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gold-from-straw · 5 years

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Crush

This is a fic I wrote after I accidentally flirted with @unticka by telling her I had a crush on the person in her profile pic.

And then found out it was her ACTUAL FACE and had to go and crawl into a hole. Luckily she agreed it should be a Cherik fic so here we go lol!

Read this utterly silly fluffy thing on AO3 if you prefer ^_^ Warnings for some allusion to past drug addiction and lots of Erik being a socially anxious bean.

Erik’s phone buzzed and he picked it up, smirking at the comment Charles had added to their chat.

CX: I swear on all that’s holy if one of you brings Jaegermeister to my party this year I will scream

CX: I found the last bottle in the back of my cupboard. I can smell it through the glass I am not even joking

Erik pushed himself forwards and quickly typed brb, just going to the liquor store, grinning as it appeared on the screen.

Raven cleared her throat, and Erik looked up. “Are you quite finished?” she asked, raising one eyebrow. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the group chat I invited you to join, but I am now sitting in front of you. In the flesh. Buying you coffee.”

“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly and put his phone away.

“It’s fine,” she smirked. “You and Charles are getting along well, I see.”

“He’s an idealistic idiot,” said Erik immediately.

She nodded and sipped her latte. “And he makes you laugh. Honestly, you two need to just start messaging each other directly, let the rest of us get a look in on the group chat.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, his face dropping. “I never meant to irritate anyone.”

She shook her head. “You’re not, really, I’m only teasing. Don’t take me seriously, Erik, you know I’m full of shit.”

He twisted his lips and nodded, but he didn’t believe her. There was no smoke without fire, after all, and she had been kind enough to introduce him to all of her friends when he moved to New York. He didn’t know what he’d have done without those contacts. The only reason he hadn’t spent his entire first month in his apartment alone was because of Raven and her friends.

She put her hand over his, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry, Erik, I really was only joking.”

“Are you sure I’m not imposing on the group?”

“Absolutely. Look, you’ll see on Friday when we all get together for Charles’ birthday up in Westchester. I know you’ve met Sean and Emma already, the others are looking forward to getting to know you in person too. And if you and Charles start debating politics again there are plenty of empty rooms we can lock you in together until you sort your shit out. We’ll just eat the pizza and watch the movie.”

“Without the birthday boy?” Erik laughed.

“Oh, a good argument will be Charles’ favourite birthday gift of the day, trust me,” Raven said, flicking her red hair back.

Erik tucked his phone into his bag and focused completely on Raven for the next couple of hours, discussing the latest gossip, the assignment Raven had to do on her poetry module and whether Erik had found an actual bed, yet, or if he was still sleeping on the futon they’d found on Craigslist when he first arrived in New York.

Erik was proud of himself for not having glanced at his phone until he was walking the last stretch between the subway and his apartment. A new message showed up on his phone, and Erik would have denied to his dying day that he got a little jolt under his sternum when he saw the name come up - Charles Xavier. He clicked on the notification.

CX: My friends tell me I need to talk to you directly rather than through the group chat. Apparently we’re clogging up the airwaves.

Erik’s smile pulled at his cheeks and he tugged his bag higher on his shoulder, freeing up both hands to type.

EL: Raven told me the same thing

CX: They’re obviously just jealous

EL: Or not nearly interesting enough.

Charles sent back a laughing emoji and Erik tapped on his profile picture, trying to enlarge it a little, as he so often did when he spoke to Charles. He’d always idly thought that someone’s profile picture could tell you a little bit about them. His own was a picture of a great white shark that Raven had texted him from the aquarium saying ‘he’s got your smile’. Hank had a picture of a southern blotting array, apparently - he’d asked, once, and left none the wiser. Moira and Sean had pictures of actors, Emma had a picture of herself flipping the bird, and Raven’s picture changed every couple of days, a landscape, a piece of artwork, a macro close up of a leaf, whatever she felt like at the time.

Charles’ photo had to be of an actor or a celebrity of some sort. The photo was clearly professionally taken, for a magazine or something. The man in the picture had dark brown hair falling in waves around his face, a broad nose and the most gorgeous lips, quirked into a half smile, as if the actor, whoever he was, didn’t want the photographer to know he was amused. He was wearing a blazer, his blue shirt open at the top few buttons to show tantalizing hints of collarbone and freckles. And his eyes. Oh, dear god, his eyes, so wide and blue and staring right into Erik’s soul.

Erik definitely had a crush on the nameless actor. But the best thing about it was that if Charles had a picture of some pretty actor on his profile, he was also probably, maybe, possibly queer himself.

His phone chimed, and he clicked back off the picture.

CX: Raven tells me you’re definitely coming to the party on Friday! It’ll be good to meet you in person, my friend

EL: Thank you for inviting me - are you sure you want a complete stranger there??

CX: You’re hardly a stranger, we’ve been talking for weeks!

Erik found himself smiling again. Charles was so cheerful and friendly - what on earth was he doing chatting with a sarcastic misanthrope like Erik all the time?

EL: You’ve all been very kind. The people who told me New Yorkers were unfriendly are bastard liars

CX: Ah, well, I’m hardly a New Yorker, I’m afraid. I’m only Raven’s step-brother, and never managed to pick up the accent. I’m English

EL: To be fair people tell me the English are unfriendly too. Liars, the lot of them

Charles sent another laughing emoji, and Erik wondered what Charles sounded like when he laughed. He wondered what he looked like, for that matter.

EL: Can I bring anything to the party?

CX: Only yourself, please.

He didn’t know what it was that made him ask. What was he thinking? He couldn’t even blame the alcohol, because Raven and Sean had been monopolising most of that on the drive up to Westchester, and he couldn’t blame his giddy mood on the others, because Moira had been talking to him most of the trip about the recent opinion polls. So why? Why in the name of all that’s holy had he sat back after they stopped to pick up some more beer, opened up the messaging app and texted Charles?

EL: I have to confess, I’ve got a massive crush on the guy in your profile picture, and it’s driving me mad - who is he? I don’t recognise him from any films

And then the reply that made the bottom drop out of Erik’s world and made his stomach cold with horror.

CX: Oh… well, that’s very flattering. It’s a picture Raven took of me a couple of years ago

And now what the hell was Erik going to do? He couldn’t ask Moira to stop the car so he could run out into the woods and become a hermit. He couldn’t exactly brush it off. He couldn’t take it back. What he wouldn’t do for the ability to go back in time and tell him to leave his fucking phone alone.

He wanted to apologise, but why would Charles even want to talk to him? How creepy was it to hear someone had been checking out a picture of you? He’d thought it was a photo of an actor, but there was no way he’d ever have told the actor he found him captivating. What was Charles meant to do with this information now, when Erik was about to turn up at his door and impose on his hospitality for hours?

Part of him wanted to send him a photo of himself as some sort of twisted apology, but what was that meant to do? Was Charles meant to go ‘oh, I too have a crush on you!’

“What’s up, Erik?” Raven asked, shoving his shoulder.

“I just told accidentally told someone I have a crush on them,” he croaked, just taking Charles’ name out of the equation before he could fuck things up even further.

“How the hell did you do that?” she laughed, taking another draw of her beer.

“I didn’t know it was their picture,” he moaned. “I just wanted to know which actor it was and it was them.”

“Show me!” she said, grabbing for his phone. He stuffed it between his legs, and she narrowed her eyes at him, calculating. “Don’t think that’s a no-go area for me, Lehnsherr.”

“How am I going to look them in the eye now?” Erik wailed instead, covering his face with his hands.

“I bet she was pleased,” Sean said, turning around from the front passenger seat. “It’s a compliment, isn’t it? Not like you were creepy to the girl, were you?”

“No,” he said, not bothering to correct Sean’s assumptions. “I mean, not deliberately… but it’s creepy to think someone’s been looking at your picture that way, isn’t it?”

“Only if you’ve been wanking over it,” Sean shrugged.

“Sean!” yelped Moira, slapping him on the arm.

“Hey! It’s true, isn’t it?”

Raven patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, man,” she said. “Whoever it is would be lucky to have you perving over them.”

“Oh god, don’t put it that way!” he yelled.

***

He spent the rest of the drive trying to work out what to say in response, to work out exactly how he could apologise and regain a little bit of his pride. He knew he was overthinking this, Raven, Sean and Moira had changed the subject and started chatting about something else quickly enough, but he was already worked up about meeting so many new people, to have made such a social faux pas before he’d even met them was almost unbearable. So much for thinking he’d got his social anxiety under control.

The worst thing about it, the thing he really couldn’t admit to, wasn’t that he’d just told some stranger he thought he was pretty. It was that he’d told Charles he had a crush on his face. Charles. He already had a fucking crush on Charles through his messages! Now he was going to have to meet him for the first time without being able to hide his feelings, rather than feeling out whether Charles would be open to maybe going out for coffee or dinner with him, he was dumped straight past that careful searching right into blurting out ‘gosh you’re pretty!’

And then he had to walk up the drive to the most fucking gorgeous mansion, Raven making sarcastic comments about how she fucking hated the place and she didn’t know how Charles could stand living in all the bitter memories of their shitty childhood, and he wondered if anyone would notice if he just… ran off round the side and didn’t stop until he found some summerhouse or something - Americans had those, didn’t they? - and just hid there until he could sneak back into the car at the end of the party.

Raven shoved the door open. “Charles? Hey, birthday boy!”

Emma poked her head around the corner. “He disappeared somewhere about fifteen minutes ago, we were gonna send a search party. But you guys have beer, so fuck that!” She kissed them all in turn, waving them through to a huge panelled living room where people were scattered over leather couches and a pool table that had been pushed to the side. “Hey, everyone! This is Erik, be nice.” She smirked at him and left.

Erik stood tall and smiled at everyone. Mistake. A gangly lad slouching on the pool table actually squeaked. It seemed Erik had smiled like thatagain.

He toned it down and went to put his beers on a desk that was really never meant to be abused in such a way. The crowd mostly went back to their conversations, and Erik felt like he could breathe again. At least until Charles came back.

But he didn’t come back. Another fifteen minutes passed. He made awkward conversation with a blond kid who looked about nineteen and like he’d be more at home in a biker gang, and then much less awkward conversation with a guy called Darwin who had some interesting opinions about the state of the education system, but got called away mid-rant.

And Charles still wasn’t there. Nobody seemed too bothered, but Erik couldn’t help feeling like it was his fault somehow. Like he’d made things weird and Charles didn’t want to see the guy who’d been enlarging his profile photo to get a better look at his beautiful blue eyes.

Fuck. He needed to get out of there. He slipped quietly away from the room, back into a corridor, trying to find the main door, but the place was bloody huge. He must have taken the wrong turning somewhere. That door looked right - he turned the handle and… well, that was definitely not the door to the kitchen. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!”

The man in the wheelchair turned, long brown hair flicking back over his shoulders, and startled, familiar, blue eyes met his. “Charles?” Erik asked, blinking.

Charles opened and shut his mouth. “Erik?”

Erik laughed. Somehow having him right there across from him made his earlier fuckup so much smaller. “God, I’m so sorry for my message, I didn’t know that was you in the picture, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Especially on your birthday.”

“Uncomfortable?” Charles blurted. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been in a dark room for about half an hour during your birthday party.” He frowned. “Actually that sounds like something I’d do.”

It startled a laugh out of Charles, just a short one, and Erik grinned. It sounded more lovely than-- shit, he shouldn’t be thinking like this, he’d already made things so awkward between them. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can go if you--”

“No!” Charles cleared his throat. “I mean… you don’t have to. I’m… I just…” he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I was embarrassed.”

Erik winced. “Yeah, I can’t apologise enough.”

“Not about that,” he said, blue eyes peering up at him, and he looked so damn sad. Erik wanted to hug him. “I just… I should have changed that profile picture. I just… I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Erik asked, frowning. He found himself crossing the room, sitting on an armchair across from Charles.

Charles gave a sad half-smile. “Well… it’s a bit misleading, isn’t it? I don’t look much like that any more. I mean, I’m getting better, I’m off the morphine, I’m… well, I’ve had a lot of help with everything. But I don’t… that’s not me in that picture any more, I suppose.”

Erik cocked his head on one side. “I recognised you.”

“I assume the wheelchair was a bit of a giveaway.” He glared at Erik suddenly. “I’m not ashamed of it. Not anymore - I had some… issues with it to start with, but that’s not why I’m hiding. If people can’t cope with my disability they can fuck off. It’s…” He gestured to his face. “I’m not exactly… that person any more.”

“First of all,” said Erik, “I didn’t know you were in a wheelchair. I didn’t know you’d had an accident, I’m sorry to hear you’ve had a rough time but… I recognised you from that picture. Your eyes are the same, your nose.”

“Oh, God, my nose,” Charles said with a rueful chuckle. He glanced up at Erik, long lashes framing his perfect blue eyes. “Now you must think I’m terribly vain. Hiding in here because I’m worried my lovely new friend won’t have a crush on me any more now he knows I look like a washed up old junkie.”

Erik groaned and dropped his face into his hands. Then he looked up at Charles again, the soft brown curls framing his face and falling down to his chin. He wondered how the scruff on his cheeks would feel against his fingertips, and he took a step over the edge. “I had a crush on you before I knew that was your face,” he said quietly. “The way you talk, the way you argue, your passion - your bloody naivete, honestly, Charles! I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person so we could talk properly, interrupt each other in person, discuss politics and literature and chess until everyone else around us gets bored and leaves.”

Charles smiled, a wide, sincere thing which curled up his cheeks and crinkled the skin by his eyes. “Well,” he said, the room dark and quiet around them. “And here I was thinking I was the only person who could fall for someone by text.”

#My writing #Crush #cherik #Charles Xavier #Erik Lehnsherr #charles/erik #fluff

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blessed-but-distressed · 7 years

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#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU.

also on ff.net

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon, @ab-normality, @andiirivera and whoever else asks me.

Thanks always to the cool-as-fuck @lenfaz, for her tireless efforts in keeping me motivated.

Emma

One thing you could say about Emma, she knew how to hold a grudge. She knew how to hold them close, how to nurture and how feed them until they grew up big and strong, and there were no shortage of people on her shit list. For instance, to this day if a certain person with the initials N.C. ever came waltzing back into her life, even a decade after the fact, she was pretty sure she still had enough latent rage bottled up to cause serious bodily harm.

Forgiveness had never really been her thing.

And yet…

She could play the strong and silent type all she liked, but the truth was, life was better with friends. Even when they had been an ocean away, her life had still been a flurry of group texts and Skype dates, of close confidences and harmless gossip. And national laughing stock or no national laughing stock, she missed it. She missed them.

She was almost surprised by the intensity of it, as it rose up inside her. That unfamiliar longing, the one she’d thought she’d long buried along with the rest of it. But as she sat in that unheated sedan, watching the landscape disappear beneath a blanket of fresh snow with a virtual stranger, she couldn’t see the point in pretending anymore.

Emma Swan was not an island.

So yes, she’d forgiven them. Conditionally. There would be atonement, of course. Apologies, and care packages and promises to never, ever, ever, fucking do something like that again. And it felt like a good thing, like a salve to her wounded pride. Like the grown up thing to do.

That is, until Ruby started stalking Killian Jones on Facebook.

“You didn’t mention he was hot.”

“Who?” Emma asked absently, still trying to get herself situated in front of her laptop screen without spilling her cocoa or her bowl of popcorn.

“Your writer guy. Killian?”

Emma almost spat out her mouthful of cocoa, mental alarm bells ringing. “Rubes…”

“Chill,” the brunette advised. “Take a yoga breath. Yes, okay, I looked the guy up. Of course I did. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t an axe murderer. But, wow, you have been really holding out on us.”

“He’s not… It’s a professional relationship, Ruby. Don’t make it weird.”

Or professional enough. Not that any other of Emma’s professional relationships involved watching Pixar movies with nephews, or frank admissions of orphanhood, but hell, what did she know about journalism? Maybe that was standard.

“So you mean you haven’t noticed he’s sex on legs?” Ruby pressed, her tongue peeking mischievously out of the corner of her mouth.

Okay, so Emma had noticed. It was kinda hard not to notice, especially when he insisted on wearing such tight jeans all the time, and button downs with the sleeves rolled up to expose criminally toned forearms. She didn’t even want to get into the scruff situation. Or that smirk. Whatever else the man might be, he was not modest about his looks.

“Please don’t objectify him. Trust me, he doesn’t need the ego boost. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he already has like a harem of casual conquests for that.”

“Wow,” Ruby said, folding her hand under her chin thoughtfully. “That sounded almost catty. Are we perhaps a little jealous of Killian Jones’s harem?”

“I’m not jealous. I have…” Okay, so Emma’s love life comprised entirely of streaming Sex in the City episodes ad nauseum whilst snuggled inside her hideously unfashionable, but unquestionably warm Portland Pirates pyjamas. But that was fine, she was still fresh from the whole Walsh debacle. It wasn’t like she couldn’t go out and find a guy, if she wanted one. “…Other concerns,” she finished lamely.

“Right,” Ruby said, sounding wholly less than convinced. “So you mean you don’t want to see the guy’s embarrassing high school pictures then? Because I have hit the motherlode. We’re talking ponytail. Grunge phase.”

Emma groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t Friend Request him.”

A sheepish grin crossed her friend’s features. “I plead the fifth?”

“God dammit, Ruby.” The last thing she needed was Killian Jones getting yet more dirt on her. He already knew way too much as it was. And Ruby was second only to Mary Margaret in the blabbermouth stakes. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

There was a pause. “There’s a fang earring.”

“You’re kidding.” The gods couldn’t be that kind.

“I’m really not.”

Ruby looked like the cat that got the canary, and rightfully so. Maybe Emma had this whole thing backwards. Maybe it wasn’t about how many of her secrets Killian could extort from her and her friends. Maybe it was about how many she could extract from him.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Your friend Ruby added me on Facebook. Friendly lass. Very chatty. KJ

I know. Nice ponytail, by the way. ES

…

I knew I should have deleted those. KJ

I’m so glad you didn’t. ES

I bet you are. Well, laugh it up, lass. Ruby’s albums aren’t entirely devoid of compromising pictures either. The one titled Spring Break ‘10 has been especially… revealing. KJ

Oh god. I forgot about that. Brb. Changing my privacy settings. ES

A little late for that, lass. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me. KJ

Truce? ES

Truce. KJ

On her best days, Emma could pack out a lecture hall with nearly 200 warm bodies, but come Friday afternoon the numbers tended to dwindle as most of her students made an early start on their weekends. A good thing too or else she might not have noticed him there, seated in the back row, whilst she was mid-way into comparing the war of 1812 to its more modern counterparts.

She stuttered to a stop, put off by the sight of him, hand on his chin and apparently listening intently.

“One.. uh…” She shot him a glare as she fought to remember what she was saying.

“One might be tempted to draw parallels here, of course. The kind of hubris that led Thomas Jefferson to state that conquering Canada would be 'a mere matter of marching’ is hardly unique to American foreign policy. Think about it: Vietnam. Afghanistan. Iraq. All intended to be swift, decisive victories that were anything but. I know this is history, kids, but don’t be afraid to make connections. It’s true what they say: 'What has happened before will happen again. What has been done before will be done again. There is nothing new in the whole world.’ If I want you to take anything away from this course, it’s this: People don’t really change. Politics have always held an attraction for the arrogant and the short-sighted. Especially in the United States.”

As she waited for the laughter to die down, she glanced up at the clock above the whiteboard to see her hour fast drawing to a close. “And now that I’ve disparaged my country for your amusement, a reminder that next Thursday your argumentative essays are due. Was the War of 1812 just a footnote in the greater Napoleonic Wars, or was it a defining moment of a young and fragile nation? You decide. Either way, I want to be convinced!”

Killian waited for the last of the students to shuffle out before he approached Emma at her podium, still gathering up the last of her leftover handouts. His hands, the real and the plastic, were in his pockets, a grin stretching over his lips.

“You quoted Ecclesiastes,” he said by way of greeting, unable to completely keep the surprise from his voice.

Emma shrugged, trying to keep her attention on packing away her supplies and not Killian Jones’s opinion of her teaching methods. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest? Mixing scripture and history? In my experience, the two don’t tend to mesh well.”

Emma paused in her motions to raise an eyebrow. “Awfully philosophical today, aren’t we?”

He spread his arms, indicating the lecture hall they stood in. It was one of the university’s oldest, each row back even steeper than the one before it, which sometimes culminated in Emma feeling like she was performing live at Red Rocks. But she liked it, musty as it was, the wooden desks engraved with literally centuries worth of graffiti from bored college students. It had character. “Seems like an appropriate venue for philosophizing, don’t you think?”

“C'mon, Aristotle,” she said, pulling him towards the door by his sleeve. “You can buy me a drink.”

They didn’t go far, settling in the back of the closest Mexican restaurant to Emma’s office, two bottles of Corona sat on the table between them, a wedge of lime sticking out of each.

“So…” Emma started, absently picking at the label of her bottle. “Was there a reason for your visit, or was this just a standard evaluation of my teaching methods?”

“Eh, no. Not exactly, lass,” Killian admitted, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. “Actually I was hoping to run something by you.”

He was nervous. Emma could tell. And that made Emma nervous. In her experience, if someone was afraid to ask something of her, it was usually because she wasn’t going to like it. Not. One. Bit.

“Oh, really?”

“I wanted to change the format of our little…” He made a vague gesture in the air, “…agreement.”

Emma was wary. “Change it… how?”

“Well,” he began, pulling himself up straighter in his chair. “For one thing, if I have to read another one of those responses from your website, I will actually gauge out my own eyeballs. They’re creeps, Swan. Sociopaths. Perverts. People who still live with their parents. You can do better.”

She wasn’t sure whether she should be flattered, or horrified. “O…kay. So, what’s the game plan?”

“Just, hear me out alright? I’ve given this rather a lot of thought. What if, instead of just shooting fish in a particularly grimy barrel, we try a more… old fashioned approach?”

“Old-fashioned?”

He winced prematurely, as if already anticipating her negative reaction. “Well, not old-fashioned exactly. But certainly adopting more tied and true methods. I thought the column could double as a how-to guide, of sorts. How to make friends in a new city.”

“What kind of methods?”

“I thought we might ease into it. Mutual friends. Actually, it was your friend, Ruby, that gave me the idea.”

Considering recent events, Emma did not like the way this was going. Her displeasure must have shown on her face, because he was quick to correct himself.

“Well, not Ruby herself. But in befriending me, I couldn’t help but notice that she has a Facebook friend in my extended circle of contacts. Edinburgh based.”

“Really?” Before she knew what she was doing, she already had her phone out, her Facebook app booting up.

“Aye,” Killian said, leaning in to peer at the device upside down. “And she has rather more than 39 Facebook Friends.”

Emma snatched her phone back to her chest, eyes narrowing. “What? I’m not sentimental.”

If anything, he looked amused. “Clearly. So this friend of hers, her name is Belle French. Ever met her?”

“Belle?” Emma asked, scrolling through Ruby’s friends list until she hit paydirt. Belle French. The brunette in the picture wasn’t immediately familiar, but when she opened up the profile and saw the woman’s birthplace, something twigged.

“I haven’t met her, but I know who she is. She’s the Australian girl Ruby dated freshman year.”

She waited for some leery comment, some perceptible widening of his eyes, but there was nothing. Emma had clearly been spending too much time around college boys.

“But that was before Ruby and I were friends,” Emma continued. “I think she transferred to another college or something.”

“And would you have any moral objections to befriending an ex of your friend?”

Emma considered that. “I mean, I’m pretty sure the break up was fairly amicable. Ruby isn’t exactly the type to get emotional over something like that. Or she wasn’t. Maybe now. But, you said she lives here?”

“Aye, she works in a library in Morningside. Children’s librarian. She does all the little voices when she reads to them.”

Emma frowned. It was way too much information to be accidentally gleaned from the internet. “Stalker, much?”

“Journalist, Swan,” he corrected. “Journalist.”

So has your friend blessed our endeavours? KJ

You mean did she give me Belle French’s email address? Yes. ES

And she didn’t mention any glaring personality defects or mutations? KJ

Jfc, mutations? ES

Let’s just say trawling through your inbox these past weeks has been quite an education and leave it at that. KJ

Yeah, you can’t just say something like that and not back it up with pictorial evidence. ES

I’m only thinking of you, Swan. KJ

Jones. ES

Prepare yourself. KJ

-KJ has sent you an image file-

Oh my god. Why would they send me that? Why would, what even? ES

I DID try to warn you. KJ

That’s a tail, right? ES

I certainly hope so. KJ

Killian

“Texting your new bird?”

Killian looked up from his phone, only to see Will giving him a conspiratorial look over his pint of ale.

Truthfully, Killian sometimes rued the day he ever became entangled with the likes of Will Scarlett. There was something squirrelly about the man, and it wasn’t just his Midlands accent.

No, Will was more the the type of friend who liked to document each and every night out with a series of steadily more incriminating posts to social media, under the guise of 'havin’ a laugh’. Not to mention the fondness for off-colour jokes and mysterious disappearances whenever it came time to stand his round.

Your man in a crisis, he was not.

“No new bird,” Killian replied coolly, slipping his phone back into his pocket and taking a long sip of IPA.

Robin was taking far too long to arrive.

“Then an old one?” Will enquired, undeterred by Killian’s reticence. “Are you and that Kiwi chick still a thing? Because if you’re not, I was thinking of-”

Killian held up a hand, forcing the man into silence. “You’re not her type, trust me.”

“What?” Will demanded, affronted. “Two-handed? Worried she might prefer a bloke who can multi-task?”

If Killian wasn’t still nursing his first pint he might have punched him. Instead he settled for letting his prosthetic land on the table in front of him with a heavy thud. His false hand had fallen to the mercy of Lachie and a permanent marker the previous evening, so he’d foregone it today in favour of the more utilitarian hook. It had made him feel self-conscious on leaving the house, but now he appreciated the way the metal glinted menacingly by the low light of the overhead lights.

“Erudite,” Killian corrected, rather enjoying the look on Will’s face as he grappled with whether to be offended or not, the word ironically failing to appear in his own personal lexicon.

Mercifully, before Will could decide either way, Killian spied the third member of their party finally approaching, and turned to him in greeting.

“Sorry I’m late, lads,” Robin said, as he took a seat opposite Killian, shedding his jacket. “The in-laws were late to pick up Roland. Some tosser tried to drive his lorry over the Forth in this wind and it fairly well cartwheeled over. Both lanes closed. Bloody nightmare.”

Though they’d grown up together, Robin was in many ways the complete antithesis of Will. Where Will was flighty and irresponsible, Robin was dependable and steadfast. Though of course, Robin had a young son at home, and a wife not long in the ground. Fucking cancer. You could argue he’d come by his virtues naturally, but it was hard to say for certain. Many a man had managed to forge themselves into something altogether stronger under the flame of adversity.

He reminded Killian almost uncomfortably of Liam at times, if Liam had only managed to hold onto his sense of humour post-having kids.

“So who’s round is it?” Robin prompted, though he was already digging around for his own wallet. Killian didn’t need to look up to tell that Will’s chair was empty, and he breathed out a small sigh of relief.

“Cheap bastard,” Robin chuckled, almost fondly. Like Will was a chronically misbehaving puppy that he couldn’t quite stay mad at, no matter how many pairs of shoes it chewed through. Not an entirely erroneous description, now Killian thought about it. “Has he been giving you a hard time?”

“No more than usual,” he shrugged, but he knew the way he was currently grinding his jaw probably spoke volumes.

Robin considered him closely. “I think it might be time to switch to something stronger.”

“You just got here,” Killian pointed out.

“Well, I’ve got some catching up to do, haven’t I?” Robin said with a wink, clapping Killian on the shoulder as he made his way to the bar.

Lagavulin was his answer, coming back with three tumblers of amber liquid clutched precariously in his hands. Killian wasn’t a habitual whisky drinker, but he wasn’t one to turn down a dram of the good stuff. Let alone a double.

“You’re keen,” Killian noted, taking his tumbler with a grateful tip of his head.

“First night without the lad since, well… since just after the funeral, I suppose,” Robin said soberly. “Might as well get properly scuttered.”

The last time Killian had been properly scuttered he’d vomited in the back of a taxi and slept with his ex-girlfriend. Not the most promising of prospects.

“Do me a favour, will you?” he said suddenly, digging into his trousers pocket. “If I somehow get it into my head to call Tink tonight, do you think you can just throw my phone off a bridge instead?” he asked, tossing Robin the offending device.

“Whatever you say,” Robin agreed with a mock salute. But before he could tuck it away, the phone buzzed in his hands, causing a sly smile to appear on his face.

“You’ve a text. A few of them, actually. From an Emma?” He raised a significant eyebrow.

Killian snatched the phone out of his hands, and tucked it back into his pocket, sight unseen.

“American Emma?” Robin asked.

“Aye,” Killian grumbled out, taking the first sip of his whisky and letting it warm his insides.

“So it’s going well, then?” Robin ventured. “The column? I’ve been following along, for the most part.”

“S'fine. Well, alright, it’s been a disaster, actually,” Killian corrected. “The lass hasn’t taken to it, and most everyone who responded to the ad in the first instance was just a mouth-breathing creep looking to get laid. I’m going to have to tweak the entire format.”

“But you’re still setting her up with strangers, yes?”

Killian shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Already got the next one nearly lined up. A children’s librarian from Australia. Quiet lass. A friend of Tink’s, actually. She mentioned that her divorce just came through. Might be in need of some friendly distraction.”

“Emotionally unavailable librarian type, you say?”

Killian hadn’t even noticed Will slip back into his seat, but he already wanted to punch him again. He turned to him with a cold stare. “Don’t even try it.”

“She have a thing for the educated blokes, too?”

Good to know someone had googled 'erudite’ on his phone outside.

“Oh, c'mon,” Robin coaxed, in a rare show of treachery. “This entire thing is about Emma making friends, yes? So why keep her all to yourself? Why not make a group outing of it? I would love to meet her, and I’m sure this librarian can handle anything our Mr Scarlett dishes out.”

Killian wasn’t sure why, but something inside him twisted uncomfortably at the idea of Emma mixing with his friends. Not that he thought she might embarrass him, or vice versa. Though introducing her to Will might belay all of the efforts he was making to save her from Edinburgh’s creep contingent. It just felt… like it would go poorly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“Oh, really? And what were you planning on having them do?” Robin said, in a way that was far too reminiscent of Liam sat at his desk, dismissing Killian’ story pitches out of hand.

And god damn him, Killian caved. “They have a karaoke night in the pub up the stair. This librarian, Belle, apparently she’s quite into that.”

“Belle,” Will whispered dreamily, and Killian kicked him under the table.

It was stupid, now he thought about it. Supposing that Emma and this virtual stranger might bond over mutual humiliation as they warbled their way through a Best of the 80s karaoke mix. He was an idiot.

But Robin, on the other hand, merely grinned. “That’s brilliant. We could get a few more people together. Make a night of it.”

“You remember when I said it would be a bad idea?” Killian reminded him.

“Trust me,” Robin said. “I have it sorted.”

With a growing sense of foreboding, Killian finished off the last of his whisky, and pulled out his wallet to pay for the next round.

You really can’t spare ten minutes? KJ

Hey, if you want to sit here and grade forty nearly identical papers about Alexander Hamilton that use a factually inaccurate, albeit brilliant, Broadway musical as an academic reference, you’re welcome to switch places with me. ES

And you make it sound so inviting. KJ

Just spit it out, Jones. ES

Alright. But first, some caveats: 1) It was not my idea, 2) My hand was forced, 3) I am paying you. KJ

… ES

A few of my friends have taken it upon themselves to intercede in our Grand Experiment. Or to put it more plainly, in the interests of ruining my life they have decided to turn your friend-date with Belle into a “group-outing”, with both them and I riding shotgun. KJ

Scottish friends? ES

Mostly English. Or John might be Welsh, actually. He doesn’t say much, so it’s hard to know. KJ

Do you actually have any Scottish friends? ES

Fewer than you’d think. KJ

And how many people are we talking here, on this “group-outing”? ES

You’re being remarkably calm about this. KJ

How many? ES

Max 10. I promise. KJ

And you can vouch for them? ES

Most of them. Will is a tosser, but you can sort him out. Might be good for him, even. KJ

Just… ES

Just don’t leave me on my own with them, okay? You know I’m not good at small talk. ES

Roger that. KJ

Thank you. KJ

You owe me one, Jones. ES

Killian was already halfway up the stairs from the station when he felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, checking the caller ID. It wasn’t a number he recognised, though the area code was local. He was tempted to hit ignore, but in his line of work tips and sources came in all kinds. He answered.

“Mr Jones?” The voice on the other end of the phone was young, and to his ears, tearful.

“Aye?” No one ever called him Mr Jones. Not if he could help it.

“It’s Ashley. Ashley Boyd? The babysitter?”

Ah, yes. The lass that picked the boys up from school, and watched them until their parents came home from work. Barely out of school herself, from what he could remember. A blonde slip of a girl that even Lachie couldn’t bear to misbehave for. But why would she be calling him?

“Aye, I remember. What’s the matter, lass? Are the boys okay?”

“They’re fine. It’s only, Mr Jones… that is, the other Mr Jones, he was supposed to come home and relieve me an hour ago, and he’s not answering his phone. I called and left a message but…”

Killian’s heart leapt into his throat.

“…I mean, I don’t mind the extra hours usually, but I have an assignment due this week and…”

He tuned her out, his mind launching into a million terrible scenarios, each more horrific than the last. An hour late. Not answering phone. Not like Liam. Not at all.

“I’ll be right there,” he barked into the phone, taking the steps down two at a time, an arm already raised to hail a taxi.

He was halfway to calling Elsa when he remembered she was in London this week, meeting with potential investors for her next show. No need to worry her unnecessarily. Not immediately.

Instead he settled for dialling his brother’s phone on a loop, leaving a series of increasingly frantic messages.

“Where the fucking hell are you? Pick up. Pick up.”

“You’d better be in a bloody ditch, you bastard.”

“Please don’t be in a bloody ditch. Call me right back.”

By the time the taxi pulled up at the house he practically threw a handful of notes at the driver, and raced up the drive, gravel crunching ominously underfoot.

His stomach lurched to see Ashley was still there, pacing the kitchen with a stricken look on her face.

“Mr Jones?” She said, her relief evident. “Oh, thank god. The boys have been asking questions and-

"Aye, thank you,” he said, cutting her off before she started to spiral. He emptied out the rest of his wallet and pressed the cash into her sweaty palm. “Appreciate you staying, love.”

She looked uncertain for a moment, but after a coaxing nod from Killian she gathered up her coat and bag, and headed for the front door, visibly relieved to be absolved of responsibility.

He went into the living room to check on the boys, still bickering gently over a pair of action figures.

“Uncle Killian?” Callum asked, when he emerged from the hallway. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Just running a bit behind today, is all. You monsters hungry, yet? I was thinking pizza for dinner. Just while your Mum is away.”

In Killian’s experience, very little served to distract quite as well as the prospect of pizza. The boys seemed happy at least, moving on to arguing over toppings. Whilst they hotly debated the merits of pineapple vs no pineapple, he snuck back into the kitchen, phone already at his ear.

That was when he heard it. The crunch of gravel outside. Throwing his phone down on the counter, he sprinted towards the front door, pulling it open just in time to surprise the hell out of the person on the other side.

Liam. Liam. He was looking a little weary, and visibly sweating despite the chill, but otherwise no worse for wear.

“You fucking wanker,” Killian said by way of greeting, pulling his brother into a forceful hug against his will.

“Ger'off me,” Liam complained, and Killian released his hold on him, still shaking with leftover adrenaline.

“What time do you call this?”

“I’m so sorry. Are the boys-?”

“They’re fine. Oblivious. Expecting pizza, because I had to give them something. Might have overpaid your babysitter to the point of bribery though. She was freaking out. Hell, I was freaking out. Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“I didn’t mean to worry you. My phone died. I was already running late…”

At that Liam gestured towards the clock above the stove, and Killian had a momentary panic all his own.

Emma.

He’d forgotten to text Emma and tell her he would be late.

Shit. Fuck.

I am so sorry. Family crisis. Now resolved. I’ll be there as soon as I can. KJ

Swan? KJ

By the time he made it back to the Jinglin’ Geordie it was already half nine, and karaoke night was in full swing. Or it was for one lass, anyway. Belle. He recognised her from when he’d scoped out the library, now currently sobbing her way through the first verse of Wild Horses.

He’d thought she was almost pretty the first time he’d seen her, in a fussy librarian kind of way. Now it was hard to tell either way, with her face blotchy and the mascara streaming down her cheeks.

Bloody hell.

He looked around for Emma, for any of his compatriots, but the place was nearly empty, save for a handful of barflies at their usual posts. If he had to guess, he’d say the crying woman might have had something to do with that.

There was only one other customer, sat at the furthest table from the stage. She sat nursing a gin and tonic, reading from a stack of paper s in her lap by the light of her phone.

Killian slid into the seat across from her, his hands already steepled in front of him. He startled her as he did so, the red pen sliding from her grasp and disappearing somewhere on the grimy carpet.

“So it’s going well, I see.”

Sarcasm hadn’t been in his original plan, the one he’d been slowly forming in his mind on the taxi back into town. He’d had every intention of returning in a shower of profuse apologies. Free drinks. A bit of grovelling if necessary.

But upon seeing the fucking joke of an evening it had turned out to be, Killian could feel the apologies turn sour on his tongue. Why should he feel badly, when Emma clearly wasn’t even going to try? She was marking essays, for chrissakes. On an evening out. And who the bloody hell knew where his friends had got to?

As if sensing his mood, or simply projecting one of her own, Emma’s eyes narrowed.

“You think this is my fault?” she hissed, her stack of papers scattering as she leaned forward. “You think I wanted tonight to turn into Moaning Myrtle’s Greatest Hits? And who are you to talk? At least I showed up!”

He couldn’t say that their harsh whispering was attracting an audience, but the bartender certainly shot an annoyed glance their way.

Swallowing back an angry retort, Killian motioned for Emma to follow him, and lead the way to the side door. It opened out into a small designated smoking area, empty save for a derelict set of garden furniture and empty kegs. He motioned for her to take a seat, and she did, hugging herself against the cold.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said evenly. “But I really did have an emergency. I thought Liam- Bloody hell, it doesn’t matter what I thought. The point is, my nephews needed me.”

“I’m not mad about that!” Emma said, her voice gradually softening as she spoke. “I get it. Family stuff. It’s important. What I’m mad about is you sending me in blind! I know you know she got divorced this week. You’re you. Stalking people is your forte. So why not warn me? Why let me sit through two hours of this poor girl just unravelling before my eyes?”

She was right. He had known. Tink had warned him, in fact. And he’d simply dismissed it, figuring it wasn’t relevant. Clearly he’d underestimated the potent cocktail of alcohol and song, and all the ways it could dredge up the worst possible feelings.

He should have known. He’d paired them often enough, once a time.

He decided on a new strategy: contrition.

“How long has she been crying?”

“Since about half way through Tiny Dancer. No one could get the microphone off her after that. Not that a lot tried…”

“And my friends?” Killian asked gingerly.

“Ditched about half an hour in. I think they said something about the pub downstairs. Not that I blame them.”

“Bloody traitors,” Killian snarled.

“To be fair, they did ask me to go with them. But I thought I should… stay.” She shot a regretful glance towards the door they’d just exited, as if even now she felt guilty for leaving the girl inside.

“And Will behaved himself?” Killian asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, Will is definitely a jerk. Major jerk. But Robin’s okay. And your girlfriend is nice.”

Killian nearly choked on his own saliva. “My girlfriend?”

“It’s Tink, right? The one from New Zealand? Is that really her name?”

“Not my girlfriend,” Killian wheezed out, still fighting to regain his composure.

“Really?” She looked almost amused. “Will said…”

Next time he thought about punching Will Scarlett he was actually going to follow through.

“Will is a wanker. As discussed. And Tink is a lovely lass, but she and I have always managed to make a right mess of things. So to say she’s my girlfriend is viciously overstating what we have.”

“So you do have something?”

Killian groaned, wondering how he came to be explaining his not-even relationship to Emma Swan, of all people. Was this payback for interrogating her about that Walsh fellow? Was this karma come back to bite him?

“We used to date,” he admitted. “Now she mainly just yells at me. Which she used to do before, only now there’s very little make up sex involved. Barely any, unless there’s been far too much alcohol consumed.”

“Sounds healthy,” Emma said, patting him on the shoulder in a way that could only be condescending.

“Says the Queen of Healthy Relationships. How close were you to marrying a guy you didn’t even love, again?”

She gave him a shove, and he elbowed her back, but neither of them put any feeling into it.

“So, Swan. How about we go put Ms French in a taxi and fetch our compatriots. I feel a song coming on.”

“You’re going to sing?” she asked doubtfully.

“Aye, if you will.”

“I’m not really a singer…”

“I somehow doubt that. I can tell about people, Emma Swan, and you are a singer at heart.” He wasn’t sure how he was so certain. But he knew he was right.

“Yeah, in the shower, maybe…”

“A duet, then?” he suggested. “How do you feel about Sonny and Cher?”

“Please, god no.”

“A Whole New World?” he offered.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Elton John?”

“Better.”

“Elton John it is.”

#cs ff #cs au #cs ff au #FindEmmaSwanAFriend

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