Blotts, and unlike regular crystal balls, it wasn't foggy. Instead, it was clear, and pictures were moving vividly.

As they peered closer, pictures began to form. A girl, who looked like an older version of Y/n, was running through a meadow. A handsome man much like an older James Potter was chasing after her, laughing. Then they drew in for a kiss, which went on for quite some time. The pictures blurred again, and formed a new one. An older version of the girl before was bending over a baby. It had jet-black hair that stuck in all directions, and bright e/c eyes. Then the man bent over the baby and the couple began to laugh. Then this picture disappeared as well, and a new one appeared. A boy, who looked much like James, except for the eyes, was flying on a broomstick, obviously pleased about something. Another boy and a girl were standing on what looked like the Quidditch field, cheering on the boy in the air. The boy on the ground had bright red hair, and the girl standing next to him had bushy brown hair. All three of them started laughing, having a good time. Then the picture dissolved together, and the crystal ball went blank.

"What was that?" said James aloud.

"Looks like a crystal ball," said Y/n. "Maybe it shows the future."

"Yeah, me and you kissing," said James sarcastically. "I suppose that will happen in the future."

"Must be our nightmares, then," snapped Y/n.

"I wonder who that boy was, though," said James thoughtfully. "You know, the one on the broomstick. He looked a lot like me, but he wasn't me, though. His eyes are e/c, like yours, and he had a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead."

"And the boy and girl standing weren't familiar, either," put in Y/n. "Maybe they're just people that are coming to Hogwarts later on."

"So what does that concern us for?"

"I don't know! You think I'm a Seer or something?"

Before the two could say another word, however, Dumbledore had just entered his office. He smiled at Y/n and James, and gestured them to sit down.

"Now, why have you been sent here?" he asked, still smiling.

"Er—" The two looked at each other and James admitted, "We honestly don't know. Professor McGonagall just told us to wait here for you, sir."

"I see." He looked between the nervous kids, and glanced over to where the crystal ball stood. "I think I know what it's about."

He went over and tapped the ball lightly with his wand, and it began to glow. "You see, Mr. Potter, Ms. L/n. This ball is no crystal ball. It tells the future to anyone who looks at it, even people who are not destined to be Seers. It is very rare, and—let me ask you something. What did you two see when you looked through it?"

Y/n hesitated. "Well," she began, "we first saw older versions of ourselves—er—kissing." She blushed furiously. "Then I saw my older version holding a baby, with James bending over it, laughing. Then—I saw a boy that looked like James, except he had e/c eyes like mine and a scar on his forehead. He was on a broomstick, and he and the red-head boy and brown-hair girl below him were laughing together." She frowned. "I don't know what it has to do with me."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses. "Ah, Miss L/n. It is because that it showed the future—your destiny. The boy on the broomstick—he is your son. And he is James' son as well. But I cannot tell you anymore than this. You'll have to find out for yourselves." He ushered them gently out of his office. "Now, why don't you head off to dinner while I examine this ball more."

Still puzzled, Y/n and James went out of Dumbledore's office, when James broke into a tirade.

"I'm marrying you? And we have a son together? Am I mad?"

"Hey, I'm confused too," snapped Y/n.

"Obviously. But we'd better not mention this to anyone, Sirius will never let me hear the end of it."

"Deal," agreed Y/n.

Their friends were rushing towards them, grins plastered on their faces. "What was that about?" asked Sirius loudly. "Did Dumbledore yell at you or something."

Y/n and James exchanged nervous glances. "Er—McGonagall made some sort of mistake," lied Y/n. "Dumbledore had no idea what we were doing in his office."

"Right." You could tell that they didn't believe a single word Y/n had said.

"So Y/n," began Arabella, "did you make up with James?"

"No!" chorused the two enemies.

The rest all sighed. "So much for that," muttered Sirius.

"Hey, I tried," argued Arabella.

"I wasn't blaming you, Bells. Those two are just so stubborn sometimes!"

"Hey, it's not like we can't hear you," stated Y/n. "We're still here you know."

"I know," said Sirius, irritated. "Just leave me alone." He waved his hand casually and left for Gryffindor Tower.

"What's eating him?" wondered Jennifer as they climbed through the portrait hole.

"Maybe it's a boy thing," suggested Violet.

"Who knows."

As the four girls scrambled into their dormitory, Arabella stopped. "I think I'll go see Sirius," she said, ignoring the whistles that followed.

"Aww, I didn't know you liked Sirius, Bella. Why didn't you tell us?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Arabella loftily.

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Just tell us if any saliva is exchanged between you and dog boy."

They all giggled, leaving Arabella stomping off to the boys' dormitory. Minutes later, James entered the girls' dormitory to find three girls giggling furiously.

"What do you think is happening?" asked Y/n excitedly.

"They're probably having a kissing session," said Jennifer disgustedly.

"How romantic," said Violet dreamily.

James cleared his throat, and the girls turned around.

"What are you doing here, Potter? I didn't remember inviting you."

"I didn't think I needed an invitation," said James dryly. "Though I do think you would want news of how my best friend is doing with your best friend."

Y/n's eyes sparkled. "All right then. I'll be civil to you, and you can tell us what's happening."

James grinned. "As Jennifer predicted, they are currently kissing"—he grinned at Y/n's delighted face, Jennifer's disgusted one, and Violet's dreamy one—"but it took quite a lot of convincing." He explained the whole story, and Violet sighed dramatically.

"That's so romantic," she sighed. "It's just like it's out of a fairy tale!"

"Violet, please," scolded Jennifer. Then she added, "We wouldn't want Y/n and James to be next."

"Not this again," groaned Y/n. "I told you guys, I hate Potter."

"Then you could marry Snape—"

"Ugh, what do you take me for? I'm not marrying that slimy, greasy hairball git!"

"You're right, Y/n Potter sounds much better," said Jennifer, trying not to laugh.

"Jennifer Dean, you've got some nerve—"

"I'll be leaving now," said James loudly. He turned to go, but then the door burst open and Arabella walked in with a dazed expression on her face.

"Ah, finally done, are you?" he said teasingly, watching Arabella's face twist in fury and horror. "Don't worry, the girls already know." He left without another word.

"You guys know?" asked Arabella, rather shakily.

"'Course we know, Y/n did a bit of coaxing," said Jennifer, grinning. "So...give us the details! Potter would never tell the more juicy parts to us."

"Tomorrow," promised Arabella, trying not to laugh. "Guys—I think I'm in love."

"At age eleven?" questioned Violet, raising her eyebrows. "I wouldn't know, but it's just a minor crush."

"Yeah, whatever."

The snow was finally melting, and spring was in the air, which meant another Quidditch match was approaching. James and Sirius, though they desperately wanted to get on the team, finally stopped pestering the Gryffindor captain and decided to try out next year. Y/n was excited and nervous as well. It would be Gryffindor against Ravenclaw, the second match of the season.

She was quite nasty to Snape as well. Though it wasn't against Slytherin House this time, Severus had been trying to keep the team players out of action along with his Slytherin gang, causing Y/n to slap him harshly one day in the corridors. Sirius had howled with laughter after that, and Snape never taunted any of the Gryffindors in front of her after the incident.

Of course, Y/n and James continued to pull pranks on each other. Y/n, furious at James for turning her hair into brown, had performed a little charm to make Deanna Jackson, the girl James always mooned about to make Y/n jealous, to fall in love with James for a day. This had caused James into one of the worst days of his life, having the second year Gryffindor girl follow him around like a puppy. He had gotten his revenge, however, by declaring to the whole Great Hall that Y/n liked Snape, performing charms that sent shooting stars into the bewitched night sky. Y/n, who was already fuming by then, had stood up and declared that James Potter was a liar and that she hated Snape as well as all Slytherins, then storming out of the Great Hall amid the shouts of laughter heard afterwards.

On this particular day, however, Y/n seemed nervous. Her friends had demanded what was wrong, but she wouldn't say.

"Fine!" she snapped, after the fifth time they asked her. "The exams are in three months, what if I don't pass?"

Violet burst into laughter. "Are you still worrying about that, N/n? Y/n, they're ages away! If James Potter isn't worried, then you shouldn't be, since you're much cleverer than he is."

"Oh, I suppose," sighed Y/n, but she was in a lighter mood after that.

Meanwhile, James was complaining in the boys' dormitory about Deanna.

"If L/n hadn't put that charm on her, then she wouldn't be following me around!" he whined.

Sirius, who was sick of James' complaints, had said, "Oh, come on Jamie-boy, it's not like Jackson's the only girl that's fighting over you. A group of Ravenclaw girls had a catfight in the corridors because they were arguing if you liked them or not, and one of them ended up in the hospital wing with a bloody nose." He shook his head. "Honestly, James, get yourself a girl and settle down."

"I don't even like girls!" he exclaimed. "Yeah, sure Arabella, Jennifer, and Violet are my friends—sort of, but that L/n." He shuddered.

"Y/n's nice," cut in Remus, who was interested in where this conversation was going. "You should be friends with her, James, she has a side to her that you probably never expected."

"She actually studies?" suggested James.

"No. She's actually really funny, and can really help you in your times of trouble. Really, Y/n makes me laugh all the time. You guys should get together as friends, James, or else you'll be missing a lot of great times."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," agreed Sirius. James turned to Peter, and the little boy nodded, showing his assent, which made him groan loudly.

"So how come L/n hates me so much?" he demanded of his friends.

The three boys looked at each other. Finally Remus said in his gentle voice, "Because, James, you hate her. If you two made up, I'm sure Y/n wouldn't hate you so much."

James laughed at the irony of this statement. Y/n had once threatened to tear him apart from limb to limb if he embarrassed her again. Soon their dormitory door opened and Y/n walked in, grinning. James groaned again. She must be planning a new prank, he thought to himself.

"Hey Y/n," greeted Sirius, grinning at the redhead appreciatively. James scowled.

"What do you want, L/n?" he asked.

"I just wanted to see my friends, Jamie," replied Y/n, pouting. "Is that such a crime?" She shot him a smile, which made him relax a bit.

"See Potter, I'm not so bad," she said, nodding and smirking at the black-haired boy.

"Right." James crawled onto his bed and drew the curtains so that everything was hidden from view.

"You know, Potter isn't so bad," remarked Y/n.

James couldn't believe his ears. Had Evans gone mad?

"Really?" he heard Sirius' voice say.

"Yep. Pretty cute, actually. I can actually imagine why those silly girls chase after him like wolves."

James, much to his horror, found himself grinning like a Cheshire cat. Oh, now L/n was humoring Sirius.

"You know, Y/n , James can hear you," said Remus.

"I know," he heard Y/n say. "I'm just going to see what Potter's reaction to this is –"

James panicked. What if Y/n saw him listening through his curtains intently? He quickly lay in bed and pulled out a battered old copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, and began reading. Soon Y/n, pulled the curtains back, and disappointingly, James was reading, not paying any attention to their conversation. Or so she thought.

"Oh, hi L/n," said James, looking up from his book and speaking nonchalantly.

"Potter," she said, smirking. "Nice book?"

"Oh yeah," he replied quickly. "Very, um...interesting read."

"Is that why you're reading it upside down?" she asked, smiling sweetly. James blushed. So this was why she was grinning.

"I was experimenting," he said grumpily.

"Sure you were," said Y/n, still grinning.

"I was," said James, aggravated.

"Do you normally read books upside-down? I didn't know even wizards were capable of that."

"Oh, well—I'm special," said James proudly.

Y/n snorted. "Yeah, well, I'd better get back to my dormitory. I have to put some common sense into Violet, since she secretly 'likes' you. Ridiculous!"

"You're just jealous," said James smugly, sounding oddly like a five-year-old.

Y/n snorted. "Of what?"

James scratched his head before answer. "Er—I forgot."

Y/n laughed.

That night, she had the strangest dream.

Y/n was softly humming to a baby, which she recognized to be the same baby that she and James were laughing over in Dumbledore's crystal ball. An older version of James was standing next to her, his arms around hers, and he was whispering to a tear-streaked Y/n. They were both whispering and comforting the crying bundle in Y/n's arms, and there was a loud bang that shattered the silence. Then James' voice began to panic.

"Y/n, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off..." Then he stumbled into another room while Y/n rushed to the kitchen.

There was a high-pitched cackle, and then silence. All of a sudden, a scream echoed through the night, and there was a thump as something heavy hit the floor. Y/n could only guess that her husband was dead.

Then the cloaked figure who had killed James advanced towards her. He was ready to attack, to kill, as he held up his wand.

Then Y/n's voice rang out. "Please, not Harry, have mercy..."

"Stand aside, you silly girl, stand aside now..."

"Please, I'll do anything, kill me, kill me instead..."

Then Y/n was screaming like she had never screamed before, and fell to the floor with a dull thump. The cloaked figure had advanced towards the baby boy named Harry, but could not kill him. He let out a piercing scream, there was a blinding flash of light, and an eerie silence afterwards. The baby boy was still alive and fast asleep.

Y/n woke up with a start, sweat pouring down her face. Now she understood what Dumbledore had said. She and James were to die, but her son—Harry, he was to live. But what did this all mean?

"Y/n?" She heard a muffled voice, and Arabella was slipping on her school robes, looking exhausted. "Was that you screaming?"

"I screamed?" asked Y/n, confused. Arabella nodded, and Jennifer and Violet began to stir awake, too.

"What did you dream about?"

"I dreamed—I dreamed about this...wizard. He came to my house and he—he killed James. Then he killed me, but only because I wouldn't let him kill a baby boy. But he couldn't kill the baby boy, who was probably my son."

There was a nasty silence after her story. Arabella, Violet, and Jennifer were too stunned to speak. Then their dormitory door opened and James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter filed in, looking as tired as the girls. Sirius looked grumpy, while Remus and Peter were yawning. James, however, was wide-awake with round eyes.

"What are you guys doing here?" asked Arabella curiously.

"Well," said Sirius, his voice full of agitation, "I was sleeping soundly, when James here started yelling like a maniac. This woke me up out of my dreams, and then we heard one of your scream. So we came here to investigate."

"Y/n said something about a wizard coming to kill James and herself, but he couldn't kill her son," said Violet, frowning.

"That's what I dreamed about," said James, looking terrified.

Y/n choked back a sob, and Bella put her arm around her best friend. "Don't worry, N/n, it's all right..." She glared at the boys. "What do you think you're doing, scaring Y/n like this? Now, either we all send James to an insane asylum or..."

"Hey, your friend dreamt the same thing!" pointed out James angrily. "I'm not the only one who's insane!"

"Y/n's not insane!" screeched Arabella.

"What in heavens is going on here?" They slowly turned around, only to see Professor McGonagall turn up in a flowered nightgown and holding a lit up wand. She was frowning.

"Boys!" she cried. "What do you think you're doing in a girls' dormitory? Potter, Black, you two should have known better!"

The bowed their heads. Then Y/n said, "Please, Professor, J-James and I, we had a bad dream and the boys came here to see w-what was wrong." Her voice was shaky.

McGonagall looked astonished. Then she said swiftly, "Well, you all get on back to bed. Potter, Miss L/n, I would like a word with you two." She marched out of the portrait hole and near the stone gargoyle with James and y/n at her heals.

"Sherbet Lemon," she barked, and the stone gargoyle jumped to life and sprang aside. She marched into the office and Professor Dumbledore was hurrying out of the dark in his robes, looking concerned.

"Minerva," he said, frowning. "What is this?"

Professor McGonagall nodded her head to Y/n and James. "Those two—they just had a dream about you-know-what."

Dumbledore nodded, relaxing. "Very well, Minerva. You may return to bed now. I will speak to them."

When McGonagall left, Dumbledore turned to the two. "I want you to tell me exactly what your dreams were about," he said, in a gentle, but firm voice.

Y/n and James told the headmaster exactly what they dreamt about, and Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "I knew you would dream this sooner or later," he said, smiling at their stunned faces. "You two have a long destiny together and will change the course of the world. Of course, you probably think it's perfectly ridiculous right now, seeing how much you—er—rather loathe each other. But time will come when you will understand what the right thing to do is. Now"—he glanced at the watch on his wrist—"I think it is time for you two to return to bed. And please do not mention what I have told you to anyone. It's dangerous to share secrets these days."

They both nodded and left the office, whispering to each other.

"What did Dumbledore mean, 'change the course of the word'? Dad must've known something like this would happen, that's why he told me to be nice to you in the letter."

"Letter?"

"Yeah...he sent me one just before Christmas yelling at me and telling me to be nice to 'the L/n girl'. I tried, but you're obviously not easy to get along with."

"There's no point of trying if it's impossible," snapped Y/n.

James was amazed. "Still—it's pretty bad to disobey my dad. He can be powerfully mad when...hey, who's that?"

There was a shadow moving along the walls, and Snape came out, very red in the face.

"Oh, hello," he muttered, carefully not meeting their eyes. "I was—er—taking a stroll..."

"In the middle of the night?" interrupted James. "Really, Severus, you out of all people to break school rules—" He tutted the way Y/n would when someone broke a school rule.

"I—" Snape now looked extremely uncomfortable. "You're out of bed," he said instead.

"The headmaster wanted to see us," replied Y/n hardly. She was rather cool to Snape after the match against Ravenclaw.

"Oh, well, that—that's different, then," stumbled Snape. "W-well, I m-must be off." He ran off, not to another corridor, but to the direction of where the Slytherin common room was.

"I took care of him," said James proudly. Y/n scowled.

"I helped!"

"Yeah, well, I did most of the work."

"Arrogant pig."

"Withering flower."

"Daft—" began Y/n, but her eyes filled with tears. "I am not a withering flower!"

"Well, I'm not an arrogant pig and a daft whatever-you-were-going-to-say!"

"Yes, well, a withering flower—" She suddenly ran off to Gryffindor Tower, sobbing. James halted. What had he said wrong?

By the time he got into the common room, all three of Y/n's friends were glaring at him menacingly, their arms around a crying Y/n. When he saw his friends, they were also staring at him coldly and shaking their heads.

"Why is everyone mad?" he asked wonderingly, strolling over to where Sirius, Remus, and Peter stood.

"You called Y/n a withering flower," said Remus quietly, not looking at James.

"So? She called me an arrogant pig!"

"Yes, James." It was Sirius speaking, and he was looking serious, for a change. "You know how strong Y/n is. A withering flower would indicate that she was weak and cannot face the world. And you know how that's not true. Y/n's stronger than all of us, and can go through many hardships."

James' heart sank and he suddenly felt terrible. "Well, I didn't mean...what I meant was..." He trailed off, looking away.

Remus patted his shoulder. "I know you didn't mean any harm when you said it, James, but next time, be careful of what you say to Y/n. She's one girl you shouldn't mess with."

James gave his friend small smile. "You can say that again. I've had too much experience to mess around with her."

Sirius laughed and Remus chuckled. "You're right about that, Jamie!"

Then James walked over to where Y/n was still crying. But before he could say one word, she rushed up to the girls' dormitory, tears coursing on her cheeks.

"You should go after her and apologize," said Violet quietly, watching her friend disappear. "That was a really mean thing you said, James."

"I know," said James, his head bowed. "I—I never meant any harm..."

"Of course you didn't," said Jennifer swiftly. "Y/n's just a bit stubborn, but she'll get over it. Just watch your mouth next time, sonny." She grinned and Arabella stepped forward.

"I'm not mad," she reassured. "But I'll be happy again if you'd apologize to my best friend."

"I will," he promised, and rushed up to the girls' dormitory. Then the girls started to grin at each other excitedly.

"D'you think they'll kiss and make up?" whispered Violet.

Arabella shook her head. "Nah, I know Y/n too well, she and James will still stay enemies after James apologizes. But they'll become friends later, for sure."

"It happens when both people are as stubborn as mules," agreed Jennifer.

Back in the girl's dorm room, James was apologizing endlessly to Y/n.

"Look, y/n, I'm not forcing you to be friends with me, but I really want you to forgive me for calling you a withering flower. I was really mad at that time, and I wasn't thinking properly and...well..." Seeing that Y/n was looking away and not speaking, he tried again.

"Y/n, I think you're beautiful. I've thought that ever since we first met at King's Cross and, well, I've never told anyone. I know that Sirius would tease me to no end, and your friends would probably say 'we knew it'. So—I've kept it to myself. But now I'm telling it to you, and...can you please not tell anyone that I've said it?"

Y/n turned around, and James was astonished to see a smile plastered on her face. "Sure James. You know, you're not such a bad guy after all. When I first met you, I thought that you were the worst thing since rules, but I guess I was wrong and Remus was right. There is more to you than I've ever imagined. But we're still enemies, right?"

Y/n grinned mischievously. "Right. Much to our friends' disappointments of course."

"Naturally."

"So...let's go down to the common room."

They marched down to the common room again, where their friends were waiting eagerly.

"Did you make up?" asked Arabella, though she knew what the answer would be.

"Nope," they both replied.

"And you two would have made such a cute couple," sighed Sirius, pretending to be disappointed.

James laughed. "Come on, Sirius, we know you don't want us to be friends. When we play pranks on each other again, you'll have the pleasure of egging us both on."

"Jamie-boy, sometimes I think that you can read minds."

"Funny thing really—I was thinking that Remus can."

They all laughed. Then James went over to Y/n and said, "Enemies?"

"Enemies...for now," said Y/N, hiding a smile.

"Hey!" exclaimed Sirius suddenly. "You didn't say, 'Enemies forever'!"

"That's right, Sirius," explained Y/n, smiling. "Because James and I know we won't be enemies forever."

tags; @thecurlyhairedwinchester

a/n; go check out my rewritten version! you can find it in my masterlist!

masterlist of it’s a hate-thing original version

masterlist for rewritten version

#amarauder writings #james potter x reader #it's a hate-love thing original version

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