#anyway. I’m not even especially fond of the lad (he’s. fine. shrug. good for showing the power & danger of the ring even on good people) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

captain-emmajones · 3 years

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everything is icy and blue (you would be here too)

Dearest @klynn-stormz, Merry Christmas! It has been so lovely to get to know you during this past month. I hope you’ll enjoy this gift I wrote for you, and here’s to hoping we’ll get to know each other more during this new year!

A big thank you to @cssecretsanta2020 for organizing this event, to @therealstartraveller776 for being the loveliest beta and to @carpedzem for screaming at me -- always.

Summary: Canon divergence in which season 3B happens during Christmas time. Set after 3x16 and before 3x17 (let’s pretend more time passed between Neal’s death and Hook’s curse).

When Hook has to adjust to Storybrooke’s Christmas traditions and learns about mistletoe, he starts carrying it around with him, all the time -- just in case Emma decides to join in the fun that was promised and kiss him. Except it doesn’t exactly go according to his plans.

6OOO words - Fluff - Angst - Ao3

The sun is long gone when Hook and Henry finally sail back home. The stars and the moon have invaded the night sky, twinkling peacefully above their heads.

Hook exhales a sigh of contentment, twirls of white smoke dancing out of his lips.

“Quite chilly, isn’t it, lad?”

Henry stands before him, spyglass firmly pressed against his right eye. It seems to take him a few seconds to register that Hook has been talking to him.

“What?...No! I’m not even cold!”

A quiet laughter jolts out of Hook’s mouth. Of course he isn’t cold. The lad has been looking mesmerized ever since they left port. It is a miracle he still knows his name.

A mechanical swing of the wheel, cold fingers against cold metal -- and not warm wood, not like the Jolly -- and the small boat Hook has ‘burrowed’ slides gracefully into port.

“Almost there, lad.”

If Henry hears him speak, nothing in his demeanor gives it away. Hook’s heart smiles as something warm swells inside his chest.

The sailor has to admit that Storybrooke’s docks in this late winter afternoon have proven to be a sight for sore eyes. They seem forever entrapped in shimmering clouds of misty darkness, the pavement glistening under unusually bright street lights.

Hook frowns.

“Tell me something lad, why are those street lights this colorful?”

His question causes Henry to finally give up on the spyglass. He clicks it shut, and abandons the front of the boat to reach him.

“Christmas lights. Why do you ask?”

Although Hook has very little idea what this Christmas thing is, he gathers from Henry’s matter-of-fact tone that it is on the list of things he shouldn’t be talking about with the boy if he doesn’t want Emma to kill him.

“Oh, just like that, lad. My vision must not be what it used to, because I couldn’t make them out properly.”

Emma’s cheeks are flushed and her nose stained with red when Hook and Henry finally reach her. Her slim body appears tense under the quivering lights of the docks, and there is not an inch of her skin showing.

“Everything alright?” she asks, voice hoarse from the cold.

Her head is buried beneath what she calls “a beanie”. It is also red, and it is positively the most wonderful vision Hook’s had the pleasure of gazing at in weeks.

“I think so, Swan. The lad is quite fond of the sea. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

Henry is polite enough to look up from the video game he was already engrossed in to nod vigorously.

“Yeah, it was so much fun. Thank you for taking me, Killian.” Henry dedicates a smile to Hook, to which the pirate answers back: “T’was my pleasure, lad.”

The boy then shifts his attention to his mother. “Can I go wait in the car?” he asks.

Hook watches as Emma pretends to think, for one minute -- eyes rolling and underlip tucked between her teeth -- before she drops the car keys into his hand.

“Thanks, Mom. Bye, Killian!” Four words and the boy disappears as a gust of cold wind curls around the two warm bodies still outside.

Emma scoffs a little as her eyes linger on her son settling himself comfortably in the yellow bug parked a few feet away and raises her eyes to gaze at Hook.

The immediate effect it has on his heart rate is truly ridiculous, and Hook cannot hold back his smile.

“Thank you for taking him,” she mutters quickly, scrunching her nose -- and her words seem to burn her lips.

Hook sees himself lean into her space, smirking.

“Why, you’re most welcome, Swan.”

He watches as her eyes widen and scrutinize him before a slow, timid smile curls up her lips.

Behind her back, the waves crash tenderly against the harbour, claiming it as home.

It’s always a sight for sore eyes, Emma Swan smiling at him, and Hook counts his blessings.

“Oh, by the way, tell me something, Swan,” and as he speaks he leans into her space even more, bending forward as if Henry might hear them.

Emma’s eyes grow wider, but she does not back away.

It isn’t necessary, of course, and it isn’t like Henry is paying any attention to two of them anyway but neither Hook nor Emma seem willing to take that into account.

“Yeah?”

Her breathy tone and bright eyes cause Hook’s heart to leap inside his chest. As he squeezes his belt between his fingers to gain some composure, Hook gathers enough courage to incline his body towards hers even more, lips dangerously close to Emma’s face.

“The lad mentioned a Christmas celebration, and I’m afraid I haven’t been updated on this subject.”

Hook catches a whiff of Emma’s fragrance as he backs away to gaze into her eyes, cinnamon and vanilla invading his lungs, and he has the pleasure of seeing her face crease into a wider smile.

“Christmas, uh? Don’t worry, I’ll make you flashcards.”

“I don't know what that is but sure.”

By the time he finishes his sentence, Emma’s grin is dazzling and Hook begins considering freezing this moment forever in time and possibly angling his face just right so that he might meet her lips, perhaps, just perhaps --

“It’s a holiday from our world. It’s supposed to be religious, but for most people it’s mostly an occasion to exchange gifts and kiss under the mistletoe--”

“-- kiss under the what?”

And Hook sees the bubble burst, just like that. A veil falls over her gaze and her smile dies away in a frown.

“Nothing. It’s stupid.” Even as she talks, her legs take a step backward, and Hook can only watch as this invisible tether between them seems to stretch and stretch.

He wonders if she feels it too, this suffocating feeling as she pulls away. The answer is cruel: surely not, or she wouldn’t be pulling that way.

“I see. Well, goodnight, Swan.”

Although she’s just begun walking away, Hook knows Emma is long gone when she whispers back: “‘Night, Hook.”

Since Emma doesn’t seem willing to share anything with him these days, Hook settles his mind on learning more about this world’s tradition on his own -- which ends up being quite easy, as he fumbles through Storybrooke’s library.

The Wicked Witch hasn’t shown up in two weeks now — since Neal died — which allows Hook to take some liberties with his time schedule.

“Do you need any help?”

Hook startles and turns around to face two, big blue eyes.

“Belle,” he says, but it sounds a lot like a reproach. Belle’s clearly understood it because she is frowning now.

“I saw you all alone with your books in the Christmas section and I figured you might need help to understand this world’s traditions,” she explains but any warmth has definitely escaped her tone.

Guilt immediately circles Hook’s throat, and he is gentler when he says: “No, I’m fine lass but... thank you for offering.”

Belle simply nods as a faint smile flickers across her face. And Hook thinks guilt is quite a vile thing because it pushes him to give up on the book in his hand Christmas Traditions to Brighten your Holidays-- silly, silly title -- and press his palm across the brunette’s shoulder.

“Actually, you might be able to enlighten me on something…”

A wink, and the right corner of Belle’s lip raises slightly.

“Sure, what do you want to know?”

“Swan mentioned a kissing tradition that involved toes of some sort?”

She’s frowning now, and it cannot possibly be good.

“What?” Her hands meet her hips as she furrows her brows harder. “Oh you mean mistletoe!”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said.”

Hook watches as Belle’s grin becomes impish. “I’m not sure Emma would like me telling you this,” she begins, coy.

“Which is exactly why I want you to tell me.”

Belle shrugs, glances down for a bit. “Well, I guess there’s no harm…”

“So you mean to tell me if this plant hangs over two people, they have to kiss?”

Hook’s startled blue eyes are quite a comic sight, Belle must confess. Surprised glimmers glisten amidst tender blue; he looks younger.

“Yes, that's what I mean.”

But Belle knows Hook’s cheerful smile is merely a facade. A few minutes ago, he seemed so...lonely, when she entered the library, nose buried in his book, and Belle figures it isn’t quite fair that he ends up having to learn it all -- on his own.

No one deserves to be left alone. Especially not during the holidays.

“And what does it look like?”

Belle gives a little chuckle. “Why? You want to use it?”

Hook’s answer comes out as a matter of fact. “Aye.”

And he looks so boyish, with this Christmas book in his hand and this hope hovering his eyes that Belle cannot help but smile frankly.

“I’m not sure Emma will fall for that.”

“Never try never know, lass.”

Belle sighs, scanning the shelves of books. Her eyes settle on one that she flips through rapidly.

“There,” she points with her finger, “this plant with the green leaves and red berries? It’s mistletoe.”

Hook peers above her shoulder. “Thank you, lady Belle.”

In a wink, the pirate has disappeared out of the library and Belle scoffs— amused, in spite of herself. He won’t be stopped, will he?

Hook and Henry are playing dice at Granny’s when he figures he might as well just ask the boy for more information.

“I’ve got a question, mate,” he begins, uncertain as to how to address the subject without sounding suspicious to those teenage ears.

Thankfully, Henry’s little concerned about Hook as he shoves French fries into his mouth.

“Yeah?”

Hook tries not to look horrified as one French fry tries to escape and Henry tucks it in expertly with one greasy finger.

“Where do you think I could find mistletoe in this town?”

That does make Henry stop for one tiny second, eyes open wide and eyebrows raised.

“Mistletoe? Why?”

Hook clears his throat, looks down at his fingers stretched on the table and lies: “Mary Margaret sent me.”

From the look on Henry’s face, he isn’t convinced. Smart boy.

“I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve been living in this town very long. You should ask my mom about it.”

Hook frowns. “Nah, let’s not bother her with this when she’s already busy with her...how does she say it…?”

Henry’s eyebrows reach unprecedented height. “...Case?”

“Aye. That.” Why would Swan bother with cases, that Hook doesn’t bloody know -- but it’s part of the things he doesn’t question.

If there’s one thing Hook’s learnt over the years, it is that if one wants something badly enough, it always ends up in one’s lap. However, the tricky thing is it rarely lands softly or in an expected way.

As Emma and he investigate the west side of the forest looking for the Wicked Witch, he quite literally stumbles onto mistletoe.

As things turn out, it is quite a painful venture and it involves gazing for a bit too long at Emma who is a little far behind and not long enough at the vicious root right under his feet -- not that Hook truly thinks he is to blame -- and plummeting to the floor, head first, leading up to Emma falling on top of him in a colorful “HOOK”.

Hook groans at the impact but he isn’t about to complain -- Emma falling on top of him might be the only way she’ll fall for him these days.

Emma, on the other hand, isn’t so pleased.

“What the hell? Can’t you look where you’re going?” she hisses as fiery green eyes pierce through his soul from under golden strands of hair.

“I didn’t bloody mean to do that!”

Hook wishes he didn’t sound like a ten-year-old boy, but that’s what it’s come to these days with Emma.

Emma grunts some more before rolling onto her side and kneeling to spring to her feet.

“You’re impossible”, she mumbles, and it sounds a lot like she might just kill him as she taps snow off her knees. “Tripping in the snow as if the Wicked Witch couldn’t kill us both on sight…”

Hook keeps his lips resolutely closed. When Swan starts rambling about him, he knows better than to interfere and possibly worsen the situation.

She’s still dusting snow off her jeans when suddenly, she stops. And stares at him.

Hook’s toes curl in his boots. “What?”

Emma scowls and he thinks she’s hesitating. “You’ve got...” she starts and then seems to catch herself up and stops.

Hook is about to ask what he’s got, but then Emma’s walking towards him, her hand raised up, and before he knows it her fingers have landed into his hair.

“Don’t move…” she whispers. Hook stands very still, feeling a blush creep up his skin, eyes lowering slowly not to stare.

From his height, he is able to see the slight freckles dusted over her small nose, and her pink lips and, -- perhaps he ought to look at the ground.

Emma’s face remains blank as she rummages through his hair, gentle fingers sieving through it, but a hint of red does stain her cheeks. When she retreats, the glimmer of a smile lingers on her lips.

“You had mistletoe in your hair,” she finally explains, with that quiet, abashed tone that’s only too rare.

Hook swallows down, heart drumming. “Thank you for the assistance, Swan.”

But then she’s quick to avert her gaze and Hook knows the spell has been broken as the small sprig of mistletoe lands onto the snow-coated ground in a faint whisper,

“Come on, let’s go. We’ve already wasted enough time.”

Hook lets her stride forward, making sure she isn’t looking at him before stooping down and picking up the small plant to slide it into his coat. He promises himself to come back for more. We’re not about to waist treasures, now, are we...

Hook is a subtle man, but he is aware that he cannot rightly expect Granny to be okay with him sticking mistletoe onto the window above Emma’s booth without asking first.

So he does.

“Why isn’t there mistletoe here? Isn’t it a Christmas tradition?” He begins, the picture of innocence, as he twirls a spoon into his cup of tea.

Granny sees right through him. “Very cute of you to be concerned about our traditions, Hook,” she mumbles, piling up plates onto a drying rack.

He nods, smiles even. “Fortunate are we that I’ve already stocked up on it.”

Granny’s eyes pierce through his soul. “How fortunate indeed.”

She lets him, of course. Not that Hook had any doubt.

When Emma strolls down the B&B’s stairs to go claim her daily hot cocoa and bear claw, Henry still caught up in a teenage coma, she does think Hook looks especially weird -- staring at her with a glint in his eyes that she can only coin as mischief.

“What are you up to?” she mumbles on sliding into her booth.

Hook says nothing but leaves his spot next to Granny at the bar to come and sit down in front of her. Emma doesn’t have it in herself to complain -- it’s too early for that and it’s not like it would make him go away anyway.

“Nothing, Swan. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asks, pointing towards the window pane.

Emma tilts her face to gaze through the window. She distinguishes a sky heavy with grey clouds of snow and looks back at him with a puzzled frown in her eyes. He is being suspicious. She squints.

“Is that grey sky the reason you’re so cheery?” she asks, and then dives into the hot cocoa Granny just dropped in front of her.

At least, hot cocoa is still sweet and perfect and doesn’t disappoint her.

“Can you blame me for being happy to see you?”

Emma nearly chokes on her beverage but she catches herself soon enough. Instead, she furrows her brows and proceeds to ignore as well as she can the stubborn leap of her heart.

“You’re never that happy to see me,” she retorts, smothering a smile, and then drinks up another mouthful of hot cocoa.

Why is she encouraging him?

“Allow me to disagree, Swan. Plus, look up: there is a wonderful opportunity to make me happier.”

“Why would I want to make you hap-?” she begins, but then she discovers what he’s pointed at with his hook and the end of her sentence vanishes from her mind.

It takes a lot of willpower not to burst into laughter or stab him in the face with her little spoon -- which one she hasn’t made up her mind on just yet -- and instead plaster the blankest expression she can conjure on her face....

...which is in that case a silly, silly smile.

“You’re really desperate if you think mistletoe is what it’s going to take for me to kiss you,” she retorts, and she really hopes the heat she feels blooming on her face isn’t showing up.

From the look on Hook’s face, however, it is definitely showing. Emma wants to rip that stupid, smug smirk off his face.

“Can you blame me for trying?”

This time she cannot hold back the chuckle that’s bubbling inside her throat as she shakes her head. Idiot. Her cheeks hurt.

“No, of course not, if you don’t expect to succeed.”

And he smiles that smile, that “that’s when the fun begins” smile and stands up.

“We’ll see to that, Swan.”

And when Granny asks her “So, mistletoe, uh?” Emma figures the grin spreading across her face isn’t her best poker face and she pretends to be exceptionally thirsty for hot cocoa -- mostly to distract Granny’s from the flush on her cheeks.

Hook is meticulous in his endeavours, and has the sense of details, Emma will give him that.

She slowly finds out that the whole town suddenly is brimming with mistletoe. Mistletoe in the B&B’s corridor, mistletoe in the laundromat room, mistletoe in the library, mistletoe everywhere.

Mistletoe even in the leather satchel Hook carries around everywhere with him. “You never know when the occasion might be right, Swan. You have to be prepared.”

Although she hates him for it, she does not hate him nearly as much as she hates herself for not hating it completely.

After all, it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

For instance, when Mary Margaret and David notice it above their head at Granny’s, they smile and meet halfway in a kiss. The other day, Granny’s lips also found Ruby’s forehead and left a sonorous smack there -- a rare display of affection between the two women -- and Ruby then proceeded to stain Emma’s left cheek with a lovely burgundy color.

No one knows Hook is the one hanging them there -- except for Granny -- and Emma wishes she would find it more ridiculous. (Even a little bit, that’ll do to make her feel better about herself.)

They are only a few days from Christmas Eve when, after another endless afternoon spent patrolling, Mary Margaret starts musing over the Christmas spirit in the sheriff station.

“I just love Christmas and I am so glad we are spending it together, this year -- Wicked Witch or not.”

Mary Margaret’s right hand brushes over her round belly while the other rests above David’s shoulder.

Emma sits in a corner; exhaustion is weighing down her limbs, coloring her world blue. The snow seems to have sunk into her skin, crystalizing over her muscles.

She can hardly share their enthusiasm. With the Wicked Witch on the run, she’s had little time to think about the holidays -- if not for mistletoe because of a certain someone -- and what it means to spend Christmas with her parents and her son. Henry still hasn’t recovered his memories and all she can think about is avenging Neal’s death and the life she gave up on, back in New York.

“Should we invite Regina?” Emma asks in a breath. This all starting to sound a lot like a complicated masquerade.

She stares at the bright, yellow neon lights above her head. She’s stared at them so many, lonely times, but now their sight is almost comforting... and then, slowly, slowly, flutters her eyes shut…

It would all be so simple, if they went back to New York. No more villains, no more happy endings to bring, no more sacrifices to make -- just Emma, a mother, and her son in a normal, quiet life. It was enough. She would be enough.

Silence. Emma cannot see her parents’ faces but she thinks she guesses quite well their expression anyway.

And then her mother’s voice, a bit blurry, as if erupting from another reality: “I mean, yes, we probably should or she’ll be alone for Christmas Eve. We’ll just have to tell Henry this family is really close to the mayor.”

“I still don’t know why you guys celebrate Christmas. It’s not even from your world,” Emma mumbles and yawns.

She is tired, so very tired. And celebrating Christmas always did feel like staring at an open wound that will not heal.

“Then we should also invite Belle…”

Emma hears her mother sigh. “In that case, maybe we should just all gather at Granny’s.”

Emma opens her eyes. The bright neon lights above her head are no longer soothing; they glare and burn. There will be no happy ending for the Savior.

“That makes sense,” she whispers and stands up before she can sink into another lethargy

Emma rubs her eyes and stretches her sore muscles.

“I gotta pick up Henry. Hook and he went sailing this afternoon,” she says as she slips one arm back into her jacket and another yawn quivers out of her.

“You should tell Hook, Emma,” adds her mother while Emma sieves impatient fingers through her hair.

Emma stops in her steps, arches one eyebrow. There is still so much exhaustion clinging to her bones and clouding her mind. “Why should I be the one telling him?”

Emma’s mother isn’t impressed by her petulant tone. “Because you’ll see him tonight, Emma.”

Emma winces. “Right.”

Christmas always sucked for Emma. She doesn’t know why this year should be any different.

Emma nearly hates Hook on sight when she sees him reach the B&B alongside Henry, his arm swang around his shoulder and this stupid gust of wind playing with his thick, black hair. She rubs her hands together to warm them up. At least the cold breeze is enough to sharpen her senses and wake her up.

It does warm her heart, to see Henry and he get along just fine, not that she’d admit it under torture or something.

Henry greets her with a hug and Hook with a tilt of his face and an intolerable smile. As they enter the B&B together in silence, warmth curls around their bodies, hugging them tightly, and Emma unzips her jacket on the way up the stairs.

“Go take a shower, Henry. I’ll be here in a sec,” she tells her son, palms on his shoulders to guide him inside their room.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Hook peer at her but she ignores him. “‘kay, Mom.”

The door bangs close behind her back and Emma shifts to face Hook staring at her with his insufferable blue eyes and a quiet smile and that silly, silly mistletoe hanging between them -- teasing her, it seems.

Smells of food and the faint rustle of conversations surround them as they stand in the corridor -- as if isolated in a liminal space.

Emma blinks, breathes in, inhaling some courage, and exhales: “We’re going to celebrate Christmas all together at Granny’s.”

She can tell he isn’t following because he looks taken aback for a moment and she hates seeing him like this -- when the mask cracks and light spills in and illuminates this earnest look on his face. It’s really hard then to convince herself that she does not care -- not at all, not one bit.

“Are you inviting me, Swan?” he asks, and Emma knows he means to sound impish but something else is rearing its head behind the sly smile and Emma feels a weird pang, down in her stomach.

“I’m not inviting you,” she retorts but she doesn’t have it in herself to keep her armor on tonight and she feels herself smile a sluggish smile. “Everyone is invited.”

He’s tilting his head then, in that manner that has a terrible effect on Emma’s heartbeat, and slowly bends down towards her -- his fragrance filling her lungs.

Emma thinks then that her eyelids are definitely far too heavy, that she should sleep, and she watches herself lean into him.

“So,” she begins again, voice hoarse and it isn’t quite because of the cold, “are you coming or not?”

But then, somehow, something seems to shatter between them and Hook takes a step back. Emma’s stomach gives another lurch and she has to fight the instinctive spring of her hand towards his arm.

“I’m sorry, Swan, but I don’t think I’ll be able to attend.”

“Why?” The word comes out of her mouth before she can think about it.

From the colored windows, Emma can make out the sun setting behind Hook’s back -- purple and pink clouds softly floating away -- and that sadness everywhere -- on his face, in her open palms with nothing to hold, in that distance between them.

Emma clenches her jaw as she watches him, as she watches him pulling away from her.

“I don’t think it is my place to be,” he simply answers.

Emma’s stomach twists.

This same urge to touch him burns her fingertips, owls that she should take a step forward. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand why he won’t, why she feels that --

Instead she remains very firm on her legs and smiles a faint smile and says: “I understand. Just know that if you want to drop by, you’re welcome to.”

A grin flickers across his face, but the glimmer dies before it reaches its eyes. “I appreciate that, Swan.”

And then she says: “Goodnight, Hook.”

And feels something bitter tug, tug, inside of her when he bows his head and disappears without a word.

As Emma expected, this Christmas Eve dinner in Storybrooke is...something.

Granny’s diner is bursting with people and clatters of heels and a silly, silly jingle bell rattles the walls. For the occasion, everyone brought a dish of their own while Granny arranged the bar to turn it into some kind of buffet where the guests get to pick and choose what they want to eat.

Emma stands on the side, an empty glass of champagne clasped between her fingers, as she watches her son queue near the buffet.

Emma isn’t hungry. In fact, it feels like her stomach is full to the brim with heavy bricks and she cannot swallow anything else down.

As her gaze wanders and lingers on the Christmas tree, near the stairs, Emma isn’t so sure she wants to be here at all.

She wants to blame the Wicked Witch for her lack of enthusiasm, but the truth is this scene of profusion and happiness is quite painful to watch.

There are so many people, and so much noise, and Emma feels like the light garlands are mere colorful spots dancing before her eyes, twirling and twirling, and they will not stop and she wishes they would.

Hook isn’t there. In fact, since their last conversation in the corridor, he has seemed quite inclined on avoiding her -- which is fair, considering it’s exactly what she’s been doing since she got back from New York.

Emma sighs, lowering her gaze to watch the Champagne bubbles fizzing inside her glass. Perhaps if he were here, it would be a bit more bearable. Emma frowns, fingers clutching around her glass. Nonsense.

A warm hand closes over Emma’s shoulder.

Emma startles, but when she looks up, she only meets Mary Margaret’s gentle green eyes.

“Emma, your plate is still empty. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

Emma brushes off the attention. “I’m okay for now, thank you. I’ll go get something later.”

Dammit. She doesn’t mean to sound this cold, doesn’t mean to push her away like this, but thankfully for her Mary Margaret knows best.

The next thing she knows her mother is sitting down on a chair next to her.

“Is everything alright, Emma?”

Emma hates the concern she hears in her voice, or rather she hates that it is somehow enough to tighten her throat and burn her eyes, and that there is a part of her that is desperate to feed on it. Maybe, just maybe, her mother can help her lift the bricks down in her stomach.

“I’m okay, I’m just --”

But then Emma glances down again, and she stares at mother’s hand, brushing over this round, loved belly and Emma’s breath catches in her throat.

Run.

“Emma, you are…?”

Something clatters down to the floor, and suddenly everything is too much. Emma’s eyes widen and before she knows it she’s moved up from her chair, heart pounding.

“I need to get some air,” she says very quickly, putting her coat on with trembling fingers.

The siren keeps blaring in her mind. Run. Run. Run.

“Please, will you make sure Henry eats something? I won’t be long.”

Emma does not wait for her mother’s answer to flee from the dinner, bursting through the front door.

The icy winter air leaps onto her skin just like she expected it to and Emma sighs in relief, closing her eyes. Her legs are still trembling beneath her weight, and her blood is still pulsating at her temples, but at least she is outside now. Her lungs quickly fill in with December smells — burnt wood, misty dead leaves and something almost magical that crackles as she breathes.

Outside, beyond the quiet chirping of insects, there is no noise. And it is incredibly peaceful.

Emma breathes in, and out, envisioning her anxiety slowly flowing out of her body like trails of electricity.

“Swan, are you alright?”

Her eyes shoot open as her heart skips a beat. There he is. Hook is sitting alone, his flask of rum in hand and his legs crossed under the table.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice still stammering.

Shit. She didn’t mean it to sound like that. Too late, Hook’s smile has already faded into a mirthless expression. Emma curses herself inward.

“It is always a pleasure to see you too, Swan.”

Oh she hates the tone of his voice, this distant, cold tone that sounds so sad, so sad. She cannot bear it.

“I’m sorry,” she exhales rapidly and she sees his eyebrow raise up under the surprise as she heaves short breathes. “I didn’t mean it like that.” A pause to stretch her hands, to feel the cold seize them gently. And then she tries again: “What I meant is.... why are you not inside?”

He’s quick to strike back but his tone is tender: “Why aren’t you?”

Although her heart still beats uncomfortably fast, he makes her smile.

“Don’t change the subject.”

She wonders if he can tell, if he can tell that she is still shaking, if he can tell that it is helping to simply be there and talk about something else.

Unfortunately for her, her legs are still frozen and she stands on the stairs leading up to Granny’s as he ponders his words.

Of course he can tell. Open book.

“I’m not sure people really want me there,” he says.

Emma’s stomach lurches forward just as her legs begin moving against her will. “That’s not true,” she begins, still walking towards him.

She does not understand the wave of relief that washes over her as she strides his way, and suddenly the Champagnes bubbles are fizzing gently inside her empty belly.

“Is that so?” He asks, his tone polite and distant.

“Yes,” she asserts. She fists her cold palms. “People want you around. Look at Henry, he really likes you. And I --” she begins and then stops in her tracks.

She’s standing before him now, and he’s staring at her with his bold blue eyes, his expression blank.

He isn’t making this easier for her, but when did she make things easy for him?

“And you…?” He’s challenging her, taunting her to jump the one step she will not take with him.

She breathes in the cold air.

“And I could use you around, in case something bad happens--”

His mask finally drops, his eyebrow raising. “-- in case something bad happens?” he repeats, frankly grinning now.

Emma’s lips quiver with a smile. “In case something bad happens,” she confirms, nodding.

All anxiety has now departed from her body and Emma feels light for the first time in...in a very long time.

And then Hook’s standing up in front of her, and Emma’s surprised to see how close they’ve gotten.

There is this terrible moment during which they both stare at each other, and Emma glances down at his lips and fancies herself leaning in and --

“It’s a shame you’re not carrying that stupid leather satchel, tonight,” she says.

She does not leave him time to ponder over her words before she crosses Granny’s door again.

As things turn out, Hook fills the chair next to hers quite nicely. And by his side, the dinner isn’t that noisy and overwhelming anymore -- not that Emma would tell him.

“Killian showed up! That’s great!” Henry looks up from his game when the pirate has gone to get one more serving of turkey.

Emma smiles down at him. “Yeah. I’m glad, too.” Hook definitely seems at ease, twirling among the rest of the guests, one eyebrow raised as he examines the food on display.

Clearly, he was wrong. He fits in just fine. And Emma starts thinking perhaps she was wrong, too.

“It’s good for him, you know,” her son continues and Emma blinks to see Henry, head down, focused on his game as he speaks, “I don’t think he has that many friends here, but he definitely likes you.”

Emma is glad Henry isn’t looking at her then, because it saves her the embarrassment of having to justify the blush on her cheeks.

When Henry’s climbed back up to the B&B to get some sleep, and everyone’s helped to clean the dinner, and Hook proposes one last drink outside, Emma may or may not ask him to go ahead in order to retrieve a bush of mistletoe from the window above her booth.

She may or may not slide it into her pocket and join the pirate outside.

She lets him tell his ravishing tales of pirating and freedom, as they exchange his flask of rum. The starry sky is their only quiet companion as they sit outside until eventually the tingle of her lips cannot be ignored anymore, and Emma gets the small sprig out of her coat.

The bewildered look on Hook’s face is a sight for the ages.

“Pirate,” he says then, and he probably means to say more, but Emma is holding the mistletoe above their heads resolutely.

“Tradition is tradition” she says, even as her free hand already closes over the lapel of his coat.

“As you wish…”

Later, much later, Emma will blame the mix of rum and champagne for the way their lips met in an icy, starry kiss and Emma lingered above his lips, just a little bit, unable to get enough of him, until they were both panting outside of Granny’s -- forehead against forehead, twirls of white smoke escaping their mouths.

And Hook will definitely tease her about her definition of “one time things” but surely that matters little when she can just grab the lapel of his coat to make him shut up once and for all.

#cs ff #cs fanfics #csss20 #cssecretsanta2020 #captain swan #klynn_stormz #my stuff #i hope you'll enjoy this <3 #amy writes

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dyxnamicart · 5 years

Text

my stupid highschool oneshot thing

look im not a writer, (I used to be when I was fourteen, haven’t done it since then so ya know, you dont use it you lose it lmao)

Anyways this has been highly requested that I post it, im a bit mad because its not exactly how I wish their dynamic was, I’m not great at writing banter (or anything i’m an artist now plewse) but ya know Also DISCLAIMER: This is a piece of fiction, it in no way reflects real life Dan and Phil (In fact my au switches up their personalities a fair bit) and do not tag them okAY P E O P L E They dont wanna see it and I dont want them to see it (Even if this isnt a particularly shippy piece lmao people are getting very angsty as of late) I also don’t have an editor so sorry for any mistakes Anyway here ya go heathens

Dan didn’t notice the opposing teams jock barrelling towards him, not until his leg had swept under his own, causing him to fly through the air, ball no longer in his possession.

In fact it all flew by in a matter of seconds. Dan didn’t really have time to process exactly what was happening until he felt the shock of pain that travelled up his wrist and down his arm as he landed heavily onto it, crying out as he rolled once or twice before coming to a stop… He couldn’t really tell. There was a whistle blow, but the bustling around him seemed dull in comparison to the loudness of the pain in his wrist.

He hissed as he was righted, pulled up and put steadily on his feet, being ushered to the benches, it only felt like five minutes before the game was back on course, bar Dan to be left on the sides, a few claps on the back from his teammates as he let his head come down from the spinning it was doing.

The nurse on staff did a pretty shoddy job of bandaging, but to her credit she did ask if he wanted an ambulance. If his dad knew an ambulance was called because he hurt his wrist... he didn’t even want to imagine the searing look of disappointment he would receive.

So he just declined.

The game was one of the final ones of the season, they were playing against the local private school, which had a surprisingly amount of suspiciously beefed up kids, though with private school money Dan wasn’t surprised they probably had some ins with the law and extra ‘help’.

He really wanted to play in the final, in fact his coach had even been considering him for the team, not that Dan was amazing at football, but he wasn’t the worst. He was passable at best, probably why his parents weren’t here right now to witness the semi, something he supposes he should be counting his lucky stars for now he had an injury as mediocre as a sprained wrist, but now there was a nagging pull in his gut of his own disappointment.

He waited out the game on the bench, figuring he should at least be there for his team for the results, even with a sprained wrist he didn’t want to run away without at least talking to a few of his mates afterwards.

Phil didn’t see the tumble.

He was perched up in the bleachers, trying to ignore the way the mild and darkening sky had began to stew whipping winds that tore right through the threads in his sweater, by sketching insurmountable things he could see.

He didn’t usually go to games, not only was it not his scene, but he would either end up insanely bored or find his eyes following Dan Howell’s god damn limber body. But this was the semis, and he totally wasn’t here to occasionally glance at a certain panting number 91, he at least wanted to show his support for the school. It wasn’t his fault this game was boring and his sketchbook looked far more inviting.

He only looked up when there was a big murmur and gasps coming from the crowd around him, and he couldn’t see who it was at first, but there was a boy sprawled on the ground.

It didn’t take long to figure out it was Dan, and his eyebrows furrowed deeply, closing his sketchbook and shoving it into his bag. He ended up walking down a few rows in the bleachers, just trying to see if the daft idiot was okay, and he sat down again much closer. The nurse did an awful job at bandaging his hand, he could see that from here, and he would have to fix it after the game. Well.. he didn’t have to, of course, but he figured Howell was too much of an airhead to fix it properly and as much as the other grated on him he at least wanted him to be comfortable.

When it came to the end of the game, Phil’s school lost, and there was a brief celebration for the other school as they paraded off the field, while Dan’s team just huddled around to talk to the coach and then walk to the locker rooms, obviously trying to act casual even if they had essentially just been eliminated from the finals.

Looking around, a lot of the families and students were milling out, many of them disappointed by the outcome of the game.

This was their star team, and there had been a surprisingly large turnout for the event, to have it all end this anticlimactically felt a bit wrong, if he was being honest, even if sports definitely weren’t his thing.

Phil headed down towards the locker rooms, some of the boys were already heading out, chatting and bumping into each other as they walked. Boys were talking, over half of them shirtless. He tried to avoid looking at them, while Phil had come to terms with his sexuality internally, he wasn’t out to his school, despite the obvious digs lots of the jocks and ‘cool kids’ would make. He wasn’t exactly subtle.

Dan hadn’t noticed him, he was sitting on a bench and chatting to a teammate, but some of the boys closer to the entrance had.

“Ay! It’s Danny’s little bitch, what’s new Lester?” A boy Phil knew as Jason laughed, throwing an arm around his shoulders, leaning heavily on him.

Phil grunted, and shoved him off. “I’m not anyone’s bitch. Especially not Howell’s.”

There was an ‘oo’ that rippled through the boys, and it was safe to say that Dan had noticed him. He furrowed his eyebrows, and stood up.

“A teacher told me to help Dan.. carry his stuff with his hand like that.” He faltered off, because that half baked excuse really did make him sound like someone’s bitch. But by this point people were beginning to lose interest and ended up either packing up to leave or going back to chatting amongst themselves about a hot girl or something Phil honestly couldn’t care less about.

Phil walked towards Dan, throwing on a mastered look of indifference and annoyance.

“What are you doing back here?” The brunette sighed deeply, running his good hand through his hair. “As if I don’t already get clowned on enough from seeing you during actual school hours.” He said dryly.

Phil rolled his eyes. “I saw that sad excuse for a nurse ‘wrap’ your hand. I’ve seen children under the age of 4 wrap toilet paper around themselves better.”

Dan groaned as he fell back to his sitting position on the bench. “Good deed Lester huh? You aren’t a guardian angel you know.”

“Are you going to turn down actual help with that wrist, Howell. Seriously.” He dropped his bag on the ground, and knelt down, ignoring the few whistles he got from the people still in the room.

Dan rolled his eyes as he looked down at Phil, arched eyebrow and holding his injured wrist with his hand, like he didn’t trust him. “Fine.” He sighed, setting his hand down on his leg, looking down at Phil with a suspicious and unless he was imagining it, flushed face.

Phil carefully lifted the brunettes injured hand, frowning at the small pang of guilt he felt when Dan hissed in a sharp breath, quiet, as if being a little louder would shatter his reputation in one fell swoop.

By now the locker room had basically emptied out, Dan’s mates sauntered away, hefting their heavy gym bags over their shoulders as their voices echoed down the hallway and slowly faded into the cool night air.

Dan and Phil sat in silence for a few moments as Phil examined the bandage. Dan seemed to relax a little, and he allowed the feeling of calm to wash over them now there was no eyes examining their every move. The indifference and hostility seemed to drain from the air.

He didn’t know if it was the late night game or the lack of people, but he felt as though he was back before highschool, back before their fall out. Before their life became a series of quips and tension seeping into the fond memories he once had for the boy in front of him.

“Why do you play, when you end up hurting yourself like this?” His question was genuine, none of the concealed fire that was usually behind his voice when he talked to Dan.

Phil used his other hand to unroll the bandage. He had seen the first aid kit it came from, the contents being the single bandage, two band aids and a single cotton swab. Not the most ideal for a sport like this, hands on and physical, but their school wasn’t really known for their state of the art resources.

Dan looked unsure of whether or not he should give a witty response or answer seriously. In the end he seemed too exhausted to spit out a clever one liner. So he opted for the truth.

“I don’t know..” Dan huffed a breath out of his nose, like he was out of practice with talking about his emotions. “The guys are cool.. people like a jock you know?” He pauses for a moment, like he was struggling with whether or not he wanted to continue. “And I kind of want my dad to be proud of me? You know my dad. I want him to think.. I’m one of the lads. One of the boys.. not a royal screw up son.” He snorted, good hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to play off his words as ridiculous.

But Phil didn’t laugh.

“Proud of you?” He repeated, slightly quieter as he slowly started to wind the bandage around Dan’s stiff wrist.

Dan shrugged, looking away and seemingly focusing on a spot far across the room, like he was trying to be anywhere but here, talking to a friend who had been distanced by time and change.

But Phil remembers, he remembers his curly brown hair bouncing around when he was excited, when he was jumping around playing cops and robbers, he remembers his loud and boisterous laugh and the way his cheeks dimpled and filled with colour. He remembers a time when he knew the boy in front of him more then he knew anyone in the world. When he thought Dan was his forever friend and that nothing would ever change that.

Guess something changed.

“You know I’m proud of you,” He continued, not looking up from bandaging. He could feel Dan’s eyes on him now, he could feel the incredulous and doubtful eyes bore into his skin, see into his soul. He didn’t seem to have expected an actual answer in response. “I’m proud of you when I see you play piano. When I see your eyes light up and when you lose yourself in the keys. When you recite dumb Shakespearen poetry and when you are on stage commanding the spotlight, when the only person who matters is you. That’s what I’m proud of. That’s what makes me think, THIS is Dan Howell. THIS is who he is meant to be. Not a shallow jock with a sharp tongue and attitude. I’m proud of the real you.”

He clipped the bandage pin on the end of the roll, now safely locked on Dan’s wrist, and he went to pull his hand away but was stopped by a hand placed over his.

Dan’s eyes were how he remembered, not in way they were for the past two years, glazed over as he tried to cram his way into a puzzle he didn’t fit into, but filled with an unfathomable tenderness and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on

They didn’t need to exchange words, the soft smile Dan gave him spoke a thousand words, making up for time that felt lost before now.

He stood up, finally dropping Phil’s hand and grabbing his jacket off the bench. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

Their silence was welcoming as they walked down the hall towards the exit. The last few years had been full of quips and jabs, fast insults and banter that sometimes toed the line as not quite friendly. This silence, it was new, but it felt right. Dan couldn’t quite understand, but there was a shift that felt comfortable.

Dan had known Phil a long time, longer then anyone in this god forsaken school. He was quiet and reserved and he enjoyed painting and drawing. He was creative, and he didn’t care what people thought of him. He was unapologetically himself, and that was something that he only wished he could be.

For the longest time it was him and Phil. Dan and Phil against the world, playing Mario cart and watching shitty movies, always at each other’s houses like they belonged together.

Then high school happened.

The desire to fit in hit Dan like a ton of bricks. While Phil was content to remain a Mario kart loving geek, Dan couldn’t stand being the butt of the joke. He couldn’t stand his dad being disappointed whenever he brought Phil home to do something nerdy. As the years went by it became a sort of crutch for him and Phil to make snide remarks at each other as they passed in the halls, glaring across the halls and that’s how it stayed.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved to see Phil riled up. He loved to see his eyebrows furrow together and his eyes roll. His arms crossed and his posture unimpressed. If anything that was his favourite part, the way his voice flooded with heat and passion, as he stared at him with the intensity of a bonfire. He loved to tease him and play his surprisingly short temper like a fiddle.

But he wasn’t attracted to him. No way. Phil wasn’t a pretty girl. He did NOT find his eyes pretty and the way his hair sometimes fell into his eyes and his hands didn’t itch to run his hands through it.

He was straight. He had to be.

His heart dropped a little, and he couldn’t explain why, but he looked over at Phil, who was walking beside him.

They were outside now, and it was raining, not too heavily but enough to get you fairly wet. Despite the fact Phil was wearing a sweater and long overalls, he could see him shiver, the fabric of the sweater probably allowed the biting wind to nip tight through it.

He shrugged off his jacket, and gently wrapped it around Phil’s shoulders, forcing them to stop momentarily. The street light cast a soft light over them, and his eyes met the other boys, and for a moment they stared at each other, Dan watching as raindrop followed the contours of Phil’s face, a drop following his cheekbone and the slope of his jaw.

He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck again as he started walking. “Okay okay, lets get you home, Lester.”

“Are you sure you aren’t cold?” Phil enquires inquisitively as he sped walked a bit to catch up with him.

He shrugged. “Still running on adrenaline I guess.” It was a lie, he was slightly cold. But it felt right, and he continued to walk with him in silence.

Phil was holding the jacket around himself as they approached his house, and they stopped just under the porch, the light flickering on to illuminate his face.

Dan stuffed his good hand in his pocket, and he clicked his tongue as Phil went to shrug off the jacket to give back. “Nah, wash it first, don’t want your nerd germs on my clothes.” Despite the insult, he found himself smiling warmly, and Phil too just chuckled.

“Alright, I’ll give it to you on Monday or something, Howell.”

Dan saluted as he turned to walk away, and he could feel Phil staring through his back as he walked back into the rain. They were only a street apart, but he knew that was going to be one long walk.

#mine #stick to drawing Hayley u idiot #ur right i should #but this only spawned at like 2am so im sorry #highschool au

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tcswritings · 5 years

Text

Of porch swings and trampled flowers. (rewritten scene/WIP)

It has been two rather weird months for Orla and Mick and both are trying to make up their minds about that new unspoken thing between them while they’re also trying to have a great time at their friend’s birthday party.

(TW: several mentions of very! irresponsible alcohol abuse)

******

It was only nine thirty in the evening but the party was in full swing already. Orla O’Connell made one careful step after the other through the room full of people and eventually the narrow hallway, balancing some empty glasses on a tablet, hoping that she would get them to the kitchen safely and she was relieved when she saw Damien waiting for her.

“Made it!” she laughed. “There you go, quite a big haul, eh?”

“Ah! You’re a gem!” Damien said, taking the tablet from her. “I dunno, man. Was ‘Please put your empty glasses back in the kitchen!’ too much to ask?”

“I guess, yeah. People be people.” Orla shrugged and followed her friend into the kitchen. “Are you enjoying your party?”

“Yeah, it’s been great so far! Best thing is that I saw about ten people already whom I have never met before.”

Orla laughed and she gave Damien a little pat on his shoulder. “That’s amazing, your reputation precedes you!”

“Heh!” Damien laughed. “What reputation are you even talkin’ about?” He placed the tablet next to the sink and started putting the glasses into the dishwasher.

“That you throw great parties?”

“Aw, you’re cute! However, that would rather be Mick, not me, eh?”

Orla could suddenly feel her heart beating a little faster and she tried her best to hide her excitement about the mention of Mick’s name. She merely bit her lip and nodded and let out a little laugh, doing her best to look and act entirely casual. She knew she was being silly - it was nearly impossible for Damien to have the slightest idea about her feelings, as it was for everyone else.

“Have you seen him, by the way? I know he’s here but he kinda just showed up, said hi and I haven’t seen him ever since and... ”

Orla didn’t answer. She had just stopped listening as her thoughts started wandering off like they had so often in the recent past. Her feelings for Mick had changed a little over two months ago - at the New Year’s party, to be exact. Something had happened between them that evening. Well, at least something had happened with her. Orla hadn’t been able to figure out where exactly it came from; all she knew was that there had suddenly been a moment when, for some inexplicable reason, she had the strong desire to kiss her friend.

Orla remembered the moment well - they had sat in a round with some others and everyone laughed about a little anecdote that one of their friends had just told and Orla and Mick had looked at each other for a few moments, and she had been entirely startled by her own thoughts and she couldn’t help but feel that he had noticed and maybe even felt the same.

There was the catch, though: Orla had no idea at all if Mick felt the same. There had been times when she was almost certain that he did and there had also been times when she was certain that she was merely imagining things. There had also been times when she questioned her own feelings, when she asked herself whether she was maybe just particularly fond of the idea of him and her together, that her feelings weren’t real and that she was just projecting. She had always thought of Mick as exceptionally good-looking after all. He was also cute and surprisingly sensitive, and while he could be a handful (and there was just no way around admitting that) he was always very gentle with her. A gal can get carried away so easily. Especially this gal. Orla was more than aware of her tendency to crush on every handsome lad that would cross her way and she could usually shrug those moments off with a smile.

This whole situation felt different, though, and no matter from which perspective she tried to look at it - something had definitely changed. She could no longer be in the same room with Mick without feeling like she did and she figured that it was about time to do something about it albeit she still had no idea what that something could be. She could feel frustration rise up every so often and she was afraid that this weird state would somehow affect their friendship in the long run. Whatever the outcome may be, she needed to put an end to her pathetic secret pining... although she really preferred the outcome in which he would just smile at her and bend down so their faces would be close and-

“Orla?” Damien asked, gently poking her shoulder. “Hey, you still there?”

Startled, she turned her head. Oh. “Hm?”

“Where have you been?” Damien asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Uhm, sorry, kinda just drifted off for a sec. What is it?”

“Have you seen Mick?” Damien repeated his question. “I’m wondering where he went and you guys usually stick together and-”

“We do?!” Orla’s eyes went wide. “Is that what you-? Erm, I mean- I dunno where he is. Sorry. Haven’t seen him.” she said quickly and after a few moments she added “Probably somewhere outside with Declan, Ryan and Daryl. Doing something stupid, as usual.”

Damien gave her a weird look. “Okay then?” he mumbled. “Guess he’ll show up sooner or later, eh? Well, anyway, thanks for getting me those glasses back.”

“Any time. Let’s just try and make sure those idiots out there don’t wreck your entire house. And hey, my offer still counts. If you need help cleaning up tomorrow just gimme a honk, right?”

“Aw, you’re the best. It’s fine, though, my parents are only coming back in a week and Jake and Jessie already promised to help. You just go and have fun! Hey, we’re gonna have a drink and a chat later, eh?”

“You bet we are!” Orla grinned, hoping that her little awkward moment would quickly slip Damien’s mind again. “I’m gonna have a stroll ‘round the house. Just yell ‘GIN TONIC!’, and I’ll be right with you!”

“Attagirl.”

*****

It was rather unusual that Mick would disappear from a friend’s party just like that and as she left the kitchen, Orla had already made the decision to look for him. She let her eyes wander around as she walked through the rooms but there was no sight of her friend. Not anywhere. It was rather impossible to oversee him after all so it seemed that he really wasn’t here and Orla began to feel really sad and disappointed.

Could it be that he had left already? That short after he showed up, just like that, without saying goodbye?

‘Nah, he wouldn’t.’ she thought to herself, and when she came back to the hallway once more from what felt like her fifth round around the house, she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, huffing in frustration. There they were again - the doubts. The self-consciousness. The insecurity.

There was still a chance that Mick was simply avoiding her after all. Maybe he had somehow sensed her feelings. He was good at perceiving moods and other little things and as much as she cringed at the thought - it was most certainly a possibility. Maybe the thought of being with her had put him off so bad that he could no longer stand being around her. Orla let out another heavy-hearted sigh as a loud and familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“ORLA! Oh god, there you are! Get your phone ready, this is gonna be fun!” Declan called, jogging across the hallway over to her. He was a bit out of breath and needed a moment to rest, leaning against the wall by putting his hand to it and taking a deep breath before he went on. “Do us all a favour and film this. It’s grand, it’s shocking-”

“What is it?!” Orla batted Declan’s hands away as he started fumbling around with her handbag.

“Daryl just ate half a fuckin’ glass of Russian Pickled Cherries!” he told her, slightly appalled because she wasn’t as excited about that fact as he was.

“Ew, what?”

“And now he’s about to drown a bottle of whiskey for good measure. It’s gonna be so much fun, just come!” Declan took his sister by her shoulders now and pushed her through the hallway towards the living room.

“Not again! I can’t believe you guys still encourage him to do that shit, y’know, considering-“

“Aw, we’ll look after him, as usual.”

“One day, one o’ your stupid little ‘jokes’ will go wrong and put his life in-”

“I said we’ll look after him.” Declan interrupted. “We always do.”

Orla sighed. “And why can’t you use your own phone?”

“Dunno where it is, left it somewhere, just come on now! To the living room!”

“Why can’t you ever look after your things-”

“Now come!”

Just as she was about to protest some more, Orla gave it a second thought. Her little remark to Damien earlier didn’t come out of nowhere after all - if there was anything remotely stupid happening, Mick usually wasn’t far away and Daryl McKenna’s next attempt at drowning an entire bottle of whiskey while everyone was cheering for him was the epitome of stupid and while she didn’t enjoy the thought of it (or better said, the thought of what was bound to happen about half an hour later), Mick most certainly would.

The thought gave her hope. He had probably spent the last thirty minutes with Declan and Daryl and she was certain that she would eventually spot his face among the others in the living room. There was no way Mick O’Loughlin would miss a friend making a fool of themselves.

“Alright, alright, just get your hands off me already!” Orla hissed and freed herself from her brother’s grip. She eventually followed him back to the living room and she found that Declan hadn’t promised too much: most of the guests were already looking expectantly at the slightly chubby guy with the horn-rimmed glasses and the long and tousled red mane in the middle of the room, holding a bottle containing a clear golden liquid into the air. Daryl was putting on a little show, as usual, and even Orla couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him. Daryl had a good portion of charisma, she had to give him that. He knew how to entertain people, it was something he had in common with her brother.

Among the watchers was also Damien, of course, apparently torn between amusement and concern. “My parents just refurnished this room so if you gotta puke, do it outside!” he called but Daryl merely laughed his remark off.

“Get your phone out already!” Declan urged, pushing Orla a little further into the room. She rolled her eyes and pulled her phone out of her handbag, unlocking it and handing it to her brother.

“Here. Do it yourself if it’s that important to you! And don’t you dare losing or breaking it!”

“Neat!” Declan beamed as he took the phone and Orla took the opportunity to look around the room again.

There were many familiar faces but she still couldn’t spot the face she was looking for. ‘How can that be? He must be here!’ she thought, and she felt her body becoming tense.

As Daryl did his thing, the crowd cheered, as excpected, and Orla watched him with a mix of disgust, concern and also deep respect for a few moments. She smirked, as she knew he would never make it. Drowning a bottle of whiskey without facing the worst consequences was nearly impossible for anyone and not even Daryl was careless enough to take a risk like that. He would give up soon, she knew him well enough and he had done it like that before. He was usually all hot air with nothing behind it, he would pretend to have a coughing fit or something and he would put the bottle down, leave the room in a hurry and hope for the best.

At some point Orla didn’t feel like watching any longer and she certainly didn’t feel cheerful either.

“I’m out of here!” she called and patted her brother’s shoulder but Declan didn’t even take notice of her as he was concentrating on capturing the rather disturbing scene on film, probably already thinking of ways to make it go viral and Orla scoffed before making her way out of the room.

She eventually found herself back in the large kitchen. Damien had switched the lights off and Orla could now see all the little lights outside in the garden that lit the way to the Callaghan’s back porch.

Perfect. A little bit of fresh air, a smoke and some solitude would certainly help her to feel more relaxed again. She took another can of beer from the freezer, carefully opened the glass door and stepped outside, taking a deep breath. It was surprisingly warm for an evening in March and Orla strolled along the way to the back porch, enjoying the little rush of fresh air and as she gazed into the clear sky, she couldn’t help but smile at the twinkling stars.

The porch was lit by a few lights on the ground. As soon as she reached it, Orla could hear a faint creak and she drew her eyebrows together in confusion but when she saw what, or better said, who had caused the noise, she let out a surprised laugh.

*****

“There you are!”

Mick O’Loughlin sat on the porch swing all by himself, slowly moving it back and forth with his legs. When he heard Orla talk, he looked up but his expression was difficult to read. He didn’t say anything and merely shrugged.

“You’re missing all the action, y’know.” Orla tried again after a few moments.

“What action?”

“Daryl emptied an entire glass of Russian Pickled Cherries and now he’s attempting to drown an entire bottle of whiskey.”

“Again?”

“He’s Daryl. We always knew he’d try it again at some point.”

“True. He’s stupid.”

“Yeah, he is.”

Silence.

“What’s it with you today?” Orla eventually asked, moving a little closer to the porch.

“Nothin’.”

“You been sitting here all night or what?”

“Kind of.”

Mick still didn’t really look at her and Orla felt the frustration rising inside her again. She began to worry whether he even wanted her around.

“I brought beer! Can I sit with you for a bit? Or do you want me to go?”

“Mh-mh.” Mick shook his head.

"You don’t want me to sit?” Orla asked carefully. He was obviously in one of his weird moods.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Orla smiled and instantly felt a little better.

“Okay then. Move over.”

At least he could stand being around her so his mood probably wasn’t about her. She stepped on the porch and sat down next to him, looking at his profile for a few moments. Still curious about what had caused his mood, she took the half-smoked cigarette from his fingers and took a drag.

Together they moved the swing back and forth in silence a few times before Orla dared to speak again.

“What’s up with you?” she asked, her voice soft now.

“Nothin’.”

“It ain’t nothing! I’ve known you since forever, don’t you forget that?”

“Just not really in a party mood, I guess.” he sighed.

“You’re still here, though. What’s keeping you from going home if you’re not feelin’ it?”

Mick now looked at her, raising an eyebrow, and Orla facepalmed herself in her thoughts. “I mean, I don’t want you to go, of course, but, I mean, you could?” After a few moments she added: “I’m sure everyone would understand.”

Again, silence.

“Hey, I’m worried. You’re being weird!”

Still no answer.

“Come on, you gotta give me something to work with, Mick!” Orla now cried out impatiently, half-amused, half-desperate.

Mick now groaned and leaned back, stretching out his long legs. “It’s nothing!” he insisted and snatched his cigarette back from Orla’s hands, taking one last drag before flicking it away.

“I don’t believe you! You’re so bad at lying, it’s ridiculous!”

“Well, fine, there’s somethin’ but I dun’ - I mean. I dunno how t’ bring it up without soundin’ like a total fucktard.”

‘Fine, we’re making progress’, Orla thought. “Hey, you’re talkin’ to me and you never cared about that before. Speaking fucktard is what we do, it’s our thing!” she laughed.

“Not this time, though.”

“Why not? Just tell me what’s wrong, please!” she pleaded again, starting to feel really worried.

“ Orla, I- god, it’s so stupid.” Finally, he looked into her face. “Did I, like... do anythin’? Have I somehow pissed y’ off or so? Have ya been avoidin’ me?”

Orla frowned. The question took her by surprise. “What? What makes you think so?”

“I dunno either, it’s just -” Mick bit his lip. “I dunno, I feel y’ have been tryin’ to avoid me.”

“Wha- no. What? No! No, I-” Orla stammered. This conversation had just taken an unexpected turn. “To be honest, I was- I was wondering the same. About you, I mean. That you’ve been avoidin’ me! At least sometimes.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Well, why would I?”

They looked at each other for a few moments, dumbstruck, and Orla’s heart started beating faster again. She still didn’t know what to make of this moment but at least it seemed that she hadn’t been the only one noticing that something was very, very different.

“I dunno.” Mick sighed, looking back to his hands in his lap. “Shit’s been hella weird since New Year. Right? Tell me I’m not just seein’ things, please.”

Alright. Now was the moment. Orla felt an odd rush of relief washing over her and she moved a little closer - no matter what, they would settle this now and she would finally be able to move on.

At least that was what she hoped.

“You’re not seeing things.” she admitted. “I dunno either but... oh lord.”

Orla looked into Mick’s eyes. The porch was lit just enough so she could see a little spark in them and her little wave of relief instantly faded and the sheer nervousness was back.

This was probably the hardest thing she would ever have to do.

She took another deep breath. “I’ve been... getting lost in thoughts every now and then, y’know. About you. And me. And what I would like to do but... can’t because I’m an anxious wimp.”

“Thoughts? Y' mean... ?” he asked, surprised, but otherwise his expression was once again hard to read.

“Ugh, I don’t know, okay? I just- I’ve been wondering if we could maybe- I don’t know.” Orla looked away again and closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking. No, her entire body was shaking. She was really close to having a panic attack now and, all of a sudden, the prospect of a few more months filled with secret pining wasn’t all too bad.

This particular moment had been so much easier in all her wild theories. Also, much more elegant. She felt like an idiot - this was huge and she didn’t feel ready at all. “Just forget about it, okay? Maybe we should just go back inside and see what-”

She stopped mid-sentence because Mick had just reached over and taken one of her hands in his, intertwining his fingers with hers. Her heart skipped a beat.

Oh my god! she thought. What is happening? Is this really happening?

“If I’m guessin’ right now, well.” he shrugged. “I’ve been a fuckin’ wimp, too.”

“How can you be so cool and calm about all this?” Orla gasped, still not believing that this was actually happening.

Mick now let out a laugh, sounding baffled. “Wow, what? I’m not. It’s just- it kinda makes sense now, doesn’t it?” He gently brushed her thumb with his and squeezed her hand gently.

Orla closed her eyes again, breathing in and enjoying the affectionate little gesture. This was all new territory now. It didn’t even feel wrong. In fact, it felt very, very right.

“So I take it you’ve been, well... wondering, too?”

“Aye, I’ve been wonderin’.”

Could it really be this easy? Was this really the way to solve the issue? Shouldn’t there be more talking and elaborating? A battle plan or maybe at least a little bit more of thinking it through?

“I still don’t know if this- if we- if this is a good idea.” Orla stammered. “We’ve been friends for so long now, don‘t you think it’s weird? At least a little bit?”

Mick shrugged before he eventually tilted down his head a little, leaning in for a much anticipated kiss and although her heart (and lips) had been longing for this moment for weeks now, Orla wasn’t quite convinced yet.

“What if this goes wrong? I couldn’t stand to lose-” she breathed out but as her lips accidentally brushed his now, she was unable to go on. Her eyes were still closed and her lips slightly parted.

“Why would it go wrong?” he murmured back, putting his free hand to the back of her neck, gently tickling it. “Please dun’ leave me hangin’ now.”

Orla let out a funny little whimper, somewhere between fear and excitement. She knew there was no going back now anyway, too much had happened between them within the last five minutes alone, and so she finally let it happen.

The kiss was everything she had hoped it would be and more; sweet and full of longing and it tasted like so much more and she could feel an entire army of butterflies going wild in her stomach and after a little while, Orla drew back her hand that was still in his, reaching up and cradling his face in both of her hands now, losing herself in the bliss of the moment.

When they broke apart, only a few inches, after what felt like five hours later, merely to catch some air and not actually letting go of each other, Orla chuckled, playing with Mick’s hair at the back of his head. “Shouldn’t we go back inside?” she managed to say, her breath shaking and her heart still beating fast.

“Ya wanna go back inside?” he murmured against the side of her neck, nuzzling it, sending a tingling sensation down her spine.

“If you keep doing this, I’d rather drag you into that garden shed over there and do a little more to you than this.” she gasped.

“Temptin’.” Mick smiled against her skin as he proceeded to gently tilting up her chin, giving her another kiss and biting her lower lip.

‘Holy shit, where did he learn that?!’ Orla thought to herself, eventually pulling him into another kiss, a rather hot one this time. Her hand crept under his shirt and when he didn’t object (not that she expected him to), she let the other one follow, enjoying the warmth of his skin against her.

“Damien already asked about you.” Orla murmured after another little while, in between heated kisses.

Mick eventually pulled away and looked at her in disbelief. “What? We’re kinda in the middle of somethin’ here and y' think about Damien?”

“Nah, I just- it’s kinda rude, isn’t it?” Orla shrugged, biting her lip now. “He’s our friend and it’s not even close to midnight and we’re party guests after all... I dunno, I think we’re being rude.”

“Eh, so I guess that means ‘Bye bye, garden shed.’” Mick moaned in utter dismay, leaning against the backrest of the swing again and letting out a dramatic little sigh, but Orla knew he was only mocking her.

“You’re a horrible person, O’Loughlin. Alright, five more minutes. Go!” she encouraged him, making a little gesture with her hands that told him to come closer again.

“Naw, y' can’t just switch me on and off and on again, like fuckin’ television?”

“Why are you being weird now? Just do what I say for once?” Orla reached for his face again, cackling and trying to pull him close.

Mick chimed in laughing now, pulling away from her as far as he could. “I’m a human being, I have feelings!”

“Stop fighting and. Make. Out. With me. NOW!” she urged, laughing and making a silly kissy face at him. “I know you wanna! MWAH!”

“Not when ya make that face!” Mick now tried to push her face away with one hand (as carefully as he could, of course - he didn’t want to hurt her after all).

“You’re terrible, I hate you!” Orla giggled.

“Naw, ya don’t- OW, fuck OFF!” Mick cried out and swiftly pulled his hand away from Orla’s face - she had just bitten his thumb. He looked at his hand and then back at Orla, eyes wide in shock.

“That’s what you get for being like this, arsehole? You can’t win this anyway, just give in to me and my charming advances.”

“Tsk.” Mick scoffed but he was all too happy to oblige. Orla scooted closer, pulling him into another kiss, sweet and gentle again and she wondered why she even brought up the idea of going back inside and joining the party again - she didn’t really feel like it after all.

Just five more minutes. she thought. Maybe ten. Maybe sixty.

Just as she was getting lost in the moment again, a loud noise pierced the air. The sound of what appeared to be shattering pottery had both of them jump apart in shock but that alone was nothing compared to the following howling of some very familiar voices and both Orla and Mick looked over to where the noises were coming from.

“AYYEE, SORRY BUD. Didn’ see ye over there, man!” Daryl cried out, failing to supress a laugh.

“YOU BROKE A POT!” Ryan Boone, Daryl’s best friend, stated the obvious.

“SHHHH I KNOooOOoooOW!” Daryl hissed, still not able to stop his giggling. “We can’t let Damien know, he’ll be MAD!”

Orla and Mick looked at each other. As much as both would’ve loved to keep their moment up - the mood was definitely ruined for now.

“I dunno know about you, but I really dun’ need these two idiots seein’ us like this.” Mick mumbled, biting his lip.

“Me neither.” Orla sighed. “Okay, you go and look what those morons are doing over there and I sneak my way around the bushes and pretend to come out of the house, how’s that?”

“Sounds good.” Mick agreed and as Orla was about to get up, he held her back. “Eh, Orla?”

“Mh?”

“One for the road.” He pulled her down into one last kiss. It may have been the shortest of the few they had shared until now, but it was the one that almost knocked Orla off her feet and left her breathless and dizzy and for a second, the garden shed option came back to her mind but she did her best to brush it off. Not now. It was all going so fast and while she hated the interruption, she decided to take the chance to recollect herself a little. Couldn’t hurt.

“Now go, I see ya in a minute.” Mick stood up and gave her one last smile before he darted around the corner.

*****

“What the fuck are you doin’ here, man?” Mick called at his two friends as he stepped around the corner.

“HE’S ALIVE!” Daryl roared as he recognised the tall and slim figure walking their way. He stumbled towards his friend, arms wide open.

“No, Daryl, NO, you’re too drunk to walk, come back!” Ryan called after his friend. “Oh my god, just listen for once. Seriously, though, Mick, where have you been?”

“Didn’t feel well, needed a minute.” Mick answered as Daryl flung his arms around him. “So I heard ya did the whiskey thing again, how’d that go for ya?”

“He’s drunk and broke a pot.” Ryan pointed at the pile of fragments to his feet.

“YeahIdid.” Daryl slurred, eyes closed, quite obviously not feeling all too well.

Looking at the mess at Ryan’s feet, Mick bit his lip, now dragging the drunk Daryl with him who was still clinging firmly to his waist. “Yeah, you did.”

“I didn’ meanto...” Daryl murmured, apparently having a hard time to stand on his feet.

Mick patted his head a little, trying his best not to laugh. “Naw, ‘course not.”

“What’s going on here, guys?” a familiar female voice called from across the lawn. Orla quickly walked over to the three of them, her eyes narrow in confusion. She looked at the scene, putting her hands to her waist and letting out a sigh.

“Daryl’s drunk, Ryan’s desperate and that pot down ‘ere is fucked.” Mick curtly explained the situation to her. He couldn’t help himself - he flashed her a little smile which she returned. It’s not like Ryan or Daryl had any clue about what had happened between them just a few minutes ago.

Orla felt it would be wiser to get back to acting like nothing happened, though, so she regained her posture and when she looked around the garden, something else caught her attention. “Oh NO, Daryl, you trampled all the flowers!” she cried. “Damien will be pissed, why do you always make such a huge mess wherever you go?”

“Idin’meanto!” Daryl whined. Apparently he had just reached the stage in which he could merely let out weird noises.

Orla sighed. “Declan’s drunk as well. I don’t know how he did it within the short time I let him out of sight but he’s singin’ along to Queen with Jessie-”

“DECLAN! I’M COMIN’!” Daryl suddenly cried out, eventually letting go of Mick and stumbling towards the house with flailing arms. He looked hilarious.

“Daryl!” Ryan called after him again in despair. “Watch out- ah, fuck it, you never listen anyway.” He looked at Mick and then at Orla, and his face lit up as he took a giant step over to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. “You look ravishing as usual, Miss O’Connell. You’re free tonight?!”

“What-” Orla grimaced but Mick already stepped in.

“Alright, time to get back in and take care of Daryl and Declan!” he said firmly, squeezing himself between the two, putting an arm around each of them. “C’mon, let’s go! Go!”

And as they made their way back to the like that, Orla couldn’t help herself. To let him know that their moment wasn’t over just yet, she slid her hand into the back pocket of Mick’s jeans. He didn‘t look at her but she could see him smile and as she felt his finger brushing the side of her neck she was certain that the remainder of this evening was going to be just grand.

*****

“So, Damien and I put Daryl into the guest room. He’s sound asleep.” Mick told Orla as he took her by her upper arm, guiding her around the corner into the kitchen.

“Thank god.” Orla sighed. “He should really stop acting like that.”

“Aye, he should, but what can ya do. Any news from Declan?”

“Well, Jessie said he’s cradling his Jameson and has regressed to some weird toddler state. He squeaks and cries any time someone tries to take his bottle away.”

Mick closed his eyes and bit his lip as he tried not to laugh. “Beautiful.”

“However, I regret to inform you that Ryan and Jessie have now claimed the garden.” Orla sighed. “I don’t know what exactly they’re doing over there but it looked like some sort of a séance or so. They’re whispering really weird incantations together.”

“What the hell?”

“Just... don’t ask.” Orla shook her head.

“Jessie’s so cute when she’s drunk.”

“I know, right?” Orla laughed and she looked back up to Mick again. “Well. I’d love to pick up where we left off earlier but all the rooms are full of people.”

“Yeah. Ya never know who’s watchin’.”

“The kitchen is empty, though.” Orla smiled. She looked down and up again, taking the chance to grab Mick by his belt and dragging him further into the kitchen.

He played along and followed her with a little smirk but nodded at the glass door, towards the garden where Jessie and Ryan were currently having what looked like a serious laughing fit. “What about those two out there?”

“Ah, they’re busy necromancing.” Orla shrugged, letting her hands wander up his chest before standing up on her tiptoes and putting her arms around his neck.

“They could still see us?” Mick noted but he found himself not really caring that much as he pulled Orla a little closer now.

“The kitchen light is off and hey, if they should see anything, we can still tell them that they’ve been seeing ghosts.”

“Hm!” That was enough for an answer and Mick threw his doubts overboard with a little shrug before he smiled and bent down to kiss Orla once more and just before the two could get lost in the moment again, they heard someone howl nearby.

“WOW, it’s dark in here!” a female voice cried.

Orla and Mick jumped apart again, quick enough before the intruder turned on the light, both letting out a faint-but-exasperated groan.

“Oh my god...” Mick moaned and he and Orla both shielded their eyes from the light. “What the fuck, who are you?”

The girl let out a stupid laugh. “I’m Linda. I’m Damien’s classmate. And yoouu... are incredibly cute. A little rude, but cute.” Linda slurred as she made a step towards Mick, who merely frowned and backed away.

“And you and I need to leave,” Orla interrupted her. “You’re drunk and you should sit.” she added, trying to put on her nicest smile as she grabbed Linda by her shoulders, pretending that she was just a gal worried about another gal in solidarity. As she guided the girl out of the kitchen, she turned around to Mick who merely put on a slightly disgruntled expression that told her “Go off, it’s fine.” before he crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

Orla tried to mouth the words “I’ll be right back!” at him but when Linda made a weird retching noise, she made a face in disgust, “Eugh.”, and darted out of the kitchen to the next loo as quickly as she could, pulling the drunk girl with her.

*****

“Alright, I guess she’s fine, I put her into the room where Daryl is and-” Orla looked around the kitchen that was still lit but Mick was no longer there.

“Shit.” she grumbled as she let her shoulders drop in frustration, putting her hands to her hips and pressing her lips into a thin line. The Callaghans had a large house and yet it was practically impossible for two people finding some privacy.

“Damn you, Linda.” Orla muttered and she turned off the light as she left the kitchen, eager to look for Mick a second time this evening.

*****

(to be continued)

#orla #mick #orla x mick #made some minor edits and will maybe do some more later once I'm home #god I love my idiots so much lol #I could write six books about them and the side idiots alone

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