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thenovelartist · 5 years

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Falling for the Dork, set 3

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8. A Favor Only You Can Do

When Marinette called and asked him for a favor, the only correct answer was yes. He didn’t even know what he was doing other than going over to Marinette’s house, but that didn’t matter because she was his best friend and if she needed something, he’d happily assist.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called out teasingly as he headed up to her room.

When he caught sight of her, she was beet red and her smile was forced. “Uhh… welcome home?”

Her forced smile was much more of a cringe now. Adrien felt like that was his fault because all Marinette seemed to do lately was blush in front of him. If he knew how to approach the subject of what was happening to his best friend, he would. However, he had enough social skills to know that asking a woman why she blushed all the time was not the way to handle anything.

So, he ignored it and did his best to try to make her relaxed around him by being the biggest dork possible. “You called; I came. What do you need help with?”

Marinette gave him a half smile. “Well… do you know that design competition I entered?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” She tapped the tips of her index fingers together, unable to look him in the eye. “Turns out… you can either send pictures of your clothes on the mannequin… or with a model. But models are highly encouraged.”

Adrien nodded. “And…”

Her blue eyes looked up at him through her long lashes. “Would you be my model?”

Instantly, his mind went blank. She wanted him to be her model? Like, try to look like one of those ridiculous pretty-but-self-centered jerks his father hired for the sole purpose of looking beautiful? “Uh…” Adrien paused, his mind working.

“It’s okay if you don’t!” Marinette quickly said. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything.”

“You think I’m good enough to?”

Marinette’s jaw proceeded to drop to the floor. “Y…you’re kidding me, right?”

Adrien shook his head. He knew he was somewhat good looking, but model-worthy? If he was worthy enough, his father would have definitely asked him to model for the company by now.

“If I didn’t think you were good enough, I wouldn’t have asked you.”

His heart skipped at that. “Really?”

She blushed. “Yeah.”

Absently, Adrien rubbed the back of his neck. When she put it that way, there was absolutely no way he could turn her down. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

A few minutes later, Adrien was changing into the ensemble that Marinette had put together for him. When he glanced at himself in her bathroom mirror, he had to admit he looked good. Marinette was a fantastic designer and no one could say otherwise.

He stepped out of the bathroom and back to her room. He gave her a spin for approval. “Well?”

She looked intently at him, fingers tapping her lips in thought. No longer was she blushy; she was in full designer mode. “Come here.”

He did as directed, only to become vaguely uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze. She reached for his glasses, carefully taking them off his face and sparking a fire in his cheeks. She then ran her fingers through his hair, and he felt his face positively flame. Not so much because of the action itself.

More because he didn’t want her to stop.

Even though his vision was blurry and his heart was pounding, he could imagine in perfect clarity the proud smile Marinette was giving him. “Yes, you’ll do purr-fectly.”

His heart skipped an odd beat. As it always did on the rare occasion she broke out the puns.

What was going on with him today? Why couldn’t he just pull himself together?

“Now,” she directed, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Stand still and let me tailor all the outfits I have to fit you perfectly. Then, it should be all ready in a couple days for you to come over again and let me take pictures.”

Five days later, after a busy Saturday of him helping her take his own pictures, Adrien finally got to see all the photos she took. It was kinda hard to miss when they decorated the entire wall above her desk.

He denied that he felt a pang of loss when Marinette took all them down the next week for some reason. However, he learned on accident that she kept a few pinned on the corkboard next to her bed and the rest hidden safely under her mattress. That little fact was enough to satisfy the oddly angry beast that had been so unsettled inside him.

9. Birthday Gifts

Adrien had been preparing for this for months. It was Marinette’s birthday this week, meaning the class was thinking up presents. The girls talked about girly things or sewing notions or whatnot. But Adrien had a plan. A plan that he’d been hatching for months and was preparing to execute.

On his way to the fabric store, Nino had shot him a text begging for help on what to get Marinette. Adrien smirked.

I have an idea. Adrien texted. I’ll pick them up for you and then you can take the credit.

I can get them. Nino texted back. What is it?

Needles for her sewing machine. Her last one is dull. I’m heading to a fabric store now. Want me to pick up the ones she needs?

There was a long pause. How do you know this? Sewing needles go dull?

Adrien smirked. Yes they do depending on the fabric and how much you use the needle. Marinette has been complaining about fabric getting sucked into her machine and she’s done everything else to fix it meaning the needle is dull. And if she had more, she would have replaced it and wouldn’t be complaining.

Dude. Nino texted back. How do you know this?

Adrien chuckled. I KNOW things ;)

Freaky. I’ll meet you there so I can at least put effort into getting them.

K. Then I’ll help you find the ones specifically for her machine.

There’s different kinds?

Adrien just laughed. Oh, Nino had no idea.

He sent off an answer of yes there are a lot of different kinds. Just meet me here and I’ll help you.

After telling Nino exactly which store he was heading into, Nino sent him back a text with a thumbs up emoji and a be there asap. But watching little bro now. Waiting for mom to come back.

That’s fine, Adrien texted back after stepping foot in the store and suddenly feeling overwhelmed, which was a rare thing for him. I’ll be here a while.

It was Adrien’s first time in a fabric store, meaning he really had no clue what he was doing or where anything was. However, he had a list of fabrics and yardages that Marinette estimated she would need for each design she constantly talked about. It had been risky sneaking look-sees in her sketchbook to get them without her being the wiser.

This trip would not go to waste.

A solid two hours later scouring the store and comparing fabric, he finally had collected the bolts he needed. Meaning now he had to take a number and wait in line to get said fabric cut.

And from the looks of it, he was going to be here another two hours.

“Dude,” Nino called, tapping Adrien’s shoulder. “Sorry. Mom had me watching my little bro so I had to wait for her to get back.”

“No prob,” Adrien dismissed with a wave. “Took me that long just to find everything and now I have a line to wait for to get the lengths cut.”

“What number are you?”

“Fifty-nine.”

Nino frowned. “Twenty-some people ahead of you?”

“Yup. And don’t look suspicious as you take a look at that group of quilters over there.”

“How do you know they’re quilters?”

“I just do.”

Nino was subtle, pretending he was glancing past the five gray-haired ladies chatting in a circle, each of their carts filled to the brim with fabric bolts.

“Ouch, dude,” Nino whispered, turning back to Adrien.

“Yup. Let’s go shop for needles. And then you’re staying with me until I can get this cut, ‘cause it’s gonna be a while.”

“You saved my butt with this. I owe you at least that much.”

…

Marinette was very thankful to Nino about the sewing needles. “I don’t know who told you, but you are a lifesaver and I love you.”

“You’re welcome,” Nino said, beaming in pride.

When Marinette wasn’t looking, Nino nodded at Adrien in a way that said thanks, bro.

Adrien shot back a wink.

“Last one,” Alya said, shoving the gift box into Marinette’s lap. “And it’s huge.”

“You didn’t go overboard, did you, Adrien?” she asked with a smile, though Adrien could see the seriousness behind it.

“No,” he dismissed. In truth, it was likely she would see his actions as ‘going overboard’, but she was his first real friend and his ultimate best friend, so he really didn’t see an issue going what she would consider ‘overboard’ if he didn’t consider it overboard.

She undid the bow on top of the box, unwrapping the thick ribbon so she could open the box.

Her face lit up immediately at the cut of ladybug print fabric that lay on top. She pulled it out and began inspecting it. “You remembered?” she squealed excitedly.

Adrien nodded. “Of course. You love that design.”

“You’re amazing!”

“Marinette,” Alya broke in. “Looks like there’s more.”

Marinette seemed shocked by that statement, but dove back in, her smile slowly fading with each cut she pulled out. “You went overboard!” she cried once all five swaths of fabric were on out of the box.

“No,” he said. “That’s only enough to make the ladybug sundress, the blouse, the skirt—”

“Adrien,” she interrupted. “No. You didn’t need—”

“I don’t care,” Adrien said, talking over her again. “I wanted to get that for you—”

“But Adrien—”

“No! Just take it.”

“It’s too much.”

“Well, I can’t take it back.”

Marinette glowered at him.

Adrien grinned. “You’re my best friend,” he said. “Let me get this for you.”

After a short stare-off, Marinette looked back at the pile of fabric. And sighed. She stood, walked over to Adrien, and wrapped her arms around his torso. “Thank you,” she said.

His heart skipped a beat, and Adrien happily wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her against him. “You’re welcome, Marinette. Happy Birthday.”

10. Puns

It was the first day out of school for summer vacation, and Marinette spent the day at Adrien’s house because playing video games was a lot more fun on his huge screen.

Eventually, Marinette pulled out the snacks that she’d brought to munch on, which allowed her the time to finally ask the question she had had on her mind a while. “Is that a new cat pun shirt?”

Adrien looked down at the blue shirt with three cartoon cats piled on top of on another with the caption ‘purramid’. “No. I’ve had this one a while.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You haven’t seen half my collection, probably.”

Marinette quirked a brow. “Really?” she asked dubiously. “Because I think I’ve seen enough that you could probably go a solid month wearing cat pun tees and not wear the same one twice.”

Adrien smirked. “You doubt the extensiveness of my carefully procured cat pun t-shirt collection?”

“I’m going to regret this.”

“Come on.”

Adrien took her hand in his, and Marinette felt a blush rise to her cheeks at the contact. Something in the back of her mind was screaming He’s holding my hand! He likes me! while the more rational part of her mind reminded her Keep it together, loon. He’s just leading you to his closet.

A closet that was twice the size of her and her parents closet combined.

“Here we go,” Adrien said, pointing to a line of tee shirts. “For your purr-rusal.” He shot her a wink, and she rolled her eyes even though her heart was going wild.

Within two minutes, she learned that Adrien had been right: his collection was extensive. More extensive than she realized. There were the ones she’d seen such as ‘you’ve cat to be kitten me right meow’ or cats in boxes with ‘I fits, I sits’ or cats with sunglasses that said ‘Cattitude’.

And then there were the ones she hadn’t seen before.

“Really?” She pulled out one that said ‘Catffee’ with a bunch of coffee drinks labeled thigs like ‘Catpurrchino’ and ‘Ameowicano’ and ‘Meowca’ on the front. “Really?” Marinette repeated, turning the shirt toward him.

Adrien’s grin widened in pride.

She rolled her eyes and kept looking. There was a cat in a castle with a crown on its head with the caption ‘Chateau’. There was a cat playing with a music note titled ‘Quatre.’

“Get it?” Adrien cried in excitement when she showed that one to him. “It’s a music pun and a cat pun!”

“Where’s the cat pun?”

“In English, they say ‘cat’.”

Marinette’s expression fell.

“It’s funny.”

“No, it’s not.” She put the shirt back and kept looking.

And then there was one that caught her eye that she had to stare at for a good while.

“Are. You. Serious?”

Adrien looked at the shirt and immediately broke out into a wild grin. “Oh yeah! This one’s new. I haven’t had a chance to wear it yet. What do you think?!”

Marinette stared at the shirt, one that had nine cats, each dressed up as characters Marinette didn’t recognize, but she recognized some of the labels. ‘Dragonpaw Z’ and ‘Sailor Mewn’ and ‘Mewrito’ and ‘Fur Mewtal Alcatmist’. “You got a shirt. With cat renditions. Of your favorite animes?”

“Yes!” Adrien practically squealed. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

Marinette stared at the shirt, then back up at him. His glasses were slightly crooked, his cheeks were pink with excitement, and his smile was completely and one hundred percent giddy. He looked like a five-year-old boy instead of a young man of sixteen.

And she was in love with him.

Marinette sighed, a smile breaking across her face. “It’s very you,” she admitted.

“I know! It might just become my favorite shirt ever.”

As he babbled on, Marinette couldn’t help but watch his excited expressions. Her mind tried to capture his joy and tuck it into her memories under ‘things that warm her heart’. Yes, he was such a dork, but honestly, she wouldn’t have him any other way.

#miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #adrinette april 2019 #adrienette #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #fluff #dorkiness

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shanghai-ohmy · 5 years

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MaoMaoctober Day 24: Trickster

Welcome back, G-rated fics! In today’s fic, a string of thefts breaks out across Pure Heart Valley. Badgerclops is on the case. Mao Mao connects the dots. Snugglemagne is also there. Read it on AO3, or under the cut.

It was the third theft in a week, and it was even more brazen than the last two. Mao Mao stalked around the scene as Badgerclops and Adorabat placed down evidence markers. Sunlight streamed through the shattered glass of the skylight. Where there should have been a rich tapestry on the wall, there was now only empty space.

"Oh, it's absolutely horrible!" King Snugglemagne lamented, throwing his hand against his head dramatically. "My beautiful palace, vandalized! And my precious self-portrait, stolen!"

Badgerclops patted him on the back. "There there, it's not so- wait, SELF portrait? You weave?!"

The king turned his nose up indignantly. "I have many talents, thank you very much!"

Mao Mao slammed his fist on a nearby table, startling both of them. "It doesn't make any sense!" He glared at the bare wall. "What's the message? The motive? Why steal a prized tapestry from the king?"

"Political unrest?" Adorabat suggested.

"Raw, visceral attraction to the king's hot body?" Badgerclops posited.

Mao Mao shot him a withering look. He addressed Adorabat's theory instead. "That's a good instinct Adorabat, but it doesn't have enough backing. There haven't been any recent upsets, and King Snugglemagne is very popular with the sweetypies right now."

"Perhaps it wasn't a sweetypie at all," the king said nervously.

Mao Mao's eyes widened. "That's it! These aren't local crimes at all! Someone is trying to send me a message!"

"Hey man," Badgerclops interrupted, "I know it's like, your hunch and all, but why does the message have to be for you and not me? I used to hang out with literal thieves, remember?"

Mao Mao shushed him. "Badgerclops please, don't be ridiculous. This case could only be meant to challenge me, the legendary Mao Mao! It'll be my greatest investigation yet!"

Badgerclops huffed, crossing his arms.

"Um, Mao Mao?" Adorabat asked. "How do you solve a mystery?"

Mao Mao grinned. "Just watch me, Adorabat. You're about to find out." He swept out of the room, cape billowing behind him. Adorabat flew in his wake, dazzled.

A bright flash painted the room in stark white contrast. Badgerclops remained behind, photographing the crime scene. He carefully examined each piece of evidence. As he glanced over the shards of skylight glass, he noticed something out of place.

---

“The first thing you need to do is establish a motive,” Mao Mao explained. “Who would hate me enough to track down Pure Heart Valley and threaten the king?”

“The sky pirates?”

“It’s possible.” Mao Mao pinned a blurry photo of Orangusnake to the corkboard behind their office desk. Already up on the wall were newspaper clippings about the three thefts that had occurred, along with a map of the city. “But I suspect this crime is too high-minded for the sky pirates. This thief is playing games with us. Toying with us. And I can think of one tanuki who just loves to play games.” He pinned a photo of himself with Tanya Keys to the board and pointed at her face.

“But I thought she liked you again after we saved Badgerclops!”

Mao Mao sighed. “Tanya is a complicated woman, Adorabat. She could be sending me a message. Or she might have turned on us again. But she has all the right motives for revenge!”

“Umm… does she?”

“Of course! I mean, we… um, she and the king… hm.” Mao Mao put his hand on his chin, thinking.

“What about a bad guy you and Badgerclops fought from before you came here?”

“That’s it! Adorabat, you’re a genius!” Mao Mao flung open a desk drawer and began to sort through a pile of mugshots clipped from newspapers. “Let’s see, the Honeybee Bandits were released a few weeks ago, Red-Eyes Rex got out last month, The Scorcher really had it out for us when we put her away…” He mumbled to himself as he pulled out potential suspects. A few moments later, they were all pinned to the board.

“Okay, Adorabat. Let’s narrow the field.” Mao Mao went criminal by criminal, explaining their methods and how he and Badgerclops had caught them. He and Adorabat argued over motive, modus operandi, and possible alibis for every one. After an exhaustive process, they’d narrowed it down to a field of four suspects.

“And now for the real work.” Mao Mao pulled a ball of red string from the desk.

“I thought you said it was time for work… why are you getting out your favorite ball of yarn?”

“Huh? Sorry Adorabat, what did you say? I was… distracted.” Mao Mao’s claws were out. There was string tangled between his fingers. His pupils quickly contracted again as he snapped out of it.

“ANYWAY, the board!” He turned his attention back to the suspects. “Hmm…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Hmm,” Adorabat mimicked, copying the motion too.

---

Badgerclops trailed the suspect carefully. It wasn’t easy work; he was huge compared to the sweetypies, and his fur pattern was very distinctive. Even Mail Mole could see him coming. So he’d requisitioned a car with tinted windows instead of following on foot. It was cramped, but effective.

The target made a sharp turn into a park. Badgerclops swore. Had he been noticed? The car wouldn’t be able to follow in there. He had to make a choice: ditch the car and hoof it, or try to anticipate the suspect’s point of exit. Reluctantly, he parked. This was too close to over. He couldn’t risk losing the trail now. He’d make it work on foot, somehow.

He slipped into the park. His suspect was nearly out of view, nothing more than a distant figure. But he couldn’t run; that would make his pursuit far too obvious. He followed at a distance, taking different paths and keeping trees between them. Sometimes he’d lose sight of the target, but never for long.

They exited the park. Badgerclops could feel it now. The thief’s stash was close. All he needed now was a chance.

---

“My god, Adorabat.” Mao Mao looked shell-shocked. “It goes all the way to the top.”

A tangle of red string criss-crossed the corkboard, a baffling series of connections twisting and angling around one another. Many of them converged to a newly-added picture of King Snugglemagne, a glamorous headshot adorned with his signature.

“It all makes sense now…” Mao Mao stepped back, awed at his own conclusion.

“Umm, can you please explain it one more time?”

Mao Mao sighed. “Adorabat, please. It’s very simple. King Snugglemagne faked the theft of his own self-portrait, along with the two earlier burglaries, because he’s under immense blackmail pressure from Red-Eye.” He traced his claw along the connecting string. “The details in these articles line up exactly with Falkestrasse’s Ten Behaviors of the Blackmailed-” he pointed to a sheet of paper that looked like it had been ripped from a textbook. “But the king doesn’t know that Red-Eye is actually Tanya Keys disguised as Red-Eye Rex. She’s scamming him for his fortune with a fake blackmail scheme. Of course, the king himself set up the blackmail as part of a-”

Before he could continue, Badgerclops kicked the front door open. “Yo, Mao Mao! Get the jail cell open!”

“Badgerclops?! What are you-”

“LET ME GO! I’LL KILL YOU ALL! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M CAPABLE OF!” Pinky wriggled fruitlessly in Badgerclops’s mechanical grasp, screaming at all three members of the sheriff’s department.

Mao Mao laughed. “Hah, I guess the mystery was too hard for you, huh Badgerclops? Back to arresting Pinky for petty crimes again?” He swung the jail cell open. “What was it this time?” He asked Pinky. “Steal another ice cream?”

Pinky spat at him. “I want my lawyer! It’s my tapestry! I already had it!”

“Tapestry?”

Badgerclops slammed the cell door shut and locked it. “Yeah Mao Mao, tapestry! The big thing that got stolen? Remember?”

“No, that’s… that’s not possible, Badgerclops!” Mao Mao laughed nervously. “It can’t be Pinky! I mean, look at the evidence!” He gestured to the unintelligible mass of string and paper pinned to the wall. “I figured it all out!”

“It’s actually very simple,” Adorabat explained. “You see-”

Badgerclops cut her off. “Adorabat, do you want to learn how to solve a mystery?”

She nodded.

“Step one, you review the evidence. You know, the ACTUAL evidence?” He dropped a manila folder on the table, fanning out an array of photographs from it. The crime scene was meticulously documented. “Before you go making any assumptions about how the crime is really all about you-” he glared pointedly at Mao Mao- “you need to examine everything thoroughly.” Badgerclops pulled out a photo and showed Adorabat. “This sliver of glass had a tiny bit of blood on it. AND: pink fur.”

Adorabat gasped.

“BEING PINK ISN’T A CRIME!” Pinky hollered from the jail cell.

“Dude shut up, I’m trying to have a parlor scene here!” Badgerclops walked over to the cage and pulled a tarp down over it, muffling the sound. “Ahem. Step two is to find a suspect. Obviously the pink fur was a major clue. Now it could be a red herring, laid by a clever criminal to misdirect us. But in this case, we already have the perfect perp.” He gestured towards the covered jail cell. “Pinky’s fur matches, he has the motive of being a generally horrible person, and he’s always been kinda weirdly into the king. It makes sense that he’d steal the tapestry.”

“Next you need to track your suspect down and see what you can find out about them. This part’s really important, even if you have the perfect suspect, because it might be a frame job. Now, Pinky is easy to find thanks to the general unpleasantness he inspires, so I was able to get on his trail within a few minutes. I tailed him for about an hour before he went for his stash. He slipped into a closed-up storefront, and when I followed him I found THIS!”

Badgerclops slapped a photo down on the table. What it depicted could only be described as a shrine. The tapestry hung proudly from a wall, flanked by candles and various Snugglemagne memorabilia. “Half of this stuff was filed as stolen goods, and you can see the two thefts from earlier this week in there too.” Badgerclops pointed out a couple of the objects. “Anyway, I secured the whole scene and took Pinky into custody. And now we’re here.” He folded his hands pleasantly.

Adorabat was starstruck.

Mao Mao cleared his throat. “Badgerclops, I… I’m impressed. That’s some top notch detective work.”

“But you had fun with your string, right?”

Mao Mao crossed his arms and fumed. “I was trying to be nice.”

Badgerclops patted him on the head. “I know. But you were kind of a jerk earlier, so…” Badgerclops stuck his tongue out. “I caught the bad guy and you didn’t! Ha ha!”

Mao Mao wanted to punch him, but he knew Badgerclops was right to gloat. He’d messed this one up pretty bad. “Yeah yeah, keep going. You were right and smart, I’m a dumb asshole, blah blah blah.”

Badgerclops’s eye softened. “You’re not dumb, Mao Mao. You just got carried away.” He kissed him on the forehead. Mao Mao blushed all the way up to his ears.

“You are an asshole though.”

#mmhoph #maomaoctober #mao mao: heroes of pure heart #mao mao heroes of pure heart #mao mao

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selanpike · 6 years

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Unfinished Trollcops thing

I remembered I had this thing, and figured I’d post it because it’s good, but it is never going to get finished.

I had this idea that I wanted to write a big Trollcops AU fic, from Team Sleuth’s perspective, but it sort of collapsed under its own weight. I wanted to include all the trolls, plus the kids, PLUS Team Sleuth (including the girls), the Crew, Kingpin.... I couldn’t find things for all these characters to actually contribute, and also, I’m not great at writing all the trolls!!

But I did write the first three chapters, which were the introductions for Sleuth, Pickle and Ace respectively, so here u go. Abandoned Trollcops fic.

Chapter One

Spending any amount of time with Spades Slick is dangerous at best, you knew that. You also knew that you were making things worse by spending so much time with him, but you were counting on bruises and stab wounds, not this.

The interrogation room is sickeningly bright. The lights make it impossible to know what time it is outside. You know it was close to sunrise when they brought you in, but you’re not sure how long you’ve been here. Even the ticking of a clock would be a welcome reprieve from this boredom. You wish they’d just throw the book at you already.

The door finally opens, creaking a little as it does so. Apparently the Alternia Police Department can’t even afford a can of WD-40. Two officers walk in. You recognize them from your various interactions with the police in the past few years--Sergeants Terezi Pyrope and Sollux Captor. Sergeant Pyrope pulls up a chair and sits down at the table across from you, lacing her fingers together. You can’t read her expression through her opaque red glasses. You’ve heard that she’s blind, but she seems to stare right through you.

“Problem Thleuth.” Sergeant Captor reads from your file, standing behind his partner. “Thirty-five yearth old. Prothpitian. Failed out of polithe academy at age twenty-four. Ith that right?”

“I wouldn’t say failed,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “I jus’ didn’t like how y’all--I mean. I wasn’t a fan ‘f the bureaucracy.”

“Is that so,” Terezi says.

You nod.

“So you dropped out and became a private investigator,” she says. “Is that right?”

“You know the answer to that,” you say, rubbing your temples. “Don’t pretend like we’re strangers.”

The silence that breaks out is painful. You run a hand through your hair, quietly wondering if your hat is okay, wherever they’ve taken it. Why the hell did they take your hat? What sort of monsters would mess with a man’s hat? This sort of shit is why you could never cut it as a cop.

“You’re charged with being an accessory to arson,” Pyrope tells you.

“Do me a favor ‘n arrest th’ guy who actually did th’ arson-ing,” you mutter.

“The alleged perpetrator is one Thpades Thlick,” Captor says, reading the file. “Damn, man. Thpades, really?”

“I ain’t an accessory t’ nothin’ that asshole does,” you say, slamming a hand on the table. “I was tryin’a stop that goddamn arson!”

“We have multiple witnethheth who thay they thaw you making out with the thuthpect before the fire broke out,” Captor says.

You wilt under their stares.

“I was tryin’a distract ‘im,” you say, weakly. “He’s a dangerous customer, after all. ‘S the ol’ honey pot maneuver, y’know?”

“It didn’t work,” Pyrope says, grinning her sharp-toothed grin.

“N--no,” you admit.

Sergeant Captor hands Pyrope the file, and she makes a show of flipping through it. It’s a pointless gesture since you know damn well she can’t read it. You try to look at what’s written on the pages, but she pulls the file away so she can give it a good long sniff. You slump over, leaning your arms on the table, thinking about how fucked you are, and what you’re going to do to Slick to get back at him for this. They’ll put you away for ages for this, you just know it. The APD have never been fans of yours, and you’re sure they’ve been waiting for the opportunity to put you away.

You jump when Pyrope snaps the folder shut. She puts it down on the table, sliding it to the edge.

“I’m going to admit,” she says, slowly. “That, considering your history of making trouble, we took this opportunity to get a warrant to search your office.”

“You--you what?!”

“Well, the thusthpect is thtill on the looth,” Captor explains, and you wonder if you punch him hard enough if he’ll stop with that goddamn lisp. “We had to check and thee if there were any clueth ath to hith whereaboutth.”

“And what did you find, huh?” You’re raging mad now, and you aren’t bothering to hide it. “A whole bunch of jack shit. Or are you going to charge me with possession of a deadly writing implement or something?”

The two of them stare at you for a moment, and then Pyrope pulls a photo from her jacket. She places it in front of you. It shows your evidence wall, a large corkboard you’ve set up in your office to collect clues in the murder you’re investigating.

“So, what? You gonna charge me with murderin’ th’ District Attorney now?”

Pyrope and Captor look at each other, then back at you.

“We’ve been investigating the DA’s death too,” Pyrope says. “But we haven’t turned up a thing.”

“And here you are,” Captor adds. “With evidenthe we never even thought to look for.”

You grin a little. “Oh darlin’s, are you jealous?”

“We know Kingpin was behind it,” Pyrope says, and her voice is uncharacteristically devoid of humor. “Like he’s behind every other high-profile murder in this city. I’m sick of him making a mockery of this force.”

“Stop bein’ such a joke, then.”

She stands up, slamming her hands on the table. “Take this seriously!”

You raise your eyebrows and wait for her to get to the point.

“We’re willing to offer you a deal,” she says. “We’ll ignore this latest… indiscretion, and you’ll help us put Kingpin behind bars.”

You laugh.

You can’t believe they’re actually coming to you for help. How many times have they impeded your investigations? How many times have they told you to buzz off, leave this to the real cops? How many times have they told judges not to accept your evidence, or straight up confiscated your evidence and claimed they found it themselves? And now they want you to help them?

“Sorry, sorry,” you say, still chuckling. “I musta misheard. Y’ couldn’t possibly be askin’ for my help. I mean, I ain’t a cop or nothin’. I ain’t got no authority.”

“Don’t be a jackathh,” Captor snaps.

“This is in your best interest,” Pyrope says. “You are, after all, still under arrest.”

She does sorta have you, there.

---

You have your hat back when Sergeant Captor takes you outside, to the back of the department. The sun has definitely risen by now, and you’re treated to all the sounds of the city waking up.

“Thith whole thing ith completely off the record,” Captor tells you as he closes the door behind him. “Honethtly, I think it’th dumb ath hell, but at leatht if you get into trouble, nobody’ll blame uth.”

“As long as I don’t trail it back to you,” you add.

“Obviouthlly,” Captor says. He pulls out his phone and types into it. “But we need one of ourth with you. Making thure you’re not fucking up too bad.”

“I’d really prefer we skipped that part,” you say, fixing your hair and trying to find just that right angle at which to wear your hat. “I don’t need no cops following me everywhere. It’ll slow me down.”

“Think of it like exthtra security,” Captor says, still typing into his phone.

The door opens and a short troll walks over, hands shoved in his pockets. He isn’t wearing a uniform, save for a badge he has hanging on a lanyard over a ratty red hoodie. He approaches you and Captor, then squints at you.

“I know you,” he says.

“I get around,” you reply.

“You’re that drunk fucknut that’s always making a scene in Crew territory.”

“Guilty as charged. Y’all’re jus’ gettin’ me on ev’rythin’ t’day!” You nudge Captor. “Sorry officer, looks like y’ gotta charge me for another crime.”

Captor groans and rolls his eyes. He slaps the newcomer on the back and mutters, “Good fucking luck,” before heading back inside.

You wait for the door to click shut before you say, brightly as you can manage, “The name’s Problem Sleuth. Solicitations for my services are--”

“I’m sorry, do I look like someone who gives a fuck?”

You drop the friendly act. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Vantas,” He says. “Karkat Vantas. I’m the undercover guy. I figure I got stuck with this because they figured I could tell the Captain I’m investigating you.”

“‘N I’m sure she’ll buy it,” you add.

“Yeah.” He sniffs, and looks you over in more detail. “I don’t think I’m the only one they’re gonna hand you. I know for sure they said they’re putting my partner, Nepeta, on this case too.”

You rub your face. “Great. Good. More cops, beautiful.”

He asks for your phone, and you exchange numbers. You then tell him to find something else to do with his day, because you’re going home and going the fuck to bed. This investigation can wait until tomorrow.

---

It’s well after 8am by the time you get home, and all you want to do is sleep for ten years. Pickle and Ace will bitch about you not being at the office, but you can’t bring yourself to care. They’re already going to bitch when they hear about this new arrangement, so what’s a little more?

Unfortunately when you walk in, you find Spades Slick rummaging through your refrigerator.

You toss your keys onto the table and sit down. He turns around, cold pizza hanging out of his mouth, and slams the fridge door shut behind him.

“I figured they’d have ya’ in th’ slammer a few weeks,” he explains through a mouthful of pizza. “So y’ wouldn’t mind if I ate yer food ‘fore it went bad.”

“Y’ couldn’t possibly post bail for me?”

“Fuck no. Who do y’ think y’ are, my Crew?” He moves his mug of coffee from the counter to the kitchen table, and then sits down across from you. “So who’d y’ call. Th’ stickbug? Did ‘e hafta give up his booze fund for th’ month?”

“No, nothin’ like that,” you say, reaching over and taking the coffee. Obviously sleep isn’t happening anytime soon, so what the hell. “They let me off.”

There’s a loud clatter as Slick’s chair falls over, and a knife is at your throat. It always amazes you how fast he is. You raise your hands in a conciliatory manner as he snarls at you.

“You fuckin’ snitched, didn’t you?”

“Slick, my most precious of darlin’s,” you say. “I would snitch on you all day, ev’ry day. But that ain’t what happened.”

“Bullshit!” The knife presses harder against your neck, and you feel blood beading along the blade. “Th’ APD don’ jus’ let people go, ‘specially not when they been with me. Th’ fuck did you do?”

“They hired me.”

He looks at you like you just sprouted a second head. He doesn’t move the knife at all.

You go on. “They’re investigatin’ Kingpin. They wanted my help.”

He finally pulls the knife away, but he doesn’t sit back down. “Great. Jus’ what I need.”

“Yeah, Slick,” you say, sipping the coffee. You’re not surprised that it tastes like shit. Slick probably isn’t used to brewing his own. That’s what he has lackeys for. “It’s exactly what you need. You want Kingpin outta th’ way? Jus’ let me ‘n the cops handle it.”

“Kingpin’s mine,” he growls.

“‘Scuse you.” You put the mug down. “‘M sorry, but did you know th’ stiff we found last week? No. Fuck no, y’ didn’t, ‘cause he was th’ law, ‘n he was my fuckin’ friend, not yours. Kingpin’s mine. He owns this fuckin’ apartment, my fuckin’ office, he’s got me by th’ balls without even tryin’ ‘n he murdered th’ DA ‘n none’f that’s got anythin’ t’ do with you.”

Slick narrows his eye at you, before pocketing his knife and stealing the mug back. He chugs the coffee down.

“Fuck you,” he says, slamming the mug back onto the table. “I’ll do it my fuckin’ self.”

“Right,” you say as Slick grabs his jacket and makes for the door. “So I guess I’ll see ya’ tomorrow, then?”

He grunts in response, and slams the door behind him as he leaves.

You know he’ll be back. Partly because you know he can’t resist making your life miserable--the two of you have been caught up in your fucked up little dance for too long, and he’s not about to give that up--but also partly because you know he can’t take down Kingpin on his own. He’s tried for months to do things his way, to just murder his rival crime boss, but Kingpin is careful, and he’s elusive. In the end, the best way to go about bringing him down is to turn the city against him, to get the law on your side. If you can get an arrest warrant on him you can have the whole of the city’s resources helping you track him down. You could freeze his assets, plaster his face on every bulletin board in town. You’ll leave him no place to hide.

You’re going to do it. Your name is Problem Sleuth, and you are going to bring down Mobster Kingpin’s criminal empire.

The APD are definitely going to steal the credit when it’s all said and done, though, and that fact makes you sick to your stomach.

---

Chapter Two

> Be Pickle Inspector.

You feel as though you’re being punished for Sleuth’s poor life choices.

Nepeta Leijon is a new hire at the APD. She, and her friend Karkat, used to be common criminals. Pickpockets, for the most part, although you remember seeing a few other items on their rap sheet. You’d encountered them once or twice. Never up close--their crimes were never complicated enough to necessitate your intervention--but they’d show up sometimes as witnesses.

Uncooperative witnesses.

You were aware of their being hired. Something about the APD seeing them as valuable assets for undercover investigations. You see the logic, but you’ve never been a fan of undercover operations. You stand out too much. You’re too tall, too gaunt, too recognizable. Your preferred method has always been surveillance. You set up cameras and wiretaps all over the city, in all the seedier bars and meeting spaces. Nothing escapes your omniscient ogle.

Nothing except Kingpin. He’s careful. He doesn’t discuss anything important on the phone, least of all the phones in any of his businesses. You can’t figure out where he lives or where he holds any of his most secret of meetings. Even if you could, he always has too many guards patrolling his places, making it impossible for you to sneak in and plant anything.

It was infuriating before, but now with the death of the DA it’s got you on the end of your rope. And now they want you to babysit this rookie cop? How the hell are you supposed to get anything done?

You asked Sleuth what he did to invite this upon you, but he won’t tell you. You suspect Slick was involved. Slick is always involved these days.

You have a solution to this problem, though. Well, not to the Sleuth-Slick problem, there’s no solving that, but the Nepeta problem was easy: let her work on transcribing your recordings so the two of you can finish them twice as fast. It leaves you with just enough free time to make tea and doodle in the margins of your notes.

You’re halfway through a wonderful drawing of a horse wearing a bonnet when your phone rings. You have specific ringtones for every person who calls you often enough, and you put your head in your hands when you hear this one. Nepeta notices, and watches you as you sigh and answer the phone.

“I’m busy enough,” you whine into the receiver.

“That’s a shame,” says the smooth, dark voice of Diamonds Droog. “And here I had something I thought you’d be interested in.”

“What is it?” you ask.

“Meet me on the corner of 34th and Feldings,” he says.

“D--do I have to?” you say, clicking your pen. “Can’t you just, just tell me? On the phone? Like a normal person? I p-promise the line’s secure.”

“34th and Feldings,” he says again. “Now.”

He hangs up. You put your phone down, put your head on your desk, and groan loudly. Why is this your life? All you wanted to do today was transcribe audio logs and not interact with anybody. You even packed a lunch so you wouldn’t have to go out and talk to any fast food workers.

Without your realizing it, Nepeta has picked up your phone and unlocked it. You make a mental note to change the passkey and not let her see you input it next time. “Diamonds Dickhead?” She makes an exaggeratedly surprised face, and puts your phone back on the desk. “Is that who I think it is?”

You stand up and fix your tie. “I have to go out.”

“Oh! Let me get my coat.”

“No.” You grab your own coat, put it on, and start buttoning it. You make a deliberate effort to put the buttons in the right holes, and you’re secretly glad you haven’t had much to drink yet today. “S--stay here and, and keep transcribing.”

“I’m paws-itively sure that’s super important,” she says, putting extra emphasis on her pun. You’ve noticed that she likes cat puns. In less infuriating circumstances, you’d think it was cute. “But I’m not here to help you so much as to watch you.”

You smooth your hair out and put your hat on. “That’s a terrible idea. N-no, you should just stay here, and not tell a soul I went out. U--unless I don’t come back. Then tell Sleuth. Understood?”

She grins a catlike grin and says, “Nope!”

Droog is never going to let you hear the end of this.

---

34th street is where his tailor is, so Diamonds Droog didn’t have to go out of his way to meet you. It is also clear on the other side of town relative to your office, so you had to go especially out of your way to meet him.

This is par for the course, and you make an effort not to look exhausted when you get there.

He’s waiting for you on a street bench outside his tailor’s, smoking one of his expensive cigarettes. You approach him, but don’t look at him directly. You stand behind the bench, facing away from him, pretending to read a bulletin board. Nepeta follows along, but she sneaks a few glances at Droog when she thinks you aren’t looking.

He breathes out a long puff of smoke before speaking. “Is the detective business so bad that you had to take up babysitting?”

“I n--needed the second job to, to support my tea habit,” you respond.

“That’s a funny way to say whiskey.”

“Oh, no. I steal that all from m-my boss. You see, he has a wealthy patron with a vested interest in, in keeping him too drunk to make good decisions.” You lean back onto the bench, crossing your arms. “I’m s-sure you don’t know anything about that.”

“I’m sure I don’t. Can she leave?”

“I don’t know.” You look down at Nepeta. “C-can you leave?”

“I can, yeah,” she says.

“A--are you going to?”

She shakes her head.

“Sorry,” you say to Droog. “It’s a, a long story.”

He pauses and takes another drag from his cigarette. He taps some ash out on the ground, then reaches into his jacket pocket. You have just enough time to hope that he isn’t pulling out a weapon with which to kill the witness you’ve brought along, before he pulls out a couple of photographs. He passes them to you. They all depict various old-looking artifacts. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen some of these in the museum.

“All of these have gone missing in the past month,” Droog explains. “Obvious signs of a break-in, but no evidence pointing to a culprit.”

“D--do you think Kingpin was involved?”

“Absolutely.”

You scrutinize the photos further, and notice that all the artifacts share a theme. Every one of them either depicts a horrorterror, or symbols associated with said terrors. “This, um. It looks like your sort of thing.”

“Hardly,” he says. “The four of us get our magic from the Terrors, but we don’t need trinkets like this to channel Their powers. They give it to us freely.” He illustrates this by producing a small purple flame in his hand. “Kingpin, though. He’s Prospitian, like you. He doesn’t have the connection to the Terrors that we Dersites have.”

You think about that as you pocket the photos. “Do you think he’s trying to make a pact with the Terrors?”

“Perhaps,” he says, extinguishing the flame. “It’s possible he’s seen what we can do and wants that power for himself. I doubt he’ll be successful.”

You wonder whether it would be possible for a Prospitian to make a pact with the dark gods. You’re almost tempted to let Kingpin try, just to get an answer. It’s not your best idea. If nothing else, these robberies give you one more thread you can follow in your attempts to get any charge at all to stick to him.

“I’ll look into this,” you tell him. “Call me if--if you hear anything.”

“As usual,” he says, before standing up.

He smooths out his suit, throws his cigarette to the ground and snubs it out with his heel. Without once looking at you, he strolls away. Nepeta waits until he’s out of earshot before she says, “You know, Mister Detective, you don’t act much like a detective.”

“H--how’s that?”

“All the wiretapping, and purr-tive meetings with shady guys,” she says. “You’re more like a spy.”

You let out a small laugh. “Don’t say that one to the others. They’ll start coming up with spy names for me.”

“Pickle Inspector’s okay for a spy name,” she says. You start walking, and she follows you. She has to trot a little to match your walking stride. “Spies don’t put ‘spy’ right in the name! It’s too conspicuous.”

You’re enjoying this flight of fancy, despite yourself. “I’ll need to imagine up some clever gadgets, to uh, to get me out of pinches.”

“And you’ll need a car,” she says. “A fancy one, that turns into a submeowrine.”

“And a, a dangerous love interest,” you add.

“Oh? You don’t have that already?” She grins up at you. “You and Diamonds Dickhead had an awful lot of chemistry. You aren’t caliginous?”

“What?” You shove your hands in your pockets and look towards the street. “No. Obviously not. Th-th-that’s just, just gross, ew.”

She giggles, and you don’t like the knowing look she gives you. You reach into your jacket, produce a flask, and take a long gulp. It doesn’t help your mood any. It just reminds you of the last time Droog caught you drinking in the middle of the day, and had the audacity to call you “pathetic”, as if lots of people don’t drink before noon on a weekday.

She’s still giving you that look. Fuck.

“A--anyway, the, the case,” you stutter, trying to get back on the subject of work.

“I know somebody,” she says. “That might help.”

“Who?”

She shrugs. “Old friend of mine. She knows all sorts of things about old stuff like what got stolen.”

“That would be, it’d be really useful,” you say.

“I’ll call her when she gets off work,” Nepeta says, adjusting her hat. “In the meantime we can get back to listening to your wiretaps. The part I was on was pretty juicy.”

You’re relieved she’s so easily given up the subject of Droog and gotten back to the task at hand. She might, despite your initial misgivings, be useful to have around.

“I’ve also started a shipping chart for everyone you’re surveilling,” she adds.

After she explains to you what a shipping chart is, you are simultaneously horrified, and intrigued at the new avenues this gives you when cataloguing and interpreting your data.

---

Chapter three.

> Be Ace Dick.

Once upon a time, you were a police detective. You like to give Sleuth shit over his lack of occupational experience, but he seems to think that his two weeks of police academy are all he could need. For someone who brags about his charisma, he really doesn’t understand the importance of making connections.

You haven’t been working on the Kingpin case with Sleuth and Pickles. You think they’re out of their league. Kingpin’s ruled this city since Sleuth and Pickles were still in grade school, they didn’t stand a chance. So while they ran around on their fool’s errand, you were out hitting the pavement, solving more sensible cases and keeping the agency afloat. Sergeant Pyrope was a rookie when you left the force, but she remembers you. Whenever you have a case that requires some APD know-how, you hit her up. There’s a little diner next door to the station that’s popular with the coppers, and that’s where she meets you to give you the low-down on some two-bit drug dealer who skipped out on a debt.

You buy her a second coffee once she’s said her piece and you’ve finished writing it all down. Then you tuck your notepad back into your coat pocket and say, “So I heard y’ gave Sleuth a job.”

She shrugs, grinning. “It should be worth a laugh. He always says he can do better than us, so let’s see it!”

You shake your head. “Here ‘m always tryin’ to tell him to stay off that case, and you’re just eggin’ him on.”

“So you’re not going to help?” she asks, before taking a sip of coffee.

“Hell no,” you say. “I quit the force to get away from that malarkey. You at least payin’ him?”

She laughs. “Do you think he’s going to ask?”

“He damn well will, because I’m goin’ to tell him to,” you say, jabbing a finger at her. She can’t see the gesture but she usually can tell that you’re doing one. You’re not sure if she hears the movement or somehow smells it. You don’t know how her weird sense of smell works. “We got rent to pay, missy. If he’s runnin’ around chasin’ Kingpin he isn’t doing other cases.”

“We’ll have to set up a collection,” she says. “I’ll put a little can in the break room. ‘Pay Mister Candy Corn’s rent’.”

Detective Vriska Serket walks over, whacking your hat off your head as she passes you to sit next to Terezi. “Can’t be too much, right? Doesn’t he live in a cardboard box?”

“That sounds right,” Terezi says. “But in this city that’s what, 500 bucks a month?”

“Depends on how new the box is, probably,” Vriska responds.

Terezi nods. “Either way, Kingpin owns it so it is absolutely drafty and leaks in the rain.”

“I’m not opposed to makin’ jabs at my dumbass not-boss,” you say as you straighten your hat out. “But I’m serious. You’re payin’ him. And Pickles too, if you got him involved.”

“We do,” Terezi says. “He’s got poor Nepeta bored to tears.”

“That’s a lie,” Vriska says, taking Terezi’s coffee and putting it in front of herself. “She started writing fanfiction about those counterfeiters on seventieth street. I’m going to try and convince her to submit it as evidence.”

“While that is hilarious, don’t. The Captain doesn’t need to know about any of this.” Terezi takes her coffee back and chugs down the remainder before Vriska can make another attempt. She coughs.

“Now there’s an idea,” you say. “If you don’t pay up, I’ll go let Captain Peixes know what you’ve been up to.”

“Why Ace,” Terezi says, leaning forward. “Are you threatening me?”

“Might be.”

“Maybe if the Captain finds out she’ll get embarrassed enough to put me on the case,” Vriska says.

“Gettin’ tired of solvin’ murders?” you ask.

She throws her arms up in the air. “The only interesting crimes are the mob ones! All the regular crimes are just dumb shit, there’s usually a witness or a camera or something, there’s no challenge!”

“I thought you liked racking up wins,” Terezi said.

“I fucking love racking up wins,” Vriska says. “But I want ones worth my time. Kingpin’s the biggest baddie there is, I gotta get in on that.”

“Maybe you should let her follow Sleuth instead of that angry kid,” you say to Terezi.

She snickers. “No, I’d give her to Tootsie Roll Frankenstein.”

Vriska slaps the table. “You think you’re kidding around but I’d love having that guy work for me! He’ll do all the tedious boring shit so I have more time to pound pavement and beat in faces.”

“I’m glad you appreciate Pickles’ special sort of appeal.” You stand up, straightening out your suit. “Thanks for the tip, Pyrope. Now please stop takin’ advantage of my teammates.”

She salutes at you, and it’s dripping with irony. “No, I don’t think I will. You’re welcome to come get taken advantage of, though!”

“Fat chance,” you scoff, getting out your wallet. You pull out a few bills, enough to pay for your coffee and Terezi’s, and drop them on the table. “Take care of yourselves, ladies.”

“Tell Sleuth if he gets evicted I just got a washing machine and he might fit in the box if he gets on all fours!” Vriska calls as you leave the diner. You hear the two girls snickering behind you.

They laugh, but you know the APD’s pay is shit. You do much better for yourself working as a private dick. The lack of benefits are a kick in the nuts, but at least you don’t have to deal with all the paperwork and politics, and every now and then you got a client who paid you a ridiculous sum for some dumbass thing. Sleuth could do as well as you. He’s certainly got the sleuthing skills for it. He just keeps wasting his time worrying too much about justice and too little about the real world.

You figure he’ll learn eventually. Kids like him always do.

(i can’t remember if this ace chapter was even finished but EYY THERE U GO)

#trollcops #homestuck #problem sleuth #midnight crew #mspa #writing #fanfiction

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wellhellotragic · 6 years

Text

Dreaming of a Pink Christmas

Summary: Emma Swan despises the pink christmas tree currently living in her apartment. It's nothing short of an abomination. But when Emma decides to replace it with a freshly chopped tree of her own, Her bug gets stuck in a storm, and she'd forced to call the last person she ever wanted to see again. The man that broke her heart. Also on AO3.

Rating: Mature (there’s smut)

A/N: Imagine signing up for the CSSecretSanta and waiting patiently for a name to be assigned you, and when it finally come you're just like crap. Not because you've been assigned a person you don't care for, but you've been given someone who is just leaps and bounds above the cut in fiction writing. Someone whose work everyone in the fandom loves an adores. And then you realize that you have to write a fic for them. Ya, no pressure there.

So with that said, this is my CSSS gift for the lovely @alexandralyman. (Surprise!) She asked for angst and I hope I've delivered. There's a bit of humor tossed in too. I wasn't able to fit in forced bed sharing like you'd mention, but there is force cohabitation and definite bed sharing. I hope you like it Alex, and Merry Christmas!

I was mostly joking when I told people that this was going to be 10K, but apparently I have no self-control and it just kept growing and growing.

(P.S. If you've never seen Sandra Lee's Kawanzaa cake, you might want to check it out on youtube before reading this fic!)

Another A/N: I also want to thank @best-left-hook-jones first and foremost for kindly helping me polish this bad boy over. I had this vague idea of Emma hating on MM's princess themed tree that was inspired by a conversation we had on different types of Christmas trees. There were pink ones, white ones, upside down ones. There are even ones that look like dresses on mannequins. Then after talking to Alex, everything seemed to fall into place. 10K later, Best-left saved this fic from being tossed in the garbage.

I'd also like to thank @optomisticgirl and @distant-rose for helping me brainstorm. I've never been to a tree farm or to a tree chopping so I had no clue what I was talking about. Boston isn't exactly the prime spot for me to have set this story, as there aren't any actually forests with evergreen trees near by, but if A&E can throw logic out the window, so can I!

Have a Merry Christmas everyone (or whatever holiday you celebrate!)

Word Count: 10K+

Dreaming of a Pink Christmas

Emma lay in bed, waiting until the she heard the roaring of David’s engine fading down the street. As much as she loved her roommate, and even her roommate’s boyfriend, there was only so much of the sickeningly sweet couple she could take. On a normal day, Mary Margaret was someone who Emma felt completely comfortable around, but the holidays brought out the monstrously sappy side in her best friend, and with it an overly motherly quality.

Emma, I have this friend who would be perfect for you.

Emma, I can’t just let you spend the holidays alone.

Emma, there’s somebody out there for you. I just know it!

So when David invited Mary Margaret to come home with him to meet his mother, and Mary Margaret systematically invited Emma to tag along, Emma quickly came up with an excuse to remain in Boston. Family had never really been her thing - not that she’d ever had enough experience with them to really know. Her knowledge base came from watching her friends. The sentimentality of missing them in complete conflict with the reality of being trapped in a house for a week, tense dinners, arguing. None of it was her.

No. Instead she told Mary Margaret that she’d picked up some extra shifts at the stations so that a few of her colleagues could spend time with their families. Technically speaking, she’d offered, but her captain had told her that she had enough man power. Still, Emma had insisted on them leaving her on the oncall list if something came up.

And that’s how Emma Swan found herself hiding out in her room Christmas Eve morning like a coward. Once she was sure that not only were they gone, but also far enough out of town to not pop back in for something forgotten, she forced herself out of bed.

What greeted her downstairs was an abomination. There was no other term fitting for the montorous pink christmas tree Mary Margaret had purchased for their apartment that year. There had been mention of how it reminded her of a tree fit for a princess. Emma just thought it looked like someone had soaked it in pepto bismol. Standing at seven feet tall, it dwarfed the room, and no matter where she stood, it seemed to taunt her from it’s spot near the door.

She hated it. Plain and simple. Four more days. She just need to ignore it for four more days and then Mary Margaret would be home again dismantling the atrocity and preparing for the next holiday. Originally, Mary Margaret had wanted to keep it up through the New Years, but Emma had been adamant that it shouldn’t be there at all. As a compromise, David had promised that he would make sure it was down before their New Year’s party. For Emma’s part, she just had to let it stay in the apartment.

Frustrated, Emma marched into the kitchen, digging out a bowl and spoon for her morning cereal. She sat at the bar, facing away from the tree. If she couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist. But as she sat there, eating her second bowl of lucky charms, her disdain for the tree grew.

Screw it.

She’d promised to let the tree stay in the apartment, not that she’d let it stay in the living room. It was a wonder that the bowl didn’t break when she tossed it into the sink. Pausing in front of the tree, hands on her hips, Emma took a moment to ready herself. It was a big tree and was going to take a lot of effort to move.

Her roommate had already strung lights and ornaments in the tree, so taking the tree apart and moving it in sections was out of the question. Instead, she walked to the backside of the pink monstrosity and began pushing it towards Mary Margaret’s room. It was heavier than she’d expected, and the stupid tree base may or may not have made a gouge in the old wooden floors. She’d have to remember to cover that up with a rug before anyone saw it.

She took a break halfway through to regain her breath. Her arms were scratched from the fake leaves, which only reignited her fury towards the beast. Refocused, she pushed it to the threshold of Mary Margaret’s room, where it quickly became stuck in the door jam. Try as hard as she might, she couldn’t get the whole thing across the metal lip, and after an intense battle, she conceded defeat. The pink tree would remain in sight, but Emma was content with it being much less prominent.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t realized just how accustomed she had become to the imposing pink presence, and the gap left behind was just a bit unsettling. It was another reminder of a holiday she had never been able to have as a child. Growing up in foster homes and group homes normally meant that Emma was shuffled around a lot. There was something about the holidays that made people want to spend time with their families - just their families - and she’d get shipped back before any presents could be wrapped with her name on them. There was never a tree, never a stocking, and never a santa. Just a sad lonely little girl.

Damn it.

She was almost thirty years old, and while there may not be some mystical grey haired man bringing her presents at midnight, she at least deserved to have a tree. A normal green freshly cut tree.

She quickly got bundled up in her warmest outfit and headed to her bug. It gave a groan of protest as she started it up, the engine sputtering loudly. It was only a matter of time before the damn thing gave up on her completely, but she wasn’t ready to part with it just yet. Once the dial on the dashboard had finally moved up enough to signal that the engine was warm enough to drive around without dying she set off for the hardware store.

The first one was a small mom-and-pop type store three blocks from her place. It was only after she’d parked and walked up to the door to find the shop locked down with all of the lights out that she remembered it was Christmas Eve and nearly every store was going to be closed. She ran back to the bug, willing the heater to work, and pulled up a search for ‘hardware stores’ on her phone. Luck was on her side; one of the larger chains was staying open until six for last minute shoppers, and it was on the way to the tree farm she’d read about at work the other day.

The hardware store was packed. She’d largely underestimated the number of people buying toolboxes, new appliances, and whatever else significant others gave each other to say ‘I love you’. It took her twenty minutes of rummaging around the store to find the saw, rope, and tree stand she needed, and another thirty minutes of standing in line before she was able to check out. The day was slowly slipping away. Not that she minded. She didn’t exactly have a schedule to keep.

According to the flier pinned up to the corkboard in the police station break room, the ‘Happily Evergreen After’ tree farm, was just ten miles from her place. With any luck she’d be home in less than an hour.

But, of course, Emma Swan wasn’t exactly a beacon for luck, and what the flier hadn’t advertised was that people had to pay $65 to chop down their own trees.

“You can’t be serious,” she exclaimed, staring at the sign posted at the lot entrance. “I’m the one doing all the work!”

The owner of the farm, a man dressed like a medieval Robin Hood, hadn’t taken kindly to Emma’s ranting, and as Emma got in her care to make a show of leaving, she’d mumbled under her breath that they should be arrested for highway robbery.

Totally vexed by the con that were tree farms, Emma found herself on auto pilot out of the city. If she were going to do all of the work of cutting down the tree and tying it up to her bug, she wasn’t going to pay some astronomical amount.

It wasn’t until almost an hour later that Emma found herself coming to a stop on the side of the road. Off to the right was a forest, the perfect place to find the perfect tree - especially one that didn’t cost a bloody $65 to cut down. She parked her bug in the grassy area, as close as possible so she wouldn’t need to drag her tree too far.

As she wandered through the wooded area, she couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t what it was supposed to be like, at least, that’s what it was like in the movies. Instead, she found her boots sinking into deep pockets of snow, and she was sure she was spending more time struggling to stay upright than actually walking.

When she stumbled on the six foot evergreen, she knew it was perfect. It was taller than her, but not so wide that it would get stuck coming through the door. She may not have any experience with Christmas trees, but she was no Clark Griswold. Setting down the rope, she gripped the small saw she had purchased as started working on the base of the tree. Another thing she hadn’t anticipated; tree bases were not easy to cut through. The saw kept getting stuck and her hands were freezing cold. By the time the tree was finished, the temperature had started to drop and the sun was much lower than it had been when she set out.

It didn’t help that she’d made more than a few turns while searching for the tree and getting back to the bug wasn’t exactly a straight path. Not to mention the fact that the tree was deceptively heavy, and it was only due to the combination of ropes and police training that she managed to drag the tree along at all.

By the time she’d managed to get the tree up on top of her bug, the sun had begun to set dangerously low on the horizon. The snow fall had begun to pick up as well, and she knew that time was running out if she wanted to get home before the storm hit. She tied the tree down using the entire length of the rope, fastening it to the roof of the car in a way that prevented her from rolling the windows up all the way. She knew getting home with it was going to be miserable, but she’d been through worse.The bug groaned as it came to life, and once again she waited for it to warm up before she tried to pull back out onto the road.

Mother nature had other ideas though.

As her tires spun out she realized that it had been just warm enough during the day to melt some of the snow, but as the day drew to an end, ice had form in its wake, and she was stuck.She gunned the engine one more time, but the bug only slid around. Emma started to worry. There was no way she was going to make it home in the bug, and she didn’t have enough gas to keep the heater running all night.

Her options were limited, given that most of her friends had left town to visit family. In fact, she didn’t actually know if anyone was still in Massachussetts, let alone close enough to Boston to help her.

Pulling out her phone, she found Mary Margaret’s number and hit dial.

“Hey Emma.”

Her friend’s chirpy, optimistic side was the last thing she wanted to deal with in her frustration.

“Hey, I’m in a hurry, but do you know anyone who might still be in Boston right now?”

There was a pause, her friend obviously contemplating the answer.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I know Ruby is but she’s working the night shift right now. Have you tried Liam? I think he said he and Elsa weren’t heading out to Anna’s until tomorrow.”

Liam. Not her first pick, but there were certainly people further down the list.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll try him.”

Emma hit end on the phone before her roommate could ask what was wrong - or worse yet, suggest calling a different Jones.

Looking through her phone, she realised she didn’t have Liam’s number. Odd, since they’d been friends - or at least acquaintances - for years now. She did, however, have his fiancee’s number.

“Hello,” came a male voice. “Elsa’s phone.” Damn, she was really hoping her friend would answer instead.

“Hey Liam.” She hesitated. Clearly she needed help, but she had never been very good at asking for it. “Are you in town by any chance?”

There was a sigh.

“Sorry, lass, but we left early this morning. Elsa was worried about the storm blocking our path to Anna’s house. Why?”

“Um, it’s nothing really. Do you know of anyone else who might be staying local this weekend?”

Please don’t let it be him. Please God.

“You’re not going to like it,” No. “but the only one I know of is Killian. He was supposed to come with us but something came up at work and he had to stay behind.”

Killian Jones. The man that had broken her heart one year ago. The man she had vowed never to speak to again.

“And there’s no one else?”

“Afraid not.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She’d deleted his number from her phone in hopes of avoiding any drunken temptations to call him, but there was still one text message she couldn’t ever bring herself to delete, and with it, seven digits burned into her phone, unassigned.

One ring. Two rings.

“Swan?”

He sounded worried.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I just- you never call. I figured it was an emergency or something.”

True. She hadn’t dialed that number in over a year, having cut off all communication with him.

“Ya, well. Um- Are you still in Boston?”

She explained the situation and, without any of his usual teasing, he asked her to send him her GPS location and informed her that he’d be there as soon as he could.

As she sat in the bug, her traitorous thoughts drifted to him and that night. The night when everything had gone wrong. Killian and Emma had become close since he’d moved to Boston two years earlier. He’d finished up his degree in mechanical engineering at Stanford before taking a position at a local maritime company that designed boats. When a position had become available in Boston, he’d jumped at the opportunity to live near his brother.

Quickly, Killian had become a fixture in their group of misfits, and had become Emma’s best friend. The problem was that she’d fallen for him almost immediately, a fact that only grew more depressing as it slowly became clear that her feelings would not be returned. With his inky black hair and piercing blue eyes, he was beyond attractive. Women flocked to him in droves at the bar, and he was never lacking for companionship options. Emma would always make an excuse to leave before she had to watch him leave arm and arm with the newest flavor of the week, but judging from the way Victor Whale spoke, Killian had bedded half of Boston in their first year.

He was a flirt, she’d known that from the beginning, but after a while, she started to hope that maybe there was a chance that they could be more, that he’d see her as more. His eyes would linger on hers just a little bit longer each time the saw each other. He’d always wrap his arm around her waist as they’d wait for their turn at the pool table. And the night before the previous Christmas party, they’d nearly kissed. Ruby had interrupted them, and though neither had ever acknowledged what had almost happened, it had been enough to give Emma hope.

He was quicker than she’d expected, which could have only meant that he’d driven faster than what would have been deemed safe given the weather. He probably had other plans to get back to, someone else to get back to. That idea was enough to make her stomach twist.

As they worked silently in tandem removing the rope from Emma’s bug, she became hyper aware of his presence, of every accidental touch of hands and brush of shoulders. Together, they shifted the tree into the back of his truck and he re-tied it down in the bed while she grabbed the tree stand out of her back seat.

“I’m afraid the bug may be a lost cause tonight, but we can try to come back for it tomorrow if you’d like. Or I’m sure Ruby could bring you out if you’d prefer.”

It was the only thing he said as they both crawled into the cab of his truck. He started it up and shifted the truck into four wheel drive mode, easily moving back onto the street towards Boston. A few minutes later, Emma began to feel warmer than she had all night, only just noticing that he had turned her seat warmer on for him. They remained quiet the rest of the way back to her apartment as she replayed that night in her head.

Emma Swan was not a baker. She could cook enough to get by, but anything that required more than four ingredients was generally considered a lost cause on her end. So when she had come across a festive cake recipe online that was labeled as “semi-homemade” she’d jumped at the opportunity to try it. If she played her cards right, she might even be able to impress everyone at their annual Friendsmas party. Sure, the cake was considered a harvest cake, but it seemed festive and easy enough.

Killian had showed up early, halfway through her working on her cake. She’d paused the demonstration video just past the instructions on how to mix the icing. Killian had joined her in the kitchen and had narrowed his eyes as he’d watched her place the tan colored icing in and around the angel food cake.

It wasn’t until she had been opening a can of pie filling that Killian had seemed to take more interest in the cake, asking her what it was. She’d explained that she’d found it online and that it had over six thousand ‘thumbs ups’.

“Swan, are you sure about this?”

“Of course. Look at it. There’s almost two million hits on this thing. It’s like ‘the thing to make’ this season or something.”

She’d heard him mumble ‘or something’, but kept going, adding the acorns and pumpkin seeds, although her acorns looked different from the video, but she’d just chalked that up to using a different brand.

She had been just adding the last candle to the top of her cake when the doorbell had rung. She’d called out for Mary Margaret to answer it, but her friend had still been in the shower.

“Killian, can you grab the cake and move it onto the dessert table while I get the door?”

She hadn’t waited for his answer as she’d run to the door to greet Ruby. But when she’d heard the clatter of tin hitting hardwood, she’d come back to find the cake she’d been so proud of all over the floor. Her eyes had glanced up to Killian to see an apology on the tip of his tongue. But it hadn’t been real. He had been lying when he’d said it had been an accident.

“I’m sorry Swan. The candles set the balance off and I couldn’t catch it in time.”

He’d held his fake hand out as evidence, but Emma was unconvinced. She’d seen him do plenty with his prosthetic, and knew that he was more than capable with or without it. No, he’d done it on purpose. That much she was sure of. She just didn’t know why.

It didn’t matter, though. The damage had been done and her best friend had just lied to her face.

There had been an argument, words had been said, and in a tantrum, Emma had left the apartment, making sure not to return until she had been certain he’d left. It was the last time she spoken to him, the last time she’d heard his voice.

It was completely dark out as they returned to her apartment. The street lights in front of Emma’s apartment were out, just as they had been for the last three weeks - Boston wasn’t exactly know for keeping up with public works during the winter time - so Killian insisted on leaving his truck lights on so they could see where they were going. Together they hauled the tree inside the loft style building. Emma and Mary Margaret's apartment was mostly situated on the third floor of the building, but Emma’s room ran up to the fourth floor, and as with many older buildings, their wasn’t an elevator.

“Where did you want it?”

He’d taken the heavier end of the tree, and was clearly a bit tired from trying to finagle up to her floor.

“Hold on.”

Emma pulled the tree stand out of her bag and set it on the floor, moving it just slightly in every direction until she felt it was perfectly centered on the wall.

“There.”

While she’d been playing with the tree stand, he’d removed his coat, revealing his favorite red t-shirt over a green long sleeved henley. The shirt had come from his alma-mater - a graduation gift from Liam - and Killian always wore it proudly, especially at Christmas time. Stanford’s mascot was a worse for the wear tree of some sort that he said looked festive. She’d loved him in that shirt.

He lifted the tree and placed it in the stand, asking her to hold it steady as he screwed the trunk in place. She couldn’t help but notice the way his back muscles flexed as he worked, and she mentally chastised herself for noticing. There was no point in going down that road, not anymore.

“Okay, well you should be all set now.”

She should have thanked him, offered him something to drink. That’s what polite company would have done, but Emma was a mess. Memories had turned her into an emotional wreck and she just needed him out of her apartment as soon as possible.

“So I guess I’ll just get going.”

She simply nodded and when he left she locked the door behind him, hoping her longing for him would follow. The snow had picked up, not quite yet a blizzard, but she knew he’d have a hard time seeing more than three foot in front of him. The eighteen blocks to his apartment would probably take an hour. She’d text him and make sure he got home later. It was the polite thing to do she told herself, ignoring the part of her that wasn’t quite as ready to let him go again as she had wished.

She was startled from her thoughts a few minutes later when a knock came from the door. Karma. That’s the only word she could come up with with the man stood before her once more.

“I’m sorry to put you out like this lo- lass, but my truck battery seems to be dead. Is there any way I could crash in Mary Margaret’s room. I’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning and you won’t even notice I’m here.”

Yup. Karma. All of that no good deed goes unpunished crap. She just wasn't’ sure if it was hers or his karma at work. As much as she didn’t want him to stay, as much as she worried what she’d do if she was around him for too long, she knew she couldn’t send him back out to freeze to death.

She opened the door wider and ushered him in.

“Mary Margaret’s room is just down the hallway.”

Idiot. Of course he knew where her room was. He’d been there countless times. She was just at a complete loss as to what to say.

He nodded back and headed down the hallway to keep his word of hiding away. But that damn pink tree had struck again.

“Uh, Swan. This tree seems to be stuck. As in, stuck stuck. It’s really wedged in there.”

She’d forgotten about that. Damn.

“Oh right. Sorry. I guess you’ll have to take the couch. I’ll go grab you some sheets.”

He thanked her and she bolted up the stairs to her room, needing a few minutes to pull herself back together. She couldn’t avoid him forever though, not this time, and with all of the courage she could muster, she made her way back down stairs, handing a spare set of sheets. His hand grazed her slightly as he took them from her and sparks blazed across her fingers where their skin had touched.

He set to making up the pullout couch while Emma started wrapping lights around her newly acquired tree. Even if the situation had changed slightly, Emma was determined to wake up to a decorated Christmas tree. The lights she’d found had been a few extra strand in years passed. Some of the bulbs were burnt out, and only half of them twinkled anymore but it would have to do as all of the other lights were trapped in Mary Margaret’s doorway.

Killian was quiet, but she could feel him behind her, feel his eyes on her. When she’d finished stringing the lights she plugged them in and stood back, taking stock of her tree.

“It’s lovely.”

She hummed to herself in response.

It was awkward. Being around Killian, but not speaking to him. No playful banter. It left her unsettled.

“It’s still early. Would you like to find a movie to watch?”

A tiny grin flitted across his face but disappeared just as quickly. They both understood the offer for what is was. A temporary truce forced on the from circumstance.

“Sure thing.”

She left him with the remote to find something on netflix as she went to the kitchen to grab some snacks. She had a bottle of his favorite rum stashed away above the fridge, the christmas gift she’d never given him, but even now, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It would have been too much like them, and they were them, not any more.

She grabbed two beers from David’s stash instead and made some popcorn. When she joined Killian again he had the tv paused on the title screen for Die Hard. An old inside joke at Liam’s expense. It was too much. “Um, can we watch something else instead?

“As you wish.”

He handed her the remote and she scrolled through the Christmas section until she landed on Love Actually. Everything else reminded her of him, of sitting on that couch together watching Christmas Movie marathons. She needed something they’d never seen together before.

The credits played and they both settled in to opposite ends of the now bedlike couch. They drank their beers, pausing midway for new ones. Once or twice they both reached for the popcorn at the same time, Killian always insisting that she go first. If it had been a year ago, she would have thought it perfect.

As the movie progressed, and scene with the necklace played, Emma’s thoughts returned to that fight.

She’d been an idiot. She knew that. She’d completely overreacted. Sometimes she forgot that she wasn’t in the system anymore, that not everyone was out to get her. It was just her stubborn pride that had kept her out so late. She couldn’t apologize to him in front of everyone. Not when she had made such a big scene.

So she waited. She waited for him to leave. She waited until she woke up. And then she waited as she stood in line as the coffee shop picking up his beverage of choice and his beloved healthy bagels as an apology.

And then she waited some more for him to answer the door, but he never did. It was Tink who greeted her, Tink who was wearing his blue button up from the night before. A shirt Emma had purchased for his birthday.

“Emma?”

“Hi. Uh- Is Killian here?”

Tink looked behind her for a second before shutting the door a bit more.

“He’s in the shower right now. I was about to-”

She didn’t finished, but Emma didn’t need her to. Tink was about to join him. Because they’d slept together.

He’d lied to her, broken her trust, and shattered her heart. And she’d let it happen. Let herself believe that she was somehow special to him. But she didn’t. She was just like every other girl. Just another notch on the bedpost.

“No, um. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You don’t even need to bother telling him I stopped by.”

Tink closed the door and Emma threw the coffee and breakfast out into the nearest trash can. It had been a miracle that she’d kept it together long enough to drive back to her apartment. But once she was safely behind the closed door of her bedroom, she let it all out. She wept for her stupidity, she wept for the friend she’d lost, and she wept for the loss of hope.

She ignored his texts and calls for three days. When he didn’t get the hint, she sent him back one last message.

Go to hell.

“Swan?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you’d like another beer?”

She must have zoned out for longer than she had realized.

“No, that’s okay.”

She was worried that if she drank to much she do something stupid, like tell him that even after all that time she was still in love with him.

He nodded and stayed in his seat, toying with the label of his empty beer bottle.

“Careful, love. If you tune out like that again I might get ideas of what your daydreaming about over there.”

Her eyes snapped up to him, caught off guard by his brazenness. That was the old Killian. That was before.

“And what would that be?”

“Well, you did choose the movie. A slightly romantic one.”

She wasn’t sure where it had come from, but wanted to wipe the smug grin off of his face.

“Oh, that. I just thought you could relate to Alan Rickman’s character.”

She looked over just in time to see his jaw clench and a haze cloudy over his face. His eyes never left the floor, and in that instant she realized she’d gone too far. A small smile tugged at his lips, but Emma recognized it for what is was.

Defeat.

In the past, she’d always believed it to be some sort of smug smirk. Something that told the world to fuck off because he was better than everyone else. But thinking back, it had been a defense mechanism. The same look he got when Liam was chastising him for something, the look he got when he spoke of Milah, and the look he got when she’d told him to go to hell that night.

It was the look of a man who’d lost all hope.

And she was the one that put it there.

He was off the couch and grabbing his coat before she could even swallow the lump that had formed in her throat.

“It looks like it’s died down a bit,” he started, gesturing towards the window.

The snow fall had died down but there was atleast a solid two foot of snow littering the sidewalks.

“I think I should be able to get home now so I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Killian-” She had to cut off her own words as she nearly stumbled trying to remove her legs from the tangle of blankets.

“Really, Swan. It’s getting late and I’m sure you have more important things to do than to entertain me.”

He was halfway out of the loft before she was able to catch him, wrapping her hand around his blunted wrist. He stilled, the muscles in his arm tensing beneath her touch.

“Killian, I didn’t mean you had to leave-”

“It’s not that far. I’ll be fine.”

God. How had this all turned around in her. Five minutes earlier she was seething over the memory of seeing him with Tink. Five minutes ago she was just hoping to get through the night without any more awkwardness.

“Is that really how you see me?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“Is that how you see me? As an adulterous letch who only cares about himself?”

Milah.

How could she had been so stupid. When she made the off hand remark about Killian relating to Alan Rickman’s character she’d been referring to Tink, and how she thought that she and Killian had something, but all along he had his eyes set on someone else. She was bitter and spoke without thinking, and as inadvertent as it was, she’d knocked him over with a low blow.

Milah had always been a sore spot for him, but she’d just assumed it was because she chose to go back to her husband, that she hadn’t picked him. A bullet to his ego. But maybe there was more to it.

“Killian, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how do you see me, Swan? Because a year ago I thought things between us were great and then you suddenly just cut me out of your life.”

Her stomach sunk and the pleading in his voice.

“It’s complicated.”

“Emma,” he never called her by her first name. “Please, just tell me what I did to make you hate me.”

She wanted to run, but her hand was frozen in place, still gripping fiercely to his wrist, just above where the brace for his prosthetic hand rested.

“It’s not- I can’t-”

“Just tell me, please.”

“The cake.”

Yes, it was a complete cop out, but it was safer than the truth. A half truth that wouldn’t mean exposing her heart to him. Not again.

“The cake. This whole time it’s been about that bloody cake?”

His voice had risen and she’d never heard him speak with such anger, at least not directed towards her. She released his arm and took a step back. She could feel her own rage building inside her. He had no right to be mad at her. She was the one that had her heart broken by him. She was the one who felt like a fool.

“You did it on purpose and then didn’t even have to decency to feel bad about it!”

“I apologized multiple times that night. And how was I to know those candles would throw the balance off so badly?”

“You apologized? You know I can tell when people are lying to me and their wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in a single one of those apologies.”

It was the truth. He told her sorry over and over when it happened, but not once did he look truley regretful. His words were nothing more than a way to placate her, like a child trying to get out of being grounded.

“What’s with you and this bloody cake? Swan, did you even look at the comments on that blasted video you were playing?”

He had the audacity to look affronted, and from somewhere deep inside the fire rose, and Emma refused to back down.

“I told you Killian, it had over a million hits and six thousand thumbs up. People loved it. You know I’m not much of a cook, and I was proud of myself, but for some reason you saw fit to destroy it.” She had to stop herself before she added on just like everything else.

From her battle stance, with both arms crossed over her chest, she watched as Killian brought up his one good hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. It was what he did when he was trying to calm himself, trying not to let his anger get the best of him. She wasn’t ready to give up the fight though.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. He simple reached down and pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping away with his thumb until he found whatever her was searching for. Then he held it out, facing her.

“Will you please just read what people said?”

It was a genuine request, his voice calm and steady as he asked.

Emma jerked the device out of his hand and started scanning the comment section, noting for the first time what Killian had meant.

Guilmon4703: Mmmmmm, a cake that looks like someone took a big shit on your plate.

FijiUnited: Clearly the decades of alcohol consumption have rendered her tastebuds withered and useless.

Maria Kazakopi: I...I...am...dumbfounded by this culinary blasphemy. It must've been during one of her 'Cocktail Times' that she came up with this shitty cake. This is really HORRIBLE!

G Hayes: I'm usually pretty open minded when I see cooking shows. There's a lot of people who like a lot of different foods across the world. But this cake looks so awful I want to barf. Angel food cake? Fine. Everything else is a magnificently disgusting combination. When she stuck those huuuuuge candles in the cake I thought I was going to pee I laughed so hard. Poor Sandra. She never stood a chance with this one.

Fuck.

When Emma turned back to look at Killian, she finally saw the sincerity in his eyes that she had been looking for that night, and a part of her walls started to crumble.

“Swan, I couldn’t let you present that cake to people.” He took a step closer. “I care about you too much to let you be humiliated in front of our friends, especially not when I knew that your heart was in the right place. I thought it would be easier if you were just mad at me for a little while, and that it would spare your feelings.”

There was something there, something in the way that he looked at her, just a glimmer that gave her hope of more. Hope that maybe he cared about her as more than just a friend. But she was just being stupid.

Damn him.

She could feel tears starting to well in her eyes, but she could let him see her cry. She couldn’t let him see how much he affected her, so she slammed her walls back up just as high as ever.

“If you cared about me so much, then how did you just move on? How did our falling out not have any affect on you?”

“Where’d you get that foolish idea? This last year has been hell for me!”

“Obviously.”

She hadn’t meant for him to hear that part as she mumbled it under her breath.

“Swan?”

She turned and started to walk away, not ready to have that particular conversation. Not now, not ever. But this time it was his turn to stop her.

“You know what. You’re right, the snow has let up. You should be fine getting home now.”

She saw him waiver briefly, debating what to do. He made his way back the door, and although it was exactly what she had wanted him to do, it wasn’t really. Not when the sight of him walking away from her caused her heart to constrict. Unable to breath, she was helpless to do anything but watch the door close behind him.

There. She’d really done it that time. She ruined their relationship, or whatever was left of it at that point, beyond any point of salvation. Finally, she allowed the tears to begin falling. God. She was an idiot.

“No.” She hadn’t even noticed the door open again through the curtain blurring her vision.

“You don’t get to do that again. You don’t get to just decided everything and not even give me the courtesy of knowing why!”

He was shouting and she couldn’t even bring herself to care, couldn’t force her walls up any higher, because he’d come back. He’d always come back, and it didn’t make any sense. Nothing about them made any sense to her anymore.

“You really want me to leave?”

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even move her head to nod yes or no.

“Then tell me. Tell me why you really just brushed me off and told me to go to hell, because there’s no way this about a stupid cake. Emma, what did I do to you that was so terrible that you assigned me the role of villain in this little story of yours?”

Against her will, the word slipped past her lips.

“Tink.”

“What?” His head tilted to the side, but he didn’t try to come any closer, didn’t try to bridge the gap that had formed between them.

“You want to know what you did? You did her!”

Her voice was nearly broken and she hated herself for it.

“Swan, I didn’t-”

“Stop. I saw her.” She swiped her hand under her eyes, trying to erase all of the evidence of how much she’d let him affect her. “Killian, I saw her there in your apartment, wearing your shirt.”

“I don’t-”

No. It wasn’t his turn to speak. He didn’t get to try and turn it all around on her. He’d broken her heart, and if he really wanted to know why she was so upset, she’d make damn sure he knew.

“You almost kissed me, and then we had that stupid fight over the cake. I came by the next morning and she was there, in your shirt and nothing else. You kissed me and then slept with her. God, Killian. I felt so stupid. I thought-”

She let the words die off. She’d already said too much. Revealed too much. Now he knew, and there was no taking it back. There was no going back to the friendship she’d so desperately missed over the last year.

“Swan.”

“Killian, please just go.”

She turned away again, walking to the window, waiting to hear the door click behind him. But it never did.

“Emma, I don’t know what you saw, or what you think you saw, but nothing happened.”

She snickered. Like hell it hadn't. Later that month Tink had practically been living with him.

“That’s crap and you know it. You guys were living together!”

“Swan-”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

Something snapped in him. She saw a storm brewing deep in his ocean blue eyes. A storm so fierce it was reflected in the window pane.

“And if we had slept together? What would it have been to you? You made it perfectly clear where we stood the last time we spoke.”

She tried to run, to hide in her room waiting for him to give up, but he was faster, using his body to block the stairway.

“Ah no you don’t. Why did it matter what I did or who I was with?”

His voice was eerily calm and it terrified her. Even more so than when she’d seen Tink after their fight, more than when Neal had abandoned her, more than any foster home she’d ever been in.

She was broken, and with it, her walls started crumbling around her.

“You almost kissed me, and I thought-” Her voice cracked. “And then Tink was there and I realized that I’d built this whole thing up in my head. That I was no different than all of the other girls who fawned over you.”

“Oh, Emma.”

He was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“And I couldn’t stand seeing you and her, or you and anyone. I couldn't get over my own pride, and I know it’s my problem, but-”

He cut her off, taking one more step in her direction, their chests almost touching. His right hand came up to cup her cheek as his thumb swiped away the tears that were still falling.”

“Swan, I have no idea what I ever did to make you think you were ever just another anything to me. You’ve never been “just” anything to me.”

“But Tink.”

God. She hated how pathetic she sounded.

“Aye, Tink was there, but not as anything more than a friend. That night, after our fight I attempted to drown my sorrows in the bottom of Dave’s bottom of rum. Tink took me home and stayed over to make sure I didn’t choke on my own sick. Some of which unfortunately got on her so she borrowed a shirt from me.”

Realization hit like a punch to the gut. She’d misunderstood it all.

“And then I pushed you away and right into her arms.”

Her heart fell.

If she’d just talked to him, answered any of his text messages, returned any of his voicemails, she wouldn’t have just lost the last year with him.

“Yes and no. I’ll not lie. You avoiding me hurt, but I didn’t find solace by shacking up with anyone.”

But they were living together. She saw the boxes.

It had been about two months since their fight. She still hadn’t spoken to him, and while he messaged her occasional, the messages had become few and far inbetween. In fact, it had been three weeks since his last one and she’d nearly given up hope that he was still trying. Silly as it was, given she’d been the one to shut him out, it hurt to know he’d finally given up on her.

It was for the best though. She couldn’t go through it anymore. Allowing herself to be strung along by a man who would never want her as anything beyond a bed mate, not that he’d even wanted that much.

It was getting easier not to think of him anyway. She’d buried herself in work, taking on extra cases. Anything to avoid going home to Mary Margaret and her constant questions. Anything to avoid their group gatherings where he’d likely be in attendance. It was easy to not return people’s phone calls when she was on a stake out.

But it wasn’t that easy, because his phone number was still sitting in her phone taunting her. More than once she’d had to give her phone to Graham while they were out drinking after a hard case. She new that if she’d held on to it, she’d call him somewhere around drink number four.

Graham was sweet enough, listening to her drunk ramblings about Killian and her broken heart. He tried to give her advice about moving on, and a few times she saw something in his eyes that suggested he wanted to be the one she moved on with. She always ignored it though. Even if she had felt something for him, which she didn’t, she refused to put herself out there again. She’d been wrong before, and wouldn’t let her heart fool her again.

Eventually August Booth, the newest detective, started joining them at the bar. It helped Emma feel less like she was on a date, and the guy was damn good at his job. And he didn’t beat around the bush the way Graham had.

“You know there’s an easier fix than giving us your phone every night right?”

Before she could process what he’d said, he was handing her phone back to her, with one less contact, and one less text thread. Her last link to Killian had been severed and she thought maybe she was free.

Three more weeks passed. Three uneventful weeks, and the pain was starting to fade. But then, as she drifted off to sleep she heard her phone chirp. She checked it to make sure it wasn’t work related, and seven little number stared at her. Seven numbers she’d once new by heart, but not anymore.

I miss you.

She tossed and turned that night, unable to get him off her mind.

The next day, she decided to stop by his place after work, if nothing else than just to hear him out, but when she got there her heart was ripped apart. Killian was helping Tink move boxes into his apartment. Boxes labeled sheets, pictures, clothes.

She’d let him break her again.

Sensing her confusion he continued.

“The lady Belle and Will Scarlett had just started dating, and new love and all can be quite loud when you have paper thin walls. Tink asked if she could crash in my guest room while she looked for a new place. She wanted to give them space, and keep some sanity in the process.”

“But.”

“But what?”

“But when I talked to her, she implied that you were together.”

“Ah, that. Yes, I gathered that she had a slight crush on me when she tried to kiss me. I told her that I didn’t share her feelings and suggested that perhaps it was time for her to find a new living arrangement. Needless to say she wasn’t happy about it.”

It made sense. Whatever had happened between them had been messy, with Tink saying some less than pleasant things about him, and while at the time she thought his lack of response was due to guilt, she now knew that he was just too much of a gentleman to say anything.

“Emma. Did you ever see us do anything affectionate like holding hands or kissing? Have you ever seen me that way with anyone?”

Admittedly she hadn’t. Her brain had told her that he was just smart enough to keep his affairs private. She shook her head no.

“I haven’t been with anyone since I moved to Boston. I haven’t been with anyone since the moment I met you, because it’s only ever been you, Emma. It’s always been you.”

There was no hesitation that time. No pulling back. When her hands found the lapels of his coat she yanked hard, pulling his body flush with hers. And when their lips finally met, it was as if the world had finally righted itself. After twenty nine years of giving her nothing but pain and suffering, it was finally giving her hope.

Everything happened so fast after that. The kiss deepened and on instinct, Emma felt herself pulling him up the stairs with her, never parting her lips from his. Once in her room, clothes began to litter the floor as they both hurried to explore each other.

She felt him gently press her to the bed, his chest hair tickling the tips of her breasts. His weight settled into her further as he nibbled at her pulse point. Something he’d quickly picked up drove her mad with want. His body shifted, lips moving down her torso, his tongue following the curve of her breast. Instinctively her back arched.

“Killian.” She whined, trying to implore him to hurry.

A year was long enough. Tired of waiting, she reached down, wrapping her hand around him, gently squeezing it as she twisted her hand.

“Love, all in good time.”

He had the audacity to chuckle at her. Moving even lower he peppered her stomach with kisses. Finally he slid from the foot of the bed, kneeling before her.

“Killian, I need-”

“Shhh, now. It’s come to my attention that in the past I’ve not succeeded in showing you just how much I want you, and only you. I’ll be damned if you leave this bed without me recifiying such an egregious error.”

His lilt left her a quivering mess, and if she hadn’t been so enraptured by the lust in his eyes, she might have let herself feel nervous at how exposed she was before him.

Then something changed. A shy smile replaced the smug smirk.

“Is this okay, Emma?”

There it was again. He’d said her name more times in the last ten minutes than in the entire time they’d known each other, and she understood what it meant. No more dancing around each other or playing hard to get. The time for games was over. He wanted her to know, to feel how much she meant to him. She’d been such a fool that past year.

Unable to say anything, she nodded her head, and it was all he needed. His prosthetic hand splayed out over her stomach, trying to keep her still as his lips and fingers toyed with her, bringing her to the verge of her release, but never letting her fall.

“So perfect. So bloody perfect.”

It was a whisper punctuated with kiss to her thigh.

When his thumb finally brushed circles of the place she needed him most, the one that finally gave her the release she’d so desperately needed, it was like time stood still. The explosion of light behind her eyes seemed to last for an eternity, stealing her breath away.

Eventually, she came back to herself, feeling Killian’s lips tracing their way back up to the hollow of her throat. Her hands cupped the sides of his face and pulled him to her. She tasted herself on his tongue, not minding when his tongue twisted just so.

“Killian. I need you inside me.”

She expected him to lunge, to push her legs wider apart, to do anything really. What she hadn’t expected was for his face to fall. Had she misread everything?

“Swan, I- Uh-”

“What?” She asked cautiously. There was nowhere to run.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting this turn of events when you called me this afternoon. I didn’t really come prepared for such an occasion.”

I’m always a gentleman.

Of course.

“Table drawer.”

She lifted her chin and nodded towards the nightstand to her left. He reached out, shifting his body so that it laid almost parallel next to hers. Her teeth found his earlobe and she gently gave it a tugged, hoping he’d feel as impatient as she did, but instead he pulled away a little. Her eyes followed his line of site, the the very full drawer.

It should have been simple. He just needed to grab a packet and rip it open. He’d been so eager before, so why was he suddenly apprehensive?

“Hey,” She started. “What’s wrong?”

He gave her a small smile, one that didn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s nothing, Swan. Really.”

“Don’t do that. Please, Killian.” She hoped her used of his first name would have the same impact on him that it had her. “What is it.”

“I-” He paused. “I’ll sound like a fool.”

She let the back of her fingers caress his face.

“Never.”

He tried to smile again, but his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

“I just- I know that we weren’t on speaking terms, and I have no right to feel this way, but seeing that drawer only reminds me of all that I missed. It reminds me that you’ve probably not been devoid of company in this bed of the past year. I told you, love. I sound like a bloody git.”

Her eyes fell back to the drawer and it all clicked. He’d been jealous of her using them with other men. He hadn’t known that she’d been just as gone for him as he was her, even during their fight.

“Killian, I-” He still wasn’t looking at her so she grabbed his chin, tilting it so that he couldn’t not face her. “I bought those last year, the morning of the Christmas party. We’d almost kissed the day before, and I thought that if I could just muster the damn courage to tell you how I felt, that maybe we’d get some use out of them.”

His face fell again, obviously upset at himself for allowing the misunderstanding. She was horrible at this.

“But if you were to count them, you’d find that they are all still there.” Well, except for the one Mary Margaret had pilfered the week before when she and David had run out. “I haven’t used any of them.”

His mouth came down over hers with such an intense force that she shrieked in surprise.

They’d ended up using three of the foil packets that night before they passed out from sheer exhaustion. He was warm curled up next to her, and had it not been from the rustling noise downstairs, she’d have been content to stay in their little cocoon forever. Unfortunately, the noise from downstairs continued, and as the groggy haze faded she realized that there were people in her apartment. Uninvited people. Her gun and badge had been left in her bug. Rookie mistake, she chastised herself.

As quietly as possible, she extracted herself from the covers, and Killian’s embrace, but it wasn’t quiet enough to not wake him.

“Swan?”

“Shh, I think someone is downstairs.” She whispered as she grabbed his shirt to cover whatever bit of modesty she could. Tackling a burglar while naked wasn’t high on her list of ways to spend Christmas morning. “Just stay here.”

Of course her words fell across deaf ears. He muddled around searching for his boxers, which had somehow landed on the window sill. Slowly they creeped down the stairs, Emma clutching a curtain rod and Killian holding plunger from the bathroom. Emma was really going to need to rethink apartment safety when this was all over. Just before they came to the exposed part of the stairs they heard hushed whispers. There were at least two of them and suddenly Emma was grateful that Killian had ignored her command to stay upstairs.

She moved down two more steps trying to get a look around the corner at the intruders when she heard a crash.

“What the hell is the tree doing in here?”

David?

Emma flipped the hallway switch that controlled the living room, illuminating a very confused and weary looking roommate.

“Emma? Did we wake you?”

“What the hell guys? I thought you were burglars! What are you doing back so soon?”

Emma relaxed, setting the curtain rod down in a corner, stepping fully into the large open space.

“We tried to call you but you didn’t answer. About thirty minutes after I talked to you the small snow storm turned into a full on blizzard. We got stuck in bumper to bumper traffic until the snow plows could clear the road enough for us to move. Ruth said that the roads leading into Storybrooke were all closed so we had to turn back.”

“Oh.” Emma flushed, looking around for her phone. It was still on the coffee table where she had left it.

“Emma?” David tilted his head. “What are you wearing?”

Shit. “Oh, this? I- Uh-”

She turned back to find Killian still hidden from her friends on the stairs, waiting for her lead.

Before she could decide either way she heard Mary Margaret gasp.

“That shirt! I can only think of one person who went to Stanford...”

David smiled, something closely resembling Ruby’s wolfish grin that signified he had something up his sleeve.

“Oh, honey. Do share with the class.”

“Guys.” Emma grumbled out, clearly embarrassed.

“Killian?” Mary Margaret called out.

Finally he slinked down the stairs, finger scratching just behind his ear. “Guilty.”

Mary Margaret just hummed in response.

“Well guys. It’s been a long day and we’re exhausted.” David looked like he was about to argue the opposite but the pint sized pixie elbowed him in the side. “I think we’re going to hit the sack now. David, remind me to tell Liam he owes me twenty dollars when he comes over later today.”

“Wait. Later today? Liam’s out of town.”

“Pardon?”

“Um, I may have called and told him to tell you that so you’d be forced to call Killian.”

“He bet Mary Margaret that you’d chicken out again and not tell Emma how you felt.” David added for Killian’s benefit.

Emma glanced over at him to find his face beat red.

“Oh and Emma.” Emma snapped her head back to her roommate. “Tomorrow you’re going to have to explain to me why there’s a scratch in the floor.”

Quickly Mary Margaret grabbed David’s arm and dragged him into her room, shutting the door behind him. The tree no longer in view. David must have been able to push it the rest of the way into the room.

“Swan?” He was holding a hand out to her. “If you’ll follow me, it’s officially Christmas Morning, and I believe there’s another present upstairs that needs unwrapping.”

His brows rose and he gave her a salacious grin. As she raced him up the steps she couldn’t help but think about that damned pink tree, and how maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

#cssecretsanta #Alex's Secret Santa #Dreaming of a Pink Christmas #wellhellotragic #cs ff

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elfnerdherder · 7 years

Text

Ill Intentions: Chapter 3

You can read Chapter 3 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 3: Editor’s Choice

Tattler Special: Will of ‘Will Intentions’ Saves Life of Reader Through Use of Clues Sent From ‘Avid Fan’

Tattler Reporter Withholds Evidence That Almost Cost Innocent Woman Her Life

FBI Investigates Withholding of Evidence in Avid Fan Case

New Column in Tattler News Breeding Ground for Psychopaths?

Will thought that maybe their lapse in judgement could have cost ratings, but Charlie was right: serial killers sold. Serial killers, when coupled with scandal, sex, conspiracy, death, or intrigue, sold even more. The more other newspapers tried to report on him, the more popular Tattler News became –more importantly, the more popular Will Intentions became. Job security at its finest, he supposed.

Jack Crawford certainly didn’t feel the same. He intercepted Will before he could go into work, sunglasses, trench coat and all.

“I already spoke with your boss. You’re not in trouble,” he said.

“I know.”

“Walk with me, Mr. Graham.”

Will walked with him because it was better than walking into work and trying to explain why an FBI Agent was keeping him from firing up his computer to get to work on his column. Although readily able to gain the impressions of feelings from everyone in the room, Will Graham wasn’t exactly versed in smoothing over said emotions.

They found a place to sit at a small, haphazard attempt at a park. It boasted a questionable swing-set and a water fountain. A few trees, river birches he supposed, hung over their aged, sad bench and provided shade. He scuffed a foot on the ground and watched one of the swings sway in the breeze, rust at the hinges. He mirrored its movements with a lazily swinging leg.

“Did it occur to you to call me after you saw that letter?”

“I wasn’t sure if it was serious,” Will said. “I took it to my boss, and he said we should look into it first.”

“You didn’t call me after, though,” Jack pointed out.

“Nope,” Will agreed.

Jack let the silence hang suspended over them, and Will was content with it. His watch beeped to inform him that if he wasn’t sitting down at his desk, he was late. He tapped the notification absentmindedly.

“Do you have the note with you?”

“I have a picture.”

The picture of the first note on his phone was produced, and he zoomed in so that Jack could see it. While Jack read the note, Will continued to swing one of his feet in time with the swing, lazy sways that creaked with his joints. He needed to stretch more.

“Obviously we’re investigating this,” Jack said slowly. He sounded on the verge of saying something nasty. “You didn’t put in the papers that it’s the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“My boss wanted to sit on that news for a little bit.”

“Oh, he wanted to sit on it, did he?”

“Well, it’s not the Chesapeake Ripper’s M.O., is it?” Will asked off-handedly. “He mutilates his victims, and he takes trophies.”

“So you’ve read about him,” said Jack. He had the sort of aura that made Will nervous. He wondered if there was an app that could help relieve something like that. He saw Jack as the readily aggressive type when he was on the trail to something, jaw set and eyes narrowed.

“After he signed the first note, I read about him.” Will’s leg continued to scuff and swing, making small, mindless designs in the dirt. “Nine victims, eight bodies, organs as surgical trophies after mutilation, artistic depictions of seemingly random scenes of art. You guys don’t have a lot.”

“I’ve never liked reporters,” Jack said curtly. Bluntly. Will blinked, adjusting his glasses so that they rested straight on his nose.

“Okay.”

“You constantly get in the way of ongoing investigations, you’re nosy, you’re troublesome, and half of the time I’ve found enough DNA from reporters alone to contaminate twelve crime scenes from here to Quantico,” he continued on, unheeding of Will’s unoffended posture. Will continued to swing his leg.

“I think it’s just someone using his name to get attention,” said Will when Jack didn’t continue his tirade. “That’s why I didn’t post the name. Unnecessary panic and giving credit where credit wasn’t due.”

Jack had to give him that. He growled something low in his throat, rubbed his face in his hands. “Right.”

“I saw some pictures, and this isn’t that. Even if it is the Chesapeake Ripper, it’s something else.”

“Some pictures told you that?”

“Some pictures told me Hobbs had a daughter.”

Jack had to give him that, too. He mulled his words around, considering Will with a dubious expression borderlining on mild aggression.

“You’ve gotten a lot of shit from Freddie Lounds,” Will tacked on. “I didn’t recognize your name until I saw it typed on your business card, but I remember it from a lot of her articles on crimes and the involvement of the FBI. She doesn’t give you a glowing reference.”

“Freddie Lounds,” Jack cursed.

“She’s a pain in my ass, too.” If he was trying to find some common ground, he’d succeeded. Will saw Jack’s shoulders lessen somewhat in tension. He was listening. “I know you think I was just going for ratings, but really I was just trying to help whoever he’d potentially grabbed.”

It was a funny thing, lying. Will was about as well-versed in it as he was in writing, which was to say that given the right incentive, he was very, very good.

“You entertaining this person –Chesapeake Ripper or not –is going to make him want to continue,” Jack said slowly.

“He was going to whether or not I replied. His tone alone shows the uncomfortable arrogance of a person that does what he wants no matter the audience.”

“Oh, you analyzed that too, did you?” Jack asked snidely.

“Yes.”

He stopped swinging his leg when a kid hopped onto the swing and started pumping their legs, throwing themselves into the motions with wild abandon. It threw him out of the loop, and he blinked at the swing, dejected. He tapped the tip of his shoe on the ground, agitated.

“This becomes my jurisdiction rather than the police, since it’s the Chesapeake Ripper,” Jack said. “I’d really appreciate your full cooperation, Mr. Graham.”

“It won’t stop me from writing articles about it,” Will replied.

“If it’s-”

“It’s not impeding investigation if I cooperate with you. The people deserve to know, and I have an amendment that says I can keep them informed while still helping you out.” Among other things, like keeping ratings up and shoving it to Freddie Lounds. He wasn’t sure if it was healthy that a mutual distaste for Freddie made him feel a small sense of comradery to Jack Crawford.

Friendships had bloomed on stonier ground, he figured.

“He sends a letter again, I’m the first to know,” Jack said. “You still have my card?”

“Pinned to my corkboard,” Will promised. Right next to the two letters, the two columns, and the gold star.

“I hate reporters,” Jack said, like he was still ruminating on Will’s ability to have his cake and eat it, too.

Jack left him on the park bench, and Will idled for a small while, watching the kid. Their mother sat on an equally dismal park bench just across from his, and he noted her Nike kicks and classy joggers. He wondered, if he had his notebook, if he could have written the sort of description that gave her the sense of wealth and refinement, of one that wore active-wear but didn’t bother with activity. Why work out when one could merely live off of wheat-grass and protein smoothies to stay thin? Maybe he’d just flounder with the words, scratching most of them out before he ultimately gave up. Words that stumbled and ultimately stuck together, clammy and far too much of a mouthful for a reader to digest. Writer’s block and all.

Are serial killers your muse?

He was distracted from his suppositions of just how he’d describe the heather-grey of the woman’s joggers by a phone call, and he answered without looking at the number, managing a distant, vague “Hello?”

“Am I distracting you from your thoughts, Mr. Graham?”

It was a cultured, accented voice, peppered with amusement and a hint of clever edges. Will sat up from his slumped posture and cracked his back, pulling the phone away to look at the number. Restricted.

“Who is this?”

“I thought your response in your column aptly fitting; you have a way with editing my words while still maintaining my tone and identity. I thought to write again, but after the girl was found I assumed correctly that the FBI would hunt you down, much the way they did after your words led them to Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

“Fuck,” Will breathed. His grip tightened on his phone, and he looked about, standing up with toes rapidly growing cold. “You’re joking.”

“My humor doesn’t fall to such designs as prank calls.”

“Alright, what does the inside of my apartment look like?” No one loitered in the small, desolate park save the child and her distant mother. On the sidewalk, swarms of people moved about their day-to-day business, early morning hours keeping their steps quick and harried so that they were on time. A distant beep informed him it was time for a cup of water –coffee if he’d not gotten enough at home. He was out of sync with his watch. The thought didn’t sit well.

“As dour as the outside, with faded taupe walls, no decorations save a corkboard that sat blank until your debut –a formal congratulations, by the way –and a couch abused by the claws of an animal that you don’t own. Your laptop sat closed until I opened it. Most laptop users don’t bother with powering down their electronics, but you do. I thought it an interesting but subtle insight to your character.”

“You’re not the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will said slowly. He strained his ears for any sound on the other end, but it was silent, like the caller sat in a room of nothing but him and the air around him.

“Oh, but I am. My first confession.”

“What did I use to save Hannah Oberly?” he challenged.

“You used the insulin at the base of the pupa I placed her in in order to save her life, although it didn’t revive her in her entirety. I used a reef knot for her hands to her feet, not because she was in any position to escape, but because I wanted to regale you now with the fact.”

“…What can I do for you, then?” Will wet his lips, wandered towards the sidewalk, neck craning. Too many people on their cellphones. Too much noise for any of them to be him. He supposed that he should be scared, being on the phone with an alleged serial killer, but truth be told his heart’s rapid skipping was excitement, not fear.

“It’s not what you can do for me, but what I’ve already been able to do for you.”

“Oh?”

“You were stagnant, prone to living within fantasies constructed in your mind rather than living in your present moment. You resent your dull, obtuse career, the rut you’ve already fallen into at only twenty-six years of age. Stuck on back page news, writing about marriages between people you neither care for nor love. Was this what you’d gone to school for, Mr. Graham? Was this what made you love writing? Or did writing alleviate the way you could look at a person and see their innermost thoughts, their secrets hidden so well you’d either need to be a psychic or remarkably clever and imaginative? Did writing dull the frantic hisses building in the darker recesses of your mind?

“You were two years away from suicide, I’d wager. Six months away from alcoholism.”

“I wasn’t aware you were the charitable type to help with cases like that.”

“I’m offering you a game, as I said before. Something to excite you, something to make you stretch the muscle behind your eyes that you’ve let sit fat and useless for too long. I’m also offering job security, since you’re so prolific at thinking about killers.”

He’d sounded half a breath away from saying ‘killing’ rather than ‘killers’.

“Why me?” he asked. “There are handfuls of others that’d probably bear your attention with far more grace than I can. Ask anyone.”

“Yes, I saw your unfortunate conversation with Agent Crawford. You don’t bear the attention of many people very well, same as you don’t bear the attention of time the way others can. Tell me, do you program your watch to tell you when it’s appropriate to laugh? To cry? Does it take you very long to find the right emotion to attach to the right situation?”

Fuck, he could see right through him, couldn’t he? Will looked up at the damned buildings surrounding them, the many windows –he didn’t want many, though, there was just one, one where the Chesapeake Ripper lurked and taunted him.

“Then you could see why I wouldn’t be the most entertaining victim,” Will said. Too many windows. Too many fucking windows.

“I don’t want you to be a victim, Will Graham,” he said, amusement coloring his tone. “I want to be your friend.”

There. The sound of a door closing, the babble of voices. Will spun, buffeted by the crowds of people around him, and when an ice cream truck’s music trickled in through the ear piece, he spun around again, tracking its movements through the street. The image burned into his eyes, left tires spinning, spinning, spinning.

“My friend,” he prompted, shoving his way through the people. At the crosswalk, he started without waiting for the walk sign, and he narrowly avoided a motorcycle that whizzed by, the driver flipping him the bird. It didn’t matter, though. The ice cream truck was driving away, the sound fading, voices crackling through the earpiece to him.

“Is that a novel concept for you? Are connections so foreign a thing?”

“Sending me riddles where people could die isn’t really a solid basis of friendship,” he pointed out. Someone pushed him out of their way when he paused, ears straining.

“Of course it is. For people like us, it takes far more than a simple hello.”

A horn honked through the earpiece, and he tracked the car that made the noise with his eyes. He followed it, feet picking up, eyes pinned to the building that opened up to an alley where noise echoed, bounced. He had him. He fucking had him.

“People like us?”

“You can claim a moral high ground all you like, but this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in years. Good bye, Mr. Graham. We’ll talk soon.”

Will rounded the corner into the alley, just as he saw someone at the other end disappear. He hung up and ran, jumping over a broken crate of what he suspected to be rotting tomatoes, dodged a homeless man that tried to stick his leg out to trip him, his blood singing in his ears as he reached the end and whipped around the corner.

To no one there.

Rather, too many people were there. It was another sidewalk on the other side of the building that led towards a small pond where ducks harassed bench squatters for food, and food trucks sidled up to prepare for an early morning breakfast rush. No one ran, apart from joggers. No one looked particularly suspicious or gleeful. Someone brushed past his shoulder, a middle-aged woman with an executive haircut, and the look she cast him could have melted butter at daring to get in her way.

Will let out a shaky sigh, tucking his phone into his pocket. His watch buzzed with a notification from Beverly asking where he was, and he angrily slid the envelope icon off of the screen. The Chesapeake Ripper had gotten away.

On his way back through the alley, he looked down at the homeless man and scowled. “Did he pay you to trip me?”

“He didn’t pay me to let you get him, that’s for damn sure,” the man said with a grin.

“What’d he look like?”

“Fuck you,” the man retorted. He stood, adjusted worn, fraying pants, then sidled around Will and shambled down out of the alley, muttering to himself.

Will headed to work, trying to ignore the way his pulse pounded just under his eye, pushing the Chesapeake Ripper’s words further and further into his skull to rot.

This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in years.

He didn’t tell Agent Crawford, however; when the next note turned up a week later, amidst concerned writers and angry moms, he sat down once more in Charlie’s office and stewed over it, breaking down to light his own cigarette and bask in the stench of clove and smoke.

Dear Will,

Your readers will surely relish your insight to my psyche, as much as they enjoyed seeing you delve into the Minnesota Shrike’s. Truly, the masses revel in a good witch hunt, much the same way they enjoy reading about death and torture until they’re part of it. Be careful, though; don’t have too much faith in your readers. They will only love you so long as you prove to be a safe form of enjoyment, something that entertains with ease in the comfort of their homes.

This one is only mildly harder, but I think we need to take things slowly, really work your muscles at a gradual incline. Too much, and I fear you’ll quit from the effort. We don’t want that, not now that we’re getting started.

The man who invented it doesn’t want it.

The man who buys it doesn’t need it.

The man who needs it doesn’t know it.

You have three days.

-Avid Fan

“A coffin,” Will said, watching Charlie. His boss stamped out the butt of his cigarette and eyed Will, rubbing the stubble from a spot he’d missed on his chin.

“That Agent Crawford wants me to call him on these things,” Charlie said. “He threatened some kind of bull shit about obstruction of justice. Threatened to put my ass up in miles of paperwork”

“I don’t know if he just wants me to see this place, or if there’s someone there,” Will pointed out. He considered telling Charlie about the phone call, considered against it. If he did, he’d have to tell Agent Crawford, then he’d find himself in protective custody faster than he could say “Chesapeake Ripper”.

He couldn’t get locked up; not now that they were getting started.

“So we go find this place, you give the call if something’s wrong?” Charlie asked. “What kind of other things you looking to post on this column? Ratings still look good, and there’s not enough backlash to even consider pulling. It’s as popular as Chats With Bev.”

“They want to know why I investigated rather than going to the police. I’ll answer that, first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie agreed.

“Someone asked if I’d continue posting the notes if the Avid Fan sent again, and I thought to mention utmost cooperation with the police.”

“Good, yeah.”

“Someone asked if I thought more kidnappings or killings would occur because of this.”

Charlie frowned and mulled over the question. He tapped another cigarette out of the box and let Will light it for him.

“No. Something else. We’re not doing no god damn self-fulfilling prophecies; they want to blame us for some psycho, they can go read US Weekly or something.” An idle threat, since US Weekly tended to be far more popular than Tattler News.

Will nodded, stubbed out his own cigarette. When his watch beeped, he stood up and got more water from the sun-abused water cooler, sipping down the stagnant taste.

“Should I look into it?” Will asked when he didn’t say anything. Despite the low, nonchalant level of his tone, he was uncertain in the face of his own excitement. It made his palms tingle.

“You got three days, kid. I say, look into it.”

There were a lot of coffin makers and funeral homes in the DC area. So many that by the third day, the excitement to find and the eagerness of the hunt was sore leaving him, watch beeping periodically to commend him on his steps. He’d walked so many god damn steps. He adjusted the notifications on his phone to increase reminders for water to better combat all of the moving around that he was doing.

He thought a lot about the phone call, how the Chesapeake Ripper was simply trying to give him something to do because he wanted to be friends.

Had they met before? A brief moment, an interaction? He’d tried to find ways to lurk about the break room, listen to the cadences of his co-workers, but there was no way to eavesdrop on all of Tattler News. The voice was posh, cultured, far too sophisticated for their brand of tawdry work. Besides, he wouldn’t risk it if he thought Will would be able to find him so soon.

Not when they were just getting started.

He walked into a funeral home, dejected, looking more for a place to sit than anything else. Funeral homes were odd to him, a clash of faux sophistication in the face of grief, a delicate veneer of poise coupled with the sobbing sounds of the mourning. The walls of them ran with emotions too high to handle, leaving him often short of breath.

“Hello?” he called out when no one greeted him. Music played in the adjoining room, the wake room he realized as he stepped in to look around. Satin wraps were tied around chairs with thick cushions and metal backs, and the smell of Iris and Calla Lilies clogged his breath. On display, a coffin of spectacular make rested, polished burgundy with gold etchings of filigree along the sides and down the top. A small, quaint stereo reminiscent of the 90’s played soothing piano, and when he reached the front where it rested, he turned it off and looked around, disquieted by the lack of bodies and sudden lack of noise.

“Hello?”

No one. He moved to leave, but it was then that there was a faint, feeble thump from the coffin beside him. He gave a start, turning towards it with a quiet yelp. His skin crawled, and when the thump came again he reached out and grabbed the latch, shaking, stupid fingers fumbling with it before he was able to throw it open, covering his nose at the smell that hit him.

“Help…please…” the man wheezed, and Will gagged, the hot stench of manure dank as it blended with the flowers already permeating the air. His fingers stuttered over his phone, but he managed the call to 911 and sank back into one of the chairs, stammering out the address to the place to a confused but calm dispatcher.

From that angle, the hand lifting from the coffin was bleak, threatening, like he’d ripped himself from the earth within to claw his way out.

“Please,” he called out again, and Will dropped the phone, cursing himself. Of course, yes, the person, the person, Will.

“Hang on, hang on,” he said, and he brushed the earth, warm in its coffin confines, away from the man’s face, weak from lack of air, food, or water. His eyes roved, listless, and Will helped him up, hissing out a breath of shock as worms fell with the earth, ugly and wriggling as they tried to dive back in.

“He cursed and hauled the man up and out of the coffin, falling back with him onto the ground and wheezing out a breath. His skin, unlike Hannah Oberly’s, was warm and an odd sort of damp from the earth. From a short distance, he heard the voice of the dispatcher crackling through his phone, telling him to hang on; everything was going to be alright.

#LiaS scribbles #writing #hannigram #hannibal fanfic #hannibal au #hannibal x will graham #i'd say someone help will graham #but he's kind of off on his own doing stuff #someone help that old man out of a coffin #journalist!will #hannibal is hannibal

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