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abbatoirablaze · 2 years

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Bunk Mates, Chapter 4

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: manipulation, mean pranks, cheating/kissing

Ike’s POV

My phone buzzed again. The guys were going crazy in the group chat.

Cap: Well I'm wide awake now. You gotta tell us everything.

Granny: did you hook up with her?

Andy: She was definitely feeling you.

Cap: I concur. She was eye diddling you the entire time she knocked back purple knobs.

Andy: Bet she wanted to play with his purple knob.

Cap: Was she any good?

Granny: What is wrong with you Myawani?

Me: Guys. We didn't hook up. She kissed me, but we didn't have sex.

Cap: Lopez is gonna be gunnin for your ass.

Me: I didn't do anything.

I sighed and put my phone back down on the coffee table. My phone continued to buzz for the next five minutes, but I just stared at it. Resting my elbows on my knees, I began rubbing my temples. What was I going to do about this? What if she didn't remember anything? Could I deal with that? Could I deal with her dating Lopez? I mean, I did kind of admit that I had a bit of a crush on her.

And that moment when I caught her.

I wanted to kiss her so bad.

But instead I picked her up and said 'I didn't want her falling,'. Sure I definitely didn't want her falling, but I didn't have to carry her.

But it was really cute when she snuggled into me.

"Ike."

I looked up.

She looked so unbelievably tiny wearing my clothes. She had the wifebeater rolled up a few times, so it wasn't as see through, and it cut off right beneath her breasts. Even while she'd rolled up my sweats, they still went past her feet, and hung low on her hips.

My throat went dry.

She came into the living room, and I scooted over so she could sit next to me.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispered, snuggling into my side, "your bed smells like you."

"Alex-"

"Don't talk," she sighed. She leaned back and sat Indian style so that she could face me, "I-I shouldn't have kissed you. We're co-workers...and friends...and I'm dating Aaron. You were just being nice and ...people aren't nice to me."

She wasn't looking at me. She was fiddling with the hem of the sweats. I watched as she tried to focus what little sober energy she had into the conversation even though her eyes were glazed. She finally looked up at me after a moment of silence, and it looked like there were tears in her eyes.

"No matter what I've done to try and get my parents approval, I've never been the favorite kid," she said slowly, "Davey has always been my dad's favorite...and our mom has four other kids, all younger than us...I've always been kind of ignored...so when you were nice to me, I took it as you bein-"

I put my hand over hers. She didn't need to say it. I knew what it was like, feeling like you were never enough. I knew what it felt like being the twin that was not as good as the other.

That shit rips out a part of you. Always having someone compare you to another, asking why you aren't as good as them.

It hurts.

The tears hadn't fallen, but they looked ready to, "I understand Alli. You don't have to explain anything to me."

I pulled her into my lap and held her. She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I could feel her body release her tears. Her sniffles were quiet. I could tell that she had done this before...hidden away the pain. I let her cry in my arms, and I just held on to her, being her support system. She didn't need me to say anything. She just wanted to know that someone was there for her.

"It's okay, Alexandria," I said, smoothing down her hair. Her grip tightened on me, and I lifted her, so that I could stand up, "let's go to bed, okay?"

I felt her nodding against my neck, and I walked us back to my bedroom. When I got there, I put her down and she scooted over for me, so that I could lay next to her. When I was comfortable, she found her way back to my side, and cuddled up against me. I kissed the top of her head and wrapped my arms securely around her waist.

I know that she's not my girlfriend...but something felt so right about having her in my arms, in my bed. It felt peaceful.

I felt happy.

"Thank you," she said in a muffled whisper against my chest.

Alex’s POV

"I need to talk to you," I said slowly, trying to choose my words carefully. Aaron looked at me curiously, but didn't say anything, "it's about us...I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I don't think that we should see each other anymore."

"Is this about the kiss?" he asked quickly.

Biting my lip, I nodded. Ever since Ike and I had kissed the other night, things were definitely different between Aaron and I.

"I just thi-"

"I think," he said cutting me off, "that you are just scared of our relationship...you know. Tacoma is still fairly new to you. And I mean, that night you were under a lot of stress. Your dad had a pole shoved through his chest...it's only natural that you tried to find solace in the arms of someone who is very...open."

"Aaro-"

"Alex, stop," he said dismissively, "if you're trying to break up with me again because you feel guilty about kissing Ike, I don't want to hear it. I don't blame you. I'm disappointed in what happened, yes...but I wouldn't hold that against you."

I cringed. That word. He knew how it got to me.

"I just-"

"Sweetie," he said, putting a hand on the small of my back, leading me back towards the bay of the station, "while I really do appreciate your want to treasure our relationship as much as I do, it's fine. I-"

But his conversation stopped when Granny and Ike passed us. I could see his jaw clench.

"Oh, hey guys," Granny smiled, “How’s it going?”

"Granville."

"Hi Ike."

I could feel Aaron's gaze on me.

"Hey guys."

"Hey Alex," Ike smiled, "we're gonna get some steaks and have a cookout around noon at Granny's. Did you want to come?"

"Sure," I smiled, "I'd lo-"

"She's busy," Aaron said, cutting me off, "But thanks for the offer."

"I'm sure she can decide for herself, Lopez."

I looked between the two men. Aaron looked all business in his uniform, while Ike looked a bit more relaxed, having already changed into his street clothes, but the tension was very real.

"Alex, do you want to go?" he asked, turning to me, "you told me yesterday we'd get lunch together."

"Oh," I muttered. I turned to the guys, "I guess I did. Sorry...rain check?"

"Oh, I get it," Ike laughed, "because it's raining out."

"Yeah," I sighed, not having the heart to go over the fact that was not the reason why a rain check was called such, “totally.”

I watched as Ike and Granny walked out the door and through the bay. Aaron was still glaring at me when I looked back towards him, "what the hell was that Alex?"

"What?"

"You know," he groaned, "I've been really accepting of the whole Ike thing because that was out of my control, but now you're just rubbing it in my face. You were flirting with him right in front of me. Did you get all dressed up for him too?"

He gestured to my clothes, which I didn't think had been dressy at all. It was some simple workout gear.

"I didn't thin-"

"You never think, do you," he sighed. He put his hands on his hips, and began looking away from me, "You know what...I can't do lunch today. You go do whatever it is you were planning on doing with Ike."

Before I could respond, he left the hallway, and made his way up the stairs. Feeling the tears well up in my eyes, I bolted for my car, not really caring to say hi to Andy as he passed. Ignoring every instinct to stay dry I walked out into the pouring rain. At least that'd cover the tears.

"Hey, hey hey," a voice said, as I reached my car. I let some of my tears fall silently as I opened the door to get in, but an arm grabbed me. Without thinking I turned around and swung. He caught my hand though, "what are you doing this for?"

"I'm sorry," I sighed, "first response when someone grabs me from behind..."

"I understand that," he said, dropping my hand. He reached across to my face, and brushed a tear off my cheek, "I'm talking about this."

"I don't want to talk about it."

He looked back at the station, "did he do that to you?"

"Ike."

"Did he?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it," I growled, warning him, "leave it alone."

"No, if he's making you cry-"

"It's not any of your business," I almost yelled, pushing him away from me, "why are you so insistent on being so involved in my life, huh? It's like you're trying to fuck up my relationship."

"Alli," he said defensively, holding his hands up, "I swear I'm not...I jus-"

"Just leave me alone Ike," I replied, turning back to my car. I got in and turned it on. He didn't try to stop me as I backed it up, and started heading out to my apartment...

But damn, I wish he would have.

"So the plans still going?"

"Huh?" I asked.

"It's nothing, babe," Aaron said, putting a hand over mine, as I watched Andy awkwardly interact with the rest of the A-shift guys, "yeah."

"Oh, this is going to be so good," Block laughed, "he won't even see it coming."

"What are you guys talking about?"

Aaron squeezed my hand a little tighter than necessary, and I removed it from his, "don't worry about it, Alex. Can you go get me some more pancakes?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna get myself some too."

I crossed paths with Andy as he sat down at the b-shift's table, which ironically enough was right next to the a-shift table.

"Alex, I wanted crepes from Frenchie."

"I wanted caps pancakes."

"Really?" Granny asked.

"Yeah," I smiled, "crepes are the worst."

"See someone gets it," Captain Penisi said, pointing his spatula at me, "I knew I liked you Boykins. How many you want?"

"Give me a couple," I grinned, "I haven't eaten yet."

"You got it, kiddo."

"Hey," a voice said from beside me, "can we talk?"

"I don't think we have much to talk about, Luce."

She nodded her head over to Ike, who immediately looked in a different direction when I turned my head.

"Watch my pancakes cap?"

He nodded. Lucy and I headed through the bay and into the hallway.

"What's up?"

"You and Ike haven't been hanging out anymore...haven't even seen you two say anything to each other for the past few weeks now."

"You wanted to talk to me about Ike and I not hanging out?"

"Listen, okay, I know that he likes you," she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "and I know that there's got to be a part of you that likes him too. Hell, you wouldn't have kissed him otherwise."

"How did you-did he tell you?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. I eyed her cautiously, and she looked away, and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, "Uncle Eddie did."

"Jesus."

She put a hand on my shoulder, "listen, I don't know what's going on between you and Ike, but you two need to figure that shit out."

"Oh hey guyssss-" Andy said, pushing us out of the way, "you ready to see Flame-o?"

"Shit," I said, running out of the hallway. I made my way towards the b-shift table where everyone, including Frenchie was sitting.

"Where's my crepes, Alex?"

"I'm sorry, Lucy needed my help with something."

"Fine," he said, dismissively. He kept a smile on his face, and applauded as Andy came out, but he turned to the guys, "oh this is gonna be so good."

I felt a hollow pit in my stomach as Andy started. The b-shift guys got a set of smug looks on their faces and started randomly booing.

"I thought you guys liked Flame-o..."I whispered to him.

"No," he smiled, "he's going back to a-shift...and we're making sure of it. That flame-o thing is lame."

"BOOOOOOO!"

I turned to see Frenchie yelling it.

"You guys are being really mean."

"Alex, come on."

"No," I said, shaking my head, "Andy really liked you guys and you're being jerks to him...for what? Because he's an a-shifter?"

"No," Aaron said in a corrective tone, "we're doing this to teach you a lesson."

"What?"

"You can't honor what you have," he said quickly, "and neither can a-shift. So, I'm teaching you to appreciate what you have before you end up like that."

I looked up to see Granny joining in with his ukulele, and Ike doing some slow sort of stripper dance, without actually removing any clothes. It was obvious that they didn't want to be up there doing that, but they were supporting Andy...like real friends do.

When the song ended, Ike picked him up, and carried him bridal style out the door. The b-shifters got up to clap, which he explained they were only doing because that means that they had gotten rid of Andy.

"What is wrong with you?" I growled out. He looked at me, feigning confusion in front of his friends, "you are messed up."

"What are you talking about, Alex?"

"I can't believe you would set someone up to fall flat on their face, just for your sick entertainment," I said disgustedly, "You ar-"

"Alex, maybe you should stop talking before you regret your next choice of words."

My jaw dropped, and I found my voice deathly calm, but low, and full of rage, "Let's get one thing straight...I deserve to be treated like a damn queen, not cut off at every single juncture...and if this is an example of the type of person you are...your little stunts you've been pulling to get some stupid revenge on some people you don't like...well then we're over. You're disgusting Aaron Lopez...and you're now 100% single. Have a nice life."

Chapter 5

#tacoma fd #trutv #firefighters #aaron lopez #andy mywani #ike crystal #lucy mcconky #lucy mconky #terry mcconky #eddie penisi #granville #flame-o

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artdaily7 · 4 years

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The Generations of Men by Robert Frost A governor it was proclaimed this time, When all who would come seeking in New Hampshire Ancestral memories might come together. And those of the name Stark gathered in Bow, A rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off, And sprout-lands flourish where the axe has gone. Someone had literally run to earth In an old cellar hole in a by-road The origin of all the family there. Thence they were sprung, so numerous a tribe That now not all the houses left in town Made shift to shelter them without the help Of here and there a tent in grove and orchard. They were at Bow, but that was not enough: Nothing would do but they must fix a day To stand together on the crater’s verge That turned them on the world, and try to fathom The past and get some strangeness out of it. But rain spoiled all. The day began uncertain, With clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted. The young folk held some hope out to each other Till well toward noon when the storm settled down With a swish in the grass. “What if the others Are there,” they said. “It isn’t going to rain.” Only one from a farm not far away Strolled thither, not expecting he would find Anyone else, but out of idleness. One, and one other, yes, for there were two. The second round the curving hillside road Was a girl; and she halted some way off To reconnoitre, and then made up her mind At least to pass by and see who he was, And perhaps hear some word about the weather. This was some Stark she didn’t know. He nodded. “No fête to-day,” he said. “It looks that way.” She swept the heavens, turning on her heel. “I only idled down.” “I idled down.” Provision there had been for just such meeting Of stranger cousins, in a family tree Drawn on a sort of passport with the branch Of the one bearing it done in detail— Some zealous one’s laborious device. She made a sudden movement toward her bodice, As one who clasps her heart. They laughed together. “Stark?” he inquired. “No matter for the proof.” “Yes, Stark. And you?” “I’m Stark.” He drew his passport. “You know we might not be and still be cousins: The town is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys, All claiming some priority in Starkness. My mother was a Lane, yet might have married Anyone upon earth and still her children Would have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day.” “You riddle with your genealogy Like a Viola. I don’t follow you.” “I only mean my mother was a Stark Several times over, and by marrying father No more than brought us back into the name.” “One ought not to be thrown into confusion By a plain statement of relationship, But I own what you say makes my head spin. You take my card—you seem so good at such things— And see if you can reckon our cousinship. Why not take seats here on the cellar wall And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?” “Under the shelter of the family tree.” “Just so—that ought to be enough protection.” “Not from the rain. I think it’s going to rain.” “It’s raining.” “No, it’s misting; let’s be fair. Does the rain seem to you to cool the eyes?” The situation was like this: the road Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up, And disappeared and ended not far off. No one went home that way. The only house Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod. And below roared a brook hidden in trees, The sound of which was silence for the place. This he sat listening to till she gave judgment. “On father’s side, it seems, we’re—let me see——” “Don’t be too technical.—You have three cards.” “Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch Of the Stark family I’m a member of.” “D’you know a person so related to herself Is supposed to be mad.” “I may be mad.” “You look so, sitting out here in the rain Studying genealogy with me You never saw before. What will we come to With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees? I think we’re all mad. Tell me why we’re here Drawn into town about this cellar hole Like wild geese on a lake before a storm? What do we see in such a hole, I wonder.” “The Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc, Which means The Seven Caves that We Came out of. This is the pit from which we Starks were digged.” “You must be learned. That’s what you see in it?” “And what do you see?” “Yes, what do I see? First let me look. I see raspberry vines—” “Oh, if you’re going to use your eyes, just hear What I see. It’s a little, little boy, As pale and dim as a match flame in the sun; He’s groping in the cellar after jam, He thinks it’s dark and it’s flooded with daylight.” “He’s nothing. Listen. When I lean like this I can make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,— With his pipe in his mouth and his brown jug— Bless you, it isn’t Grandsir Stark, it’s Granny, But the pipe’s there and smoking and the jug. She’s after cider, the old girl, she’s thirsty; Here’s hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely.” “Tell me about her. Does she look like me?” “She should, shouldn’t she, you’re so many times Over descended from her. I believe She does look like you. Stay the way you are. The nose is just the same, and so’s the chin— Making allowance, making due allowance.” “You poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!” “See that you get her greatness right. Don’t stint her.” “Yes, it’s important, though you think it isn’t. I won’t be teased. But see how wet I am.” “Yes, you must go; we can’t stay here for ever. But wait until I give you a hand up. A bead of silver water more or less Strung on your hair won’t hurt your summer looks. I wanted to try something with the noise That the brook raises in the empty valley. We have seen visions—now consult the voices. Something I must have learned riding in trains When I was young. I used the roar To set the voices speaking out of it, Speaking or singing, and the band-music playing. Perhaps you have the art of what I mean. I’ve never listened in among the sounds That a brook makes in such a wild descent. It ought to give a purer oracle.” “It’s as you throw a picture on a screen: The meaning of it all is out of you; The voices give you what you wish to hear.” “Strangely, it’s anything they wish to give.” “Then I don’t know. It must be strange enough. I wonder if it’s not your make-believe. What do you think you’re like to hear to-day?” “From the sense of our having been together— But why take time for what I’m like to hear? I’ll tell you what the voices really say. You will do very well right where you are A little longer. I mustn’t feel too hurried, Or I can’t give myself to hear the voices.” “Is this some trance you are withdrawing into?” “You must be very still; you mustn’t talk.” “I’ll hardly breathe.” “The voices seem to say——” “I’m waiting.” “Don’t! The voices seem to say: Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid Of an acquaintance made adventurously.” “I let you say that—on consideration.” “I don’t see very well how you can help it. You want the truth. I speak but by the voices. You see they know I haven’t had your name, Though what a name should matter between us——” “I shall suspect——” “Be good. The voices say: Call her Nausicaa, and take a timber That you shall find lies in the cellar charred Among the raspberries, and hew and shape it For a door-sill or other corner piece In a new cottage on the ancient spot. The life is not yet all gone out of it. And come and make your summer dwelling here, And perhaps she will come, still unafraid, And sit before you in the open door With flowers in her lap until they fade, But not come in across the sacred sill——” “I wonder where your oracle is tending. You can see that there’s something wrong with it, Or it would speak in dialect. Whose voice Does it purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir’s Nor Granny’s, surely. Call up one of them. They have best right to be heard in this place.” “You seem so partial to our great-grandmother (Nine times removed. Correct me if I err.) You will be likely to regard as sacred Anything she may say. But let me warn you, Folks in her day were given to plain speaking. You think you’d best tempt her at such a time?” “It rests with us always to cut her off.” “Well then, it’s Granny speaking: ‘I dunnow! Mebbe I’m wrong to take it as I do. There ain’t no names quite like the old ones though, Nor never will be to my way of thinking. One mustn’t bear too hard on the new comers, But there’s a dite too many of them for comfort. I should feel easier if I could see More of the salt wherewith they’re to be salted. Son, you do as you’re told! You take the timber— It’s as sound as the day when it was cut— And begin over——’ There, she’d better stop. You can see what is troubling Granny, though. But don’t you think we sometimes make too much Of the old stock? What counts is the ideals, And those will bear some keeping still about.” “I can see we are going to be good friends.” “I like your ‘going to be.’ You said just now It’s going to rain.” “I know, and it was raining. I let you say all that. But I must go now.” “You let me say it? on consideration? How shall we say good-bye in such a case?” “How shall we?” “Will you leave the way to me?” “No, I don’t trust your eyes. You’ve said enough. Now give me your hand up.—Pick me that flower.” “Where shall we meet again?” “Nowhere but here Once more before we meet elsewhere.” “In rain?” “It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain. In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains? But if we must, in sunshine.” So she went.

Adrian Ludwig Richter 1847 Bridal Procession in a Spring Landscape, oil on canvas, Galerie Neue Meister, Dersden, Germany

#The Generations of Men #Adrian Ludwig Richter #Richter #Bridal Procession in a Spring Landscape #Art #Poetry #Fine Arts #Poems #Painting #Robert Frost #Frost #But if we must in sunshine

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

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A Touch of (March) Madness (1/2)

Emma can't quite remember how it started or why it happened, just that it did and she wants to win. Desperately. To prove something. Probably.

Or just to beat Killian. Either or. It doesn't matter.

She's picked her teams and her upsets and she's got a string of trash talk ready for any potential on-court situation. They're not playing the game, but they're playing a game and this one might change everything.

Rating: Teen’ish. Trash talking requires swearing. Word Count: 9.1K HA. AN: I owe @laurnorder my fic-writing soul, so when she texted me a couple weeks ago and was like...”It’s March, I think you should write basketball fic,” I was like...ok. And because I cannot rationalize Killian Jones playing basketball unless he’s some kind of JJ Reddick-type asshole, here are a lot of words about over-competitive friends and brackets and (maybe my very specific, personal) college basketball opinions. I will be honest and tell you guys this is definitely the most sports niche’y thing I have written and you probably need a general working knowledge of what the NCAA Tournament is, but there’s banter and eventual makeouts because of who I am as a person. Thank you, as always, to @distant-rose & @katie-dub for being endless sources of support and general fantastic’ness. Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

Selection Sunday

“Can you just pick?”

“No.” “No? Did you tell me that you can’t pick? Are you physically incapable of making your picks then? Because that would almost explain some of your choices last year.” Killian doesn’t lift his head up, keeping his eyes trained on the small stack of papers in front of him and Emma cannot sigh loudly enough. His lips twitch slightly.

“This is not that hard,” she says and it’s hardly the first time she’s told him that, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference and it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night.

“You say that like you’ve got a title to defend, Swan,” Killian mutters. “This is a tried and true system with several minutes of actual research put into it and long-standing biases that have helped shape the sport for what it is.” “Overflowing with controversy?” Emma asks glibly, jumping onto the edge of the counter and kicking out towards him. “Deception? Disgrace?” “You’re trying to goad me into quoting something, it’s not going to work.”

She sighs, but she absolutely was and his pen sounds impossibly loud in the otherwise relative silence of the apartment. Mary Margaret fell asleep hours ago.

“That’s stupid,” Emma grumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out of Killian and she probably should have left already. She’s not sure why she hasn’t. Well, no, that’s a lie, but her apartment is far enough uptown that it’s probably better if she takes an Uber and she’s fairly certain they’re doing construction on the 2-train anyway.

Killian will probably make her take an Uber.

David’s probably got it on speed dial already.

“You really haven’t picked yet?” Emma continues and Killian shakes his head slowly, eyes darting up and she’s glad she’s already sitting down. “That’s also stupid. What’s your system, then?” “Excuse me?” “You said you had a tried and true system, explain it then, o ye master of competition.” Killian smirks, one eyebrow pulled dangerously high and Emma knows she’s not going to get an answer. “You know, I’m starting to think your compliments are ringing a little hollow there, Swan. I’ll admit that’s disappointing, but, again, I’ve got a title to defend and I’ll probably feel a lot better when I beat you all this year. Again. As per usual.”

He tugs a different pen from behind his ear – Emma dimly remembers something about color coding and possible upsets getting a different ink, but she’s fairly certain that it’s all conjecture just to annoy her. His tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth and it’s as infuriating as it is distracting because he’s absolutely right.

They’ve been at it for what has felt like actual days, crowding, as tradition dictates, onto the couch in Mary Margaret and David’s apartment for the selection show

And, as tradition dictates, they complain about every single seed and the pros and cons of Syracuse making it again – ”They finished tenth in the ACC, that’s just insulting to the rest of the field. “We know, David.” “What even is an Orange? That’s a fruit. That’s not a mascot. That’s not intimidating me at all.” We know, David.” “If I were Mt. St. Mary’s, I’d sue.” “We know, David.” – and eat a questionable amount of Indian food from the place that is, technically, closer to Killian’s apartment, but he knows their orders by heart now and he got Emma an extra samosa, so she’s not ever going to complain.

Unless it’s about how goddamn long it’s taking him to fill out his bracket.

It’s March and there’s still, somehow, snow on the ground in New York, but Emma’s just brought in some perp she’d been trailing for the last month and she’s got the next week off. It is, officially, the most wonderful time of the year.

And she can’t even really remember how it all started.

Technically, it probably started when she landed in the Nolan house several decades before, a vaguely jaded orphan no one had ever really wanted until Ruth Nolan did and decided, quite quickly, to give Emma the world.

And a brother she didn’t ask for.

Emma and David didn’t get along at first. They argued and bickered and they were the same age and he had that annoying, incredibly nice friend who lived down the street in Storybrooke who, at one point, Emma was convinced could talk to birds.

Emma was a frustrated, bitter eleven-year-old and the new girl again and Storybrooke, as far as she was concerned, was the absolutely worst. Until she tried to run away – and Mary Margaret found her.

It was Mary Margaret’s birthday and Emma couldn’t stomach the idea of another party and another town event at Granny’s and she slipped out the backdoor and...couldn’t get any farther. Mary Margaret showed up, exactly, twenty-seven minutes later to find Emma huddled in the corner of the alley, shoulders shaking and disappointment looming over her like a storm cloud and she did the single most Mary Margaret thing that Mary Margaret had ever done.

She hugged her.

And then went to bring her a slice of ice cream cake.

It got better after that.

Mary Margaret kept smiling and, presumably, talking to birds and Emma stopped picking fights with David just because he was there.

They were some kind of three-headed monster – never more than a few feet apart and speaking in blinks and tilts of heads when they had to and no one was surprised to discover that all three of them applied to the same school.

Xavier.

Naturally. They were already like the three musketeers.

And it was good and great and a slew of other adjectives for three musketeers who’d never really experienced the world, until David got assigned a new roommate second semester freshman year and Emma Swan hated Killian Jones with a passion strong enough to rival several suns.

He hated her right back.

Loudly. With a string of curses that regularly made Mary Margaret blush and left David smacking Killian’s shoulder, mumbling that’s my sister, man under his breath.

He was smug and far too good looking and he did that thing with his eyebrow that made Emma’s stomach twist and she would show up in his room unannounced and laugh when he couldn't quite scrape by a passing grade in that one business class they both took together.

The good looking thing wasn’t important.

And the bracket thing had been Mary Margaret’s idea.

Naturally. Again.

“Maybe if we’re doing something fun, you won’t hate him so much,” Mary Margaret reasoned and Emma hadn’t argued, much, because it was a chance to beat Killian Jones at something and then make sure he never forgot about it for the rest of his life.

Only Killian Jones was, actually, really, really good at picking teams in the goddamn NCAA Tournament.

“He’s some kind of soothsayer, I swear,” Emma shouted, her own bracket torn to shreds and she still hated him, but he was always around and Mary Margaret and David had started acknowledging the longing looks they kept sending each other’s way that January.

“I think he’s got an algorithm or something,” David muttered.

Emma spun on the spot, glaring metaphorical daggers because she didn’t have any real daggers, and Killian held his hands up in mock surrender.

“There’s no algorithm,” he said. “Just a very good gut instinct and proclivity to being right.”

“God, you’re such an ass,” Emma groaned. “I bet you’re the only person in the country who picked that upset.” He shrugged.

And defended his inaugural title. For three years straight.

No one ever asked if they wanted to keep going, even after college and jobs and life, but no one asked if they all wanted to move to New York City either.

It just kind of happened.

And Emma just kind of stopped hating Killian.

He got under her skin. Or something less disgusting.

“Swan,” Killian says, jerking her out of memories and back to reality and she has no idea where she actually put her bracket.

“Yeah,” she mumbles and he’s smiling at her. Not smirking. No stupid eyebrow thing. A real, genuine smile and she wonders when that started making her breath catch and her eyes widen just a bit. “Here,” she adds when he stands up, eyeing her like she’s lost her mind. She might have. It’s probably with her bracket.

“I can see that. Although here seems a bit more physical and a hell of a lot less mental.” “Was that an insult? That sounded incredibly insulting.” Killian shakes his head, crossing the tiny space masquerading as a kitchen in three steps and his hand lands on her knee like there are magnets involved. “Not an insult,” he promises. “A genuine show of concern when you look like you’re trying to teleport back home.” “None of these words are making sense the way you’re saying them.” “Sounds like a sign.” “And an insult,” Emma hisses, kicking him in the shin. That feels a bit more normal. “Are you finally done?” “Mmhm.” “That’s awfully smug.” There’s the eyebrow arch.

“You’ve got quite a few opinions on my bracket, Swan,” Killian says and he’s started tapping his fingers on her jeans. Emma swallows. “I think it’s a defense mechanism.” “I think you’re refusing to talk about your so-called methods for picking teams because you know your good luck has finally run out and you’re nervous about what will happen if you don’t live up to expectations.”

She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth, Killian’s fingers going deathly still when her mouth snaps closed and Emma bites her tongue to stop herself from doing anything else quite that stupid – like crying while sitting on the counter in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment.

And maybe she knows exactly when she stopped hating Killian.

“Purdue,” he says, ducking into her eye line and Emma has to blink, at least, sixty-seven times because the whole thing is ridiculous.

“What?” “Purdue. I picked Purdue to win.” “For real?” Killian tilts his head. “Why would I lie about that?” “I honestly have no idea, “ Emma admits. “But I’ve kind of lost track of the conversation and...honestly, Purdue though?” “You have something against Purdue, Swan?”

“No,” she snaps, shoving lightly at his shoulder and his gasps like it actually hurt. His hand is still on her knee. “But, like, why?” “That seems to fall decidedly in the realm of giving away my plan.”

Emma groans loudly, drawing a set of footsteps that were absolutely eavesdropping on the conversation and David hands her the bracket she filled out hours ago as soon as he’s within arms reach.

Killian’s hand is gone.

That’s fine. It’s fine. Cool. Totally cool. God, she can’t believe she just thought that.

“You’re going homer again, this year, huh, Em?” David asks, phone already out and she nods so he can order her the goddamn Uber.

She scowls, eyes darting Killian’s direction before she can stop herself and he’s trying very hard not to smirk at her. It’s not really working.

“I am going with a potential winner this year,” Emma corrects archly. “If it just so happens that I pick our alma mater, then, you know, so be it. It’s their year.” “Did the boosters get you to say that?” “How far do you have them going?” "Far.” “That’s not an answer,” she mutters, but it sounds more like a growl and they’re definitely going to wake Mary Margaret up at some point. “When did we all decide to descend into secrecy over our brackets? M’s told me as she was filling hers out.” “That’s because Mary Margaret is not trying to win,” Killian points out. One of the pens is back behind his ear, arms crossed lightly over his chest and there’s really not enough room for all of them in this quasi-kitchen.

Emma rolls her eyes, but it’s probably true and Mary Margaret regularly makes her picks based on nicknames, color schemes and the overall creepiness of mascots.

She’s never picked Providence. Ever.

“Whatever,” Emma mutters. “We’ve all reached a brand-new level of super strange competitiveness. I picked Xavier to win, not just because we all possess degrees from that school and they’ve now started calling asking for money, which I think is a sign of actual adulthood, but because they’ve got a good team this year and I genuinely believe they can win a national championship.”

“Because it’s their year, right?” David asks and he can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. Emma flips him off. “Honestly though, Em, tell me something. Did you...did you rehearse that?” “Oh my God, you’re even worse than him.”

She jerks her hand in Killian’s direction and he makes a good show of being affronted, but there’s something lingering just on the edge of his expression that makes her wonder all sorts of things she shouldn’t even be thinking.

“These insults, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you do remember that Xavier lost to Villanova twice this year, right?”

“Villanova lost to St. John’s. At home. When they were the top team in the country.” “That’s a good point,” David mumbles, but Killian and Emma both wave him off and this is almost, painfully, normal. “Xavier still won the Big East outright,” she argues. “First time in like...I don’t know, whatever it was historic.” “Not the tournament and if you’re going to bring up facts, you need them to be accurate. That’s arguing one-oh-one..” “Why are you so against a Xavier run?” “I’m not,” he says. “I’m simply pointing out that Xavier has a habit of fucking up once they get to the later rounds. It happens every year.” “If you say tried and true I will get off this counter and punch you right in the face.”

Killian laughs, head thrown back and shoulders shaking and Mary Margaret makes noise from wherever she fell asleep. Hours ago. “I wasn’t going to,” he says lightly and maybe Emma’s got food poisoning from that extra samosa. It would explain whatever is going on with her brain and her thought processes and whatever her whole being does as soon as Killian’s hand lands on her knee. “These are just facts, Swan. And David picked Arizona.” “What?” Emma gasps, laughing as well when David starts cursing Killian to several different underworlds. “Oh my God, David, seriously? You want to talk about a team that disappoints regularly. Plus all that off-court shit! No way they even make the Sweet 16.” “They’ve got the best freshman in the country,” David reasons. “This is a sound choice. And I’m doing some kind of thing this year.”

Mary Margaret pads into the kitchen when Emma can’t bring herself to stop laughing, a blanket tugged tightly around her shoulders and sleep clinging to every one of her movements. “It’s a Wildcat movement,” she mumbles. “He’s picking Wildcat teams this year.” “What?” Emma asks. Killian is barely standing up.

“Wildcats. He's picking as many Wildcats teams because he thinks it’s funny.” “And because it makes sense,” David adds sharply, rolling his shoulder when Emma grips it to try and stay upright. “Or it would have if I’d been able to get it to work, but Midwest doesn’t have any Wildcats--” “What team,” Emma interrupts and Mary Margaret drops her blanket when she starts laughing, shouting back Wildcats on cue.

David rolls his eyes. “Anyway,” he continues pointedly. “I got three of four, so that’s a majority and it’s totally going to work because an Arizona and Villanova final is not only probable, I’m guaranteeing it.” “Wow, talking a big game.” “I’m confident. That’s all. And I’m tired of Jones winning every goddamn year, so I’m willing to do whatever it takes. “It’s not going to work,” Killian says easily and the other pen is in his back pocket. Emma can feel Mary Margaret staring at her. “I’ve got a system. And I’ve got consistency on my side. And nicknames or mascots or whatever don’t have anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you’re always saying,” David grumbles. “You know what? Get out of my apartment and take your research with you because I’m not walking down the hall to put that in the garbage disposal.” “I mean, it should probably be recycling, right?” Emma asks, sliding off the counter and she’s suddenly far closer to Killian that she anticipated. She’s ninety-two percent positive he moved.

“You can get out of my apartment too. Your car is here, anyway.” “Ok, well, that’s rude, but thanks for the ride. Go back to sleep, M’s.”

Mary Margaret salutes, already halfway down the hallway and Emma glances Killian’s direction before she can lose her nerve. “You want a ride?” He blinks, like he’s trying to make sure he heard her right, and Emma chews on the inside of her lip, willing her stomach to act like an actual part of human anatomy.

He nods before he answers.

“Yeah, sure, Swan,” Killian says, grabbing his stack of paperwork and his ridiculous number of pens and they both sit in the backseat of an Uber on their way uptown.

They don’t say anything for the first dozen or so blocks, a companionable silence Emma never would have considered possible when she was a sophomore in college and spent most of her free time trying to figure out what Killian’s deal was.

She’s still not entirely sure she knows.

It’s a work in progress.

Or something.

Whatever.

“I can hear you thinking,” Killian says, gaze flitting her direction. “It’s very loud.” Emma bites her lip – mostly so she won’t smile and he won’t lord that over her for the rest of time. “Is it distracting?” she asks, but it feels like a much bigger question.

“No. Just general curiosity.”

“Because you claim to hear my thoughts. That’s...you know that’s weird, right?” “Only because you’re making it weird,” Killian challenges and they’re at his apartment already. Emma’s not disappointed by that. God, she needs to sleep for the entire week she’s off. She can’t. She’s got basketball to watch.

And a bracket to defend.

“God,” Emma sighs, rolling her head on the back of the seat and top of her hair is damp from resting on the window. “Do you have to be right about absolutely everything? Or do you just get a kick out of arguing with me?” “Did you just use the phrase get a kick, Swan? That’s...did we teleport in this Uber?” “Get out.” “I’m asking a genuine question.” “And I’m telling you to get out.”

He blinks, lips pressed together tightly enough that it’s difficult to make them out in the dim light from the street lamps and the Uber driver is getting more and more pissed off by the second. And suddenly it’s like that day and Killian’s face does something stupid, softens or settles more into him, like he’s seeing Emma for the first time and pleasantly surprised to find her there.

She’s going to bite her lip in half.

“You know I’ve got Friday off,” he says and maybe they did teleport.

Emma lowers her eyebrows, tilting her slightly and if he doesn’t stop smiling at her she’s going to get out of the Uber and walk the rest of the way home. “What does that mean?” “Are you confused by the words or…” “God, stop being a dick!”

The Uber driver snorts.

Killian glares at him.

“I’m saying that I know you caught that guy last week and now August requires you to take at least five days off to recoup or make sure you actually get the kind of sleep a human being needs to function. Which means that you, presumably, will be home screaming at your TV--” “--I don’t scream at my TV.”

“Swan, sometimes you get up and actually try and play defense with the team. It might be my favorite thing you do.” “Ok, well, if this is just some twisted way for you to make fun of my questionable interest in college basketball then…”

Emma trails off when she notices the look on his face – another expression she’ll probably file away in that metaphorical file she’s absolutely, positively not keeping because they’re kind of friends now and that’s cool.

She can’t believe she just thought the word cool.

“What?” Emma asks, the word coming out like a whisper and her lip is bleeding.

“I wouldn’t do that, Swan.

“Anymore.” He shakes his head, the muscles in his throat moving when he swallows and maybe whatever place they’ve teleported to has slightly brighter street lamps because the blue in his eyes seems to get sharper when he looks up at her.

“No,” Killian says. “Not anymore.” “So...was there an offer or an invitation in there or…” He grins. “I’ve got Friday off and I know you’ve got Friday off and I’ve got a better takeout selection than you do.” “See, you’ve just gotta add in those last, little insults don’t you?”

“You blink quicker when you get angry, did you know that?”

Emma shoves at his shoulder, like that will do anything at all, but he’s always had impossibly quick reflexes and she’s not even surprised when his fingers wrap around her wrist. She’s a bit more surprised by whatever her heart does in response and she’s fairly certain it’s the most he’s ever touched her in a 24-hour span. Or, like, a two-hour span.

“You want me to come here on Friday so we can watch basketball together?” Emma asks skeptically. Killian’s nodding before she can get the question out, eyes a hint wider when he tries to speak without actually speaking. “I think your team plays on Friday.” “I’m aware of the schedule, Swan. Xavier does too.” “It’s weird that you’ve memorized it already.” He hums noncommittally, but he really does have better takeout near his apartment and an exceptionally good coffee maker that Emma will undoubtedly use several times and, well, it might be kind of nice.

They’re friends now.

They spend time together. On their own. It’ll be fine.

Cool. It’ll be cool. Cool, cool, cool.

“Was anyone actually going to get out of the car or….” the Uber driver starts and Emma can’t quite mask her laugh. “Because I’ve got other fares I could be taking and…” “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving,” Killian promises, twisting behind him to open the door and it’s fucking freezing outside. He glances back at Emma, one leg on the sidewalk already. “Friday?” There’s something just on the edge of that too, but Emma can’t quite figure it out and the Uber driver is the single most impatient person on the planet. She nods before she can come up with any of the reasons it will not be cool.

“Yeah,” she says. “Friday.”

He flashes her a smile, rolling his eyes at whatever noise the Uber driver makes when he kicks at the door and Emma’s fairly positive she doesn’t mishear him when he leaves, the quiet see you later, love ringing in her ears for the rest of the night.

The Play-In Games

David Nolan, Tuesday, 7:53 p.m.: Did we know that LIU Brooklyn was in the tournament? Emma Swan, 7:54 p.m.: It’s a play-in game it doesn’t count.

David Nolan, 7:55 p.m.: Also, what channel is TruTV?

Emma Swan, 7:55 p.m.: I’ll repeat myself.

Mary Margaret Blanchard, 7:56 p.m.: They’re playing a game, it definitely counts! They’re doing their best. And almost winning, kind of. Emma Swan, 7:57 p.m.: They are not almost winning. Where is LIU in Brooklyn? Shouldn’t it be...on Long Island.

Emma Swan, 8 p.m.: ????

Killian Jones, 8:01 p.m.: It’s right near Barclays.

Emma Swan, 8:03 p.m.: Why do you know that? Who knows that? No one. No one knows that.

Killian Jones, 8:04 p.m.: I know everything. You know this, Swan.

David Nolan, 8:07 p.m.: Guys. Seriously. This is a group text.

Emma Swan, 8:08 p.m.: Did you pick them?

Emma Swan, 8:15 p.m.: ……. Honestly, Jones? The tournament has started you can tell us who you picked.

Emma Swan, 8:17 p.m.: Killian, seriously!

David Nolan, 8:18 p.m.: This. Is. A. Group. Text.

Emma scowls when LIU Brooklyn shoots like garbage in the second half and loses its opening-round game and she’s already picked one team wrong, which doesn’t seem like a very good sign. Her phone dings almost immediately.

Killian Jones, 8:59 p.m.: I didn’t pick them. Did you?

Blackbirds are stupid mascots.

David Nolan, Wednesday, 11:37 p.m.: WHAT THE FUCK IS AN ORANGE, ANYWAY?!?

Killian Jones, 11:38 p.m.: Bahahahahahahahahaha.

David Nolan, 11:40 p.m.: Screw you, Killian.

Emma Swan, 11:42 p.m.: Did you put a period after your maniacal laughter?

Killian Jones, 11:44 p.m.: Proper punctuation is important when you’re lording your basketball-picking ability over your lesser competition, Swan. And I take offense at maniacal. It was reserved, at worst.

Emma Swan, 11:44 p.m.: Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?

Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.: The Pac-12 is garbage. ASU was never going to win. Syracuse plays in the ACC. Strength of schedule is important.

Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.: Plus, no college kid knows how to play against a zone.

Emma Swan, 11:46 p.m.: You shoot out of it. That’s just...that’s basic.

Killian Jones, 11:47 p.m.: Tell Arizona State that.

David Nolan, 11:49 p.m.: This. Is. A. Group. Text.

The First Round, Thursday, Day One

Emma sinks into the corner of her couch, hair still a bit damp from the shower she probably should have taken hours before, but she’s officially in basketball mode and basketball mode requires her to be as lazy as humanly possible while watching college-age kids be the exact opposite for the next twelve hours.

It sounds weirder out loud than it does in her head.

LIU Brooklyn was the only misstep in her First Four picks and, really, that was more of a technicality because most brackets don’t require First Four picks, but they’re all a bunch of over-competitive weirdos and they do it anyway.

She still has no idea what Killian’s bracket looks like.

It’s probably frustratingly accurate, but there are sixteen games that day which means there are sixteen chances for him to be wrong, which is really all she wants.

And maybe she’s the most competitive weirdo of all.

Because Emma really, really likes winning and she liked it a hell of a lot more the one time she beat Killian the first March after undergrad, but she doesn’t hate Killian nearly as much as she did before.

It's a very confusing sentence and a very confusing thought and she needs to watch some of these games to distract her from whatever her mind has been doing over the last few days – replaying that Uber ride and the slight shake in his voice when he asked about Friday, like he was scared she’d say no or like, maybe, it meant something good and big and important and it felt a bit like déjà vu because his voice had done the same, exact thing when she decided she didn’t hate him.

He’d just defended his championship, making sure to point it out as often and loudly as possible, a few days into April and Emma desperately needed the Benadryl she knew David kept in a box under his bed in the apartment just off campus.

She considered going back to her own room – only a few blocks away with her own stock of Benadryl because pollen seemed to exist only to ruin her life every April – but Emma was fairly convinced her nose was about to fall off and she was walking through the door before she even realized she’d taken her key out.

And Killian nearly ran her over as soon as she walked through the threshold.

“Swan,” he slurred, eyes a bit glazed and an actual bottle in his hand. He wobbled when he stopped to glare at her, a sneer to his lips that had become almost too familiar at that point. “What are you doing here?” Emma shook her head, kicking back to close the door and Killian winced when it slammed into its frame. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, reaching out to tug the bottle out of his hand. He tightened his hold. “It’s like...two in the afternoon.” “Ah, well, then we’ve clearly fallen behind schedule. You want a drink, love? There’s a few options in the kitchen, although I’m not willing to share the rum.” “Not your love,” she said, mostly out of habit and he stumbled when she took another step towards him. “Seriously, what the hell is going on with you? You can’t even stand up straight.”

“That, my dear, is the point.” Emma glared, pressing her tongue on the inside of her cheek and it probably would have been intimidating if she didn’t sneeze very loudly two seconds later. It shook through whole body, leaving her sniffling and red-nosed and Killian was staring at her like she’d been replaced with a cyborg as soon as she lifted her head up.

“What?” Emma grumbled, sniffling again.

Killian opened his mouth, only to close it three more times and Emma realized, rather suddenly, that they’d never really had a conversation about….anything. They’d circled around each other for more than a year and had almost gotten the hang of small talk when David and Mary Margaret started making eyes at each other, but there was no depth to any of it.

She’d never asked about his hand – the prosthetic at the end of his left arm catching her attention the very first time she met him, but David had glared at her and the questions got caught in her throat and no one ever gave her an explanation. She’d never even really asked how he ended up at Xavier or why he was a year older than all of them with far fewer credits and he kept taking six classes a semester.

She hadn’t really ever bothered.

That felt decidedly….wrong.

Killian had, simply, come blazing into their lives like some kind of dying star or possibly a comet and Emma didn’t know enough about space to make those kinds of comparisons, but the dying part seemed particularly apt at the moment.

“David’s not here,” Killian said softly, a note of something that might have been disappointment in his voice. “He and Mary Margaret had class and then they were going somewhere to be painfully adorable so…” “So you decided to drink your entire alcohol supply?” “No, no, that had nothing to do with their proclivity to romance. Quite the opposite, in fact.” “That was a lot of very fancy words for a guy who’s having a difficult time staying upright,” Emma pointed out, tapping her finger lightly on his chest and it looked like he’d frozen. “Honestly, you’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with you?” Killian tilted his head, gaze a hint sharper than it had been a moment before and Emma bit her lip. Tightly. “It’s not exactly like we’re friends, Swan. Or even acquaintances, really. You tolerate at me, at best.”

“Ok, well, you don’t really like me either,” Emma argued. “You think I’m…” “What? Please. Tell me exactly what I think about you.”

She stomped her foot, growling low in the back of her throat and Killian did something absolutely ridiculous with his eyebrows. “Fine, fine,” she hissed. “You want to get blasted in the middle of the afternoon, fine. I couldn't care less. I came here to steal some of David’s allergy medicine because the world is attacking me. So I will go get that and then you can get back to your one-person pity party of whatever it is you’re being pitiful about.”

Emma nodded once, like that had won whatever argument they’d been staging, stepping around him towards David’s room, but she barely made it one step before Killian’s fingers wrapped around her shoulder.

“Did you say the world was attacking you?” he asked and it was the last question she expected.

“Yeah. I’m, uh...super allergic to pollen. Spring is, like, my own personal brand of hell.” Killian hummed, taking another swig of whatever was in the bottle – the label had peeled off at some point – before offering it to her. “It’s almost better than Benadryl,” he said and it felt like a much bigger offer.

She took the bottle and the rum – it was rum, incredibly good rum that probably cost a questionable amount of money – shivering when it burned the back of her throat and settled in the pit of her stomach and it almost felt like she could breathe a little better.

“He really never told you?” Killian continued softly. “David, I mean. He knows...the whole thing.” Emma shook her head. “David wouldn’t do that. Not if you didn’t want him to.” “Well, I mean, they’re dead, so it’s not as if they’re going to be offended by me talking about them behind their back.” “What?” “There really is almost a reasonable explanation for the alcohol.”

“Ok,” Emma muttered, nodding in the direction of the second-hand couch in the corner of the room. “But we really should sit down for this because you honestly look like shit and I don’t know that I’ll be able to do anything if you fall over.” Killian scoffed, but he didn’t argue and they spent the next forty-six and a half minutes sitting on opposite sides of the couch, passing the bottle back and forth and he told her everything.

He told her about Liam and Milah and the accident that took both of them at the same time and how he was fairly positive it was some kind of absurd joke when he woke up in the hospital bed, eighteen years old with one less hand than he expected.

He told her about getting out of that town and trying to decide what do next and how to honor both of them without living in the past.

It wasn’t easy, but there were classes and loans and his brother always thought Killian could do anything, so he figured he might as well. He ended up at Xavier by chance, a scholarship that just sort of landed in his lap and a business program that was good and great and a slew of other adjectives that might have included insane because--

“Liam would have been thirty today,” Killian said, taking his time on the words and he kept staring at a piece of string on the one couch cushion in between them. “And he would have hated that I did…” He waved his hand through the air, as if that was enough description, smiling softly when Emma pulled the bottle back to her side of the couch. “But I woke up this morning and I got another shit grade in that marketing class and I can’t…” “So then don’t,” Emma shrugged. Her words felt heavy, hanging on the tip of her tongue and jumbling in the air and Killian stared at her like she was that cyborg again.

“What?”

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Do something else.” “Like...what?” “Anything. You’re minoring in something, right?” Killian nodded slowly, groaning when she wouldn’t relinquish control of the bottle. They’d put quite a dent in it. “Classics,” he said. “You know...Greeks and myths and that kind of thing.” “So do that.” “That’s not really how it works, Swan. And this is sounding incredibly out of character. I wasn’t aware you were so positive.” “Ok, first of all, that’s rude and, second of all, I have known Mary Margaret for nearly a decade now, so some of that is bound to rub off. And third of--” “--There’s a third thing?” Killian asked incredulously and he grinned when Emma stuck her tongue out.

“There would be if you’d let me finish,” she muttered. “Everything you’ve just told me about your brother makes it seem like he was Mary Margaret levels of supportive, right?” Killian hummed again. Emma rolled her eyes. “So then he thought you should major in business because, what, there were careers in it?” Killian shrugged.

“God, you’re the most frustrating drunk in the world, you know that? We’ll go with that theory for now because there are also jobs in the classics and you could...I don’t know, you could teach or something.” “What?” “We are going in circles.” Killian shook his head, like he was trying to work through some more fog or metaphorical cobwebs and Emma felt the muscles in her face shift. She was smiling.

She was smiling at him.

“I just think you could do it,” she said, absolutely ignoring whatever Killian’s entire being did as soon as the words fell out of her. She took another swig of rum. “And I bet your brother would have too. You shouldn’t have to be worried about a marketing grade.”

He didn’t say anything for several days, at least, and Emma had never been particularly good at patience and she wasn’t entirely prepared for--

“I’m sorry,” Killian whispered, leaning forward to rest his hand on one of her knees. Emma suddenly felt far more drunk than she was. “For, well, for all of it. Being a dick and...being a dick.”

Emma’s smile widened, ducking her head and she sneezed when her hair brushed her nose. “Yeah, me too,” she said. “Truce?” She stuck her hand out and, eventually, she’d blame the rum and whatever he was doing with his face, but in the moment it made a hell of a lot of sense and Killian’s fingers were warm.

“Truce,” he echoed.

Emma never got the Benadryl, but they finished the rum and Mary Margaret’s laughter woke both of them up where they’d fallen asleep on the couch.

He changed his major two days later.

And, now, Emma can’t stop thinking about that day and what it meant or, maybe, means because things got better, but Killian is still David’s friend and Emma is still David’s sister and she’s definitely thinking about this way too much.

Particularly when there’s an upset brewing.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, reaching for her phone because she totally picked this one. She absolutely picked this one. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she mutters and patience is still not one of her strong suits.

He picks up on the third ring.

“What?” Killian whispers. “Is someone dead?” Emma nearly drops her phone. “No, what? Why?” “Swan, it is four in the afternoon. I have class. I am in class.” “Why did you answer your phone, then?” “You called me, love,” he says like it’s obvious and it kind of is and it makes every single one of her internal organs do something stupid. “So just to double check. No one is dead? David and Mary Margaret are fine?” “Presumably.” “Swan.” “Yes,” Emma sighs. “David and Mary Margaret are both fine. I just...well, it sounds stupid now. Are you actually in class? Aren’t there rules about that?”

“In a normal class, sure, but I’m a fantastic professor and my rules are much cooler than a normal class. And,” he adds, ignoring her not-so-quiet laughter completely. “It’s March, Swan. Early’ish March. There are midterms, you know.”

“Is that why you have tomorrow off?” “Mmmhmmm.”

“Oh, shit, does it make me a bad friend that I didn’t know that?” “I don’t expect you to have my schedule memorized, love.”

That’s two loves in the same conversation and, maybe, three in the last week and it’s not like Emma’s counting, but she isn’t not counting and--

“Yeah, but I feel like I should know that,” she continues. “Are you talking on the phone with me in the middle of a midterm? Because that’s also kind of shitty.” “I went outside. Figured if there was some kind of death notice imminent then I should be away from the prying eyes of undergrads.” “That is...morbid.” Killian laughs and Emma’s organs are just, like, on fire at that point. “I’ve been reading a lot of essays about the Underworld recently. It’s put me in a mood.” “Maybe I should bring more alcohol tomorrow.” “I wouldn’t say no, although we probably should wait until the later games for that, don’t you think?”

“Look at you, a picture of responsibility,” Emma says and her cheeks are starting to ache. She refuses to acknowledge the symmetry of her thoughts and their current conversation and he never brought it up again.

He just changed majors and started taking more classes and went to grad school and he had a satchel now. She teased him about it mercilessly.

“Sometimes,” Killian admits. "Why’d you call, Swan?” “Did you pick Loyola Chicago?”

“Excuse me?” “First-round games. Loyola Chicago. Did you pick them beating Miami because they just beat Miami. I know you didn’t pick this so--” “--Of course I did.”

Emma blinks. “What?” “I definitely picked them. I think they could make a run. How’d they win?” “No, no, you don’t get that,” Emma mutters and he’s laughing again, free and easy and she wishes he were there. So she could kick him. Or something else. Whatever. “You can’t be serious. What the fuck is Loyola Chicago even?” “Presumably it’s a school,” he reasons. “And you might want to watch that, Swan because my research shows they’ve got some kind of nun on their side and I don’t think you want to jinx yourself like that.” “I’m going to murder you.” “You’ve just jinxed it.”

Emma makes some kind of noise in the back of her throat and it’s not particularly human, but it draws another laugh out of Killian and at least she also picked the upset. “I can’t believe you researched Loyola Chicago,” she says. “Why?” “Swan, we’ve been over this, there’s a system and it’s tried and true and I’m sharing it with you. Also Miami has been streaky all season. That was an easy upset.”

“Of course it was.” “Anything else to report?” “Don’t you have some kind of internal update that lets you know when your bracket stays perfect? That way your ego never takes a hit?” “That’s rude, Swan. And, no, I don’t. C’mon, update me.”

She does – spends the next five minutes giving him a run down of the early games and the pros and cons of Trae Young leaving Oklahoma after his first year, of which there are many because his jump shot is off sometimes, Killian, you know it, I know it, NBA front office knows it and she’s almost surprised when he mutters that he has to actually go acknowledge his class eventually.

“Oh, right, right, right,” Emma stammers, but she’s ninety-nine percent positive Killian is still smiling. “And I think Collin Sexton is a better freshman than Trae Young and whoever that Arizona kid David was talking about.” “I’ve got no doubt you’re right, love,” Killian says. Her body, possibly, explodes. “You want to tag-team David when Arizona gets upset later on tonight?” “Arizona’s not going to get upset later on tonight.”

Her phone dings as soon as the Arizona game ends and Emma’s watched enough basketball that her brain is starting to get a bit muddled, but she can still spot a monumental sporting moment and Arizona got upset.

By Buffalo.

Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:57 p.m.: Please do not say anything. He threw the remote.

Emma Swan, 11:57 p.m.: Uh oh.

Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:59 p.m.: I’m serious, Emma.

Emma Swan, 12 a.m.: I said no words.

Killian Jones, 12:02 a.m.: I will gladly say words. Off-court issues are on-court problems and Sean Miller is a terrible coach. Go back to Dayton.

Emma Swan, 12:03 a.m.: Were you...just talking to Sean Miller? Via text?

Killian Jones, 12:03 a.m.: Yes. Also I will repeat myself from the First Four. The Pac 12 is terrible. You picked the wrong Wildcat, David.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: It’s unfortunate, but you know, someone’s got to be out first, David. It just so happened you were first on the first day.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: The very first day.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: The first one.

Killian Jones, 12:05 a.m.: As early as possible.

David Nolan, 12:11 a.m.: THIS. IS. A. GROUP. TEXT.

The First Round, Friday, Day Two

“It’s freezing and I’m here and I bought really expensive rum!”

The lock to his building clicks and Emma doesn’t exactly race up the stairs, but she doesn’t just walk up the stairs and by the time she makes it to the third floor there’s a stitch in her side that leaves her just a bit breathless.

Killian’s eyebrows are doing something ridiculous.

“You ok, Swan?” he asks, stepping out of the doorway and grabbing the bottle before she can object. “Did you run here?” She sticks her tongue out in response, pushing lightly on his shoulder and she really does lose her breath at the sight in front of her. There’s already a pre-game show on TV and two more screens and some kind of projector thing hooked up to his laptop and Emma can feel Killian behind her, something that feels like nerves rolling off him.

“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s just...wow.” He makes a noncommittal noise, more nerves and caution and Emma wonders if her week-long thought process makes a bit more sense than she originally thought. But that’s only more confusing and she kind of wants to drink some of the rum now.

“It’s really not that impressive,” Killian promises, dropping into the corner of his couch with forced casualness. “The laptops are mine and I borrowed the projector thing from school and there are a lot of games, so I figured…” Emma nods slowly, trying to take it all in and it might be the nicest thing that’s happened to her in several years. “You figured right,” she promises. “You going to let me see your bracket then?”

It’s enough to break the tension or the nerves or anything else that isn’t the sort of normal she and Killian have settled into and the couch creaks when she sits down.

“I think you’re obsessed with my bracket, love,” Killian says. She’s still not counting. “And, no, you can't look yet. Not until it's over.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't really argue because there's a game starting and she doesn't really want to argue. They’re both more than vocal when Cincinnati plays, shouting a string of insults that gets progressively more crass throughout the game.

And they’re somewhere in the middle of the schedule, debating when they should order food and how qualified Emma is to operate the coffee maker on the other side of the apartment, when she decides fuck it, she’s going to ask.

Or something a little less crass.

“Why’d you pick Purdue?” Emma asks. “Honestly?” The question catches Killian short, eyes widening until there’s far too much blue there and it looks a little like the Creighton uniforms on TV, which is, honestly, the single most absurd thing she’s ever thought.

“And please don’t make a quip about being obsessed again,” Emma adds. “It’s stupid and a deflection and--” “That’s where Liam wanted to go,” Killian cuts in, voice scratchy and emotional and she knows her mouth drops open. She’s not sure she’s breathing.

Her lungs have been through the wringer all day.

“I have no idea why,” he continues and he’s not looking at her anymore. “It makes no sense whatsoever because Purdue is several states away from where we grew up, but he did and he thought a Boilermaker was some kind of fantastic mascot and I think he kind of wanted to be an engineer? But then my mom died and he had to take care of me so--” “That wasn’t your fault.” They need to stop interrupting each other. They need to stop having these emotionally-charged conversations in the middle of a basketball marathon with takeout menus everywhere.

They probably should have done this before.

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you didn’t even make a joke about Purdue’s top kid getting hurt.” “You think I’d make jokes about kids getting hurt?” He sobers for a moment, eyes darting to hers immediately and the whole word seems to shift when he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, but it sounds like several admissions and some kind of major sporting moment and Emma tries to remember how important oxygen is to the human body. “I know you wouldn’t do that.” “You’re kind of a sap, you know that?” Killian chuckles softly, leaning forward and his hand is on her knee again. Time, it seems, is some kind of twisted circle.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “I’m glad you’re here, love.”

Emma’s mouth goes dry at the sincerity in his voice, the hint of hopefulness on the edge of his gaze, like he means it and has been waiting to tell her for several years. She can feel the flush in her cheeks, teeth digging into her lower lip and his hand tightens a fraction of an inch.

He doesn’t flinch when hers lands on top.

She considers twisting their fingers together, but there have already been enough upsets and that team with the nun mascot was all over social media the night before, so Emma figures the world only allows so many surprises in a twenty-four hour span.

“Yeah, me too,” she says instead and she might think about his answering smile for the next week. “You want to order some food?”

They order way too much food and eat way too much food and Emma almost expects Killian’s cheers when they both start yelling during the Xavier game.

It’s easy and simple and they watch every single moment of every single game, only pausing a few times to answer David’s manic texts once UMBC takes a lead into halftime against Virginia.

“He thinks they’re going to win,” Emma mutters, but she’s standing and pacing, mumbling instructions under her breath.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Do you not, love? As predicted, you’re playing defense. And rooting against your own pick.” “Aren’t you? I thought we determined you were a giant, sentimental sap?” “I’m not sure we settled on that turn of phrase, particularly, but to answer your question, of course I am. A little bracket chaos never hurt anyone.” “Plus you’re a great, big history nerd.” “You know none of these compliments sound much like compliments.”

Emma flashes him a smile, but her gaze darts back to the TV when Jim Nantz’s voice reaches a previously unachieved register and she’s not sure she’s ever heard of UMBC before.

They’re up double digits.

“I’m definitely complimenting you,” Emma promises. “And you know…” She waves her hand towards the screen, rolling her eyes when her phone makes more noise. Killian hasn’t blinked since the takeout got cold. He’s staring at her like he’s trying to read her mind or figure out what league UMBC plays in and they’re equally disconcerting and exciting because there’s more history to be made.

Maybe.

Emma hates her own metaphors.

“I don’t,” he mutters, gaze steady and just a hint imploring. Like he wants to know. Desperately.

“Well, maybe you deserve some compliments,” Emma starts. “And, you know...maybe I’m kind of a sap too. Rooting for the underdogs and upsets and picking the alma mater because there’s some history and...cut me off whenever.” He shakes his head, standing up slowly, and he’s in her space a moment later, one hand on the curve of her shoulder – as if he’s trying to make sure she’s there or keep her there and there are only a few minutes left in the game.

“That’s not a bad thing, Swan,” Killian says. “You’re allowed to care about things.”

“Yeah, sometimes those have a habit of blowing up in my face. The underdogs disappoint. That’s just how it works.” They are drowning in metaphors.

And he showed up on her doorstep a little over a year ago when she and Neal dissolved into whatever they weren’t, got her to let him into the apartment and brought her an entire box of samosas. He slept on her couch.

The buzzer on the TV goes off.

UMBC won.

History made.

Or something less sentimental.

“Not always,” Killian breathes, but Emma hears him perfectly and she’s, at least, seventy-six percent positive he’s going to kiss her when her phone dings, at least, seventy-six times.

She’s not sure which one of them groans louder.

“David needs a hobby,” Emma grumbles.

“This is his hobby.” ‘Well, then he needs a new one. This is just…” “Yeah, exactly.” “Why did that sound like an insult?” Killian makes a dismissive noise, an air of frustration lingering around him and Emma needs to go home. She doesn’t really want to go home. “It wasn’t,” Killian says. “It was just…” He’s going to do damage to his neck if he keeps shaking his head, but Emma’s forgotten how to hold a conversation and she’s too busy being stunned by the next words out of his mouth to be worried about saying anything except--

“What?” “It’s late,” he mumbles. “And you’re going to get surge pricing and you can just stay here.”

That’s what she thought he said.

Huh.

“Oh,” Emma blinks. “That’s um...are you sure?” That’s not what she expects to say.

Huh.

Again.

Killian nods. It’s a nice change of pace. So is the smile and that one lock of hair on his forehead and his hand is still on her arm.

“Yeah, yeah, it makes sense, right?” he asks. “And then you can raid the coffee again in the morning. It’s a win-win for you.” “Ok,” Emma says, a quick agreement that seems to rush out of her and into the air molecules where it lingers for several history-making, relationship-changing moments. “Ok.”

He absolutely refuses to let her sleep on the couch and Emma doesn’t argue, just smiles and lets herself be silently charmed by it and of course he has extra toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet. She falls asleep under the questionable number of blankets on his bed, a smile lingering on her face and in her soul or something equally ridiculous and he doesn’t say anything when she drinks four cups of coffee the next morning.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs #cs fic #captain swan ff #a touch of (march) madness #spoiler: i have a lot of college basketball thoughts #like...more college basketball thoughts than hockey thoughts

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