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shireness-says · 4 years ago

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Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace [1/3]

Summary: 1895. Emma Swan answers an ad in the paper from a man looking for a wife in order to flee Boston - only to arrive in rural Storybrooke, Minnesota and discover that her intended husband is dead. Left with no other options, Emma takes a position at the local tavern alongside the sullen, dark-haired barkeep with demons of his own. But what will she do when the forces she’s worked so hard to escape reappear in the new life she’s building, forcing her to turn to this unlikely savior for aid? ~8.6k. Rated M for suggestive content. Also on Ao3.

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A/N: Every year, my mother insists we watch “Sarah, Plain and Tall” because she thinks it’s a great tradition and doesn’t quite understand that she’s the only one that loves it. So last time, I plotted this in my head instead of watching: CS fic inspired by that story.

Thanks, as always, go to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan.

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @ohmightydevviepuu, @profdanglaisstuff, @thejollyroger-writer, @superchocovian, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @initiala, @revanmeetra87, @quirkykayleetam, @captain-emmajones, @hollyethecurious, @officerrogers, @lfh1226-linda, @jrob64, @therooksshiningknight.

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Emma can’t help but fidget in her seat as her train tears across the Midwestern landscape. Though this was her choice, she still can’t help but be nervous; after all, this is a very different world from Boston, the only home she’s ever known. She’s used to bustling streets and the lap of the waves against the docks at the harbor, not these miles after miles of plains and crop fields. It’s almost enough to make her second guess this whole thing.

It’s not a mistake though, she knows. She’d needed to get out of Boston, as quickly as possible, and this had been the best of a variety of bad options. Emma has never been particularly romantic, even as a little girl, but in the few imaginings she’d allowed herself of her future, answering a newspaper ad for a wife had never factored in. Then again, her fantasies had never anticipated the particular situation she’s trying to escape: a man who wouldn’t hear no, who was willing to pursue her relentlessly, from city to city, always a threat on her tail. The security of marriage, and of distance, had only made sense. And then again, she’s never been sentimental ; true love isn’t something she anticipated in a union, or even particularly believed in, for that matter.

The man she’s travelling to meet seems kind, she consoles herself with knowing. Emma hadn’t been particularly picky in selecting a man from the handful of querants in the paper, but Graham Humbert seems to be a good one. He’s the sheriff of a small town in Minnesota, who found himself lonely and wanting companionship.

I can darn my own socks and cook my own dinner, though neither with any exemplary skill, he had written. I’m not looking for someone to look after me in that way, regardless of what my friends’ wives think; I’d hire a lady to do the cleaning if that was the issue. I’m searching for someone to speak with at the end of a long day, someone to listen and to laugh with. I don’t believe myself to be a sweeping romantic, but I will be happy to give and receive a kind of gentle affection. Maybe we can come to love each other in time; I would be happy with that too, though I am not counting on it.

She’d liked that about him, that amiable practicality so evident even in his letters. It’s what had made her agree to travel to Minnesota with the intent to marry him, really - the feeling that they viewed a union in the same way. There will be a trial period, of course, a month during which to decide whether the two of them will suit each other before anything is formalized - but Emma is determined to make it work. What other choice does she have?

The train will be pulling into Storybrooke soon - a tiny dot on the map, where Emma doubts anyone else will be alighting. All of her belongings have been tightly packed into two measly carpetbags in order to, hopefully, start a new life. Maybe it’s foolish, but Emma had splurged on a new, sleek jacket before she’d left the city, a cheery blue to pair with her navy skirt and white blouse in an attempt to impress. Mostly, she wants to look neat more than anything else: a capable woman, one who won’t be afraid to adapt to a new life with a minimum of fuss, one who won’t make Sheriff Humbert’s life more difficult. Pretty is of secondary concern.

She sees the town coming long before the train pulls into the tiny station, roofs and chimneys rising above the flat landscape and copious corn fields. Somewhere in this state, she knows, are hundreds and thousands of lakes; however, they’re nowhere to be seen here. Storybrooke itself is a bare cluster of buildings seeming to group around a single main street, with homesteads and farm plots doubtlessly stretching out to the surrounding area. It’s a whole different world from what she’s used to, but that’s the entire point, really; no one will think to look for her here, in the rural midwest as the wife of a sheriff.

When the train finally pulls into what passes for a station, a single cramped building with barely enough room for a ticket office and a luggage closet, a man is waiting on the platform, sheltered from the late-spring sun by an awning off the station roof. The star-shaped badge on his coat and the way he shifts nervously from foot to foot make Emma think this must be the anticipated Sheriff Humbert. His hair is rather more golden than the sandy blonde-brown color Mr. Humbert had tried to describe in his letters, but Emma supposes that’s to be expected. She likely didn’t give a perfect description of her appearance either.

Quickly, she gathers her bags and alights to the station platform with the assistance of a young porter. The man waiting quickly doffs his hat, playing with the brim in another nervous gesture. “Miss Swan?”

Carefully, Emma arranges her face into something she hopes passes as an amiable smile. “Yes, that’s me. And you’ll be Sheriff Humbert, I presume?”

“I - well, no,” the man who isn’t Graham Humbert stutters out. “I’m David Nolan, actually. One of the deputies here.”

Unexpected - but there are countless excellent reasons that Deputy Nolan might be sent instead. Trouble can happen even in a small town, dozens of minor disputes that can somehow only be settled by the sheriff himself. “In that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nolan. I must admit, I was expecting Mr. Humbert. Pardon my mistake.”

“About that —” Deputy Nolan cuts himself off, looking curiously uncomfortable. It sets Emma a bit on edge, but there’s no way to dance around it - not when she doesn’t have all the information.

“Yes?”

Deputy Nolan swallows heavily, visibly, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat again before he drags his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Swan, but Graham - Sheriff Humbert - died two days ago.”

Of all the things she thought he might say, all the ways she imagined this might go, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

———

“It wasn’t anything violent, or related to his job,” Deputy - well, now Sheriff Nolan tells Emma once he’s led her to a seat in Storybrooke’s one and only bar, the Sherwood Tavern. Emma finds herself grateful for the glass of dark liquor the man behind the bar slides to her without asking; after this shock, she could certainly use it. “He just collapsed. Graham had been bothered by periodic chest pains for… as long as I can remember, really. We figure it just finally caught up to him.”

Emma nods at the words, not sure what to say. It’s all jarring, really, sad for the loss of who she believes had been a good man, but it’s hard to muster much emotion. She had only known him through letters, carefully crafted missives in which they had doubtlessly both tried to show the best sides of themselves; she doesn’t have the same attachment to the man as Nolan, and everyone else in town, understandably did. Her grief is for plans and possibilities never realized, for the idea of a man instead of the genuine article.

“We know you came out here specifically with the intent of marrying Graham. There’s not much other reason to come to Storybrooke,” Sheriff Nolan comments with a laugh. “Graham’s savings and property are set to go to the town, but we’d be happy to buy you a ticket back to Boston. It’s the least we can do, when you turn out to have come all this way for nothing but disappointment.”

It’s a kind offer, really. There’s no reason for Emma to stay, after all, and Storybrooke doesn’t have much to offer. But even if Emma hadn’t needed to escape Boston… there’s nothing there to pull her back. No family, and only a single friend. She isn’t even attached to the city, though it’s all she’s ever known. Returning to Boston would be returning to a sparse boarding house room and a life spent looking over her shoulder. Here - well, there’s no promises, but Emma would be willing to bet it’s not any worse.

“If you don’t mind,” she responds carefully, “I’d prefer to stay. There’s nothing for me back in Boston either, believe it or not. This may not be permanent, but… for the time being, I’d prefer to stay.”

“Then we’ll be happy to welcome you.”

———

And they are. Sheriff Nolan takes her down the street to the boarding house run by a Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter over their family’s pharmacy, where both women welcome her with open arms. Ruby Lucas, the granddaughter, is tall and willowy, every inch of her full of personality, and her grandmother is a gruff old lady poorly hiding an enormous affection for her loud-spoken granddaughter. Emma can practically see the moment Mrs. Lucas - “That’s Granny to you, girl, only strangers and enemies call me Mrs. Lucas” - absorbs her into their little fold. The room they provide is small, but clean and bright; Emma is more than agreeable to the small fee she’ll owe to rent the room each month, especially knowing that breakfast and dinner are included in the rent.

Storybrooke is exactly the quiet little town it appeared to be from the train. Besides the bar and the pharmacy and the sheriff’s station, there’s a general store and a post office, a bank and a rudimentary library. There are a handful of other buildings too - Emma’s been told that one houses the doctor’s office - but she hasn’t had cause or need to learn them. Perhaps in time, she’ll learn all the ins and outs of who belongs where in this little place. It seems inevitable; after all, that’s small town life, even when so many of the so-called residents live further out on isolated farmsteads.

As much as Granny seems to immediately see Emma as her ward, Ruby Lucas seems to view it as her duty to introduce Emma to Storybrooke’s small social scene, and attacks the task with gusto. Even if it’s just a small circle - Mary Margaret Nolan, Sheriff Nolan’s wife; Belle Gold, the town librarian; and Elsa Jones, whose husband operates the general store - Emma finds herself somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. She’s never had this before, not really; there hadn’t been much of a chance to make friends, growing up in an orphanage. There’d only really been August, who she’s come to view more as a brother than anything else. It will take some getting used to, having this number of people eager for her company and opinion.

(There’s an argument to be made, Emma supposes, that Neal had been a friend, too - but he’d been a lover, more than that, and then he’d been gone. It’s hard to justify counting him, even in her pathetically brief list.)

“It’s so nice to have a new face about town,” Mrs. Nolan - Mary Margaret gushes as she leads Emma arm-in-arm down the street to the library. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the familiar faces of course - oh no, of course not! But it is so nice to hear new perspectives and meet new personalities, you know? Oh, I’m just so thrilled you’re here!”

It is exhausting and touching, all at once - and just another thing Emma will learn to expect in this little town, she’s sure. She’s determined.

———

When Emma decides to stay, Sheriff Nolan offers to put some of Sheriff Humbert’s assets towards paying her room and board, but Emma refuses. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the offer; it’s a nice change to have someone else trying to look out for her, even if she gets the sense that David does this for everyone. However, she never even met Graham. They’d exchanged letters, had come to a rudimentary understanding, and that was all. She has no right to lay claim to any of his money on such a flimsy connection, no matter how obligated Sheriff Nolan feels to look out for her.

Emma resolves to get a job instead, to pay her own way, and only accept the help if she’s forced to. It’s not a particularly big deal; Emma has been working in one way or another since she was a teenager. She’s worked in factories, and shops, and more recently as a secretary in a bank and then a law office. Her favorite had been the stint as a companion to a wealthy invalid. Ms. Ingrid had had a sharp tongue and had loved to turn her quiet, yet cutting comments on passersby outside her townhome’s windows, often leaving Emma in fits of laughter and the older woman with a satisfied look on her face. She’d had a fondness for Emma, too; privately, one of Ms. Ingrid’s nieces had once told Emma she had lasted longer than any of the previous companions, a small compliment she couldn’t help but treasure. She’d ultimately left, shortly before the old lady died; one of Ms. Ingrid’s sister’s husbands had been making ever-more-insistent passes Emma had been struggling to dodge, and she hadn’t been needed much as Ingrid had slowly slipped away.

(She thinks about Ms. Ingrid often, still, and the year she’d spent in that house; sometimes, Emma thinks it was one of the only times she’s ever been purely happy.)

Her opportunities for employment are limited. The general store doesn’t need additional help, and the library is barely big enough to justify one employee, let alone two. She’d played with the idea of helping out at the Sheriff’s station; with the way Sheriff Nolan seems desperate to be of assistance, for Graham’s memory if not her own sake, she’s certain he wouldn’t mind. But the fact of the matter is that this is a tiny town, with a tiny sheriff’s office to match. What would there be to do? It’s not like Boston, where there’s enough crime to produce enough paperwork to keep her busy. Sheriff Nolan himself had said that they didn’t deal with much more than petty disagreements and the occasional barfight. Even the local pickpocket had reformed and was working at the post office, running the telegraph machine.

Instead, she turns to the Sherwood Tavern - the one place in town she’s certain gets enough business to need help. Making inquiries, she discovers that it’s owned and operated by a pair of friends: Robin Locksley, who spends most of his time just outside of town at the horse stables he runs with his wife, and Killian Jones, the sullen, dark haired man who’d been behind the bar that first afternoon when Emma had arrived. They’re an interesting pair; Mr. Locksley is all smiles and sunshine, even with that slightly roguish grin, and happy to talk about anything, while Mr. Jones barely talks at all and smiles even less. Still, it’s obvious that the two men are friends, watching the way they work around each other in the space behind the bar. Maybe that speaks well of Mr. Jones, or poorly of Mr. Locksley; Emma thinks it’s likely the former, just based on Sheriff Nolan’s own reaction to the two men. Somehow, she doesn’t think he’d allow her to take a position at an establishment run by men he didn’t trust.

Mr. Locksley is immediately amenable to giving Emma a position as barmaid. It’s Mr. Jones who has more questions, and evidently more hesitance. Emma isn’t sure what to make of him; he’s an attractive man, objectively, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, but his silence and moroseness are jarring, even if he seems to be a beloved member of this little town. There’s a story there, somewhere, maybe related to the scars that dominate the skin of his left hand.

“This isn’t a glamorous job, you know. It’s messy, sometimes even rowdy,” he says, studying Emma carefully where she stands in her neat skirt and shirtwaist.

It only makes her draw up taller. “I know. I wasn’t expecting it to be. You run a bar, not a tea room.”

That gets her a faintly approving nod, at least. “Pay won’t be anything to write home about either.”

“Will it be enough to cover my room over at Granny’s?”

“Aye, it ought to be.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

When Jones finally gives his nod of approval, Locksley beams across at her. “Well, Ms. Swan, it looks like you have a job, and we have a barmaid. Welcome aboard.”

———

It is not remotely the life that Emma expected to find herself living, but it’s nice in its own way. There’s a pleasant routine to it all, of Granny fussing over her at mealtimes and Ruby dragging her out to socialize and keeping busy at the bar in the afternoons and evenings. It’s almost… cozy, she supposes the word is. The citizens of Storybrooke seem determined to absorb her into the fold and make her feel at home, and Emma even finds herself becoming fond of the regulars at the bar. There’s something constant and reassuring about Leroy’s complaints and the way Mr. Marco comes in for exactly one beer each night, no more than 30 minutes after sundown. Will Scarlet might be her favorite; he’s a mouthy bastard, a former thief who now inexplicably runs the post office and operates the telegraph line, but his particular brand of attitude amuses Emma and keeps her on her toes.

(It takes her approximately a week and one passing observation in the street for Emma to realize that he’s head over heels for Belle Gold, wife of the man who owns half the town, and most likely reformed his life for her. A brave man, too, then - or maybe just a fool. From what Emma understands, it’s a bad idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Gold; he’s a manipulative man who always needs to be in control of everything and does not tolerate people standing up to him or encroaching upon his perceived territory. Emma imagines that Gold’s wife is very much included in that inventory.)

It’s usually just her and Jones and the other barkeep, Mr. Smee, working at the bar every day. Emma thinks Mr. Locksley - “Robin, please, I’m not the formal type” - might have been involved just as a favor to the other man; he’ll put in appearances every so often, especially when his business partner requests it, but he mostly seems happy to stay out at the horse farm he operates with his wife. There’s a story there, Emma’s sure - but she’s certain that she doesn’t yet have the right to ask.

She doesn’t know what to make of Jones, really. He’s a meticulous man, and she thinks even a good one, based on the way he takes care of his establishment and is willing to patiently listen to various gripes from patrons at the bar as they work their problems out themselves. The sullen, quiet demeanor doesn’t seem like his natural state; sometimes, she catches his eyebrows twitching or the sides of his mouth trying to quirk up when one of the regulars says something suggestive, like it once would have been instinct to reach for innuendo or even jokes in the same way. She almost wonders if this is something of an emotional shield, an affectation he’s worn for so long that it’s become comfortable. Regardless, there must have been something in his past that led him here - something that’s emphasized by the careful way that Robin and Sheriff Nolan - David, now - treat him.

Jones’ brother, Liam - who operates the general store and is Elsa’s husband - seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge Killian’s reserved state. It intrigues Emma, and really reinforces her feeling that the younger man must not have always been like this. It’s somewhere between a matter of the elder Jones not having a tolerance of it, and trying to purposefully provoke the younger.

“Is everything alright?” she dares to ask one afternoon after Liam Jones storms away from a discussion carried on in angry, hissed tones.

“Fine. Liam’s just trying to control everything again.”

It’s probably a wonder she managed to get that much out of him.

It’s hard, though, to be expected to spend so much time with a person and barely trading ten words in any given day. It makes the day longer, and the work harder. On a particularly slow day, when there’s barely a soul in the place and no longer even any cleaning left to do, Emma finds herself scrambling to break the silence, just to cut the boredom.

It is a mistake.

There’s a tattoo on his right forearm, usually covered by his shirt sleeve and just barely allowing hints of dark, swirling ink to peek through. Emma usually only sees the edges in flashes, when the sleeve of his shirt shifts just right as he reaches for something, but his sleeves are rolled nearly to his elbows tonight, revealing the whole work. It’s a detailed piece, one he must have gotten in Chicago or Minneapolis or some other city big enough to have an artist of talent. There’s certainly not a tattoo shop in Storybrooke, of all places. The swirls of black she’s caught glimpses of frame a heart with a jagged dagger through it, with a single word on a tattered scroll at the forefront.

“Who’s Milah?” she asks, instead of wiping down the tables for the twentieth time this evening. “On the tattoo.”

It’s like his whole body seizes - spine straightening, eyes shutting down, every inch of him infused with tension. It’s obvious she’s struck a nerve, one that affects his entire being.

“Someone from long ago,” he finally mutters, before stalking off to scrub imaginary grime off already-spotless tables.

It would be stupid to wonder what she did; that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. What she’s more confused about is why that particular question set him off. It’s obvious there’s a story there, one she doesn’t know but that must be central to the man he is.

Robin is there that day, taking care of something in the small office at the back; without Emma even asking, he slides up next to Emma with an explanation.

“Milah was his fiancée,” he explains quietly. “She died, several years back, in a freak accident. He was driving her to town and the horse startled, flipping the whole wagon. It’s how he injured his hand, too.” Another question answered, then; Emma can see the way the scarred limb still pains him, seizing and spasming in ways that make him scowl deeper with irritation.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Robin continues. “He used to be the most charming man you’d ever meet, always with a smile and some saucy comment. You’d have barely recognized him back then. It’s funny, and awful, what grief does to a man.”

And that explains a lot too - the way she sometimes sees his eyes flash or mouth pull like some half-forgotten instinct. That’s the look of a man who was broken, and who forced his pieces back together with the weakest glue, where things no longer fit together in the same way as they did before, even if all the fragments are there.

It is just another piece of the puzzle that is her silent coworker, but maybe the bit that makes it all make sense.

(Emma has never been much for guilt - but she can’t help but feel some small guilt for this.)

———

The thing about living in a small town, for better or worse, is that there are expectations. Despite its small size, there seem to be a million and five social functions in Storybrooke - church picnics and sewing circles and, tonight, a social and dance in Mr. Clark’s new barn. Emma could decline to attend, technically; it’s not as if she’s contractually obligated to make a showing. But Storybrooke is a tiny town, and Emma is the new face, and she’ll be thought of as unfriendly, even odd, if she doesn’t at least put in an appearance. Besides, everyone is going - and Ruby would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t at least make an appearance.

So she goes. She stands with Mary Margaret and David and lets Ruby pull her along and compliments Granny on her contributions to the potluck spread. She even takes a turn around the dance floor when asked, even dares to enjoy herself a little bit.

That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t get to be too much, however. The residents of Storybrooke are all so welcoming and well-meaning, but Emma’s spent so much of her life alone, and suddenly being inundated with all this good cheer is a particular variety of overwhelming. It’s not their fault - it’s entirely hers - but Emma can’t resist slipping out the barn doors to creep around the side, seeking a quiet and solitary moment.

It’s not to be found, however; as Emma rounds the corner, it is easy to see Jones in the light of the nearly-full moon, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and clearly avoiding the festivities in the same way. There’s half a thought of just retreating, creeping around the other side instead, but he turns his head to meet her eyes before she has the chance.

“I’m so sorry,” she tries to apologize. “I’ll just leave you be —”

A brief smile without much feeling twitches across Jones’ face. “Hiding from the party?”

“Yes, but I can find somewhere else —”

“There’s no need. Stay.”

Emma stays. What other choice does she have? She isn’t exactly eager to spend this time with Jones, but it would be blatantly rude to insist on leaving after he had made such a generous offer. Carefully, she props herself against the wooden wall, ignoring the way that stray splinters try to poke through her dress.

She assumes they’ll just stand there in silence - they aren’t exactly friends, for all the time they spend together, and after the other day she’s sure he isn’t much fond of her - but Jones surprises her by breaking that silence after only a few minutes.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Swan,” he says softly, but clearly. “I’ve been less than welcoming these past weeks. I am sorry for that.”

It’s the last thing she expected him to say, and Emma has no idea how to respond. “Thank you,” she finally settles on. “I appreciate it.”

She thinks that’ll be it; that he’ll have said his piece, and they’ll go back to a more-or-less easy civility. It isn’t. “I suppose Robin, or one of the others, told you about… about Milah?” Emma nods. It’s clear this is difficult for him to speak about; she wonders a little why he’s bothering to tell her, of all people. “After she was - after she passed, I rather fell to pieces. She was gone, and the accident all but mangled my hand so it seemed like I couldn’t do much of anything with my life, and it was easier to fall into a bottle than to face my grief. Robin helped a lot, giving me something to do at the bar and eventually letting me buy into the place, but some days I still feel like all those pieces are still barely held together.”

“I understand,” Emma tells him softly, almost too softly to hear. And she does; she’d felt something of that despair when Neal had left, like she’d never find anyone or anything to compare again and there were a whole host of feelings and experiences she’d never reclaim, never experience without him. She can only imagine how much deeper that pain must run for him, when his fiancée had died and not just run away.

“Thank you,” he says, but she can tell he doesn’t fully believe her. That’s alright; she hasn’t given him any reason to. “Anyhow. It’s been five years now, and I’m… acceptant, I suppose. I don’t anticipate being that same man I was ever again, or being able to truly move on and find someone else, but I’m not actively trying to drown all my feelings anymore, which most agree is a significant improvement.”

“Most?”

“Most,” he repeats. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mary Margaret Nolan?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Exactly. Ah. Mrs. Nolan is a very kind woman, of course. She truly does mean well, and she and David are wonderful for each other. But she is… unbearably optimistic, if I’m being blunt. Mary Margaret is of the opinion that now that I have reached an acceptance of everything that happened with Milah - everything that I lost with Milah - that it’s time I move on, and find a new ‘happy ending.’ So when you came to town - a new face, lonely, needing help…”

Emma sees exactly where this is going. “You assumed she would immediately start trying to play matchmaker.”

“Precisely. Well, not quite assumed; I’ve known Mary Margaret long enough that it was more like knew.”

“And you decided to head it off before it even started.”

“Aye. Again, I do apologize for how it means I treated you. You didn’t deserve that kind of hostility. But I didn’t want her getting any ideas about fixing us up together.”

“Then I forgive you.”

Killian stares blankly at her for a moment, clearly not quite processing her words. “Just like that?”

“You forget - I’ve met Mary Margaret too.”

His lips twitch in that almost-smile again, and Emma could swear she hears him huff out the hint of a laugh. “She is nothing if not persistent. A second chance, then?”

And Emma finds herself surprisingly happy to agree.

———

They’re still not friends, exactly. Jones isn’t exuberant, and that doesn’t change just because they had a chance to reset things behind the barn. But they’re… friendly. Amiable. Companionable. A whole host of other almost-type words. She no longer feels like he resents her very presence in his place of business, and even makes sure to make her life better in little ways, like helping her wipe down glasses and handle more belligerent patrons. She appreciates it, truly; it makes her life easier, knowing he’ll back her up, and that’s more than enough. Despite the small town-big family feel of Storybrooke, she’s still a city girl at heart who’s fine not to make best friends with everyone. She’s more than satisfied to be his employee, and nothing more; in fact, it’s a welcome change after some of the jobs she’s had.

(That’s what landed her here in the first place, after all: a man who doesn’t much care about her many, many denials.)

Even if they’re not friends, she spends enough time around the man to recognize some of his reactions, the slight variations of “sullen” that still play across his face if you’re watching closely. And as soon as Belle Gold walks in with an older man Emma can only assume is her husband, Emma sees the way that Jones’ entire body tenses up. The tension in the air is palpable between the two; even Belle shifts uncomfortably as they approach the bar.

“Could I have a small glass of beer, please?” she asks Emma softly. It’s a relief to reach for the glass instead of just waiting for whatever this is to explode. “It’s so terribly warm out there today, I found myself needing a little something to cool down.”

Beside her, her husband hasn’t broken eye contact with Jones. Emma doubts he’s fully aware of what she and Belle are doing right next to him. “You’re still here then, Jones?” he asks in an icy, sinister voice.

“Aye.” Jones’ face is just as stony when he responds. Emma can practically see the way he vibrates with suppressed rage.

“I suppose you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you, or anyone else to chase after. No one really wants to take on a man with only one functional hand.”

“Let’s go, Robert,” Belle urges. Her beer is barely touched, but her refreshment seems forgotten as the encounter turns increasingly hostile.

Carefully, Jones sets the glass he had been holding back on the bar as the rest of the room holds its breath. Emma can see the way he flexes his scarred left hand, though she doesn’t think anyone else is playing close enough attention. “That’s true,” he says in that deadly quiet voice, “but you’re stuck here too, Gold. And we both know you’re the one who trapped me in this town.”

“Strong words from a weak man —” Mr. Gold starts to say, but his target has already stalked away towards the door Emma knows hides a staircase. Jones keeps an apartment above the premises; doubtless he’s gone there to lick his wounds.

Belle quickly ushers her husband out after that, leaving the barely touched glass on the counter. Emma takes a long drag, not one to waste the beverage; she can’t help but hold some bitterness towards Belle for this altercation, even though she knows the woman is otherwise lovely and kind and even something like a friend to Jones. She must have known this might happen, bringing her husband in here. The man has a reputation, one that makes it hard to believe that his wife is so kind - and married to him. Besides, the whole exchange reeked of an unknown history between the two men, of so many words and actions leading to today’s explosion.

Behind the bar, Mr. Smee - a timid man by nature, a predilection not remotely helped by these dramatics - looks anxiously between the room half-full of patrons and the door through which Jones had disappeared. It only takes a moment to realize what needs to be done - and that Emma will have to be the one to do it.

With a nod toward the bar floor for Smee, Emma quickly climbs the stairs, a glass of rum in hand. She’s noticed Jones taking a shot of the stuff when some customer is drunk enough to buy a round for everyone. If there’s ever been a time when a drink of something biting would help - well, this is probably it.

It isn’t hard to find Jones. He hasn’t even made it into his apartment proper, instead sitting propped against the wall in the hallway with his head hung between his upright knees. He looks up at the sound of her boot heels clicking on the stairs, happy to accept the proffered spirits, only to hunch back over the glass once it’s in his hands. Emma waits patiently for the explanation she knows is coming; she’s long since grown used to silence sitting between the two of them.

“He killed her,” Jones finally says, draining the remains of his rum in one swallow. “Milah. My Milah. He wanted her, but she wanted nothing to do with him, and she chose me.” He smiles softly in remembrance, a foreign look on his face from what Emma has come to know. “I could never prove it, of course. But he hated that she chose me, hated me for supposedly stealing what was his by pursuing the woman who pursued me first. And that wagon… it never should have tipped. It was sturdy, not even a year old, and the road was even. But there was a shot, fired someplace close that I could never pinpoint, and the horse startled, and the axle was apparently so weak or damaged that it broke, and by the time it was all over…”

“She was gone,” Emma supplies softly. Somehow, in the middle of all this, she’s found herself on the floor next to him. It seems like what he needs right now.

“It was quick, at least. She broke her neck and died instantly. I just… I could never prove it, but I always knew it was Gold. The sabotage of the wagon and the shot to set everything in motion.”

It makes horrifying sense; maybe Jones is wrong, but from everything Emma has heard and seen of Mr. Gold, she wouldn’t put it past him. “And now you’re forced to see him all the time.”

“We had plans, you know,” he tells her, staring into his glass like he can make it refill by will alone. “We were going to pack up, move to Duluth or Chicago - somewhere along the Great Lakes, where I could get a job on one of the ships. But she was - she was dead, and my hand was barely functional, and when Robin offered to let me buy into the bar instead of just doing my damndest to drink myself to death… I took it.”

“And you lived.”

He snorts. “Or close enough to it.” His head falls back against the wall heavily as he sighs. “He’s gone, I imagine. I’ll come back down in a moment, I just…”

“Take all the time you need.”

(Emma knows she didn’t do anything more than listen, but there’s still a satisfaction in seeing the way he has started to pull himself back together as she traipses back down to the bar.)

———

They’re still not friends, but knowing those bits of another’s soul bonds two people together in a way that’s hard to describe. Jones is still sullen and quiet, but it’s less off-putting when Emma knows it comes from a place of pain. What matters is that Emma feels comfortable and safe here in Storybrooke and at the tavern, in the midst of these kind - and yes, in some cases morose - people.

That all changes when a telegram arrives unexpectedly, marked urgent and portending dangers Emma had hoped she had finally escaped.

She opens it right away, of course; there’s only one person outside of this town who knows how to reach her, and August is too busy for needless correspondence. He hadn’t even responded when she’d wired him back in Boston that first day in Storybrooke just to let him know what had happened, and that she was still staying. Him sending a message can mean nothing good.

Emma sinks onto a barstool as she reads the stark letters. Even without a mirror, she can feel the blood draining from her face as her nightmares resurface.

Be aware Oz sniffing around STOP Hired private detective STOP Be on alert and do what you must STOP Will keep apprised STOP

Emma doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at the little slip of paper. Somewhere, the yellow envelope it was delivered in has dropped away; she hadn’t noticed. She only comes back to herself when a firm hand shakes her shoulder.

“Swan!” Jones all but barks, jerking her back to attention and to meet his eyes. It’s evident he’s been trying to get her attention for a while; thank god there are only a scant handful of people in the bar at this early hour, though she’d rather Will Scarlet hadn’t had to see this either. “What’s the matter?” he presses ahead. “Are you alright?”

What an absolutely absurd question to ask as she sits here, white as a sheet. As much as Emma would like to deny it, claim everything is fine, she can’t. “No,” she barely manages to gasp out.

It’s like everything around her has become a blur, like her mind can’t focus on anything but impending doom. Jones and Will Scarlett must have corralled her into the little back office; she has no memory of how she came to be sitting in the padded chair. Jones crouches by her side, his shoes lost beneath the edge of her skirt, wearing a surprisingly tender look on his face.

“This is about what you’re running from, isn’t it?” he asks in as gentle a voice as Emma’s ever heard from him. It snaps her to alertness, eyes blown wide; it’s not remotely what she expected him to say.

“How did you know that?” she demands. Emma hasn’t told anyone in town the underlying reason why she came to this little nowhere town, and yet here Jones is talking like it’s obvious to see.

“I recognize the look of someone with demons to hide, and to hide from,” he says softly. “You’ve met mine, Swan.”

Faced with that kind of understanding, it’s like all the pride, the reticence, the fight seeps right out of her. What’s the point? He seems to see right through her front anyways, for some reason she can’t pinpoint.

“Yes,” she says, carefully making sure that neither her voice nor her hands tremble at the admittance. “It’s about the things I ran from in Boston.”

“Tell us.”

And she does. As Will Scarlet stands by the door and Jones moves to lean against the desk, Emma lets the whole tale unravel: about the law office in New York she’d been a secretary in, about the junior partner, Walsh Oz, who’d taken a sudden interest in her, about the way she’d left that job when he wouldn’t stop pressing his attentions on her. About how he’d found out where she lived, and forced her to move three times. About how she’d finally packed up and moved to Boston, only for him to track her there as well, showing up in the department store she worked in. How she’d gotten more and more desperate, finally seizing upon the idea of answering one of the marriage ads in the paper.

“It seemed like the perfect solution,” Emma explains. Against her will, tears have begun pooling in her eyes, and she blinks furiously to dispel them. “It’d take me so far away from Boston and New York that Walsh Oz would never track me down - and besides, I’d have a husband. It didn’t matter that I probably wouldn’t love him, I’d be safe. He wouldn’t be able to bother me anymore if I was already tied to another man.”

As Emma has told the whole sorry story, Will Scarlet has become visibly more upset in his stance by the door, bordering on fury, but Jones has remained implacably, unshakably calm. Emma appreciates it, in an odd way; it’s something stable to focus on, to keep the panic from overcoming her again. “And then you got here, and there wasn’t a husband to marry,” he says softly.

Emma nods. “I thought it would still be enough - rural Minnesota is so far from New York or Boston, you know? But now…”

“But now.” There’s something horribly ominous about his agreement.

“At least I have August to watch out for me - my friend, almost a brother. He works for a private detective agency.” Jones probably doesn’t much care about that, but talking and explaining keeps her in the moment. It only works for so long though, as the reality of the situation sets in. “If Oz comes here… where else can I go? What am I supposed to do?”

The silence sits for a moment, Emma trying not to cry, Scarlet and Jones looking at one another as if coming up with something. The question hovers in the room, threatening to suffocate them all.

“You came here because you thought a husband could protect you?” Jones finally asks.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll marry you instead. If you like.”

It’s an absurd proposition, not least of all because Emma knows Jones may never get over his late fiancée. Beyond that… they barely know each other. They’ve worked together for two and a half months, and Emma has shared little bits of herself along the way and learned pieces of his own character, but that’s not enough to base a marriage on. But wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do with Graham Humbert? To marry him, even though she barely knew him?

The difference, of course, is that Emma has worked alongside Jones for months, and knows this is not remotely what he’d ever planned for himself. It is much harder to go through with this when she knows that it isn’t something that both parties actively want.

“You don’t have to. I would never ask that of you,” she hurries to protest - but he’s already shaking his head.

“I know I don’t,” he tells her. “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, and we’ll try to figure something else out. But I think it might be your best option.” Jones pauses, and his face softens. “Graham was a good man, and a good friend of mine,” he tells her quietly. “He waited a long time for me to be a better man, and do something with my life. Let me do this for him.”

And Emma agrees.

———

It is a small wedding - not that the occasion warranted anything different. They’re two people who barely aren’t strangers anymore, who hadn’t planned for this remotely or had even imagined such a possibility two days ago.

(Technically, it’s the second time since Emma arrived in Storybrooke that two days have abruptly changed the course of her life. Maybe it’s an omen, of some sort; Emma doesn’t have the energy, or the opportunity, to pay heed to such a thought.)

They make as much of the occasion as they can when Mary Margaret and Ruby only have two days to fuss. Emma wears her nicest dress - a summery, pale blue confection that makes her look a lot more girlish and innocent than she actually is - and there are fresh flowers along the pews of the little church that match the small bouquet in her hands. Only a small number of people attend to witness - the Nolans, Jones’ brother and his wife, Robin and his wife, and Granny with Ruby - but that’s alright. Emma may not know what her soon-to-be husband’s favorite color is, or his favorite meal, or even his middle name, but she does know that they’re both somewhat solitary creatures. Neither needs a crowd, or would be comfortable with one.

There’s something oddly comforting about his presence at the end of the aisle, waiting for her in front of the reverend. He isn’t dressed particularly elaborately, but he’s taken the effort to put on a tie and coat and comb back his hair a bit, even if pieces keep popping up again. Most of all, Emma appreciates that his hands don’t tremble when they take hers. She’s terrified out of her wits about the foolishness they’ve both agreed to, but he manages to be so calm; so certain. It’s like he’s found an odd kind of purpose in doing her this favor beyond thanks, beyond reason. He’s calm when she meets him at the altar, and calm all through the short ceremony, and still calm when he slides the thin gold ring on her finger. It feels like some kind of blessing.

Before she knows it, the words are all said, and they’re moving to sign the paperwork and make this legally official. And that’s it: some of the most momentous minutes of her life are over and done, and Jones - Killian? - is leading her back down the aisle of the little church with her hand tucked into his arm, still that pillar of stability and reassurance.

She’s married.

———

Eventually, they find themselves back in the little apartment above the bar. Emma’s pretty flowers have been set aside, her hat carefully extricated from the pins holding it to her hair, and Killian has worked off his jacket and tie. Silence stretches between them as they sit, she in the armchair by the fire and him at the kitchen table, but it’s not yet comfortable. They don’t quite know each other enough for that. It’s like they’re in a holding pattern, both just waiting for something to give, for the other to break or break through.

“I never expected to get married,” he finally says. Emma jerks her head to face him, but he carefully looks anywhere else, staring towards the opposite wall, fiddling with his fingers. “After Milah died… I expected I never would. That that would be it for me.”

It is not a good way to start a marriage - hearing that her new husband never wanted to get married in the first place. “I’m sorry, then. For trapping you in a marriage you never wanted.”

But he shakes his head at the words, finally meeting her eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I mean, Emma. I’m not trying to - I don’t want you to think I regret this. It is its own kind of honor, doing this for you and for Graham. Makes me feel like a better man than I’ve been in a long, long time. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is…” He pauses, as if collecting his words. “I suppose I don’t have… expectations, so to speak, of our marriage. We get along. I think you’re a good woman, and I’ve appreciated the help in the bar. And that can be it. I’m not expecting anything more. I’m perfectly happy to have a paper marriage, companionship and nothing more, because that’s already more than I ever expected for the rest of my life.”

Ah. He’s alluding to sex. It’s kind of him to dance around this, but entirely unnecessary; delicacy has been out of the question for 8 years now, since she still thought Neal was her forever. It never really mattered for an orphan from the worst of Boston anyways. As kind as it may be, it’s unnecessary, and frankly too chivalrous for her purposes. In return, Emma chooses her words just as carefully as he did; at the beginning here, setting the stage for what may become the rest of their marriage, it seems important to do so. “Thank you, Mr. Jones —”

“Killian.”

“Killian.” He’s right; they’ve already traded vows, such as they were, after all. “Thank you, Killian - but the fact of the matter is that I need this to be a real marriage. If our marriage is to protect me the way I need it to… then I need there to be no reason for anyone to claim otherwise.”

———

They consummate their marriage that night.

It is not making love by any means, and it is not even particularly good - it’s been too long for either of them to be in practice, and too little feeling between the two of them - but there is no denying that it is a real marriage now. Emma can smell the shot of rum he drank for courage as Killian determinedly avoids her lips. His body is warm and firm above her, inside her, but there’s no feeling to it, except in the apology he mumbles against her ear when he finishes before she’s even close to satisfaction.

It is fine. It is no more than she expected.

But at least it is a union, in almost every sense of the word.

———

(She had been anxious about this - the idea of giving her body to a man she barely knows, no matter how much she knows it to be necessary - but as mediocre as the act itself is, Emma can’t help but feel… connected, afterwards. Despite everything, he had been gentle with her, considerate. She doesn’t quite feel an affection for him - not yet, though she hopes she might one day, if this is to be the start of years to come - but it’s the first link in a bond that they’ll strengthen with time. Consummation had been a fraught decision for both of them, an emotional minefield in many ways, but they’re truly in this together now.

All things considered - she’s glad she’s in it with him.)

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fanfiction #captain swan ff #marriage of convenience #my writing #Seeking Shelter Seeking Solace #independent!Emma #grumpy!Killian #and a bar

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quirkykayleetam · 4 years ago

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🌸🥂📸

🌸 What's something you're proud of for accomplishing in 2020? I graduated with a Master's degree in Library and Information Science!!! This has been my dream for years and I finally got there!!! Now I can become a Real Librarian!

🥂 What is the most exciting thing you did in 2020? I got engaged to the love of my life! His proposal could not have been more perfect and our families and friends could not be more supportive! We're so so excited to spend the rest of our lives together!

📸 Post a picture from your camera roll.

This is Sir Percival greatly enjoying his Christmas presents!

#quirkykayleetam speaks #quirkyface #Ask Game #2020 Asks #Thomas Tag #CATS #If you want to see more of Percy check out his Instagram @sirpercivalandme

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distant-rose · 5 years ago

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21 and 38???

21: Whats your least favorite movie?

Between Titanic and Gone with the Wind. They’re considered classics, I know, but I don’t enjoy the concept of making tragedies romantic nor do I enjoy the romanticism of the Confederacy. It doesn’t help that I literally cannot stand Rose or Scarlet.

38: When you were a kid, what did you dress up as for Halloween?

Oh, that’s a lot of costumes, my friend. From my memory, I’ve gone as Carrie from the horror movie, Dorothy from Wizard of Oz, I was Raven from Teen Titans, I was the Greek Goddess Athena and I was also Trinity from the Matrix. I’ve always been a ridiculous nerd.

Ask me “unique asks”

#asks #answered #quirkykayleetam #ro speaks #unique asks meme #meme bullshit

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katsidhe · 7 years ago

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I love your fan fic, but I just learned that you’re an AMAZING artist too!?!? You go, Glen Coco!!!!

<3 Thank you! I recently got a new tablet, so I’ve been prolific lately, haha.

#i speaks #nice people!!!#quirkykayleetam

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serickswrites · 3 years ago

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Rescue II

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Warnings: captivity, torture, blood, wounds, forced to watch, emotional whump, cruel whumper, caretaker and whumpee

Caretaker struggled against the cuffs that kept them shackled to the corner. “Don’t you fucking dare!” They snarled as Whumper dragged Whumpee from their own corner.

“Oh, but I would, Caretaker. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” They continued to drag Whumpee towards a table in the middle of the room. Whumper had set a large, metal spike on the center of the table.

“No, no, no, please, no, no, please.” Whumpee frantically whispered over and over again. They went limp in Whumper’s arms as Whumper tried to get them close to the edge of the table.

“Now, now, none of that.” Whumper yanked on Whumpee’s arm, but Whumpee curled into a ball, making it very difficult to lift them and keep them standing.

“Don’t you fucking touch them,” Caretaker growled.

Whumper ignored Caretaker and bent their face close to Whumpee’s ear. “If you do not stand up by the time I get to three, I will impale Caretaker on a much bigger spike than this, and make you watch. One. Two.”

Whumpee shot up so fast that they almost hit Whumper’s face. “Very good. Now, put your hand out.”

Whumpee complied. They were trembling noticeably, but they did as Whumper asked. And they didn’t speak. “No, Whumpee, don’t do it. Don’t listen. Please!” Caretaker called, continuing to strain against the cuffs. “Whumper if you fucking--”

“If I what? Do this?” And they slammed Whumpee’s open hand down on the spike. The spike pierced through Whumpee’s hand as Whumpee wailed. “Such a delightful sound, don’t you think?”

“I’M GOING TO FUCKING END YOU WHUMPER. I WILL END YOU!” Caretaker roared as they struggled helplessly against the cuffs.

“I don’t think you will,” Whumper laughed dryly as they slid Whumpee’s hand up and down on the spike. Whumpee whimpered with each movement, their cheeks coated in tears.

“P-p-please,” Whumpee begged.

“No, darling, no. This is was always going to happen. Didn’t I tell you? Caretaker would get here and then I would make them watch everything I do to you. Make them beg for your life as I bleed you dry.” Whumper cooed as they continued to slide Whumpee’s hand along the spike.

Whumpee’s knees gave out first, their body slowly collapsing. Their movement pulled their hand further down on the spike, drawing a sharp cry of pain from them as their knees hit the ground.

“Whumpee! Sweetheart, say something!” Caretaker ignored Whumper’s giggles of delight.

“Don’t answer, Whumpee, or I’ll impale Caretaker.”

Whumpee whimpered, but kept their mouth closed.

“Forget Whumper, Whumpee. Don’t listen. I’ll be fine. Just say something. Anything.”

Whumpee squeezed their eyes closed as they whimpered and shook. But they didn’t listen to Caretaker’s pleas and remained silent as Whumper had ordered them to.

“Good, Whumpee, good.” Whumper stroked their hair. “Now, I’ll leave you here. If I come back and find you haven’t remained in this spot, there will be hell to pay.” They gave Whumpee’s had another tug for good measure. They laughed as Whumpee shrieked in response to the movment. “I’ll be back soon, darlings.” And Whumper closed the door, leaving a shaky and barely conscious Whumpee still pierced by the spike and a roaring and raging Caretaker chained down in the corner.

Tags: @painsthegame @whumpback-wail @bright-whump @quirkykayleetam @10000ducks-whump @peaches-and-dumbs @poeticagony @j-is-evil-28 @bookworm7543 @thelazywitchphotographer @whump7401

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw captivity #tw torture #tw blood #tw wounds #cruel whumper #caretaker and whumpee #febuwhump 2022 #febuwhump day 18 #prompt: forced to watch #queue #tw emotional whump

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aprilqueen84 · 4 years ago

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A Tail As Old As Time Ch. 4

A/N: Hello! I am very excited to bring you the next chapter of A Tail As Old As Time! I think this is my favorite chapter I have written so far. As always a big thank you to @hollyethecurious for being an awesome beta. Also if you like what you see and want to be added to my tag list, let me know!

Tag List: @hollyethecurious, @resident-of-storybrooke, @kmomof4, @jennjenn615, @pirateherokillian, @enchanted-swans, @superchocovian, @deathbycaptainswan, @winterbaby89, @flicialy23, @kingofmyheart14, @angellifedeath, @facesiousbutton82, @a-faekindagirl, @kymbersmith-90, @ekr032-blog-blog, @laschatzi, @teamhook, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @capswantrue, @bmbbcs4evr, @kday426, @tiganasummertree,, @Ifh1226-linda, @meganhinsley, @xarandomdreamx, @jrob64, @hannahhook7744, @klynn-stormz, @yourebeautifuleverylilpiecelove, @therooksshiningknight, @earanemith, @snowbellewells, @motherkatereyloshipper, @emmythedaydreamer, @quirkykayleetam, @onceuponsomechaos

Summary: All Killian cared about was earning his way off this wretched island so he could exact his revenge against the crocodile. What he didn’t expect was being saved by a beautiful mermaid who would make him question everything.

Chapter 4

Emma and Killian’s heads whipped toward the sound of the voice. There, to their horror, standing on the deck leaning against the mast was Pan.

“My isn’t this cozy” The imp mocked.

Killian sprang to his feet, put himself in front of Emma, and brandished his sword at Pan. “You’re not welcome on my ship, demon.”

Pan pushed himself off the mast and slowly began walking towards them. “Well you see Captain, this is my island and everything on it belongs to me. So I will go wherever I want," he said menacingly.

Killian's eyes flickered to Emma who had been strangely quiet, only to see her sitting there stock still with eyes wide and fear written all over her face at the appearance of the fiend who had been hell bent on killing her. "It'll be okay love," he whispered to her.

"Now let's not lie to the lady," Pan said as he stopped in front of them. "You know, I'm disappointed in you Hook. I thought that you were willing to do anything to leave this place. I thought you were so eager to exact your revenge, to avenge… Milah," he sneered.

Killian's hand tightened around the handle of his sword and he seethed, "Don't you dare speak her name!"

Pan smirked, delighted that he struck a nerve. "Look at you, forgetting all about your mission, because of a pair of pretty green eyes. What would your love think if she could see you now."

Feeling his anger grow, Killian almost made the grave mistake of thrusting his blade into the demon child. What stayed his hand was a soft touch from the woman behind him. "Killian don't," she warned softly.

Killian turned his head to see Emma's worried gaze upon him. Her eyes pleading with him not to be baited by the imp. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath he turned back to Pan. "Milah wouldn't want me to kill an innocent woman, even if it meant not ever getting off this forsaken island."

Pan's smirk fell from his face when he realized that the pirate wasn't going to strike. “How honorable,” he sneered. “But I’m afraid all that honor isn’t going to do you any good now.”

Lost Boys suddenly swarmed the ship. A few surrounded Killian with their swords drawn and pointed at his throat while others grabbed Emma and tossed her roughly to the deck.

“Don’t touch her!” Killian yelled, surging forward despite the swords at his throat only to be struck across the face and pushed to his knees.

“No!” Emma cried out softly but she was unable to do anything except watch as The Lost Boys manhandled him. One boy in particular seemed to delight in Killian’s plight. He was tall with shaggy blonde hair and a wicked scar across his cheek. She had seen him of course, he had been sent on many missions for Pan to try and apprehend her.

Emma looked on as the boy pulled Killian’s head back by his hair and ran a short serrated knife down his face. He bent down to whisper something in Killian’s ear that made the pirate start to thrash.

“Felix! That’s enough,” Pan said, calling back his right hand. He made his way over to Emma and crouched down in front of her. “I have to hand it to you Emma, I’m quite impressed that you’ve managed to evade me for so long. How is that?”

“I don’t know, just luck I guess,” Emma shrugged. “Or maybe you just have incompetent people doing your bidding for you,” she said with a smirk.

Pan’s expression grew murderous as he stood back up. “Well, looks like your time is up. It’s nothing personal Emma, I just need that stone and if the only way to have it is to kill you then so be it.” He made a motion with his head and more Lost Boys came forward, grabbing her tightly by the shoulder. “The tail too, lads. Wouldn’t want to be hit with that.”

Emma struggled against the hands that held as she watched one of Pan's minions hand him a sword. Her eyes darted wildly around, looking for any way out of this, but when she saw there was none her eyes found Killian's. Emma tried to convey everything she couldn't say; thank you for trying, thank you for trying to help, thank you for everything. He in turn tried to convey how sorry he was that he couldn't do anything to stop what was about to happen. Their connection was broken when Pan stepped in between them.

"Don't worry. This will be quick," Pan said gleefully as he raised the sword.

Emma closed her eyes, and as she waited for the end countless memories went through her mind. She remembered how her mother and father used to take her horse back riding through the kingdom, and how much she loved time spent with just the three of them. She remembered Granny trying to teach her to knit a blanket one time and how awful she was at it. She remembered so many moments from her life that led her here and how she wished more than anything that she could go back and do things differently. Only then she wouldn't have met Killian, who without even knowing anything about her was willing to risk his life to try and protect her.

All of a sudden, startled cries rang out, causing Emma's eyes to snap open. What she saw shocked her. There was a green glow emitting from the stone and covering the choker. She looked up to see Pan, still with his sword raised looking down at her with rage.

"How are you doing this?” Pan demanded with pure anger on his face. "You shouldn't be able to do this."

"Do what? What are you talking about?" Emma asked in confusion.

"I've waited a long time for this and you're not going to deny me any longer," Pan said half deranged, and swung the sword forward towards her neck.

Emma flinched, waiting for the strike except it never came, but what did happen was unlike anything she had ever seen. The moment that the sword touched the choker a huge pulse of green light sent Pan flying backwards onto the deck. When the light dissipated, she saw that the blast had also knocked out almost all of The Lost Boys, including Felix, while the ones that were still standing looked on in disbelief.

It was enough of a distraction for Killian to shake loose his captors. "Emma!" he called out as he hurried over to her. "Are you alright, love?" he asked, cupping her cheek in his hand.

"Yes. I'm fine," she reassured him, bringing her hand up to cover his.

"Emma, what happened?" Killian asked as he looked at all the unconscious figures on the deck.

Emma shook her head. "I don't know." Movement off to the side caught her eye and she saw Pan was starting to come to. "Killian, we have to get out of here."

Killian followed her gaze. Moving quickly, he gathered her in his arms and made his way over to the side of the ship. "Where are we going to go, love?"

Emma looked over his shoulder to see Pan and The Lost boys already back up on their feet. "We'll discuss that later. Go! Now!" she said urgently.

"As you wish, milady," Killian said as he climbed up onto the railing of the Jolly. He chanced one more glance behind him and saw Pan making his way toward them with fury on his face, he then turned and, holding onto Emma tightly, jumped into the water below.

XXX

They surfaced behind a rock outcropping not far from the Jolly. They could hear the furious shouts of Pan yelling orders at The Lost Boys to fan out and look for them.

Emma grabbed Killian by the arm. “This way!” she said, tugging him through the water towards a huge rock face. “How long can you hold your breath for?” she asked hurriedly.

“What?” Killian asked perplexed, slightly taken aback by the question.

Emma turned to face him. “We have to go through an underwater passage and it’s a good distance. I need to know that you’ll be okay,” she explained.

“I can make it, love,” Killian reassured her.

Emma nodded her head. “Good. Follow me,” she instructed, then disappeared beneath the water.

Killian took a deep breath then dove in after her. The water was dark, and Killian could barely make out Emma's tail in front of him as they made their way through the passage. Emma hadn’t been exaggerating when she said the swim was far. He could feel himself begin to struggle, and just when he thought he could go no further he saw Emma swim upwards through an opening.

Killian surfaced with a gasp and started to frantically suck air back into his lungs. “Bloody hell, Emma, you weren’t kidding,” he croaked out.

Emma winced, realizing that the swim was almost too long for him to handle. “Sorry. This was the first place that I thought of that was almost impossible to get to other than the swim we just took, and we needed to get away quickly,” she apologized, helping him over to a shelf along the rock wall.

Killian lifted himself up with what little strength he had and leaned back against the wall. “And where exactly are we, love?”

“Another cave system I found while hiding from Pan, the island is littered with them,” she explained as she hoisted herself up next to him, gently slapping her tail against the water while she waited for him to catch his breath.

When Killian could breathe normally again he turned to Emma and they both just stared at each other until he saw Emma's eyes start to well with tears. "Oh, love. Come here," he said gently, gathering her into his arms.

Emma held onto Killian tightly as she tried to process the events of the night and how closely she came to death. She didn’t know what had caused the stone around her neck to begin to glow, only that it had saved her life. Killian held on just as tightly, thanking whatever powers-that-be or divine intervention that caused the stone to protect its wearer.

When they eventually pulled back, Killian was the first to speak. "Emma, I don't understand what happened back there. I thought you said you had your magic taken away from you?" he asked bewildered.

"I did. I honestly don't know what that was. I thought that the stone’s only purpose was to keep me in this form," she said in frustration as she gestured towards her tail.

They sat there in silence for what seemed like forever until Killian finally spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Emma frowned as she turned to face him. “For what?”

“For not doing a better job at keeping Pan away from you,” he said regretfully.

Emma reached out and rested her hand on his hook. “Kilian. It wasn’t your fault. I think we were both a bit naive to believe that Pan wouldn’t have found out about us meeting,” she said softly. “I am so incredibly grateful that you were so willing to help me.” She paused, eyes turning downward as she remembered what Pan had said. “Even if it meant not earning your way off this island.”

Killian sighed. “Emma. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of over the years,” he stopped and took in a deep breath before continuing. “I didn’t care who I hurt as long as it got me to my goal of being able to leave this wretched place.” He paused again, contemplating his next words. “But when I met you, I realized that there were some things I wasn’t willing to do. No matter what it cost me.”

Emma stared at him, wondering how she could feel such a strong connection to him after only knowing him for such a short time. That had been why she’d decided to tell him about her past and what had happened to her, because she knew deep down, to her very core, that he wasn’t like Nea… Baelfire. He wasn’t going to turn her over to Pan. “Killian, I...”

‘What is it, Emma?” Killian inquired at her hesitation.

Emma realized in that moment, as crazy as it sounded, that she might be falling for this pirate, and that absolutely terrified her. Especially since he was trying to avenge his dead lover. She just couldn’t handle the heartbreak that would eventually happen.

“I think we need to figure out what we are going to do next,” she said, motioning to the cave.

Killian could tell that wasn’t what she was going to say, but he knew that pushing her wouldn’t work. When the time came that she felt comfortable telling me, he would be there to listen.

“Oh. I don’t know, love. I think this place is awfully cozy. We could build a lovely summer home here,” he said in jest, trying to lighten the mood.

Emma let out a giggle. She knew they were in a tight spot right now, but she was glad they were in it together. “As much as that idea sounds wonderful, we really do need to come up with a plan. I mean, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a little limited to where I can go,” she said, swishing her tail back and forth through the water in emphasis.

Killian let out a heavy sigh. “Aye. That is a dilemma. I can’t very well carry you through the jungle.”

Emma snorted. “Yeah. That might be a little suspicious.”

Killian pondered silently before finally speaking. “There might actually be someone on this island who may be able to help us.”

“Who?” Emma asked curiously.

Killian didn’t get the chance to tell her, because Emma was suddenly grabbed by her tail and pulled under the water.

“Emma!” he cried out in panic, rising to his knees and diving in after her.

Beneath the waterline, Emma was clashing with a dark haired mermaid. Killian could see that she was trying to hold her own, but her opponent had a tight grip on her. He began to swim faster, and just as he was about to reach them, the dark haired mermaid pulled Emma towards her and pressed her lips to Emma’s. Killian grabbed the other mermaid in fury and sunk his hook into her neck. She reared back and tried to dislodge his hook, but he held fast until she eventually stopped moving and life left her eyes. He quickly clutched Emma to him and made his way back to the top.

When Killian surfaced, Emma was limp in his arms. He swiftly placed her on the rock shelf, then pushed himself out of the water and knelt next to her. Killian began frantically checking her over and, to his horror, found that she wasn’t breathing. He had heard stories about the kiss of a vengeful mermaid, and how it could steal the breath of a person and drown them.

“Emma? Emma, come on love, don’t do this to me,” he croaked out, at a complete loss about what to do. Then, he recalled something he had once seen on his travels.

The Jolly had been docked in a trading post, and he had been haggling with the harbormaster over the docking fees when he had heard a commotion coming from from the other side of the docks. When Killian had come upon the scene, two people were pulling a young boy from the water. The child had been still and Killian could tell that he had been in the water too long. Thinking that there was nothing to be done for the boy, he had turned to head back to his ship when he witnessed it.

One of the onlookers had rushed forward and knelt beside the boy, looked over him quickly then bent forward and sealed their lips over the child’s. Finding it strange, Killian watched as they lifted back up to check the boy again and repeated the process until all of a sudden the boy began coughing and spitting up water. He realized that they had been blowing air into the child’s lungs to save his life.

Killian reached down, tilted Emma’s head back, bent down to seal lips over hers and blew his breath into her body. He did it until he began to grow dizzy but nothing happened, no coughing, no sputtering just nothing. Killian let out a howl of despair.

“No! Emma, please! Please come back!” he leaned down for one more desperate attempt. “Emma, come back to me,” he whispered.

When his lips touched hers something astonishing happened. The stone around Emma's neck began to glow. Killian sat back and watched as it engulfed her entire body. The light grew brighter and brighter around Emma until it was almost blinding, then just like back on the Jolly the light pulsed out across the cave.

When the light vanished Emma’s eyes flew open and began darting wildly around. “Killian!”

Killian quickly went back to her side. “Shh! It’s okay, love, I’m here,” he said soothingly.

“Where is she?!” Emma asked panically, trying to sit up.

“She’s dead, Emma,” Killian said gently. “Lie back. You’ve been through alot. Don’t overexert yourself.”

Emma looked up at him with wide eyes. “Killian, she gave me the kiss! I should be dead. How am I not dead?” she asked hysterically.

Killian’s eyes flickered downward then back up to meet hers. “You were,love,” he reluctantly told her.

“What?” she whispered in disbelief.

Killian sighed. “You weren’t breathing, Emma. I tried to save you, but it didn’t work,” he lamented.

“What happened?” she asked, not really sure she was ready to know.

Killian pointed to her neck. “The stone. It started to glow, and then the light surrounded you, it was almost blinding, then it shot out away from you just like on the ship.” He paused, not sure how to tell her what happened next.

“Killian. What is it?” she asked when she noticed his hesitation.

“The stone brought you back. I know that sounds crazy, but it did. But that’s not all it did,” he said cryptically.

“What do you mean?”

“I think it’s probably better just to show you love.” Killian reached down to gently lift Emma up into a sitting position. He had no bloody idea how it had happened, but somehow, someway, the stone had given Emma back her legs.

#captain swan #csfic #cs fic #cs fanfic #cs mermaid and pirate au #cs neverland au #killian jones #captain hook #A Tail As Old As Time #works by aprilqueen84

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quirkykayleetam · 5 years ago

Note

Hi!! How’s your day going? Hope it’s good!

Hello, Nonny! Thank you so much for this! All the hugs to you!!!

I apologize for replying late. I got hit with the migraine stick on Thursday and I’ve been recovering since them. Today, I am slogging through job applications. That’s my task for this week. I’m almost done with my dream degree; I’m going to graduate with a Masters in Library and Information Science and a Certification for Public Librarianship in Children’s and Youth Services in December!!!

However, I have to get a part-time job to pay the rent until then. So, the whump will still be coming, if a bit slowly while I also write cover letters and such.

#quirkykayleetam speaks #Anonymous Asks #Anonymous

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tendertenebrosity · 5 years ago

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Part 15! Previous here. Masterlist here.

Tag list: @quirkykayleetam, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @burtlederp; @paradigmparadoxical @theycomeinthrees @miss-kitty-whumptastic, @looptheloup, @teachunks

The terrain for the rest of the day was a little rough. What paths they found seemed to be made by wild goats or deer, rather than people.

“So, according to the map,” Everet said, dropping down the other side of the boulder he’d stepped up onto, “This streambed should lead us into some farmland, and eventually a settlement of some kind. Village, hamlet, something like that.”

“Yeah?” Galen said absently, looking down at him from the small slope. He slid down with a scrabble of small pebbles and dirt, catching himself with one hand on the stone.

“We can get supplies there – at the village, if we don’t find a farmhouse on the way,” Everet said, turning to keep going. “It looked like half a day’s travel.” He stopped, and forced himself to revise his estimate. “Well. A day, maybe two days at most.”

Just because Galen didn’t complain, didn’t mean Everet could keep on setting a pace for templar stamina. This last stretch was kind of rough going. He’d have tried to find higher ground and an easier path if he hadn’t been worried about losing the stream, which was the only landmark he felt certain of anymore.

“I know you said you didn’t need a healer, but if they have one it might be worth it,” Everet said. “Definitely we can get some food, some better clothing for you. I don’t have much coin but I think I can cover that.”

“I don’t – have anything,” Galen said, almost apologetic, as if Everet had been expecting him to have a purse stashed on him somewhere after the events of the last weeks.

“I can cover it,” Everet repeated. “After that, I suppose we can… regroup. Decide what to do next.” Everet ducked under a low-hanging tree branch, easing it back down carefully so it didn’t spring back and catch Galen when he let it go. He paused and waited for the mage to get under the branch and catch up. “We shouldn’t stay long in the village, though. It’s probably not safe to stay anywhere. At least until… well, until a week is up, I guess. Let’s pause here for a minute.”

Galen nodded, pushing a sweaty strand of hair out of his eyes. He gratefully sank down onto a flat-topped stone.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. The birdsong crept back in around them; or maybe that was just Everet hearing the lyrium again. Being this close to the stuff was… unnerving. Even stuffed in the bottom of Everet’s pack, he could hear it. It made the inside of his head itch.

He ignored it in favour of getting out the water canteen, taking a measured drink, and passing it to Galen.

“And after the village?” Galen asked Everet, as he capped the canteen again. “Where do you think you’ll go?”

Everet stared down at the stones and grass between his booted feet.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought I’d seek out a Chantry. Find somebody in charge who’s still sane and throw myself on their mercy. But…”

Up until they’d opened the chest, it had all been ‘if’. If he could survive long enough, what would he do, where would he go? The templars or the Chantry were the only real option he’d had if he wanted to survive, but that might mean another band just like the last.

But now… Everet was carrying a fortune in lyrium. He had more choices.

Everet ran his fingers through the hair over his temples, shaking his head. I don’t know. Galen watched him, silently, thoughtfully. He didn’t speak to try and fill the gap.

“One thing I do know - I want out of the Hinterlands,” Everet said, sudden conviction welling up. “This place is… I mean, I’m sure it was nice enough before the whole templar army chased the mages here, but now… fuck, I want out and I never want to see it again.”

There was too much death here. Too much violence, and Everet had been the perpetrator of enough of that violence that maybe it was grossly unjust of him to feel this way. But Redcliffe was full of mages, and the hills were full of templars, and as long as that was the case the Hinterlands would never, ever be safe or peaceful.

Galen gave him a quick glance that seemed to understand more than Everet was capable of saying. “Me too,” he said quietly.

“Well,” Everet said, getting to his feet. He smacked dust from his hands and thighs cheerfully, feeling his spirits rising. “In that case, it looks like we’re going the same way. If we’re both in agreement, our plan is to resupply at the next village, get our bearings, and chart ourselves a path out of the Hinterlands. We can figure the rest out as we go. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Galen agreed easily, standing up. “Sounds good.”

Everet returned to clearing them a way through the undergrowth, feeling heartened. Straightforward, achievable goals. Get to the village, resupply, find a way out of the Hinterlands and into the South Dales. Everet could do those things.

He’d figure out what he’d do next once he’d achieved those.

It might be safer, he thought, tearing aside a sheet of vines that obscured the footing ahead of him, if Everet went into the village alone. At least until he got Galen some less suspicious clothes.

Then again, the common folk also had reasons to distrust templars. Perhaps Everet should leave his more obviously templar gear stashed somewhere? He didn’t want to sell it, unless he had to, but it was probably unwise to go around wearing it…

“Hey – um – ”

Everet paused. “Sorry. Need a break?” he called over his shoulder.

“No. I was just thinking…” There was an odd, diffident tone to the mage’s voice. “We don’t… have to travel together. Just because we’re going in roughly the same direction.” When Everet turned to look at him, he was staring down at the ground, his face set. “We could part ways after resupplying at the village, if you’d prefer.”

“I – oh,” Everet said, surprised. He rearranged his thoughts, hastily.

Everet should have asked instead of assuming.

After… everything, Everet thought, with a queasy, guilty flip of his stomach. Galen might feel safer travelling alone than travelling with a templar. Can you blame him?

Galen was quiet, closed-in, standing with arms folded and eyes down submissively. Did he expect Everet to object? In the old days Everet would have needed to take Galen back to whatever Circle he’d come from, whether he went quietly or not. There was no point even pretending to entertain that possibility now, but…

Everet rocked back on his heels, scrubbed a hand through his hair. He chose his words carefully. “If that’s what you’d prefer. It was just a suggestion. It’s just, even besides the fact we might be being followed, people here aren’t all that friendly to mages or templars anymore. So I thought it’d be safer. That’s all. I thought you might like – ” He coughed, looked away. Might like what? More reminders of what happened? Somebody to tell you what to do? “Look, I’m not your keeper or anything, you can leave whenever you want. I won’t try and stop you.”

“It’s not that I want – ” Galen shook his head, fiercely. “Fff. Damn it.”

“What?”

Galen shrugged, his arms still miserably crossed. “I don’t want to part ways yet – you’re right, it’s safer – but –”

Everet frowned. “But…”

“I don’t want you to feel obligated,” Galen burst out. “You’ve been… amazing. Like I said. But you don’t have to feel like you’re lumbered with me forever now, just because you rescued me once.”

“Who’s being lumbered with you?” Everet said, confused. “I never said – ”

“No, you didn’t, you don’t have to!” Galen uncrossed his arms enough to make a frustrated gesture. “I can’t – you obviously feel it’s your responsibility to get me to civilisation, and find me clothes and food, and all that, and I’m grateful because Maker knows I’d struggle on my own. But you don’t have to keep on doing that. You don’t have to slow yourself down to escort me out of the Hinterlands. If you want to go to a Chantry you should, and not have to worry about me.”

“Oh,” Everet said, lamely. “You – you aren’t afraid of me, then?”

Galen looked up, seeming startled, blinking at Everet from under his hair. “Afraid of you? No. You saved me.”

The two of them stared at each other, awkwardly.

Everet found an embarrassed half-smile. He started to turn back towards the path. “Look, you can leave if you want, but I think it makes the most sense to travel together. For both of our sakes. Let’s just… get ourselves to civilisation. All right?”

When Galen followed, Everet deliberately slowed his steps so they could walk abreast. Or what passed for abreast, on this goat-track – Everet a half-step ahead and turning back occasionally. It didn’t make for easy conversation.

“Look, you don’t have to pretend I won’t be a burden,” Galen said after a few moments. “I’m not an idiot. You’ll do a hell of a lot better out here on your own than I will, it’s obvious you don’t need me.”

Everet tried to keep his eyebrows from climbing. “Oh, will I?” he managed to ask. “Galen… I don’t know who or what you think I am, but maybe I better come clean. I don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m doing.” He kicked at a clump of leaves on their path. “I don’t have a plan. I don’t know where I’m going to go.”

“Yeah, but you can live out here,” Galen said. “I’m… helpless. You’re not.”

Everet frowned. “Can I? Sure, I can defend myself, but I don’t know how we’re going to eat once the next week is up.”

“At least you have skills!” Galen said, heatedly. “You can – hire yourself out as a soldier, or you’re strong enough to do some other sort of work. I have nothing.” He gestured angrily with one scabbed-up arm, his voice rising. “Before the Circles fell, Everet, I had never left their walls for most of my life. I can’t do anything!”

“You can do magic,” Everet pointed out.

Galen gave him a furious, bitter look. “Oh yes, wonderful. I can definitely use that to make a living. Sounds nice and safe!”

Everet winced. That had been kind of insensitive.

He let the silence simmer awkwardly for a minute, tramping heavily though the undergrowth, while he tried to put together the right words. The Maker had not called Everet for his eloquence.

“Listen. I know it’s dangerous out here for you,” he said hesitantly. “And I hear what you’re saying, about… about not having skills.” He pointed with one thumb back upstream. “But the truth is, I’d have been toast back there without you. That’s not nothing.”

Galen sighed. His thin shoulders were still tense, hunched. “Mm. We won’t be fighting templars all the time, though. I’m... I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I sure hope we won’t,” Everet said. He sighed. “But… Look, Galen, I know you feel like you’re going to slow me down, but travelling with me isn’t going to be a picnic either.” The lyrium hummed and weighed heavily in his pack. “We’re both going to be burdens in our own ways. And I don’t care. Forget obligations, have you considered that I might actually want to travel with you?”

Galen was silent.

“I mean, I’m not exactly used to being on my own, so company would be welcome. Particularly company like you. We get along all right, so far, and you’re – you’re resourceful and clever, and damn tough, and maybe it’d be nice for us to have each other’s backs! You know?”

“Oh,” was all Galen said.

Everet looked over at him. The mage was staring straight ahead, not meeting Everet’s eyes. But slowly, as Everet watched, his shoulders dropped and his head came up. There was a flush of colour over his cheeks, bright pink underneath a crusted-over cut.

Everet must be walking too fast for him again; he’d never say anything. Everet slowed his stride, trying to do it subtly enough that the mage wouldn’t notice.

Their feet crunched leaves, not quite in step with each other.

“So what do you say?” Everet asked. “I’d like us to stick together for a little longer, if you’re not bothered by me. At least until we get out of the Hinterlands?”

Galen glanced at him, and away, and back – and smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

#dragon age whump #Galen #everet #Dragon age fic #mages and templars #caretaking #aftermath of whump #sucessful escape attempt #yes Everet that is definitely why Galen's face is pink #A+ deduction #my stuff

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stoic-whumpee · 6 years ago

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Abandoned and Rescued - Whump Scenario #1-j

[Abandoned and Rescued]

[Part 1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]

It has been weeks, but [Whumpee] is still not used to waking up without pain. There is still a dull throb running through their body at all time, but it is nothing compared to what their torturers use to rouse them from their sleep. They make a small noise at the back of their throat.

The pricking feeling of being watched makes them squeeze their eyes shut, before they remember that it does them no good. Reluctantly, because this dream - where [Whumpee] are rescued and saved and freed - might disappear, dissipating like bursting bubbles, and they will open their eyes to a dark and cold cell, in a body too damaged to even crawl toward the unlocked cell door.

“Please open your eyes,” a gentle voice coaxes. [Whumpee] feels a body moving closer to theirs, but they are unable to move from the bed. And it is a bed! Not the cold, hard floor of the cell. And the things holding them down are not chain, but casts and some medical machines they do not care to learn.

The room is bright, just like it always is. And the air is still fresh and clear. [Whumpee] breaths out.

A hand hovers a distance from their cheek, and that voice speaks again:

“I am so sorry.”

[Whumpee] blinks. They follow the hand with their eyes, moving onto an arm - thin, pale, half hidden under a loose-knit cardigan - to a shoulder, and finally meeting the person’s eyes.

“They have sad eyes,” is the first thing [Whumpee] registers. [Whumpee] blinks, and A’s face is there, in front of them.

A. [Whumpee]’s lips move, as if to call out the name. They have stopped trying to speak, but A seems to understand the soundless call anyway. They reach toward [Whumpee], waiting, questioning. [Whumpee] doesn’t know what exactly A is asking for, but they nod anyway.

Warm hands press onto their cheek, and [Whumpee]’s head is cradled against A’s chest. The warmth and the feeling feel familiar, like [Whumpee] has felt it before.

“I’m so sorry for not being here sooner,” A whispers and runs their fingers through [Whumpee]’s hair. “I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done to you. I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder to find you.”

Their voice hitches, and [Whumpee] feels the tremor in A’s chest. They listen as A tries to get their breath under control, the racing beats of A’s heart and the erratic of their inhales stir a memory in [Whumpee]’s mind.

Of the door opening, softer and gentler.

Of hands scooping them up as if they do not weight anything.

Of the air rushing by their face as they are carried through the dark corridor.

A’s voice, begging [Whumpee] to hold on. I am getting you out of here. I am sorry. You are safe. You are free.

[Whumpee] doesn’t realise they are crying, and A is whispering the same word over and over into their hair.

They are safe.

They are free.

Tagging: @quirkykayleetam @comfortforthepain @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow@itswhumpday @latenightcupsofcoffee @whump-whump-whump-it-up @whumposaurus @gnawingonhumanbones @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

#whump #whump scenario #Abandoned and rescued #team dynamics #healing #aftermath of torture #hurt/comfort #finally!#that tag should be there 5 parts ago lol #update every week

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aprilqueen84 · 4 years ago

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Six Sentence Sunday

I have committed to starting a C.S Holiday fic for November and I have officially started it. The story will be apart of my Swan-Jones Family which you can find here. https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307726. It will be taking place after my story “Halloween Treat.” You don’t have to read the series to enjoy this story, all you need to is it’s after Season 7 and Emma and Killian have two children, Hope and Aiden. I do not have a titled yet.

Tag list: @hollyethecurious, @resident-of-storybrooke, @kmomof4, @jennjenn615, @pirateherokillian, @enchanted-swans, @superchocovian, @deathbycaptainswan, @winterbaby89, @flicialy23, @kingofmyheart14, @angellifedeath, @facesiousbutton82, @a-faekindagirl, @kymbersmith-90, @ekr032-blog-blog, @laschatzi, @teamhook, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @capswantrue, @bmbbcs4evr, @kday426, @tiganasummertree,, @Ifh1226-linda, @meganhinsley, @xarandomdreamx, @jrob64, @hannahhook7744, @klynn-stormz, @yourebeautifuleverylilpiecelove, @therooksshiningknight, @earanemith, @snowbellewells, @motherkatereyloshipper, @emmythedaydreamer, @quirkykayleetam, @onceuponsomechaos

Untitled C.S Holiday Fic

There were so many people coming and going from The Town Hall ballroom with various decorations such as boxes full of lights, garland and ornaments for the massive tree standing in the middle of the room in hand. Emma really shouldn’t have been so surprised, the annual Storybrooke Christmas Party was in three weeks time and with her mother in charge things were moving at full speed. Speaking of her mother, Emma spots her coming down the stairs talking rapidly to Aurora, who was furiously taking notes trying to keep up with what Snow was saying. When they reach the bottom of the stairs her mother spots her, she says something to Aurora then makes her way over to Emma.

“Emma!” Snow greeted her daughter warmly then pulled her into a hug.

“Hey, Mom,” Emma says as she returns the embrace.

“I'm so glad that you could make it. I know you’ve been so busy lately.

Busy was an understatement, Emma thought.

#captain swan #cs holiday fic #emma jones #killian jones #hope swan jones #mary margaret blanchard #david nolan #ouat s7 #post series #canon compliant

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burtlederp · 5 years ago

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Writing Blurb 8.b

Whewwww I haven’t continued a writing blurb in a while, but here we go! It ain’t much, but there’s more coming. Prep yourselves for some truly divine hurt/comfort! I mean, not yet, not much, but some! This one is a continuation of this blurb here.

tw: fever, alice in wonderland syndrome, seizure

Soft sheets. Warmth. Bare skin, sticky sweat, dark room. Heat. Awake. Sort've.

Damien lay on his side, staring into the darkness of a room cast in an ever-so-soft silver light from the moon. He was cold, so very cold, but at the same time, hot, so very hot. He was dry, so thirsty. He was scared. He hurt.

There was someone in the room with him, but he could barely see them. His vision was blurry, but someone sat in a chair not far from the bed in which he lay. It was too dark to see any detail.

The shadows on the walls didn’t stay still. They swirled and enlarged and shrunk and twisted. They weren’t good, somehow Damien knew that, but he couldn’t move. He felt himself growing, getting bigger and bigger, before suddenly falling, shrinking, shrinking, down to something so small and insignificant, the shadowy demons could swallow him like a pill. They didn’t, though. Instead they clustered around the stranger. He wanted to call out, warn them, whoever they were, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak or move.

There was a heavy fatigue that filled his limbs with lead and stuffed his head full of cotton. His vision swam before his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. He was so hot, and yet, he shivered. He wanted to throw up, but he didn’t know if he could, if he even had the energy. He just wanted to sleep, to sleep until all his discomfort and pain and everything faded away.

But it didn’t. Time seemed to pass so very, very slowly, like it was digging in its nails to the present, resisting moving on, but it still did. Just so agonizingly slowly, Damien wondered distantly if day would ever come. He hurt. Gods, he hurt so much. His shoulder, opposite of that which he lay on, throbbed, stung, buzzed with pain, his head feeling swollen, his throat raw, so very, very thirsty. He just needed some water, please, water, please.

Suddenly, a face was in his view, and a cool hand, absolutely heavenly, pressed against his forehead, swiping hair out of his face. They looked so familiar, their young features crinkled in concern, eyes so blue he could tell even in the wan light of the moon their color. I know him, Damien thought deliriously, staring up at the man, but he didn’t know where from.

“Oh dear, you don’t look very good,” The man’s voice sounded warped, like it was traveling through water to reach Damien’s ears. “You’re so feverish. Let me get you some water.”

Water? Damien tried to speak, but he didn’t know if his lips had even moved. He could only think of the word as the man rose, walking away, his eyes not following him. The stranger had barely left Damien’s sight before he was suddenly returning, a glass in hand, a rag in the other.

Damien felt himself rolled over so gently onto his back, moaning softly, first in pain, then in relief as the rag was laid across his forehead. It was wet, damp, and so very cold, and felt amazing. Fingers worked under his head, and slowly lifted it, the glass brought to his lips.

The water within it was straight ambrosia to Damien. It trickled into his mouth and down his throat, soothing his pain somewhat. He wished this man would pour it faster, give him more, but all too soon, the cup was empty, and he wanted more.

“No, you might throw it up if you drink too much,” The man said quietly as he laid Damien’s head back down. The sick man stared at him, a faint expression of pain on his face.

“P-please…?” Damien croaked, lips chapped, splitting when he parted them to speak. The man’s face softened.

“Okay.” He whispered, and turned. Damien watched him disappear out the door of the room, and could taste something… odd. He couldn’t tell what flavor it was, but it was neither good nor bad. There was no discernible source of it, and as his mind slowly tried to find it, feeling began to drift away from his body. The pain faded, the weight of his limbs, his weak neck, and suddenly he himself was no longer attached to his body. He had no idea what was happening, what had happened, until he was blinking open his eyes again, blearily, see the face of the man--no, Mayor Blackwood. He looked so very concerned. Damien was lying on his side again, and felt like someone had stomped all over his body. The blankets were wrapped and twisted around his limbs, drool drying on his face, very slowly the feeling of his form returning. He was so tired, so, so tired.

His eyes closed slowly, leaving Marcelo crouched in front of him, essentially alone. Marcelo swallowed, fingers gripping the sheets of the bed tightly. He didn't think he'd ever get that sight out of his head, of returning to the room to see Alchemist writhing, gasping hoarsely, in the throes of a tonic clonic seizure.

"Shit." He breathed, straightening up. Nothing he could do, though, besides fetch an IV and a bag of saline.

---

Taglist (Message me if you want to join!): @quirkykayleetam

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awkwardnessandbaseball · 6 years ago

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WOOOO It’s posting day!!!

Once again, so many thanks to: @cspupstravaganza, @sherlockianwhovian and @lassluna

Tag list: @quirkykayleetam, @squidvisious, @carpedzem, @kmomof4 (Message me to be added!)

AO3 if that’s your jam: Prologue | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7

I’d Pick You (and Your Little Dog, Too)

A Captain Swan Pupstravaganza Story

Summary: According to everyone in the known universe, Emma Nolan’s dog is supposed to lead her to her soulmate. But she’s not even sure if she wants that. Soulmates are pretty idealistic, don’t you think?

Chapter Three:

“Where are the dogs?” Emma asks David when she returns to find Princess alone on the bed in the corner of the room.

“Some woman from the shelter came and took them,” he says with a shrug, but she can tell he’s frustrated. “They’ll wait there until their rightful owners come along, I guess.”

They look at each other and neither of them speaks the question that’s on both of their minds: what if they never come?

The shelter isn’t really equipped for dogs, so Emma makes a mental note to head over tomorrow to make sure the goldens are being cared for properly. The Storybrooke Animal Shelter mostly takes in stray cats, domestic rabbits, and some birds and exotic pets. This is a situation they likely aren’t prepared for. She adds a few dog-related items to the grocery list on her phone, including food and a big, comfy bed, before sitting down at her desk.

Rascal takes his spot beside Princess while Emma and David dive into their meals.

The rest of the day, and then the week, passes without incident. The golden retrievers sit, patiently, at the shelter, waiting for their designated humans. Rumors begin floating around about their appearance – their owners died, abandoned them, ran off with other people, hoping to leave fate and soulmates behind. Emma and David bring Princess and Rascal to the shelter a few times to play with the goldens, and one of the volunteers tells them it’s the only time the smaller one does anything at all. Emma’s heart aches again and she tries to fight off the voice in her head telling her that this sad, lonely dog is supposed to be her counterpart.

It’s two weeks post-Operation Retriever Rescue when David runs into the woman from the school again. With all the excitement and confusion, Emma had forgotten about her entirely.

“She was at Granny’s,” David tells her, his eyes lit up in a way Emma’s never seen before. “Her name is Mary Margaret and she teaches the fourth grade. She’s lovely, Emma, I think you’re going to like her.”

“I’m sorry, am I meeting her sometime soon?” Emma raises an eyebrow. It’s unlike her brother to get so caught up in a woman. He hasn’t really dated since Kathryn for fear of another heartbreak, and he’s only met this woman once.

“I invited her to lunch tomorrow,” he admits, avoiding her gaze.

“You invited her to Spaghetti Saturday?” Emma shouts. She’s not truly angry at him, but she is a little surprised. Spaghetti Saturday is a tradition that goes back to when they were kids. They’ve never invited anyone else, not even Kathryn or Neal.

“She’s a teacher, she’s only free for lunch two days a week!” He looks at her in a way she can only describe as pleading.

“You really like this woman?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve only met her once.”

“Twice.”

Emma crosses her arms. David sighs and mumbles ‘once’ under his breath.

“Fine, she can come to Spaghetti Saturday one time.” She holds up a finger for emphasis. “Did you ask her about…” she trails off, glancing towards Princess in the corner. David shakes his head.

“She was really good with Princess, though, and they seemed to like each other.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Saturday comes quickly. Emma and David claim their usual booth at Granny’s, but he sits beside her instead of across from her.

“Why do I have to get smushed over here just because you insisted on bringing a date to our tradition?” She playfully elbows him in the side. He lets out a low ‘oof’ sound and glares at her.

“You’re going to be nice, right?”

“I’m always nice,” she exclaims as the door opens and an unfamiliar face walks in. The woman is classically beautiful: all big eyes and soft lips. Her hair is cut in a short pixie and Emma thinks it’s rare to see someone pull such short hair off so well. The woman looks towards their table and grins.

David stands to greet her and they do the awkward dance that people do when they’re unsure of how to greet each other. Is a hug too intimate? A handshake too formal? Emma has to bite back a laugh when they settle on a strange high five.

“Emma, this is Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret, this is my sister, Emma.”

“It’s so nice to meet you!” the woman exclaims, and Emma feels an instant sense of comfort. She can see why David’s smitten with her already. She gives off a vibe of pure kindness and her smile is contagious. For a brief second, Emma thinks about how Princess has always been the sweetest dog -- Kathryn interactions notwithstanding -- before she shakes the idea from her head.

They settle into easy conversation while they wait for their entrees to arrive.

“Are you new in town, Mary Margaret?” Emma asks. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you, and in a town this small, that’s pretty rare.” Or at least it was rare.

“I am!” Mary Margaret seems pleased to answer every question Emma throws at her. “I just moved here about a month ago.”

“She’s from London,” David tells Emma proudly, as though he’s had something to do with where the woman was born.

Mary Margaret laughs and explains that she was born in London but she’s been in America for essentially her entire life.

“I moved back to England a year ago to reconnect with some family, but I just missed the States. So here I am!”

Emma thinks about the man she met in this very diner two weeks ago. She wants to ask if Mary Margaret has a step-brother she’s moved here with, but then their food comes and they all eat in pleasant silence.

After lunch, Emma and David head back to the station. David tells Mary Margaret that he’ll call her, and their goodbye is just as awkwardly stunted as their greeting. Emma rolls her eyes and shakes the other woman’s hand before turning and walking away, Rascal’s leash in one hand and a to-go cup of coffee in the other.

David jogs to catch up with her and then breathlessly asks her: “What did you think?”

“She’s nice,” Emma admits. “I see why you like her.”

“Do you think it’s crazy to try and date her?”

Emma stops, stumbles a moment when Rascal tries to keep walking, and then stares at her brother.

“I think that’s really a question you should be asking yourself,” she tells him pointedly.

She’d been wary of the entire situation, but after meeting Mary Margaret, seeing the way this new woman already makes her brother so happy -- happy in a way Kathryn never did -- gives Emma just the tiniest amount of hope.

“I think I’m going to ask her. To dinner. Just the two of us.” Princess lets out a low whine. “Okay, the three of us.” David seems to be deciding as he speaks, and if Emma were really pressed to comment on it, she’d say that she was proud of her brother. He’s willing to put himself back out there, post-heartbreak, and Emma’s never even considered doing that. Not since Neal.

“Good,” she tells him, and they continue their walk back to the station in companionable silence.

~~~~~~

“They got adopted,” David tells her a week later when she walks into the station.

She doesn’t ask who. She knows he’s talking about the pair of golden retrievers that have been sitting at the shelter for three weeks now. They’ve made a habit of checking every day, of calling the shelter or visiting them with Princess and Rascal in tow, making sure that they’re taken care of by someone.

She does, however, have a more important question.

“By who?”

David’s eyes answer her question before his mouth does.

“Mary Margaret and her step-brother.”

He’s briefly mentioned the step-brother once, in passing, and it was easy enough for Emma to ignore the comment altogether.

David tells her that the siblings had gone to the shelter hoping for a bird or a chameleon or something simple to liven up their shoddy two-bedroom loft. They’d wanted one pet, to share.

According to the shelter, the two dogs, who’d officially been named Charming and Procella, had stood at the front of their shared kennel and just stared. They’d watched as Mary Margaret and her mysterious brother walked around the kennels and cages and tanks. They’d watched, quietly, on their best behavior. Not that they ever really misbehaved, but they were generally indifferent. Other potential adopters had stopped by to see them, and they’d slept through the visits mostly.

Emma thinks about the day she and David picked up the goldens at the park. How they’d been trying to stay away from everyone until the Nolan siblings and their playful pitbulls came along. She can picture them sitting in their kennel the same way they’d sat that day.

Ready for anything.

When Mary Margaret and her step-brother had approached the kennel, it had been love at first sight. Emma can tell that this part of the story is coming from David’s new girlfriend’s point of view. The way he’s gone all wistful and, dare she say, hopeful, says it all.

“They had to take them!” He jumps up from his chair and grabs Emma’s shoulders. “Do you know what this means?”

“It means we don’t have to call the shelter every day to check on them anymore. They’ve got a good home.” Emma sniffs and steps away from David’s grip.

“Emma, those dogs… they’re supposed to be us. You have to know that.” He follows her to her seat, plops himself down on the corner of her desk, making himself impossible to be ignored.

“I know that one of them has a really weird name now,” Emma says as she crosses her arms. “And my name’s pretty normal.” Coffee shops notwithstanding, she thinks to herself.

“The dogs don’t choose their names,” David says with an exaggerated eye roll. “Killian chose Procella.”

There it is. She purposely hadn’t asked the step-brother’s name or what he did for a living or whether he had a really charming British accent or a manly chest covered in--

Dammit.

“Killian?” Emma asks innocently, taking a large sip of her very hot coffee, willing herself not to cough it back up all over the place.

“Mary Margaret’s step-brother. Have we not talked about him?” David eyes her carefully, but Emma keeps her face even.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. At least not by name.”

“Well I guess he was a Latin teacher or tutor or something before he moved here, so Mary Margaret said she wasn’t surprised he picked a Latin name for the dog.”

“What does it mean?” she hears herself asking, coffee hovering near her lips but not quite completing the journey.

“It’s like a storm, or a hurricane,” David tells her, and he’s smirking, and Emma knows there’ll be no distracting him now.

“Hmm,” she replies, before placing the cup in her hands on the side of the desk not occupied by her brother’s ass and turning to her computer. “Well, now that that’s settled, I imagine we can go back to normal around here.”

“Hmm, indeed.” David finally moves off of her desk, but Emma feels him watching her for the rest of the day, waiting to see if she’ll finally react to the news. She doesn’t. Even when he leaves the room, she keeps working as though nothing’s changed, as though that ache in her chest hasn’t been reformed now, as though she isn’t painfully aware that Procella - really, what the fuck was with that name - is her canine counterpart.

As though her fucking soulmate isn’t out there walking around town.

As though her entire world hasn’t just turned around completely.

#captain swan #cspupstravaganza #captain swan fanfic #cs ff #cs fanfic #caitlin writes

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