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captain-emmajones · 4 years

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Love, Emma (1/7)

(Art by the wonderful @carpedzem <3)

Loosely based on Love, Rosie (2014).

Killian and Emma are best friends and neighbors. They've always been -- until he leaves for the Navy when his brother dies. When he comes back, nine months later, summer has begun and childhood is ending. Emma can tell something is changed in him, but she doesn't know what. Until she does. He's fallen in love with someone else.

And then, suddenly, they're kissing on her nineteenth birthday. When she asks him to forget their night out, and never talk about it again, Killian thinks she means to tell him she regrets the kiss they exchanged. Except she has no memory of it.

Killian and Emma will dance around each other, until their heads spin and their legs hurt, and everything becomes blurry and it has to stop – for both of their sake.

Title and lyrics are from Taylor Swift’s Mirrorball -- which clearly inspired the mood of this chapter. Had it on loop while writing, so if you feel like it, do try to listen to it while reading!

A huge thank you to @profdanglaisstuff who beta’d this and gave me her precious thoughts <3

Friends to Lovers - Mutual Pining - Angst - Fluff - 6000 words - ao3

Part 2 - AUGUST , Part 3 - HOAX, Part 4 - PEACE, Part 5 - THIS IS ME TRYING, Part 6 - CARDIGAN , Part 7 - INVISIBLE STRING

PART 1 - MIRRORBALL.

Emma clutches Ingrid’s yellow irises against her chest – almost too strongly, she might be bruising the inside of her fingers.

As she stares at the Arrival Board in front of her, she couldn’t care less for her own skin. The beat of her heart is drumming in her ears, and she is pretty certain oxygen is having a very hard time reaching her lungs.

Her right eyelid twitches. She wasn’t able to get any sleep last night, inhabited by a very childlike enthusiasm at the thought of seeing her friend again.

A breath of relief escapes Emma’s throat as the light next to Portsmouth changes color.

“He has landed,” she whispers to herself, flowers still pressed to her chest.

She is too engulfed in her surroundings to notice she’s damaging the flowers. Ingrid is definitely going to kill her for butchering her favorite bush. She doesn’t care.

He should be here any time now. Her heart skips another beat and really, it’ll be a miracle if she is still standing on her feet by the time he reaches her.

Gazing all around her, she suddenly notices the large window in front of her that gives away a blurry reflection of her body. Emma frowns. One hand reluctantly gives up on the flowers to comb her hair.

You’re combing your hair for Killian, of all people, snorts her inner voice. But Emma is too happy to pay attention to her pride.

He’s been gone for nine months now, since last September. Has been going all around the world with the Navy, and she is proud of him. He did the right thing. (Even it meant leaving her behind.)

Emma has never known what it feels like to miss someone before she missed him. Being brought up as a foster kid, she hasn’t had anyone to miss for the longest time.

She’s bouncing up and down on her feet by now, anxiety shaking her legs.

Ingrid welcomed her in Storybrooke on her twelfth birthday. It was the best thing that ever happened to her. It allowed her to meet the brothers Jones – their orphan neighbors. Liam became Killian’s legal guardian when their father died.

The crowd of people around her brings Emma back to the present. More people gather together, and Emma understands they are all just as eager to see their loved ones as she is.

She cannot wait anymore. Her palm hurt around the cut flowers. Another few minutes go by, and time is painfully slow. She clenches her jaw. Unclenches it. Takes a look at the clock in front of her. Come on, relax, Emma.

And then, there he is.

“Killian!” The excited scream escapes her throat without her consent, a brutal wave of bliss sweeping her off her feet. She doesn’t hold it back.

He hasn’t changed one bit, or he isn’t the same at all. She doesn’t care. She only cares for the sweet hue of blue that meets her eyes and smiles in recognition.

“Emma!” He mirrors her happy scream.

Her heart beams as they run towards each other, and she throws herself intohis arms as soon as she reaches him. (By then, the flowers are to be respectfully buried and missed.)

She wraps her arms around his neck, and her senses are filled by him – his smell, a strong cologne she isn’t familiar with, his skin under her fingers, his tousled black hair that is suddenly very kept, the beginning of a scruff against her cheeks, the strength of his arms around her chest, and when did he get this tall?

“I missed you,” she exhales against his cheek, and holds him tighter. She is very unwilling to let him go now that she has him.

She hears a chuckle against her ear, and it is the most wonderful sound she has heard in those last pitiful nine months.

“I missed you, too, Swan.”

A tear rolls down her cheek at the nickname – it’s been so long and her world has been so bleak without him and she’s never known this kind of homesickness – and she realizes just how wet her eyes have become. She’s never cried from happiness before, but tears are rushing down her cheeks without her consent.

His grip becomes tighter around her waist, and then he slowly lets go. She does not expect him to let go first. She profoundly inhales to chase down a feeling of fear deep within her throat and backs away, her hands still around his neck.

Staring at him after all this time seems to stir something really odd within herself and her breath gets caught in her chest. She didn’t remember him this handsome. Did his nose always look this elegant, and have his lips always been this bright pink, and why are his eyes the color of the sea?

And then she remembers the flowers crushed between her clumsy hands.

One finger tracing the scar on his cheek, she shoves the bouquet against his chest. “That’s for you,” she smiles and her fingers cannot seem to let go of his face.

“Swan,” his eyes are so kind over her gift, she can tell he is really happy about them, although their lives were cut short in their prime, “thank you so much. They are my fav—”

“—favorite, I know! That’s why I got them for you.” And she smiles, harder, her cheeks hurt but she cannot bring herself to stop.

She ignores as well as she can the alarm ringing in her head. Why is he not touching her? What’s wrong? Did she get ugly while he was away? He was always touching her, before.

“Aye,” he grins, and then relief – his palm is over her cheeks and something incredibly tender and innocent blooms in her chest. She sighs, leans in his touch. She’s missed him so much. “Shall we go, Swan?”

She picks up the bag he let go of to hold her while he very gracefully carries the flowers. Surely he wouldn’t have damaged them. Killian is very careful not to damage anything ever.

“Sure thing. Welcome home, Killian,” and before her arm finds his, she’s bold enough to press her lips against his scruffy cheek.

She lingers there longer than intended, longer than what is reasonable and appropriate.

The glint she catches in his eyes when she backs away triggers something painful in her. She swallows it down. (Why did he look embarrassed? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. They are friends.)

But then, they are walking down the airport like old times, and surely she must be thinking too much – as per usual.

She is so glad to have him back, she ignores very meticulously all of the signs telling her Killian might not be as happy to be back. (To be with her.)

She’s holding a watering can while he delicately drops flowers – pink roses – on Liam’s tombstone. She watches him frown, fingers caressing the marble with care and something else – anger.

She swallows. This wound is still very fresh. It’s been a year.

She pours some water on the plant she brought last month – a gorgeous, bright pink bush of flowers, and she quickly puts it down on the grass to hold his hand.

His eyes flash in surprise and she offers him a smile – why is he surprised? Emma never liked to be touched before, before he touched her. She chases down the feeling once again and holds his fingers tighter in her hands. I am not letting you go.

The sun is shining. It’s such a bright summer day. The air is not too warm, just warm enough to feel comfortable wearing a t-shirt, and a gentle breeze that carries summer smells brushes their cheeks.

It was also a wonderful summer day – the day Liam died. Her brows furrow. Last summer had been the best weather they had had in Maine for years.

“He would be proud of you,” she whispers, desperate to make him feel better.

She is aware there is not much she can do to help him fight this darkness that swallowed him alive. She is still willing to try.

“Would he?” He echoes back, and she does not recognize the bitterness she hears in his voice.

For the first time since she has known Killian Jones, Emma feels like she’s missing something. A piece of the puzzle to understand him. She feels like perhaps she does not know him as well as she thinks.

She would have taken a step back with anyone else. But with him, she playfully bumps her shoulder against his, fighting back her inner instincts. He got tall, and bulkier – only in a good way.

“Of course. You joined the Navy to make him proud, didn’t you?”

For the first time in ages, she really is asking him a question.

He’s been back for a month now, and his scruff is prominent over his face. She likes it. He looks manly. She thinks he knows he looks manlier.

She still looks like a teenage girl, with her long blonde hair and her freckles and her frail body, and she still wears sneakers with her dresses (when she wears them). And he looks so much older.

“Aye, I guess so. Thank you, Swan,” he smiles at her, his hand brushing her cheek, but somehow he is miles away.

She presses her lips against each other, firmly. There are pebbles in her belly. He put them there.

“Anytime, Killian,” she smiles, and in a desperate attempt to bring him back to her, she presses another kiss to his cheek.

He steps away quicker than she expects him. A cold breath reaches her lips in spite of the agreeable weather.

Another smile. She’s suffocating.

“Okay, so then after dinner we could finally go to a club!” She’s standing in the middle of her room, arms swung up towards the ceiling of her childhood bedroom.

Killian is chewing on a strawberry bubblegum, lying on her bed. He hasn’t let go of his phone all afternoon.

“As you wish, Swan. It’s your birthday, after all.”

Can’t he look a bit more involved? A very childish anger burns her tongue as her hands find her hips in disapproval.

“Exactly! Which is why I’m going to ask you to look a little bit more enthusiastic, Killian Jones.”

She doesn’t mean to sound this harsh but she does anyway. At least, that gets him to look up from his phone, and she sees a glint of regret pass in his eyes. A smile finally cracks his face.

“You’re right, Swan. Forgive me. I’m just a bit concerned by something but don’t worry, I’m all ears now.”

She hates herself for how quickly she kneels in front of him, on her pink carpeted floor that she hates but Ingrid tried her best to make her feel at home.

Even more for the way she grabs his hands, pouring her soul into his eyes.

“I can tell you’re not really here, Killian.” She pauses, watches as he raises one eyebrow – it isn’t what she expected but it isn’t mean either, “And I want you to know there’s nothing you cannot tell me.”

She’s so naïve. She means every word.

He nods. Her eyes look down at his lips. She wants to kiss him. But she cannot – not when he’s still miles away from her, still stuck in Portsmouth.

“I know that, love,” something blooms in her chest. He hasn’t called her love in a year now, “Don’t worry, I’m quite alright.”

He lies. It’s the first time he’s lied to her about something important since she’s known him.

Fear captures her heart. It’s green, and viscous, and it drips on everything she holds dear.

He’s slipping between her fingers. She’s losing him. She cannot lose him.

She’s the one lying on his bed while he takes a shower when she sees her message. She doesn’t mean to, really. But his phone vibrates on his bedside table, and she only glances at it out of curiosity.

She sees it. M. Who is M?

She rolls on her belly, glances at the closed door of his bathroom, and reads the message, heart drumming in her ears.

“I know, baby. Rumple is driving me crazy too. But it will all be worth it, soon. I promise. Just hold on to our love.”

Something rings in her ears, it’s painful, it spreads from her liver and all the way up to her mouth, and she cannot see anymore, and her birthday is tomorrow and he is in love with someone else.

It takes her a lot of strength then, to roll back on her back, to try and make herself comfortable again between his pillows and his smell – in spite of the rigidity in her bones and this feeling of utter disgust in her mouth. She holds on to the silver bracelet around her wrist - the one Killian offered Emma for her eighteenth birthday, last year.

So many questions bounce in her mind, but one fact absolutely obliterates her. He doesn’t want to confide in her anymore. He is clearly struggling with this Rumple, and this M, and he doesn’t want her help.

The bathroom door swings open and steam invades his bedroom as he steps out, wet hair and big grin. She knows the grin will remain but will become a mere theatrical performance once he reads the message. She doesn’t want him to read it. She wants to keep him to herself.

“Ready for that ice-cream, Swan?” he attacks right away, all charms out. When did he get this charming? When did he become aware of his charms?

“Always ready for some rocky road,” she answers back, and she’s surprised to hear her own voice calm and collected.

Perhaps she is growing up, too. She used to be a terrible liar. But that’s what they do, now, apparently.

His smell fills her lungs, and it’s the one of her childhood – peppermint, and something muskier, and him.

“Emma, you won’t forget to take care of the garden –” exclaims Ingrid as they’re about to leave her ice-cream shop.

She squints her eyes. Fuck. Exactly what she wanted to avoid.

“Sure thing, Ingrid,” she mumbles, before taking Killian’s arm in her hers and guiding them both out of her shop.

Emma swallows a scream of injustice. That’s her punishment for stealing the flowers for Killian.

“Flowers are not meant to be picked. They’re meant to be cared for, admired, but not picked, Emma.”

Emma didn’t tell her what’s the use of having flowers if you cannot offer them to someone you love but she did stare at her with a lot of defiance.

Rocky Road has never tasted this wrong in her mouth, as they sit outside of Granny’s, on the warm concrete. It’s burning her naked thighs, but it still doesn’t suck as much as the way Killian stares at his phone – just like she expected him to. He’s waiting for M to answer him.

Emma wants to tell him he can confide in her but clearly he doesn’t want to. And it’s one of the strongest pain she’s ever felt – it’s a wicked, wicked pain that spreads from her heart to her pride and slays every inch of her good feelings.

She keeps licking her ice-cream, eyes locked to the road.

Her birthday is tomorrow. On the twenty-first, the first day of summer. She waits for summer all year, waits for the special moments she knows she’ll spend with Killian.

Only, this year, Killian doesn’t seem as happy to spend them with her.

Thankfully, Ingrid’s Rocky Road is still the best thing in town.

As she gets ready for her birthday party, Emma figures out she has nothing to lose. She decides to play all of her cards.

She’s staring at herself in the mirror while pop music plays in the background.

She hates her round cheeks and her slender body that refuses to give her the big chest boys seem to be so fond of. She’s frowning as she examines her features meticulously.

She usually doesn’t wear makeup, if not for a bit of mascara. It’s the only thing she’s comfortable with wearing on her face. As for her clothes, Emma is a jeans and sneakers kind of gal. Her only accessory is Killian's bracelet - and it doesn't count, because by now it is part of her.

She didn’t use to mind. It’s who she is. But since she’s seen M’s contact photo – she really didn’t mean to intrude, it just appeared when she tried to call him – Emma has become more self-conscious. (Terribly so).

M has long back curls and red lips, and she’s a woman. Not a girl like her. Her eyes are blue but they’re not timid, they shine sure and knowing and her smile is confident.

Emma hates her freckles. She looks like she’s twelve.

Tentatively, she brushes her blond eyebrows – just like she’s seen Ingrid do. It doesn’t make much of a difference and she muffles a dramatic sigh, frowning.

Killian will never find her pretty ever again.

That night, she also tip toes to Ingrid’s room to borrow some lady-like perfume. Emma only likes to use a very natural ginger fragrance – her smell but a bit better.

She winces. She hates the too-sweet, too-flowery smell that wraps itself around her body. Whatever. Killian must like that.

She’s nineteen tonight. The only teen year left of her life. She better make the most of it. (If Killian does not tell her about his mysterious girlfriend who’s far too beautiful for her to compete with, then she can’t really be doing something wrong, can she?)

She eyes the different dresses spread on the pink blanket of her bed. (Ingrid is very committed to pink.)

At her feet, the only pair of heels she could find in her wardrobe. They are small, black squared heels but really they’ll do the trick. They will have to at least.

Hands on her hips, she settles for the pink, light dress. It’s not her favorite color, but the fabric is very soft and fits her small waist like a glove. The lower part of the dress is flowy and ends well above her knees. Emma knows her legs are long and toned and she wants to show them off tonight.

To finish the look, she ties her hair in a high ponytail to get her hair off her face. Ingrid has always told her to.

As she eyes herself in her mirror, she thinks she looks pretty. She smiles at her reflection, her earrings glinting.

She glances at the big clock on her wall. 8:15. Killian should be here anytime, now.

Her heart beats faster, thinking of him.

She smiles, grabs her bag and goes down the stairs of Ingrid’s house. It already smells like dinner time, and it should comfort her, but it does not. She catches Ingrid’s surprised eyes in the kitchen.

“What do you think?” Emma asks, and it’s the first time she asks for Ingrid’s opinion on her appearance, but well –

Ingrid lets go of the tomato she is expertly cutting to stare at her. Her mouth slightly opens. And Emma swears she sees something very gentle sparkle in her green eyes.

“I think you look beautiful, Emma.” Ingrid’s smile is very tender over her figure, and something weird clenches Emma’s heart.

She simply smiles back. “Thanks, Ingrid. Don’t wait for me tonight, Killian and I are going to party!”

She almost runs to the door when she hears him knock. She tries to remain as composed and adult as possible, and instead calmly walk there. (Her feet are already killing her and her legs are stiff. This is going to be hell.)

She opens the door to discover him in a white shirt and black suit, and with a bouquet of yellow irises.

“Those ones I did not steal from Ingrid,” he smiles, his eyes glinting over her figure, and she could swear he likes what he sees, and her toes curl in her shoes and a very sweet heat invades her face, “Happy birthday, Emma,” he grins, and then she cannot hold herself back and wraps her arms around his neck.

She loves how her feet leave the floor for just a moment, as he spins her around, and she feels like they’re immortal.

“Thank you, Killian”, she murmurs against his cheek, presses a long kiss there, and intertwines their fingers together.

She thinks her crush is showing but really, as he glances at her body in her dress and climbs back to her face – a really lovely pink hue over his cheeks, and perhaps is pink not such a bad color – she doesn’t care.

She’s quick to put down the flowers on Ingrid’s kitchen counter, “Please take care of them!”, before disappearing in the night with her friend.

They pay all due respect to their Birthday tradition and go eat a grilled cheese at Granny’s. Granny’s give them a knowing look as they sit on the terrace outside. The old woman eyes Killian’s hand on the small of Emma’s back just as Emma feels it sending sparks up her spine.

They look like a couple, she’s sure of it, and the thought makes her feel giddy.

As they sit outside, by the lanterns and the Storybrooke sign, it feels like Killian never left.

“Remember when you were thirteen and I had to get you out of a bloody bin, Emma, just because you didn’t want to face Ingrid—”

“Hey!” Her scream isn’t really one and she’s waving an onion ring at him, “It’s my birthday, be nice to me.” And she rolls her eyes and he waggles his brows, and everything is right in the world.

His phone is still on the table, but face down. He is all eyes on her and she is very much pleased. (Even when it rings, once, twice, until Killian turns it off and she sighs in relief.)

“You’re very beautiful tonight, Swan,” he tells her as she finishes her grilled cheese.

And she hates him for saying so when her hands are wrapped around the greasy sandwich, and there’s probably cheese in the corners of her mouth, and strings of hair have fallen in front of her eyes – but she smiles.

“Thank you,” something warm and sunny blooms in her chest, “you’re not too bad yourself.”

She sees his eyes go wider, and she realizes he mustn’t have expected to say something back.

She keeps smiling. She feels an unfamiliar confidence take hold of her, straighten her spine and push her to grab his hand, on the table.

He glances at their knuckles but he doesn’t back away, and that must be good.

Finally, he waggles his brows and lets a small chuckle escape his lips. “Eat up, Swan. Before your favorite meal gets cold.”

She thinks then that she’s been touching him with her greasy fingers, and clearly that’s a mistake M wouldn’t have made, but… but he didn’t seem to mind. And his cheeks are red again. And that must be good, right?

They walk down to the only club in town – one down the beach. Storybrooke is a small town, but their fake IDs should be enough to get in.

Her feet are quite literally killing her, so when Killian offers that they walk in the sand instead, she happily complies. (She thinks he saw her suffering.)

It’s a full moon above them, and its reflection on the tender waves that come crashing at their feet is breathtaking. He is walking slightly ahead of her, but just now she doesn’t mind.

A sea breeze tangles her hair. She is happy.

“Hey, Swan,” he finally turns around to face her, and he is very handsome, and she realizes he has been carrying a plastic bottle in his bag. “Want some?” he asks her in a cheeky tone.

Her heart skips a beat in her chest. It’s not the first time Killian and she have gotten drunk together – and usually it ends with both of them asleep in one of their beds and a terrible headache the next morning.

(Killian’s always been her only true friend. Sure, she’s sympathized with Mary Margaret and Ruby at school – but they don’t get her like he does.)

“Hell yes,” she exclaims and stretches her hand to grab the bottle. “Cheaper to get drunk now than in the club.”

“Aye, that’s the spirit, Swan.”

She guesses he must have gotten drunk several times, this past year, without her. She figures he is grown up in all of the possible meanings of the word. It scares her, to think he’s going on without her. That’s he is already ahead of her, and she cannot quite catch up. She probably never will.

The bottle’s neck meets her lips, and it’s a pretty well done mix of vodka and fruit juice that she tastes against her tongue, and she wishes she were kissing him instead.

She takes several big gups, wincing as alcohol burns her throat and abandons a pleasing warmth in her chest.

“Careful, Swan. This isn’t only fruit juice.” She wipes her mouth as she hands him the bottle over.

“Oh come on, Killian. It’s my birthday, let me have some fun.”

She hates the concern she hears in his voice. He isn’t her big brother. She can take care of herself.

She watches as he drinks at his turn, watches as his Adam’s apple goes up and down. They used to be so similar, both of them all slender bodies, and now he is a man, and his shoulders are wide and his back strong, and she isn’t quite sure she is a woman yet.

She waits for him to put back the bottle in his bag and grabs his hand.

“Come on, let’s have some fun!”

And then she’s twirling around him, laughing brightly, and only stops when her body reminds her she just drank vodka and this will end badly if she keeps pushing her limits. Out of breath, she wraps her arms around his neck to settle herself, and his arms come to meet her waist.

The sea still whimpers behind them, but she only sees the soft waves in his eyes and the soft smile he dedicates to her.

There is a sparkle, in his gaze, a question at the tip of his tongue – but he will not ask it.

She wants him to.

Her fingers trace the shape of his jaw as she swallows, a small smile on her face.

“Dizzy, are we, Swan?” he asks her, and she realizes just how close their faces have gotten as his breath caresses her face.

She shakes her head. “Not dizzy at all. Happy.” She calmly exhales, licks her lips.

He will not kiss her. She wants him to. But he won’t. Because of her, she’s sure now. But, the night isn’t over.

He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and steps back to let go. She misses the heat of his body immediately, can’t fight back the frown that takes over her features.

“I’m glad, Swan.” Why does he sound so mature? She hates it.

A childish anger shakes her heart and she feels cold. He left childhood behind and he didn’t bother to tell her he was leaving. He didn’t bother. And now she’s stuck in this weird limbo, not a child anymore but not an adult either, not really, not like M, and he isn’t with her anymore.

She shakes her head to chase her thoughts away.

“Right, let’s get in.”

It’s still pretty early, and there aren’t a lot of people queuing in front of The Forbidden Fruit (the name never fails to make her cringe). This allows Killian and Emma to display their fake ID’s quite quickly.

Killian plays the part awfully well, although they’ve downed the entire bottle of vodka before stepping in. Emma is very focused on not looking completely hammered, as Killian would put it. Girls get in easier, it’s a known fact.

The bouncer clearly knows they are underage but the forgeries are good. Killian got them done during his Navy year. And he is savagely challenging the tall, sturdy guy to prove those are fakes, one eyebrow raised.

How can he look this sober? It’s unfair.

“Fine, get in, kids,” mumbles the bouncer, and Emma is sober enough to muffle a scream of joy inside her palm.

Killian takes her hand in his as they enter the club. They let go of their bags in one corner – I’m not about to pay two dollars to have my stuff kept by people I don’t bloody know.

When they turn towards the dance floor, neon lights seize their eyes as pop music shakes the walls.

Killian turns to face her, smiling brightly. “Ready to party, Swan?”

She nods vigorously, her heart beaming. “Hell yes!”

He takes her hand again and it’s so easy to forget everything as they make their way between the swarm of young adults dancing. They swirl together, spin, fly some more. They are both soon panting and sweating but it does not keep them from continuing to jump around.

Emma thinks this is it, the great, terrible happiness she’s heard about her entire life. It must be this beat in her heart, this strong pulse of life inside of her, as Killian holds her hands and swings with her.

They dance for what seems to be only a few minutes – except almost an hour goes by – and Killian glances urgently at the watch on his wrist before pulling her towards him.

“Let’s go on the rooftop before midnight,” he yells into her ear, and it sounds like he’s whispering.

She nods again, smiling brightly, and presses a napkin against her forehead. She tries to catch her breath, stuck in some liminal space, but Killian is still very energetic and drags her along with him towards the stairs.

She finds her legs trembling under her weight and to be quite honest, the room might only be spinning in her head. He must feel her struggle because he turns to face her on reaching the stairs, and his hold is very firm on her hand as he secures his grip around her waist. She thinks she smiles then, and they climb up together.

“Since when do you hold your alcohol so well?” she asks, boldly, and it really isn’t the kind of question she would have asked had she been sober.

Purely because it echoes the year they spent apart. And they haven’t talked about it, at all. And she’d be damned before she opened up to him when he hasn’t opened up to her.

“Well, you’ve got to, in the Navy, love.” It’s the second time he’s called her love since he’s been back. Her heart smiles.

The vibrant sea breeze that welcomes them outside nearly swipes Emma off her feet. Or perhaps it is the vodka. Either way, it’s a plausible excuse to grab him again.

From the corner of her blurry vision, she sees Killian set a timer to midnight on his phone. It’s funny, how the music from the club sounds like a very muffled sound and the only thing she hears now is her own heartbeat.

She’s still out of breath. She inhales deeply, and then bows down to him. “May I have this dance?” she asks him, eyes shining with mischief.

He chuckles, and it’s a wonderful sound. “Anything for you, Swan.”

There must be some synchronicity in the universe because then a much gentler song resonates, and it sounds like her teenage years and she cannot believe childhood is already over.

They swirl together, his warm palm in hers, and her arm is wrapped around his neck, and he still smells good after all their dancing and it’s unfair. She hopes she doesn’t stink.

Another swirl, another turn, and she’s back in his arms again, and nothing ever felt this right. She thinks he must feel it, how well their bodies fit together, how easy it is to be together.

Before she knows it, she’s staring at his lips and she thinks he’s staring at hers too, and no air suddenly reaches her lungs and the timer rings painfully.

A smile spreads across his face. “Happy birthday, Emma.” He murmurs, says it with a lot of caution and care and affection and that other word she’s scared of.

She grins, brightly, vividly.

And then, she stands up on her tip-toes, and before they are both aware of it, she kisses him. Melts into his mouth, muffles a whisper of contentment against his lips, eyes firmly closed, just in case he pushes her away.

He doesn’t.

He kisses her back, his arms wrapping tightly around her, and she swears in that moment something explodes inside of her. She never believed in butterflies. She does now. A swarm has invaded her belly.

Her hands are in his hair, while his roam back and forth between her waist and her shoulder blades, and she cannot help but notice how expert his movements are against her body when she is still shaking with emotions.

And then he pulls back, and he’s all disheveled hair and rosy cheeks, and then, and then – she falls.

To the ground.

A ray of sunshine falls on her closed eyelids. When she wakes up, her hand is spread over her face and her mouth wide open. She groans, whimpers, groans some more and finally opens very hesitant eyes.

What the hell.

A terrible headache says hello to her. It isn’t fair.

The first thing she notices is Killian’s hand around her waist. In spite of the pain, that does make her smile. The next is that she isn’t home but in Killian’s childhood home (the one Liam and he inherited when they lost their father).

She slowly, very carefully, turns her face towards the nightstand. Of course. He left paracetamol and water there and a small note: “For my dearest idiot. Love, Killian”. It is set next to a picture of her and Killian, from middle school. She leans forward, tries her best not to wake him up in the process, and grabs the bottle. She drinks avidly, trying to hydrate the desert that is now her body.

A small chuckle echoes behind her. “You alright, Swan?” mumbles a voice, still very full of sleep.

She turns to face him, an apologetic smile on her lips. “Except for a ferocious headache, pretty good, yeah.”

He’s smiling at her, eyes still puffy and there is a very clear pillow mark in the middle of his forehead that makes him look like a wizard, and she swears he’s never smiled at her this way before.

And then shame circles her throat as memories come back to her mind.

She really made a show of herself last night, didn’t she? She hopes he doesn’t hate her.

She hands him the water bottle, and straightens her back in the bed to get some composure.

“Hey Killian?”

“Mmm?”

“Let’s forget all about last night, ‘kay? I was drunk and I’m sure I was awful...”

She hears him gulp loudly beside her. Her eyes twitch. Oh, it must be worse than she thought. Guilt swallows her. What has she done?

“All… all about it?” he repeats, and she swears his cheeks have become redder.

Her hands come to the blanket over her body, hold it tighter against her to protect her.

“Yeah, everything. I mean, it would have never happened if we hadn’t downed that damn vodka just the two of us.”

She tries to shrug it off, rolls her eyes really hard to seal the deal, but really, she is so ashamed.

He swallows beside her, frowns. “Alright Swan, if that is your wish, then I—”

“—Oh yeah,” she cuts him, and she’s throwing her legs out of the bed, “—I’m really sorry Killian, it won’t happen again.”

As he stares at her with what she thinks is some sort of judgement, the thought that she might be forgetting something does slip her mind.

But only for a few seconds, and then it’s gone forever.

#cs ff #cs fanfics #captain swan #friends to lovers #mutual pining #love rosie au #so there it is #i hope you guys will like this #please leave me your thoughts!!#my stuff

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snowbellewells · 5 years

Text

Captain Swan is my Favorite Rom-Com: While You Were Sleeping, Part Seven

by: @snowbellewells

(I really have to apologize for how long it has been since I updated this little movie AU. I could make all kinds of excuses, but I just think I’ll beg your understanding and promise that I fully intend to wrap it all up soon. Unless things change as I am writing, there should be only one more installment after this one before the fluffy ending. Thanks to all those who have still been reading and asking about this one; I really appreciate your interest.

And now, back the CS-inspired version of While You Were Sleeping....)

Part Seven ~

Those curious, unknowing words had barely left Liam’s mouth than Emma was sucking in a fractured sob, desperate to hold it in her throat. She gave the man in the hospital bed a tiny, wavering smile before shaking her head and barely murmuring, “No one important, sorry. Don’t worry about it.” Then she was gone in a rush of blonde hair whipping out as she turned quickly - her coat rustled, the door opened, and she was gone in a mere blink of the eye.

Liam turned questioning eyes on his brother, only to find Killian’s gaze still trained on the door the unknown woman had slipped through, a torn expression on his face. It was a look Liam had never quite seen on his younger sibling’s countenance before, or he would have known exactly what it meant. As it was, his concern and confusion was only redoubled. “Killian? What - who was that? Is she alright?”

When Killian’s eyes returned to meet his own, Liam Jones sensed even more strongly that he was missing some crucial part of a puzzle he hadn’t even known existed. He was a man who knew what he wanted, what needed to be done, and always had a plan of action for getting there. He hadn’t left his father’s home and chosen trade to make his own way successfully on a mere whim or by chance, and this uncertain feeling that he had missed something crucial worried and upset him even more than waking up not sure where he was or what had happened had done.

His brother seemed to quickly grasp his unease and moved swiftly to alleviate it. Shaking free from whatever thoughts had been troubling his own mind, Killian gave a somewhat pained, self-conscious half-smile before idly scratching behind his ear in a gesture that was a dead giveaway to someone who had known him all his life that he was either uncomfortable, nervous, hiding something...or all three combined.

All the middle Jones sibling said however, after clearing his throat and shifting uneasily on his feet, was, “I’ll fill you in as best I can in a moment, Brother. Aye? I do hope she will be fine, but who she is...is, well...just a bit more complicated.” He dipped his head slightly to Liam, eyes seeking his older brother’s hopefully. “You trust me, right?”

“Of course,” Liam affirmed, not even hesitating. This was Killian, whom he had grown up with. The man before him had refused to rat him out, even when falsely accused of cheating at school on the one test Liam had ever cheated on (thought two years younger, Killian had possessed a gift for languages which far surpassed his elder sibling’s, even if it was Liam who brought home the straight As). Killian had woken at dawn to milk cows with him before the bus arrived, even willingly taking the chore over during Liam’s senior year when Liam had found an early internship in his field to beef up his college aps, and Killian had been the one who’d saved with him to buy their first vehicle - a truck they had shared until Liam left for college and that he knew Killian still treasured.

“Good,” Killian murmured in a gravelly voice, a warmth in his eyes conveying just how glad he was to see his brother, regardless of what else might be on his mind. “Do you remember fighting off muggers? Or being pushed from the platform at your usual commuting station?”

Liam felt a slight pounding behind his eyes when he scrunched his forehead in thought, letting out a pained hiss and resolving not to try that a second time. He vaguely remembered standing on the platform, some stranger getting in his space, flipping his scarf, yelling, and the sensation of falling, but it was all a bit jumbled. Bringing a hand up to his temple, Killian leaned back to stand and seek the call button before pressing it anxiously. Turning his eyes up to his darker haired sibling, Liam mused, “Possibly? ...At least, maybe parts of it, I think.”

Killian ran an agitated hand back through his already disheveled hair, making Liam want to chuckle at the way the strands were beginning to stick out at all angles and in every direction. For his part, the younger brother did not look amused, but more flustered and upset with himself before finally saying, “I’m sorry, Liam. We should have been calling to have you checked out first thing, and here I am, like a bloody fool, bombarding you with questions the moment you finally wake…”

Something about his brother’s self-remonstrating rant set off further little alarm bells in Liam’s mind. “Wait, so I was mugged? At the station? How long have I been out?”

Killian shook his head, coming back to take his brother’s hand and squeeze tightly, gaze catching his and boring into Liam’s intently. “Long enough to have us all worried, Liam. Let’s just say I’m very glad you’re talking to me, that you know me, and leave it at that until a doctor arrives.”

Liam didn’t like it, but he could see that he wasn’t going to get any more information on his health from his sibling at present - Killian could be every bit as stubborn and bullheaded as Liam knew himself to be when determination was called for, and so he was wise enough to realize that pushing directly wouldn’t get him anywhere. Blowing out a breath in frustration, he swiped a hand through his mussed - despite their close crop - curls and forced himself to focus on his second point of confusion. “Fine, we’ll leave my condition to the doctors, if you insist… but Killian, at least tell me who that lass was who just ran out of here. She seemed upset. Did you - or did I unknowingly - do something to cause her distress?”

Killian bit his lower lip in deep thought for a moment, weighing his options. Liam might not have remembered being engaged, even if he had been; of course, Killian now knew it wasn’t the case anyway, but also that the whole mix-up (though it had gotten out of hand) had begun as an innocent mistake. Something within him, in annoyingly close vicinity to his heart, couldn’t bear to have Liam, and then their whole family, blame Emma as he had mistakenly done, and then turn her out of their affections. His chest ached at the lonely yearning in her voice and expression when he had confronted her - as if she were just waiting to be rejected once more, even as she clung to some fragile hope that this time might finally be different.

Liam’s eyes were beginning to narrow suspiciously, and Killian knew he had better speak up before his brother deduced just how carefully he was weighing his words. Clearing his throat, Killian plunged in with a version of the truth that he hoped might spare everyone - well, everyone but his own traitorous affections. “You don’t recognize her? She’s a toll booth operator at the station you go through every Saturday. According to her, and the police for that matter, you were mugged while waiting for your train and pushed onto the tracks. She… Emma, her name’s Emma… jumped down as well, and somehow managed to roll your unconscious self out of the way before you were both run over.”

Liam’s eyes were wide in shock by the time Killian got that much of the tale relayed, but he was also nodding along with at least some degree of recognition. “Aye, you’re right,” he said softly, eyes somewhat unfocused as he thought back. “I do remember a bit of that altercation - shoving, one of those crooks making off with my briefcase, and the sensation of falling…”

“Exactly,” Killian confirmed, with a dip of his chin in a definite nod. He hesitated as his older brother’s brow furrowed in consternation, clearly frustrated as to why he didn’t remember his - to Killian’s mind anyway, angelically beautiful - savior. Here was where he could stop and let the rest of the chips fall where they might. However, the aching need he had seen on Emma’s face - to belong, to matter to someone, to be a part of something, even something as taken-for-granted by most as a family, pushed him further. His voice was still low, more of a hoarse croak really, because some part of him wanted Emma to be free and unattached, to know if he could enchant her as Liam had done from afar, but still he spoke up trying to comfort himself with the belief that he was sparing everyone else pain - Emma, his family - and giving his brother a gift if the driven sod took his head out of work long enough to recognize and grasp it. “Not only that though,” he added, seeing that he had Liam’s focus once more. “She tells us the two of you are engaged as well.”

“What?” Liam questioned, looking (if possible) even more perplexed than he had been already. “Engaged?”

Killian nodded again, succinctly, calm on the outside, even as his stomach churned. None of what he said was untrue, and yet he was being a bit misleading - not that Liam seemed exactly opposed, merely confused and surprised.

“Brother,” Liam began slowly, “why is it that I seem to remember most other people and things, but not this Emma? At least not beyond vague smiles and greetings as she took my tokens for commutes. Are the rest of you certain she isn’t lying? I would have thought I’d remember proposing to someone; not to mention that if I had, I had always imagined it would be Belle.”

Again, a part of Killian wanted to bite his own tongue off as he prepared to speak further, but he had committed to his course of action now and plunged ahead, all the while still trying to convince himself that he was doing what was best for everyone. “To be honest with you, Liam, I had always supposed you and Belle would return to each other as well,” he answered honestly. “You’d be the one to know what happened there more than I. What I can do is tell you what I’ve learned of Emma while you’ve been sleeping…” He attempted to inject the offer with a bit of teasing humor, and did in fact draw a rueful chuckle from his older brother.

He then proceeded to share details of the dinner Emma had spent with his family, their reactions to her and affection they held for her, and even his own impressions and how much he genuinely liked her as he had gotten to know her. Before Killian realized, nearly an hour had passed, and Liam wore a thoughtful, but much more at ease, expression on his face as Killian’s words finally ran out.

“You know, Brother,” Liam spoke slowly, deliberately, “perhaps I shouldn’t be so worried about remembering every detail, and instead thank my lucky stars someone who sounds as enchanting and wonderful as you make Emma Swan sound has wound up in my life. Maybe I had better get to know her and see if she still wishes to be my wife rather than trying to recapture the past and allowing her a chance to slip away.”

Killian nodded in agreement, relieved to see that Liam didn’t seem particularly troubled or reluctant at this prospect. He honestly wanted to simply feel relief altogether; this was the response he’d hoped for after all. His brother was alright, Emma wouldn’t have to leave their family and return to her solitary life; things could work out for everyone. But, for someone who was getting what he wanted, why could he feel nothing but heaviness and dread in his heart?

~~~~~~~********~~~~~~~~

When Killian stepped outside the hospital onto the busy sidewalk, the chilly bite to the New England air had sharpened further still with the coming of evening. He didn’t have to search long though to discover that Emma was still nearby, clearly having lingered despite her hurt and disappointment, as he could see her huddled against the cold on a bench in the bus stop shelter a mere few yards away. As he neared her and stood in the entrance, as if asking permission to join her with a cocked head and arched brow, Emma glanced up and met his eyes almost sheepishly, before shrugging and nodding her assent.

She didn’t actually speak aloud until Killian flopped down on the bench beside her, offering him a quirked half-smile in tired self-deprecation before asking, “So, now that Liam’s all caught up, how huge of a crazy stalker does he think I am?” she asked lowly. “Did you guys call the cops, or should I just be prepared to be carted off to therapy?”

Her head bowed again after that, as if she didn’t want to - or couldn’t - keep holding his gaze. Killian sucked a surprised breath into his throat and nearly choked on it. He had long since realized she was sincere and no scam artist after all, but he hadn’t really grasped her level of shame and contrition. Unable to leave her in that sort of turmoil any longer than absolutely necessary, he reached over to cover her cold bare hand with his own where it rested on her knee. Keeping his voice equally low, he still hoped it would convey some warmth and cheer, as he could feel shivers tremoring through Emma’s wiry frame next to him. “Actually, Liam’s decided he’d quite like to get to know you, Lass. He doesn’t remember you - or proposing, for obvious reasons,” he winked at her there and she gave a surprised snort of laughter, even as she also tried to surreptitiously swipe away a few tears, “but after hearing how you saved his life and how much we all love you and how well you fit in, he seemed to see it as an opportunity to get to know someone amazing rather than just letting you vanish.”

It was Emma’s turn for her breath to catch in stunned disbelief. Shaking her head, she did look back at him then, a tentative smile curling her lips even as she returned his stare in pure awe. “How did you…? What - Why would you do that for me, Killian? You know that it was all a big misunderstanding.” She stammered, at a dazed sort of loss, before her protest faded.

“Because I didn’t want you to have to be alone,” he offered simply. “You clearly already think a lot of Liam; he seemed to want to get to know you. You two can handle it from there - but it didn’t seem necessary to cause a lot of hurt feelings and embarrassment when it might all work out for the best anyway. Besides, my family would hate to lose you….and so would I.” He shrugged his shoulders, not sure what else to say in explanation.

It was a gesture that Emma mirrored sheepishly, a tiny smile crossed her face, even as her cheeks blushed bright red. “Who knows? We might end up married in the end after all, huh?” she responded playfully.

“Exactly,” he smirked back. However, he had to swallow hard around the growing lump in his throat to do so - more certain than ever that the perfect happily ever after for her and his loved ones was going to pain him even more than he had realized at first.

Pressing her lips together, Emma seemed to be carefully gathering her thoughts for one more thing she wished to say, not noticing Killian’s inner conflict before he schooled his expression and kept it from showing on his face. “You know, not so long ago, my adoptive mom, Ingrid, was in the last stages of terminal cancer. We’d done all we could to fight it, but her body had taken enough...it was shutting down on her…” She paused, licked her lips, and then straightened herself in her seat and plowed on. “I was sitting at her bedside, clinging on for dear life, cursing the world, and cancer, and Fate, that I would be all by myself in the world again… and she reached over, touched my face, and in just barely a whisper, said, ‘You’ll find a family again, my girl. I know it.’ Those were… h-her last words. And I - I didn’t believe them until right now.”

Blinking rapidly, she looked up into his eyes with her teary green ones shining. “Thank you, Killian. For giving me a chance. I adore your family, and I certainly don’t want to hurt them… You know that, right?”

He could tell she was about to start rambling in reassurance, and so he reached out to cover her lips, shaking his head with a humored grin. “Emma, Emma,” he soothed, breaking in before she could get on too much of a roll, “It’s okay. I know.”

For a second he stared into her eyes, shocked, and his hands darted away from her mouth quickly, feeling almost heated by the spark of chemistry that ricocheted from where their skin brushed. They were both silent, waiting, until the moment nearly passed.

Licking her lips once more, Emma nodded as if in acceptance of all they had discussed, then finally murmured, “Well, I’m grateful….So let’s see what happens… Unless….” She almost trailed off, looking away and then back to him again, “Unless you can give me some reason I shouldn’t see where this thing with Liam might go?”

Killian shook his head, barely even hesitating before he answered, “Of course not, Lass. Liam is the very best of men - my brother or not. I wish nothing but happiness for the both of you.” And that was that - even if he felt his heart sink inside him as he said the words.

Tagging: @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @revanmeetra87 @teamhook @branlovestowrite @therooksshiningknight @aloha-4-ever @kmomof4 @linda8084 @vvbooklady1256 @bmbbcs4evr @the-captains-ayebrows @winterbaby89 @spartanguard @nikkiemms @cinnamonduckling @capswantrue @flslp87 @ultraluckycatnd @gingerchangeling @blackwidownat2814

#csromcom18 #while you were sleeping movie au #cs movie au #cs ff #part seven

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wistfulcynic · 6 years

Text

The Final Chapter, Raised With the Fume of Sighs

Summary: Killian Jones is madly in love with the woman across the hall, but Emma Swan wants nothing to do with him and his playboy ways. Until one stormy night when she dares to let him in and nothing is ever the same again.

Graphic Art by @rouhn

Available On: AO3

Rated: M for sexytimes

Catch Up: Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10

A/N: So here it is, the final instalment of my first multi-chapter fic! I have always wanted to try my hand at writing the sort of thing I personally like to read, and it's been great fun not only to do that but also to discover that what I like to read is what so many of you like to read as well. Thank you again to everyone who has read, commented, kudos-ed, liked, and reblogged, I am honoured and inspired by it all, and already looking forward to getting stuck in to the next story.

@wellhellotragic @teamhook @rouhn @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke

Chapter 11:

~3 1/2 years ago…

Killian stumbled into his new apartment and flopped on the sofa with a groan, flinging his arm across his face. He felt hideous, hung over in body and soul. The past few weeks had been nightmarish, a blur of bars and women and bad decisions that were meant to distract him but never truly did. No amount of rum or sex could fix the ruin of his life but he had no other tools at his disposal, no real idea of how to dispel his pain and guilt at Liam’s death and his shame at the end of his naval career.

There was one small bright spot, he reminded himself. Despite the ignominious way he’d departed from Oxford, Killian found that after the better part of a decade away he was not opposed to easing back into academia. At least it would give him something to do besides drink and fuck. He’d been lucky to find the opening for an adjunct professor at Columbia, lucky that they were willing to sponsor a visa for him, give him the chance to start fresh somewhere new, somewhere he could earn his place. It was a real opportunity, one he desperately wanted not to fuck up. Which meant he had to pull himself together, Killian thought, his first class was tomorrow and he needed to be prepared for it, needed to plan, needed to be focused. He groaned again, cradling his aching head. He needed a cup of tea.

Dragging himself off the sofa, he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then pulled open the refrigerator door.

“Fuck.” He’d forgotten to buy milk. “Fuck, fuck, bloody buggering damnation, now what?” He really didn’t want to walk all the way to the shop in his condition, but tea without milk was unthinkable. Perhaps there was a kindly neighbour in the building who might spare a drop, he thought. Unlikely, but he supposed it was worth a try.

Taking a moment to splash cold water on his face and run damp fingers through his hair, and put on some clothes that didn’t smell like alcohol and sadness, he went across the hall and knocked on the door directly opposite his own.

It opened, and Killian’s world tilted sharply on its axis, shifting everything around him, altering the course of his life forever. The woman standing before him was a vision, sunlight shining through her pale gold hair, green eyes wide in the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. She looked like an angel, like a fairy tale princess, like— like someone who could never be within the reach of the likes of him. He stood, stunned, struggling for breath and for sanity, aware he was staring but unable to tear his eyes away.

Say something, gobshite

Desperately, he groped for his charm, the one thing he could always rely on to get him through difficult situations. It came to his aid, as it always did, and he produced a dazzling smile.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Killian Jones, I just moved in across the hall. I was wondering if I might borrow a drop of milk.”

For the briefest moment their eyes met and something flashed between them, a recognition, like calling to like, a profound sense of home. Then it was gone, so abruptly he thought he’d imagined it, and her expression slammed shut followed quickly by her door.

“No,” she said, punctuating the flat declaration with the click of her lock.

He stood outside her door for what could have been seconds or hours for all the notice he took of the passage of time. After… however long it was, he turned away and headed for the elevator. Suddenly, he felt up to walking to the shop. The air and the exercise might clear his head.

He felt different, he realised, somehow… brighter. The pain and the guilt and the shame were still there, the sense of unworthiness, the general despair. And yet he couldn’t help feeling that in a world where a woman like that could exist and could live across the hall from him there might also be a place for hope. Hope that maybe he could pull through, that he could make things better, be better. Hope that he could discover what had made her slam the door in his face, in his face, for fuck’s sake —he paused for a moment to examine the reflection of it in a shop window; somewhat worse for wear perhaps, but still devilishly handsome. What had she seen in it that no one else did? She was intriguing, and she was bloody gorgeous, and against all probability it seemed she had relit a spark of vitality in him that he thought had died with Liam. For the first time since his brother’s death, Killian found himself feeling that there might be a chance for him yet.

*. *. *.

Present day…

Killian burst into the apartment with such exuberance that the door nearly leapt off its hinges. “Swan!” he called, striding into the living room where Emma was on the sofa reading a textbook, and pulling his laptop out of his bag, “You’ve got to see this!”

He opened the computer and presented it to her with a flourish. On the desktop was the home page of the New York Times.

Green Enterprises Executive Charged With Misappropriation, declared the headline. Neal Cassidy, son-in-law to CEO Peter Green, has been charged with misappropriating company funds, he is being remanded in custody as prosecutors convene a grand jury.

Emma’s jaw dropped, then she snorted. “I knew he was involved in something shady,” she said, “He couldn’t not be, it’s just who he is.”

“Well it looks like seeing you again put the fear of the gods into him, love,” said Killian, not even trying to keep the glee out of his voice. “It seems that he had been doing a decent job of hiding his activities, but the day after the fundraiser his pattern changed and he got sloppy. He was trying to cover his tracks, but the bloody idiot only managed to draw attention to himself. He might as well have stood under a big sign that read ‘Criminal Activity Here.’” He grinned at her in satisfaction. “There’s no way Peter Green will let him get away with thievery, that man values loyalty above all else. Tamara has already initiated divorce proceedings. He’ll be persona non grata in every financial centre in the world, even if he avoids jail, which is unlikely given the power and influence of the people he crossed.” He set the laptop aside and pulled Emma into his arms. “I’d still like to punch his arsehole face, but I have to say, as comeuppances go, this one is pretty bloody satisfactory.”

She remained silent, and he pulled back to look at her. “What are you thinking, love?”

She frowned slightly.“I’m thinking that I should be glad he’s finally got what’s coming to him,” she replied. “But I kinda don’t care. I meant it when I said I’m free from him. If he goes to jail that’ll be justice done, but it’s nothing to me beyond that.”

“You are far too good, my darling,” he said, raising an eyebrow, his grin tinged with malice. “I intend to revel in his downfall.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek, then slipped from his arms, sliding to the end of the sofa. He could tell that she had something to say, and needed space to prepare her words.

“Killian,” she seemed suddenly nervous. “Do you know what today is?”

He did. “Er… Wednesday?” he said teasingly, but she was focused inward and failed to pick up on his tone.

“Yes, but it’s something else too, kind of an anniversary. I mean, not really but just something you might remember, and—”

He decided to stop teasing, and took her hands in his. “One year ago today was the first night we spent together. Of course I remember, love, how could I not? I’ll never forget kissing you for the first time after years of dreaming about it, it was like all my Christmases had come at once. And as for what came after… well, it will forever remain one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life.”

She flushed with pleasure at his words and at her own memories, but her expression remained troubled. “I’m so sorry for running away from you the next morning—”

“Darling, you have nothing to apologise for—”

“No, please, let me say this. I never told you why I ran.”

He opened his mouth, but she shushed him and carried on.

“I know you think it was because my past with Neal made me scared of getting close to people so I just automatically pushed everyone away, and that’s partly true. But if it had only been that I wouldn’t have run, just kicked you out before you’d even gone to sleep, or at least I would have done that if it had been anyone but you. I’d never fallen asleep with a man before except Neal, and when I woke up that morning, for a minute I didn’t remember what had happened, I only knew that I felt warm and content and— and loved, for the first time in my life. I felt like I belonged with you and I wanted to stay there with you forever, and I’d never felt any of those things before, not ever, not even with Neal. What I felt was stronger than anything I’d felt in my life and I barely even knew you, and that’s what scared me. I ran not because you were the same as the other men I’d been with, it was because you were so different. I just… wanted you to know that.”

Killian was stunned. Although he knew now that Emma had never hated him as he’d once believed she did, he’d had no idea that she’d felt such a strong connection to him so early on, that the irresistible pull he’d always felt towards her had never been one-sided. He suddenly remembered their first meeting, the brief eye contact, the overwhelming sense of having found the missing piece of himself, quickly dispelled in the face of her blunt rejection.

“Love,” he said slowly, “Do you remember when we first met, there was, well for me anyway there was a moment…”

She nodded, looking slightly ashamed. “I remember,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You felt like home. You always have. That’s what scared me most of all.”

Killian reached into his jeans pocket and withdrew a small, blue velvet box, caressing it gently with his thumb. It was old, the nap of the velvet worn thin on the edges. Inside it lay his most prized possession.

“Emma,” he began, holding the box up where she could see it, not missing her slight intake of breath. “This was my mother’s. It’s the only thing I have left of her, the one thing Liam was able to save. My father sold all her other valuables, but this Liam took and hid from him, knowing what a treasure it was. My mother was given it by her grandmother who had also inherited it from her grandmother, going back I don’t even know how far. When Liam died and it came into my possession, I could never have imagined letting go of it, of the one thing that ties me to the mother I can barely remember. I do remember it on her finger, though, and I— I would like nothing more than to see it on yours.” He slid off the sofa and knelt before her, and opened the box. Emma gasped. “I know it’s not a traditional ring but we’re not exactly traditional people, and we’ve certainly not had a traditional courtship. This ring is a symbol of love and family to me, and I love you more than I am able to express, and I want you to be my family. You saved me from the darkness I was mired in when we met, pulled me into the light and into a life so marvellous I could never have envisioned it. I want to be with you every day until I draw my last breath and depart this Earth forever. And so, Emma Swan, will you marry me?”

He looked up at her face. Tears glistened in her eyes, dropping onto her cheeks as she tried to blink them away. She began to nod, swallowing hard, trying to force words through the constriction in her throat. “Yes!” she croaked, “Yes, Killian, yes, yes, yes!” Taking his face between her hands, she slid off the couch to kneel as he was kneeling, and began to kiss him, holding him tightly to her. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back until they were both breathless and laughing and he pulled away to take her hand and put the ring on her finger.

“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed.

“Like its new owner,” he replied with a brilliant smile, “It’s a wild pearl, small but flawless, much like you. Our family legend says that it came from somewhere in the South Sea Islands, what is now called Polynesia, brought back to England by an ancestor who had been a ship’s captain, some said a pirate.”

“Hah,” she said, “I always knew you had some pirate in you.”

He chuckled. “The stones at the side are Bohemian garnets, added when the pearl was laid in this setting, probably sometime in the late nineteenth century. The ring itself is Welsh gold.”

“Killian, I— I’ll treasure it. I love you so much. I—” Overwhelmed, she kissed him again, wrapping her arms around his neck and toppling him backwards onto the carpet. When she broke the kiss he looked at her quizzically.

“I love this carpet,” she said, stroking it. “I have since I first saw it, when I went to your place to stop you from leaving, to tell you I loved you. Every time I look at it I think about that day and how I almost lost you, and how I never want to be apart from you again. I want you to make love to me on it now.”

He growled approvingly deep in his throat and kissed her deeply as he rolled her over onto her back, slipping his leg between hers and running his hand up her side, under her shirt, snapping open her bra and cupping her breast in his hand, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger until she moaned into his mouth. As he teased her breast she managed to unbutton his shirt and push it insistently off his shoulders. “Get this off,” she demanded, breaking the kiss and giving his shoulders a shove. Reluctantly he released her breast to sit up and pull off the shirt as she turned her attention to his jeans, undoing them in record time and reaching inside to grasp his cock. Now it was his turn to moan, looking down to see her hand adorned with his mother’s ring wrapped around him, stroking his heated flesh. He wondered if it was wrong that he found that insanely erotic. Nudging her off him briefly so he could divest her of her shirt and bra, he leaned down and latched his mouth onto her nipple, nipping it and bathing it with his tongue as she took him in hand again and he slid his own hand between her legs, blessing the stretchy leggings she wore. He stroked her clit with his thumb and slipped two fingers inside her, and her hand on his cock faltered under the onslaught of sensation from his touch. She revelled in it for a moment, riding his hand with small thrusts of her hips, then she pushed him away. “I want to come on your cock,” she panted, and yanked his jeans down over his hips then shimmied out of her leggings as he kicked the jeans away. She pulled him down to her, spreading her thighs wide as he positioned himself between them.

“Don’t be gentle,” she commanded, “If I don’t have rug burns on my ass when we’re done, I’ll want to know why.”

“It’ll be because this rug is made of silk,” he purred in her ear. Her laugh ended on a moan as he thrust inside her, heeding her proscription on gentleness, pounding himself into her as he lifted one of her legs under the knee and draped it over his shoulder, angling his hips to hit her in just the right spot.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” she gasped, lying back and letting him fuck her for several long minutes, her hands flexing in the nap of the carpet before she ran them up her own body and took her breasts in a firm grip, pinching and rolling her nipples as he loved to do. He groaned at the sight of her touching herself, and her eyes flew to his. The combination of intense love and almost feral lust in his expression sent her flying over the edge and she came hard. He fucked her through it, letting her little gasping moans and the feel of her quivering around him drive his pleasure higher. Just as he was about to come she shoved him off her and onto his back. He snarled, and she laughed. “Patience,” she purred, straddling and sinking down onto him in one smooth move. She took his hands in hers, lacing their fingers together above his head, leaning down to give his mouth access to her breasts as she began to ride him. He took her nipple into his mouth again, more roughly this time, sucking it hard between his teeth and dragging his tongue across the compressed tip. Soon she was breathing in short, desperate gasps and she came again within minutes, letting go of his hands and collapsing against his chest. He grabbed her hips and lifted them, slamming them down to meet his as he thrust up into her, again and again, desperate beyond control, until he exploded into an orgasm so strong it was almost painful.

They lay silent and entwined until their breathing steadied and the sweat dried from their bodies. “Gods, that was magnificent,” said Emma, finally, rolling off him and snuggling against his side, her head on his chest. “We’re sweating all over your silk rug,” she remarked.

“I don’t care,” he murmured, still coming down from his high, too blissful to give much of a damn about such details.

She traced random patterns in his chest hair with her fingertips. “Do you think we’ll still have sex like this once we’re married?” she asked, and he felt a stupid grin split his face at her casual use of the m-word. “You don’t think we’ll ever end up just doing lights-out missionary three times a year, do you?”

Killian had a sudden vision of himself and Emma, wrinkled and grey, making each other scream in ecstasy on the floor of a living room he didn’t recognise, in a house they had yet to buy. “No,” he said decidedly. “I do not believe that fate will ever befall us.”

He could feel her hair brush across his chin as she nodded and her cheek flex against his chest as she smiled. “Good,” she said.

*. *. *.

~3 1/2 years later…

The wind whipped around Killian, ruffling through his hair and tossing up the collar of his shirt as he manoeuvred his boat out of the mouth of the Hudson and pointed her towards the open sea. It had taken far longer than he’d anticipated to get her ready for this voyage. A year or so’s hard work, he’d once figured, and she’d be set to go. That had been nearly four years ago, since which time life had consistently got in the way of his plans for repair and restoration of his beloved vessel. Yet Killian had no regrets, for the life that had thrown a wrench in his plans was far too good for him to wish it to be in any way different.

The bright sound of laughter reached his ears and he turned to see Emma standing at the boat’s railing, the tiny blonde source of the gleeful noise perched on her hip. His heart swelled at the sight of them, as it always did. His wife and daughter, the two great loves of his life, his cherished Emma and his darling Hope, who was the symbol of her namesake for him in every imaginable way. Even after three years of marriage, even after Hope’s first birthday celebrated just the week before, Killian sometimes struggled to comprehend that the life he was living was truly his. A tenured professor, a husband, a father, what had he done to deserve to call himself any of those things, a dark voice at the back of his mind still sometimes needled him. Impostor syndrome, Emma called it.

She had completed her MSW with flying colours and had been working full time at the women’s shelter for over two years. Like him, she still sometimes had doubts about her worthiness for such a role, had days when she felt useless and like nothing she did made a difference, but those days were growing increasingly rare. Emma had really come into her own over the past few years, her confidence in herself and her abilities growing by leaps and bounds as she let go of all the insecurities that had held her back in the past. Killian was absurdly proud of her.

He needed to follow her example, he thought, to forgive himself for the mistakes of his past and accept that he had earned his life, that he was a far better man than he’d been seven years ago, that Emma and Hope loved him and he made them happy. He was working on it.

He smiled as Emma came over to him, still laughing with Hope. The little girl held out her arms, the blue eyes she’d inherited from him sparkling merrily. “Daddy,” she said. He took her from her mother, balancing her on his hip with one arm while with the other he continued to steer. “Well, darling,” he said, nuzzling his nose into her blonde curls and breathing in her sweet baby smell, “What do you make of the boat? I hope you like her, as she bears your name.”

Emma humphed. “I still think we should have called her the Jolly Roger.”

“Swan—”

“In honour of your pirate heritage, Killian!”

“My very likely apocryphal pirate heritage!”

“Still.”

He shook his head in largely feigned exasperation and she grinned, stepping in close and wrapping her arms around her husband and daughter, stroking Hope’s hair and resting her chin on Killian’s shoulder. He turned his head to press a kiss on her cheek.

And so the Swan-Jones family set out together for an adventure at sea, aboard the Lady Hope.

-------

Sorry not sorry to anyone who thinks engagement rings should be diamond solitaires; I personally dislike diamonds and also think that sentimental softie Killian would want to give Emma something more meaningful.

#cs #cs-ff #cs ff au #raised with the fume of sighs

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jennycalendar · 6 years

Text

regarding honor and honesty in the workplace (18/?)

read on ao3!

this chapter: we finally find out what exactly went down during the angelus case.

from the personal files of Jenny Calendar:

As this investigation comes together, I find myself feeling more and more discombobulated with regards to Lilah, and it frustrates me that I can’t place why. Our relationship is going perfectly, and Rupert and I have done an excellent job of finding all the people she might need to construct a case against Wolfram and Hart—so why do I still feel like there’s a piece of the puzzle I’m missing?

Maybe it’s just that Lilah hasn’t really discussed the potential case she might build against Wolfram and Hart, or how exactly she’s planning on taking down a powerful law firm with a handful of witnesses who are at best liabilities and at worst minor threats. I’ve seen a lot of cases fall to pieces in the court that were better structured than the one we’re putting together right now, and without a good lawyer, our two to three pieces of vague evidence might not hold up.

I hope my girlfriend’s a good enough lawyer to make this whole thing work.

The Hyperion Hotel was a surprisingly high-end establishment for two people who seemed to be making every effort to go off the grid, and Jenny found herself feeling more than slightly underdressed in her leather jacket and jeans. Even Rupert, who always looked polished and professorial in his suits and vests, seemed a bit dilapidated in comparison to the designer clothing everyone around them seemed to be sporting.

Jenny stepped up to the front desk. “Uh, hey,” she said. “We’re looking for—Scholar and Starlet?”

The concierge gave them both a scrutinizing look, then said, “Who’s asking?”

“Well—”

“Two people who need their help,” said Rupert, “and who are—” here he winced before continuing, “—desperate for the specific expertise that only Scholar can provide.”

Still looking somewhat wary, the concierge picked up a phone and pressed a few buttons. Jenny turned to Rupert, amused. “What was all that about expertise?” she asked.

“Wesley’s a blowhard who responds bloody well to flattery,” said Rupert quietly. “Appealing to his vanity might mean at least a chance at an audience with him.”

From the desk, the concierge cleared his throat. “So hey,” he said, “is this kinda thing a problem no one else can solve? Like, you know, helping the helpless?” He said the last phrase with deliberate significance, as though it should mean something to them both.

“Exactly as such, my good man,” said Rupert without missing a beat. “My colleague and myself need all the help we can get.”

“Weird you came asking for Scholar,” said the concierge with an amused grin. “It’s definitely gonna go to his head. The name’s Charles Gunn.” He stuck out his hand, only narrowly missing the stunned look Jenny and Rupert exchanged before Jenny took it. Shaking her hand, he added, “Room 428. Knock three times and say Caritas.”

“You know Lorne?” said Jenny, startled.

“Who doesn’t in this line of work?” Charles let her hand drop, inclining his head. “I’d recommend you guys get going. Crime doesn’t sleep around here, and the crew’s usually pretty tied up as it is.”

“Gotcha,” said Jenny, grinning. “And, uh—” She hesitated, then said, “This is a long shot, but do you know a Professor Burkle?”

Charles’s face softened and he turned a little pink. “Yeah,” he said. “Fred. She’s a pretty good friend of mine. Why do you ask?”

Jenny felt a small twinge in her chest. This, then, was the Charles Gunn who was still looking for his sister. She knew she shouldn’t have pried, but some slightly masochistic part of her had wanted to put a face to the name, and—it felt worse, somehow, knowing that this kid only a few years older than Buffy and Willow was dealing with stuff not even she would be able to handle.

“My daughter’s one of her students,” said Rupert with careful lightness, who seemed to be getting the reason behind Jenny’s inquiry and was attempting to cover it up. “Professor Burkle mentioned your name in conversation.”

“Anything good?” Charles asked the question casually, but there was a note of shy hope in his eyes.

“Very complimentary,” Rupert reassured him.

Charles’s grin widened. “Well, thanks for passing that along,” he said, and went back to the phones with a much larger smile on his face.

Jenny watched him as they walked towards the elevators. “He seems like a nice guy,” she said a little sadly. “I—honestly can’t imagine how he’s coping, not knowing whether someone he loves is alive or—”

“Alive,” said Rupert, quiet and somewhat shaky. To Jenny’s surprise, he tucked his arm around her waist, tugging her almost protectively closer. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Jenny leaned into his side on the elevator ride up, her thoughts on what they might find upstairs. The way Charles had said helping the helpless seemed unusually purposeful, almost businesslike—as though he’d said that sort of thing before. And the way Lilah had talked about Cordelia and Wesley being the most integral part of any case—was it possible that they might be running some kind of operation of their own?

Rupert let go of her when the elevator bumped to a stop. Jenny felt a strange sense of loss as she watched him walk ahead, and had to take a moment before following him to where he’d stopped in front of room 428. “You should do the honors, Ms. Calendar,” he said, and gave her a small, sideways smile. “This really is your operation, after all.”

“Yeah,” said Jenny, eyes on the door, and knocked three times. “Caritas,” she said.

From inside the hotel room, there was a bit of a laughing scuffle and the sound of cheerful voices. A few seconds passed, and then a slightly disheveled Cordelia Chase opened the door, beaming up at them. “Welcome to Angel Investigations!” she said brightly. “We help the hopeless—oh, shit, it’s helpless, isn’t it.”

“I did tell you, Cordelia, you should have let me handle it,” came an affronted voice with a British accent. “They asked for me down at the desk, didn’t they?”

“Scholar and Starlet both start with an S,” came a very familiar voice. “It’s possible they could have made a mistake.”

“Yeah, Wesley, they made a mistake—” Cordelia, laughing, threw the door open all the way, and her smile faded as she suddenly registered the expressions on the faces of her companions. It was true that Wesley was looking at Rupert with the beginnings of bemused recognition, but that wasn’t what had Jenny and Rupert rattled.

Sitting on the bed, wearing a grey sweater and dark slacks, was a wide-eyed Angel.

THE ANGELUS FILE (stored in a lockbox in Jenny Calendar’s office three years ago; hasn’t been opened since)

About two years ago, a young woman who is as of yet only known to the authorities as Darla set up shop in Los Angeles. She’d been working a pretty efficient smuggling-and-thieving ring in Europe, and a profitable one too—enough to start looking into expanding her operation to the West Coast. Her boyfriend Liam O’Connor came with her, as well as two foster kids they’d picked up for the jobs that needed small hands—William Pratt and Drusilla Keeble, though they went by Spike and Dru on jobs.

Six months after that, Liam began to lose his appetite for the work that they were doing. Apparently, in Europe, he’d been farther away from the process, enjoying the spoils and not having to bother himself with what went into obtaining the money. He saw that they were hurting people and told Darla he was quitting, and she didn’t take it all that well. He described it to us later as her becoming possessive of him—as though he was one of her treasures—but I’m of the mind that she did love him, albeit in a twisted, painful way. Liam doesn’t seem ready to admit to that, though; it’d make him culpable in what happened next.

Liam, using the alias “Angelus” and going by “Angel” for short, took a job as a docent at a local museum, and entered into a relationship with high school junior Buffy Summers, whose adoptive father Rupert Giles happened to be the museum curator. Rupert looked fondly on his colleague, though he was largely unaware of the romance beginning to blossom between Buffy and Angel.

This period of grace lasted for a good four months, during which Buffy and Angel grew closer, Rupert and Angel formed a solid friendship, and Darla continued to search for Liam, putting all other business on hold in an attempt to find him and bring him back to her. Darla discovered Buffy’s relationship with Angel fourteen months ago, when she spotted them kissing outside the museum, and spent the next five months planning an elaborate heist that would not only benefit her financially, but had the potential to ruin Buffy’s life.

I read about the aftermath of the heist in the newspaper a few days later: a number of expensive paintings had been stolen the night a Mr. Rupert Giles was working late, and the security footage in the exhibit had cut out right when he left his office. The police had no tangible proof that he did it, but Los Angeles was in an uproar—every newspaper was reporting on Mr. Giles’s clear guilt and demanding that his adopted daughters be placed with a more capable parent.

That’s where I came in.

Rupert Giles showed up in my office two days later, desperate for any kind of help to clear his name. I was initially a little skeptical, as the evidence was stacked significantly against him, but the way he talked about his adopted daughters (“they lost their mother two years ago, and I’ve been doing my best to give them a stable home—I would never risk their welfare just to steal some bloody paintings”) was fiercely loving and something I completely understood. I told him I’d work the case free of charge, and his response was to offer up his services in assisting me.

That part was a little awkward. It was pretty clear neither of us really knew how to work with someone else—Rupert being an antisocial museum curator and me being, well, a one-person department—but after about two weeks of screaming arguments and baseless accusations (okay, that last part was mostly me), we managed to find an awkward common ground, as well as track down the security tapes that revealed exactly who had stolen those paintings.

Buffy, meanwhile, was devastated. Angel, recognizing that Darla was trying to ruin Buffy’s life in order to get at him, had left Buffy without letting her know what was going on. With her adoptive dad under investigation and her boyfriend pulling a disappearing act, she actually ended up hanging at my apartment a lot—not with me, but with Faith, who had gone through some tough stuff herself and who was pretty good at providing a listening ear. I think those two are going to be friends for a long time after this. Unfortunately, Buffy’s friendship with Faith had unforeseen consequences: while Faith was watching TV, Buffy happened upon my notes for the Angelus case and pieced together what exactly was going on with her boyfriend, as well as why Rupert was under investigation for a crime he definitely didn’t commit.

Buffy, using my notes, went after Darla on her own. Rupert and I were already en route to her last known location, which was incredibly lucky; I’m fairly certain that, if we hadn’t reached the scene in time, Buffy would have been dead. But Rupert knocked the gun out of Darla’s hands, and I called the cops, and Buffy sort of just sat down and started crying until Rupert could come over and hold her. I bought them ice cream and drove them home. Felt like it was the least I could do.

The thing is, though, there was still a permanent black mark on Rupert’s reputation. It was true that he hadn’t stolen any paintings, but it was also true that his adopted daughter had been dating the ex-boyfriend of a high-profile criminal that had caused the museum a world of bad press. Rupert was unceremoniously fired from the job he’d held for nearly ten years.

This is a difficult file for me to write, because Rupert Giles believed in the work he did at a level few people have ever reached. He didn’t work with me solely to clear his name—it’s obvious he’s got a penchant and a passion for putting pieces of a puzzle together, and it’s clear he devotes his time only to things he’s genuinely interested in. This loss hit him painfully hard. I haven’t seen or heard from him in days, and Buffy says he’s just been staying at home.

I don’t know what I can do to make things up to Rupert. What could I possibly offer him that would make any of this even slightly better?

#fic #regarding honor and honesty in the workplace #A SURPRISE EARLYISH UPDATE.#and a mystery solved!

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